Star Wars - The Last Battle of Colonel Jace Malcom by Alexander Freed Page A

checked the contents. He knew the soldiers’ names (Zenhai, Kayle, Min-Reva), had met most of them (Eron collected antique music recordings; Camur had a caf allergy), had even hand-selected a few for this mission (Yennir of the Green saw through fog like glass). They were young and stupid and brave, and he could think of worse men and women to serve with.
    “Ready to go?” Immel asked.
    Jace nodded and tossed Immel the satchel. “Beacons charged and ready. Plant them on the targets and the fog won’t matter—our fighter wing will know exactly where to drop the payload.”
    “Assuming the pilots aren’t making out with their droids back at base. You done this before?”
    “Bomb a spaceport? More times than I can count.”
    “What’re the odds they won’t rebuild tomorrow?”
    Jace shrugged. “I can think of worse ways for the Imps to blow resources.”
    Taking out a spaceport would be a major step in securing Kalandis, even if it did get rebuilt. Even if there were a dozen other Imp bases on the planet. Jace had put together the plan himself.
    But Immel wasn’t wrong to wonder what good it would do. Keep lying to her, Jace thought. You have an example to set. The spaceport was a mixture of flat metal landing pads, squat command bunkers, and slender control towers. Jace and Immel made their approach together, silent, observing the enemy patrols—pairs of Imperial troopers clad in black and red. The fog made avoiding the enemy easy enough, until the heat of a landing starship blasted the fog away, whipping a scorching, misty wall across Jace and a nearby patrol.
    The Imperials hadn’t turned, hadn’t noticed anything before Jace’s blaster bolts burned twin holes in the backs of their suits. The roar of the starship’s engines continued as Jace and Immel rushed to drag the bodies under a half-repaired Imperial fighter.
    One of the bodies groaned as the engine roar began to fade. Immel pressed the barrel of her rifle to the back of the man’s helmet and pulled the trigger before rolling the corpse into the fighter’s shadow. “Mercy shot,” she muttered.
    Either way , Jace thought.
    Immel withdrew a beacon and clipped it to a nearby power terminal as the fog rushed back in. Jace squinted and adjusted his helmet’s filters, looking in the direction of the vessel that had just landed.
    “Southern tower is fifty meters that way,” Immel said. “Prime target—you plan to help?”
    Jace didn’t turn, continuing to stare toward the looming shadow of the starship through the fog.
    It was too large to be a bomber. Sleeker hull shape than most transports. “How are we doing for time?” he asked.
    “Fighters are in the air by now. We’ve got at least two hours before they show.”
    Jace swore, then jutted a thumb in the direction of the starship. “All right—we’re adjusting the plan. That thing that just landed? Pretty sure it’s a planetary command ship on a refueling run.”
    Immel moved to Jace’s side and knelt, gesturing for him to follow suit. “Another patrol,” she said. “Keep talking.”
    “Ship’ll be gone by the time our fighters arrive, but if we could capture that thing? Its navicomputer could point us to every Imp target on the planet.”
    Immel glanced at the power terminal where the metal disc of the targeting beacon hummed quietly. “Whole blasted world would be a blue milk run,” she agreed. “But we’re not equipped for a boarding action.”
    “We’re not,” Jace said, “and we don’t have a lot of spare firepower, but we’re not losing this chance.”
    Immel paused.
    “Sir,” she said. “I’m in command of these men, and I’m not sending them—”
    Good woman, Jace thought, even as he interrupted her. “You’re not sending them anywhere. You finish the mission, and I go in alone. Won’t draw attention that way.”
    And it’s not a bad way to go out, either, he added silently.

    The sentry looked almost innocent without his helmet—young, sun-haired, a