One must admit that I hadn't thought about how difficult it would be for me to command the troops of an entire oversector.
I should have.
The workstation of the Moff of the "Iron Lance" Sectorial Army is a well-fortified bunker deep within an ancient base. A spacious room. Protected from all possible aerial attacks. I would even say that in terms of size, it was not inferior to the area of a mini-soccer field.
Having some experience visiting the offices of big bosses on Earth, I was surprised to notice that in the Moff's office, despite the position and status, there are no relaxation corners or other luxury items.
The Moff's massive desk with a computer built into the tabletop, a holotransmitter, and other communication devices.
In the center of the room—a holoprojector. Along the perimeter of the walls opposite the projector—about ten chairs. Also, wall-mounted monitors reflecting incoming strategic information in real-time. Metal cabinets containing outer clothing and unremarkable trinkets—souvenirs.
Well, a heavy working atmosphere. Not even windows—all lighting is from ceiling fixtures.
After arrival, I sent Olee on minor errands to headquarters. Unduli went to speak with the Order Council. The drone unceremoniously accompanied me as a personal bodyguard. Both halves of the Hutt's gift prudently remained on board the Defender.
"Reminds me of a crypt," K1 shared his observation, surveying my new office.
"How would you know? You can't die."
"But I've often sent sentients there," the drone countered.
Smirking, I placed my command cylinder into the receiving slot on the desk, authorizing myself in the computer network.
Before starting active command—you know, manifesting myself, showing the flag—I decided to deal with immediate matters. In my understanding—the devil is in the details. Therefore, I must first understand what I have in my hands. So that I won't have to wander despondently with that same flag and lick my wounds later.
Well, let's examine my fleet.
The "Iron Lance" should have three hundred line-class ships. It should be noted immediately that in local terminology, both cruisers and clumsy battleships are equally pleasantly considered line ships. The gradation mostly depends on the size of the ships themselves. And not on armor thickness, armament, or speed characteristics…
In reality, I had thirty-five Dreadnought-class heavy cruisers—regards from Rendili, twenty Hammerheads, nine Venators, twenty-eight Acclamators, and four "assault" Acclamators. Total: ninety-six ships. A little less than a third of the nominal strength. Of course, one can hold out with this—especially since the army forces control only a quarter of the entire oversector.
Twenty-six Arquitens-class light cruisers. As I already said—there should have been 70 units of them. Fifty Consular-class frigates, twenty-four Pelta-class frigates. It was a comfort that each of these ships was manned with the required amount of crew and starfighters. Trachta's help significantly influenced my army's combat capability in a positive way. Granted, the required 50% starfighter reserves from the warehouses turned out to be completely exhausted. Even the 800 units of starfighters sent by Trachta were distributed among the ships like hotcakes.
However, one should not forget about another thing. Incom successfully delivered 1,000 unmodified ARC-170s to Ord Pardron—without my permission, the ships were in the so-called "customs zone"—that is, they weren't released from the system, but weren't unloaded into warehouses either. Well, let's correct this flaw. With a light movement of the hand, an electronic order is sent to the office.
Next. Sienar. He sent a letter of guarantee that the two hundred Marauders I ordered from him are undergoing tests and are ready to arrive at the deployment site under their own power within a week. Well, although it cost quite a lot of money—I need these little ships. I approve this too. A week, and my army will have unpleasant surprises for the enemy.
Now let's move to the army units. Thanks to Trachta, I have nearly three full corps of clone line infantry. First and second generations. Furthermore, up to a legion of volunteers arrived from Christophsis. Hm…
Within his zone of responsibility, the Moff is authorized to independently man units. Which means… Three clone corps is twelve clone legions. In each legion—four regiments. Total—forty-eight regiments. And four regiments of volunteers. And, in practice—the number of volunteers is only growing. At least Shae states there is no end to those wishing to join. A "training camp" has been set up on Christophsis, so those wishing to die for the Republic's cause will arrive more or less prepared.
But for now, I only have four battalions of them. Which means I can put them into four legions, one volunteer battalion in each. And I'll have exactly four clone battalions freed up. Which means I can turn my twelve legions into sixteen—I just need three more legions of volunteers…
However, I liked the idea. Through simple manipulations, the number of line units will increase to four corps. And somewhere not far off are the promised funds after the audit. Which means I can buy the missing clones and ships.
Surprisingly, in the time from my departure from Coruscant until my return to Ord Pardron, the warriors of the 13th Sectorial didn't lose a single ship. Even a bit suspicious…
My next step was to familiarize myself with the operational situation.
In essence, the "Iron Lance" was surrounded. The Corellian Run, which is the main strategic highway of our entire section of the galaxy, was in the sphere of enemy raiding operations, various rabble, and privateers hired by the CIS.
The army held control of the heart of the sector—the territory within the "ring"—Mon Gazza—Ando—Monastery—Bothawui—Kothlis—Mando—Rishi—Ukyio—Molavar—Roon—Iskalon—Rodia—Teeth—Christophsis—Radnor—Mon Gazza. Also, small garrisons—within several companies—were stationed on Lainurra, Formos, Aduba-3, and Riileb. Though, to be honest—these are more observation stations, picket outposts watching movements along distant hyperspace routes. I wouldn't want an enemy squadron suddenly materializing in my rear.
Although, as I recall the last meeting, we had under our control the section of the Corellian Run from Christophsis to Paqualis. Having formed a corresponding query, I noted with a sigh that while I was pulling Jabba's kid out of the ass of the world, the CIS had dealt a massive blow to our grouping at Paqualis. Fortunately, the latter planet was not of great interest, and besides the orbital grouping and a small observation post, there were no forces of ours in the system.
Commodore Frencia's flotilla, which held Paqualis, suffered significant damage and was forced to retreat to regroup with ground forces at an outpost south of the surrendered positions. On the orbit of Fallien, where the maneuver base of the fleet's light forces patrolling our entire controlled sector of the Corellian Run was located.
Unfortunately, Frencia failed to break through to Rear Admiral Striklan's grouping, which for almost two months had been systematically grinding down droid forces on the planet Monastery. Meanwhile, the latter's position grew more complicated every day.
Mark Striklan, a rear admiral in his early 60s, a veteran of the Stark Hyperspace War, commanded from the bridge of one of the first Venators in the army—the Deliverance. His squadron, which included about forty ships of all classes, was blockading up to three million battle droids on the planet Monastery, which the Seps had gathered for a blow against the 13th. The planet, essentially, was a bridgehead, and the rear admiral was doing a great job holding such a limited force against significant enemy forces, numbering up to fifty Munificents alone. He managed to keep all his ships in relatively combat-capable condition—despite the lack of reinforcements and the Seps' non-stop attempts to break out of the pocket.
The start of the campaign against the CIS forces on Monastery was under the command of Jedi Master Abruk, but he died during a failed landing operation—he tried to take Monastery with a direct assault. The zerg-rush predictably turned into a bloodbath. Only a few hundred clones out of a whole corps survived the slaughter (so that's where one of the 6 required corps was gloriously lost!), along with the Master's Padawan, who was now with the Admiral. Interestingly, the Council hadn't even recalled the lad to the care of a new mentor. Curious.
However, beside a talented commander, the lad will gain more experience than being taught by a fanatic Jedi. Speaking of talented commanders…
Another advantage of my position—I personally decided personnel issues. So, a little about my fleet's personnel.
Conventionally, the oversector territory was controlled by the Sectorial Armada—that was the general name for all ships subordinated to the Moff in the oversector space. By zone of responsibility, the oversector was divided into the Southern Theater of Operations and the Northern. The Southern Battle Group, under the command of Admiral Ilizo Var, was based directly at Ord Pardron; the Northern, headed by Rear Admiral Mark Striklan—at Fallien orbit.
Each of the battle groups included up to a dozen squadrons under the command of commodores, who had groups of warships—wings—usually under the command of especially talented captains. Most of the light forces—corvettes and frigates—were managed by clones.
Bayleur's ugly way of commanding led to most of the Northern BG's forces being crushed. In the early stages of the war, they were commanded by the notorious Gran admiral who "distinguished" himself with the "de-blockading" of Christophsis. I don't even want to know what the hell he was doing in Admiral Var's Southern Battle Group's zone of responsibility. But the result is well known anyway.
The Separatists confidently took out the flagship ships of the Northern Battle Group's squadrons in the early months of the war. Therefore, Striklan, the only one of all the squadron commanders, now led the remnants of the Northern BG. He fought desperately against superior forces, gathering the last four squadrons from his zone of influence into his fist. For now, he managed to hold back the enemy's onslaughts—and then only at the cost of sending most of the Dreadnoughts to him. But although his reports didn't reek of hysteria, he still steadily asked for help. Yeah, if only I knew where else to get it. Furthermore, due to the high mortality rate, there were no particular volunteers for command positions in the 13th Sectorial, and certainly not in Striklan's battle group.
Things were a bit better in Admiral Var's domains. His armada included the "Hammer" and "Anvil" squadrons. Under the experienced leadership of Palleon and Creeves, the Hammerheads successfully guarded the southern borders. The light forces of both battle groups were engaged primarily in patrolling trade highways or catching and destroying small enemy groups.
As for ground forces. Dialo—personnel and logistics. Now Major Darrell—intelligence and counterintelligence. Also, my gallant line regiments were commanded by inglorious bastards—that is, unremarkable Jedi. Jedi Knights Kidra, Arkan, Lobin… and five other unremarkable names. All of them were now stuck on Fallien, a backwater planet whose government had graciously allowed the ships and Jedi to catch their breath after the defeat at Paqualis. I couldn't even recall such names. If they were ever mentioned in the expanded universe, I hadn't even heard of it. Oh, yes, and the Padawan sticking with Striklan's fleet. Total—nine. For our huge theater of operations. Not even funny. In the 14th Army, there are more than a hundred Jedi. And in the neighboring 17th, there are actually more than a thousand—and our territory is several times larger than the one defended by the forces of the "Chrome Shield."
Though… I looked at the casualty list… One hundred and fourteen Jedi… In six months. And that's only Knights and Masters. About fifty Padawans also died or were considered missing in action during the "Iron Lance" campaign. Damn it! Almost two hundred in almost six months… At the same time, I dug up a memorandum from Bayleur to the sectorial command, in which the Moff colorfully described the Jedi's incompetence and asked in every possible way to relieve him of their command. Hm, evidently, he succeeded. But I need something completely different. I need Jedi. The more, the better.
The lion's share of the sectorial army and fleet ships and units were currently under the command of clones. Jango Fett's copies are good boys, competent, of course. But they are no good as proactive commanders on the bridges of spaceships.
I need living, skilled, and literate commanders. Without talented generals, I won't last long. Of course, I won't be able to sit around myself either—the situation is not great. Especially since the Hutt territory, which the CIS had previously ignored, has now openly joined us. Of course, Jabba will take care of his space, but it won't be superfluous to file a petition to increase the authorized strength of the army and fleet, in connection with the increased zone of responsibility…
It's wonderful to be a Moff. One can always turn to the electronic database of the sectorial command and find out what individuals are in active military service… And one can always send them a transfer proposal to one's own sectorial army. Fortunately, in the reality of the far-away galaxy, all I needed for this was the presence of a vacant spot in my army and the soldier's own desire. Memories stirred in my mind… Grand Admirals, Grand Admirals, where are you…
A pity I can't do the same with the Order. For that, I needed the approval of the High Council. Well, I'll have to have a heart-to-heart with Yoda and Windu…
My thoughts were interrupted by a sudden intrusion.
Without a knock, the head of sectorial intelligence burst into the office, looking alarmed, which I hadn't observed from him. Darrell was clearly out of breath, as he was panting. But he managed to say the main thing:
"Grievous has exterminated our grouping on Fallien. The droids have gone over to a counteroffensive."
***
Watching the remnants of the Republican forces battered on Jabiim leave the deck of his Acclamator, Captain Niall Declann thought with reverence about his upcoming leave. In the docks, for several more days, they will be fixing the numerous damages to his cruiser sustained during the evacuation of clones from Jabiim. He, meanwhile, will spend this time usefully. Visit a couple of cantinas, get some proper sleep.
After the battle in Jabiim's orbit, when death literally walked on both sides of him and his ship, Niall felt for the first time how his natural talents for tactical thinking could not help. Death and droids seemed to be everywhere.
Despite the despair, he still managed to break through. The Separatists failed to damage his ship like the two other Acclamators. And he managed to lift off. Only by relying on his own battle calculations. The clones making up his ship's crew did not pay attention to the fact that their commander behaved somewhat unnaturally—silent a lot, as if thinking into every order. But thanks to his talents, they left Jabiim.
One could say it is to him that all these surviving Jedi—Kenobi, Skywalker included—owe their salvation. However, saving the legendary pair is a merit in itself.
His thoughts were interrupted by an incoming call to his personal comlink. Hm, strange. The call was on the command frequency. What did they need? He had just received his leave pass.
"Captain Niall Declann," the staff officer addressed him. The dark-skinned officer nodded silently to the superior. The interlocutor did not introduce himself, and one can't remember all the staff by name in a lifetime. "The sectorial command has received a request for your transfer to the position of Commodore—commander of the 'Blade' squadron in the 13th Sectorial Army."
"The 'Iron Lance'?" the captain asked in surprise. The staff officer nodded silently.
Unexpected. Niall had been in the active fleet since the start of the war but had no loud successes at the front. A couple of victories over pirates, effective skirmishes with Separatist raiders… and saving the Jedi from Jabiim. Had he really been noticed? After all, they don't offer a promotion for a pretty face… To rise from a ship commander to the bridge of a whole squadron's flagship in less than a year… Just a gift for an officer who wishes to serve the Republic's cause.
"I agree."
"Your transfer is approved by command," the staff officer reported a second later. "Immediately prepare the cruiser for flight—you are departing for the Lannik system, you will receive reinforcement—new Marauder-class corvettes, and then you advance to the Bothawui system, where you will join the fleet under the command of Senior Jedi General Dougan."
"Jedi?" Declann was surprised. "Bothawui? But there's a lull there…"
"Not anymore," the officer admitted. "Three hours ago, General Grievous,"—the captain felt a chill down his spine at that name. "Destroyed the maneuver fleet base and ground forces on Fallien. The Jedi are certain that their next target is Bothawui. Contact the Jedi Temple; they have passengers for you."
"I… I understand," the staff officer disconnected without a goodbye.
Niall ran a hand over the short hair on his crown, stunned. Promotion, Grievous, Bothawui, Jedi… That same unseen force that suggested the correct maneuvers to him during battle, that gave him hints about the enemy's actions, was now unambiguously saying that all this was clearly not for good…
***
Watching the fragments of a pirate ship fall into the atmosphere of a gas giant, Afsheen Makati thought with grim satisfaction that the confrontation with the clever and arrogant Trandoshan, who terrorized Kashyyyk's near space by regularly making slave raids on the Wookiee planet, had ended.
Twice he had fooled the captain of the carrier Acclamator. Twice the Trandoshan had managed to escape with his cargo.
But the third time, Makati did not allow himself to be tricked. He calculated the pirate's approach course—always the same one. Hiding in the shadow of a gas giant in a neighboring system, he waited for the appearance of Republic patrols. And behind their backs, he made raids. Но теперь ему не повезло.
The Resolute—a carrier modification of the Acclamator—dropped some of its heavy scouts in full view of the smuggler. And as soon as the latter, having counted the number of departing Republic ships, dashed for the Kashyyyk system, the remainder of the Resolute's air wing awaited him at the exit point. The battle took half an hour at most.
By the time the cruiser itself arrived, the clones had ground the slaver's old but nimbly freighter across the gas giant's entire stratosphere. Another bastard had found his well-deserved reward.
An incoming message on the holoterminal attracted his attention.
"Captain Makati," he introduced himself to the official from the 12th Sectorial headquarters, where he served. "How can I be of use?"
"Captain," the booming voice of the personnel officer (Afsheen recalled his face. Right, it was he who blocked the officer's participation in exams for the reserve for higher positions. In favor of another officer—his close friend.). "I remember you dreamed of a promotion…"
"As I recall," the cruiser commander narrowed his eyes. "You, Disra, found me insufficiently competent for that…"
"Well," the young commander snorted, "the Jedi aren't particularly good at personnel. Our neighbors from the 'Iron Lance' have finally decided to fill their gaps in command. And are calling everyone and anyone. Including you, Makati."
"Really?" the captain smirked. He cast a stealthy glance at the clones filling the bridge. But the copies didn't care about the bickering of the superiors. "And to what hole are you going to exile me?"
"If you agree," the personnel officer drawled. Usually, drawing out speech meant only one thing for him—it's better to agree. Otherwise, it will be worse. Afsheen had tested this on himself when he didn't follow Disra's advice and didn't yield his place in the certification queue to Disra's friend, Tigellinus. As subsequent events showed—Tigellinus received the promotion anyway and was already commanding a squadron, albeit in one of the Central armies, in relative calm—maintaining the blockade of Foerost. Whereas Makati himself chased pirates. On a cruiser that hadn't been repaired for a long time. "Then certify the documents I sent. And advance to Rendili—reinforcements are heading to the 13th Sectorial. You will lead one of the new squadrons, the 'Spear.' Though, if it were up to me—I'd send you to chase pirates on an old bucket."
Afsheen smiled threateningly. Whatever was happening at the top, someone had clearly noticed him. Since an officer overgrown with disciplinary sanctions had been noted and called to command a whole squadron. Internally restraining his triumph, Makati touched the transfer order with his commander cylinder.
"Safe travels to you, Captain," the smile on Disra's face looked more like a skull's grin. Mentally promising himself to one day remove that little smile with the heel of his boot, Afsheen silently saluted his enemy.
As soon as the communication session ended, he ordered a change of course.
***
Joseph Grunger always knew he was born for more. Than to chase pirates on the Hydian Way. His Arquitens-class light cruiser named Fury (the name was invented by the captain himself) became a terror for local freighters. Pirates avoided the course of his small detachment—the Fury's wing also included two Consulars. The fast and maneuverable unit always appeared where they were least expected.
Originally from Alderaan, before entering the Judicial Forces Academy, Grunger lived on the planet Gorgon in the Mandalore sector. His parents—rather wealthy Mandalorian expats—had long since left the way of life of their people—waging eternal war—and were engaged in mining. Although, Joseph suspected that his father did, from time to time, partake in the spice trade—otherwise it's hard to explain the senior Grunger's acquaintance with numerous criminal figures.
That same Booster Terrik, who had now become supposedly a law-abiding worker for a vague transport company, was engaged in transporting food and equipment. At the same time, numerous Corellian freighters, armed so they could blow apart a pair of Venators, did not strive to avoid encounters with patrols. On the contrary, those who were detained only yesterday by Joseph as smugglers presented their ships for inspection. And they had nothing illegal, unfortunately.
Food products, equipment, fabrics… Joseph assumed all this was being taken to the Corporate Sector but couldn't prove it. Moreover, often the cargo that freighters refused to provide for inspection was listed as not subject to verification. At first, these were the documents of some Jedi; then—about a month ago—these same papers were already issued by the office of the 13th Sectorial Army. Joseph had already lost count of sending queries there about the legitimacy of these papers—in the bureaucratic confusion of contradicting orders, he could not contest the legality of the actions of another sectorial army. And to the complaints to his superiors, the latter only waved them away, saying something like "Jedi business, don't interfere, you'll only get problems."
But Joseph did not believe in such injustice. Therefore, more than once or twice he sent his queries to the leadership of the 13th Sectorial Army, but Moff Bayleur didn't even think of answering Commander Grunger.
But literally two days ago, everything changed.
Major Dialo, from the personnel service of the 13th Sectorial Army, notified him of a transfer offer. The "Iron Lance" offered him to step over the rung separating him from a captain's rank.
He left the bridge of his beloved cruiser for the sake of the new appointment. And now, in the Lannik system, under disapproving grumbles from the local government, a huge armada was forming. About fifty cruisers of a type previously unseen by him—Hammerheads—with the support of a hundred equally unusual Marauder-class corvettes, were preparing to depart for the Bothawui system, where a battle was to be given to General Grievous's huge fleet.
Joseph looked at the bridge of his new ship—a Marauder-class corvette—with curiosity. Brand new, without any flaws. An austere ship, magnificent in ergonomic and functional execution, whose power was comparable to the strength of the captain's recent flagship. It was rumored that these hundred Marauders were the first of their kind with missile armament. They are something like a trial run for Sienar's company. And how these ships show themselves will determine their further purchase by the "Iron Lance." Strangely enough, in other sectorial armies, they weren't just uninterested in this corvette but hadn't even heard of it. This became clear from the conversations of the squadron and unit commanders who arrived for the meeting.
The crew on the corvettes—the same clones. But they have only recently arrived on these ships—some were taken from the four Acclamators hanging in space, surrounded by the brand-new Hammerheads—ten for each of the flagships. Also, each of the squadrons included five new corvettes. Officially—for the defense of large ships from numerous light enemy forces. But Joseph had already managed to familiarize himself with the technical data of his ship. It is capable of tearing a Sep Munificent to pieces in a few minutes of battle. And there are a hundred such ships. With their missile and laser armament, the Seps won't get a single chance at victory. Joseph headed the "Arrow 3" detachment—ten nimbly Marauders covering the "Blade" squadron.
But now, they all—newly hatched officers of the 13th Sectorial Army—were on board the Venator-class line ship Deliverance. One of the newest ships, it became the flagship of the entire armada that was to advance to Bothawui.
Walking through the corridors of the Star Destroyer, as line ships of the Republic fleet were now called, Joseph noted with interest that many Jedi were also present on board the starship. Among them, the one wearing black armor and an impenetrable protective mask hiding his face stood out noticeably. It was rumored that he is that very Jedi who will lead the operation.
But in any case, everyone—squadron commanders, unit commanders, Jedi standing out with their outfits against the background of the grey military uniform—gathered in the command section behind the main part of the Venator's bridge.
The Jedi in black armor began to speak first.
"Gentlemen officers, I am glad that you have arrived here today. My name is Rick Dougan—I am the commander of the 13th Sectorial Army, Jedi Master."
A small whisper went through those gathered.
"Each of you attracted my attention with your military successes. You know how to do your job, which means you will bring success to the actions of the 13th Sectorial Army. If not—we will part ways. There will be no freeloaders in my army. I will not punish the innocent or reward the uninvolved. Whoever arrived here by mistake, in hopes of sitting it out at headquarters—the door is open; leave the meeting."
Interesting. Never before had Joseph heard such words from a Jedi. However, none of the military even stirred. Only one of the Jedi—an elderly man with a tail of grey hair, hung with armor elements—smirked at these words.
"Now to business," the General activated the holoprojector.
"This is the Fallien system. Two days ago, General Grievous's armada—more than a hundred ships—attacked our Northern Battle Group maneuver base and completely destroyed it. The garrison on the planet also died to a man. We lost more than a dozen pendants, eight Jedi, and up to a regiment of clone line infantry. Jedi Order intelligence believes that Grievous's goal is Bothawui,"—the holographic map changed, displaying the Bothans' home.
"Isn't that a bit of a stretch?" the same grey-haired Jedi asked loudly. "The Bothans are the eyes and ears of the Republic. Do they really not know about an attack on their planet?"
Dougan was silent for a while, staring at the speaker.
"Gentlemen, meet General Rahm Kota. He commands the 'Ruusan Insurgents' volunteer brigade."
***
Rufaan Tigellinus looked with unconcealed curiosity at the suddenly silent Jedi. Tall, in armor. With a face pitted with scars and grey hair tied in a tail, he looked as if he had stepped off the cover of a fashion magazine. One of those where they photograph "model" military men to encourage a desire in youth to join as volunteers.
The young Commodore made the decision to join the ranks of the 13th Sectorial Army command contrary to the advice of his old friend—personnel service Commander Vilim Disra. The latter categorically advised against changing relatively quiet Coruscant for a backwater like Ord Pardron.
In the capital, the young Commodore enjoyed luxury and comfort. The life of the party and a jokester, he often attended social events and always remained in favor. Several times he had the chance to visit the Opera—at the very same performances graced by the presence of the Chancellor himself.
But among all this social gloss, Tigellinus did not forget the reason why he joined the fleet. Behind all this pompous behavior, charisma, and helpfulness stood a man of unyielding faith. An officer who wanted to serve the Republic truly and faithfully.
The spot at the First Sectorial headquarters frankly weighed on him. What is the point of countless meetings when a war is going on somewhere out there among the stars? And decisions important for the galaxy are made on the bridges of ships, not at all in dusty warehouses turned into semblances of headquarters.
Therefore, perhaps for the first time in his life, the officer did not take his friend's advice. Disra, hailing from a not-too-wealthy but influential family, did not himself dream of military successes. Unlike Rufaan, who sought glory through military victories, Disra desired political power but by proxy. And therefore, Tigellinus's presence in the capital gave him a chance to get out of the cesspool of the 12th Sectorial, where he was languishing, himself. Therefore, Disra "helped" the transfer offer to get lost in every possible way.
Commodore Tigellinus did not stop his comrade. He filed the transfer request himself. Personally sent it to the commander of the "Iron Lance." And, to his surprise, the latter immediately approved it.
Evaluating his position, Rufaan realized that as a combat officer, he had not lost. There, as a staff rat, he could only dream of a ship's bridge. Now, a whole squadron was in his hands, headed by his Avatar.
Rufaan had spotted the Acclamator-class destroyer even while at the 1st Sectorial headquarters. One of the rejected versions of the assault ship upgrade—a semblance of a carrier. With a larger air wing compared to its classmates, this ship held surprises. They were used primarily as air transports—the troop quarters had disappeared during the modernization process. But for action in deep space, this ship was suited as never before.
With the appearance of Venators, the need for this kind of carrier was disappearing. Therefore, Acclamators in the Core Worlds were going into mothballs or being transferred to the front lines.
Acquainted with many high-ranking officers of the sectorial command, Rufaan was able to eloquently and convincingly justify the need to transfer this ship under his command. It wasn't that necessary for the 1st Sectorial anyway, but for the 13th it would come in handy…
The Avatar set off, receiving a commission to the "Iron Lance." A new flagship for the "Stiletto" squadron. Of course, the starship with the whole crew did not go to the new "owner" for free.
Those who like to wag their tongues said that the Jedi—the army commander—received many officers with their ships. But at the same time, he sacrificed brand-new Venators that were supposed to arrive in his army by the end of the month. Four Acclamators of varying degrees of "worn-out-ness" in exchange for four brand-new Venators?
Hearing this, the young Commodore doubted the logic of the new commander's actions. But, seeing the armada gathered in the Lannik system, he mentally applauded the Jedi.
The latter had a large fleet for the upcoming battle. And according to rumors—by the end of the month, reinforcements awaited him—as many Hammerheads and Marauders. Instead of a quartet of lone Venators that would only arrive in a month, he had already received four flagships for four squadrons. With trained crews and experienced commanders.
Was the game worth the candle? That is the question.
"I beg to remind you, General Kota," the Mirialan Jedi joined the dialogue. "Master Kenobi confirmed our assumptions with his own intelligence data. Bothawui is under threat of invasion. Already now the Northern Battle Group is waging a battle with Grievous's superior forces and is retreating, taking losses."
"Well, if the Council considers an attack inevitable…" the Jedi with grey hair smirked again but remained silent. Lingering his gaze on him, Rufaan unexpectedly noticed at the far end of the compartment his old acquaintance. Afsheen Makati.
The latter met eyes with him. Both Commodores (well, well, promoted after all, Rufaan noted) barely nodded to each other and returned to the continuation of the senior Jedi general's speech.
However, Tigellinus felt his heart sinking. Once he had listened to Disra and set Makati up. A competent and literate officer, who was to have made a step in his career even before the invasion of Muunilinst and move further in the service, turned out to be slandered by Disra and exiled to chase pirates. Rufaan himself learned about this too late for anything to be done.
Well, since they are in the same army, maybe now he can at least apologize.
***
Commodore Oswald Teshik met the appointment to the bridge of the "Shield" squadron flagship destroyer—the Venator with the clumsy name Serenity, on which the meeting was taking place—and with a promotion in rank, favorably.
Naturally cautious, silent, calculating, and shrewd, the man had not for nothing served as captain of one of the 1st Sectorial Army's famous destroyers—the Aggressor. Twice he had participated in massive skirmishes during the blockade of Foerost on his Venator. Twice he emerged the winner. At the same time, his lone ship skillfully used its advantages and struck the enemy, time and again causing supernovae to arise in the place of Separatist ships.
To be honest, he, like his acquaintance Ishin-Il-Raz, had at first refused the transfer to the "Iron Lance." Teshik did not trust the Jedi. And certainly not those who commanded the army.
Jedi are not warriors. His father had told him that. And he was right. Oswald's analytical cast of mind only confirmed the conclusions he made based on statistics. Jedi were dying like flies. The war has lasted less than a year, but nearly a thousand of them will not see its end. And with them—thousands of soldiers and officers of the Grand Army of the Republic who were under their command.
Ilis had said more than once or twice that one day the Jedi would snap—this was already being whispered about in the Commission for the Protection of the Republic, where the pal worked.
But Oswald himself preferred to rely on facts. He took time to think before giving an answer. And with all curiosity, he dug into military reports.
The Jedi did not stand at the head of the "Iron Lance" for nothing. Christophsis, Ukyio, the freeing of slaves in the Rishi Maze, the exposure of Moff Bayleur… As a logical result—the alliance with the Hutts. Something the whole Republic never expected. A true hero. An icon, one must admit.
Oswald Teshik was not a stupid man. Any sentient's career—be it a Jedi or anyone else—cannot soar so rapidly. Someone is definitely behind him. Consequently, one must stay in his wake. And there will be no problems with career growth.
In his thirties, Oswald already commanded the most modern star destroyer. Now, his own fleet was under his command.
The cover detachment—"Arrow 1," which numbered 10 Marauders, under the command of an old acquaintance—Captain Zsinj, will become an insurmountable barrier in General Grievous's path.
Teshik did not delude himself with the thought that twenty-one ships, even ones as formidable as a Venator, Hammerheads, and Marauders, could stop a hundred Recusants, Munificents, and a good dozen Lucrehulks. Even with Rear Admiral Striklan's retreating forces, Grievous cannot be stopped at Bothawui.
But the longer he listened to Dougan's plan, the more he couldn't believe his ears.
Looking at his colleagues, he noticed that they were no less surprised by the deviousness of the Jedi's intent than Oswald himself.
Mean, arrogant, unconventional. But it might work.
Oswald allowed himself to smile. It seems the death of eight Jedi forced the temple-dwellers to act… more humanly.
***
Demetrius Zaarin, heading for the shuttle that would take him on board the "Mace" squadron flagship Acclamator, was talking with Miltin Takel—the captain whose "Arrow 4" would have to cover the squadron during the battle.
"Didn't expect the Jedi to pull such a stunt," Takel complained. He sniffled his wide nose in a funny way. Но следов простуды у него коммодор не замечал.
Rumors had reached him that Miltin was a drug addict and dabbled in forbidden things. But according to the same rumors, the captain was high when he destroyed an entire pirate pack on a single Arquitens. The "Black Sun" henchmen stealing tibanna from Bespin hoped to profit from a brand-new Republic cruiser.
Their base deep within an asteroid field showered Takel's ship with a sea of turbolaser fire. But at the same time, the Republic officer himself not only didn't lose the ship but also managed to hit the base with precise gun salvos. It was then a matter of technique to surround the transports with tibanna and deliver them to the base.
Demetrius himself had taken up the Jedi's offer with caution. A seasoned careerist, he carefully probed the ground, thinking about the transfer. It didn't suit him to be stuck in a possible encirclement, beside Hutts who could pull any stunt. Zaarin did not believe in an alliance with them and therefore did not rely much on Hutt help. Rather the opposite—the vile slugs will wait until the Republic bares its back and strike a blow. In the depths of war and confusion, the Hutts could grab one or two sectors for themselves without much effort.
"Yes," Demetrius sighed. "The Jedi don't lack deviousness. After all, they managed to create a huge army and fleet right under the noses of the Confederacy and the Republic."
Takel went silent for a moment.
"This Dougan strikes fear into me. He talks so casually about how Grievous will behave that it makes me uneasy. How does he know the cyborg will lead the ships through the asteroid field? Maybe quite the opposite—he'll go around it or slip under it…"
"Miltin," the Commodore cut short the subordinate's lamentations. "If you knew the navigation of the Bothawui system, you'd know that the entry vector into the system from the side of Monastery passes exactly through the asteroid field. Grievous simply doesn't have the extra time to bypass the belt—he knows that we know about his offensive. He knows that if he doesn't manage to take the planet with a quick assault, then our ships will stop him. And he knows that we know that too…"
"He knows that we know that he knows that we know…" the captain grumbled.
Stopping before the shuttle departing for his flagship corvette, the junior officer drew in air with a characteristic snuffle.
"Mark my word, Demetrius—this Jedi hasn't told us too much."
***
When most of the officers left the compartment, the Jedi remained silent for a while.
Martio Batch, leader of the "Arrow 5" detachment, cast a sidelong glance at Commodore Tigellinus, whose ships he was to cover.
Commodore Makati and the captain of the "Arrow 2" detachment, Peccati Syn, also stayed. Commander Dougan reported that he had a separate task for them. What task could fall on the shoulders of two carrier Acclamators, two dozen cruisers, and as many escort ships?
"General Kota," Dougan addressed him. "Are the 'Ruusan Insurgents' ready for combat operations?"
The second Jedi, standing by the wall, propped the latter up with an armored pauldron. It was clear from him that he was not at all brimming with enthusiasm to obey Dougan. Which is funny, considering that the temple-dwellers themselves preach non-violence and other absurd nonsense.
"As always," he shrugged. "The brigade awaits orders."
"Excellent," the Jedi performed manipulations on the holoterminal, and now a small section of space hung in the air.
"According to our data, Grievous has significantly weakened Monastery's ground forces—there are no more than half a million droids there. Supporting them is a squadron of thirty Munificents damaged in the recent battle. The General left them as a burdensome load, taking only undamaged ships with him. As soon as Grievous engages in battle in Bothawui Prime orbit, the 'Stiletto' squadron with the support of Captain Batch and his Marauders will cut off his retreat," the Jedi looked at the named naval officers. "You will make the jump from Lannik to Dressel. On its orbit is a small Separatist cover squadron—four frigates. They are conducting a landing operation—the exact number of droids is not known, but strong resistance is not expected. The Dresselians turned to the Jedi Council with a request to provide support in repelling the attack. General Kota's brigade with the support of Generals Serra Keto and Falon Grey will handle the ground operation."
Batch looked at the named Jedi with interest. The girl—of average height, dark-haired, with several funny braids, narrow-slitted eyes, and slightly tanned skin—listened silently to the briefing. On the other hand, the second—a young man with long light-brown hair—ignored the commander, whispering something quietly into the girl's ear.
"General Keto," Dougan stared at the holoprojector control panel. "If General Grey does not stop clowning around, I authorize you to cut off his legs."
The smirk on Rahm Kota's lips and the "golden-haired" one's alarmed head rotation were the reasons for chuckles among those gathered.
"Commodore Makati's 'Spear' squadron and Captain Syn's 'Arrow 2' detachment," Dougan addressed them. "Your task is similar. You cut off Grievous's forces' retreat routes. In the Nexus Ortai system,"—those gathered hummed. At the very start of the Clone Wars, a major battle occurred over this planet, which turned into a defeat for the Republic. A dozen neutral worlds were captured by the Separatists. Being at the intersection of two hyperspace routes, Nexus Ortai was of exceptional importance. A kind of hyperspace crossroads. "Grievous left a strong screen—about five Lucrehulks, several escort ships. You will be supported by Commodore Palleon's 'Hammer' squadron, which will strike from the side of Leritor. Master Unduli,"—the Mirialan nodded silently, introducing herself to the sentients,—"will take command of the 204th Legion and conduct the assault on the planet."
"Are we going over to a full-scale offensive, sir?" Commodore Makati drew attention.
The Jedi stroked the lower part of his face mask. As if thinking. But after a second he answered.
"Perhaps you don't realize it now, but under my command are the best representatives of the Jedi Order and the best officers of the Republic fleet. We cannot but advance."
Those gathered looked at each other. On one hand, of course, it's pleasant to hear praise from the mouth of the army commander himself… But hadn't he spoken that too confidently?
Captain Batch thoughtfully rubbed the bridge of his nose. He didn't count himself among the outstanding geniuses of strategy, but he was a good tactician nonetheless. Otherwise, he wouldn't have become one of the first commanders of the Acclamators that delivered the Grand Army of the Republic to Geonosis.
However, he didn't regret changing the bridge of the clumsy star destroyer for the "Marauder's" command section. No matter how the Jedi prepared for the Clone Wars, their line ships did not match the planned tasks. With the appearance of Venators, the situation naturally began to improve, but all that was not it.
Having received instructions, the officers and most of the Jedi left the compartment. However, Martio noticed that several officers still remained in the compartment. Through simple calculations, he realized that fifty Marauders had also not received an assignment.
Oh, this Jedi has started a strange game, a very strange one…
***
Soara Antana. Tru Veld. Shadday Potkin. Roblio Darté. Koffi Arana. Jastus Farr. Sia-Lan Wezz. Bultar Swan. Kento Marek. Roan Shryne.
Ten Jedi that the Council sent me. Staring into these faces, I couldn't understand if Fate was laughing at me or not.
But first things first.
Kento Marek—this is the father of Galen Marek, the hero of a couple of games in "The Force Unleashed" series. A cheerful guy, he takes all assignments as adventures.
Soara Antana—a lovely girl of average height, with a boyish figure and deep blue eyes. A wonderful master of fencing.
Tru Veld… a young guy, recently became a Jedi Knight. Young, hot-headed.
Shadday Potkin. Roblio Darté. Koffi Arana. Jastus Farr. Sia-Lan Wezz. Bultar Swan. This gang… this is something else entirely.
In my history, after the Great Jedi Purge, Shadday Potkin and all these guys met on Kessel in hopes of luring Vader there and kicking his metal ass. In general terms, it didn't turn out very well. Vader scattered them like kittens, though he strained significantly while doing so. What can you do—it's better to sweat as the active than to suffer as the passive.
Roan Shryne… This guy is a legend altogether. I first read about him in the book "Dark Lord: The Rise of Darth Vader." There he managed to avoid the total exterminatus in the form of the Great Jedi Purge. And even briefly became the teacher of my current Padawan. Though, looking at Olee's wrinkled nose, I bet that in my reality she won't ever turn to him for help now. Although…
Damn, he quite amusingly copies Obi-Wan's way of dressing. Even grew the same kind of beard.
Well what a stupid-stupid Jedi. In Vader's place, I'd kill him just for imitating Kenobi.
Well, fifteen Jedi is still something. Though I asked for a hundred.
"What will be the orders for us?" Soara Antana asked.
"Without a doubt, Generals," I smirked from under the mask. Clicking again the diagrams of the planet already being reproduced, I announced. "Monastery."
Looking at the grim faces of those present, I attracted the attention of a modest, elderly man in a military uniform.
"General Locus Geen," I introduced the famous ground commander. "The floor is yours."
In an era when Jedi wave sabers left and right, it is not easy to be a simple sentient in the Republic army.
Locus Geen is a legend. It was he who practically on his knee developed the ground assault plan for Geonosis. His merits—dozens of battles in the Mid Rim. Where the Jedi with their vaunted Power could not cope, the old man thought a lot and then led the troops into the attack. And returned if not with victory, then with an acceptable result.
Strangely enough—unlike the future Grand Admirals, I had completely forgotten about ground commanders. But the elderly army man did not hesitate to remind me of himself. With light irony, he composed a letter for me and advised not to delay the elimination of the Monastery threat.
"Well," the elderly warlord rose, proceeded to the holoprojector, and adjusting tiny glasses on the bridge of his nose, used a laser pointer and moved to the briefing. "Monastery is officially a refuge for a religious community—the Order of the Sacred Circle. But intelligence assures us that under the legend of refugees arriving on the planet being under the 'protection' of the CIS, raw materials for droid production are actually being brought to the planet. However, after the failed landing attempt on the planet—the presence of a CIS combat machine factory there is no longer a secret to anyone."
"Do you have a plan?" Jedi Knight Koffi Arana asked grimly.
"Without a doubt," the old man smiled. He switched the projection and handed the laser pointer to me.
"As the commander already said—General Grievous left about thirty Munificents on the planet. In ordinary conditions—this is a significant cover group. But we have fifty of the newest corvettes, significantly superior in combat power to the Munificents. Each corvette carries three starfighter squadrons—that is, about 1800 starfighters. And can deliver 80 assault troops to the planet. That is, with one massive raid, we will open Monastery's defense, land assault troops in the planet's atmosphere on gunships. You are all participants. In the first part of the battle—support the attack with starfighters. Then—join the ground battle—two Jedi for each clone assault battalion. Rear Admiral Block," I pointed to a tall, stately man, a veteran of several major battles of the past twenty years, "will engage the enemy ships in battle. Four thousand clones with the support of ten Jedi is a force with which the enemy will have to reckon."
"There are more than half a million droids there," Tru Veld noted. "They will crush us with numbers."
"Master Dougan held off the attacks of millions of droids on Christophsis for several months," Olee declared grandiosely. "And emerged the winner of that battle."
"Damn, quite a claim for victory." I admit, I was even stunned by such a move from the little thorn in the a…
"My young Padawan," I checked the Jedi little-one in a mentoring tone. The girl, realizing she had crossed the line, looked down, squeaking an apology.
"You are perfectly right in speaking of superior enemy forces," General Geen noted. The old man scratched the stubble on his chin. "In ordinary circumstances, it's not even worth mentioning a battle. But the calculation is primarily on the suddenness of the space attack."
"Droid ships are not designed to withstand a massive missile bombardment," Block joined in. "Their deflectors are oriented toward energy weapons. Our ships, on the other hand, are maneuverable and fast-firing. The droids won't even have time to strike the ground forces when the corvettes deal with the orbital grouping and proceed to deliver precision strikes on enemy targets from the atmosphere."
"Why can't we involve a larger number of ships?" Jastus Farr asked. The blue-skinned owner of a double-bladed lightsaber staff clearly looked skeptical.
Block and Geen had nothing to answer the Jedi. Not only was he not under their command, but he is also a representative of the Order. And the army and navy types preferred not to get involved in bickering with mysterious temple-dwellers.
"Knight Farr," I looked at the blue-skinned humanoid. "We are not playing games here. You are in the army. You are given an order—you execute it. If you don't like it—you can complain to Master Yoda. No? Then hold your opinion—tell me your considerations when you report on the capture of Monastery."
***
Staring at the seemingly small figures of the Republic ships, Admiral Trench noted with irritation that one of the cybernetic implants of his numerous eyes had begun to malfunction. He would need to consult a repairman.
The battle in Christophsis's orbit had come at a high price for him. Parts of his face and body had to be replaced with cybernetic prosthetics. Mimic mobility of most of his body was lost. Which could not but irritate the Harch.
But most of all, the attitude toward him from the Confederacy command irritated him. Yes, seemingly, their loyalty had not changed since the time of his defeat. Large funds had been invested in repairing his permanent flagship—the Invincible. Which, by the way, only by a miracle reached the base on Ringo Vinda. Actually, it was there that the Harch himself received medical aid that turned his already terror-inspiring appearance into a demonic picture.
Largely for this reason, no sentients were observed in Trench's fleet now. After the delays with the General on Christophsis, the Harch vowed to deal only with droids. A machine understands logic, and the Admiral himself was an immensely logical being.
There, at the "Ring" station, he experienced unbearable pain after each of the forty-seven medical operations. He was cut, sewn, implanted, cut again. With minimal painkiller—by personal order of Count Dooku.
"You have lost your drive and cruel spirit, Admiral," the Confederacy leader had declared. "My medical droids will help you regain it."
Being in a delirium, the Harch could not get rid of the thought that the mechanical servants had been ordered to torture him. Until his psyche began to break. Dooku didn't need him until his rage and hatred toward the Jedi and the Republic were so evident that he would throw himself at them like a maddened beast and exterminate them to the last.
The storming of the orbital grouping in Geonosis's orbit is merely a test.
The Separatist leaders put his flagship into his hands. Two dozen Munificents and thirty Recusants. More than enough to grind a Republic squadron of nine pendants to powder.
All as if selected—brand-new Venators. The elite of the Republic fleet.
They are universal but honed for a line battle. There aren't as many clones in their holds as one would like. And the armament…
Well, a talented Admiral does not seek excuses. A talented Admiral seeks opportunities.
The Republicans, seeing the approach of the Invincible surrounded by a fleet of Munificents, began the turn with obsessive ease. Their hangars opened, releasing clouds of starfighters. The Jedi ships themselves aimed their guns, preparing for an attack on the approaching enemy…
The Harch clicked his mandibles with interest.
Quick and merciless. Among the opponents, there are none worthy. No one there, on the bridge of the enemy ships, even wondered if it could be a trap.
The Harch had learned his lesson. He had studied his opponent.
The Recusant fleet, jumping to the Republic rear from the orbit of Syiskin, where a CIS fleet "staging base" had long been located right in the rear of the 14th Sectorial Army, did not keep the clones waiting long.
Venators, despite the formidable guns on the wedge-shaped hull, still remained poorly protected from the rear hemisphere.
And now neither their shields nor the armadas of starfighters could save them from the Recusants' attack.
The single turbolaser guns of the light destroyers were concentrated 4-6 units at a time on one enemy ship. If the Republicans hoped for maneuvers and a mixing of the formation of the Confederates that had fallen upon them, they were mistaken.
The Harch did not repeat the stupidity. He did not allow the enemy ships to approach him. The droids held the space separating them and the Jedi starships, showering the vaunted Venators with streams of turbolaser fire.
Not ten minutes had passed since the start of the battle.
The clear flagship was the first to explode. Nine other ships tried to cover it with their hulls, but only gave away their commander's location. The Recusants from behind and the Munificents from the front squeezed the ship in energy pincers, burning out its plating millimeter by millimeter. The armor could not withstand the heat, bursting and exposing the hull's construction set. Thousands of cubic meters of air escaped into space, instantly crystallizing.
But most of all, something else pleased the Harch.
As soon as the last Jedi ship met its end, among the myriad fragments he was able to make out an ocean of snow-white armor.
Clones… he had destroyed the entire Geonosian squadron. Snapped their spine, cut them out one by one. And he hadn't lost a single one of his ships. The destroyed starfighter-droids don't count. Acceptable losses.
"The scanners counted three hundred seven escape pods," a tactical droid, TX-303, the ship's commander, approached him. "Commence the rescue operation?"
The Harch clicked contentedly.
"Of course, commence. We are not savages, after all. Send the ships. And open a communication channel with the pods; I want to hear everything."
Leaning back in the Admiral's chair, the Harch prepared with pleasure to listen to the pleas for help and screams of terror from those who tried to escape Fate in escape pods. But he, Admiral Trench, will save them. From a mortal existence. It is enough just to breach the hull integrity of each escape pod and enjoy the host of voices begging for salvation…
The Harch smiled contentedly, causing his red optical sensors to shine.
Tremble, Republic. Admiral Trench has returned. And a repetition of the slaughter in the Malastare narrows awaits you all.
But Rick Dougan and his pet Sarkhai-Jedi will die last.
The Admiral squeezed his artificial limb until it hurt. Very soon, Dougan, very soon…
***
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