Chapter 32

Thirty-eight hours after the commander promised an EVAC

"General," Gold-5 announces. "Three vipers and three people just emerged from the water along the coastline. I, I can't believe it. Do you want me to keep track of them?"

Relief floods Hera. She knew he'd arrive, but her command's skepticism wore down her confidence as time passed. Hera knows it's petty, but she relishes their shock. Only Mon Mothma remains neutral, shielding her opinion behind a neutral but attentive expression.

"I doubt you'll be able to. If anything changes, keep us advised no matter how small."

"How certain are you the Grand Commander isn't joining them?" An admiral asks.

"If he was, why wouldn't he fly straight into the Research Station?"

Then Gold-5 calls, "Two probes withdrew. The last Viper partially scanned me, just long enough to trigger my sensors. I-I'm tracking it, but…it's gone, somewhere over the station."

Hera considers it a moment, then smiles, chuckling to herself.

"What amuses you, General?" Mon Mothma requests.

"A moment, ma'am," Hera replies before returning to the pilot. "Gold-5, broadcast this phrase exactly. Then set it on repeat. 'Major Shin and any rebel forces, help is on the way.'"

"Yes, ma'am," Gold-5 answers, and the Mon Calamari nods, confirming the repeating message. Then the pilot warns, "It may not get through their jamming, ma'am."

"I hope some survivors hear it," Hera replies. "But it's not for them."

"Wait, what?" Gold-5 starts. "You're helping HIM? Let them kill each other!"

"If you're going to help him," An admiral inquires. "Why not message him directly?"

"General," Mon Mothma cuts in sternly before composing herself. "What's your plan?"

Hera steels herself again. She reminds herself that her relationship with the commander, momentary as it was, has eroded their trust in her.

"I'll answer you, one at a time, and it will become clear," Hera responds with forced calm. "These imperials tried to deceive us using the lieutenant's voice. They have our communication channels. Maybe I'm overreacting, but I'm not taking any chances."

"You think messaging him may reveal him to the imperials," the admiral realizes. "Err…those imperials."

"Is there a difference?" Gold-5 asks sincerely. "They're all imps! Let's hit it from orbit!"

"Something serious is going on in that station, serious enough to warrant special forces," Hera reminds them. "We need to know too! We know the commander is there, but they may not. IF, and it's a big IF, someone is alive, they may hear it." Hera hardens herself for the next part. "The speed, skill, and capabilities of these imperials indicate we should prepare for the worst."

"Why message him at all?" Gold-5 demands. "They killed my wingman and friends!"

"The Grand Commander didn't kill them," Hera reminds him quietly.

"No, but he's killed many others," another staff officer argues.

Here we go again; how do we bridge this gap to bring peace? "Yes, during a Civil war that is coming to an end. This back and forth will prolong it and lead to escalation. Think! They killed the local imperials too. What's their response, reaction, and goals if they discover him?"

"They'll kill him, just like my friends," Gold-5 admits. "Probably lay a trap like us too."

Hera realizes HIS words came from her mouth again but plows ahead. "What will the Grand Commander do if he discovers captured or hidden rebels? What has he done so far?"

"He released you," the admiral admits. "He hasn't attacked us, only defended himself."

"If survivors spot him, they'll group him with the attackers. Now, maybe they won't."

"Brilliant general," Mon Mothma decides. "You're using the Empire against itself."

"Yes," Hera lies. "If they escape, there's no chance of bringing them to justice. If we attack, there's no telling how many will die or if we WILL succeed. He's the Empire's best field commander. He may die, weakening them. Or kill them all, opening the way for us."

"All it cost was a simple message," Mon Mothma nods thoughtfully. "Keep us appraised and contact us if anything changes. Good luck, general."

"I hope you're wrong about survivors," the admiral whispers before the holo blinks out.

"Ma'am," Gold-5 inquires. "Why'd they scan me? I still don't understand that."

Hera grins, "You know they were there, and they knew it too, scanning you in reply."

"They 'waved' at me?" The X-wing pilot exclaims. "That's insane. We're enemies."

"Stay alert, Gold-5," Hera responds quietly. "When he moves, it'll be without warning…keep a lookout for that Viper too. Whatever he does, it will include the probe."

Hera ends the communication, then looks at Lord Dyer and her giant warrior. She waves them over before asking, "Did you overhear?"

They nod, but it's the Mon Calamari that asks, "What are their chances, ma'am?"

Hera doesn't like the odds, and a part of her wishes she was with him. Yet, somewhere at that moment, a voice reminds her. Cautioning her, the Mon Calamari is an agent of Mon Mothma. Warily and wearily, she concedes, "I don't know. He and his team are good, but these troopers wiped out the imps and Major Shin without a single message. They're terrifying."

"You're getting better at lying," Lord Dyer points out suddenly. His words shock everyone, then he elaborates. "We know you didn't send him to use the Empire against itself."

"He's our only option," Hera sighs. "He'll want answers, and I'm using it against him."

"You did your duty," her guard insists. "We need you to make hard decisions wisely."

Hera knows it's a sign of weakness but wipes her hands over her face before admitting, "He released me instead of forcing a trade. He saved my life in the fighting pit. I'm throwing him into a meat grinder with little support."

"Don't count him out," the bodyguard smiles. "He has Gary, after all."

Hera chuckles, shaking her head, "How is Gary still alive?"

"Gary's really lucky," the big human chuckles. "I bet I could talk him out of that armor. If I had the chance, I'd take it."

"Dr. Wither is not helpless either," Lord Dyer adds. Then he smiles, "Besides, meat grinders are the Grand Commander's specialty."

A breeze rushes through the command center. A bright flash of sunlight interrupts as someone pulls the flap aside. A technician gasps, eyes widen, as rebels stare at the door. Tension fills the room with silence. Hera follows it to the figure, who hesitates at the threshold.

"I know I messed up," Captain Kensington admits. "How can I help?"

"Major Shin and any rebel forces, help is on the way," a pause, then it repeats on a loop.

"What do you think, sir?" Dr. Wither inquires.

"What do you think, captain?" He replies, using her rank instead of her medical title. "I need officers that think on their feet. What is your evaluation?"

He catches her off-guard, and she glances at Gary before she answers, "General Syndula, by all metrics, is intelligent and decisive. She's assuming there are survivors, either from the original forces or this attack—more survivors than the X-wing pilot."

"Gary," the commander turns to him.

"Yes?" He asks, then pauses, only realizing the question asked of him. "Oh! Uhhh, I-ahh. She's reassuring the rebels help is on the way!"

The commander taps his rifle impatiently.

"Uhh, sorry, sir," Gary admits sheepishly. "I'm coming up empty."

"Think Gary!" He snarls. "You can't depend on others to do it for you!"

Gary flinches, then looks at the base they're quietly approaching. A gap lies in the wall, and nearby an AT-AT lies idle. The massive walking tank seems sad, abandoned in the middle of a jungle by its former users. Gary turns, looking at the wall, then asks, "Wait. I thought they were jamming comms around the base?"

"They are," Dr. Wither agrees. "Maybe they know something we don't or are desperate."

"The comms are jammed. So, who is the message for?"

Dr. Wither offers, "Maybe they think the rebels will emerge from the jamming."

"The general is not weak or easily frightened. She's direct and earnest," Gary adds.

"The X-wing scanned us." Wither's eyes narrow, "Then you ordered Vee to scan him back. The message came soon after; are you working with General Syndula?"

"Not directly," the commander answers truthfully. "We didn't plan this if that is your question. I'm reading the terrain; it doesn't favor us, and I don't think we have a choice."

"The message is for you," Dr. Wither's voice makes it an accusation.

"Wait," Gary realizes. "She saw through your evasion."

"Yes," the commander nods. "She did, I'm impressed, but rebels didn't intercept us."

"I'm…," Wither hesitates, then presses forward. "…uncomfortable with your proximity to General Syndulla, sir. I mean no disrespect, but they hit the compound and killed many of us."

"That's a fair point," he admits, folding his arms.

"Sir," Gary reminds him. "We need to move quickly to keep pace with Vee."

The commander nods, "I'll explain as we go, then sound discipline until we're inside."

He motions them forward, and they creep tree to tree as they approach the enormous gap in the station's wall. By all appearances, the rebels used the lonely AT-AT to breach it.

"In the years to come," he begins quietly. "Analysts will agree our greatest mistake was treating the rebels as a singular threat. The same goes for species and galactic sectors. It made good propaganda. I appreciate the value of cultural and galactic uniformity but put simply; different problems require comparable solutions. We forced them together out of survival."

"I'm not disagreeing with you, sir," Wither submits cautiously. "But that would have increased the expense and interruption exponentially."

Gary laughs, chiming in, "Seems a reasonable price since we lost."

Wither begins to argue, stops, hesitates, then shrugs. Finally, she admits, "Fair point."

Together they creep beneath the massive trees. Leaves fall and crumble under their boots as they approach a towering wall surrounding Research Station 9. The sun beams while they dart across the opening between the forest and the wall. Finally, they reach the edge of the gap. The commander looks at Gary, who holds up one finger, and they wait.

BOOM! An explosion ruins the afternoon's tranquility. Birds launch into flight, and small creatures scurry among the trees.

The commander waits a moment, then peeks around the edge of the wall. At first, he doesn't see anyone, then checks again with rangefinders. He looks where they spotted the death troopers before, but they've moved. Slowly he searches, eventually spotting them near a burning fuel tank. Smoke billows into the sky as the black armored troopers approach it.

The commander signals and they enter Research Station 9. They sprint to a freight container. They move from crate to shuttle, never allowing exposure for longer than a few seconds. Each step is tensely placed, every position dangerous, and constantly on the lookout.

Nothing moves within the station or on the landing platform. They continue forward, avoiding the primary roads leading straight to the station.

DWOO! A sniper bolt punches through a crate and jerks the commander's head back. He drops prone, hitting the deck a heartbeat before another and a third pierces the crate. Dr. Wither and Gary hesitate, standing by a shuttle he'd just moved away from before Gary tries to fire back. Before he can, another bolt misses him by a hair.

The commander holds up a single finger to Gary, then kicks a smaller crate, knocking it over. Instantly a blast pierces it. Gary fires in the enemy's direction as the commander sprints to the next shuttle. The commander reaches cover, turns, and fires back. Wither sprints across the distance, barely avoiding the blasts. Meanwhile, Gary locates the sniper and places a few shots near enough to force him to retreat. He follows last but without being attacked.

The commander pushes forward, circling west, avoiding the sniper and the southern entrance. A dozen paces later, a barrage lands near them—death troopers returning from Vee's distraction. The elite troopers fire despite the extreme range. The commander returns fire, forcing them to take cover. The trio races forward. Gary turns and fires before the commander does the same, covering each other. Even at the range, the enemy fire comes dangerously close to them.

"We can't let the sniper get into position again," the commander yells. "Keep moving!"

The run and gun continues until they reach the far western entrance, beyond their enemies' vision. The base's interior is dim as they enter, almost pitch black after the blinding afternoon sunlight. The commander presses onward but doesn't drop his guard even when Gary enters last. They duck into a vast hall, with Gary closing the door behind them. The commander motions for them to hide, pointing behind a console and taking cover behind one too.

The door whooshes open seconds later—the commander's heart races, barely able to remain still. Boot steps reveal a pair of troopers as he looks over, where Wither peeks. She holds up two fingers, indicating two death troopers. Systematically, they switch on their carbine's light, then search the room.

Dr. Wither shifts her position, her pistol at the ready. Both Gary and the commander share a look, knowing they can't mimic her stealth. Within seconds the light approaches their position, brightening around Gary's position. Dr. Wither glances at him, and the commander nods, readying his rifle. The light illuminates the console Gary hides behind, reaching over it as he squeezes tighter to it.

BOOM! Another explosion shakes the building, causing the death troopers to pause.

"Verrushhuk," one calls, his modulator concealing his words. The pair race out of the room as the trio breathes a sigh of relief. Wither peeks over her station and gives them a thumbs up; Gary and the commander rise slowly with their blasters ready.

The commander pulls out his datapad, looking at the schematics of the base. Gary appears nearby and points at his helmet, "How…did you survive, sir?"

"I'm curious as well," Wither stares wide-eyed. "You should be dead."

The commander raises a hand to his helmet, touching the gaping hole along his metal scalp. From the view of Gary and Dr. Wither, the metallic plate shimmers even in the dim light, offset by the blackened hole and white helmet.

"Partial skull replacement," he explains. "Explosive blowouts during ship-to-ship battles suck. There's more than one reason we wear helmets."

"How much?" Wither asks quietly.

"Fifty percent," he replies quietly. "But I can still eat solid foods. Gary, get the door."

Gary nods, jogs to the door, and runs directly into a death trooper.