"The army is the bedrock of Mandalorian armed forces—the unbreakable shield that guards Cloud City. Its status is paramount, its significance immense…"
Cloud City, near the starfighter pads in the Port District. Not long after returning, Max was patiently talking things through with the Fang Squadron's Fang fighter pilots—trying to soothe feelings and straighten out attitudes.
In Max's plan, these light starfighters—with a maximum endurance of only three standard days—would be assigned to the Army Aviation branch of Mandalorian armed forces, responsible for atmospheric and near-space defense over Bespin.
But the Fang pilots, almost to a man, wanted the Navy. In their eyes, being stuck inside the gravity well of some remote planet was suffocating. Real flying meant ranging across the galaxy—cutting through starlanes, roaming the starsea.
And as always, people don't resent scarcity as much as they resent unfairness. When they saw the Shriek Hawk Squadron's heavier (relatively speaking) Kom'rk-class starfighter/transports placed under the Navy, the Fang pilots felt even worse.
Ten days ago, when Shriek Hawk lifted off from the pad to run an escort mission for the cargo convoy hauling Tibanna gas to Geonosis, the Fang pilots in the ready room had red-rimmed eyes—part jealousy, part grievance.
Rationally, they knew the plan was correct.
In Max's design, the Navy's short-term mission was to strike pirates, provide escort protection for passenger and cargo traffic moving to and from Bespin, and keep the hyperspace route safe.
A Kom'rk might be called a "heavy starfighter," but in practice it was closer to a light gunship. With endurance measured in months, it could cross the galaxy on assignment—perfect for the Navy's needs.
The Fang couldn't do that. MandalMotors advertised it as having up to three standard days of endurance, but in reality you ate, drank, slept, and relieved yourself in a cramped cockpit. After twelve hours, most pilots started edging toward anxiety or nervous collapse.
Mandalorians are tough, but they're still people—not droids. Without a carrier-type platform to support them, a human-flown Fang simply doesn't have real cross-sector mission capability. That doesn't meet the Navy's task profile—and right now, Mandalorian armed forces didn't have a single carrier.
The Fang pilots were seasoned, reliable warriors. They knew Max's plan was sound. They didn't haggle. They obeyed without conditions. They were just emotionally disappointed and couldn't settle down right away.
After receiving Squadron Leader Zofi Kryze's report on Fang Squadron's morale, Max took it seriously. The moment he stepped off the ship, he headed straight to Fang Squadron's area to check on the people who had made the "sacrifice"—the most lovable kind of people.
Hard to please everyone. As the supreme commander elected by the warriors, and the chief executive of Cloud City personally confirmed by Lord Fieg, trying to do the job in a way that satisfies everyone was brutal. It had the former "only-ever-a-deputy" headaches so bad he felt like he was starting to lose hair.
In Max's plan, the reorganized Mandalorian armed forces would be a 2+1 structure: Army, Navy, and an Assault Corps.
The Army, under the Army Staff, would handle operations on Bespin and in nearby near-space. The Navy, under the Navy Staff, would handle space combat operations. A General Staff would oversee coordination between the two.
The Assault Corps would be the supreme commander's direct unit—special operations forces that answered only to Max.
Everyone wanted the Assault Corps. Nobody wanted the Army. Eventually, Max offered a rather rough solution:
Aside from Fang Squadron and other small craft without hyperdrives going to the Army, Shriek Hawk Squadron and all other craft with hyperdrives would go to the Navy. An elite selection from across the faction would form the Mandalorian Assault Corps. Everyone else would be randomly assigned by computer to Army or Navy.
When it went to a vote, the plan passed with 3,249 in favor, 261 abstentions, and zero against. But Max knew perfectly well: once assignment day came, the warriors sent to the Army would have feelings—more or less.
How to guide those emotions? Create a political-education role? Add embedded counselors? Run morale-building events? Max couldn't decide yet.
…
The next day, Administrative Center, Meeting Hall No. 3. The Cloud City Civil-Military Coordination Leadership Group convened. The moment the meeting began, Max set the tone bluntly:
"Both sides want to turn the other into a subordinate unit. Mandalorian armed forces want to turn the mining operation into their production corps. The mining operation wants to turn Mandalorian armed forces into its hired muscle. Neither is acceptable."
"Mandalorian armed forces may not interfere in the mine's production and business operations. The mine may not interfere in Mandalorian command and deployments. When one side requires the other's cooperation, requests must go through the Civil-Military Coordination Leadership Group. Cross-system command is absolutely forbidden. Do your own jobs, cooperate with each other, and endure for Cloud City's sake."
"This is the Way." / "Copy." The attendees from both sides responded at the same time.
"Officer Cloud," Billy Williams raised his hand to speak. Max gestured for him to continue. "Like this time—our export convoy to Geonosis had Mandalorian starfighters escorting it. In the future, the mine will definitely have similar needs. How should we handle that?"
"Chief of the General Staff, answer," Max said, motioning for Michael Saxon.
"You submit a request through the Coordination Leadership Group. Once received, General Staff will assign the escort mission to an operational unit—onboard security teams, starfighter escort, and so on. Your side does not have the authority to directly task Mandalorian armed forces."
"And how do we settle costs?"
"Mandalorian armed forces charge no fees for escort missions—and you are forbidden from paying our personnel in any form. Base pay and mission stipends are issued exclusively by Mandalorian armed forces Logistics Command. Your side may not participate in or interfere with that process in any way."
"That good?" Billy Williams arched an eyebrow.
Max cut in. "Let me add something. Lord Fieg and I have a profit-sharing agreement. In substance, yes, the armed forces budget is currently supported by the mine's overall income—but in practice, no one on your side needs to handle military-related payments. Not you, Administrator Williams, and not anyone else at the mine."
"I see." Billy Williams nodded. "Understood."
"From now on, Mandalorian armed forces are Bespin's regular military. If anyone in the mine tries to buy off our warriors—money or otherwise—trying to turn the armed forces into his private army, the Mandalorian Assault Corps will kill his entire family. I mean it. If I say we're wiping out your family, we wipe it out clean. We won't miss a single one." Max added.
At that, the local attendees—Billy Williams included—sat straighter. A few visibly shivered.
("Nice speech. What you really mean is: the Mandalorian army can only be your private army. Nobody else gets to touch it.") Billy Williams thought.
"Continue. Raise issues, discuss, solve. Before the end of this month, we produce a written Civil-Military Coordination System. After that, we follow the rules."
"This is the Way." / "Copy."
…
"In emergencies, Mandalorian armed forces have the right to requisition the mine's transport capacity for military logistics."
"What exactly counts as an emergency? In wartime, the entire mine would be under military control anyway—that goes without saying. But in peacetime, if you're building a colonial base or a station and you requisition our capacity, shouldn't you pay?"
"And what about losses caused by requisitioning capacity—how do we calculate that?"
…
"Meeting adjourned."
One meeting—minus tea breaks, lunch, and a midday rest—ran from 08:00 to 18:00 Galactic Standard Time. Civil-military differences were huge. The arguing wasn't finished. Tomorrow, they'd do it again.
On the dais, dizzy and mentally fried, Max did a few eye-strain stretches.
Holo-calls on the ship. Meetings the moment he stepped off. Max sighed. If this kept going, he really was going to fall to the dark side.
Bzzz… bzzz…
The helmet on the table vibrated.
Max put it on. "This is Max Vizsla. Speak."
"Boss, this is the armory. Your lightsaber can ignite now."
Max slapped fist into palm. "Perfect!"
"As you suspected, the lightsaber wasn't damaged. It was just sitting so long the power cell drained completely. After we replaced it, it ignites normally. Team Leader Rok also replaced the hilt with beskar—"
"Take it off," Max snapped. "Put the original hilt back."
"Huh?" The Mandalorian on the other end didn't understand.
"I said remove the beskar hilt and restore the original. That's an order. We won't be getting more beskar anytime soon—we conserve it. Save it for our brothers and sisters' armor."
"This is the Way!"
"This is the Way. I'm on my way. Tell the entire armory crew they're getting extra rations tonight."
No way he wasn't going to swing it until his arms gave out. Tonight, he wasn't sleeping. Max cracked his knuckles, already itching to go.