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Authors: Brian Daley
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armrest. He let himself back down.
Several pilots had already gathered there, and another, a humanoid, showed up just then. There was little enough worry on their faces that Han concluded they hadn’t flown combat before. Jessa came up beside him and pressed an old, lusterless bowl of a flight helmet into his hands.
“Who’s flown one of these beasts before?” he asked as he tried the helmet on. It was a bad fit, too tight. He began pulling at the webbing adjustment tabs in its sweat-stained interior.
“We’ve all been up,” one pilot answered, “to practice basic tactics.”
“Oh, fine,” he muttered, trying the helmet on again. “We’ll rip ’em apart up there.” The headgear was still too tight. With an impatient click of her tongue, Jessa took it from him and began working on it herself.
He addressed his temporary command. “The Authority’s got newer ships; they can afford to buy whatever they want. That fighter spread coming in at us is probably made up of IRD ships straight off the government inventory, maybe prototypes, maybe production models. And the guys flying those IRDs learned how at an academy. I suppose it’d be too much to hope that anybody here has ever been to one?”
It was. Han went on, raising his voice over the increasing engine noise. “IRD fighters have an edge in speed, but these old Headhunters can make a tighter turn and take a real beating, which is why they’re still around. IRDs aren’t very aerodynamic, that’s their nature. Their pilots hate to come down and lock horns in a planetary atmosphere; they call it goo . These boys’ll have to, though, to hit the base, but we can’t wait until they get down here to hit them, or some might get through.
“We’ve got six ships. That’s three two-ship elements. If you’ve got anything worth protecting with those flight helmets, you’ll remember this: stay with your wing man. Without him, you’re dead. Two ships together are five times as effective as they would be alone, and they’re ten times safer.”
The Z-95s were ready now, and the IRDs’ arrival not far off. Han had a thousand things to tell these green flyers, but how could he give them a training course in minutes? He knew he couldn’t.
“I’ll make this simple. Keep your eyes open and make sure it’s your guns, not your tail, that’s pointed at the enemy. since we’re protecting a ground installation, we’ll have to ride our kills. That means if you’re not sure whether the opposition is hit or faking, you sit on his tail and make sure he goes down and stays down. Don’t think just because he’s nosediving and leaving a vapor trail that he’s out of it. That’s an old trick. If you get an explosion from him, fine. If you get a flamer, let him go; he’s finished. But otherwise you ride your kill all the way down to the cellar. We’ve got too much to lose here.”
He made that last remark thinking of the Falcon , shutting out human factors, telling himself his ship was the reason he was about to hang his hide out in the air. Strictly business.
Jessa had thrust his helmet into his hands. He tried it on again; it was a perfect fit. He turned to say thanks and noticed for the first time that she was carrying a flight helmet, too.
“Jess, no. Absolutely not.”
She sniffed. “They’re my ships, in the first place. Doc taught me everything; I’ve been flying since I was five. And who d’you think taught these others the basics? Besides, there’s no one else even nearly qualified.”
“Training exercises are different!” Of all things, he didn’t want to have to worry about her up there. “I’ll get Chewie; he’s done some—”
“Oh, brilliant, Solo! We can just build a dormer onto the canopy bubble and that hyperthyroid dust-mop of yours can fly the ship with his kneecaps!”
Han resigned himself to the fact that she was the logical one to fly. She turned to her other pilots. “Solo’s right; this one’ll be a toughie. We
Several pilots had already gathered there, and another, a humanoid, showed up just then. There was little enough worry on their faces that Han concluded they hadn’t flown combat before. Jessa came up beside him and pressed an old, lusterless bowl of a flight helmet into his hands.
“Who’s flown one of these beasts before?” he asked as he tried the helmet on. It was a bad fit, too tight. He began pulling at the webbing adjustment tabs in its sweat-stained interior.
“We’ve all been up,” one pilot answered, “to practice basic tactics.”
“Oh, fine,” he muttered, trying the helmet on again. “We’ll rip ’em apart up there.” The headgear was still too tight. With an impatient click of her tongue, Jessa took it from him and began working on it herself.
He addressed his temporary command. “The Authority’s got newer ships; they can afford to buy whatever they want. That fighter spread coming in at us is probably made up of IRD ships straight off the government inventory, maybe prototypes, maybe production models. And the guys flying those IRDs learned how at an academy. I suppose it’d be too much to hope that anybody here has ever been to one?”
It was. Han went on, raising his voice over the increasing engine noise. “IRD fighters have an edge in speed, but these old Headhunters can make a tighter turn and take a real beating, which is why they’re still around. IRDs aren’t very aerodynamic, that’s their nature. Their pilots hate to come down and lock horns in a planetary atmosphere; they call it goo . These boys’ll have to, though, to hit the base, but we can’t wait until they get down here to hit them, or some might get through.
“We’ve got six ships. That’s three two-ship elements. If you’ve got anything worth protecting with those flight helmets, you’ll remember this: stay with your wing man. Without him, you’re dead. Two ships together are five times as effective as they would be alone, and they’re ten times safer.”
The Z-95s were ready now, and the IRDs’ arrival not far off. Han had a thousand things to tell these green flyers, but how could he give them a training course in minutes? He knew he couldn’t.
“I’ll make this simple. Keep your eyes open and make sure it’s your guns, not your tail, that’s pointed at the enemy. since we’re protecting a ground installation, we’ll have to ride our kills. That means if you’re not sure whether the opposition is hit or faking, you sit on his tail and make sure he goes down and stays down. Don’t think just because he’s nosediving and leaving a vapor trail that he’s out of it. That’s an old trick. If you get an explosion from him, fine. If you get a flamer, let him go; he’s finished. But otherwise you ride your kill all the way down to the cellar. We’ve got too much to lose here.”
He made that last remark thinking of the Falcon , shutting out human factors, telling himself his ship was the reason he was about to hang his hide out in the air. Strictly business.
Jessa had thrust his helmet into his hands. He tried it on again; it was a perfect fit. He turned to say thanks and noticed for the first time that she was carrying a flight helmet, too.
“Jess, no. Absolutely not.”
She sniffed. “They’re my ships, in the first place. Doc taught me everything; I’ve been flying since I was five. And who d’you think taught these others the basics? Besides, there’s no one else even nearly qualified.”
“Training exercises are different!” Of all things, he didn’t want to have to worry about her up there. “I’ll get Chewie; he’s done some—”
“Oh, brilliant, Solo! We can just build a dormer onto the canopy bubble and that hyperthyroid dust-mop of yours can fly the ship with his kneecaps!”
Han resigned himself to the fact that she was the logical one to fly. She turned to her other pilots. “Solo’s right; this one’ll be a toughie. We
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