Wedge crossed his arms as he waited for Luke and Mara to climb out of the Skyhopper.
“Commander!” he heard Puck call before he could speak. “I thought we were fighter pilots, not teenagers!”
“Some of us are both,” Luke riposted, a smile on his face. “And some of us just act like it.” He met Wedge’s gaze and nodded, making a straight line to his executive officer.
Wedge eyed the younger man. He’s tired. He spared a glance at Mara, who had disembarked the Skyhopper on the other side and was now following Luke over. So is she. Dammit, Skywalker.
“We’ve got five more T-16s parked half a kilometer east of here,” Luke said. “I didn’t want to risk bringing them all the way in to camp on ferry-link. The deposits were already generating interference, and we didn’t need one of our new airspeeders deciding to nose-first into our training camp.”
Wedge nodded, waiting until Mara was within earshot. “Jade. Go get some rack time.” She nodded wordlessly and turned toward the barracks, trudging away. Then he turned back to Luke. “I thought I told you not to do anything stupid.”
Luke had the gall to give him an innocent look. “It wasn’t stupid. It worked.”
“Did either of you get any sleep?”
“Not really,” Luke admitted. “Too keyed up.” He frowned. “It’s…odd. Being back here.”
“On Tatooine?”
Luke nodded. “It’s only been a few months since I left, but it feels like years. And it feels like yesterday.”
“How did you get the Skyhoppers back?” Wedge asked, vaguely aware of the proximity of several Rogue pilots. I’m not sure whether they’re eavesdropping or not.
“Ferry-link,” Luke said. “Built-in Incom system for moving craft around without a pilot. X-wing doesn’t have it because it’s got an astromech instead. It wasn’t made for flying airspeeders this far, but Mara and I managed it.” He frowned. “Yes, it was stupid, but it worked and saved us a lot of time.”
Wait. Wedge recalculated, and decided to risk the question, dropping his voice further. “Luke, why didn’t you and Mara sleep last night?”
“I tried,” Luke said, “but I couldn’t make myself do it. Too many memories and our training plans and all of it jumbling together. I talked to Mara for a while, and it helped, but every time I closed my eyes, I was home again. Watching the smoke.”
Oh. Then he and Mara didn’t... Wedge felt the tension bleed out of him. One less thing for Hera to kill me for. Okay. “Think you can sleep now?” he asked.
Luke nodded. “I think I’m tired enough now to try.” He stretched a bit, cracking his neck. “We need to bring in the rest of the Skyhoppers, though. One of them has a cracked ion manifold, so I should probably fly that one.”
“Go to bed, Luke,” Wedge said. “I’ll handle getting them in. It’s not like I’m short on pilots who can fly them.”
“But a Skyhopper…”
“…should be flyable by anyone in the squadron,” the Corellian pointed out. “That was the point of this, right? Transition should be seamless.”
Luke nodded reluctantly. “I…you’re right.”
“You should be used to that by now,” Wedge said dryly.
The younger man looked abashed. “You’d think so.”
“Go get some sleep, Luke. I’ll round up pilots and we’ll get the rest in. I’ll wake you in a couple hours and we’ll brief the Rogues on our training schedule.”
“Valent, Farr, Neth, Celchu!” Captain Antilles’ voice rang in the hot, clear air. “On me!”
Kit rolled off his bunk and pulled his boots on, hustling out of the men’s barracks as he zipped his flight suit up. Don’t be late, don’t be late. He winced in the bright light of the double suns hanging overhead.
Captain Antilles was standing next to a parked T-16 Skyhopper and Kit immediately noted that, Yes, I’m late. I’m the last one. He skidded to a stop in the sand in front of the captain, short on breath.
Antilles didn’t even look at him. “Commander Skywalker brought back six Skyhoppers,” he said without preamble. “One is here. The other five are a half-klick east. We’re going for a walk and flying back.”
“Sir, I’ve never flown a T-16,” Kit blurted before his brain could catch up.
Antilles turned to look at him for a moment, and Kit wanted to bury himself in the sand. “Good thing this is just a ferry flight and not a combat operation, then, Valent,” Antilles said. “All of you are certified to fly an X-wing. I’d assume you can manage to fly an Incom Skyhopper half a kilometer without crashing it.”
Kit gulped and nodded. Great way to show you’re a combat pilot worthy of serving with the two X-wing pilots who survived the Death Star, he scolded himself.
“Grab water,” Antilles added, almost as an afterthought. “It’s not a long walk, but I don’t want anyone getting heatstroke. We’re leaving in five.” He clapped his hands once. “Move, people.”
Kit spun on his heel and hastily beat a retreat back to the barracks to find his canteen.
The barracks were less-sweltering than the open sun, but the comfort unit was clearly struggling to keep up with the outdoor temperatures. The prefab shelter wasn’t large, but it was big enough to boast three sets of bunkbeds, six lockers, and a prefab table with six lightweight prefab chairs, all hollow durasteel tubing with synthcloth covering that Kit suspected was the same material as their flight suits. Wes Janson, Puck Naeco, and Zev Senesca were sitting around the table playing sabacc as Kit entered and crossed to his locker.
“Move faster, Valent!” Naeco called. “The captain hates slow pilots! It’s the reason he doesn’t fly Y-wings.”
“He doesn’t fly Y-wings because he doesn’t appreciate the finer things in life,” Janson contradicted.
Zev Senesca snorted.
Kit rummaged through his locker. Whereisitwhereisitwhereisitwhereisit… A hand landed on his shoulder and he jumped.
Tycho Celchu’s cool blue eyes met his. “Breathe, Valent,” he said. “Don’t let them get to you.”
“I’m not letting them get to me,” Kit denied. “I don’t want to be late.”
“You’re not late,” Celchu said. “Breathe. Slow down. Trying to sprint half a klick in this heat to the Skyhoppers won’t end well.”
Kit gulped and turned back to his locker, finally finding his canteen. Tycho, he registered dimly, was already carrying his. Kit took an extra second to snag the fine gold chain and medallion out from a hook in the locker and slid it into his pocket. “Okay. No heatstroke.”
Celchu jerked his head toward the door. “Come on.”
The sunlight seemed even harsher when they left the barracks again. “Sorry, Lieutenant,” Kit said. “I don’t want to give Captain Antilles the wrong impression.”
“Some advice, Valent,” Celchu said as they walked over to where Antilles was waiting. “When the captain or the commander gives you an order, take it seriously. But if we’re not in combat, those orders aren’t life-and-death requiring immediate compliance. Slow down and breathe so you think, not just act.”
Kit winced, and then winced at his wince.
“You’re already on the squadron roster,” Celchu continued, unperturbed. “Don’t try to impress. Just do what the squadron needs you to do.”
Kit and Celchu beat Farr and Neth back by several minutes – long enough for Kit to begin to feel uncomfortable again. Celchu, on the other hand, appeared to be perfectly content to bake in the twin suns. He’s a veteran, Kit told himself. He was a TIE pilot. He’s probably used to all of this.
The walk to the Skyhoppers took longer than Kit expected; half a kilometer should only have been a few minutes of travel, but the parking spot to the east required the Rogues to climb a hundred meters in altitude. Antilles didn’t tackle it directly, instead taking a less arduous but longer route, and he didn’t push the pace hard. The Rogues didn’t talk, conserving energy and water in the relentless heat.
The five T-16 Skyhoppers were parked in a ragged line, wings folded up. Captain Antilles checked out each of the Skyhoppers in turn, declared the second in the line his own, and then assigned each of the Rogues a craft. Kit was assigned the fourth airspeeder in the group.
He approached it cautiously and laid a hand on the Skyhopper. The skin of the airspeeder was hot in the sunlight, and he withdrew his hand quickly. He stopped, wiped sweat from his forehead, and took a drink from his canteen. Slow down. Do your walkaround. Then preflight.
The Skyhopper was an old design, highly popular across the Rim due to its simplicity, cost, and reliability. Its profile in-flight was reminiscent of the Empire’s Lambda-class shuttles, featuring a vertical stabilizer and two down-angled horizontal stabilizers. The cockpit could theoretically fit two, though it’d be a snug fit. The blunt nose of the Skyhopper was a sharp contrast to the long, graceful fuselage of the X-wing. The single ion engine with afterburner was simple and reliable, and the airspeeder featured a redundant array of repulsorlifts that gave it both a tremendous amount of lift and a safety cushion that had kept many a young hotshot bush pilot alive through extremely poor decisions.
Kit’s particular T-16 was battered and scraped; the body was painted white, and blue racing stripes had been added but had been scoured by weather. The canopy was intact and there was no obvious damage to the airspeeder’s exterior panels.
The cockpit was not quite as cramped as he expected but ridiculously hot; no doubt the hour it had been parked in the sun had turned the interior into a blast furnace. Kit evaluated the controls. Oh. Throttle here, stick here. System displays. Fuel gauge. Internal diagnostics. It’s not exactly the same as my X-wing, but it’s laid out mostly the same way. When my flight instructor talked about Incom-standard, this must be what he meant.
The ion engine came online with a not entirely pleasant whine. The self-diagnostics took a minute to run, but the displays showed green when he clicked the Skyhopper’s built-in comm on. “Valent here, ready to fly.”
“Good,” Antilles’ voice returned. “This is just a short hop. Stand by until everyone’s ready. We go together.”
Kit pulled the gold chain out of his pocket and studied the medallion for a moment. Then he wrapped it around the grip of the T-16’s flight stick, looping it until no slack remained. Finally he settled his hand over the chain, feeling the familiar bite in his palm. Dad never crashed with this, he told himself, and neither will I.
The suns had settled into their late-afternoon decline to the west when Hobbie settled into a chair in the back row of the Rogues’ briefing room. It was larger than the prefab barracks and currently far more comfortable. Probably because no one’s been in here adding to the heat, he decided. A dozen chairs were arranged in two rows, a small arc centered on a surprisingly large holoprojector Wedge had requisitioned for the training mission. The comfort unit on the wall hummed quietly, producing a steady breeze of cool air that kept the room tolerable.
Mara dropped into the chair next to him, yawning.
“Long night?” Hobbie asked evenly, eyeing her.
“Hard to sleep in a strange place,” Mara said in return. “Didn’t feel safe like the Independence.”
Hobbie didn’t pry further, though it looked like Skywalker was just as tired. Of course, there’s every chance she has no idea what that looks like, Hobbie reflected. She’s always been a little odd. But then again, we all are. A person has to be a little odd to fight an insurgency against a galaxy-spanning empire.
The rest of the Rogues filtered in, a few at a time. Puck and Wes came in together and looked at Hobbie, disappointment on their faces. Yeah, I’m not letting you two sit behind me, Hobbie thought sardonically as the two of them instead took the chairs in front of him and Mara.
Puck half-turned. “Was school like this on Ralltiir?” he asked.
“No. But I actually went to school,” Hobbie said dryly.
Mara elbowed him.
Kit Valent, Samoc Farr, and Karie Neth all sat in the front row, coming in together. Cesi Eirriss, Tycho Celchu, and Zev Senesca all slid into the back row with Hobbie and Mara, their banter low and subdued.
Skywalker stood at the front silently, clearly waiting, until the last Rogue came through the door – Wedge, who promptly walked up and joined Skywalker at the holoprojector. They talked in low tones for a moment before Wedge stepped back, apparently yielding the floor.
The young commander offered a smile to the assembled pilots. “Welcome to Tatooine,” he said. “No, the heat doesn’t get better. No, you don’t get used to it. Yes, you do learn to tolerate it.” He cleared his throat, his expression sobering. “Most of you have flown at least one mission as a Rogue,” he said. “Some of you have flown more. Right now, that doesn’t matter. All of you are certified to fly your X-wing, and I’m not going to tell you I can teach you better than your instructors did. We’re not here for everyone to re-learn the basics. We’re here to learn new doctrine.”
He picked up a datapad, glanced down, tapped a button. The holoprojector hummed to life, and simplistic holograms of a pair of X-wings swam to life over the holoprojector. “We’re here to learn a new way to fight. All of you trained on three-ship flight elements. Rogue Squadron is going to fly two-ship elements instead.” He looked around the room. “All of you except Kit and Samoc got a taste of this during the Independence ambush. Wedge and I have been studying the flight telemetry from that battle, and now we’re going to train with the lessons we learned from that.”
Hobbie grunted and raised a hand. Skywalker nodded at him. “What does this training look like?” he asked.
Skywalker, in turn, looked at Wedge.
Wedge stepped forward. “I haven’t finalized the schedule yet,” he said, “but we’ll be flying Skyhoppers in the morning, when it’s cooler, and have classroom discussion and flight breakdown in the afternoon when the heat is worse.”
“I don’t think Tatooine gets cold,” Puck cheerfully chimed in. “But having an entire planet as an oven makes kitchen duty easier.”
“Cooler, not cold,” Wedge corrected dryly. “I’m glad you feel so optimistic about kitchen duty, Naeco.”
“Just looking for the positives.”
Celchu’s hand was in the air next. “What exactly will we be flying in the airspeeders?” he asked, skepticism seeping into his tone.
“Drills,” Skywalker said, “of every sort of tactics and reflex you need to have for a two-ship element. We’ll run bracket drills, break-and-reform drills, wingman-loss drills, two-on-three combat simulations.”
“And we’ll be rotating pairings,” Wedge added. “As of right now, Commander Skywalker and I do not know who is ultimately going to fly with who. The only pair that’s ruled out is Skywalker and myself. Command staff does not fly together.”
“An unlucky turbolaser shot shouldn’t cripple the squadron,” Skywalker agreed. “I will be flying as Rogue Leader. Wedge will be flying as Rogue Five. All other slots are up for reassignment.” His blue eyes, bright and open, scanned over the pilots. “We’re going to drill pilots together to see who works well together, and who doesn’t, and that’s our highest priority.” He smiled. “If, for example, we assign Puck Naeco to fly on my wing, that doesn’t mean he’s now third-in-command of the squadron; it means he works well with me. That’s our organizing principle.”
“In the afternoon, we’ll be looking at flight telemetry from the training sorties,” Wedge continued. “To see where we make mistakes and where we’re doing well. We want to catch bad habits right away, not let them fester until someone gets killed. We’ll also be discussing combat theory, everything from Tallon’s treatises to Ackbar’s The Pilot and the Rebellion to historical After-Action Reports dating back to before the Clone Wars.”
“This sounds more like university than pilot school,” Janson grumbled.
Cesi Eirriss turned toward him, her smile all teeth. “Some of us actually appreciate reading something more complicated than farm equipment repair manuals.”
“Fifty Shades of Ryloth doesn’t count,” Janson deadpanned.
Skywalker cleared his throat. “We’re going to cover everything we can,” he said. “But we all have duties to pull aside from flying and studying. The Skyhoppers will require maintenance every morning. X-wings will require maintenance at least every few days even if we’re not flying them. Kitchen duty, which I may be incorrectly assuming will belong to someone other than Wes and Puck at some point in the future. Maintenance on the rest of our equipment. And so forth.”
Hobbie grunted. That’s a lot of work. “And we’re going to be putting all six Skyhoppers in the air at a time?” he asked.
The commander shook his head. “Right now, only five of the Skyhoppers are flight-ready,” he said, “though we’re going to see if we can fix a cracked manifold on the sixth. More likely, we’ll put four pilots in the air at a time, with Wedge or me or both monitoring from here and issuing orders. We’re setting up datalinks with the T-16s so we have the same telemetry that we use on the X-wings.”
“That’s a lot of sorties,” Celchu commented.
“Sixty-five to put every pilot together for a run, excluding Luke and me as a pair,” Wedge said. “Two sorties at a time. If we can manage four runs a morning, that’s eight of the sixty-five every day. Over a week to put everyone together.”
“There are other pairings we’re eliminating in advance,” Skywalker added. “But the first week is going to be gathering initial impressions, and then a few weeks to test our data to make sure pilots work together the way we believe. Then permanent assignments and more intensive training.” He shook his head. “We’re going to train everyone in the same tactics, so any Rogue can fly with any Rogue. But our permanent pairs will reflect our best judgment about who works well together.”
“The old three-ship elements sound a hell of a lot easier,” Hobbie grumbled.
“Easier doesn’t mean better,” Wedge said evenly. “And we’re going to put the whole squadron through hell in training if it means Rogue Squadron survives the battles that killed Red and Blue Squadrons.”