Faxe loved his ship. His CR90 ‘Buckler’ suited him so very well. Small, light and fast. Not to mention corvettes were almost never priority targets. Well unless they came in too close, but he knew better. No, better to stay within the picket line and relay his orders through another ship, switching every now and then. It slowed reaction time, but it practically disabled purposefully killing the commanding officer to cause chaos in their unit.

  His forces were about even, though the enemy lacked corvette and frigate support. Making up for their lacking numbers with additional Diamond class cruisers and Captor class cruiser/carriers. The fighter engagement could be difficult, if he wasn’t prepared for it.

  “We’ve entered the moon’s orbital range.” his sensors officer Sergeant Ham’let informs him.

  “Begin spreading out the formation. Launch reserve fighters, bombers, gunships and our ground forces. We’ll kill off the enemy fighters, then they’ll punch through while we hold the enemy here.” The Commodore orders.

  “Incoming enemy fighters.” His strategic Adjutant reports.

  “Are our heavy turbolasers in range?” Faxe asks.

  “Just about.”

  “All ships, fire at will. Launch anti-fighter fragmentation missiles on my mark, keep the channels open for that. If possible prioritize the enemy’s local Providence.” He orders, calculations already speeding through his mind. The Seps have already launched their fighter screen towards them. All the Republic forces had to do was hold off on the fragmentation missiles until the enemy was too close to easily dodge while being far enough away for the missiles to detonate right on target.

  “We’ve lost the Hellhound II.” One of his comms officers reports. Not unsurprising. Anti-orbital batteries were the biggest force multiplier around. But also the easiest to destroy. If it weren’t for Thraken’s orders Faxe would simply be shelling them from orbit while the shields were lowered for the enemy to fire.

  “Hope you’re right about this buddy.” Faxe muttered to himself. It better be karking worth it.

  “All units, excluding our own has engaged the enemy fully. Commodore Strom is pressuring the moon and has entered anti-orbital range. We’ve reached maximum engagement range for the enemy dead ahead.” Senior Captain P’marik reports as I calmly look out through the transparsteel windows.

  “Very good. Hold fire until I give the clear.” I order.

  P’marik nods while Lieutenant Hursk approaches me and speaks: “Sir, I have no intention of undermining you-”

  “But?” I ask.

  “We will be surrounded and I worry about our effectiveness. Especially if the ground forces fail at seizing the anti-orbital battery.” He admits.

  “Lieutenant. How long have you served under me?” I ask rhetorically.

  “Since about a week before your promotion to Commodore, sir.” The man replies.

  “And how often have I miscalculated in a major way.”

  “I suppose twice, sir.” My man answers.

  “Saleucami and Cophrigin.” I say. Saleucami had been an embarrassment. Cophrigin had simply been a failure.

  “Yes, sir. Though there were close calls before and after as well.” He prods.

  “Very true. This will be such a time. A close call, but nothing more. There is a reason for why I am using my fellow Fondorians here.” I say.

  “Sir?” The Lieutenant asks.

  “It is because I know how they will act under pressure. Fondorian naval tradition imprints upon her children. We may bend, we may pull back, but never route, never break, never surrender, like the rare patch of cacti in the desert we are to defy all nature and thrive.”

  “And the other reason, sir?” Lieutenant Hursk asks as I watch the first salvo of medium and heavy turbolaser fire race towards the enemy’s pickets and cruisers, their fighters soaring towards us like some five hundred specks of sand in a gust of wind.

  “Well, Fondorian ships were what I was drilled on. Theirs were the designs I had to study. One might even say I almost know any old Fondorian Hammerhead as well as my Little Revenge.” I answer cheekily, as sixty anti-fighter fragmentation missiles are spewed from the Hammerhead cruisers. Certainly overkill, but there was a reason to double tap a sandgator. Better waste a slug or blasterbolt, than have it grab your leg and start rollin’.

  “We’ve got about three squadrons of Tri-fighters and two mixed squads worth of Vultures and Hyenas that made it through our shrapnel.” Sergeant Ham’let warns.

  “We’ll pick them off. Launch our ground forces and their escorts now!” Faxe barks.

  The CR90 makes a sharp adjustment in position to avoid a duo of damaged Tri-fighters from crashing into her bridge. Meanwhile almost two hundred LAATs of varying makes shoot forward from their positions along the hulls of Faxe’s Venators and Acclamators. As they begin passing his position two wings of fighters and a wing of bombers peel off from the screen to escort the ships below.

  “Godspeed.” Faxe says as the Buckler snipes another Tri-fighter from out of the sky.

  “The Pulsar Spring just suffered a bad hit through her hangar bay!” His comms officer barks in alarm.

  Fax frowns as a Hyena gets blown to smithereens along his portside. The Pulsar Spring was one of his two Venators. If the enemy surface battery could manage a hit through her weakened shields he was in deeper shit than he originally thought.

  “Ground forces have broken through!”

  That was better news. He could keep the enemy on a long range engagement while his ground forces secured the anti-orbital battery.

  “Has the enemy main line made any movements?” He asks.

  “Enemy reserve line has deployed to their defensive installations within planetary anti-orbital range, but they’re holding there.” Comes his answer.

  “Keep me posted on it. Helmsman, down a hundred meters and starboard rotation of two, point one degrees.” He orders.

  “I don’t get it, why aren’t they pressing the attack with their cruisers? We’re more or less equal in numbers.” One of his Adjutants wonders aloud.

  “Because then they can’t use their anti-orbital batteries without risking friendly fire.” Faxe answers, “And the reason why we aren’t closing distance is because Thraken wants us to use the battery once we’ve seized it for ourselves.”

  Stolen novel; please report.

  “Sir, all respect, but Rear Admiral Dericote scares me.” The Adjutant says.

  “He certainly has that effect on most people.” Faxe mutters as he types out on order to reposition the Constellation to cover a duo of Acclamators that had moved a bit out of formation.

  “10th Halla Sector V. Regiment and 12th Alsakan V. Regiment have landed and begun their assault.” His comms officer interrupts.

  “Good, I want that battery fully under our control within the hour. I’m not sure how much longer we can handle their bombardment.” The Commodore admits, “You better be right about this Thraken, or else I’ll throttle you.”

  Luis stood at the bridge and patiently counted down the minutes until the next phase of operations would begin. The tactical display was on in full force, the few strategic Adjutants Thraken hadn’t nabbed by the scruff carefully analyzing the battlefield. Mi-Kus stood at the head of the bridge pacing. It was getting on Luis’ nerves.

  “Captain, please cease your pacing. It won’t do us any good.” Luis finally admonishes. Commodore Strom’s attached ground forces were making decent time. Though he’ll probably need further reinforcements when the anti-orbital fire forces the Seps towards him. He goes ahead and flags a trio of Acclamator ones that weren’t really doing much, thanks to the front line carrier numbers being so high.

  “All due respect, Senior Captain, but I am trying to ensure the Little Revenge is functioning as it should.” He answers back, snappily.

  “By marching a trench into her deck? How novel.” Luis replies in deadpan, “Go ahead and move the unit I just flagged northwards by a fifty clicks, adjust their heading towards Commodore Strom’s men.”

  “Yes, sir.” The comms officer on deck, a female Mon Calamari Lieutenant, answers.

  “You’re committing them rather early.” Captain Mi-Kus objects.

  “I know Commodore Strom rather well through our mutual friendship with the Rear Admiral. He will have the enemy force move towards his position in an attempt to destroy them, rather than giving them a decent escape vector towards the planet itself, as Rear Admiral Dericote offered. He will need the ships sooner rather than later.” Luis answers.

  Mi-Kus hesitates a moment, as if he has another objection he wishes to utter, but he decides to keep it to himself. Luis nods simply before returning his gaze to the tactical display. Unit Earldom seems to have broken through the enemy line towards the south, though it looks as if they’ll be very hard pressed with enemy reinforcements coming along the horizon of Mintooine proper. Damn Thraken for being so reckless.

  “He’ll be utterly surrounded.” Mi-Kus complains, evidently seeing the same thing Luis was.

  “He never learns.” Luis agrees, “This tactic works against pirate fleets, not an enemy armada.”

  “Sir?” Mi-Kus asks, curiosity in the younger man’s voice.

  “It’s a Fondorian tactic he’s using. A modified arrowhead formation, the ‘Flyin’ Sandgator’. Surround a cruiser, or three with three to four times their number in corvettes before smashing through the enemy center and firing in every direction. It works fine against pirates and snub fighter swarms, but I don’t think it’s ever been successfully used against an enemy on this scale.” Luis answers, “But if it has, Thraken will know of it.”

  “I hope so too.” Mi-Kus mutters, his eyes wide in a mix of awe and worry.

  “I suppose that’s why he’s using the Fondorian ships for this.” Luis mutters to himself, they’d know exactly what Thraken would want with this. He frowns as one of the Hammerhead cruisers goes gray on the display, her engines disabled and multiple hull breaches bracketing the old ship while her turbolasers and missile launcher fire on defiantly.

  “Do … do you think he’ll make it?” Mi.Kus finally asks.

  “He better, or else I’m as fucked as a mudpuppy during a famine.” Luis shudders during his answer, Mrs. Dericote was nothing to scoff at.

  The two Captains finally tear their gaze back towards the line battle happening while their commanding officer was charging through the enemy shipyards. The long range fire exchange was going well, as was the skirmishing between frigates, corvettes and lighter cruisers against the Seps’ main line. Rear Admiral Wessex was following the plan to the letter. Keeping the enemy occupied so they couldn’t use their full reserves against Thraken.

  “Battery unit Cresh has suffered a hit on battery three!” Someone barks in alarm, “battery has voided!”

  “Hold firm, sitrep on our ground forces!” I bark as an explosion rocks one of the Sphyrna corvettes sides, pushing the corvette towards us.

  “General Krugwolt’s staff reports successful landing, but they’re being slowed by a droid armored regiment. Should we reinforce? Hope Company is on standby alongside the 1st Poseidenna V. Regiment.” Lieutenant Hursk asks.

  “NO, we hold here.” I bark, “The plan relies on us posing a threat to the enemy line’s rear, Hope Company is needed for phase two and we’re to hard pressed to send another group of ground forces now!”

  “Sir, enemy Vultures have broken through our fighter screen portside!” A sensors officer shouts, “They’re heading right for us!”

  “Intensify defensive point defense firing and cut them off!” I bark in order, Senior Captain P’marik nodding at the order and rushing to the portside of the bridge to get a better view.

  “We’ve got another Recusant light heading towards us. Ten o’clock, her heavy turbolaser just put a hole in our armor belt.”

  “Direct the Sandgator’s Bite to cut her off and direct local batteries towards the enemy vessel’s position!”

  “Incoming missiles from Diamond group at eight o’clock.” A different sensors officer shouts in alarm.

  “Divert Mudpuppy V and Winglizard III to intercept. We can’t let the enemy disable our engines. How long on our shields?” I ask.

  “Ten seconds, sir!” Comes the reply.

  “Vultures are going for the deflector shield generators above the bridge.” P’marik says as he finishes rushing back.

  “Divert,” I hesitate a moment. The Fondor’s Pride was almost in position, but she’d just lost her shields and would take the hit hard, “Divert the Fondor’s Pride into their flight path. Give following message for her Captain. For the Republic, for Fondor, Maker keep you all.”

  “Message sent.” The comms officer answers a moment later, having likely simply used some hot-mic to get my words into the transmission.

  “Message from Commodore Strom. Enemy lunar anti-orbital battery secured. Enemy Recusant heavy destroyer destroyed in first salvo.”

  “Good.” I mutter as an explosion rocks the outside of the Fondor’s Pride. At least two Vultures having chosen to smash themselves upon the cruiser’s hull rather than pull up.

  “Fondor’s Pride reporting engine failure. They’re stuck at their current velocity.”

  “Inform her Captain to counter the movements with her adjustment thrusters. That should slow her enough for the tugs we have to keep her in position. Get him to coordinate with a duo of them asap.” I order. Ever since the battle of Mon Cala I’ve been keeping a handful of TUG-314s within my units just in case. They were situational, took up a decent chunk of hangar space, best used to move incapacitated ships, slow ships that were moving too fast, or move debris out of the way, but in those situations they were invaluable. I’ll never leave system without them again.

  “Shields are up!”

  “Missiles impacted along our rear hull. Our rear deflectors took some bad hits, but engines still fully operational.”

  “Concentrate fire on our foes dead ahead. How much longer does Krugwolt need!” I exclaim, anger in my voice.

  A shell explodes about a meter beside him and Krugwolt wants to curse every god and the Stars for getting caught up in Dericote’s enthusiasm. He didn’t need to be here now! He wasn’t some Jedi and he certainly wasn’t enjoying commanding from a shell crater in the ice after his command AT-TE failed to land thanks to some asshole droid shooting down its LAAT/c in transit. At least he hadn’t been on board of it at the time.

  “WHAT DO YOU MEAN THEY’RE COUNTER CHARGING? WITH WHAT? WE’VE BEEN PUSHING THEM BACK SINCE WE LANDED! WHERE DID THEY COME FROM!?” He shouts into his comms unit.

  “Sorry, sir. They seem to have been stationed below the orbital battery, within a bunker complex. The double A-Ts came up from some three dozen elevators behind us. We’ve -” an explosion interrupts the Captain speaking through the comms unit before he can continue, “We’ve halted their attack, but we’ve been halted in return and lost our command staff, I’m the highest ranking officer left in the 4th Brentaali. We need reinforcements.”

  “Push forward Captain. There are no reinforcements to be had in this icy hellhole!” Krugwolt barks back, his Adjutant flinching slightly at his words.

  “Sir, we still have the 21st Attached Battalion of the 9th Humbarines in reserve.” Said Adjutant hesitantly offers.

  “The Logistical company?” Krugwolt asks, receiving a nod in response. He hesitates a moment. It was risky. The attached battalion didn’t have an armored contingent, but it did have trucks. Kark it, “Lieutenant, get me the commander of the 21st Attached. He is to get his ass here and pick us up alongside whatever else I can scrounge up.”

  “Sir?”

  “Get to it!” Krugwolt barks as he climbs out of the shell crater, an explosion rocking somewhere on his left. He takes a look around and sees the rest of his command staff dug into the shell craters left behind by their escorting fighters strafing the ice sheets and the enemy artillery launching shells at them. He also sees the medical tents and a few stragglers who’ve gotten lost in the clusterfuck of a landing and had used their lack of direct superior officers to hide.

  He’s disgusted at them. He recognizes the badges of the 3rd Toong Regiment and 1st Lothalite Regiment. They were new, green, but that certainly didn’t excuse them. The 1st Targonnian Regiment was holding off enemy reinforcements from further south, alone. He grabs his pistol and raises it to the sky. He pulls the trigger twice to gather everyone’s attention.

  “MAGGOTS! MY NAME’S BRIGADIER GENERAL IUSTUS KRUGWOLT, YOUR COMMANDING OFFICER! WE’VE GOT ONE WAY OFF THIS SHEET OF ICE! NORTH! I DON’T CARE IF YOU CAN BARELY STAND, I DON’T CARE IF YOU’RE DYING! GRAB YOUR BLASTER AND GET IN THE TRANSPORTS! WE’RE TAKING THIS BATTERY NOW!” He screams.

  Slowly they start to crawl out of the shell craters and foxholes, assembling in patchwork squads, bullied by his remaining command staff, while enemy artillery smashes against the sheet, then his men form into platoons, until he has another battalion’s worth of men. It would do. The 4th Brentaali Regiment should have enough survivors to make this a full Regiment at least. If he couldn’t seize a well fortified orbital battery with a hodgepodge of under-armed, unarmored, and demoralized three thousand men, was he even worth his badge of office? Fuck no.

  The first transports of the 21st Attached arrive and his men start cramming inside. He shoves himself into the lead vehicle. Soon enough they’re leaving for the front, maybe three minutes away. Krugwolt double checks his blaster, armor and helmet before finally grabbing the comms unit from his Adjutant.

  “We’re heading to reinforce the 4th Brentaali.” He starts as he addresses the gathered crowd of his men, “They’ve taken some bad damage leading the charge and are stuck in the snow and ice. Our other regiments are either busy holding off enemy reinforcements or are even worse off. Well, kark them! We’ll seize this battery ourselves now! And when we do, they’ll sing songs about this charge, this battle on an ice sheet, within hallways, on some hellhole of an ocean world. Join me now, FOR THE REPUBLIC!”

  The shout echoes through the lead speeder, then the dozens of transports behind. A shell detonates a couple meters in front of them, but the Stars are looking kindly over him and his men.

  “This better be worth it Dericote.” He grumbles as the doors lower and he charges out towards the trenches ahead. There’s a smoking bunker ahead and to the left, droid and Quarren corpses scorched and pressed against the remaining wall. He ignores it and presses forwards, falling into one of the trenches to find it already occupied by his men.

  “COME ON, ONE MORE PUSH!” He shouts as he climbs over the ledge. He never feels the blaster bolt smash through the edge of his open faced helmet, all he knows is searing pain and anger as he half falls half leaps back into the trench, the men around him stopping to check him. He reaches up and double checks his face. His upper lip is missing a chunk of flesh and so is his nose. Both bits burnt off and his wounds seared into his face by painful burns.

  He pushes the medic away despite knowing better. The offensive relied on this push, the entire battle relied on them seizing Mintooine’s arctic anti-orbital battery. He pulls his officer’s sabre, a ceremonial and useless piece of metal for most, a sharpened piece of metal for him. He climbs to the edge of the trench and faces towards his men. He knows his face must be frightening, his eyes probably almost deranged in his cold fury, wielding his officer’s sabre and blaster pistol, like some wild eyed militiaman of the New Sith Wars.

  “ONARDS! FOR THE REBUBLIK! FOR JABIIM AND ALL OUR DEAD! CHAAARGE!” He jumps over the trench into the hailstorm of lasers, his men behind.