We took tallies. In the first month of the war, I accrued almost 30 confirmed ARC-170 kills with my Longsword, which I named Bitching Betty, because I just flew "too close to obstacles." I also had the highest kill count, which was a point of pride for me. I was the first ace in the Coalition. I was young and hungry for glory. I was credited with the Navy's first confirmed air-to-air kill (or, in this case, space-to-space) in two centuries over Mygeeto. I wanted them to call me "Ace," or "Deadeye," but instead they called me "Stingy," because I never wasted a missile. My aggressive flights were "reckless," "hell for maintainers," and my success rates were "just stupid and lucky." But I came home every flight—and I brought home my squadron.
But "Stingy" was my callsign, because the Navy does not give nice callsigns. It didn't matter. I would prove it to them. My sights were set on the throne: promotion to Commander of the Air Group. The CAG was king of the skies. The CAG planned the missions and commanded from the cockpit. I was quickly becoming the most experienced and successful squadron leader, because I loved flying, and it came naturally to me.
We still suffered heavy losses. My performance notwithstanding, the GA-TL1 Longsword was an inferior dogfighter to the ARC-170. My kill counts and bagged missions were undercut by the loss rates of Longswords. Conventionally, the Longsword was better suited to combat on account of a much greater effective range. But with us on the defensive, the Republic was able to choose every battle—and they were able to get as close as they liked with their hyperdrives. The result was that the Longsword had a negative kill rate, and its survivability was almost 15%. The tallies stopped. The boys who came in this war with me dwindled, and I recognized fewer faces in the forward wardroom.
Office of Naval Intelligence analysts discovered the Republic knew about the Myga Dam, a hydro-electric dam that powered an anti-ship cannon that defended the air corridor over the capital. If the Republic wanted a way into Mygeeto, that was where they'd want to hit.
We spotted one of the runners on patrol over the edge of Separatist firing lanes—and where they just barely converged with UNSC scopes.
"Bogeys incoming," my wingman Beads reported. "Bearing 213-198. Just dropped out of hyperspace. Looks like… a light cruiser, headed by four Y-wings, eight 170s. ETA ten mikes. Light cruiser is Arquiten-type."
"Copy," I said. I reported it to the AWACS on the command channel. I requested support from a frigate. It was unlikely that my squadron and I could wipe out a force like that on our own—but with fire support, we had a chance.
"UNSC Grafton, inbound, five mikes," the Everest controller said. "Be advised, for any continued threats, Grafton is all you're getting. Fleet is currently engaged, enemy force still developing."
"Copy," I said. "We'll take all the help we can get."
I switched frequencies back to my squadron. "Master arm on, master arm on," I said. "Squadron Two, free to engage."
"Chickenhawk, fox three."
"Firefox, fox three." Two missiles streaked into distant space after the fighters as they raced to bridge the gap.
Beads called his missiles and fired.
I locked on to two ARC-170s and fired my short-range missiles.
My squadron called out multiple hits. Both my missiles struck their targets.
"Splash six bandits," I said. "Target and fire again—prioritize Y-wings and the cruiser."
We called out our missiles again and fired a second volley. Six missiles slammed into the cruiser, knocking out several guns and stripping her of her deflector shields.
Grafton made the intercept, joining us and overtaking the enemy squadron. She immediately targeted the cruiser; they circled each other, blasting one another with broadside guns. They were equally matched, but Grafton had an electronic warfare suite that frequently jammed the targeting of the cruiser's heavy guns. Blue-hot tracers washed against the Grafton's portside hull. Grafton answered with batteries of fire from her point-defense, CIWS, and Archer missile honeycombs. The captain of the Grafton was very aggressive and notorious for liking to meet his adversaries up close.
"OK, Let's back them up," I said. Beads and I overtook the ARC-170s and inverted our ships using RCS, a move the Republic fighters never seemed capable of.
The Y-wings accelerated, ignoring the Grafton. They fired a few ion blasts at the bridge of the frigate.
"ESM suite is down," Grafton called. "Most other systems nominal, including weapons."
"Stingy to all: cover Grafton!" I ordered. I fired a burst into one of the Y-wings. I felt the high-cycle fire shudder Betty, bathing the space in front of me with a hundred 50mm explosive shells from one half-second burst. The Y-wing disintegrated, as nearly a dozen rounds impacted and ripped it apart.
I broke off, targeting one of the ARC-170s in a pass, knocking it out. My radar detected a plasma torpedo lock.
"Stingy defending," I said. I turned hard to the right. My copilot dumped flares and chaff. The torpedo struck them instead of us. I bumped his fist, then strangled the control stick.
"Stingy, Beads," Beads said. "Covering you."
My copilot got on the comms for me. "Stingy, making a run on the cruiser now."
"Fox two, fox two, fox two," I whispered, firing three more missiles into the cruiser as I passed over her, just barely missing laser hits on my starboard wing. I was so close I could see the glass to the bridge of the Arquitens-class cruiser. I was so close I could have dumb-fired my missiles and still hit.
All three missiles hit. The explosions coated the cruiser. My wingmen launched volleys as well, knocking out the weapons aboard the cruiser.
Grafton finished off the cruiser, splitting her apart with one more volley. The triangular hull broke apart and vented fire and atmosphere into space.
"Good work, Second Squadron," Grafton called. "We're bugging out—fleet needs us back now. Good hunting." The frigate left our formation and returned to the fleet.
I focused on the rest of the enemy squadron. The Y-wings, marked with yellow stripes instead of Mundi's dark crimson, had mostly ignored my squadron and sped for the surface. The ARC-170s stayed behind to keep us occupied.
I broke out of the furball and pursued the Y-wings, locking on to them.
"Stingy, fox three, fox three, fox three." I fired three missiles and watched them chase their targets into low orbit.
We closed in as they entered atmosphere. "Fox two, fox tw—" Firefox shrieked as static overtook her. The tail gunner of one of the Y-wings fired at her just before they began their re-entry burns. Unable to target us during the burn, their guns went silent. But Firefox was already hit by the ion guns. I saw her Longsword's engines die, the bird hurtling toward the surface of Mygeeto in a blaze of itself. She would not be able to slow down, regain control, or eject.
I received a call on the command frequency. "Air group, air group, all units, recall to Midway airspace. Enemy reinforcements just arrived. It's a whole new fleet. We need Longswords in the picket line immediately."
"No!" I yelled, swearing. I took a deep breath, preparing. "Fourth Squadron, break off."
Two of the three missiles connected with their target, leaving only the lead in the flight, marked by a gray stripe next to the yellow. He was good, whoever he was—I didn't have time to pursue them. I reported their heading and force structure to the Midway controller and ordered my squadron back.
A squadron of Y-wings appeared from hyperspace at the same vector as the first. Twice the size, with two cruisers and a school of ARC-170s. I reported that too.
Rain and ice splattered and scraped against the cockpit glass of my Y-wing as I broke through the atmosphere of Mygeeto. The two-stage attack plan had worked. My reinforcements broke atmosphere a hundred kilometers behind me, having exhausted the enemy. They followed me as I broke the storm, using it as cover from Separatist sensors. Only the pilots with the greatest experience and hours in sims were chosen for this mission. It was difficult, nearly suicidal. The canyon was undefended for a reason: it was treacherous and almost unreachable from space. This was something daring enough to be performed by General Skywalker. This being my own plan and mission, however, I suppose he had rubbed off considerably on me.
When we reached fifty kilometers, however, we needed to reduce our altitude to well below the cloud layer—even skimming the waters and islets—to avoid UNSC phased-array radars mounted all over Myga Dam.
But at a certain point, it wouldn't matter. We'd be detected anyway—and we had to dodge missiles. Then explosive bullets.
We soared out of the blind spot, a ten-strong force of fighter-bombers, and raced against the surface-to-air missiles. We were so low that our engines kicked up sprays of water behind us—contrails that you could see from above. Missile warnings screamed at us the whole time, evading, dropping infrared flares—all the while avoiding climbing at all, for fear of being shot down by more missiles. Three Y-wings were struck before we reached the canyon leading to the dam. The canyon ridge was massive, owing to the immense size of the dam as well.
"Odd Ball, lead the way," my wingman said.
"Stay close," I said. "We'll only have one shot at this before we have to leave. Taking out the dam will temporarily cycle power and disable the triple-A. Then they'll switch to auxiliary power."
"Copy that," my wingman said.
The winding canyon walls got progressively wider and more forgiving as we approached the dam. Then, we were over the lake. I could see the dam.
"Swing left!" I ordered, banking to the left. "We'll bomb it left to right."
My squadron kept its formation, hanging left, and then pulling hard to the right to line up with the dam. Droid starfighters, lining the dam wall like toy soldiers, spotted us before radar did, and they launched vertically. Lasers blasted by the cockpit glass, nearly hitting us. One of the droid fighters took out my wingman. He crashed into the waves before he could eject.
Then my sights lined up with the dam. "Bombs away!" I called and dropped my payload. Eight proton bombs dropped out from below, striking perfectly along the top of the dam. My other squadron mates did the same.
"All bombs on target!" another squadron mate called.
We peeled off at low altitude. I glanced out my cockpit to the right as we circled. As the smoke cleared, my heart sank. Black marks scorched the dam where we hit them, but there was no deformation. Not even a scratch on the titanium-reinforced concrete.
"No effect," I said. "Repeat, no effect."
"What?" one of the reinforcements called. "It can't—" he yelled as he took a hit. I saw Type-71 anti-aircraft guns open fire all across the dam's fortress. They eviscerated my Y-wings at close range. I dove back down under the ridge as the droid starfighters caught up with me. Only three of us remained, leaving the way we came, dodging missiles, droid fire, and rapid-fire shells.
I told my rear gunner to spin up his ion turret. He was going to have his hands full while I flew us out.
My Y-wing was the only one to return to the Negotiator. General Kenobi called off the attack over the Myga air corridor, keeping his Venator in Coalition firing lanes only long enough to cover my retreat.
The CAG checked up with me in the forward wardroom. This being one of the only compartments on the ship in which smoking was permissible, cigarette smoke choked the air—as did strong deodorants, as did wild counterculture music. I sank in my seat, my legs sore and throbbing from the last sortie—lateral RCS thrusters, the Longsword's atmospheric rudders, were controlled by pedals requiring more than fifty pounds of force to operate. I drank to Firefox and her copilot Shear. Morbidly, I couldn't help but imagine what she and him were experiencing—completely aware that they were going to die with far too much time to process it.
"How's it going, Northgate?" Chief Warrant Officer Polk asked.
I rolled ice in its berth of whiskey and looked up. We were no longer drinking to celebrate kills or victories. We were drinking to forget.
"I'll be OK tomorrow, sir," I said.
"Stay strong, buddy," Polk said. It was his catchphrase. It was a very comforting catchphrase.
His eyes were soft. Brown and gentle, accented by black hair with gray tips. His lips creased in a way that was almost grandfatherly, but he was only five years older than me. He had a burn scar on the left side of his face, but it didn't make him look any harder when he smiled.
Beyond me was the rationale behind strapping us in Longswords and throwing us at Venator picket lines and ARC-170 starfighters and hoping for the best. I guessed the brass was impressed with the way Y-wings broke through our lines and tore apart frigates, but they were no match for the close-in weapon systems and Lance anti-aircraft missiles our carriers and destroyers used. We realized pretty quickly that the GAR had no counterparts—we could get pretty close without too much risk.
But again, the Longsword was not meant for that. On top of that, the Venators were untouchable to anything smaller than a light cruiser. They cut through our picket lines, exhausting our Longswords and leaving entire air wings in a million pieces before the Halcyon, Marathon, and Valiant-class cruisers in Rear Admiral Hood's fleet would gut them wide open. Once, when Betty had been damaged and lost power, I had to wait for a search-and-rescue Pelican to haul me back to the Midway. In that time, I switched off all systems but life support and drifted dead in space with my copilot.
"Northgate, look," he whispered, as three Venators crossed the shredded carcasses of Gorgon and Valley Forge. The "Elephants," a triad of ships—Hood's flagship Everest, Pillar of Autumn, and Canberra—unloaded their magnetic accelerator cannons into the Venators, over-penetrating and fracturing them down the middle each. Bright flashes consumed the ships, almost like the flash from nuclear weapons. When the flashes dissipated, the Venators looked no different from the wrecked destroyers and frigates, lost with all hands.
The GAR wasn't expecting that. MACs were a game changer. We got more comfortable with longer distance engagements. Separatist blockades went from stretching very thinly along a horizon, with many cracks to slip through, to nearly impenetrable sensor suites that alerted the Elephants. Anything smaller than a Venator or Acclamator-type warship—targets too small to justify using our superweapon on—would be dispatched by a Longsword patrol carrying heavy, anti-ship payloads. The Longsword became more like a supersonic bomber of the twenty-first century. The Republic quickly switched their strategy to small, fast, maneuverable ships escorted by fighters that could avoid the Elephants and engage Longswords in close-range combat.
Coinciding with the sudden emergence of General Kenobi's fleet, we were issued upgrade packages to our Longswords, including entirely new airframes. Most impressive was the C718—a fast, stealthy, agile, single-seat dogfighter that could patrol quietly, catch up with blockade runners, and match the ARC-170 in a dogfight. My air wing got the first batch. As far as skunkworks projects went, we found the C718 airframe to be quite reliable.
The lights dimmed and switched to emergency klaxons. Battlestations alerts flooded the ship. The captain called general quarters.
I looked up at Polk, who froze, staring back at me. All the flight staff in the wardroom froze, looking up from their card games, bets, meals, and drinks.
"Let's go!" Polk shouted.
Men and women scrambled out of their seats and into their flight gear. I led the herd of pilots down to the launch bay. Explosions blipped outside the blue-tinted atmospheric energy shields. Fighters launched and exploded, taking hits. I saw Y-wings, ARC-170s, and gunships pass our ship right by our launch lanes.
My C718 Longsword was prepped, fueled, armed, and ready to go on the launch pad. I slipped on my helmet and tried to recall as much from the manual as possible. I had no simulator hours clocked in this thing yet. It didn't matter. Kenobi's force had come back with two other Jedi commanders, converging at once—and they were done playing chicken with the Elephants.
I gave the launch controller a thumbs-up, and the deckhands arrested my wheels to the catapult. I did my pre-flights.
"Flaps, stabs, RCS, right engine, left engine; lookin' good, Stingy," the controller said in my earpiece.
"Good hunting, Midway," I said as the deck marshall saluted. The catapult sent my plane twenty meters down the track and into the chaos.
There were more than a dozen Arquitens and Acclamator-type ships engaged in extremely close-range combat with our fleet of frigates, destroyers, and cruisers. They had penetrated our picket line—the Venators, however, carefully maneuvered themselves into the picket line as well, at the rear line. They crept onto our formation, chewing up ships that were engaged with the Arquitens.
But my plane, my new Longsword, was incredibly responsive. She purred and whipped with my control inputs. "Nice," I whispered. This was more like it. I got my bearings, spun around a little to test the power of the massive RCS thrusters on both wings, and accelerated to let the power of this ship burn through me. I felt alive. I felt adrenaline pump through me. I felt like I could properly dogfight. This time, we were coming home—the whole squadron. It was like we had been fighting with heavy ankle weights this whole time, and now we've just sloughed them off. Our muscles flexed. Our joints moved faster than ever. Our turns were sharper.
Every plane was in the fight now—every Longsword the Midway could launch, every certified pilot—was up. Polk led three squadrons to take out two Arquitens that had pinned the Gettysburg and Iroquois.
"Second Squadron, back up Alert Squad Three," I said, going right and high, supporting the bracket that had Kursk, Dieppe, and London Blitz encircled by Acclamator-type ships.
London Blitz turned her hull and fired a MAC shell into the nearest Acclamator at nearly point-blank range, producing a flash that ripped through the deck. It was no Everest, but her primary weapon was powerful. The Acclamator stayed intact, firing her weapons into London Blitz. The frigate suffered hull breaches. Fire and smoke blew out into space, the venting oxygen feeding the flames to a roar.
Y-wings bombed London Blitz to pieces, finishing her off. The other frigates knocked the Y-wings down with CIWS fire. Archer missiles blasted out of their honeycombs and slammed into the Acclamator, surging her hull with breaches and fires until her magazine detonated, finishing her. The other Acclamator swooped from above, ramming the Kursk.
"Jesus!" I yelped. "No freaking way!" I accelerated toward the Acclamator, targeting with anti-ship missiles. I unloaded my payload, burning past it. The missiles struck the Acclamator's engines, crippling her. At that moment, Dieppe found a firing solution with her MAC and punched a hole from the Acclamator's high bridge through her massive deployment bay. Secondary explosions consumed the ship.
It was just one knife fight in a sea of struggles. I heard Everest controllers giving orders to clear destroyers out of the staggered and bleeding picket line, to fall back to Rally Point Bravo, another hundred kilometers back.
"We're retreating already?" I asked.
"No," Polk said. "The Elephants are advancing."
"About time," I said. I switched to the command channel. "Dieppe, Kursk, fall back to RP Bravo. Second Squadron will cover your retreat."
"Copy," Kursk replied.
Heavy cannon fire rained down from "above"—relative to the orientation of the defensive fleet—cutting apart the Arquitens and Acclamators. Mass drivers, large coilgun turrets mounted on the Everest with radial targeting and the equivalent power to the shorter MAC barrels that frigates and destroyers used, chopped up the larger ships in the picket line, leaving only debris behind our retreating combat ships.
Then my ship felt a surge of electromagnetic disturbance. A flash of light washed over from above, from the Everest to the lead Venator in the enemy line, ever so distantly ahead.
When the flash disappeared, and my eyes adjusted, the Venator was gone in a heap of its hull in shattered debris, now raining toward us at the same speed it was once hauling ass—directly for the picket line and the Elephants.
The other two Venators flanked its wreckage, accelerating more, and angling their broadside guns toward us. Turbolasers rained onto the Everest and Pillar of Autumn. Their hulls withstood the damage, but stray shots tore through frigate and destroyer armor like it was made of paper. They hit logistics ships as well, including one of the refueling tankers, which went up flames that even the vacuum of space could not quell.
Midway control barked new orders for our air wing. "All planes, retreat to Midway airspace. Ships are regrouping at the rear line, defensive."
"Copy, defensive," I answered. I rounded up my squadron and fell back from the chaos, dodging turbolaser and blue-hot tracer fire.
There must have been hundreds of Longswords up here. Three supercarriers' worth at least, plus the air wing of Atlas and Graphia. I saw on radar a swathe of squadrons, getting chewed up on the left flank. I pursued, accelerating. My squadron followed. A pair of Actis-type starfighters were leading a squadron of bandits through the flank of disorganized Longswords and frigates, clearing a path. It looked like gunships and Y-wings followed them.
"Bullet Magnet, Stingy," I said to Polk, "you getting this on the left flank? Looks like two Jedi, they're tearing up the Atlas fighter wing.
"Yeah, we see 'em!" Polk replied. "They're coming for the Midway."
I could see Midway as I closed in. One firing lane was open from the Venators that had crossed Everest. The Venators weren't shooting at the Autumn nor Everest—they were pummeling Midway. Gas, air, and fire spewed out of Midway's decks as she lurched over from direct blows. As the Autumn nearly slammed into the venator, firing its primary weapon and cleaving through her hull, debris from the lead Venator struck the Everest and Autumn. They suffered moderate damage—not enough to destroy them, but enough to physically move them and lose their bearings.
Midway, a supercarrier, had no heavy weapons—only heavy armor—and could rely on nothing but air power and CIWS for defense. The Y-wings crossed into a point-defense blind spot and began a bombing run. I gunned it, chasing after them, bursting down escort fighters and a handful of Y-wings before they finished their run.
Midway glowed hot with explosions rolling up and down her decks, then she split like a walnut. Fire spewed out from her fuel lines and magazines.
"Damn it," I hissed. "Midway is lost. Stingy pursuing."
Instead of breaking off, the Y-wings, Gunships, and fighters descended past the wide open hole in our flank, while Canberra destroyed the last Venator and stopped the Jedi cruiser assault in its tracks.
"Stingy, fall back," Polk said. "Do not pursue! A few fighters and gunships aren't going to make a difference. We have to reconstitute the line."
He was right—but I saw that Goddamn Y-wing from yesterday. The yellow and gray stripe. He was here now. He destroyed the Midway.
I locked onto a gunship and the Y-wing with my only two air-to-air missiles, ignoring Polk's order. My squadron followed. They nailed the remainder of the Y-wings with their missiles, but the flight lead jinked the one with his name on it.
"We're doing this?" Beads asked.
"We're getting them," I said as wisps of fire started to scrape the hull of my bird.
"Right behind you, boss," Beads said. "Time to see how these things work in atmo."
"It won't be very good," Polk warned. "You won't have the maneuverability you do in space. You're going to mess up your airframes. If it doesn't kill you."
"Thanks for the advice, Chief," I said.
"Damn it, Northgate! Pull up!" he yelled.
We broke atmosphere into dense storm clouds. Dark, icy wisps of rain and hail scattered along my cockpit, rattling me. The stick stiffened up, responding much more like a Longsword did. Like a Longsword in atmosphere did, which was far worse than anything the RCS could do. I did have working flaps and stabs—I was airworthy, but barely.
Coming out of the storm, I was fast behind them. I had no more missiles—it was guns only. I sluggishly pulled, with all my might, to line up a shot with one of the three gunships and let off a burst.
"Splash one," I said, gasping under intense G-forces.
The gold-marked Jedi starfighter had no trouble with me; it whipped its nose up, dumping its speed, and got a clean hit on Beads and Chickenhawk.
"I'm hit!" Beads called. "Starboard side's on fire, extinguishers…"
"Break off, both of you!" I called.
I pulled up higher, aiming for the lead Y-wing. Almost …
"Stingy, get out of there!" Beads said.
I fired a burst just as my left engine took a hit. In these winds, it was just as difficult for me to shoot as the Jedi in his starfighter. That was our saving grace.
The burst connected with the lead Y-wing. One, maybe two shells impacted, trailing smoke out of its left thruster, but it wasn't enough. I overcommitted, descending into the darkness faster and hotter than my prey. Then I was alone.
I saw only clouds. My altimeter spun counterclockwise, showing a descent faster than it could keep up with. Clouds were lit up only by lightning and the occasional patches of sunlight beaming through. A flash next to me revealed a ship—the Y-wing. On its hull, the insignia of a skull with two gold eyes, under the Republic cog. The pilot turned slightly. We were close enough that I could see his personal insignia and the face of a clone of Jango Fett.
I looked him dead in the eyes and flipped him off. "Next time," I hissed.
"Stingy, fire on your left wing!" Beads yelled. "Pull up, burn to high altitude!"
I groaned and pulled hard on the stick, feeding power into my engines, and returned to low orbit in calmer skies. The vacuum of space extinguished the flames of my left-side thrusters. The Jedi starfighter was long gone, having returned to escort its meager flight.
Above Mygeeto, the skirmish was over. The UNSC fleet licked its wounds while Separatist frigates moved into our bracket to cover what we had lost. I heard on the command channel from Atlas' controller, "All Midway wings, all Midway wings, reroute to Atlas and Graphia tasking. Clearance granted to Squadron Two, Atlas, landing bay four. Welcome aboard."
I thought I had seen Death itself give me a one-finger salute. A Longsword-type fighter of unknown permutation stalked me past the supercarrier we bombed on the way into Mygeeto. It hadn't shown up on our sensors. It was a ghost until it opened fire on my squadron. Its design was like nothing we'd seen before, angular and stark black. The pilot was extraordinary, hitting my Y-wing in the middle of a storm while under fire from General Kenobi. And I heard he broke off from the assault and survived his damage. I had to break off as well, moving to a more secure holding position in a dead zone and escaping with the escort of General Kenobi. The infiltration was up to General Skywalker, Rex, and Cody now.
Negotiator had moved out of the battle zone with the UNSC forces, very nearly escaping destruction at the hands of the Everest's main weapon, and took our forces back. With any luck, we would receive the schematics to the Myga Dam within 48 hours—if Skwalker and our commanders were as quick as usual. When I climbed out of my Y-wing, General Kenobi greeted me with a familiar grin.
"If I didn't know any better, I'd say you've found yourself a rival," he said.
"You couldn't have shot him down yourself?" I asked, poking back at the good general.
"Come now, where's the fun in that?"
I laughed lightly, covering some pain.
"You seem a little on edge, Odd Ball," Kenobi said.
"No, General," I said, reflexively. "Well—it's just that I've lost all my squadmates in two sorties in a row. He might be the same pilot as before."
"I share your concern," Kenobi said. "You've been flying for a long time. Don't let that delude you into thinking you are invincible."
Trust me, General, was what I wanted to say, I think this has given the opposite effect.
"Yes, sir," I said.
Within two days, indeed, we got our intel. General Skywalker called us from his encampment outside the Myga Dam, which he'd successfully infiltrated.
"I'm sending you some schematics," Skywalker said. "But from the looks of it, the heaviest armor plating is above the surface. You'll never scratch it. Below the surface, however, is another story."
I crossed my arms.
"That sounds like a sabotage op," I said.
"Well," Skywalker said, "unfortunately, we're not going underwater. The water temperature is too cold to work in. We'd freeze to death before planting charges in the right place. Sabotage is out."
Kenobi pinched his chin in thought. "Failing any underwater weapons that can be dropped from the air, perhaps we can fabricate a submersible bomb. Presumably, the shearing forces of an underwater blast would do more damage to the dam than a direct hit from a conventional weapon."
"A torpedo?" I asked. "The archaic kind."
Skywalker shook his head. "I'm seeing old-fashioned torpedo nets installed by the Solarites. I'll give it to them—they're tough. And smart. So water torpedoes won't work."
Silence filled the bridge, aside from the hum of the holoprojector.
Admiral Block chimed in. "Perhaps we could fabricate a bouncing bomb."
I smiled. "Now that's an ancient weapon."
"Crazy," Kenobi said. "Odd Ball, you were able to conduct a bombing run against the dam, isn't that right?"
I hesitated. "Yes, General."
"If you can do it again, armed with a payload of bouncing bombs…"
"Then that dam is as good as gone," Skywalker said, closing his fist.
"Precisely," Kenobi said. "We've already battered the Separatist line tremendously. I'm not sure how much more they could take if we made another offensive."
Block frowned. "With respect, General—I'm not sure how much more we could take. We lost three capital ships in the last battle just to insert a handful of ARC troopers and a Jedi."
Kenobi seemed to agree with Block's assessment. He eyed the tactical readout of the UNSC battle cluster carefully. "It looks like Separatists have reinforced the front line of ships where Admiral Hood has taken the worst losses. They came from the line over the Mygeeto air corridor."
"Thus weakening it," Block said.
"We take out that cannon on the ground," I said, "and you can hit the corridor. Break right through."
The next day, the bombs had been fabricated. The last of the Y-wing squadrons was ready to go. I had time for two attempts in the pod to practice with the bouncing bombs on a simulated Myga Dam, barrel-shaped charges with explosives on a timed fuse. The first time I released it too soon, and the bomb bounced off the dam and exploded mid-air, causing no damage. The second time, I timed it right: the bomb bounced off the water and off the dam's wall. Then it sank and destroyed the dam on detonation.
This was the last chance.
I stared at my helmet for a while outside my Y-wing as the rest of the squadron prepared. I saw clones from the 212th gearing up and fueling gunships and walkers, all for a land invasion—all dependent on my success.
Kenobi noticed my hesitation. "Don't worry, Odd Ball," he reassured. "Trust your instincts."
I looked up, trying to stow away the brothers I've lost just this week. They were some of the best pilots to have fought in the war.
I slipped my helmet on. "Good hunting, General," I said.
"We'll reinforce you once the cannon is disabled," he said. "May the Force be with you."
Polk slammed the door shut behind me in his office aboard UNSC Atlas. Since the previous CAG was killed in the battle, he had already been appointed Acting CAG.
"What the hell is wrong with you?" he asked. "Disobeying direct orders—leaving the fleet, and unnecessarily endangering your squadron. For what? A shot at revenge? What the hell were you chasing?"
"The Skull," I said. "That damn Y-wing, his flight—"
"Is just one squadron!"
"One squadron that destroyed the Midway!" I argued.
"That wasn't just one squadron!" Polk shouted. "It was a bomber flight, two Jedi, and a pair of Venators that had broken through our line. They crossed to the atmosphere. But after they spent their bombs? Irrelevant to the tactical situation. You chased them where your bird wasn't good to. You think Longswords are bad in space? In atmosphere, you're dead! What were you thinking?"
"Sorry, sir," was all I had left to say.
"No, you aren't," Polk said.
"No, sir," I said.
"You want my boots? You want to be CAG?" he asked. "Well, that isn't how you get here. For one, you listen the damn orders. Understand the strategy. Two, you show that you've got a cool head. Three, you let go of your pursuit of glory. The mission—and the greater scope of the battle—is more important."
"Glory? How can you say that?" I snapped. "Midway was your ship, too. Your brothers and sisters."
"Yes," he said, "and it's my responsibility to keep brothers and sisters like you alive, even when the Midway is lost, sometimes from your own recklessness. Until you get that through your thick skull, you're going to stay a squad lead, and not more. You're chasing a white whale. This is how aces die." He pounded his finger on my chest to the consonants of his words.
He took a deep breath. "Sit down," he said.
I settled down across from his desk. He closed his eyes and looked to center himself.
"Now that that's out of the way," he said, pulling up a video file on his computer, "I reviewed your gun camera footage. On everything up to the destruction of Midway, good work. On everything after—nice shooting.
"But you've really messed up your bird. Again, flying through that storm—almost suicidal. For anyone but you, it is suicidal. You can't take your bird to the limit like that; you'll tear apart the airframe."
"Came back in one piece," I said. "She'll have to again."
Polk shook his head. "Be more careful. I'd ground you, but you know what? Maintenance is going to be spending a lot of time on your Longsword. Let's just call the downtime your punishment. And until you're wheels up again? You're my bitch."
"Sounds fair, sir," I said.
"Oh, it's more than fair," Polk said. "It's lenient. It's letting you off the Goddamn hook. I'd NJP you—or just write you up for a court martial. But this is it. I can tell the big one's coming, and we need everyone in the cockpit, insubordinate or not. And you're the best we've got."
"But I'm not CAG," I said. I looked at him.
He took his eyes off the screen and studied me. Then he took another deep breath.
"You're not hearing what I'm saying," he said.
"No, sir, I think I am—"
"You're not going to be CAG until you get this through your head. Learn it. Internalize it: you don't become CAG by being the best."
I opened my mouth to speak, but the words stopped. I sat there, jaw slack, until I put my hands in my lap and shut up.
"You're dismissed," Polk said.
I stood out of my seat, briefly standing to attention in lieu of a salute, and left his office.
While my stealth Longsword underwent repairs, search-and-rescue operations for the Midway expanded to asset recovery—having saved over a thousand souls in three days, they also recovered some aircraft, including the Firefox's C718. General quarters called two days into the repairs of my plane. I was still "grounded," watching the deck crews prep my squadron without me.
I heard the first officer call on the PA.
"Launch all wings!"
Running up behind me, Polk grabbed my shoulder and stumbled to a halt. He was in full gear, his left hand gripping the rim of his flight helmet. "Why aren't you scrambling?" he asked.
"No bird," I said, gesturing to the hangar below launch bay's deck, where my bird was.
"You got one." He gestured to Firefox's bird on the catapult. "Why do you think they're prepping it?"
Disbelief washed over my scoff crossed with a giddy smirk.
"Get your gear," Polk said He checked his watch. "You got six minutes before they move her to the back of the launch queue."
I scrambled to the lockers, grabbed my flight equipment, and returned to the launch bay. I boarded Firefox's Longsword, just barely making it in five minutes. Now in command of Fourth Squadron—still wearing my jumpsuit with patches identifying me as a Midway aviator—I was one of the first to launch. Beads and Chickenhawk followed me out, joining our formation in the chaos.
I got a call from Atlas' controller. "Fourth Squadron, Sixth Squadron, Eighth, and Tenth, you are to leave the airspace and assist the Separatist blockade. They're under attack."
"We're under attack," I muttered, as more Venators jumped in behind the three bombarding our picket line.
The controller briefed us further. "Captain wants you to intercept any strike fighters—chase them out of the fight and into upper atmo if you have to. Stingy, you take control of the reinforcement wing."
"Understood," I said. "Stingy, taking command."
Fourth, Sixth, Eighth, and Tenth—as it turned out—were comprised of C718s. For these squadrons, they were maiden flights.
As we disengaged and broke out of the battle formation, heading north and east toward the city orbital point, Polk hailed my squadron.
"Task Group One," he said, "Bullet Magnet. You are to engage strike fighters only. Use stealth and the chaos of the fight to your advantage. Republic forces have already broken the blockade over Mygeeto—only their cruisers can't get through. Defend the blockade.
"Your Longswords are optimized for stealth dogfighting in exoatmospheric environments, so enter atmo at your own peril. Your mission floor is angels 70. Any lower and you will lose your advantage."
"What about BVR?" I asked. "These are stealth fighters—we can just pick them off."
"Separatist sensor jamming over the city is disrupting a lot of data linking," Polk said. "Long-range weapons aren't going to work."
I shook my head. "Copy that, angels 70."
"Squadron: good hunting," Polk said. "Stay strong, buddies. Out."
The frigid surface of Mygeeto rolled by as we accelerated, quickly reaching maximum velocity—only a few minutes passed before we could see the engagement. The Separatist fleet was taking a beating, having lost twelve frigates to Venators. But Kenobi had lost two Venators to the surface gun.
"Stay on me," I said to my impromptu squadron. "Close weapon bays and limit radar to passive. ID your targets—prioritize Y-wings, and don't get locked into a dogfight."
My scopes started identifying Y-wings by the dozen. We had our work cut out for us.
"Okay," I said, "entering engagement range. Master arm on, master arm on."
I picked my targets in the lead squadron, locked on, and fired two missiles before quickly retracting them. A pair of fighters broke off the escort and headed toward me.
"Contacts toward us, dead ahead, got 'em?" I said.
"Beads engaging," Beads said. "Fox three." He launched a missile.
"Torpedo incoming!" someone called. "Squirrel defending."
"Spread out," I ordered. "All planes, get some space for evasive."
My squadron broke its formation, drifting apart. The proton torpedoes soared past my plane, their tracking confused, and disappeared into the night of space.
Bead's missiles destroyed both of the intercept fighters. We passed their debris and crossed into the edge of the Separatist engagement.
I opened my missile doors and prepared to fire again at another Y-wing squadron. As we fired, volleys overtook the enemy squadrons and decimated their offensive power before they could hit any more ships. The last four ships of the picket line held, and the Venators couldn't advance further without risking surface-battery fire.
"Got another strike squadron," Beads said. "But it's not targeting any ships."
I turned, watching the scope. He was right—a squadron had skirted around the battle, simply avoiding missile and anti-aircraft fire, giving the ships a wide berth. Their heading was through a blind spot created by the excursion, which was skewed.
"Something doesn't feel right," I said.
"What is it?" Beads asked.
I looked at the row of downed ships. The Venators targeted a specific lane and opened it up with their bombardment. We hadn't stopped them, we'd redirected them. Either that, or they planned to space a gap just wide enough to funnel a squadron of bombers through.
Why? Even as I watched, the Separatists began to filling the gap with more droid starfighters. They would never get so much as a frigate through before losing their progress. A squadron was inconsequential.
I frowned. It didn't make sense. They would be better off punching a hole through the line to create an air corridor for their Acclamators to land troops on Mygeeto. And why attack here? Why stretch the Republic's forces so wide between both fleets, if you don't have the initiative to drive a wedge through? We were already recovering. The battle had already returned to a firing line, and the Venators already lost too much to try again. What were they waiting for?
Puzzle pieces clicked together in my mind.
"Split up," I ordered. "Fourth and sixth, pursue that squadron. I think they're going for the dam. Tenth Actual, take control of Eight, and keep watch for Y-wings. But I think this is the last of 'em."
"The dam?" Beads asked. "It's impenetrable. They must be targeting something else. There's only so much damage they can do. It's one squadron."
"Not unless they've got a new toy for their ace," I said. "Like we do."
We accelerated toward the surface, following the squadron by only a dozen kilometers. A few droid squadrons saw us and broke out of the fight to reinforce us. Seven Longswords, three tri-fighters, and six Vultures pursued. I let the droids take the lead; the Y-wings detected them first.
I switched to the droid channel. "Task Group One Actual to droid squadron. Appreciate it if you can cover us—we're targeting Y-wings. Take out fighter escorts as they attack."
"Understood," the droid squad leader said in an uncanny, monotonous tone.
I saw the ARC-170s pull up, breaking their formation and targeting us. I launched my missiles.
Another volley mobbed the squadron as they entered atmosphere. The missiles caught too much air resistance as fire wisped around and disintegrated them. Closing the distance, I switched to guns instinctively. Before I lined up a shot—as fire wisped around my cockpit and nearly blinded me—I stopped.
"Weapons hold," I said to my squadron. "Weapons hold in re-entry. You'll blow yourselves up."
"Copy," Beads said. "Entering atmosphere now. "Angels 200 now. Watch altitudes."
"We won't be spending much time in atmo before we hit the operational floor," I said. That's our window."
The Vultures that didn't get caught in a dogfight above began to open fire while burning in re-entry. Lasers wisped by, striking a handful of Y-wings and tearing them apart. They soared up, caught by air resistance, and disintegrated in the flames.
The tri-fighters launched missiles. The missiles immediately exploded, destroying them.
I watched them disappear from radar and turned to see their own unmaking. "Of course," I muttered.
"No way they just did that," Chickenhawk said.
"Yeah, they're not very bright," I said.
A few minutes passed. If not for the violent shaking of re-entry, this would be a quiet before the storm.
"Angels 100," Beads said.
I felt my ship stabilize, coming out of it, and immediately began maneuvering again. I overshot the Y-wings, firing my last missiles.
"Splash two," I said as they connected. "Winchester on missiles."
"Copy; I'm almost out, too," Beads said.
The other squadrons reported that they were out of missiles.
I yanked my stick. The atmosphere was still thin, so I could perform a tight maneuver. My bird turned without changing trajectory, aiming me toward the Y-wings I overshot. I opened fire on them. My bursts connected with the leader's wingman as the lead peeled off and fired lasers, just missing me. I saw, as he passed me, the skull emblem. It's him.
"Angels 80," Beads said. "Stingy, you're getting too low."
I dove after the Skull, pulling hard on the stick and fighting G-forces that sucked me into my seat. I groaned as the plane struggled with the atmosphere, about as aerodynamic as a bomber. Metal screeched and hydraulics flexed in ways they probably shouldn't have.
"Come on, baby," I muttered. "Splash one more, three to go."
The Y-wings were not making it easy. They evaded, but stayed in formation, making for the dark cumulonimbus brewing over the eastern flood zone. I cut a burst across to hit one. "Splash two."
"Angels 75," Beads said. "Stingy—"
I cut him off. "Squadron, peel off and return to orbit. Beads, take command."
"Stingy!" Beads called.
"That's an order," I said. I fired another burst into Skull's wingman. The tail gunner fired at me, striking my right wing. Skull evaded.
I looked to my right as I entered the storm clouds, descending far below the operational floor. My wing was burning. I switched on the fire extinguishers, putting it out as I crossed into the turbulent gray. "You're needed up there. I'm needed down here."
"You're chasing one fighter down there? For what, glory? You want to be CAG that bad?" Beads protested.
"Listen to me," I said between tight breaths. "They slipped one Y-wing squadron through to take out that dam. They're putting all their eggs in one basket. It's not a coincidence; it's a diversion. If I'm wrong, it's my ass. But I think that Y-wing's got something that will mess up the surface cannon. Not risking a whole squadron on a hunch. Continue to intercept strike fighters in orbit."
Beads responded with something, but there was too much static. I saw my squadron on blue force tracking climb, before everything disappeared from my radar. This fight was by visual only now. But I knew where he was headed. The gorge up to the dam. I used the GPS to guide my general direction—I'd find him once I was out of the storm.
The bumps carried my plane in wild directions, now fully limiting my maneuverability. Whoever said this thing was airworthy meant that just barely—in the sense that, if you strap engines to absolutely anything, it will at the very least defy gravity—and if you attach flaps to it, it might turn.
Lightning flashed through the blizzard and storm. Sometimes I saw him. Sometimes I didn't. I kept going as it grew darker and darker into the clouds. Ice rattled my cockpit, sounding like rocks pelting my plane. I fluctuated between feeling crushing forces descend upon me and weightlessness, as though I were in space again.
A flash lit up Skull. He was right next to me. His tail gunner turned and blasted at me. I listed behind him and fired a burst, barely lining up three shells out of several dozen fired to break his deflector shield, strike his hull, and—judging by the damage—kill his gunner. It wasn't before a few of his ion shots splashed my ship, washing electrical currents over my circuit boards and shorting out my weapons. Sparks blew onto me, causing me to flinch—but I steeled myself and stabilized my flight.
"Avionics still good," I whispered, checking my gauges.
A flash of lightning struck my bird—shielded as it was, I was unharmed, but it reminded me that I had very little control here. I needed to continue descending, just to get out of the storm.
We reached the edge of the storm only a few hundred meters over the ocean, him just in front of me, still turning. I pivoted down and lined up a perfect shot. I squeezed the trigger.
Nothing. I checked my gauges again and saw that the circuitry to my guns was fried. Somehow I missed that before.
I slapped my dashboard. "That does it," I said. My plane had no energy advantage and no turn advantage. The Y-wing braked hard, getting behind me, and lined up its guns with me. Skull had me dead to rights. I flinched, reaching for my ejection seat.
Then, nothing. Skull flew right past me, descending to just over the water level and approaching the gorge.
Out of weapons and out of ideas, I matched speed with him, close enough to see his face. He looked over at me and offered a quick salute.
I saluted him back and climbed.
The dark specter of death had returned just as surely as I'd thought, stalking me over the clouds and through the storm.
"Behind us!" my tail gunner shouted as the black ship killed my last wingmen. He followed me alone into the storm. It was almost like he represented death itself, creeping to me, preying on my fear.
"Return fire," I said. "Hit him with the ion gun enough times, and he's toast."
"Working on it," my tail gunner said. Those were his last words. I heard him firing away until we took a hit—and then, wrenching metal noises.
"Crossfire?" I asked. "Talk to me, brother."
Nothing. He was dead.
I squeezed the stick tighter and braved the storm, accelerating as best I could in a mad dive. I needed to get out of the storm to intercept him.
When I was clear, I couldn't see the plane anywhere in sight. My radar told me he was behind and above. I was done. I glanced up and saw him line up, close enough to blow me to bits—and nothing.
I pulled back, knowing only that I was still alive, and angled for a cobra maneuver. He passed me. I lined up my guns with him.
Then I hesitated, thinking about how he didn't fire at me. Was he out of ammunition? Gun malfunction? I thought about all the kills he'd made on my squadron, but I felt numb to it. I couldn't do it; I couldn't open fire if he was helpless, even if he killed my wingman and my copilot just seconds before. I surmised his weapon malfunctioned.
Smoke and oil washed over the screen of my cockpit, overtaking the drip-lines of freezing rain and water spray. His bird was coated in carbon scores and fire, its much-needed ailerons appearing gouged out as though they'd been carved by a lightsaber. It was a miracle the thing was still airworthy, given UNSC ships did not use anti-gravity devices to generate lift. There was a good chance that, even if I didn't shoot him down here, he'd never make it back to orbit. And the way his Longsword swayed in the whipping speeds of their chase, it seemed he struggled even to keep from crashing into the icy waves.
In a split-second hesitation, I decided the dogfight was over. He had lost, but he didn't have to die.
I cruised past him. No changes in his trajectory—he didn't react or try to intercept. Instead, he matched speed with me and glanced at me through his cockpit glass. Something possessed me to turn to him and give a quick salute.
He saluted back and climbed, disappearing into the sky. The pervading dread—the sense of closing in, somehow dissipated for me. And I hadn't even dropped the bomb yet.
On the other end of the gorge, I set the timer of the bomb and checked my watch. I had practiced this enough times. I was ready.
Hopefully one bouncing bomb was enough to destroy the dam. It was going to have to be.
I lined up my updated sights. The targeting computer gave me a calculated indication of the right time and place to drop, but I was still nervous. I squeezed the trigger and fired at the Vulture droids resting on the wall, which took off after me upon spotting me at the mouth of the lake. I took down most of them. The others overtook me, soaring overhead and circling back.
I released the bomb, peeling off low, and watching it bounce over the waves of the lake. I flew over the massive dam and pulled hard, watching the bomb make its way. It slowed considerably with each bounce, until it slammed hard into the concrete, stopping and falling into the water. Three seconds later, a huge splash erupted in the right place. Cracks formed and blossomed into the superstructure of the dam, crumbling it in the center, and flooding the lake and gorge.
The radars and SAM sites switched off, as thousands of individual lights in the surrounding area disappeared—including the facility carrying the massive Separatist anti-ship cannon.
Vulture droids, having looped around, opened fire. I tilted my Y-wing, just barely jinking their guns, and returned fire. I downed the last two.
"Target destroyed," I reported to General Kenobi. "Separatist cannon is offline."
I heard a flood of chatter as the next stage of the invasion commenced.
"Marvelous work, Odd Ball," Kenobi jeered. "We're beginning our final push through the air corridor, but the Separatists have already lost. My commendations."
Climbing out of my Longsword in the portside landing bay on Atlas, I found Polk waiting for me, his arms crossed. He had a conflicted look—unsure whether to reprimand or punch me. As for myself, I was ready for it. I felt hollow and dejected. Like I had just cost the Coalition an entire war front. The GAR had broken through the Separatist lines and invaded the capital of Mygeeto.
The Venators attacking the UNSC fleet immediately left and pushed the Separatist pressure point—but the strategic commander over Mygeeto, Mar Tuuk, ordered the UNSC fleet to hold its position, fearing in his infinite wisdom that the hemorrhaging breach in his own air corridor, through which gunships and Acclamators were now wedging into an air assault, was a ruse for another attack brewing on the western hemisphere, and we were just pawns in it. I heard a rumor that he was suffering paranoid delusions after a humiliating defeat by Jedi General Skywalker, who was involved in this fight just before the dam mission.
Such great hands this fleet was in.
"You had orders not to descend below 70,000 feet," Polk said.
"Yes, sir," I said, assuming parade rest. "It was the one that took out the dam. I had a hunch that, even though he was one Y-wing, he might have been able to do it."
He nodded. "Indeed," he said. "Did you catch your white whale?"
"No, sir," I said. "I… let him go."
He nodded again.
"Just get it over with, sir," I said.
"Hm?" Polk hummed.
"I know I disobeyed orders, wrecked the frame of Firefox's bird, and put the mission at risk. I failed to take out the Skull, and that cost us the Mygeeto air corridor. So, whatever you're going to say, to do, I get it. I'm no CAG. I'm no ace."
"I never said you had to follow every order to be CAG," Polk said with a wry smile. He spoke gently, in that ever-nurturing tone. "You brought everyone home alive in a furball. You kept them out of risk for a decision that was based on a gut instinct—and your instinct was right. You balanced the needs of the mission with a change in the tactical situation.
"If you'd brought your whole squadron with you, maybe you would've prevented the dam's destruction. But you would've left the fleet with one less squadron it needed. It's not my call to tell you that was wrong. Your squadron comes first.
"Keep thinking like that," Polk said, patting my shoulder, "and you'll have my job in no time."
"Thank you, sir," I said. I didn't forget that—not when the fighting intensified over Mygeeto and we were ordered to bomb old bases and empty districts overtaken by clones; not when the first battle plans were drawn up for the Anaxes Blitz, and we took the offensive; not when we seized on the Republic shipyard over the golden and red horizon, a home fleet that dwarfed Admiral Colt's assault force by threefold; not when I started comparing kill rates over drinks with the new Allied wing commander, a remarkable clone named Odd Ball.
By the time General Grievous had murdered Polk and ignited the Atlas' deuterium reactor over Anaxes, I didn't want his job. But, being on a patrol when it happened—and the CAG of UNSC Trafalgar having been killed in the ensuing chaos, I was transferred to Trafalgar as her replacement. I was thrust into a position I still wasn't ready for. I tried to take after him. I would say to my pilots, "Stay strong, buddy." I would grab them and tell them what they needed to hear.
And when I would lash out, I would almost feel him reaching at me, grabbing my shoulder, and pulling me back. I would feel him behind me, shaking his head.
I would look into the stars and see him. He drove me to be a better CAG in the later months. He drove me to be stronger—the memory of him. He drove me to encourage the boys to take tallies again—this time, counting clankers scrapped.