Red Gauntlet was first to drop out of hyperspace.
This Star Destroyer, which had once fought against the New Republic, now led its battle squadron.
Symbolic, perhaps.
— The fleet has arrived, General Solo!
Han cast a glance at the tactical display.
His flagship's triangular outline was surrounded by New Republic warships. Three Mon Calamari Star Cruisers formed a "square" around the Quasar Fire-class carriers following behind the stern of the Republic Star Destroyer. The Assault Frigates, deployed out front, formed the vanguard, while the Corellian Corvettes kept their distance from the main group, handling patrol duties.
Escort carrier Quasar Fire.
— Launch the standby squadrons, — Han ordered. — All other pilots, remain in your craft on alert. What about scanner data?
— No enemy ships detected…
— And "non-enemy" ships? — the Corellian asked curiously.
— Um… — the sensor operator hesitated. — There's a GR-75 hauler hanging in distant orbit with a couple of old shuttles nearby. Looks like either unloading or loading operations. No other targets, sir.
— I don't like this, — Lieutenant Page remarked, chewing his lip. He was in command of the landing troops stationed on the assault transports currently under Red Gauntlet. — Too quiet for an Imperial base…
— Last time, I was greeted by patrol ships, — Han recalled, staring at the map of Honoghr's surface and its three lifeless moons circling the planet. — Maybe we scared them off?
That would be a complete failure! If the Imperials had left and taken all intel leading to Leia along with them…
— Three IPV-1 patrol ships spotted, — the sensor operator reported. — They're lifting off from the planet.
— Not a lot, — Page observed. — General, no offense, but a single Assault Frigate would be enough to chase off that rabble.
— You never know when the Imperials might pull a Death Star out of nowhere, — Han tried joking, though inwardly he felt far from amused. Honestly, he'd hoped that his visit to this system would stir the Imperials and make them bring in warships to horrifying Honoghr, which his squadron could then destroy to boost the armed forces' morale and score a few political points for Mon Mothma. Meanwhile, Solo himself hoped he could learn something about his wife's whereabouts. And she was due to give birth to twins any day now!
IPV-1 patrol ship.
But going up against three little boats that don't even have standard hyperdrives… Crew rotations on such patrol ships are usually the slackers and troublemakers no other posting wants. And he'd brought an entire fleet to fight them… If the Imperials don't hurry and deploy something heftier, this is going to be embarrassing. Very embarrassing.
— Open a channel to those patrol ships, — he ordered. When the comms officer signaled success, Han began speaking into his comlink, which by then was patched into the Republic Star Destroyer's communications array.
— This is General Solo of the New Republic Armed Forces. We don't wish to harm anyone. We ask all Imperial personnel to lay down your arms and not interfere with our special military operation. I guarantee your lives will be spared and…
— Sir, — said the captain of the ship, a short, stocky man, — the Imps just fired a proton torpedo at our corvette from each of their patrol craft.
— Damage? — Typical Imperials, trying to flaunt some bravado before surrendering, so the sting of helplessness isn't too strong later.
— Damage? — the captain repeated in wide-eyed shock. — General, sir, they took out the corvette's main reactor!
A tiny flash of light caught Han's eye. The damaged primary power system on the Corellian corvette hadn't been shut down in time and blew. The corvette and its crew simply evaporated.
— Alright, that's it, — Han stiffened. — No more playing around. Shoot those ships down! We'll figure out who they are from the wreckage. All ships, break formation and…
— General Solo, sir! — came a voice over the grav-comm. — We have Imperial vessels emerging behind us at our exit vector! One Imperial I–class Star Destroyer and an Interdictor cruiser!
— There are the Imps, — Lieutenant Page snorted. — I'll go get my men ready for boarding.
— Yeah, get moving, — Han suggested. — Fleet, begin re-forming. Three corvettes, deal with those patrol ships. Quasar Fires, form up on either side of Red Gauntlet. Assault Frigates, take position on the carrier flanks. Mon Cal cruisers, line up and advance on the enemy. The remaining two corvettes, provide cover. And yes, launch all our fighters—looks like the enemy's already given us some easy targets in the form of TIE fighters and Interceptors.
— General Solo!
— What now? — Han looked at the grav-comm with a healthy dose of skepticism.
— The Interdictor has activated its gravity well generators!
— How many "cones?" — Han tensed. Were the Imps messing with them? It would take only a couple of hours—at most—to smash an Imperial I–class and an Interdictor if they proceeded with caution. Interdictors are usually for yanking someone out of hyperspace or preventing them from jumping away.
— The standard setup, sir, two wells, — came the reply. — One's covering our formation, the other is off to our port side.
— They don't want us jumping away to the left, — Han reasoned. With the gravitational shadow of Honoghr on the other side, that made sense… But, what were the Imps thinking? If I give the order, our fighters alone could swarm those two ships!
— Repeat my offer of surrender to them, — Han said. — All ships, prepare for combat. Fighters launched, turbolasers…
— Sir! — the Star Destroyer's commander gave him a worried look. — Something's clearly off with those patrol ships! They just disabled the engines of our second corvette.
— Did we at least scratch them? — Han marveled.
— We blew up one, and disabled the other one's engines… Sir, I could swear I saw those three patrol ships firing not one, but at least three proton torpedoes each!
— That's nonsense, — Han frowned. — There's no way you can mount that many launchers on such a bucket.
— Either way, corvette crews confirm that the Imperial Star Destroyer is transmitting to the patrol ships… and right afterward, the number of torpedoes triples!
— Transmitting "to them?" — that was new. — The Imperial captain's not talking to them directly?
— Correct, sir! — the comms officer confirmed. — The Destroyer is transmitting somewhere outside the system, and also to the spot where our corvettes and the patrols are fighting…
— Look! — the ship's captain said excitedly, pointing at the main screen. — General, you see? It's like these torpedoes appeared out of nowhere! Maneuver, come on! Maneuver! There are only nine of them!
His last words were directed at the second Corellian corvette, clumsily trying to dodge nine glowing missiles that soon caught up to it and literally tore it to pieces.
— Send all our corvettes there! — Han ordered. Unthinkable. Three measly patrol craft wiped out two corvettes! Ugh…
The last surviving Corellian corvette, limping away from the slaughter, took a burst from the battered patrol craft's rapid-fire cannons. Immediately afterward, a proton torpedo split the corvette in half.
— Sir, what's going on? — the Star Destroyer's captain dashed over to Han for answers.
— Have the landing troops under Page begun their descent? — the Corellian asked with a grimace.
— They have, sir, entering the upper atmosphere…
— Order our remaining corvettes to triangulate the signal receiver transmitting from that Star Destroyer! — Han barked. — Looks like the Imps positioned launchers in orbit around that moon, feeding them telemetry to hit targets. We need to find and destroy…
— Found them! — someone announced joyously from the left pit. — Corvettes report a large number of recon droids. Some are stationary near the moon, others are receiving signals and passing them along…
— This is ridiculous, — Han shook his head. — Some new strategy? Are they firing from the moon's surface?
— The trajectories fit, but no one actually sees any launches…
— Hutt take it! — Han snapped. — Corvettes, destroy those recon droids! And someone finish off that blasted patrol ship! How about the Imps? — he asked the comm officer. — Did they get my surrender offer?
— Yes, General! We just got their reply.
— Let me guess—they're telling us to stand down and get lost? — Han sneered. Imperial thinking was nothing if not predictable.
— Um… — the communications officer broke into a grin. — No, sir, they're asking you to surrender.
— Surrender the fleet to two Star Destroyers? — Han's eyes nearly bugged out. — Is this some kind of joke? We outnumber them at least three to one…
— Not the fleet, sir, — said the comm officer, re-reading the message on-screen. — They're inviting you personally to surrender in order to spare your subordinates. They refer to you by name and rank…
Silence fell on Red Gauntlet's bridge. Han blinked once. Then again. And again.
— How do they know you're the one leading this squadron, General? — the commander of the Republic Star Destroyer voiced the question that hung in the air.
— I don't know… — answered Solo, baffled. — Seems like it's hard to keep anything a secret on Coruscant, even if you talk behind closed doors with the head of the Interim Government and your best friend.
Demoralizing a Corellian is quite an achievement that not many can brag about. But it does require serious effort…
— Enemy contact! — the grav-comm abruptly screamed in panic. — Multiple bogies…
— Where? — Han roared, literally leaping from his seat.
— Along the lateral vector of that artificial gravity field, — said the Republic Star Destroyer's commander, pointing through the main viewport at a new formation appearing off to the right of Han's fleet, which had re-formed for an anticipated showdown against just two Imperial ships. — Three Imperial Star Destroyers—an Imperial II and two Imperial I–class—advancing in a straight line. Four Strike-class cruisers are in the upper hemisphere of their formation. Beneath them… there's something else, I can't tell…
— Some kind of smudged gravitational signature, — the grav-comm tech complained. — I can't figure out how many ships…
— Doesn't matter, — Han grimaced. — We can take them all out anyway. Then we'll see what's what. All ships, "turn together," close in on them. Prepare for battle.
— I don't like this, — muttered the Republic Star Destroyer's commander. — They exited hyperspace in perfect sync, no scattering… General, there's something off here.
— When has it ever been simple? — Han snorted, sinking back into the command chair.
— The enemy just destroyed another of our corvettes! — came a dismal report.
Han's face darkened.
Four ships lost, and the real battle with the main enemy forces hasn't even begun.
— Transmission from the Imperial II–class, — the comms officer reported. — It's broadcasting system-wide.
— What now? — Solo growled.
— "I advise you to surrender, General Solo. Resistance is futile. Refusal will result in your destruction, on account of your attack on the ships and homeworld of the Noghri," — the officer swallowed hard. — Sir, it's signed "Grand Admiral Thrawn."
Again, silence fell over the bridge of Red Gauntlet. Han drummed his fingers on the armrest.
— Imperial warlords and their self-appointed titles, — he said loudly enough for everyone on the bridge to hear. — They pick something with a nice ring to it… What's the distance to the target?
— Eighty units and closing fast!
— Prepare to open fire at maximum turbolaser range! — Han ordered.
— Sir, all enemy patrol ships have been destroyed… But… we lost another corvette! Our last CR90 says its engines are out, they're losing atmosphere! They're dropping escape pods to the planet!
— Hutt's spawn, what is happening out there?! — Han exploded. — Send fighter cover! Tell Page's troops to protect our boys on the surface! Hutt only knows what's going on! The fight hasn't even begun, and we're already taking losses!
— Exactly, General, — agreed the Republic Star Destroyer's commander. — The enemy is closing at full speed! Distance is down to forty units, dropping fast!
— If they try a Marg Sabl flank, so help me… — Han muttered through clenched teeth.
— General, — the Star Destroyer commander's voice carried confusion. — They're beginning a Marg Sabl maneuver… The Imperial II's bow is rising! The cruisers and the other Destroyers are repeating the maneuver!
— Thrawn, you can't possibly expect me to fall for that old Academy trick, — Han Solo grumbled, addressing his unseen opponent. — Distance to the enemy?
— Twenty-nine units, sir!
— Means he'll begin soon enough, — Han said. The Imperials were following standard Academy textbooks—just rotating the other way, vertically instead of horizontally. But if that's all there is, then how did they wipe out the Corellian corvettes, and where did those extra launchers come from, the ones that fire unseen torpedoes?! And who are these "Noghri," anyway? — All fighters, attack!
***
The wedge-shaped bow of Chimaera was gliding upward at a slight angle that would bring all three Star Destroyers into a position "above" the enemy formation.
— Sir, Solo won't fall for that maneuver, — Gilad said. — It's too obvious.
— You're mistaken, Captain, — I countered, calmly observing the tactical feed. — Han Solo has already erred by dismissing what happened to his corvettes, and now he's making a second mistake. Is Judicator still closing on the enemy's right flank?
— Yes, sir, — Pellaeon confirmed. — They'll engage three minutes after us.
— Excellent, — I nodded. — Our recon droids have been destroyed?
— They have, — the Chimaera commander replied somewhat sadly. — Our scouts can't keep firing cloaked now that the enemy brought fighters to that spot. Shall I order them to drop stealth?
— Even armed freighters are just freighters, — I noted philosophically. — No need to risk valuable ships or reveal that we possess stealth technology. Distance to the enemy?
— We're at twenty units from the nearest Mon Cal Star Cruiser, — Pellaeon reported promptly. — Angle of ascent: fifteen degrees. The enemy's fighters are five units away, attacking with laser cannons. The capital ships are also firing—they've dropped our ventral shields by twenty-seven percent. Looks like they want to stuff our belly with proton torpedoes from as close as possible.
— They're playing it safe in case we try a textbook Marg Sabl, — I explained. — They're saving their torpedoes and missiles for our TIE fighters and Interceptors, which should presumably emerge from below. Captain, increase angle of ascent to twenty-five. And inform Captain I-Gor, along with our bombers and corvettes, that their time has come. The cruisers are to execute a downward maneuver and begin their own attacks. Once they reach coordinates 7-9-4, they'll level out and open enfilade fire on the Mon Cal cruisers.
***
— They're trying to do a vertical climb right under our noses? — the Star Destroyer commander said in disbelief.
— Probably hoping we'll pass under their stern so their engines can pound our shields, — Han explained. — Cruisers, turn to port!
— Sir! Multiple contacts behind the Imperial II–class!
— Where from? — the Republic flagship's commander asked in shock. — Fighters?
— Negative! Anti-ship torpedoes! Sir, the enemy corvettes are firing on our fighters! The medium cruisers have moved in among the Star Destroyers to barrage our ships' upper hemisphere! Both escort carriers are taking fire!
***
— Launchers twenty-one through forty are spent, — the first officer reported to the Victory I–class Star Destroyer's commander. — Crusader-2 and three Corellian corvettes started clearing out enemy fighters the moment the Star Destroyers rose. Multiple confirmed kills!
— Reduce sublight speed to one-third cruising, — I-Gor ordered. — Initiate a right turn. Prepare to reload the expended launchers and open fire on the starboard side. Same target— the central Mon Cal cruiser in their formation.
His voice was calm and measured. Orders were carried out with flawless precision.
Crusader slowed, falling behind the four corvettes that surged ahead, cutting through the enemy fighter formations like a hot blade through butter. Dozens of miniature flares lit up, marking the destruction of New Republic fighters. The shockwaves and debris from the obliterated craft scattered in every direction, creating a deadly shrapnel field that tore apart both any pilots who'd managed to eject and the ships of their luckier wingmates.
Through that chaotic cloud—its sensors distorted by the mass of metal and flashes of laser fire from TIE fighters, Interceptors, and their Republic counterparts—a salvo of twenty cigar-shaped deadly munitions launched from Crusader streaked forward. The Star Destroyer was already rolling to starboard, exposing its port side to the Mon Cal cruiser, which was also veering away, presenting its own port flank. Nearly at the same time, Crusader's port flank erupted with another twenty flashes, aimed at the cruiser being hammered by Imperial heavy strike craft from the Chimaera's hangars—bombers diving on the "upper hemisphere" of the target, forcing the cruiser's gunners into nonstop defensive work.
By the time the first wave of anti-ship missiles—thinned by enemy fighters and point-defense—reached the central Mon Cal Star Cruiser's deflector shields, the second wave was still en route. Meanwhile, the aging Victory I–class craft had swung its bow back toward the enemy as though nothing were amiss.
— Launchers twenty-one through forty have reloaded and are ready to fire again, sir, — the first officer reported to the captain.
— Don't wait on confirmation; fire when ready, — I-Gor said icily, giving the officer an inscrutable look. — Turbolasers, concentrate on the shield sectors we've calculated for the anti-ship missiles. And mind the maneuvering instructions from Grand Admiral Thrawn.
— Understood, sir! Launchers, fire! — the first officer commanded.
Crusader's bow spat out another twenty deadly projectiles, leaving behind only the trails of expended propellant as they carved their path through vacuum.
I-Gor noted that the two starfighter squadrons assigned to his ship were holding firm against the Republic pilots attempting to slip through Crusader's defensive perimeter. One squadron on each flank, plus Crusader-2 in the forward hemisphere, saturating space with rapid cannon fire and intercepting incoming missiles.
As Crusader executed a port turn, falling into a parallel course with its target—an enemy capital ship mercilessly hammering away with all its heavy guns in an effort to crush this "cheeky little ship"—the Victory's deflector shields held steady against the Star Cruiser's barrage. Proton torpedoes and anti-ship missiles launched by the cruiser were destroyed mid-flight by Crusader's laser defense systems, originally captured from the Zann Consortium.
— The second missile wave has taken down the enemy's port shields! — the first officer reported. — We see localized hull breaches! Broadside fire on the port side!
For the first time in this battle, tubes sixty-one through eighty unleashed their payload, hitting the already pummeled Mon Cal Cruiser, which was also being battered from above by the Chimaera's turbolasers. The double assault from two directions kept the New Republic deflectors constantly overtaxed. The flagship Star Destroyer took a few hits to her own forward hull, but the Imperial II's batteries were functioning perfectly, leaving the once white-and-cream Mon Cal hull blackened and scorched from repeated blasts.
The Mon Cal ship was clearly in dire straits: Great storms of venting atmosphere gushed from hull breaches, tossing debris by the ton into space as easily visible floating scraps. Its AA guns and fighter escorts fought desperately, trying to destroy either the missile source or the lethal projectiles themselves.
They succeeded only partially.
Chimaera hovered "above" the plane of the enemy fleet like a vulture, tearing the ill-fated cruiser's shields and hull apart with punishingly accurate turbolaser fire. Each new wave of missiles turned the once-beautiful, snow-white hull into a wreck.
There was no mercy or thought of capturing that particular ship—this was an annihilation battle. Neither side was willing to yield, nor eager to die.
Two escort carriers coming in the second wave found themselves pinned under crossfire from multiple Imperial ships. On one side, they were hammered by the Strike-class cruisers, which the enemy's Star Destroyer and two Assault Frigates were desperately trying to silence. On the other flank, the Judicator entered the fight, targeting one escort carrier and an Assault Frigate in a sudden strike that took them by surprise.
Captain Brandei promptly stole the enemy's focus from heavier Imperial ships. Despite a furious barrage from Nemesis, one Mon Cal cruiser tried to support its fellows with starboard battery fire—earning immediate punishment from a half dozen proton torpedoes fired by a TIE bomber squadron. Onlookers could witness fiery eruptions breaking out along the starboard dorsal surface of the massive vessel; the skilled TIE pilots found a way to cause maximum havoc, blowing up entire turbolaser blisters.
A vast ocean of turbolaser blasts, rockets, torpedoes, pain, and death was unfolding above Honoghr—a truly titanic confrontation where any side unable to outsmart the other would face obliteration.
Captain I-Gor, secretly pleased, watched as the fighter squadrons stationed on his Star Destroyer systematically tore into the plodding BTL-B bombers of the New Republic. Those "Wishbones," as TIE pilots called them, were formidable weapons—just not against TIE Fighters. Their rapid-firing cannons sheared the Rebellion's machines into disfigured scraps, like a cruel schoolboy taking a molecular scalpel to an insect for dissection.
Altogether, the four capital ships and two escort carriers set against the Imperials had managed to field twenty fighter squadrons. The Assault Frigates, so intent on damaging the Imperial Strike cruisers (against which they held roughly equal defenses but presumably more turbolasers), showcased anew their "toothlessness" against starfighter raids.
Grand Admiral Thrawn's fleet poured forth the fury of thirty-four starfighter/interceptor squadrons alone—never mind the four bomber squadrons methodically "ironing out" the hulls of the Mon Cal cruisers.
I-Gor glanced at the tactical readout. Indeed, the cruiser-carrier's fighter wing was continuing to guard the captor of the Republic fleet, that lonely Interdictor left behind in the heat of battle. Only once or twice did the enemy attempt to send fighters its way, but each time they retreated when they met the Interdictor's two dozen TIE Fighters.
— The enemy's hangar is hit! — the first officer practically crowed with boyish excitement.
I-Gor had already noticed.
Several anti-ship missiles from Crusader had struck a Mon Cal Star Cruiser's main hangar—one of the most vulnerable spots on any warship.
Following Thrawn's directives, once the Imperial Star Destroyers launched their own fighter wings, they sealed off their hangars with heavy blast doors, anticipating the Alliance's frequent reliance on torpedo-bearing starfighters—the dreaded "X-wing plus torpedo goes boom" tactic the Imperial fleet jokingly called "X-ordnance-blam." Joking aside, it was no laughing matter.
The Mon Cal Cruiser facing Crusader attempted to slip away from the melee, boxed in on all sides by both allies and Imperials, belching fire and black smoke from its hangar. Its attempt to escape wasn't going well, for a simple reason—the Chimaera's bombers had crippled its main engines, leaving it a wounded beast that yawed aimlessly, trying to slip behind an allied frigate and its own escort carrier. That carrier, hammered by turbolasers from Imperial cruisers, was left without engines or artillery—a sure death sentence in the center of a pitched battle.
Yet I-Gor understood Grand Admiral Thrawn had plans for that carrier. They'd likely take it as a prize if it survived this carnage.
— New orders from command, — the first officer said. — "Leave the crippled Mon Cal Cruiser to burn and switch fire to the escort frigates—target is up to you."
— Acknowledged, — I-Gor responded coolly. — Begin targeting solutions for the escort frigate that our cripple is trying to slip past. Let them burn together…
— Yes, sir! — the officer replied enthusiastically.
***
— Forward deflectors down to forty-three percent! — the watch officer reported.
— Decompression on decks three and five!
— Seal blast bulkheads, — Pellaeon ordered.
Chimaera's commander stood near Grand Admiral Thrawn, witnessing first-hand the campaign to annihilate the enemy fleet.
By now, the enemy had lost about half its fighter squadrons, and one of its Star Cruisers was a flaming wreck, no longer posing a threat, edging away from the battle. One of the two Quasar Fire carriers had lost its already-meager weapons, never meant for line combat. Thrawn's swift offensive had forced these starships to stay amid the main brawl, meaning those that should have hung back managing starfighter rotations for the New Republic instead found themselves battered by a stronger enemy.
— The second Quasar Fire is pulling out, Captain, — Lieutenant Tshel whispered, coming up close. — Lieutenant Kreb's squadron raided their flight deck.
— Keep monitoring the situation, — Pellaeon commanded.
— Aye, sir, — the young officer murmured before hurrying back to his station.
Glancing at the commanding officer seated in the central chair with an unruffled, inscrutable composure that seemed capable of instilling faith in inevitable victory—even when their allies' morale was already high—Pellaeon felt a flicker of genuine admiration for the Grand Admiral.
He had always respected Thrawn's strategic brilliance, but now…
For the past two months, Thrawn used a tactic of concentrating superior forces at the primary axis of attack. Until now, he'd never faced the New Republic with such a modest yet fearsome force.
And here they were, half an hour into the fight, and the Grand Admiral had chalked up six Corellian corvettes, two escort carriers, and one Star Cruiser. Admittedly, those last three weren't completely destroyed, but Pellaeon would bet good money Thrawn intended to capture them. A Quasar Fire might be weakly armed, but it was a decent vessel. Because New Republic starfighters are bigger, they can only mount four squadrons inside, but more-compact TIEs…
— You're thinking deeply, Captain? — Grand Admiral Thrawn inquired, scratching the chin of the dozing ysalamir perched on the back of his chair. Pellaeon almost wrinkled his nose—the smell of those lizards was bothersome—but realized he'd grown somewhat used to it. In truth, they barely smelled at all anymore.
— Yes, sir, — he didn't deny it. — It might be wise to deploy boarding parties to seize those escort carriers, both of them.
— You propose we open our own hangars with all these enemy fighters flitting about below? — Thrawn arched a brow.
— No, sir, — Pellaeon sighed. — Just that logically we should either capture or destroy them now. During the battle, their crews might repair some damage and try slipping beyond our gravity well coverage.
— Indeed, they may attempt that, — Thrawn conceded. — But we have enough undamaged ships to stop any breakout. Captain, order our bombers—along with the rest—to pull back and rotate via Nemesis. She's the only Star Destroyer not under heavy fire, and not swarmed by enemy fighters.
— Von Shneider certainly knows how to persuade hostile fighters to keep their distance from him, — Pellaeon grumbled, relaying the order.
— And Nemesis is equipped with specialized anti-fighter lasers, — Thrawn went on. — Indispensable in modern engagements.
— As well as artillery in the lower hemisphere, — Pellaeon added.
— That deficiency is an example of the stagnant thinking pervading nearly all starship manufacturers in this sector, — Thrawn remarked succinctly. — We'll see what Mr. Zion's project can show us.
Major overhauls of an Imperial Star Destroyer are not new, but that former "shipyards owner" at Yaga Minor believed he could bring fresh insights into "one hundred seventy thousand design flaws." Maybe so. Regardless, every vessel has its modernization limits. Sometimes it's better to build new than keep reconfiguring old hulls, as Thrawn does with Acclamators, Venators, and Victory–class ships.
— We've lost one of our Strike cruisers, — Lieutenant Tshel reported in a calm, businesslike tone.
Pellaeon cursed silently. Once the four Strike-class cruisers had neutralized the New Republic carriers, their task was to hold off the Assault Frigates. That was the best way to keep the main capital ships on roughly equal footing. Granted, the Mon Cal cruiser, blazing like a giant fuel dump, was still occasionally lashing out with turbolasers from its intact starboard side.
The damaged Strike, a twisted wreck of scorched plating, tried to limp out from under the torrential fire of the port guns from an enemy Assault Frigate. Its engines smoked, partially shut down; it spun out of control, indicating severed guidance systems, and rescue pods spewed from its hull—further proof that it was finished. The Republic evidently wanted to "even the score" by fully destroying the wounded craft.
Thrawn's eyes glinted sharply.
— Turn Chimaera's bow twelve degrees to port, — the commander ordered.
Automatically, Pellaeon relayed the instruction to the helm. Now their ship couldn't maintain a frontal barrage against General Solo's flagship. Instead, Red Gauntlet came under fire from the starboard batteries, while the port guns continued supporting Death's Head in its duel.
Chimaera paused, pivoting to face the triumphant Republic frigate directly.
— Turret batteries, set maximum rate of fire on the new target, — Thrawn quietly ordered.
Pellaeon passed on the command.
Sixty-four heavy turbolasers from the Grand Admiral's flagship fired in a synchronous volley. A moment later, another volley. After the third, Thrawn instructed them to continue in freefire mode.
The New Republic Mark I Assault Frigate could only bring five rapid-fire lasers, eight of its twenty quad turbolasers, and five of its total single turbolasers to bear in its forward hemisphere. And only the single turbolasers had a maximum range of sixty units. At a distance of twenty-seven units, well within Chimaera's weapons envelope, most of the frigate's guns were simply unable to respond.
Yes, the frigate's shields matched those of a standard Imperial I or II, but Chimaera was hardly "standard."
She boasted an additional shield generator salvaged from a destroyed Mon Cal ship, enabling "on the fly" shield boosting. Pellaeon was currently ordering the crew to take full advantage of that.
The barrage of green energy needles forced the enemy to reconsider its target priorities. Its best option now was to keep advancing, hoping to close the gap with the Grand Admiral's flagship. But each unit they closed only reduced the margin for error—Chimaera's gunners weren't missing many shots as it was.
At twenty-five units, the frigate's forward shield flared an angry red and collapsed. The enemy added five more laser cannons to its barrage, but in the thick of a capital engagement, such "bug bites" did little against the Imperial Star Destroyer's deflectors.
At twenty-three units, a fiery plume lit the frigate's bow—the Imperials had blasted through the hull of one of its turbolaser emplacements, annhilating the entire gun crew and everything else in that sealed section. Up until now, the gunners on Chimaera and the second Strike-class cruiser had mostly been scorching paint off the ship, marring the reworked Dreadnaught's blocky shape with blackened craters. Now, that first major kill was like the taste of blood, stoking the Imperials' thirst for more.
They got it at twenty units. A full turret salvo from Chimaera sliced open half the frigate's forward plating, vaporizing or ripping it into twisted shards from which clouds of air, bodies, and wrecked hardware vented into space.
The frigate's exposed innards, thrashing on its disrupted course, became an irresistible draw. While some of Chimaera's turrets continued torching the enemy's external gun batteries from nineteen to eighteen units, the rest took the simplest, deadliest approach.
Their enfilade barrage served as a battering ram, incendiary wave, and architecture of destruction all at once, punching through fragile bulkheads, detonating equipment, shredding decks, and sending everything else—the helpless living included—spiraling into vacuum. Those lucky enough to be struck directly died quickly; the rest suffocated.
— Well, now… — Thrawn murmured, eyes still fixed not on the ravaged frigate, but on the red triangle representing Han Solo's flagship and the clusters of enemy fighters around it. He'd noticed something in that seemingly chaotic shift.
The normal procedure of dropping blast doors and activating magnetic shielding to retain oxygen wasn't helping the Assault Frigate's crew as they died in horrific ways each time an Imperial shot breached some new section.
Ten minutes into that barrage, the New Republic frigate went dead in space, transmitting a distress call on all frequencies.
— Cease fire, — Thrawn commanded. — Adjust our heading, shift fire onto Red Gauntlet before it completes its maneuver.
— Maneuver? — Pellaeon realized, to his surprise, that while he had been fixated on the frigate's destruction, the enemy flagship had changed its orbital approach, diverging from Chimaera on a counter-course, angling left. Apparently the New Republic Destroyer was attempting to swing around the Grand Admiral's flagship. If it kept going, it would run straight into Crusader, which was busy raining volley after volley of anti-ship torpedoes on the second Assault Frigate, wearing down its defenses. Meanwhile, the other two Mon Cal ships were also turning sharply, pulling back toward their damaged allies.
— Precisely, Captain, — Thrawn clarified. — General Solo realized we were tied up finishing off that Assault Frigate. He aimed to slip past us, damage Captain I-Gor's Star Destroyer, and then use his speed advantage to close on our Interdictor cruiser and force it to shut down the gravity wells. He'd have fifteen to twenty minutes one-on-one with the Interdictor, which wouldn't end well for the latter. Then he and what's left of his fleet could jump out of the system, avoiding total defeat.
— May I ask how you knew, Admiral? — Pellaeon said, failing to see the clue.
— Once Chimaera started hammering that Assault Frigate, a sizeable gap opened between us and Nemesis—enough for Solo to pass through at cruising speed without incurring much damage, — Thrawn explained. — At the same time, we noticed several of his BTL-Bs (the bomber type favored by the New Republic) regrouping around Red Gauntlet. Our scanners lost track of some of them, so I inferred that Solo was rotating squadrons. If he managed a high-speed run past Crusader, his Destroyer wouldn't do critical harm to a Victory, but a bomber strike would. The Interdictor's commander would be forced to abandon my orders, knowing a Star Destroyer and multiple bomber squadrons were bearing down on him, or else fight an unwinnable battle. Luckily for our repair yard staff, we prevented that outcome.
No pride in his voice, no self-congratulation—Thrawn was simply stating facts, that he'd spotted the enemy's plan and taken steps to counter it. Over these past few weeks, he rarely spoke of himself or his decisions, preferring to say "we," emphasizing that everything was a collective effort acknowledging the contributions of each shipboard crewmember, from cadet to commanding officer.
— Then Solo should've just fired shipboard proton torpedoes at us, — Pellaeon noted. — New Republic–captured Destroyers can do that, can't they? While we were busy, he could've slipped away.
— General Solo's flagship was never modified under the same Hast Yard program, — Thrawn responded softly, still watching the enemy vessel.
— How do you know that, sir? — Pellaeon asked in confusion. Red Gauntlet, having realized it couldn't slip behind the Victory–class to shut down that endless torrent of missiles, was curving away, lashing out with sideways gunfire that just blew apart one of Thrawn's Corellian corvettes.
— That program requires installing proton-torpedo launchers in a Star Destroyer's bow, — Thrawn explained calmly, observing how Chimaera lined up behind the retreating enemy to crack its rear deflector. — You're absolutely right—if Solo had launched them, we'd have had bigger issues. But he didn't, preferring to run a gauntlet under the crossfire of two nearly undamaged Star Destroyers.
Pellaeon silently concurred. Of the four ISDs Thrawn brought to Honoghr, only Judicator had notable damage—it took a direct ship-based torpedo to the prow from a Mon Cal cruiser mid-turn. But Captain Brandei swiftly repaid that insult: The MC80's starboard flank was now on fire, belching smoke and leaving a trail of debris. As it limped away to rejoin the other battered ships, bits of plating and hull drifted away in a long wake of destruction.
— Patch me through to Lieutenant Kreb, Captain Pellaeon, — Thrawn suddenly said. — I have a special task for him and his Black Squadron. Time for Act Two of this little drama.
Pellaeon obediently complied, not about to argue.
***
Among the Empire's enemies, there's a popular notion that TIE Interceptor pilots are bloodthirsty maniacs, taking near-sadistic glee in destroying their targets. If you run into them, your only hope is a working hyperdrive.
Apparently, the pilot of that RZ-1 interceptor—nicknamed an "A-wing" or "razor" by those who flew them—didn't know that. Or he trusted in his craft's greater speed and agility.
Either way, he was dead now, consigned to space as a grave.
If those rumors about TIE Interceptor pilots were wholly true, Lieutenant Kreb might have exulted over his fallen foe. Had the other pilot heard how Kreb destroyed that new "fast" enemy starfighter while simultaneously conversing with Grand Admiral Thrawn?
— Black Squadron, — he said on the unit frequency. — This is Black Leader. We're moving on the enemy flagship.
Affirmations poured in. Eleven short comm clicks. The squadron had taken no casualties. That meant they were superbly trained.
Lieutenant Kreb still felt a twinge of discontent. He hadn't scored the "ultimate" trophy that day. He relentlessly drilled his people outside battle, extracting every ounce of skill, all for one goal—that each of them would become the best.
Kreb wasn't Force-sensitive and had no Jedi in his family, but he believed a simple truth: Sooner or later, his pilots would meet the New Republic's legendary Rogue Squadron. When that day came, they'd need every bit of skill—if not to triumph, then at least to survive. Then they could learn from it, adapt, and prepare for a rematch.
Instructors always said there's no shame in defeat if it leads you to victory. A stirring phrase, indeed.
But it doesn't really apply to TIE pilots. Any slip in combat usually ends with the twin ion engines blowing, giving TIE craft their name. Or a fate even worse—like a precisely aimed X-wing shot blowing out your cockpit canopy. Vacuum seeps in, beyond the capacity of your suit's life support. Your skin turns to ice, and the fever of battle can't fix that. Possibly you'll die long before you get back to your ship or see a medic. No chance for revival beyond that.
Would it help to give TIE pilots environment suits? Civvie pencil pushers had suggested as much, but TIE jocks cursed quietly at the idea—there's no space in those cramped cockpits, even in standard gloves.
— Combat mode, — Lieutenant Kreb told his squadron as they neared the target by a few units. Pistol range for an Interceptor. But the Grand Admiral had asked them to do it with a particular brand of contempt guaranteed to crush the enemy commander's confidence.
General Solo, huh? Another defector, another top-notch pilot who joined the enemy. Like Baron Soontir Fel of the 181st who once defected to the Rebels, or so the rumor said. Possibly captured by the Ice Queen, Ysanne Isard. People guessed she might have made him suffer, and it was widely hoped so. Only a fool doubted her cruelty—nobody left her clutches alive. Though, there were claims Corran Horn (known as Keiran "The Trickster" in some circles) had escaped Lusankya. But that's another story. All the more reason to finish this job. Another chance to prove Grand Admiral Thrawn had been right to choose Black Squadron as clone donors. And right to have them deliver a swift kick to the enemy's backside, demonstrating that everything was going exactly as he'd planned.
A wave of "Wishbones"—various BTL bomber variants—hurled themselves at the TIEs, but far too late.
Forming into six pairs, Black Squadron began harvesting their prey.
A BTL can be deadly if you don't demand agility or quick turns. They accelerate slowly, turn sluggishly, but if you're caught by their guns—bye-bye.
Two squadrons of BTLs versus a dozen TIE Interceptors? Are you joking? Who gave you that order?
Rolling left to dodge a twin scarlet blast from a head-on A-wing, Kreb let his TIE drop "below," letting the enemy pass overhead. He calculated the A-wing's velocity and acceleration as it strove to reach cruise speed. At that rate, there wouldn't be much maneuvering possible.
The Interceptor abruptly pivoted its thrusters, swinging its guns across the rebel's flight path. One second— the A-wing's engines flared, about to dash past the TIE Fighters behind Kreb…
He squeezed the trigger at precisely the right moment, sending green bolts lancing through the underside of the A-wing, shredding it into a cloud of fragments. Banking, Kreb rejoined his comrades as they systematically butchered the New Republic fighters.
Methodically annihilating BTLs one after another, Black Squadron closed on the enemy Star Destroyer to the point where ion exhaust might char their panels. Their instruments flickered as they penetrated Red Gauntlet's deflectors.
— Spread out, — Kreb commanded.
Imperial pilots don't chatter endlessly on comms. They just do their job.
Following the lieutenant, three more Interceptors ascended along the Republic Destroyer's stern superstructure. Kreb's half of the squadron targeted the giant dome of the shield generator perched on metal supports.
Six Interceptors to one side of the tower, six to the other, each group opening fire on both shield domes simultaneously.
Well-built as those domes were, they only took so many hits before erupting in a white-red flash. The right generator died first, followed a second later by the left.
Now Red Gauntlet could only rely on its hull plating—something hammered home by a precise volley into its stern from Chimaera's gunners. Kreb led his TIEs across either side of the enemy flagship's command tower, hunting the next objective.
Their cannons brutally wrecked the ship's turbolaser emplacements, silencing them before the New Republic could re-engage the Imperial war machine.
A shot skimmed Kreb's starboard panel, melting part of it. Alarms sounded as the Interceptor lurched. Not too bad; he'd flown through worse. His wingman roasted that AA battery right after.
Then, once the forward sections of the tower's main battery were dealt with, Kreb ordered his pilots to dismantle the line-mounted medium turbolaser turrets—those that had destroyed one of the Grand Admiral's corvettes earlier. With no more enemy fighter cover, Black Squadron was in a target-practice scenario.
Leaving his wingman to guard his tail, the lieutenant carefully matched speed with the star destroyer, looping overhead to appear right in front of the command tower's main bridge.
A small roll, adjusting his twin ion engines…
He found the spot he wanted quickly. The big flaw of the modern Republic forces was forgetting that Imperials know these ships inside and out. Hovering a few meters from the main viewport wasn't difficult for Lieutenant Kreb. He couldn't keep that up forever, with the visor already cracked, but it was enough.
He held position so the entire bridge could see him, then checked his wrist chrono. Ten seconds should do?
Judging by the panic he observed as the crew rushed for the exits, that was plenty.
Zooming in, Kreb saw General Solo's face, the usual smugness gone. Solo was shouting evacuation orders, but to his credit, he wasn't fleeing first. He also wasn't staying in the center, unlike the man wearing a captain's rank on his chest—the ship's commander.
That man calmly sat in his chair, withdrew a wooden pipe, and lit it, sending a cloud of smoke aloft.
Smoking aboard a warship is strictly against Imperial safety protocols, but the lieutenant respected his last wish.
An Imperial pilot understands honor.
Whoever this commander was, whatever led him to the New Republic, he wasn't running, even though it was clear what was about to happen. He knew the outcome, and he chose death over a humiliating capture.
Lieutenant Kreb respected that choice. He, too, would avoid surrender at all costs. Capture is disgrace.
To die while your ship is still not physically boarded, with your name untainted—that's a path not everyone can take.
The New Republic captain stared unflinchingly at the tinted canopy of the TIE Interceptor. Lieutenant Kreb nudged his craft to signal recognition of the enemy commander's valor.
The older man returned an Imperial-style salute, showing his own respect for the pilot's actions. Clearly, he was disgusted by how his own crew was panicking behind him.
They understood each other.
Kreb angled his Interceptor to grant the enemy captain the "highest mercy" he could offer.
Then he fired, his first shot vaporizing the man instantly—a swift death.
He showed no such kindness to the rest of the Republic crew on that bridge.
They didn't deserve his respect. They had no honor.