On the battle station, troopers worn half to death or deafened by the

concussion of the big guns were replaced by fresh crews. None of them had

time to wonder how the battle was going, and at the moment none of them much

cared, a malady shared by common soldiers since the dawn of history.

     Luke skimmed daringly low over the station's surface, his attention

riveted on a distant metal projection.

     "Stick close, Blue Five," the squadron commander directed him. "Where

are you going?"

     "I've picked up what looks like a lateral stabilizer," Luke replied.

"I'm going to try for it."

     "Watch yourself, Blue Five. Heavy fire in your area."

     Luke ignored the warning as he headed the fighter straight toward the

oddly shaped protuberance. His determination was rewarded when, after

saturating it with fire, he saw it erupt in a spectacular ball of superhot

gas.

     "Got it!" he exclaimed. "Continuing south for another one."

     Within the rebel temple-fortress, Leia listened intently. She seemed

simultaneously angry and frightened. Finally she turned to Threepio and

muttered, "Why is Luke taking so many chances?" The tall droid didn't reply.

     "Watch your back, Luke," Biggs's voice sounded over the speakers,

"watch your back! Fighters above you, coming in."

     Leia strained to see what she could only hear. She wasn't alone. "Help

him, Artoo," Threepio was whispering to himself, "and keep holding on."

     Luke continued his dive even as he looked back and spotted the object

of Biggs's concern close on his tail. Reluctantly he pulled up and away from

the station surface, abandoning his target. His tormentor was good, however,

and continued closing on him.

     "I can't shake him," he reported.

     Something cut across the sky toward both ships. "I'm on him, Luke,"

shouted Wedge Antilles. "Hold on."

     Luke didn't have to for very long. Wedge's gunnery was precise, and the

TIE fighter vanished brightly shortly thereafter.

     "Thanks, Wedge," Luke murmured, breathing a little more easily.

     "Good shooting, Wedge." That was Biggs again. "Blue Four, I'm going in.

Cover me, Porkins."

     "I'm right with you, Blue Three," came the other pilot's assurance.

     Biggs leveled them off, then let go with full weaponry. No one ever

decided exactly what it was he hit, but the small tower that blew up under

his energy bolts was obviously more important than it looked.

     A series of sequential explosions hopscotched across a large section of

the battle station's surface, leaping from one terminal to the next. Biggs

had already shot past the area of disturbance, but his companion, following

slightly behind, received a full dose of whatever energy was running wild

down there.

     "I've got a problem," Porkins announced. "My converter's running wild."

That was an understatement. Every instrument on his control panels had

abruptly gone berserk.

     "Eject-eject, Blue Four," advised Biggs. "Blue Four, do you read?"

     "I'm okay," Porkins replied. "I can hold her. Give me a little room to

run, Biggs."

     "You're too low," his companion yelled. "Pull up, pull up!"

     With his instrumentation not providing proper information, and at the

altitude he was traveling, Porkins's ship was simple for one of the big,

clumsy gun emplacements to track. It did as its designers had intended it

should. Porkins's demise was as glorious as it was abrupt.

     It was comparatively quiet near the pole of the battle station. So

intense and vicious had been Blue and Green squadron's assault on the

equator that Imperial resistance had concentrated there. Red Leader surveyed

the false peace with mournful satisfaction, knowing it wouldn't last for

long.

     "Blue Leader, this is Red Leader," he announced into his mike. "We're

starting our attack run. The exhaust port is located and marked. No flak, no

enemy fighters up here-yet. Looks like we'll get at least one smooth run at

it."

     "I copy, Red Leader," the voice of his counterpart responded. "We'll

try to keep them busy down here."

     Three Y-wing fighters dropped out of the stars, diving toward the

battle-station surface. At the last possible minute they swerved to dip into

a deep artificial canyon, one of many streaking the northern pole of the

Death Star. Metal ramparts raced past on three sides of them.

     Red Leader hunted around, noticed the temporary absence of Imperial

fighters. He adjusted a control and addressed his squadron.

     "This is it, boys. Remember, when you think you're close, go in closer

before you drop that rock. Switch all power to front deflector screens-never

mind what they throw at you from the side. We can't worry about that now."

     Imperial crews lining the trench rudely awoke to the fact that their

heretofore ignored section of the station was coming under attack. They

reacted speedily, and soon energy bolts were racing at the attacking ships

in a steadily increasing volume. Occasionally one would explode near one of

the onrushing Y- wings, jostling it without real damage.

     "A little aggressive, aren't they," Red Two reported over his mike.

     Red Leader reacted quietly. "How many guns do you think, Red Five?"

     Red Five, known casually to most of the rebel pilots as Pops, somehow

managed to make an estimate of the trench's defenses while simultaneously

piloting his fighter through the growing hail of fire. His helmet was

battered almost to the point of uselessness from the effects of more battles

than anyone had a right to survive.

     "I'd say about twenty emplacements," he finally decided, "some in the

surface and some on the towers."

     Red Leader acknowledged the information with a grunt as he pulled his

computer-targeting visor down in front of his face. Explosions continued to

rock the fighter. "Switch to targeting computers," he declared.

     "Red Two," came one reply, "computer locked in and I'm getting a

signal." The young pilot's rising excitement marked his reply.

     But the senior pilot among all the rebels, Red Five, was expectantly

cool and confident-though it didn't sound like it from what he murmured half

to himself: "No doubt about it, this is going to be some trick."

     Unexpectedly, all defensive fire from the surrounding emplacements

ceased. An eerie quiet clung to the trench as the surface continued to blur

past the skimming Y-wings.

     "What's this?" Red Two blurted, looking around worriedly. "They

stopped. Why?"

     "I don't like it," growled Red Leader. But there was nothing to confuse

their approach now, no energy bolts to avoid.

     It was Pops who was first to properly evaluate this seeming aberration

on the enemy's part. "Stabilize your rear deflectors now. Watch for enemy

fighters."

     "You pinned it, Pops," Red Leader admitted, studying a readout. "Here

they come. Three marks at two-ten."

     A mechanical voice continued to recite the shrinking distance to their

target, but it wasn't shrinking fast enough. "We're sitting ducks down

here," he observed nervously.

     "We'll just have to ride it out," the old man told them all. "We can't

defend ourselves and go for the target at the same time." He fought down old

reflexes as his own screen revealed three TIE fighters in precision

formation diving almost vertically down toward them.

     "Three-eight-one-oh-four," Darth Vader announced as he calmly adjusted

his controls. The stars whipped past behind him. "I'll take them myself.

Cover me."

     Red Two was the first to die, the young pilot never knowing what hit

him, never seeing his executioner. Despite his experience, Red Leader was on

the verge of panic when he saw his wingman dissolve in flame.

     "We're trapped down here. No way to maneuver-trench walls are too

close. We've got to loosen it up somehow. Got-"

     "Stay on target," admonished an older voice. "Stay on target."

     Red Leader took Pops's words like tonic, but it was all he could do to

ignore the closing TIE fighters as the two remaining Y-wings continued to

streak toward the target.

     Above them, Vader permitted himself a moment of undisciplined pleasure

as he readjusted his targeting 'puter. The rebel craft continued to travel a

straight, unevasive course. Again Vader touched finger to fire control.

     Something screeched in Red Leader's helmet, and fire started to consume

his instrumentation. "It's no good," he yelled into his pickup, "I'm hit.

I'm hit...!"

     A second Y-wing exploded in a ball of vaporized metal, scattering a few

solid shards of debris across the trench. This second loss proved too much

even for Red Five to take. He manipulated controls, and his ship commenced

rising in a slow curve out of the trench. Behind him, the lead Imperial

fighter moved to follow.