Jammer Bellum Operation
The void didn’t lie. There was something. A blind pulse of signals echoed from the hidden Imperial ship. The jammer operated with surgical precision — and that was exactly what made the IGV-55 vulnera
ACT I: The First Breath of the Wind
The space above Hutt sector was too quiet.
Inside the hangar bay of the CR-90 FarStar, four BTL Y-Wing bombers rested like armored beasts beneath ancient emblems. Painted in darkened shades of charred gray with muted bronze detailing — the colors of Wind Squadron — their fuselages bore the marks of war: scratched, weathered, but never broken.
The ships’ rounded lines, scarred by plasma burns and old impacts, carried no elegance — only purpose. These were not ships meant to dance through space. They were built to take the hit… and hit back harder.
Wind Squadron was complete, aligned, and ready. Four pilots, four engines rumbling beneath worn hulls, four stories woven by war and a shared belief in something greater than themselves.
At the center of the platform, a blue-feathered Sathari with eyes like carved glass watched a holographic projection spin before her. Captain Laviniah Xercey, a veteran of the Arbooine insurgency, knew silence always came before impact.
And impact was close.
“Rubão, scanner updates?”
The small Chadra-Fan chirped in a mix of excitement and tension, his nimble fingers dancing across the portable console.
“We’ve detected an energy echo near Ninban, Captain. Faint, masked. Looks like an active jammer... Bingo!”
“And no Imperial cruiser nearby?” asked Valki, the Togorian. Her tactical armor gleamed under the artificial lights. “This smells like a trap.”
“Everything smells like a trap, Valki,” Laviniah said without looking. “But every trap has two sides. If they’re trying to hide something... they might also be exposed.”
Rubão spun in his seat with excitement.
“An IGV-55, if that’s what it is, doesn’t last long without an escort. The jammer makes it invisible — but also blind. If we hit fast, no warning, it’s ours!”
Laviniah nodded and walked toward the center of the hangar, where Astrid was adjusting her helmet, feline eyes fixed on the preparations. The young Cathar was quick, impulsive — but loyal to the end.
“Rubão, full focus on thermal emission sensors and passive detection. Valki, you and Astrid form Wing One. I’ll fly Wing Two with Rubão.”
The Captain activated her comm with a light tap to her temple.
“FarStar, this is Captain Xercey. Requesting immediate launch clearance. Objective: interdiction of hostile signal near Ninban. Four ships, strike and containment pattern. Standing by for green light.”
A pause. Then the reply came in the firm, gravelly voice of FarStar’s tactical officer:
“Cleared for launch, Wind Squadron. Good luck. May the Force be with you.”
The hangar doors opened slowly, releasing them into open space. One by one, the Y-Wings roared to life with heavy fury, like thunder laced with rage.
They weren’t fast. But they were relentless.
And beneath Ninban’s orbit, the engines of Wind Squadron left a trail of fire and fate.
Act II: When the Ship Falls
The sun over Klatooine was merciless.
Even with two moons visible in the yellowed sky, the heat seemed to rise from below — from the cracked earth and the broken promises that infested that forgotten corner of space. Streets of red dust and abandoned tracks drew a scene where hope died slowly — or was traded for a few credits and silence.
Syrax Holwin walked with steady steps, but with the kind of caution only someone raised being hunted knows how to hide.
He didn’t stand out for his height or presence, but for the restrained contrast between tension and contempt — as if every part of his body knew how to escape, and every muscle expected betrayal.
His face was marked by silent, harsh lines. A trimmed beard, and hair braided close to his scalp in geometric patterns — almost like a coded signature. His dark, deep eyes didn’t blink without reason. He was young, but not new. He carried the kind of scar you don’t see, but that shapes your posture.
He wore a worn leather coat, reinforced at the shoulders, with improvised details in technical fabric. No insignia, rank, or visible affiliation — the uniform of someone who lives off the grid.
That day, his usual contact — a greasy Zabrak named Veklo — had been cryptic.
"19:00, the cantina. Valuable target. Big score. And bring your cleanest face — or the closest you’ve got.”
Syrax didn’t like surprises. But he didn’t have enough credits to turn down a job, either. His stomach reminded him of that every three hours.
When the cantina’s creaking door opened, the smell of recycled oil and cheap booze wrapped around him like an unpleasant, familiar hug. He spotted Veklo in the corner, chewing something that looked like fried leather. Beside him, a sharp-eyed human woman, hair tied back in a tactical bun and urgency in her expression, scanned the room like someone measuring invisible threats.
“Are you Syrax Holwin?” she asked, without standing up.
“That depends,” he replied, sitting slowly. “Are you local law? Or the trap?”
The woman smiled for the first time. It wasn’t a warm smile. It was the kind that comes just before important decisions.
“I’m Kiandra Hagui. Rebel Alliance collaborator. And I’ve got an Imperial problem arriving in less than two hours. I need a professional thief — not small talk.”
Her red hair was tied back in a practical style, and her green eyes carried the weight of someone who’d seen too much — cold, precise, like scalpels: slow to trust, never turning away, always ready to slice a lie clean in half. She wore a dark uniform that outlined her athletic frame — more functional than military, yet still full of presence. Around her neck hung a fake ID badge on a navy-blue lanyard, as if she belonged to some galactic bureaucracy she clearly despised. There was something in her manner — firm, yet worn — that reminded Syrax of war veterans who had lost more than they ever let on.
Veklo simply nodded and held out his hand — already demanding 80% of the payout for the "referral." Syrax scoffed.
“And here I was thinking freedom meant choosing how I get exploited,” he said, rising.
“Fine. Show me what we’ve got.”
Minutes later, the two were already speeding across the desert on a metallic-gray speederbike, freshly stolen by Syrax that very morning.
The landscape blurred around them as Kiandra spoke between the jolts:
“An Imperial IGV-55 vessel, codename Confidant, escaped a Rebel attack and is coming here for maintenance. Klatooine shipyard, industrial sector. The Imperials think everything’s under control.”
She looked at him.
“We’re going to prove them wrong.”
They reached the shipyard gate just as the civilian shift was ending. Two Imperial guards scanned the entrance with tired eyes and bureaucratic disdain.
Kiandra dismounted and walked forward with purpose. She improvised a story about a technical inspection of the base’s thermal sensors — “orders from above,” she said smoothly. But the guards hesitated. One reached for his comm, the other asked for ID.
Meanwhile, Syrax vanished along the hangar’s side.
Climbing like a shadow between cables and platforms, he slipped into a secondary control room, connecting his small improvised terminal to the shipyard’s network. A few commands later, he locked down the outer gates, silenced the alarms, and simulated a false clearance in the system.
The guards received an unexpected message:
“Engineer authorized. Proceed with inspection.”
Kiandra raised an eyebrow, surprised — but only briefly.
In the distance, they heard the muffled roar of thrusters.
The IGV-55 was arriving, escorted by two TIE Fighters flying like protective hornets.
The large metallic-gray bird descended slowly, ramp lowering.
Kiandra approached the engineer stepping down with a datapad in hand. While she distracted him with technobabble, Syrax emerged from the shadows of the ship itself, blaster raised, aiming silently at the back of the crewman’s neck.
“Test flight. Now,” he said quietly.
The capture was underway. And no one in the Empire suspected that Klatooine’s dust was about to swallow yet another of its secrets.
Act III – The Lady and the Vagabond
The wind sliced through the shipyard’s antennas like invisible blades.
The IGV-55 landed with the care of a wounded animal. Its thrusters hissed, and its hull still radiated the heat of a hasty escape. The two TIE Fighters followed close behind, their pilots disembarking with rushed arrogance — as if their mere presence were enough to keep trouble at bay.
Kiandra Hagui knew she couldn’t afford a mistake. She was there under a false ID, using clearance forged by Syrax, and a mental countdown ticking in her head.
Across the landing pad, Syrax Holwin was already creeping along the IGV-55’s fuselage, as invisible as the dust beneath his feet. The vehicle thief was now a makeshift agent of the Rebellion — and absurd as it seemed, he was doing well.
Kiandra approached the chief engineer — a gray-haired, nervous human who stepped down the ramp clutching a datapad and coughing dryly.
“Urgent review of thermal detection systems,” Kiandra said. “Dantooine’s shipyard already flagged malfunctions on delta-type sensors. Direct order from Kuat.”
The engineer grumbled about delayed communications but didn’t push back. Kiandra’s authoritative tone, along with the forged seal on the datapad Syrax had handed her, sealed the deal.
As the man checked his list, Syrax moved.
He climbed the ramp with a controlled leap, blaster drawn, and pointed it at a crewman still adjusting cables inside the main bay.
“Up. Slowly. We’re colleagues now.”
Without firing a shot, Syrax guided the captured man into the cockpit and locked him in a cargo compartment with improvised restraints.
Out on the landing pad, the TIE pilots were starting to look suspicious. Kiandra turned to them and shouted:
“Calibration flight. Just a short circuit. No escort needed. The ship must lift off now or the thrusters will seize.”
“We’re supposed to be on patrol!” one of the pilots snapped.
“That’s above your rank, soldier,” she replied, already walking up the ramp.
Inside the ship, Syrax was at the controls. He wasn’t exactly a professional pilot, but he knew enough — and the IGV-55’s system was in diagnostic mode, easier to handle.
“They’ll figure it out in minutes,” he said, already adjusting the thrusters. “Then what?”
Kiandra sat beside him, activating the ship’s internal comms to send an extraction code to the Rebel fleet.
“Then we fly like hell.”
The IGV-55 lifted off with practiced smoothness. The TIE pilots ran toward their fighters, but hesitated: technically, the vessel was on authorized operation. And reporting against engineering officers meant paperwork — something no one on Klatooine wanted.
By the time they realized they’d been tricked, the Confidant was already climbing, breaking the atmosphere and heading for deep space.
On the dark horizon, the lights of the CR-90 FarStar appeared like a beacon. Three Y-Wings from Wind Squadron flew in escort formation, ready to protect the ship to safety.
Laviniah Xercey’s voice came through the comms:
“This is Wind Squadron. You’re under Alliance cover. Prepare for coordinated jump. The Force is with you.”
Syrax looked at Kiandra. For the first time since they met, she truly smiled.
“That was insane,” he said.
“That was just the beginning.”
Act IV – Blindness of War
The coordinated jump was executed with pinpoint precision.
The IGV-55 Confidant broke free of Klatooine’s gravity accompanied by three Y-Wing bombers flying in guard formation, while the CR-90 FarStar, modified for tactical support, stabilized the local gravity field with its long-range antenna array. On the Rebel ship’s monitors, Imperial reinforcements were stacking — but still distant.
In FarStar’s command room, General Gideon Argus stood with his arms crossed before the holographic display. His gaze was sharp, features weathered by time, but his posture remained as firm as Corellian steel.
“Enemy vessel secured,” the operations officer reported. “No shots fired. No casualties. Clean interception.”
Argus nodded silently. When the sensors confirmed docking, he made his way to the main hangar, where the ramp of the Confidant lowered like a metallic mouth freed from the Empire.
Kiandra Hagui was first to descend, followed by Syrax Holwin, who still looked surprised to be in one piece — and even more surprised to be welcome.
Gideon waited with his hands behind his back.
“Hagui,” he said, with the weight of a man trained to praise only when necessary, “mission completed with excellence. Your report will go to Mon Mothma directly. As for you, Mr. Holwin…”
Syrax raised an eyebrow.
“Am I being arrested?”
“You’re being thanked,” Argus replied. “And temporarily housed. I suggest you stay aboard until we secure safe transport. Choose any quarters. Just don’t steal anything.”
Syrax grinned, relieved.
“No promises.”
Beside him, Kiandra remained composed. But there was something in the corner of her eyes — something only Syrax noticed. A slight drop in her shoulders. A small, quiet smile that escaped whenever she thought no one was looking.
Meanwhile, Alliance technicians were already dismantling the IGV-55’s internal panels. Every wire, every memory drive, every trace of stored transmissions — all would be analyzed, copied, transmitted.
Laviniah Xercey entered the hangar shortly after, still carrying her flight helmet under her arm. She walked up to Argus, exchanged a brief formal salute, and then greeted Kiandra with a light touch on her shoulder’s feathered wing.
“Well done. Now we know where the Empire’s eyes were in this sector.”
“And now they’re blind,” Kiandra replied.
Laviniah turned to Syrax, studying him with the kind of look that measured more than just posture.
“You have a talent for being in the wrong place at the right time,” she said, and added, with a respectful tone:
“Thank you.”
Syrax shrugged.
“I thought it was just another ship to strip for parts. But… you make this feel right.”
The group slowly dispersed. Orders came through, data flowed.
But there was a different feeling in the air — as if, for a moment, the Rebellion had defeated more than an enemy.
It had overcome its own shadow of fear.
Epilogue: A New Alliance
From space, Klatooine looked like just another yellow dot in the vast galactic tapestry.
But for those who had been there — who had survived there — that planet would always carry the weight of a choice.
Syrax Holwin watched the sector through the side windows of the CR-90 FarStar, seated on one of the benches in the ship’s rest bay. In front of him, a cup of lukewarm caf and a pair of boots still dusted with planetary grit.
He could have left. He could’ve claimed his credits, found a ship, and gone back to the hustle.
But something inside him — something new — made him hesitate.
Kiandra Hagui entered quietly, no tactical uniform, just a simple gray tunic — like someone finally shedding their armor after a hard mission.
“The freighter to Socorro leaves in four hours,” she said. “It can drop you off anywhere in the western sector.”
Syrax nodded, without much conviction.
“Thanks. I’ll think about it.”
She stepped closer, her footsteps light.
“You know... It’s not common for the Rebellion to work with civilians on high-risk ops. But you didn’t just survive — you delivered the mission flawlessly. That doesn’t go unnoticed.”
He glanced sideways at her.
“And you? Still playing spy on this sandball planet?”
Kiandra laughed.
“The cover holds. But now with new resources. Capturing the IGV-55 changed everything. We’re about to blind the Empire across this entire sector. And maybe, just maybe... we’ll turn the tide out here.”
A pause. Not awkward — just... honest.
“I could stick around for a day or two,” Syrax said, casually.
“Of course,” she replied, smiling faintly. “Just to help with the reorganization, of course.”
“Just that.” He lifted his cup.
And deep down, they both knew: this was the beginning of something.
Maybe not a love story — not yet — but certainly a story of trust, rebuilding, and choice.
Elsewhere on the FarStar, Laviniah Xercey received a new assignment.
General Argus had left a simple note on her datapad:
“New mission underway. Intel on the whereabouts of a Clone Wars-era admiral. Last signal: Tatooine.”
She closed her eyes for a moment. Arbooine, Klatooine, now Tatooine. The planets changed. The fight didn’t.
She rose, secured her helmet under her arm, and walked with steady steps.
There were still wars to fight. But now, too, real alliances to forge.
Because in the end, the Rebellion was never just about tearing the Empire down.
It was about rebuilding an entire galaxy.
One alliance at a time.
Behind the Narrative: Operation Jammer Bellum
What you just read was the narrative version of Operation Jammer Bellum.
But what if I told you this story was born in fragments — in separate sessions, with different players, spread across years of campaign?
In the next post from the “Behind the Campaign” series, you’ll discover:
How Syrax, the very first character of the campaign, starred in a solo mission that would later become a key piece in the Rebel war effort.
How Wind Squadron, created later by another player, organically fit in as a prequel to the original mission — helping to build the greater narrative tapestry of the Star Wars universe.
And how with planning and vision, it’s possible to weave together stories and create living continuity, even in long-running campaigns with multiple protagonists.
▶️ Stay tuned for the next entry:
“Behind the Campaign – How a thief and a squadron crossed paths without breaking the galaxy.”