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| - Ship's night passed in unnatural quiet, with officers, crewers, soldiers and pilots whispering to each other in hushed tones from station to station, or else huddled together in mess halls or sleeping quarters. Nearly everyone was talking about the astonishing success of the Roche raid, marveling at the destruction of a turncoat capital ship on top of the neutralization of the asteroid's docking and repair facilities. The Marines of the Third Battalion, sequestered in their own barracks, were in high spirits. Many of the enlisted men had begun painting representations of crossed lightsabers on their armor, either on their chests or their shoulders, with some of them referring to themselves as belonging to “Saber Battalion.” "You must have had something to do with this," Laera finally said in an accusatory manner that was ruined slightly by the glint in her blue eyes. Thedus Bimm, sitting across from Laera's tiny desk in her private quarters, grinned mischievously. "Honestly Captain, this wasn't my idea!" he mock-pleaded. "Though now you mention it, I might have encouraged it by adorning my own armor thus. Besides, look at all you've done! The troops absolutely love you!" "I don't want them to love me, I want them to fight!" Laera said, waving the compliment away. This wasn't the time for flattery. "They'll fight for you, no doubts there," Bimm replied, still grinning. "Remember when I came over from the 83rd Assault Division? They loved me so much that the other officers instigated a mass ration fight that had the entire ship's security detail breaking it up!" “Just my luck,” Laera remarked ruefully. The man opposite him loved hyperbole; he seemed to drink it like caf. “First I die, then I get suckered into Jedi training, and then they stick me back here with you jokers.” “Ain't war hell, boss?” Bimm replied with a chuckle. “You bet your butt-plate, mister,” Laera shot back. “At least this time I get to hand out the punishments.” Bimm recoiled in mock horror, his eyes wide. “Aw, c'mon Cap'n, we've always done right by you!” “Yeah yeah, save it for the Sith,” Laera muttered. “Fine. If the men want to start calling themselves Saber Battalion, then so be it, it's now our unit designation. You want to tell Vice Admiral Dun'vei yourself?” After Bimm's shocked silence, which she knew was only partly genuine, continued for almost a minute, she flashed him her best roguish grin. “Tell you what," she purred. "After the mission, if you survive, that'll be your reward. I'll let you make the full report to Dun'vei. If you do good, I may even let you do it by holocomm instead of in-person. Dismissed.” Laera had to almost drag the blabbering officer from her quarters, but she knew that the man had enjoyed the exchange as much as she had. Bimm had always been a jokester in garrison, and she had learned to value his ability to lighten the mood, even when things seemed to be at their worst. When out in the field...well, she had never had to worry about him once the fur started flying. She knew that it would be flying thick and fast soon enough. With calm once again restored, Laera hit the sack, settling in and falling asleep in moments. She slept restfully, until around 0330 hours... Laera sat bolt upright in her bunk, gasping as she tossed the sweat-soaked blanket from her as though it were alive. She knew what she had just witnessed was no dream, no result of pre-mission jitters, but a sending from the Force, just as Master Lamar had described. But something about it felt wrong to her, like it hadn't been entirely the will of the Force itself. An oily sheen of darkness seemed to have covered the experience, like a thin veneer of slime smeared over a helmet's visor. Laera began to shiver as she sat, clad only in her undergarments, and only through a supreme effort of concentration was she able to draw upon the Force to calm herself. Glancing at her chronometer, she realized that only forty-five Standard minutes remained before it was time to rouse the battalion for the mission. With a slight twinge of nausea, Laera slipped into her armor's black body glove, the feel of its semi-elastic material on her skin helping her to recover from the feeling of having been somehow used for a purpose that was not her own, and without her consent. — — — As he walked among the vast troop landing bay, crowded with Marines making last-minute preparations and adjustments, Lieutenant Commander Thedus Bimm decided that he rather liked these Jarhead-class landers. Manufactured by Kuat Drive Yards, it was an upgraded version of the original dropship design that had been adopted by the Marines some thirty years ago, give or take. It didn't have that much in the way of firepower, only a pair of turreted double blaster cannons at the top, but it was thickly-armored and boasted an impressive array of deflector shields. Shaped roughly like a wedged box, its forward section housed the cockpit, with the fire control stations situated immediately behind. An armored compartment, where the shields and backup systems resided, separated this from the troop compartment, which was large enough to accommodate fifty-two Marines in full battle gear in something resembling comfort. The rear cabin itself boasted five exits, two on either side, with a large ramp forming the aft end of the hull. The craft's powerful sublight engines were attached to the upper corners of the aft section by heavily-reinforced and armored pylons, making them tempting, if difficult, targets. The engine pods also housed the slow Class 3 hyperdrive motivators, but Thedus supposed that having a hyperdrive was better than not, particularly given the nature of this assault. These boats were not elegant, but then again, they were never intended to be. As he arrived at the lander that had been assigned to his First Platoon, Besh Company's commander began to bang on the hull's outer plating, his armored fist making a loud rapping noise. "First Platoon, mount up!" he bellowed. The Marines nearby immediately stopped what they were doing and stood at attention, yelling "Sir, yes SIR!" before trotting onto the lander. Throughout the bay company, platoon, and squad commanders were shouting similar orders, and the volume of the din rose sharply as armored boots thudded against metal, beating a steady tattoo as each man and woman marched in lockstep. Once his lead platoon had boarded, Thedus himself entered the lander, taking a seat at the forward port exit hatch and buckling himself in. "Platoon is secure," he announced over the intercom. "Start it up when you're ready!" "You got it, sir," the pilot, his voice tinny in the small speaker, replied. Thedus smiled underneath his helmet. Like the Corellian who flew this ship, several of the lander crews had once been smugglers who'd been caught by the Republic, and offered the chance to serve as support pilots for the Marines instead of being sent to a penal colony. They were unpaid, but their service contracts were half as long as those of volunteers, and at the end of their stints their records would be expunged and they'd be given government trading licenses. The man piloting this ship had been busted ferrying guns to a band of Mandalorian mercenaries a year back; apparently he had decided that having aided and abetted a known enemy would not get him good treatment on a prison world, and had eagerly signed up with the Marines. Thedus smiled to himself when he considered the insertion plan. Once the force of some thirty landing craft had disembarked from the Stalwart Defender, they would make a small hyperspace jump right into Iridonia's gravity well, designed to pull them back into realspace on a direct trajectory toward the target. Dorn Company's landers would split off and head in first to neutralize the outposts while the starfighter squadrons provided aerospace cover. Aurek and Besh Companies would hit the main facility, their landers hitting groundside in a perimeter around the base so that the massed blasterfire from the turreted cannons would keep the enemy's heads down long enough for the Marines to debark and beat feet for the outer walls, where they would blast improvised doors through which they would launch gas and concussion grenades before storming in. Cresh Company, meanwhile, would land elsewhere and wait for the base to be cleared before they, along with the rest of the battalion, began humping out the purloined supplies that were, ostensibly, the primary objective. This was the kind of sucker-punch assault that he loved. As the engines roared to life, sending sweet vibrations throughout the hull, the overhead speaker whistled, signaling the commencement of a broadcast intended for the entire force. "Attention, Third Battalion," the crisp, ironclad tones of Captain Laera Reyolé rang throughout the troop compartment. "We have a green light for Operation Hornhead, liftoff in thirty seconds. See you all on the ground." — — — Chak fidgeted with his flight gloves once more, then rubbed his lucky charm before gripping the control stick of his Aurek fighter once again. Back in space, back on the wing of Shabu Five in about the middle of the squadron formation, he watched as the first of the landing force emerged from the belly of the massive battlecruiser that was the head and heart of the task force to which he belonged. The 23rd Marines, along with the 52nd's Navy flyers, had launched some ten minutes prior in order to keep a sharp eye and finely-tuned scanner out for any nasty surprises. The twenty-four starfighters took a weaving course over and ahead of the formation of assault craft as it formed up, so that they could quickly orient themselves toward any uninvited guests. The ensign knew his part in the plan: once the landers jumped, a counter would start; once it reached zero, the Aureks would follow the same course. The intent was to have all the attacking ships pop into realspace at or about the same time, both for defensibility and maximum psychological impact when the enemy saw so many ships popping up on their screens at once. While the 52nd flew combat aerospace patrol, it would be the 23rd's job to suppress any heavy, planetary defense-grade weapons the enemy might possess, as well as to provide distractions for the anti-air guns of the outposts. It would be dangerous work, but Chak reveled in the challenge, his appetite whetted and confidence boosted in the wake of the Roche raid. Now assembled, the thirty landers of the Third Marine Battalion seemed to elongate, and then disappear entirely as they jumped to lightspeed and their destiny. Chak Ravartin, like the rest of his comrades, then touched a button that initiated the all-important countdown. — — — Laera sat at the forward starboard exit hatch, the helmet she wore obscuring her face. For once she was glad of it, as it hid her expression from the rest of Second Platoon, Besh Company, all of whom now sported the crossed lightsabers that had just recently become the unofficial unit emblem. Still slightly uneasy in the wake of the corrupted Force vision, she wished she'd had more time to address her troops. There was something about offering words of encouragement to others that had always helped her to put her own mind at ease; it was only now that she realized how much of a difference it made. There was no help for it, however; the mission was a go and the transports were already in hyperspace. No one aboard said much of anything, everyone seemed to be dwelling on their own private thoughts and fears. Laera didn't need the Force to know that tension was steadily building amongst her troops; she knew full well from years of experience that this was in fact perfectly normal. It was the operations in which those involved had gone in cold, with no anxiety, no budding apprehension, that so frequently led to disaster. The promises of a "blue milk run" were ignored amongst the Corps as a matter of course. After all, if a unit of Marines needed to be sent into a given situation, any hope for a minimum of bloodshed had long since been shoved out an airlock without a vac-suit. To her left, the young Bothan ensign Silas Dan'kre tapped Laera on her shoulder plate. She looked at him, he seemed to be mouthing a question. She touched a finger to her chin, indicating that he should activate his helmet's comm system; apparently he had forgotten about that. The rookie seemed to take the hint, however. "Captain, a moment?" "What is it, kid?" Laera asked, determinedly keeping her tone light. The Bothan gestured toward his own blaster carbine. "I couldn't help but notice your lack of a weapon, ma'am," Dan'kre said, confusion evident in his voice. "Did you forget to draw one from the armory?" Laera laughed in spite of herself. If I'm not careful, she thought to herself, I'll have another Bimm to deal with, which will do horrible things to my sanity. "No, Ensign, I didn't forget," she said aloud, bringing the lightsaber attached to her utility belt into view. "I've got my lightstick with me, which is all I'll ever need for this mission." "I see," the Bothan replied, not quite believing his eyes or ears. He'd seen the impromptu demonstration she'd given several days ago now, and he wasn't hopelessly ignorant of the Jedi, but he still found it a bit intimidating. Through the Force, Laera sensed his disquiet. "It's okay to be nervous, kid. Like I said before, stick with me and you'll be fine." "Yes ma'am," Dan'kre replied, managing to summon up some small measure of confidence. "Thirty seconds to reversion," the pilot announced through the intercom. — — — "All ships are away, Admiral," the young junior lieutenant announced as she stood beside the flag officer at Stalwart Defender's bridge viewports. "Captain Tyr reports 'ready to launch' for the remaining Aurek squadrons." "Thank you, Lieutenant," the silver-haired Hetton replied. "Signal the task force, we jump in two minutes." "Aye-aye, sir," the yeoman replied crisply. "While you're at it," Hetton added, "please remind Jedi Wellir aboard the Endar Spire to have his Padawan keep her mind open. I think he will understand what I mean." With a nod, the yeoman departed to relay the admiral's orders to the communications officer, leaving Hetton to once again gaze at the tableau of stars before him. The one thing he disliked about the battlecruiser's design, which was otherwise as good as any produced by Republic engineers, was the vastly overlarge bridge and command deck. He suspected that the aft bridge alone could have comfortably housed a performance of the full Coruscant Philharmonic, with enough room left over on the walkway from the forward viewports to the aftmost crew pits to comfortably seat a thousand patrons. As it stood, nearly half that number could be observed on the bridge at any one time, either manning various stations, standing post as guards, undertaking maintenance or repairs, or relaying reports of various kinds to and from other parts of the ship. The Stalwart Defender's commander, who had been Hetton's executive officer before his promotion to rear admiral, was off at the back, monitoring the navigational computer's readouts. Both officers had been somewhat apprehensive—at least at first—about the course that the mission planner had plotted for the task force. But there was no time now for second-guesses; as Captain Reyolé had said the previous day, everything was as ready as it could ever be. Captain Nor Melao soon arrived at Hetton's side. "All stations report ready," he advised. "All other ships report likewise. Thirty seconds to jump." "Excellent, Captain," Hetton replied, turning to regard the straw-haired officer. "Maybe today we'll get to put the old girl to good use." The countdown passed in silence, then the stars seemed to stretch out before them.
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