Begin Log: Harassment 2

Damon Lightwind

-= CRS: Aragorn, Main Corridors =-

After returning from bringing the last runs of fighters to the Dawns Hope his busy schedule continued. Ra, not having any starfighters that needed his attention at the moment, sent him over to help the Droid techs. This in turn gave some of the DroidTechs a rare break.

Damon just took it all in stride, happy to be about to help, and focused on the task at hand which was almost as enthralling as working on the starfighters. He often had to be reminded to get some rest himself. More often than not, Ra was the one to do that. But the Admiral would come by every now and then, and just give Damon a raised eyebrow. This was one of those times, passing Castor in the passageway.

“Understood, Sir! I just need to drop this report off with Ra. Then it’s food and rack for me.”

Castor lowered the eyebrow and nodded, continued on. Damon continued diligently punching away at his data pad to finish his report for Ra. Not much could break Damon’s focus while working on a report, not even passing personnel. In most cases he’d just give a quick glance and avoid them as necessary. Most often, he didn’t even have to look, and made the course corrections without a second thought. Flying combat for any length of time did that to a pilot.

But one thing that always got the better of Damon was his curiosity. As he made his way toward Ra’s office he overheard a strange conversation.

“It’s really him right?”
“I heard he disappeared years ago and he was presumed dead.”
“I heard he finally had a brain aneurism chasing ghosts in circles.”
“I heard he resigned from active duty when some female finally landed him, and then nagged him to death.”
Laughter at that last.

That got Damon’s attention. He was aware of the arrival of the Sapphire, and the dignitaries that ship was carrying but not their identities. But as with the arrival of anyone of importance, he knew the names would be ship gossip in a matter of hours. Typically, classified information would take even less time. He’d heard of the greeting party in the hanger while he’d been on the runs to the Dawns Hope. But rather than stop, he continued on, because he fully intended to do as he’d said to Castor. But he listened a little more closely to those he passed in hopes he’d learn more.

Damon felt he must have been one of the very few not to know the whole story about the arrivals – he could have stopped and asked, but he really didn’t want to seem like he’d been under a rock for the last number of hours. Grey Pride had its downside too. So he still had no idea who came aboard, when he stepped out of the turbolift, and came face to face with two of them.

The two most recognizable of them.

The two most dangerous of them.

The two most unpredictable of them.

Damon’s blood ran cold as he stepped aside and they entered the lift without acknowledging his presence. …which was entirely fine by Damon. Memories of the Sabaac mission flooded his mind, and he shuddered. General Greedo. The female Rodian accompanying him had to be Captain Flame – the orange dyed skull bristles couldn’t belong to anyone else. …nor would the General likely be accompanied by anyone else.

Damon snapped back to reality as the lift door started to close. The door made a small thump and opened again. Damon could peripherally see a Rodian hand in the air, about chest high, which must have prevented the door from closing.

And the General stepped back out of the lift. One step out. One step only. And standing, facing Damon, put his fists on his hips.

Damon wanted to run. But by pure force of will, turned to salute Greedo calmly, even though Damon was anything but calm at that particular moment. Greedo appeared to be pondering something as he looked at Damon. They both held their stances for a moment; Greedo staring, and Damon saluting.

The General stepped one step closer. Flame held the lift door open with one hand, and the other hand rested close to the blaster she wore low on her hip.

“At ease,” the General ordered.

Damon then dropped his salute and snapped his hands behind him as he went to parade rest.

“You’re Lightwind,” Greedo said gruffly.

“Yes, Sir!” Damon replied quickly and clearly.

Greedo again looked him up and down. “I do not recall seeing you during the greeting party. Why is that?”

“I was moving fighters to the Dawn’s Hope at that time, Sir!”

“Greys are shuttle pilots…?”

“Requested by Captain Ra, and granted by Admiral Efrata-Landis,” Damon again answering sharply.

“Mechanic duty for a combat pilot…?”

“Double duty, Sir. I do what I can, where I can, Sir.” What was it that Greedo was after? It almost sounded like he was trying to find fault with the Admiral…

Greedo again looked him over and then said. “Carry on!”

Damon then snapped back to attention and saluted as Greedo turned, entered the lift again, and the doors closed behind him. He continued to hold the salute until he was sure the lift had moved. Damon took a few deep breaths to help recompose himself. His legs felt weak. Damon knew the adrenaline was slamming his nervous system like it never had in combat. He may have been closer to death in combat, but it hadn’t stared him in the face like Greedo had.

“I’ve got really a bad feeling about this…” Damon took one more deep breath and continued on to deliver his report to Ra.

-= CRS: Aragorn, Tess’s Place =-

Damon’s mind raced and his nerves were still fired up as he entered Tess’s and made his way to the bar.

The Gotal barkeep placed both hands on the bar and said, “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Damon sat on a stool. “Yeah. You might say almost exactly that.”

Tesserak reached below that counter, and pulled up a full glass, as if he’d had it waiting for just this purpose.

Damon decided that those who had stated that the gotal was just plain spooky sometimes were right. The drink wasn’t his normal Correllian ale, so he asked, “What is it?”

“Something that will settle your nerves just a little bit better,” Tess answered cryptically. “A special concoction of my own.”

Spooky. Yep. Damon decided to just go with it, spooky or not. He nodded his thanks as he picked up the drink and took a small mouthful and swallowed immediately, since it felt like it would open a hole to his brain through the roof of his mouth if he hadn’t. “Wow! That’s sure got a kick! What’s in it?”

Tess nodded. “Mostly prune juice and a little homegrown stuff that is probably better off used for degreasing shuttle landing gear.”

Damon took another mouthful and put the glass down.

“By the way…” Tess added. “You’ll want to keep that rack time promise. I estimate you have about fifteen minutes to get to your quarters before the bottom drops out of your stomach. But when you get done with that, you should sleep like a baby for about eleven hours.”

Damon could actually feel the solution moving down into his intestines from his stomach, and realized just exactly what the Gotal was warning him about. He gave Tess a look just short of betrayal.

“Just doing my job,” Tess said tilting his head slightly to the side, “and making sure all of my peeps are healthy. You’ll thank me tomorrow. Finish that and go.”

Damon nodded, finished his drink, and put his glass down.

“Ten minutes now,” Tess said calmly. “I’ll have something to eat delivered.”

Damon’s stomach rumbled, and he felt a little pressure build behind his belt. He wasn’t sure he’d want anything to eat later, but he did go straight to his quarters.

Thirty minutes later, when he came out of the ‘fresher, he found a tray of something that smelled absolutely delicious. Damon picked up the note, unfolded it, and read, “It’s entirely safe. Enjoy it now. You’ll be sleeping in twenty minutes, and it won’t be anywhere near as good when you wake up.”

Tess was right. On all counts. The meal was delicious. He was asleep in twenty. He slept for eleven hours. The little bit of food he’d left didn’t taste anywhere new as good when he woke up. And he felt like he was ready to take on the world. …he’d have to stop by and thank the Gotal on his way to see who needed him to do anything.

*****

Mia StormChaser

Mia woke with a start in her cramped quarters damp with sweat. For a moment she’d forgotten where she was. She shook her head. Mia wasn’t at all surprised she was still adjusting to life on board the Saguaro.

She had only been in Grey for several short months, and in that time she had already nearly been killed on numerous occasions and had lost some close friends. But it wasn’t her close calls as a pilot which had woken her up sweating. It had been a much older memory. …of her father.

In truth, Mia had tried not to think too much about her father, Lance StormChaser, since his sudden death just over four standard years ago. Something deep inside her still refused to accept he was gone, and when images and memories of him surfaced in her thoughts, that she tried hard to push them deep down inside her. She tried to forget.

But it wasn’t easy.

Larger than life during her early childhood, she realized that despite his unconditional love for her; despite his amusing tales which kept them all in hysterics every evening at the dinner table, her father had in many ways been a failure. Liked by all who knew him, Lance just wasn’t a farmer. And Mia clearly remembered that despite her father’s assurances that they ‘would be just fine’, the family had struggled to make ends meet every season.

But it wasn’t just that Mia had remembered in her fitful sleep, it was something that her father had told her about his past, that until now she had forgotten. The whole family knew, of course, that Lance had briefly been an Alliance soldier at the fledgling Rebellion’s first base on Mia’s home planet of Dantoonine. Apart from knowing that he had chosen to stay on Dantoonine to marry her mother, Mia didn’t know the particulars of his service with the rebellion other than that he had been a Corporal. Mia remembered that in a rare show of seriousness, her father had briefly spoken to her about his time as a soldier.

“Remember Mia, if you ever find yourself in a situation where you are forced to fight, for those you love, or something close to your heart, strike first. And strike hard. Strike to win,” Lance had said.

Mia hadn’t paid much attention at the time, but for the first time in many years, her father’s voice had come back to her, and still seemed to echo in her head as she struggled to wake up fully and pull on her flight suit…

-----

Bringing her shielded TIE Interceptor around for another patrol pass, Mia was pleased to see the rest of her flight of three rookie pilots remained in tight formation as ordered. These pilots were even greener then she was, but they had the makings of some fine pilots if only she could keep them alive during their first few combat missions.
She wouldn’t have long to wait to find out, as it happened. Flight Control hurriedly informed her that the Victory Star Destroyer Chlorite had just jumped in, and was already sending waves of TIE Bombers to attack their craft.

“Listen up Pebble Flight,” Mia quickly directed her wingmen. “It’s time to earn our pay. Take out those Bombers making a run for the Dreadnought Antlerite. Follow my mark…” She waited briefly for her wingmen to acknowledge her orders, and she smiled as she added, “And hit them fast guys… Hit them first. And strike to win.” She turned her TIE towards the lead Bomber and accelerated to attack speed. …her father’s voice still echoing her mind…

*****

Brig Dolaree

Well this is a surprise, Brig thought to himself. A T/I with shields…? This might be a pleasant mission after all. Brig never could get used to the idea of flying an Impy ship, During his RS career, Brig had made it a personal mission to Barbeque all Impies, especially the Tie Fighters. But with the lack of resources in this sector, Grey had to make do with anything they could acquire. And if that meant flying a stolen or captured P.O.S…. then that is just what Brig and everyone else was going to have to do.

The mission was a simple one. There were some damaged ships out there, and they were going to have to help protect the capital ships. There were a number of bombers out there and they will be gunning for the cruisers. The intelligence value of capitol ship was astronomical, and they needed as much as they could get, if they were going to solve this problem.

After finishing up in the briefing room, Brig went to put on his flight suit. How in the world do Tie Pilots see out of these helmets Brig thought. Instead of the usual rebel flight suits, you had to wear a pressurized flight suit to fly impy fighters. It was no wonder the Imperials were able to build so many of these things, thought Brig. First they skip out on all the basics like life support and shields, and they dump everything into the engines and weapons. Brig thought, this must also be why we get so many kills. Not only do we knock out the ships as they are unprotected, but with the pilots not being able to move their heads, they lack a clear understanding of the battlefield, not to mention the limited viewing space out the cockpit window.

The Admiral claimed that a single Interceptor could take out an entire squadron of X-Wings. Brig doubted it… but on the other hand, he didn’t think he’d care to be in one of the X-Wings, if it was Admiral Efrata-Landis flying the Squint.

Brig took off from the command ship. And there was one hellallotta Bombers out there. He went after a flight of three bombers. As he attacked, the bomber formation broke apart. He stayed after the leading T/B and was able to shoot it down in short order. Brig spotted the other two bombers reforming to make a run on the Dreadnaught. He dumped all his recharge energy into the engines and reengaged the other two bombers. Again when Brig attacked, the bomber formation broke apart. The second bomber fell, and Brig quickly found the third bomber and knocked it out before it could retarget the Dread.

“Man, I’m still rusty!” thought Brig. As he turned to engage the next bomber fight, he could see the rest of the Grey pilots making quick work of the Imperial attack. “Can’t kill them if I can’t get to them,” thought Brig. As the number if Imperials dwindled, the various Greys were called back to the Saguaro. As Brig seemed to be out of the action anyway, he was one of the next few called back to land on the ship. “Just my blind luck,” thought Brig, “But you can’t have a battle too lopsided, because you could get shot down accidentally by friendly fire. …I’ll just have to do better in the next mission.”

*****

Hermus Dogan

Imperial starfighters took some getting used to for Hermus Dogan. Prior to his return to the Rebel Squadrons, he’d never flown a TIE or Assault Gunboat at any time, even in the simulators. Now, after several missions under his belt, simulated or otherwise, he was finally catching on. Sometimes there were shields, but sometimes there weren’t. He wasn’t fond of the missions lacking shields, but flew as well as he could to achieve the objectives.

The lasers on the Imperial starfighters took even more getting used to. They felt sluggish to Dogan, at least compared to most of the New Republic starfighters. He had to fly all the harder just to land hits on his targets, although… a lot of his laser energy was still spent on nothing but empty space. Irritating, to say the least. But he was still alive, which certainly counted for something.

The mission featured on the simulators for Imperial craft for the month revolved around protecting a capture operation. A Dreadnaught heavy cruiser, the Antlerite, and a Corellian Corvette, the Mynock, were the capture targets. An escort carrier Dogan couldn’t remember the name of and the light Mon Calamari Cruiser Saguaro were on-station in the area for support. A number of starfighters were in attendance as well: a trio of Xg-1 Star Wings better known as Assault Gunboats, a trio of shielded TIE Interceptors, a Y-Wing, and a T-Wing. The chief pilot in the mission was in the lead TIE Interceptor. The opposition’s backbone was the Victory Star Destroyer Chlorite, tasked with disgorging numerous TIE Bombers and a handful of TIE Advanced.

Dogan’s initial attempt was a complete failure, resulting in the destruction of the Antlerite by heavy rockets. His second attempt was a success, but he hadn’t done as well as he would have liked. He kept flying the mission, over and over, aiming to beat his previous success. It took a lot more effort than he cared to admit, but finally succeeded after several sweaty hours in the simulator, though not all at once.

After another shower to clean off his sweat, Dogan strolled over to the Bar & Grill for a drink. He grabbed a stool at one end of the bar and looked around. Few others were there at the time, though Dogan didn’t mind. He liked his solitude. Just as he was about to signal his drink choice to the bartender, he stopped short. He usually had water or fruit juice, but neither option sounded particularly thrilling.

Dogan grabbed a drink list and scanned it for another option. Most of the choices had some measure of alcohol, naturally, which he didn’t care for. Beyond water and fruit juice there were only some dessert style drinks available. He picked one at random and ordered it. After an angry growl from his stomach, he quickly amended his order to include whatever the current special was meal-wise. The bartender apparently heard the snarling from Dogan’s stomach and laughed as he turned to fill the order.


*****
End Log


Battle 3, Mission 2: Grav{e}ity

Castor frowned as he reviewed his notes. The upcoming mission was planned well, even including the General’s penchant for overestimating acceptable losses. It SHOULD be a straightforward fight, and the Greys were more than capable. The ones he was about to send out, anyway.
He couldn’t get over the fact that Chlorite had killed their own Dreadnaught, much less it’s crew. “Why would they do something that vile? To keep us from interrogating them? Or is it something that might have been on board? Something they couldn’t afford to allow us to find. But we have the Jes and it’s crew... What are they hiding?”
He had an odd feeling that he couldn’t place. Try as he might, he couldn’t target any specific reason for his trepidations. Something wasn’t quite right, but he couldn’t say exactly what. Breathing deeply and putting his thoughts in order, Castor picked up his datapad, and prepared to meet Grey in the briefing room.
“Katie.”
“Yes, Admiral,” the droid responded quickly, turning from her data station.
“In about five minutes, have Grey meet me in the briefing room, please.”
“Yes, Admiral.”
Castor turned toward his office door, and stepped through it as it opened. Stopping short, he came face to face with the pilots of Grey Squadron. All of them. They stood in various positions of ease, and all just stared at him. None moved to allow him to pass.
“Yes?” Castor asked, perplexed, and then he waited.
“Your married?!” Ray blurted.
“Yeah, what’s up with that?” Bigfoot asked.
“Believe me, I was as surprised as ANY one,” Castor offered, “including Flame and Greedo.”
“What do you SAY to something like that?” Brig asked.
“Well…” Castor paused thoughtfully, “there isn’t a heckuvalot you CAN say when you find out that your married. To two people. And one is a wookiee. ‘No’ doesn’t appear to be an option. ‘Yes’ doesn’t exactly work well either.
“On the other hand, however, I have acquired some knowledge of, and have access to, a significant part of my missing past. Apparently my wives and I had plenty of time in the mines of Kessel to get to know each other pretty well. So they’ve given me much hope. It’s been said that those who ignore their past, have no future. My past was removed, but the effect is the same. I now have the opportunity to learn who I was.
“I’ve also found out why I tend to be able to fly unshielded starfighters as well as I can. Apparently I was a combat pilot for the Empire a long time ago – very early on in the Rebellion. That being said, though… I am not that man, and haven’t been for a very long time.”
“Do we get to know about any of this, or is it going to be classified?” Taan asked.
A voice came from the back of the group. “Yeah, like what it’s like to wick a wookiee!”
A dull thud sounded, immediately followed by a muffled “Ow!”
Castor stood taking in the faces, the unvoiced questions, and the relative initial viewpoints of the pilots, as exhibited by what his empathic impressions of each were . “I’ll let you in on everything as I can, but you must understand that this is all very new to me too. I kinda have to work through a bunch of it for myself, as well.”
“Are you going to expand your quarters?” Someone asked from Castor’s left. The sound of breath being expelled quickly followed another thud of someone getting elbowed or punched. Ray seemed to be the one editing the questions, as the two now slightly injured pilots seemed to be standing one on either side of her.
“A fair question, however much as it might be none of your business... No, they will not be moving in with me at this time.” Castor answered slowly. “Nor any time in the foreseeable future.”
“You’re not going to let them get away, are you? That’s some nice stuff there.”
Another thud. Ray was, in fact, doing her own private censuring.
“I don’t think it’s really a question of that.” Castor paused, his throat convulsing slightly and jaw muscles jumping with the unspoken emotions. He was, as his eyes narrowed some, very obviously torn in a number of directions, between the need for his past, a newly found need for a future, having both handed to him on the proverbial Silver Platter, and maintaining the honor and dignity of his wives, of Grey, and even his own, if possible. “I don’t remember them.” Castor finally said very seriously. “As much as I want my past back, I won’t take it at that cost.”
The quick comments concerning “stiff cost”, “what a price to pay”, and other related things seemed to be punctuated with slaps and half-serious punches all around.
“Hmm...” Castor frowned. “I think being on this side of the situation, it looks slightly different.” Only Bigfoot and Corran, who knew Castor so well, noticed the change in Castor’s breathing and saw the very slight twitching downturn to the edges of his mouth under the big moustache.
Corran spoke up for the first time - he being the youngest and most naive so long ago canceled now by the years and experiences accumulated since. “Whether this bunch of yahoo-wannabe’s wants to understand or not, I know that you’re talking about the stuff that makes you who you are. The stuff that demands that you can’t go anywhere with any of this until you can go through the whole thing again from the beginning. Square one. And you’ve got to believe that you feel that way because it’s now - not then - and you have to feel that it’s right.”
“Oh, lighten up, Corran!” Someone called.
Castor frowned at the intrusion, but felt relief at Corran’s summation of the situation.
“On the other hand,” Corran said seriously, with his own frown in place, Castor’s left eyebrow shot up, but he continued, his eyes twinkling. “You might want to actually help the processes a little.” Corran gave a slightly mischievous grin as he was given a light push from behind. “You’re not getting any younger, ya know.”
Castor gave Corran one of those looks that the Cadets had always interpreted as: “I’ll deal with you in time,” but Corran knew that he’d just scored a major point, even if in jest, against what might be one of Castor’s personal, and sometimes over-idealistic, moral crusades.
“Considering what we have going on, I think we should continue this at a better time. Briefing room, if you please.” Castor held his hand up, motioning that the squadron should precede him, which they did at a medium fast pace just as Katie’s metallic voice echoed throughout the corridors for the general call for Grey.

-----

Greedo entered the briefing room before Castor, having joined him along the way. Castor did a real quick, although unnecessary, head count, and seeing that all the pilots were present, started the briefing as soon as he was halfway down the ramp.
“We have the coordinates for a hyperspace junction point, provided by General Greedo. Its only purpose is to serve as a crossroad between a number of Malachite’s bases and an access point to an entire sector-wide complex.
“While I say coordinates,” Castor continued, “I use the term very loosely. Since the entire area is in essentially dead space, surrounded by a number of massive nebula clusters, there are no stars to reference for coordinates. Navigation is computed by calculated rates of turn in specific directions, and hypering for a very exact amount of time. Any maneuvering must be kept track of with one hundred percent accuracy, so that the beginning point can be referenced, and adjustments made from that location. You should plainly see the level of security attained just by virtue of being in this dead space. Any miscalculation would make it impossible to find any particular area here, and lose any reference to the star populated area, compounding the task of navigating back into normal space. Flying into a black hole, or into the heart of a star would tend to put a big crimp in MY personal life style, if not yours.”
Castor continued. “This also means that there is extremely little to reference the point, so it’s practically impossible to stumble across, and very difficult to find even knowing where it is in the first place. Malachite, therefore, has stationed an active Interdictor at that point to grab any craft coming in. It’s not likely that unknown craft will pass in that particular section and direction, but undesirable craft are seemingly sent on their way, or killed, depending.
“As our first major offensive action, and since there is very little chance of successful covert operations, and exceedingly little other intelligence we can gather without other and more accurate knowledge, we intend to take and hold this point. With this junction in our control we can disrupt his operations, and keep all of his forces off balance.
“To do this,” Castor continued, “we’ll have to wade through the defending starfighters and disable the Interdictor. Being that we intend to retain control of the semi-functional Interdictor, we’ll be able to turn it on or off at will, and take advantage of the point while Malachite’s group will have to work without it. As long as we can keep that point we’ll also keep a very large tactical advantage.
“Questions?”
“What are they likely to have for defense?” Dave asked.
Greedo answered. “Always the Interdictor and whatever it carries. Avengers are likely to always patrol the area. Many of them, due to the importance of the junction point. Any other of Malachite’s craft in transit. There will be five sets of buoys. They must remain intact if we are to keep the ability to travel between the bases.”
“Who’s going to man the Interdictor? Aren’t we getting thin as it is?” Petr Margul asked.
“Colonel Davit and the crew of Dawn’s Hope,” Castor answered this time. “We’re getting tight for space on the carrier because of all the prisoners we’ve got hold of, even having lost that Dread. We won’t be able to hold the ones from the Interdictor unless we completely convert the Hope to a prison ship and make a few trips out to drop off all our captives some place safe. We will be vulnerable at that time because we’ll be stretched VERY thin, and the Interdictor will have to stay active so it can bring the D.H. back in.
“That means, boys and girls, you have to take it down without destroying its shield generators, and without destroying its weapons. AND you have to do it all while avoiding area defense.”
“In other words, ions only after the shields deplete,” said Ray, and she frowned.
Multiple groans were heard. “Gunboats” and “Pigs” and “I really hate those” and even one really whiney “But Daad!” which came from Ray, mocking the rest of the complainers, that Castor could see set the General’s teeth on edge worse than hydroponics aerator boots scraping down a bare bulkhead.
“We could just space the Imps,” Tacomah commented.
“That happens to be the suggestion that the General advanced,” Castor responded. “As convenient as that might be, I believe it’s not an option.”
“Humph!” Greedo scoffed.
“What about the Dawn’s Hope and the CRV2?” Jack asked. And other questions about the Escort Carrier and the captured Modified Corvette erupted.
Castor answered over the hubbub, “The Hope doesn’t have our engine power, and is pretty loaded. She’ll be arriving about six minutes after we do. That’s how long you’ll have to disable the Interdictor. She’ll plan on docking with it, and delivering the major portion of Shock at that time. If you’re not ready for her, she’ll be vulnerable. And Shock will be all dressed up with no where to go. You know how cranky they get.” He smiled a crooked smile and brushed stray moustache hairs away from his mouth.
“The Modified Corvette, however,” Castor continued, “renamed Jes’N’Case, will be designated as a ‘backup only’ craft. It will be under strict orders to take no risks, because it will be staffed by a very junior crew. These kids, please pardon the term, are not ready for command, and will be running a craft for which we do NOT have the properly trained personnel. They’ll be doing their best, and trying to gain much needed experience while trying to stay out of trouble.” Castor looked pointedly at Teke.
“The strike team will be ready,” Admiral Daggerscout nodded, and the nod was returned by Castor.
“So. Your goals, in this order, are... See to it that the Interdictor is disabled. No NavBuoys must be destroyed. The Brier must board the Interdictor with the initial Shock Strike Team. The Hope must deliver the rest of Shock and the remaining part of the capture team. Our capitol craft, the Aragorn, the Hope, and the Jes, which should not be in any danger, must remain intact.”
“Sir,” Jack persisted, “is there any chance of reinforcements?”
Castor looked to the General.
“That depends on how many sacrifices you’re willing to make to get your job done.” Greedo almost spat in contempt at the questioner.
“Hmm... In any event,” Castor frowned, interrupting any Grey retorts, “we’ll be at the junction in about...” Castor glanced at his datapad. “...twenty one hours and thirty four minutes. I want everyone in the sims, fully qualified on all fighters. Those on duty can sleep up to one hour before realspace, at which time all flights will be fully manned and ready to launch.”
“Your flight assignments are on your data pads. Nest high, my Greys!”

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