CHAPTER EIGHT
How much had been coincidence, and how much had been cold-blooded calculation I was never able to discern. Both were, to some degree, involved, I am sure.
—From Thrawn
by Admiral William J. Sheplin, NRN, Retired
Kol Huro Orbit, Outer Rim, 0 ABY
The Tranquil Dawn did not live up to its name. The Nebulon-B-Class frigate was among the very first of the production models of the B-Class refit to roll off the Kaut Yard's production lines. Once, she had been sleek and graceful; a huntress of unwary starfighters. Now her once-graceful lines had been replaced by rough, garish patches of durasteel armor, and the lighter gun mounts now sported turbolasers. She was a cruiser in all but name.
The star-streaked patterns of hyperspace flashed past the Tranquil Dawn and her four escorts as they sped along. Behind the five warships, six empty transports followed.
The bridge of the Tranquil Dawn shuddered slightly as the small flotilla smeared back into normal space.
"Squadron standing down from condition three, Captain," a staffer reported, as the Tranquil Dawn and her escorts emerged from hyperspace.
"Very well, signal escorts to begin a complete sweep of the system, any scavengers are to be detained if possible," Captain Dawes ordered, the orders having been given to him four hours prior by Admiral Thrawn.
"Aye, sir."
Admiral Thrawn sat in the hastily-added flag officer's chair, watching the well-drilled crew carry out the Captain's orders. Sheplin stood calmly at his admiral's left, the bandage gone from his head, and a long scar visible where the hair had been shaved off to allow access to his wound.
Captain Dawes approached the duo after personally checking a sensor readout. "Sensor readings indicate seven planets in the system, massive concentrations of metallic compounds on every planet. The echuta in their atmospheres is mucking up our readings, though, so I can't give you anything more detailed, sir," he said.
"I understand, Captain, try to clean up the readings if you can," Thrawn responded.
Wedge Antilles pulled on his flight suit, one leg at a time. It was worn and stained, but it still held pressure, and that was all that truly mattered to him.
He was alone in the pilot's dressing room, as the rest of the squadron was already out in the briefing room, swapping lies and waiting for him to brief them.
He took a deep breath, stilling his nerves. This would be the first time flying—outside of four brief training exercises—as Rogue Squadron's commander. Many of the squadron members were former Red Squadron fliers, including Luke Skywalker and Biggs Darklighter, so at least he wouldn't be among strangers. But would that have been better?
He didn't know, and his lack of experience gave him a new-found respect for Garven Dreis, the commander of the deactivated Red Squadron.
Tucking his helmet under his arm, and straightening his spine at the same time, he made his way to the briefing room.
Commander Sheplin was stooped over a plot table, studying the orbits of the planets around Kol Huro. "Amazing," he said softly to himself.
He felt Thrawn's presence beside him. "Commander?" Thrawn invited.
"Pardon me, sir. I was studying the orbits."
"And?"
Sheplin wet his lips. "They're too perfect, sir," he said. He ran a finger over the plot, tracing the lines denoting orbits. "Kol Huro Seven is exactly five times further from the primary than Kol Huro Four, and I mean exactly, sir." He straightened. "Every planet is orbiting at corresponding distances relative to their neighbors. It's impossibly perfect, sir."
"Is it natural?" Thrawn asked, his interest piqued.
"I haven't the slightest idea, sir," Sheplin answered. "I'd say it wasn't, but stranger, naturally occurring, things have been recorded."
"Yes, they have," Thrawn agreed softly. "Intelligent design?"
"Again sir, I don't know."
Thrawn gave a small nod. "There are some parts of this galaxy that are simply too perfect, Commander, to have been an accident," Thrawn said softly.
Sheplin gave his admiral a curious look, but Thrawn remained silent.
"Admiral," Captain Dawes began, approaching Thrawn, "our escorts have completed their ascribed sweep of the system. They've secured seven scavenger ships."
"None managed to leave the system?" Thrawn asked.
"No, sir," Dawes answered. "The captains of the escorts believe they were the only ships present in-system."
"Very well," Thrawn said. "Send my congratulations to the crew of each escort."
"Aye, sir."
"Also." Thrawn handed a touchpad to Dawes. "Have our escorts drop reconnaissance platforms at these points."
"Right away sir."
"Likely hyper-transition points?" Sheplin guessed quietly, after Dawes had left to relay the orders.
"Precisely."
Sheplin nodded. With such a small force Thrawn could not hope to cover every likely transition point with a warship or starfighter.
"Commander Antilles reports that Rogue Squadron is prepped, and ready for CAP duties," Dawes reported.
Wedge climbed the durasteel rungs of the ladder to the opened cockpit of his X-Wing. He set himself down with a sigh, and began strapping himself in.
Footsteps sounded on the rungs, as another person climbed up after him. "Take it easy out there, Commander," Lieutenant Thorne said. She had been reassigned from the deactivated Red Squadron as well. "Chief Lonzel was doing his best to bite my head off after that last exercise."
Wedge nodded, as Thorne handed him his flight helmet. During the last exercise, Lieutenant Biggs had had a mid-flight emergency when his ship had begun trailing coolant. The engines were slagged by the time he landed the fighter, but the fact that he managed to land at all had impressed Wedge.
"Will do," Wedge answered.
Thorne nodded, and gave him a salute. "Good hunting, sir."
Wedge returned the salute. "Thank you, Lieutenant."
Thorne descended the ladder rungs, and Wedge toggled the canopy closed.
A crackle of static came over his headset. "Let's be about it," he said into his comlink pickup.
Kol Huro I, Outer Rim, 0 ABY
The Marines rushed out of the transport, and onto the surface of the dusty planet.
They were in light pack, carrying only blasters and ammunition, since they were the screening force for the Army regiments still onboard the transports.
The Marines kept their carbines trained on every possible piece of cover, ready to let loose a torrent of plasma-fire the moment an attack came…
No attack came, and the Army regiments disembarked in files, forming into lines and work detachments as their feet touched the red sand.
"Sweet bkauas, what's that smell?" a soldier asked from the Army ranks.
"What's the matter, boot?" a Marine called from the screening lines. "Never been in a thorilide mine?"
"Ch'tra ravri'ihah ch'ahn," the soldier responded, making an obscene gesture at the Marine.
The Marine grinned, and hoisted his carbine a bit higher as he saw something move…a small, non-sentient creature darted into sight, before disappearing behind a clump of sparse foliage.
"First platoon!" a lieutenant barked. "We've been assigned the first work duties. Get the technicians to the front and drop your packs and gear!"
The Army troops unslung their packs and rifles, laying the former in neat rows, and stacking their rifles, before following the swarm of technicians to the nearest mine entrance.
The mine entrance was sealed off with a rusted-out door that wouldn't budge, which was simply blown off its hinges by an overly enthusiastic Marine demolition specialist.
Soldiers filed into the dark passageways, lighting glowlamps as they descended deeper into the mine.
Kol Huro Orbit, Outer Rim 0 ABY
Wedge yawned and blinked. They were just finishing the last hour of their shift on the combat air patrol, and the entire squadron was bone-tired. They'd been in the cockpit for nearly twelve hours.
They'd logged sixteen twelve-hour shifts thus far, and the mindless grind was pushing them to the brink of human endurance.
He checked his chrono—only fifteen minutes remained for this shift.
He keyed the transmit button for the squadron-wide comm-circuit. "Fifteen minutes guys, so stay awake—we don't need any accidents in the hangers," he said.
"Hard copy on that, Rogue Lead," a tired voice responded.
Wedge yawned again, before slapping his face suddenly, trying to keep himself awake.
"Rogue Lead, this is Dawn actual. Wraith Squadron's launch has been delayed. Please standby on station," the voice of the Tranquil Dawn's flight controller said over the squadron channel.
"Acknowledged, Dawn actual. Standing by on station."
A part of Wedge wanted to swear, but he knew that Wraith squadron was pulling as many hours as Rogue Squadron was.
He checked his instruments, and frowned as he saw the fuel display. Theoretically, an X-Wing had an endurance of a week in deep space, but the need to continually burn the engines to patrol around the flotilla had eaten deep into that endurance, and they had only a bit more than ten percent of their fuel left.
His sensor display flickered suddenly, as a contact dropped out of hyperspace.
"Unidentified contact, five-thousand klicks out, dead ahead," Luke Skywalker's startled voice reported.
"I see it," Wedge responded, looking at the sensor display. They were under orders to intercept any ships coming out of hyper, and the vectors would be tight, but he might be able to do it. He wouldn't have any fuel for an extended battle though. He might not even have enough fuel to get into missile range.
"Go to full accel," Wedge ordered. "Then put your S-Foils in attack position and follow me in."
The contact was breaking off, accelerating hard away from the small Alliance battlegroup. Wedge pursed his lips. It was going to be very tight.
"Contact is breaking away, trying to make a run for it," Commander Sheplin reported as he bent over the tactical plot. "Rogue Squadron is on an intercept vector, they will enter missile range in—"
"They won't make it," Thrawn interrupted Sheplin quietly.
Sheplin's lips tightened, but he nodded. "Yes, sir."
"I want every sensor on this ship trained on that contact," Thrawn ordered. "I want to at least know who found us."
"Aye, Admiral," Dawes said.
"Then contact our surface teams, and get them back aboard as soon as possible. With the raw material and ordnance, of course," Thrawn said. "We won't have much time."
The unidentified contact winked out of existence on Thrawn's tactical readouts.