Chapter 40
The Third Battle for Endor
Hera closes her eyes, reflecting.
She argued with her bodyguard a short time ago, "One trooper won't change the battle."
"You know that's not true," he replied firmly, then chuckled. "The commander proved it."
Hera shook her head, then rubbed her forehead, suffering an ongoing migraine.
"Serving you has been a pleasure, general," he said professionally. Then assured her, "I can help; I can talk them down. You're not a trooper, not at heart. You don't understand the daily grind, the life of training, and the acute discipline vital for us. It gives me an edge."
"You're going after Gary, aren't you?"
"Yes, but also for our troops. Once we break through the main doors, it'll reach a fever pitch. They'll kill everything they see. Someone has to rein them in before we're no better than the Empire. In the moment, they won't care, but it will haunt us for the rest of our lives."
"How did you become a trooper?" Hera asked. "You're too educated, too poised."
"The erudite can't be troopers?" he smiles absently. "It was decided for me. I come from a noble family. Unfortunately, my aunt was declared a traitor. My whole family was detained, then we spent years providing oaths of allegiance and demonstrating our loyalty. The Empire took everything anyway. They watched me, but eventually, I escaped and joined the rebellion."
"You're not going to tell me your name," Hera realized. "Are you?"
"I'll tell you after," he said with a genuine grin. "I swear it by my house's honor."
Hera had a bad feeling, her stomach aching as the pressure in her temple compounded. He shook her hand and bid her goodbye before putting on his helmet and joining Kensington.
She opens her eyes, dismissing the memory. Then orders, "Commence the attack."
The Mon Calamari communications officer repeats, "Commence the attack, X-wings begin your bombing run. All forces on standby, infiltrators prepare for insertion."
She steels herself, grittings her teeth, knowing the next few hours will be catastrophic.
"Stop," Lord Dyer commands, startling her. She glares at him, but it has no effect. Then he whispers to her. "I'm not the only one that notices your mood. Your feelings betray you. Your tone, posture, and attitude reveal you're emotional. Which implies you're unstable. It weakens those under your command and distracts you. Right now, you must be as unyielding as stone, especially when a situation is at its worst. Your subordinates will put aside their feelings, mirroring you, and through them, so will everyone under your command."
Hera draws in a long, slow breath. He's right, blast! The thought helps calm her, and Hera exhales before she focuses her thoughts on the battle. "Thank you, Lord Dyer. When we first met, I never expected to appreciate or value your advice."
He frowns before conceding, "There wasn't much of value then."
Two alliance guards appear at her command tent's entrance, look around, then approach her. One announces, "I'm sorry for interrupting, ma'am. Command has ordered Lord Dyer's detainment before transfer off-world."
She knew it was coming, eventually, but it surprises her. "I require him for the battle. You can take him afterward. I'll take full responsibility."
The guard pauses, annoying her and causing her to grow suspicious. Then the other declares, "This comes from the top, ma'am. I'm sorry, but we have to take him now."
Hera begins to argue, but Lord Dyer motions for her to stop, "It's fine, general. The honor has been mine, and you know I always land on my feet."
Hera frowns but concedes, watching them take the former imperial officer away. At that moment, Hera feels truly alone. The general locks down her feelings, unyielding as stone.
Lord Dyer does not appreciate his cell. The old version of him, the arrogant fool, demands he insists on better conditions. Instead, the lord sits quietly on the bench in the absolute silence of his internment. Occasionally he hears murmurs of voices or movement outside, but he remains ignorant of the battle or even what is occurring beyond his cell. His only distraction comes from the vent, occasionally pumping air in, keeping the temperature regulated. He tries to focus his wandering thoughts, but no matter what, his mind returns to his past.
There, he finds very little to take pride in, let alone bolster his spirit. In a short time, his mood spirals downward. His feelings crush him. Hundreds of terrible memories, terrible deeds, and spiteful actions feed his self-disgust. Once, he might have held them off by focusing on his lineage and station, but he finds no refuge from the condemnation.
He covers his face with his hands. In complete silence, he is utterly unable to escape the conclusion. He deserves what's coming for him. No excuses, no justifications exist to counter the sickening feeling that grows in his gut. He's nothing, worse than nothing. I'm a plague. My actions have made things worse, intentionally, by the choices I've made.
Tears running down his face, crushing despair narrows Dyer's vision. What's the point?
Blinking, he spots the blaster. Everything stops, and it becomes the center of his universe.
He doesn't know where it came from, but he's confident it wasn't there before. Why would anyone leave that here?
It would be so easy…
NO! He stands, turning away from it. He wipes his face before peeking at the weapon again. It's barely an arm's length from him. Why is it here? There is no way it was here the whole time. Or was it? Lord Dyer wonders, was I so mired in my thoughts that I failed to notice?
Then, he understood with crystal clarity why it was there. All doubt fled as he discovered a means of escape. He'd heard of the same offer given to Imperial officers that failed the Empire, a simple yet noble end, avoiding the shame of a public trial and execution. Relief floods lord Dyer. All of his pain and disgrace can end in a single flash. The sickening feeling building in his gut relents as he imagines a permanent ending, staring at that blaster.
Holding on with his fingertips against the crushing burden of his past mistakes, he considers the commander and Hera. Thoughts of them build resistance to the emotions battering him. They would never quit. The commander had proved it, and Dyer has no doubt the general would keep fighting. No matter how much she suffered, she would endure the unimaginable.
Somehow, the memories shield him from his crushing burden, driving back his anguish.
He declares, "I will not QUIT! I MATTER! I will matter in the days to come!"
His doubt and shame disappear as if by magic. Dyer violently bangs on the door, "Come get this blaster! If you want me dead, have the courage to come in here and do it yourself!"
The door whooshes open, revealing a monstrous hybrid of bird and woman. The witch! The nightmarish figure shocks him into silence; Dyer stumbles back onto the bench.
"As you wish," she cackles, raising a hand and clenching it.
Instantly, Lord Dyer's throat contracts, choking him. He's lifted off the bench, suspended as he claws at the invisible hand strangling him. He kicks and struggles until his vision darkens, then he goes limp.
Steady as a drumbeat, explosions deflect off the shields in spheres and waves of red-orange fire. Tension grows around the Grand Commander. Why? The Alliance is not wasteful or excessive, although he can't deny its psychological effect on his troops. With each passing minute, they grow edgier. They twitch and stare, jerking with the thunderous impacts.
"Something isn't right," Gary points out.
They kneel along the south wall near the entrance. The gate remains broken from earlier, dangerously open, inviting their enemies to dash through.
"I agree," the commander replies. He searches the battlefield, examining it as he already has numerous times. The shield extends about fifty paces beyond the walls, arching above the top floor and barely fitting the Zeta parked on the roof. The main door and the gate in the wall both face south while the rebels continue striking from the East. The strikes are not salvos of the X-wing's full payload, just steady proton torpedoes. Singularly, and occasionally two at a time.
The commander's eyes sweep outward, studying the land within the shield. Failed bombing runs and the crashed fighters scarred it from the last attack, but much remains pristine forest. Wild, thick woods conceal almost every inch. He'd become all too familiar with the impenetrable canopy during his journeys and how easily it hid someone.
"The general won't come head-on," Gary points out. "She'd sneak in or…something."
The Grand Commander focuses his eyes on the brush; he's right. A direct attack is out of the question. Typical rebel tactics call for infiltrators to knock out the shield and bomb the base, which is impossible with this many forces on alert. Scouts and sensors place their main attack south, nearest to the gate. If they come through the shields, it'll be a slaughter.
"The bombing is a distraction," he tells Gary.
"It's hard to ignore, and they're concentrating on the east."
"Imperial forces, listen up," the commander calls over the radio. "All troopers on the western and northern walls prepare to fire two bursts or ten blasts into your sectors. Target the thickest woods, best concealment, or anywhere you'd hide. Sergeants maintain discipline, and all other sectors refocus on your zone of operation."
"Do you think you can draw them out?" Gary asks.
"Not the rebels, but the Ewoks don't have the training, the discipline," he replies. Then the commander calls. "On my mark…fire!"
Blasterfire erupts suddenly beyond his vision. The commander can only hope his troopers are lucky, as it ends almost as abruptly as it began. A distant scream, then an errant blast before a smattering of energy weapons grow into a barrage.
Someone cries, "Ewoks and pathfinders in the woods!"
A sergeant warns over the radio, "Enemies detected in the northern woods."
"There!" A trooper points before an arrow pierces his cuirass; he stumbles back, nearly falling from the wall before his comrades grab him. Troopers return fire, blasting trees and bushes, but vegetation does little to protect the attackers once revealed. In heartbeats, what began as one arrow grows into a full attack. Crude projectiles rain down on the wall. From behind cover, the Imperials unleash devastating salvos into the woods. Probe droids float overhead, shooting hidden Ewoks, and revealing their positions to the defenders.
DOOT-doo-doo-DOO! The horn is unmistakable, calling the Ewoks to attack from the north. DOOT-doo-doo-DOO, another horn answers from the west. More arrows and blasts hit the walls before rebels appear to the south.
"Sir!" Gary warns, pointing.
"Open fire!" The commander roars at his troopers. Instantly, they begin pounding the rebels. Then he radios, "First floor, get those repeaters firing THROUGH the gate. I want controlled bursts! Second floor, suppression fire to the south, keep their heads down.
The rebels create a single broad line to avoid friendly fire. They press through the woods, no longer creeping but rushing in teams. Sustained blasts begin hitting the wall and gate. Light repeaters firing consecutively through the main door and out the gate, one then the other. Although inaccurate, it's nearly impossible to approach. From the walls, stormtroopers rain fire on the rebels while the imperials on the second floor carefully shoot over their heads.
The commander reflects, no other military in the galaxy can execute orders so precisely.
Somehow, an Ewok appears on top of the wall, spear raised to strike. The commander nails him with a blast. It falls backward from the wall, but more scramble over it, fighting hand-to-hand with the stormtroopers. In moments the beasts begin pouring over the western barrier.
Once an opening presents itself, the commander cuts them down with a burst. The Ewoks falter but only for a moment. Then spears and rocks rain down all around him. More imperials fall, wounded or stunned. The commander studies the battlefield before pushing west.
Gary turns to follow, but the commander waves him off, "I'll be right back!"
The rebels to the south don't break, but they're pinned, unable to advance. The Ewoks take heavy casualties but steadily cross over the top. An explosion tears through western stormtroopers before more little monsters crest it. The commander cuts them down with bursts, then reloads his rifle. As he rounds the corner, he notices the north wall is under pressure too.
"North wall, withdraw to the western wall," he orders.
"Yes, sir!"
"Captain Wither, come in!"
"Sir, we're not even at ten percent!" She replies.
"Get to the Zeta's guns! Once the troopers withdraw, hit the north wall and cut a path!"
His distraction costs him as an Ewok lands on the commander's back. He nearly falls into the courtyard. The beast whacks him in his helmet twice. The commander rolls his shoulders, unsettling it, before he hurls it into the yard. It lands hard, lying still.
Another Ewok thrusts a spear at him; he blasts it in the face. He punches a second, then clubs it with his rifle butt. Reinforcements from the north wall stall the Ewok's assault on the west. Unfortunately, sensing an opportunity, the Ewoks flood the north side.
TWOO! TWOO! Two blasts consume the northern wall with fire, obliterating the attack—before more blasts rain from the roof. The Zeta's main guns require little accuracy; this close, the sheer power decimates anything caught in the explosions. The Ewoks falter, startled by the devastation. The Zeta continues firing, cutting a path through the wall and the forest beyond.
The commander cuts down three Ewoks with a burst, then shoots another wrestling with one of his troopers. The Ewoks jump from the wall, fleeing. Others scream and cry, wounded or immobilized. A cheer rises, punctuated by screams, yanking his gaze towards the gate.
The rebels abandon their main attack, fleeing beyond the shield. Across the walls, Ewoks retreat, even as they're blasted. Meanwhile, troopers tend to the wounded or celebrate.
"Look!" Someone screams.
Something large shakes the trees before pressing through the shield. A walker emerges with pitched and clanging footsteps, then sweeps the walls with cannonfire. It pauses to aim, launching grenades; explosions shred the gate and crumble the wall around it.
The commander's heart stops. He recognizes that AT-ST; it's the one that killed his troopers and nearly killed him. He blinks, shaking off his surprise, but few of his men do.
"Get off the south wall!" He screams, but many of his men seem too horrified to move. With the gate shattered, the walker begins sweeping the walls again. As stormtroopers fall and flee, it breaks their shock. The commander radios, "First floor, cease fire! South wall withdraw to the barricade! Second floor, suppression fire on that walker!"
Instantly, the repeater ceases firing, allowing the stormtroopers to reposition through the courtyard. The second floor fires in earnest, no longer concerned about hitting their comrades on the south wall. They batter the walker with their sheer volume.
"RAAAHHHH!" A roar rises from every direction as men race through the woods. No infiltrators this time; hundreds of Alliance regulars charge the walls with Ewoks in their wake. Blasterfire chews through them, but they seem infinite as even more appear behind them. Punishing volleys scorch the walls while the imperials try to slow the rebels.
Where the jarring sound of the AT-ST's steps once brought hope to beleaguered imperials, now it heralds their doom. Turning towards the new threat, the walker pauses to shoot the second floor, pounding it again and again. Concrete falls on the stormtroopers below, littering the courtyard with rubble.
Soon the support fire from the second floor putters out, and the walker repositions. Its dominance on the battlefield secured, the AT-ST begins firing through the shattered gate, first at the barricade. Then it punishes the first floor when repeaters hit it.