Chapter 6
It's a trap, obviously.
"Prepare to counterattack!" Colonel Dyer yells. "I want all support staff on standby!"
"Hold," the commander interrupts. "Stand down! Our orders are to wait."
"I'm in command!" the colonel insists. "You have no authority to contradict me!"
Dyer's subordinates shift uncomfortably, disquieted by the dispute. Almost an hour before he falls in battle, the commander supervises it from the command center.
"I have my orders from the emperor himself." The commander displays a code cylinder to the room before he inserts it into a station. "The rebels have allies on Endor, and we will wait for their attack. Then, I'll lead our reserves to flank and eliminate them."
"The code checks out, sir," an officer admits, grudgingly. "From the Emperor."
"I-I-I don't understand. W-what about the Tarkin Doctrine? Why change tactics now?" Colonel Dyer stammers before regaining his composure. "Wait, why wasn't I informed?"
"Sir, I'm just following my orders." It's a trap, obviously, and the Emperor doesn't trust you. The commander believes, but he knows a good leader doesn't create division in the ranks.
"I-I won't let rebels attack MY base unchallenged," Dyer declares, then he storms off.
On the monitors, rebels assault the base, led by a handsome rogue. They reach the shield generator's core and begin planting explosives. At the same time, the first wave of imperial forces captures the external rebels. Colonel Dyer leads soldiers from within the base.
Dyer jumps out from behind cover, "Freeze!"
The rogue hurls a satchel charge at him, knocking him over the railing. He howls as he falls to the decks below. Immediately dozens of imperials surround the rebels and arrest them.
The commander laughs before he can stop himself. His aide glares at him, "Sir!"
"Medical to sub-level B," the commander calls through his comlink.
It's a trap, obviously. As night falls again, the commander doesn't like the idea of stumbling around in the dark, through heavy woods.
"Identify yourself," he orders.
"Uhh, I don't feel comfortable doing that. The rebels have our comm. channels. "
Then why use them? The commander replies, "What if we meet on neutral ground?"
"I know a good spot; I'm sending you coordinates now."
"Coordinates received," he punches them into his datapad. Then he groans. How predictable, the coordinates lead to a ravine with one entrance. Heavy woods surround it, and it's perfect for an ambush. The rebels know I'm in the area. Now, I know where they are. Then a radical thought crosses his mind, what if I take a look at my enemy?
It's a bad idea fraught with danger, but he worries about his troops. Worse, they might be walking into it. My legion deserves more than a cold cell or a shallow grave.
His concern spreads like wildfire. He changes the magazine in his rifle and checks his pistol. Next, he checks his gear. His medkit is exhausted. His water is almost empty, and he ran out of food yesterday—his stomach grumbles at the thought. His headache is down to a nuisance. His legs hurt, but his back isn't that bad. His hand strokes his ax on impulse.
He offers one last sorrowful look at his aide. Then closes her eyes. Only afterward, he ransacks her supplies: medkit, food, and water. Finally, he removes her black pauldron and adds it to his armor, opposite his rank, over his left shoulder.
"I will never forget you," he whispers. "Sergeant Thea Heinz."
He searches the datapad, marking good locations to observe the ambush from a distance.
As night falls, cold seeps into Rex's bones. He wants to shiver, tremble while lying in the ditch concealed by tree branches and leaves. His discipline rejects the urge, and he scolds himself for his indulgences. Decades of military service might have toughened his mind, but his fortitude seeps away with each passing year.
"Target sighted, he's coming from the West at point three-seven-five."
His pulse jumps, both in anticipation and relief, because Rex knows he won't spend the night outside. Through his rifle scope, he watches the stormtrooper approach. Cautiously, the imperial moves tree to tree before spotting their decoy. One of his rebels disguised himself as a stormtrooper, and Rex added the officer's orange pauldron. The decoy sits on a fallen tree trunk next to a campfire, tending a pot of tea.
Rex feels the tension rise as the stormtrooper puts his back against a tree. He urges his men, "Relax. Let him get closer; let the decoy do his job."
The stormtrooper argues with himself, hands moving as he weighs his options. Finally, he slumps, accepts his decision, and moves closer. Rex spots the E-11 carbine in his hands.
"His weapon is up," a rebel warns. "I think he knows."
"Easy," Rex calls over the comlink. "He's following protocol."
Tense silence follows as the stormtrooper makes a half-circle around the camp and kneels close to Rex's position. Then he asks, "Do you think it's a good idea to have a fire?"
Their decoy grabs his carbine and turns on his light. He sweeps it through the woods, illuminating the bright white stormtrooper. The trooper requests, "Permission to enter, sir?"
"Yeah, sure," the decoy lowers the blaster. "Are you thirsty? I have tea."
"Uhh, ok? I'm happy to see you, sir," he enters the camp and sits by the fire. "Do you have a plan? How are we getting off Endor?"
Next to the fire, Rex examines the imperial and realizes he's a rank stormtrooper.
"This isn't our target," Rex informs his squad. "He has no rank insignia or battle scars."
"Then just shoot him," someone says irritably. "He's still an imp."
"Hold," Rex snarls. "Our orders are to capture them! Decoy, find out what he knows."
"I'm still coming up with one," the decoy replies, pouring a cup and handing it to the stormtrooper. "Honestly, I'm shocked I'm alive. Have you seen anyone else?"
"No," he looks at the cup a moment. "Uh, you called for help. What was the problem?"
"Nothing serious," the decoy evades the question. "Did I speak with you earlier?"
"No, but I overheard and know the area…poo-doo. This is a trap, isn't it?"
"No, of course not," the decoy assures him. "Why would you say that?"
"You haven't asked for my TK number. You called for help but don't need it. You made a fire, and the smoke is visible for miles. Plus, you want me to believe an officer can start a fire in the woods, by himself? Oh, and you don't act like an arrogant fool."
"Don't move!" The decoy grabs his blaster, "You're surrounded!"
The stormtrooper doesn't even raise his blaster; he slouches in defeat.
"Everyone hold," Rex orders. "Keep him talking, Decoy."
"This will go easier on you if you help us out," the decoy encourages him.
"I don't know anything," he replies with resignation. "If I did, I still wouldn't tell you."
"Just shoot him already," someone calls over the radio.
"No!" Rex snaps. "Ask him about the stormtrooper we're hunting."
"What do you know about a commander with a red cog on a black pauldron?"
"He's alive?" The stormtrooper straightens up, "The Grand Commander is alive?"
DEWOO! A blast nails the decoy in the head, startling them. Someone yells, "Run!"
The stormtrooper dodges to the side and flees. Rebels leap from burrows and concealed positions to capture him. Even in the darkness, his bright white armor is easy to follow. DEWOO, the sniper knocks out another rebel. Everyone starts blasting, flashes light up the night.
"Does anyone see the shooter?" Rex demands.
"He's in Snare-3's position!"
"Snare-3 come in," Rex calls twice, but no one responds. "Snare-1 and 2, suppression fire on the sniper! The rest of you take out that stormtrooper!"
The imperial struggles through the woods, hampered equally by the brush and darkness. He tries to weave through the trees, but blaster fire keeps him darting side to side. With a hint of regret, Rex raises his blaster and aims carefully. Then he squeezes the trigger.
The trooper slips, falling on his butt and Rex's shot flies right over him. The Stormtrooper slides down the hill against a tree before continuing down the ravine.
"Well, that was lucky," Rex aims again.
BAA-du-du-du, three blasts strike near Rex, forcing him to take cover. He throws himself to the opposite side of his fighting hole, just as another burst hits where he was standing.
"We're pinned down," one of his men warns. "Does anyone have a shot?"
"Where's our air support?" Another rebel demands.
Rex watches the stormtrooper disappear at the same time an X-wing arrives. Its engines hum as it hovers overhead, trees sway, and leaves swirl in the vortex. As suddenly as it began, the skirmish ends. More X-wings arrive, spotlights light the whole valley bright as day.
"Anyone have eyes on?" Rex demands. "Report! Does anyone see them?"
"No. Negative! No, sir!"
Rex rolls out of his hole with his rifle pointed towards Snare-3's position. He zooms in with his scope and discovers the shooter has fled. Snare-3 isn't visible. Rex lowers his weapon and orders, "Medics to the wounded. I'll call for evac and speak with command."
At his feet, he notices the decoy's helmet. He turns it over, revealing the sniper blast punched through the visor. Rex huffs, shaking his head, "Stormtroopers don't shoot this well."
As soon as he hears the X-wing, the commander runs, leaving the sniper rifle behind. He evades the spotlights as more arrive, blindingly bright but routine.
He wonders, is this how we acted? Sluggishly, disorderly, and eventually, expecting someone else to finish the job? Soon, the X-wings begin circling, systematically searching instead of pursuing them. He admits, if the rebels gave chase, there's little chance he'd escape. This is exactly what we said of the separatists. Are we as inflexible and habitual as them?
Yes, we are, the commander admits. Then he wonders, or is it a trap within a trap?
He moves quickly along the rim of the valley, pursuing the stormtrooper. A bright light appears before him; he halts and retreats behind a tree. As the light passes by, he uses that moment to change the mag in his rifle. Then, once it's gone, he continues following his soldier.
The woods fail to hide the stormtrooper; his white armor is unmistakable. He continues in a line, often checking for pursuit. Unfortunately, his searches are panicky, rushed, and sloppy.
Finally, the trooper's fatigue overcomes him. Pausing, he leans against a tree. With a predator's ease, the commander sneaks up to him. Tempered excitement rises with the chance of ending his isolation. He wants to trust the stormtrooper, but he doesn't. The trooper escaped from a well-organized ambush, narrowly evading several blaster bolts. The X-wings didn't even pursue beyond the valley. Either he's the luckiest trooper in the galaxy-or he's a plant.
Then he wonders, have I always been this paranoid, or has this place heightened it?
SNAP! A twig breaks under his foot. The stormtrooper spins with his carbine. The commander's fear take hold, and he squeezes his trigger. FTZZzz, the blaster fizzles. Both of them stare in disbelief. Before the stormtrooper can raise his carbine, the commander knocks it aside and slams his stock into the trooper's gut.
"Stop!" He grunts as he collapses to the ground, holding his gut. "Friendly!"
"What's your TK number?" He commands. "Say it, NOW!"
"Uhh," he stutters. The commander draws his pistol. "No! I'm Gary the stormtrooper!"
"That's a myth!" the commander laughs out loud. He reconsiders, lowering his pistol before holstering it and reloading his rifle, "—but you'd have to be imperial to know it."
"I wish it was a myth," the stormtrooper grumbles.
"Listen," the commander asserts. "It's a miracle you got out of that ambush unscathed."
"It's a miracle you didn't shoot me in the face; luckily, your magazine was empty."
The commander doesn't correct him or mention he'd reloaded after the ambush.
Gary is quiet for a bit and finally asks, "Do you have a datapad? There's an ISB detention facility in this region, but I don't have one. I can't find it without a map."
"Wouldn't the rebels have seized it by now?"
"Maybe, I hope not. It's not on any official maps, but I served there a year ago."