One look at the surface of Katra from the network feed in the shuttle and Gil Pavan understood why TF244 was assembled so quickly with whomever could be pulled together. They had footage from Signal Mountain's monitoring systems, the ones that stormtroopers had not already neutralized in the process of a siege. The countryside around the rebel facility was a wreckage of jagged tree stumps, truncated terrain bladed through by explosions and blaster fire, and everything overlaid with a fine soot from the scorching of flights of TIE Bombers. Scorched divots in the ground showed where the TIE's had raked over the troops. 

It was all there to be read, the same story of the Rebellion simply not having the ability to do much for their own when their secrecy was compromised.

Signal Mountain had spent some time holding out, it was that obvious to a veteran's eye, but these concentric rings of destruction showed where the Rebels had started and how they'd had to fall back after grimly selling blood for time, begging Rebel Command to rescue them. 

Now there were signs of Imperials occupying those defensive positions, clearing out room to bring in the heavy equipment and tighten the noose. There were containers of supplies and soldiers moving about, making it clear that they intended to fight hard and spend what it took to get the rebels in that facility.

They would have never made it this far, slipping out of hyperspace and plotting a path that evaded detection as much as possible. DISPATCHER was flying the ship, and not gently, using the thrusters in way that organics would not think of. 

Then DISPATCHER authorized the launch of U-wings, four of them, carrying the assaulter elements intended to catch the convoy on the fly. It's voice was flat and metallic, something utterly inhuman that set his horns to itching and the hackles up as it coldly described the situation and adaptions to the mission.

[i]"You are on approach vector to intercept the Imperial convoy. Expect crews of two men each in the juggernaut transports, and unknown contents in the actual convoy that may be expedient to the next phases of the operation. The transports have been fitted with door mounted ion cannon to temporarily neutralize vehicles. Eliminate all Imperial personnel."[/i]

The U-Wing transport, filled with seven other beings, was stifling, but everyone was listening intently with various types of expression-- the gamut from a hard line of the mouth and tension as they prepared themselves emotionally for what was coming next, the adjustment of one last bit of kit to ensure that what needed to be grabbed quickly, could be grabbed quickly, and function checks. No one was comfortable with DISPATCHER, this strange series of droid brains wired together, quirky, and its loyalty to this operation ambiguous, but at least the Rebellion was actually coming this time. They were drowning people grabbing onto a reed.

Gil's hands went over his blaster, checking the essential power systems for integrity and ensuring a full charge on the battery, a familiar motion that helped keep him from shaking. He was not the only one, other veterans got the shakes too, but there was an unspoken taboo against sharing the feelings that each being had to wrestle with in there. Some remembered that they were on the right side, others had hate to keep them warm, dead families and friends, or entire cities and planets. 

When the cloud cover broke, they saw what was waiting for them down there; DISPATCHER managed to guide the flight right where it said the enemy would be, and managed to evade compromise. 

Muscle memory took it from there when the doors opened and the ion-blasters opened up at bursts of full cyclic, gunners minding the power conduits and battery heat, onto the juggernauts. Trying to evade, the drivers of one juggernaut broke the convoy, which was the point of landing a U-wing across the route. His own craft banked at the head of the formation, even as the cabin filled with the charged smell of ionized air from the weapons fire and the gunners regulating power to ensure systems were disabled, but that circuits were not fried. Exposing the vehicle's side allowed them to target the most vulnerable spots to achieve that. It was unbelievable precision with a heavy weapon fired from a moving vehicle.

They needed these vehicles. The U-wing settled onto landing with a loud *THUMP* and, like the other eight troopers, he was sliding off his bench and boots onto the ground before he even realized what he was doing, anticipating the moment like an experienced trooper. Wide open spaces, bisected by road, broken tree trunks here and there, rock formations, and ash everywhere meant danger every time, out in the open, but he knew his job; hold perimeter, trust the other one to hold their bearing and spot contacts before they could spot them. 

Gil was already feet down, blaster up and pulling a security around the LZ of the U-Wings, taking in the sight, which he was already familiar with, of the place, but also the smell, the bit of breeze stirring up the smoke, and, of course, the fold in the ground where a smart Imperial might jump up at him. It was the veteran reflex to see that curvature in the ground and know that it was dead space, a place where one had no idea what was behind the visual obstruction.

Behind him, heard but not internalized, was the sound of the others doing their job. First the explosion of sonic, smoke and concussion grenades against the crew cabins of the Juggernauts, but then the sound of blaster fire, heralding the summary execution of enemy combatants. Some of them were, no doubt, true believers, but others were scared folk trying to get by. Every blaster shot was a death, the rhythm of the shooting, single shots here and there, was evidence enough. 

The people shooting them probably enjoyed it, either the actual act itself, transgressive against moral codes, or because it was revenge for a life taken in the dark times, they all had their demons. As perimeter, he wasn't on tap for that work this time, but he'd been the breacher before, and it was luck of the draw.

"RUNNER RUNNER RUNNER" shouted one of the assaulters, and that caused Gil to rotate his torso, blaster rifle already shouldered in the pocket, snapping the crosshairs of the sight to his eyeline automatically and engaging with a short burst of fire. A shape in a gray uniform with a helmet and armor, a regular conscript, went down like a marionette with its strings abruptly sliced through, the run broken from the blaster's impact that turned him in mid-motion and caused him to roll once before never moving again on his own. The Imp's back hit the dirt hard enough to create a puff of sooty dust to herald, perhaps, the end of a life, eyes staring at the sky, smoking hole in his front and backplate, because Gil used an A280 with more than enough juice to ensure what was hit stayed down.

"He's down," confirmed Gil.