With several hull breaches, having lost three turbolaser batteries and a similar number of turret guns, the Chimera emerged from the battle victorious.
The two Carrack-class light cruisers, which had played their role in this conflict, as had the Raider, had sustained significant damage and would not be able to continue their journey without serious on-site repairs.
They would have to be left in orbit around Kessel and a ship with spare parts brought here.
Which was logistically quite challenging, since both the system and the entire sector were far from our territories.
The nearest place from which support could come was the Dominion's regular fleet base under construction in the Tammuz sector on the planet Tammuz-an, where our auxiliary forces and several Star Destroyers were stationed.
Officially—to protect the planet from encroachments by local pirate gangs.
In reality—to create a beachhead and transshipment base for a subsequent attack on Rothana and Kamino.
But the necessary parts were not there.
Therefore, it would require sending a ship straight from the metropole.
"The battle is over, Grand Admiral," reported Captain Tschel, handing me a datapad with a detailed report. "The corvettes are heavily damaged; we lost sixteen interceptors and three hundred crew members. Numerous small breaches are currently being patched, and the atmosphere on the damaged decks has been restored. The mission is accomplished—the enemy ships have been completely destroyed. Stormtroopers are currently sorting prisoners from the defeated starships."
"Glad to hear it, Captain Tschel. You handled it excellently," I thought I would have to resort to support from other starships. But it turned out much better. If only it were always like this. "Have the sensor operators detected the course and direction of Corran Horn's escape and that of his family members?"
"I'm sorry, sir, but no," Tschel said, embarrassed. "Horn has not been detected. Sentinel and Eternal Wrath also report no 'foreign' targets. Shall I send fighters to search for him?"
"No need," I replied after thinking for a few seconds.
Wherever Horn was, he had surely gone to ground, waiting for us to leave Kessel so he could get out of the system with his kin as far away as possible.
Of course, it would be foolish to say that he and Terrik had died.
Horn was too stubborn to end his life path just like that.
Although, nothing could be ruled out.
But it had to be understood that if a patrol was sent after him, in case of detection, they would be forced to engage.
And either destroy or capture Horn.
Which would already interfere with my plans regarding his future fate.
If Horn had survived, let him attribute the lack of pursuit to the Force saving him yet again.
In any case, I did not plan to stay on Kessel for long—or to blockade the system with Interdictors.
I needed something specific and special here.
And it was not the search for Corran Horn.
If he had survived the local military's hunt for him, then he would continue to serve my purposes.
From what I could tell, he had not realized that I already had all the necessary copies of the documents his grandfather had kept.
And who was behind the attack on the Horn estate.
Since that was the case, it greatly allowed me to continue work on the Corellian sector and develop the Jensaarai using that information as well.
But if he was dead...
I would have to conduct destabilization operations in the Corellian sector by other means.
I was confident that as soon as even a small part of the compromising material collected by Rostek Horn on the influential sentients of the Diktat was decrypted, options for influence would emerge in significant numbers.
"Inform General Maximilian Veers to begin the deployment of the 501st Legion," I ordered.
"Yes, sir," Tschel saluted.
"Regarding the downed pilots of Scimitar-01," I continued. "Do we have information on their current location and condition?"
"No, sir," stated the Star Destroyer commander. "We know the evacuation point indicated by Major Bren, as well as the fact that he directed his vehicle into one of the atmospheric generators. The ejection of the bomber's cockpit was recorded, but the shockwave disabled it and carried it away from the planned landing coordinates. The search-and-rescue team did not find the pilot and flight engineer at the indicated coordinates. The emergency beacon data is unknown—the equipment ceased normal operation immediately after the oxygen generation plant explosion. We are continuing thorough ground searches, which are complicated by firefights with enemy ground units."
In other words—while we were only planning the landing of the assault force, the enemy was already taking control of the territory.
Which would complicate our establishment of a beachhead, since I had no doubt that the defenders of Kessel had quite impressive armaments that they could oppose our assault troops.
Unpleasant, implying high losses among the stormtroopers, of which we already had a not particularly high number.
"Recall the FRT," I ordered. "The enemy clearly intended to capture our fast bomber. Since they failed, they surely took measures to find and capture the crew."
"Sir, but abandoning the pilots..."
"I didn't say a word about you abandoning them," the remark came out too sharp. "We are the Dominion. We don't abandon our own. The order was to recall the FRT, nothing more. The search for the crew, in light of the upcoming offensive, should be entrusted to more competent units for operations on territory held by a highly aggressive enemy, from those aboard the Chimera."
"Yes, sir."
"Contact the Fourth Storm Commando Squad," I ordered. "Assign Sergeant TK-0297 the mission to rescue our pilots. He and his troopers will guaranteedly handle it."
"It will be done, sir."
"And one last thing—coordinate the actions of the ground units and provide them with support from the Chimera's artillery from orbit."
***
Well, at least we're alive.
This thought was the first to enter Alex's mind as consciousness returned along with the pain.
The man blinked, listening to the hiss of atmosphere escaping through the damage in the cockpit hull of Scimitar-01, which also served as the escape pod.
"Commander?!" he shouted, realizing that the sounds were reaching him as if through cotton wool.
No response.
Finally forcing his eyes open, he saw bloodstains on the bomb bay control panel.
His leg throbbed as if it had been pierced by a red-hot spit; his tongue tasted sharply of iron.
Coughing, he discovered that he had splattered even more blood on the panels in front of him.
At the same time, his chest began to hurt, where the harness straps had dug in like constrictors.
Since the major was not responding, all that was left was to hope that Bren had come out of this scrape with fewer losses.
Turning his head, Alex felt as if a charge of glass shot had been driven into his back.
With a trembling hand, he managed to reach the harness release mechanism and unbuckled it.
The pain in his sternum increased.
And warm, sticky liquid trickled from under his helmet.
So he had cracked his head open too.
Alex leaned forward with all his strength, dragging himself off the seat.
Settling on the control panel, he spat aside a thick, bloody glob of saliva and, ignoring the pain, began pulling everything necessary from the emergency kit.
Light body armor.
E-11 stormtrooper rifle.
Medkit with a supply of medications, some of which were immediately injected into his throbbing leg.
It eased.
Even his head cleared.
A quick check was enough to confirm the combat readiness of the rifle and blaster pistol, which he set aside but within easy reach.
Alex donned the body armor, wincing from the pain in his ribs.
He deftly filled the remaining empty pockets with ammunition and protein bars.
He distributed the rest of the equipment and gear elements into pouches and suit pockets.
There would be no other chance to return to the emergency kit.
The spare comlink found a place in one of the many pockets of the waterproof sealed jumpsuit.
When the emergency kit had been distributed into the pockets, Alex checked the life support system strapped to his chest.
Because he realized he was starting to suffocate.
Sure enough—the controller was fried, cracked on impact.
He would have to have a serious talk with the manufacturers.
This plasteel was good for neither Tatooine nor Coruscant... Something more durable was needed.
Fortunately, there was a spare in the emergency kit.
Holding his breath, the Scimitar-01 flight engineer switched the hoses to the new panel, tossing the old one into the emergency kit container.
He checked the energy charge in the new equipment, cursing himself for not doing it right away.
On his luck, the spare controller was like new.
So no need to worry about suffocating in Kessel's thin atmosphere.
The seatback and bulkhead separating the cockpit seats hindered viewing what was happening with Tomax, but Alex intended to remedy this injustice when new sounds reached him, unlike the whistle of air escaping the cockpit.
A pop and the roar of a plasma cutter: someone intended to breach the cockpit from the nose section.
Such a thing was not in the emergency kit.
The FRT did not have such gadgets either—they knew how to manually open the canopy.
So, the enemy.
The cutter's noise drew closer, and for a moment, through the polarized transparisteel above the seat, Alex saw a thin but red-hot stream ready to slice the canopy.
The E-11 somehow found itself in his hands.
"Well, great," Alex muttered.
Not only did he have broken ribs, now he had to fight too.
He could not count on help from the FRT bruisers (they seemed to specially select only the healthiest stormtroopers for that).
If they knew where the blast had carried the cockpit, they would already be here.
So the emergency beacon was destroyed or critically damaged on impact.
Another flaw in the domestic military-industrial complex revealed.
But that was for later.
Right now, the main thing was to fight off those breaching the cockpit.
Or die fighting.
Capture was in the realm of fantasy.
He had to understand that the enemy was more interested in the machine itself, and extracting data from the crew would be largely because they had no other source of information.
To his misfortune, Alex was one of two people behind the development of the Scimitar.
And under torture (no need to delude himself with thoughts of heroic endurance), he could certainly reveal much.
The cutter's glow had already traced the canopy's perimeter, slicing the locks.
The blaster rifle warmed his hands.
The transparisteel slid aside somewhere, and someone's head peered inside.
Noteworthy—the unknown wore an oxygen mask.
The kind the natives used to avoid dying on Kessel.
A crimson blaster plasma bolt punched a hole in the unknown's skull before he could react to the sight of the flight engineer.
The body jerked and hung limply, chin hooked on the hatch edge.
Of course, Alex's position was utterly lousy—the enemy just needed to toss in a flash-bang or thermal detonator to finish him.
But judging by the dry clicks of blaster shots on the hull, they were clearly not professionals.
That gave some hope.
"Surrender!" the flight engineer heard a guttural shout from one of the opponents. "Your pilot is already with us!"
And that was highly doubtful.
Tomax would never surrender alive.
And if he was unconscious or wounded, it was even more foolish to take that step.
But most likely, it was just provocation.
The presence of two canopies in the cockpit was visible to the naked eye.
If they had breached the cockpit and captured Tomax, why delay with him?
No, these guys were up to something.
Which meant...
"Alright, I'm coming out!" Alex shouted, slipping his hand into a pouch. "I'll need help—I'm wounded and can't climb down myself. Approach from the right; I'm crawling out now!"
"Get out already!" he heard a pleased voice. "Hey, you three, approach the cockpit; you'll catch the second one."
No, of course you'll catch him.
Where else would you go.
His thumb depressed the activation key.
The flight engineer counted a few seconds to himself, then flung the thermal detonator outward with a hand motion.
The munition predictably elicited cries of surprise first.
Which fell silent as the detonator exploded.
Part of the ship's hull near the epicenter buckled inward into the cockpit and tore, turning into a convenient firing port, which Alex promptly used.
He saw several opponents and immediately opened fire on them.
And only in the process of killing the third fighter did he realize that the enemy's appearance puzzled him somewhat.
In terms of the attackers' gear, it was some cloying mishmash: partly borrowed from prison guard uniforms, partly from guards' equipment.
From the looks of it, this motley host was directly the fighters defending Kessel.
This assumption was confirmed by the oxygen masks on their faces.
From the looks of it, this belligerent rabble was commanded by a sentient who would now appear to Alex in nightmares.
A veritable scarecrow to behold, with an impossibly elongated neck and incredibly long arms, clambered onto the cockpit.
His attire—equally "patchwork" as the others'—was complemented by a double-barreled blaster, carrying which was illegal on most planets in the system.
Though, what rules here?
This was Kessel!
The scarecrow was shouting something to his subordinates scattering from the blast zone and hiding behind massive boulders.
Logical—no one in any firefight wants to take a plasma bolt straight to the body.
"S-s-solo!" the scarecrow hissed. Despite the oxygen mask concealing the lower face, Han could confidently assert that the scarecrow grinned the full width of its maw. "Now you'll regret surviving the landing."
Alex managed to count a good dozen opponents before realizing that, firing from one side of the cockpit, he completely neglected the other three directions.
Behind him, as if confirming his thoughts, came a rustle and the scrape of metal on metal.
The pilot, as if scalded, tore away from the firing port and pressed back against the control console.
Through the helmet's light filters, he could see the brute who had already tossed aside the corpse of the fighter he had killed and was aiming a disintegrator at the flight engineer, smiling contemptuously.
"What a bantha poodoo!" the thought flashed through Alex's mind; he understood that under no circumstances could he shoot the new uninvited guest in time.
***
Using his jetpack, TK-0333 covered the distance from cover to the wrecked Scimitar-01 cockpit in a fraction of a second.
The landing several kilometers from the last emergency signal site had gone successfully; the advance to the target—unnoticed.
The crash site calculation had been almost correct—they missed by five kilometers.
And now they made up for it with the jetpacks.
Each of the four troopers in the Fourth Special Squad could see that enemy fighters surrounded the cockpit.
Saw that fire was coming from the rear of the pod.
Conclusion—the pilot was either dead or already captured.
And the absence of the black jumpsuit in the immediate vicinity of the crash site proved nothing.
The FRT had done a good job.
But not in the right place.
The pilot could already have been taken toward the correctional facility, especially since several airspeeders had been spotted on approach.
Now the storm commandos had to correct the shortcomings of their stormtrooper colleagues from the search-and-rescue team.
Nothing supernatural.
The jet stream brought the commando to the giant aiming his disintegrator into the cockpit.
So someone was in there.
Most likely, the flight engineer had survived, and the Kesselians had not immediately realized the cockpit was two-seater.
There was still a chance.
Firing a blaster at such range—opponents practically pressed together—was foolish.
An obsidian knife appeared in his right hand.
TK-0333 slashed the tendons of the hand gripping the disintegrator, and the weapon fell from the powerless fingers.
The next blade strike hit the opponent's armpit.
The twenty-centimeter blade sank fully into the flesh, avoiding the ribs.
The giant recoiled, spitting blood into his mask.
TK-0333 grabbed the enemy by the clothing and yanked him down with all his strength, toppling him to the ground.
Behind him, the firefight was in full swing—the squad brothers were engaging a group of opponents advancing from that direction.
"Ours," the flamethrower briefly identified himself to the gunner in Dominion uniform aiming a blaster rifle at him, landing feet on the seat.
It turned into an improvised trench, from which he fired the short-barreled carbine, forcing enemies from the direction opposite his appearance to stay in cover.
With two precise shots, he downed a pair of Weequay who decided to leave their position.
Another opponent—some awkward long-armed creature—TK-0333 felled with leg shots.
This sentient, judging by everything, was the commander; he would give the necessary answers.
From the hole in the lower side of the cockpit, shooting also began—the flight engineer joined the firefight.
The storm commando's blaster rifle fired suppressed, low-glow bolts that quickly depleted the cartridge.
TK-0333 ducked down when the indicator signaled the need to recharge tibanna.
The gas canister clicked off, and the empty container went down, somewhere under the flight engineer's seat.
Another gas cartridge took its place.
A quick readiness check, waiting for the right moment—and the flamethrower was ready to fire again.
When he popped out of the hatch, he immediately shot down a sturdy Devaronian partially equipped in stormtrooper armor; TK-0333 had already noted that three of his commando brothers had suppressed the squad behind and were fighting, using the pod for cover.
The enemy had gone to ground, and rooting them out could take a while.
Contacting the Fourth Special Squad commander, TK-0333 reported his assessment of the situation and, receiving permission to act, switched to the jetpack.
The blaster rifle took its place on the magnetic mount as the clone soared upward on the jetpack.
Vaulting over the line of cover of the five remaining combat-effective opponents, TK-0333 activated his favorite flamethrower.
Streams of hellfire capable of melting durasteel caught a pair of Rodians, igniting them like dry grass.
The oxygen tanks, heating up, detonated instantly, scattering the remains of Kessel's military around.
But TK-0333 paid no attention.
He spat fire at two more opponents, shifting focus to the last and leaving the still-living Weequay to cremate under the flamespray.
The jetpack dutifully carried him to the last opponent, who tried to shoot the clone but received only a stream of fire to the face, which instantly burned away skin, muscles, and boiled the brain.
TK-0333 descended to Kessel's surface to the accompaniment of exploding skulls under rising pressure.
With quick steps, he reached the long-armed sentient trying to crawl to the airspeeder.
Stepping on the foot, TK-0333 broke the enemy's bones, then shoved the flamethrower nozzle into his face, melting the facial mask with a tiny flame.
"Start talking," he advised the creature screaming in pain as molten mask plastic dripped onto his face.
But who cared right now?
***
"Sir, the mission is partially complete," the hologram of Sergeant TK-0297 glowed before me.
"Partially?" I clarified.
"Scimitar-01's pod located, local fighter attack repelled," the Fourth Special Squad commander continued his report. "Flight engineer Alex held off attacks until our arrival. He is rescued and immediate medical aid has been provided again. Evacuated to transport for return to the Chimera. Pilot not found at crash site."
And that was already bad.
"Reasons?"
"Local fighter squad commander named Skinxsnex captured. Field interrogation shows Major Bren resisted the capture group but was taken prisoner. He was delivered to the prison complex shortly before our arrival at the rescue pod. The enemy realized the cockpit was two-seater five minutes before our appearance."
"Anything else learned?"
"Yes, sir. We face mixed squads of 'Black Sun' fighters and local armed forces. The former have heavy weapons, the latter only small arms. Enemy fighter numbers reach six thousand sentients."
"Is that standing strength or including arrived 'Black Sun' fighters?" I inquired.
Much depended on the answer.
"Standing armed forces number five hundred thirteen sentients," TK-0297 replied. "The rest are mercenaries arrived to defend Kessel from 'Black Sun.'"
So that's how it was.
Therefore, Tyber Zann had received information about the planned deal with Horn almost immediately, deciding to send nearly three infantry regiments here.
Which implied the enemy's readiness for ground combat.
"Anything else learned?"
"Yes, sir. 'Black Sun' is interested in obtaining data on our Scimitars. The order to land the fast bomber on Kessel, and then, when that failed, to capture the pilot—came directly from 'Black Sun.'"
So now there were objective confirmations of Zann's interest in our new technology.
Tyber was assessing the threat level from the Dominion and its latest technical solutions.
Fact was fact: the Zann Consortium was studying us, seeking weak and strong points.
And they captured Tomax precisely for that purpose.
Even if not technical details of the Scimitar, he could provide data on our fleet and state of the armed forces.
Such could not be allowed.
Under no circumstances.
"Continue the search and liberation of Major Bren," I ordered. "Under no circumstances should the major fall into enemy hands or leave this system as a prisoner. And everyone who manages to extract even a drop of information from him—too."
"It will be done, Grand Admiral," the Fourth Special Squad storm commando commander assured me before his hologram vanished.
***
Kessel—this was the place of combat baptism for the "Rancor" regiment of the Dominion's 501st Guard Legion.
For the first time since its creation, this unit was transitioning to active combat operations on enemy territory.
Lieutenant Tychus Roach commanded the headquarters AT-AT walker, on whose hull armor was the emblem of a snarling rancor with a backpack.
"Combat formations deployed, Grand Admiral," he heard General Veers' report. "Fast AT-RTs have advanced to the first line of contact with the enemy. AT-ATs provide long-range support as they advance."
"Recon reports the enemy has heavy weapons," Thrawn said.
"We note artillery activity near the atmospheric generators," the general reported. "Storm commando squads already dispatched to detected artillery positions for preemptive destruction before main forces approach."
"Captain Tschel will provide any feasible assistance from the fleet," the Supreme Commander informed.
"Received, sir."
Tychus, positioned back to the commander's seat, more felt than saw that the comm session had ended.
Through the "head" transparisteel of the walker, he watched as fast AT-RTs, several hundred meters from the massive AT-ATs, burst into enemy positions, hosing everything with fire from their proton grenade launchers and laser cannons.
But it did not always help, only against light fortifications.
Tychus clearly saw permanent fire points from whose depths laser cannons and launchers fired, already leading to the loss of several light machines.
"Chimera," he heard the Star Destroyer ground forces commander's voice. "General Veers on comm. Providing target designation on enemy fortifications. Requesting strike."
"General, data received. Readiness—ten seconds," Captain Tschel's voice immediately responded from behind.
The AT-AT continued phlegmatically approaching the enemy fortifications, absorbing laser fire streams with its blaster-absorbent armor and demonstrating enviable immunity to rockets and grenades from the defending fighters.
Tychus already saw that the nimble Dominion machines had crossed the line of contact, rushing toward buildings and warehouses, hosing fleeing enemy soldiers in panic with fire.
But the enemy fortifications were not yet destroyed.
For a moment, omnipotent green light blinded him, its intensity dropping instantly as the viewport polarization system began working.
It seemed that a true hell had blossomed on the site of the enemy fortifications in all its terrible beauty.
Squatting bunkers ceased to exist in an instant, scattering chunks of duracrete and construction materials around, mixed with body parts.
Stone and concrete, rebar and insulation—all this ceased to exist after the Chimera's gunners fired on the designated target.
Where a squat, seemingly impregnable permanent fire point structure had stood moments ago, there was now a crater whose walls had acquired not the orange-brown hue of Kessel's surface, but the sooty blackness of slag and dozens of ignition points.
Tychus noticed movement behind the ruins of one of the pillboxes—a proton cannon revealed itself with a predatory barrel motion.
Yes, orbital strikes were good, but unfortunately, they could not deal with all enemy armaments at once.
No, they could, of course—but to do so would require turning Kessel into a huge chunk of slag.
"Artillery in sector two," the walker commander designated the target. "Target and destroy."
The AT-AT guns spat a fiery salvo.
Crimson laser cannon energy struck the target in an instant, scattering chunks of the walking self-propelled gun aside.
The enemy laser cannons choked on fire, revealing their previously camouflaged presence.
And karma instantly caught up—AT-ATs knew no mercy.
The line of contact turned into a fiery wall, where something inevitably and every second exploded and burned.
Acrid smoke from destroyed vehicles filled the fluid atmosphere of the planetoid.
Sometimes it was so dense that it hid everything beyond.
But soon the wind of war,[SV1] born not from atmospheric generators or the nozzles of assault gunboats flashing aside, intensified. Dominion small flyers, following the orbital strikes, unleashed hundreds of rockets on the enemy's heads, expanding the kill zone.
Barracks, administrative buildings, and structures burned.
Judging by some stormtrooper and armored squads unafraid of fire turning their backs to the atmospheric generators, those were already under direct Dominion control.
Assault on the Kessel correctional facility by the Dominion's 501st Guard Legion.
The Kessel correctional facility blazed, and the spreading fire across the territory was surely visible even from orbit.
Data exchange on targets between the Chimera and ground forces command occurred in real time.
And plasma arrows from the heavens rained on enemy positions in real time too.
Precisely calculated, maximally destructive, they turned enemy fortifications into clouds of dust and piles of stones.
Lieutenant Roach glanced at the driver mechanic seated beside him in the headquarters walker.
His exact copy, a clone, briskly and without fuss working the massive machine's controls.
The clone performed exactly the same job that Roach had done quite recently in his place.
And did it just as Tychus himself would have, remaining in the driver mechanic role.
The sight of himself from the outside sent shivers.
So similar...
Imperturbably piloting one of the most terrifying and effective ground combat machines created in the Empire.
Methodically repositioning all four support limbs of the AT-AT while Tychus himself controlled the destruction of enemy forces.
Thanks to minor modifications ordered by him and General Veers, performed by legion mechanics, hundreds of miniature external observation systems were placed around the legs and hull of the headquarters AT-AT, which, combined with sensors, gave a full picture of the surrounding transport space.
Without any blind spots or the like.
A lesson that should have been learned long ago.
Cutting edges on support limbs, which would no longer allow the walker to be hobbled and toppled, were of course a good thing.
But one should not forget that a few years ago during the Battle of Hoth, one rebel kid used a cable with attachment, a winch, a lightsaber, and a string of thermal detonators to disable another AT-AT.
Since then, the Empire had done almost nothing to fix the vulnerability of machines that were practically the calling card of its ground forces.
But the Dominion...
As regrettable as it sounded, until recently, Tychus's new homeland had lacked the capabilities to produce such (and not only) ground vehicles.
But even gaining production capacities, the question of modernizing the Imperial or Confederate Independent Systems legacy stood as acutely as obtaining new trained ground troop units.
As Tychus had heard, the fleet did not build ships despite having shipyards and all necessary resources.
But they modernized existing ones, increasing combat effectiveness, sometimes by orders of magnitude.
So the lieutenant had approached General Veers with a written report and modernization proposal.
The general's clone took the report and schematics silently, saying nothing at the meeting...
And within a day, Tychus saw that mechanics from the repair and recovery unit were already performing the work.
Only General Veers had creatively reworked his subordinate's idea, developing and deepening it.
Seeing everything around one machine on the battlefield was undoubtedly excellent for the commander and crew of one walker.
But having such technology on all walkers would allow creating a common battle picture and form a clear view of what was happening here and now for the operation commander.
So the headquarters AT-AT was today in the role of "test womp-rat," testing innovations in real ground combat mode.
And if the system showed itself from the best side, meaning it did not harm the crew or the entire operation, it was most likely that in the future it would be installed on all legion machines.
Including even the "little ones."
Speaking of them—judging by the smoking and abandoned machine hulks three hundred meters to the right, the enemy had heavy weapons.
This needed correcting.
"Turn right thirty," Tychus ordered.
The clone obediently adjusted the headquarters AT-AT's movement.
The enemy guns hid behind a small mountain of boulders—what remained of another permanent fortification.
Lieutenant Roach aimed and the walker's guns spat crimson flame.
Yes, it would be nice if Dominion industry bothered with more thorough tibanna purification for ground forces' needs.
After all, for the fleet they used the purest gas, but for the army—second grade.
Offensive, you know.
The fiery barrage from the AT-AT on the rocks and enemy artillery turned the place into a pool of molten slag with charred and deformed chunks protruding.
"Rocket strike straight sixty," General Veers warned.
And indeed—advancing Dominion soldiers and battle droids against the enemy's second defensive line froze, and those who could—went prone.
Grayish assault gunboat hulls flashed overhead, and the second, also the last, enemy defensive line turned into a wall of fire where survival was impossible.
Fiery pillars and shockwaves crushed and twisted everything around. Scattered enemy fighters and gliders emerged through the flames.
They decided to seize the moment and strike the Dominion heavy walkers, hoping the counterattack would succeed.
It would not.
Assault by Kessel defenders' fighters and gliders on the headquarters AT-AT.
The headquarters AT-AT shuddered as laser cannon bursts from the nearest X-wing raked its support limbs.
The objective control system registered harpoon launches with cables that began wrapping the struts.
The enemy was clearly trying to repeat the successful rebel tactic.
Only the AT-AT calmly took a step, vertical blades slicing the metal cables trying to bind it.
Another step, one more.
Like mynocks scenting open power conduits, from the thin, sky-hued atmosphere, Chimera's TIE interceptors plummeted on the enemy air force.
Ruthless, merciless destruction of the desperate foe, whose machines after the first salvos buried into Kessel's orange surface, smoking and periodically exploding from internal blasts.
The fiery wall on the second line quieted, leaving only scorched earth and heaps of mutilated bodies.
AT-RTs, stormtroopers, and droids surged forward, directly assaulting the buildings and structures.
What remained of them, from where the enemy still tried to defend recklessly.
"Bring the machine to the remnants of the mining administrative center," General Veers ordered. "Time to start freeing prisoners from Kessel's depths. We've delayed this long enough."
What he did was unclear.