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(Author's Notes:) This is based on one of our first SW role-playing sessions. My friend and I wanted to be Y-Wing pilots, and our GM was so contemptuous of the Y-Wing, he gave our characters their ships, as opposed to being assigned to them like most fighter pilots. We proved him wrong in the first game session. This is set shortly after The Battle of Yavin.
Somewhere, in the cold, black nowhere of Deep Space, a Medium Transport sits stationary. Orbiting it slowly but regularly, two Y-Wing fly a lazy circular patrol, wary of any Imperial incursions into this remote tableau. At regular intervals, a light freighter will appear, dock with the Medium Transport just long enough to dock and off-load its precious cargo of war material, then disappear back to wherever it came from. At these times, the fighter pilots become acutely alert, their sensors and instincts searching for any sign of trouble, be it an ambush, a double-cross, or perhaps a pirate raid.
After the light freighters complete their rendezvous, the pilots lapse back into studied boredom, chatting quietly on short-range comms, and contemplating what they were going to do once their patrol-shift was done.
On one such shift, the two Y-Wings were manned by two half-brothers. That they were raised separately and unknowing of one another, and that they would meet and discover their mutual lineage in the service of the Rebellion, was one more piece of evidence that the Universe had a warped sense of the improbable.
The pairing of the two brothers was a case of the exigencies of war, for one was a scout of some renown, at least within the Rebellion, while the other was an Imperial defector, whose loyalty was still somewhat suspect. But after The Battle of Yavin, the Rebels needed every capable fighter and pilot it could lay its hands on, and thus these two oddly met semi-siblings wound up twelve light-years from nowhere, guarding a mundane but vital supply rendezvous.
"Okay, Moe; a half-advance to sector four, with a delineated option to sectors three and five. Seven win/lose units."
Monroe DuQuennes contemplated this scenario in his head, gauging the move against his own array, while he adjusted the sensor gain on his BTL-A4 LongProbe, The Lucky Strike. His opponent, his half-brother Ashford DuQuennes, was tactically a better player than he was; but he still needed to learn a thing or two about strategy.
"Two full advances to sectors five, six and seven, three win/lose units each." Moe replied. Let Ash chew on that.
Ash stretched out as much as the cramped confines of his BTL-S3, The Mean Streak, allowed, and factored his brother's countermove into his own, admittedly limited strategy, and saw where this was heading. He considered conceding the game, but he figured he could still learn a thing or two, and make it a bloody victory for his brother. He turned around in his seat to see what his gunner was doing.
Fleet Gunner's Mate First Class Jon Fiinder was reading avidly from a set of data cards entitled "The Universe And You: A Guide To Accepting The Impossible (Or Just Wildly Improbable)." Fiinder would occasionally glance up and check the sensors; but with the LongProbe's superior sensor suite doing the greater share of the work, he didn't honestly expect to see anything before their wingman did.
Fiinder looked up from his reader at his front seater and asked "Slow day at the office, Lieutenant?"
"Just wanted to stretch and a change of scenery, Chief." Ash replied before turning back around and settling himself as comfortably as possible in the worn crash-couch.
Ash checked the mission chronometer and saw they had 37 minutes until the next freighter was scheduled to appear, and let a slow, long sigh out.
Chief Fiinder chuckled quietly and said, "I hear ya, boss. But it's gotta beat fightin' TIE fighters and Star Destroyers and such."
Ash grumped "At this point, I'm not sure I'd agree with that statement, Chief."
Fiinder set his reader aside and looked at the back of his front seater's flight helmet. The LT wasn't a bad sort, just green enough to not appreciate the slow times for what they were; another day of life in an increasingly violent war. Fiinder was about to reply when the sensors chimed and the Threat Board went hard red.
An Imperial Star Destroyer had just dropped out of hyperspace. Fortunately, this rendezvous was several minutes away from the hyperspace entry/exit point, and this small distance meant that the freighter had time to spin up the hyperdrive and make a hasty departure before the Star Destroyer could close to firing range.
"Tally-ho, ISD mark one, bearing one-eight-zero by three-five, inbound, ET maximum firing range three minutes, 43 seconds, MARK!" exclaimed Moe over the Tac-Channel, as he was cinching up his flight harness and activating his fire control sensors.
"Check." replied Ash as he did much the same in his own cockpit, even though the plan was to run away as fast as possible at the first sign of an Imperial presence. Fiinder was on a separate frequency, talking to the Captain of the Medium Freighter, telling him to bug out of here soonest. Both fighters came around and fell into escort position beside the freighter, while both their respective astromechs began final calculations for their hyperspace vector.
In The Mean Streak's back seat, Fiinder shook his head in disbelief and said.
"LT, we got a big problem. That dolt of a bus driver let his NaviComp buffer time out and lost his coordinate set. He estimates a minimum of four minutes to recalculate."
"What?!" Ash practically yelled over the intercom, then switched to inter-ship to talk to the freighter.
"Merchant Venture, this is Gold-Three. Say again last message."
"Gold-Three, this is Merchant Venture. Confirmed. Our Navigator let the buffer expire. Estimated-Time-To-Jump four minutes. Sorry."
In The Lucky Strike, Moe swore passionately and uselessly. Two Y-Wings against an Imperial Star Destroyer and six squadrons of TIE Fighters equals two dead Y-Wings in less time than it takes to think about. Moe then keyed his own inter-ship channel.
"Merchant Venture, this is Gold-Two. Kick that bucket in the ass and go for all you're worth. We'll drop back and engage to see if we can buy you some time." And with those words, Moe consigned himself and his wingman to death.
"Gold-Two, this is Merchant Venture. Our -6 orders you to stay in escort formation. Repeat: stay in escort formation. Acknowledge."
Fiinder swore "What in the infernal hereafter?! Can't this idiot count?
Doesn't he know a damned thing about basic tactics?"
"Obviously not." Ash replied, then switched to inter-ship discrete to talk to Moe without the captain of the freighter listening in.
On the bridge of the Star Destroyer Rapier, Captain Prak Dorit was contemplating the tactical situation. One Galofree Yard's Medium Transport, one BTL-A4 Y-Wing and one BTL-S3 Y-Wing. Hardly a match, or a threat, to the firepower at his command. He turned to his Flight Control Officer and ordered "Hold the fighters at launch-ready status. I see no real need for them. We will quickly take these Rebels with little difficulty."
"Aye, Captain." the Flight Ops Controller acknowledged.
"Shall I raise the shields, Captain?" asked the Executive Officer.
"No, don't bother. We have superior range with our TurboLasers and Ion
Cannons. The targets will be neutralized long before we enter their weapons range."
"Aye, Captain." the Executive Officer acknowledged, his lips compressing slightly. He didn't think that the Captain was correct, but deferred to his Captain's greater tactical experience.
"Full speed ahead. Ion Control: you are weapons-free as soon as you are in range. Priority target is the transport."
"Moe, if I remember our brief correctly, you're in charge here the minute this thing went tactical." Ash said.
"Correct. Form on me. We won't last long, but hopefully long enough to create enough confusion for the transport to escape." Moe ordered.
"Roger. Coming around." Ash replied.
From the Merchant Venture came a string of outraged squawks, orders and threats, until Fiinder and Moe, almost as one, reached out and turned off the comm channel to the transport.
"Captain. The Rebel fighters have turned about and assumed attack formation." reported a Sensor Controller from his station in the crew pit.
Captain Dorit clasped his hands behind his back and squared his shoulders, assuming a resigned air.
"These pilots are either very brave or very foolish, I cant decide which." he opined to his Executive Officer.
"I would think that after Yavin, the Rebels would need fighters more than basic war material." The XO countered.
"It would appear not. TurboLaser Control: you are weapons-free to engage those fighters." Captain Dorit ordered.
"Should we raise the shields, Captain?" Inquired the Exec.
"I wouldn't be to concerned, Exec. If the turbolasers don't get them, their puny weapons are no significant threat to our sturdy hull."
"Aye, Captain." The Exec complied.
The two fighters bore down on the Star Destroyer Rapier, closing the distance rapidly as their respective crews made frantic preparations for the upcoming battle.
In the back seat of The Mean Streak, Chief Fiinder activated the fire control system for the proton torpedoes, rapidly entering fire control data into the computer, while Ash activated laser cannons, ion cannons, and set shield values. In The Lucky Strike, Moe was frantically doing much the same, his workload effectively doubled for the lack of a gunner. He skipped some things and chose others from his mental checklist, deciding with split-second speed and half-thoughts what to prioritize and what to skip over.
"Gold Three, this is Gold Two. Attack-pattern Echo. Execute in: three, two, one, MARK!"
And with that order, Ash snap-rolled, inverting himself relative to the
Rapier, and pulled up, opening the distance between himself and the Rapier, while Moe continued his straight-line attack vector, beginning to jink up-down-left-right to avoid the anticipated fire from the Rapier. Down "beneath" the Rapier, Ash rolled 180*, and pulled up again, effectively half-looping himself to approach the Rapier from below.
"OK Chief: Set salvo one for point-plus fifty, salvo two for point-only. Spin 'em up and report when ready."
"Salvo one point-plus fifty, salvo two point-only, Aye sir!"
There was a moment of silence from the back seat, then the relevant targeting information popped up on Ash's heads-up-display a second before Chief Fiinder's status report.
"Torpedoes set, ready to fire!"
The Lucky Strike raced down upon the Rapier as Moe finalized his own abbreviated fire control programming, selecting his target with deliberation, programming his torpedoes with limited targeting information as time ran out and the battle began. Bright, emerald spears of energy leapt out at the attacking fighter, passing all around it, but never quite connecting as it jinked frantically to avoid a quick, pointless death. Moe raced straight down the dorsal spine of the Rapier.
"Captain, Y-Wing dead ahead, commencing attack run! Sir, its torpedoes are armed!" shouted a sensor controller frantically.
Captain Dorit spun around and looked out the bridge viewports at a bright speck in the heavens, staring in disbelief, as the dot grew rapidly larger.
"Shields!" he snapped at the crew pit, knowing it might be too little, too late.
Moe came straight and level long enough to loose his torpedo salvo directly at the command pod on the Bridge Island of the mighty warship. The torpedoes leapt away from his fighter, swerving a little left, then a little right, as their seeker heads examined their target's profile for information matching their programmed instructions; satisfied, they straightened their course and sped onward towards their own cataclysmic demise.
Captain Dorit spotted to smaller, brighter specks of the proton torpedoes, noted their course and velocity, and arrived at an unpleasant conclusion. He came to attention, jutting his chin defiantly at the rebel fighter boring in after it's own torpedoes.
"Brave", he said simply. There was a bright, actinic light. Then there was nothing.
"Fire one!" A pause of a few seconds, then "Fire two!"
Ash continued to follow his torpedoes, setting his glare shield to maximum. The first pair of torpedoes ripped into the roof of the large, unshielded hangar bay, tearing through fifty meters of deck before exploding. The magnetic shields, crucial to maintaining an atmosphere in the hangar bay area, immediately shorted out, and the resulting whirlwind was not only sufficient to suck humans and droids out into the unyielding vacuum of space, but to tear the ready TIEs clean from their launch racks. The second pair of torpedoes struck the rapidly outward expanding debris field and detonated, the force of their warheads turning the debris into a deadly spray of shrapnel back into the wounded guts of the Rapier, shredding TIEs, power cables, fuel lines, airtight doors, and armament bunkers.
Ash spun The Mean Streak and raced along the ventral ridge of the Rapier, as tremendous explosions ripped through the bowels of the decapitated Star Destroyer. Secondary explosions multiplied the mortal damage until, with one mighty cataclysmic eruption, the forward third of the Rapier tore itself free. Differential inertia caused the severed section to swing aside, as the Rapier continued its mindless plunge towards the Merchant Venture, and crash and tumble along the length of the massive cruiser, opening great rents into the thick hull of the rapidly dying giant. Almost as one, the two fighters raced sternward away from the furiously burning cruiser, to meet up and fall into formation before turning about to finish their grim business. They raced back at the dying cruiser, aligning their torpedoes carefully for their final attack run, intending to put paid to this over-sized symbol of Imperial tyranny.
Ash and Moe sent every last torpedo in their magazines into the sputtering drive plumes of the wounded ship, and peeled away, driving insanely for minimum safe distance, as the torpedoes flew straight and true up the titanic exhaust nozzles, and into the massive reactor that powered the Star Destroyer. There was another very intense light. Then there was only debris, and not much of it, at that.
Back at their hidden base, Moe, Ash and Fiinder were doing Victory Dances and High-Fiving one another, giddy with victory, full of life. They had downloaded their gun-camera footage and sensor logs on their landing approach, and most of the base was there to greet them with a hero's welcome home. It was a victory all out of proportion to the forces involved a bit of luck, a random circumstance that would not likely be repeated. Yet, for a brief moment in a lopsided war, three brave, desperate souls had struck down with apparent ease one of the dread symbols of Imperial autonomy, and came home without a scratch.
"Woo Hoo! YeeHaaaa! Lookit that sucker go! Man! Have you ever seen anything like it?" Pilot of the Merchant Venture
Mission Accomplished.