Sometimes you would think you'd learn never to trust Intel.
The seven Koensayr BTL-S3Y-Wings had exited hyperspace close to the suburban world of Tyerthia, splayed in assault run formation. They were to conduct a hit-and-run attack on the largely unguarded Imperial orbital research facility orbiting the world. According to command, the Rebel bomber craft were to run into anti-aircraft turbolaser fire from inexperienced gun crews at the most. And that was it.
Something had given Flight Lieutenant Rath Valleen a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach when he'd heard that. And for a fighter pilot who'd completed nine combat sorties already, he knew that that little feeling was usually right. Needless to say, he'd gotten the squadron leader to lay all aspects of the raid out in clean detail for him before they'd left, and had even ordered his R2 unit to have power waiting in the backup generators for a quick start of the shields after they exited hyperspace. It didn't feel like enough, but Lt. Valleen was a soldier, and a good one at that, and even though it seemed likely this would be the end of the road for his twenty-one years of life, he had followed the commander out of the bay and formed up in the Rancor Seven slot.
They always said that it was the first ten combat missions that killed the most pilots. Under normal circumstances, a proper space force would have set up an advanced training program designed to give the pilots their first ten, or give them the experience that such missions would. These circumstances, however, were anything but normal. With the Rebellion under full swing after the miraculous defeat of the Emperor and Vader at Endor and the crushing blow of seizing Courscant, the soon-to-be New Republic didn't have the manpower or resources to waste on training. A good two-thirds of the Empire's space fleet was still out there, under the command of nefarious leaders such as Grand Admiral Thrawn, and now that the Republic was a fully-seated government they could no longer hide behind the protection of the hit-and-run attacks that had preserved the Alliance. And so there were squadrons like the Rancors, understrength, using inferior vehicles and manned by pilots such as Valleen, who had had come fresh from flight academy into the world of fighter craft. It was really a miracle he had made it this far. That or skill. As a fighter jock, Valleen preferred to see it as the latter.
Still, he had no misconceptions about his vulnerability. Too many friends had gone down moments after declaring that no enemy could touch them for that.
Now, twisting to the right as sharply as a Y-Wing could manage, Valleen listened in curt silence as the comm chatter spoke its fell news. Three of the Rancors were confirmed destroyed, with rumors flying about a fourth. The research station flashed by the viewport as Valleen reoriented his spin. He felt a bitter smile spread thinly across his lips. The jump had been calculated close by the squadron leader, so as to make the attack less predictable and harder to defend against. If not for the Imperial Star Destroyer that could only have been making a supply stop on its way out of the Core, the attack would have worked perfectly.
A TIE Fighter flashed by the veiwscreen and Valleen let out an abbreviated burst of laser fire from the Y-Wing's dual forward Taim and Bak KX-2 laser cannons before breaking to port. He didn't wait to see if the shots hit- attempting to dogfight a TIE in a Y-Wing was nearly- not quite, but nearly- suicidal.
"Rancor Squadron, pull back, repeat pull back." The comm crackled with the sound of their leader's voice. Valleen stepped on the ethric rudder and brought the unwieldy bomber around, standing on his tail away from the planet. He poured all his power into the rear deflector shields and the engines, willing the sluggish bomber away from the target.
"Watch it, Seven, that Star Destroyer is coming up on your four. Suggest you break port to avoid passing through its cone of fire."
"Copy that, Two. Seven complying." Valleen suited action to words and pulled his ship around, horsing it toward the point outside the planet's gravity well where the three other ships left of the squadron were formed and waiting. He had just made it when the patrol cruiser came out of hyperspace right in their path.
"Rancors, break-" The squadron leader's voice died in a burst of static. As Valleen watched in horror, a pair of bright green laser nacelles speared through Rancor One's already overloaded shields and stabbed straight into the engine housing. He reached for the comm to scream a warning-
And the Y-Wing disintegrated in a rapidly expanding cloud of white-red gas.
A scream of rage and sadness and horror burst from Valleen's lips. The man who had been his mentor, his friend, his family since the death of his real one was gone.
He swung the Y-Wing around, determined to exact revenge for his friend, anger seething like tibana gas through his veins.
"Seven, don't-"
He dove toward the Tartan patrol cruiser, firing again and again from his proton torpedo tubes. Raging screams tore raw from his throat as he enjoyed atomizing every bit of the cruiser as it flailed under the ferocity of his attack. It's crew had never been trained to fight targets so close to them, and now they faltered. It was all the invitation the pilot needed. His screams of vengeance continued until all traces of the ship vanished from the sky.
Then, energy spent, he slumped in the pilot's couch, refusing to answer the comm to his anxious wingmates. His R2 unit remain uncharacteristically silent, instead taking over the ship and guiding it into hyperspace to follow the rest of the squadron.