WILLIAM SHEPLIN
Modern missile doctrine has roots going back millennia, of course, but what we would recognize as modern missile doctrine and tactics are firmly rooted in Kol Huro, Lutrillia, and, more pivotally, Dac.
—From Xim to Thrawn: The History of Naval Warfare
by Tenten E. Reynolds, Military Historian
Dac, Outer Rim, 0 ABY
Commander Sheplin surveyed the crowded flight briefing room with his passive, sapphire eyes, smiling slightly without truly displaying any kind of warmth. "Good morning, gentles," he said clearly, holding a light-pointer stiffly by his side. His burns and wounds—only partially healed—throbbed in time with his pulse, but he kept the pain from his expression with great difficulty.
A chorus of 'good morning, sir' came from nearly four hundred pilots. Every pilot on the base who flew more than a garbage scow—over four hundred men and a few women, despite the briefing room only having a seating capacity of three hundred and fifty—was packed into the room, all of them watching the tall former Imperial officer intently.
"As the Rumor Mill has so kindly informed all of you—quite alarmingly and humorously, I might add—something is, as they say, 'in the air.' " Sheplin's voice was carefully metered, so that he could be clearly heard from the furthest corners of the room, though the pain that he hid exaggerated the fastidious accent of his homeworld in a more noticeable manner than usual.
"Nine days ago, Alliance intelligence assets relayed the departure of the Fourth Oversector Group from Kuat for the Outer Rim. Some of you may have heard about the Fourth. It was specially activated for this current Imperial . . . crisis. Force composition is firmly fixed at over one thousand star destroyers and forty-plus dreadnoughts of varying class."
The quiet room stilled to inhuman levels, as understanding sunk into the pilots' minds.
"The Special Operations Group has reason to believe that the Fourth Oversector Group is coming here." Sheplin signaled the display screen operator, and the massive screen switched from its standby colors to show a two-dimensional rendition of the Dac System. Three points beyond a segmented blue circle that represented the hyper-limit of the system had been highlighted with little annotations that read 'Likely Transition Points.'
Sheplin touched the tip of his light-pointer to the highlighted points. "These three points are what Admiral Thrawn, myself, and Colonel Sanderson believe are the most likely exit-vectors of the Imperial force. It is quite possible that, with their numbers, they will simply come through all of them simultaneously. Estimated arrival is tentatively believed to be within four days."
The tip of the pointer came to rest on a blue arrow annotated with 'Hornet,' and he said, "Hornet Group will be comprised of local defensive units, and will be responsible for giving the Imperials—" he didn't even stumble on the noun, despite the irony of still wearing an Imperial Naval uniform "—something to think about."
A hand went up. "Four hundred strike-craft and . . . other 'ships' against . . . what? Fifteen hundred capital ships? How are we going to be any more than a nuisance?"
"It's closer to seven thousand, including support craft," Sheplin corrected calmly, ignoring the slightly panicked murmur that followed. "And, as to the 'how' . . . well, we're going to be trying a method Admiral Thrawn came up with at a place called Kol Huro."
He touched his light-pointer to a blue arrow that had just appeared on the display screen. This one was annotated 'Crimson.' "This, gentles, is the real meat of the operation, and will be under my command. . . . I have to make this clear right away; Crimson Group is volunteer only."
Another hand came up. "Why is that, sir?"
Sheplin's eyes sought the speaker out, and raised an eyebrow at Lieutenant Valentine Walker. "Because, Lieutenant, the most optimistic computer sim run ended with ninety percent casualties for Crimson Group."
The modifications to the strike-craft of Imprimis Base continued at a fevered pace. Wire-feed welders sparkled with star-bright intensity and grinders threw arcing sprays of sparks as quick-release pylons were added to the staggered lines of strike-craft and long-range shuttles.
Torpedoes meant to be launched from star-destroyer launch tubes—or orbital missile batteries—were trucked, one at a time, on munitions carts to modified strike-craft. Winches, cables, and chain-hoists lifted the massive missiles to the pylons, where they were secured by ordnance specialists.
Sheplin watched the frenzied activity with something approaching pride. That was irrational, of course, as these spacers and Marines weren't 'his' men, and he had no right to be proud of them. Still, he was absolutely sure that if any Imperial officer had been insane enough to order four hundred TIE Fighters modified to launch capital-grade torpedoes, the hypothetical officer's ground crew would never have launched into the task with such a will.
"Quite a show," Colonel Sanderson commented. His obvious pride, Sheplin was certain, was far more logical.
"It is," Sheplin agreed. He'd witnessed one such modification to a perfectly good strike-craft squadron in the past—hardly even half a year prior—and was quite impressed by the speed of these modifications. Especially considering that they had four hundred ships to modify and not just twelve.
"Just between you and me, Commander," Sanderson began, "will this all really make that much of a difference?"
Sheplin turned to look at Sanderson. His wounds were still throbbing, as they had most of the time since he'd gotten out of the infirmary aboard Knight. He probably shouldn't have gone back to his duties so quickly, he admitted . . . but there was just so much to be done. So much that couldn't be delegated to anyone but himself.
His eyes were slightly clouded by the pain, but he saw that Sanderson wasn't truly worried, so much as professionally concerned. "I've been in the sims most of the day, sir," Sheplin said quietly. "The Fourth's got a lot of firepower behind them . . . and a lot of missile defense capability. Providing we can close to just outside turbolaser range—to give the missiles the shortest flight times—and that we concentrate our firepower on just a 'few' targets, we should be able to take most of the dreadnoughts out, along with a sizable portion of their point-defense pickets. At least the sims say we can."
"Leaving only, oh . . . a thousand star destroyers for Thrawn to mop up," Sanderson said, shaking his head.
Sheplin shook his head as well, though for different reasons. "Actually, probably less." He gestured upward. "About every orbital tug that can have a few missiles strapped to its hull—and most can have more than just 'a few'—is having that done up in the fleetyards, sir."
"Yes, I know, Commander," Sanderson said, not impatiently but simply resignedly. He acknowledged that Sheplin had spent his entire adult life studying naval warfare, while he'd spent most of his life studying surface warfare, and the naval officer likely knew what he was talking about. If he didn't, Thrawn wouldn't have sent him.
"Yes, I know," Sanderson repeated. "But if you would care to explain how tugs—with inertial compensators that are just plain skraggy, by military standards—will help us any, I'd truly appreciate it."
Sheplin smiled thinly, something slightly humorous in it. "The tugs will make up Crimson Group, and while I admit that their compensators are maybe . . . a quarter as effective as a T-65's, they don't have to be fast."
"No?" Sanderson asked, wondering why he hadn't heard of 'Crimson Group' yet. Of course, he hadn't been able to make it to the pilots' briefing, and Sheplin barely had enough time to eat and sleep, let alone keep Sanderson up to date. Though, given the amount of flimsi-work Sanderson had to wade through, the odds were good that Sheplin's report about Crimson Group had been buried.
"No," Sheplin smiled again. He hadn't intentionally meant to keep this from Sanderson, but since both had found their days filled with either flimsi-work, defensive preparations, or simulator runs, he hadn't had a chance to fill the Base Commander in face-to-face.
"The tugs, sir," Sheplin said simply, "don't look like warships. And, given the panic the Fourth will cause dropping into the system, it would be perfectly understandable if the 'unarmed' civilian and support craft in orbit—which will make up the majority of Crimson Group—try to make a run for the hyper-limit on a least-time course."
Sanderson's eyes glinted in understanding. "Ah," he said. "And I would assume the least-time course will take them right up the backside of the Fourth?"
"You assume correctly, sir." Sheplin's smile diminished fractionally. "They won't survive long, once they've launched, and we're looking for volunteers for their crews. But with the tugs acting as extra launch platforms, we should be able to put nearly nineteen thousand birds in the air, including Hornet's launch."
Sanderson nodded. That wasn't even two and a half missiles to every ship in the Fourth Oversector Group, but he had no idea what the kill rates were for missile to ship ratios like that. Based on what Sheplin had mentioned about his tests in the sims, it still wouldn't be enough to take out the Fourth entirely.
"There's only one thing that does worry me, tactically," Sheplin admitted quietly, watching Sanderson perk up at the admission. "We're going to shoot ourselves dry in a hurry once we begin the battle—we won't have anything left for a second volley." He ran a finger along the side of his thumb's nail. "I've had about every magazine on the planet stripped for Hornet and Crimson Groups."
Before Sanderson could respond, Wedge Antilles separated himself from the chaotic work parties that filled the hangar and walked up to Sheplin and the Base Commander. "Sirs," he said, saluting. He looked at Sheplin. "Hornet Group's looking good, Commander. Should be ready for a dry run this evening or tomorrow."
"Thank you, Commander," Sheplin said. As the only squadron CO who had done anything even remotely similar to what was being attempted here, Wedge had found himself the impromptu commander of Hornet Group.
Wedge nodded at the older man that wore the same type of rank pips. "I don't know if you want to take Crimson up at the same time, for one big dry run, or if you want to do it separately."
Sanderson glanced at Sheplin, wondering why Wedge had been told about Crimson before he had been. He held his tongue though, as Wedge's phrasing stuck in his mind. " 'Take them up,' Commander?" he asked, directing his question to Sheplin.
Sheplin glanced at Sanderson. "Like I said; Crimson is a volunteer-only mission. Volunteers tend to be a little more willing, if the officer who came up with the mission is willing to volunteer himself." That was only half the truth. The more cold-blooded half. The other half was . . . irrational. The same type of irrationality on Thrawn's part that had made Sheplin lash out verbally at him on Hoth.
Sheplin turned back to Wedge. "We'll do one big dry run, Commander. Tomorrow morning. In the air at oh-six hundred. Live loads."
Wedge nodded. "We'll be there."
"Colonel!" the shout could be heard over the din of grinding and welding. A staffer in an Army uniform came running from the situation room. Saluting Sanderson, and by extension the two Naval officers, he quickly said, "a freighter just dropped out of hyperspace. The pilot reports that she was attacked in deep space by an Imperial force several thousand strong."
Sheplin, Wedge, and Sanderson all stiffened. "Where?" the Colonel demanded.
The debrief room was entirely empty, save for the Marine guards posted at the doors, and the three officers. Sheplin stood in the corner, while Sanderson conducted Lieutenant Taggert's debrief, observing the haggard woman's responses.
"You were attacked four days ago?" Sanderson asked gravely, a recorder on the table between him and Taggert.
"Yes, sir," Taggert said, her jade-green eyes looking exhausted. "Four days. I was interdicted on a supply run to Ruisto—one of those Mon Cal colony worlds—by a force several thousand strong. I only escaped, I think, because I managed to burn out the tractor pulling me in."
"But you didn't continue to Ruisto," Sanderson commented.
"No, sir. The interdiction field was blocking any direct route to Ruisto." She shuddered a little. "I've always heard about those hard calls that flag officers make, but now I think I understand." She looked at Sanderson. "Sir, I had a choice between trying to sneak around the Imp fleet to warn a colony world, or coming here, to warn a fully-settled world with billions of civilians."
"They call that the brutal arithmetic," Sanderson said.
"Yes, sir. I guess they do."
"What do you think, Commander?" Sanderson asked quietly, once Taggert had been dismissed from the room.
Sheplin had been tapping his index finger against his pant leg, aware fleetingly that he was starting to pick up one of Thrawn's more noticeable habits. "Her sensor logs agree with her report," he said, the finger still tapping. "If anything, it's good news."
"Good news, Commander?"
Sheplin shrugged. "Now we know exactly where the Imperials were, four days ago. If it takes them a very conservative day to pacify—or glass—Ruisto, it'll buy us another day at the least. Likely more." He turned toward the door. "I need to contact the Admiral, and advise the Dac government that we have absolute proof of an imminent Imperial attack—maybe that'll get them off of their backsides."