As a quick author's note, this is not a self insertion. I'm going for a first person narration similar to the Ciaphas Cain novels. Furthermore, I'm taking a more realistic and gritty look at mobile suits. Don't expect mobile suits to dominate everything because they wouldn't for various reasons. Rather, think of them as modern tanks with a slightly different niche. They may be the kings of the battlefield, but many things can take them down. As it is, I have to purposely ignore a few things, namely ground pressure and the square-cube law for mobile suits to be remotely effective. With this said, enjoy the story.

Chapter 1

"You are to be transferred to the North American Front," came the letter of my transfer.

I supposed that I should have been happy, but I was far more likely to live if I remained in space hunting for Balls. Above all, I wanted to live and keep my men alive. That letter is how I found myself en route to Arizona.

When I finally arrived on the planet, I noticed a few things. First was gravity, which would many of my space tactics useless. Second was that Arizona is very, very hot in the summer, and that my uniform became very hot. I almost freaked out when I first felt a breeze because a breeze on a space colony is a sign of a hull breach.

"Feeling the breeze for the first time, eh Captain," spoke one of the infantrymen around me over the radio. I wasn't going in alone; rather, it was me in my Zaku escorting a platoon of tanks and company or so of infantry. Though I know many of my fellow Zaku drivers disdained the tanks, I didn't. All the tankers I knew were good men driving a horribly designed vehicle. Their fuck-off sized 175mm cannon was nothing to laugh at either.

"Yeah. It's a bit disorienting," I replied.

The infantryman, a grizzled NCO, laughed and slapped my back. I returned the favor with a friendly punch to the shoulder. The two of us chuckled as I walked over to climb into my Zaku. She was a fine beast, hastily repainted from matte black to a mottled brown, mustard, and grey desert camo. Some of it was still the same, the long shoulder plate was still covered in the eight red X's of my Ball kills.

"By your lead, Captain," came the voice of the tank platoon's commander.

"Of course. Let's move out, shall we," I replied and began to march the mech across the landscape. It was quite different from space warfare, but it had decidedly more powerful feel and sound. The sound was something new. Whereas before I only heard the sounds of the mobile suits operation and radio, I now heard the booming footsteps and felt when the foot impacted upon the ground. It may have caused motion sickness for some, but it was nothing compared to the near constant spinning and tumbling of a space battle.

I checked my radar screen and sure enough there were some blips. Grainy as it was from the Minovsky particles spread around by my mobile suit, there were some contacts.

"Gentlemen, I've found several irregularities on my radar that don't match terrain at ten o' clock. Switching to IR to see if I can figure out what it is. Would you kindly do likewise?"

"Acknowledged, Captain. I'll get on it," answered the tank commander. He was a good man. The turrets immediately began to traverse to the direction that I had indicated. I know that some MS drivers like to pretend that they win battles all alone. That is merely a common myth; much of Zeon success relies on a coordination between mobile suits, armor, and infantry. Us MS drivers would lay down the EM fog with Minovsky particles and detect the enemies. Armor would engage with their longer range cannons and dedicated anti-armor ammunition like shaped charge and sabot rounds. This was all to let the infantry do their job. A 120mm autocannon can defeat tanks, but MS drivers mostly carry high explosive-dual purpose, a shaped charge warhead with added fragmentation characteristics, or semi-armor piercing high explosive ammo, similar to the armor piercing shell ammunition of the 1940s with a slightly thinner jacket and a greater explosive payload. As a general rule, I prefer SAPHE, myself. Now SAPHE, which is what I had my autocannon's magazine loaded with, is not very effective against a tank's frontal armor but can penetrate a tank's top armor. Mobile suits are in an excellent position to target a tank's top armor.

I switched to IR and the landscape turned to a grainy greyscale with lighter objects being hotter. I made out several plumes of vehicle exhaust behind a hill. Twin barrels were spotted on the fuzzy, low res image.

"I'm IDing a pair of Feddie tanks. What about you guys? I think they're trying to ambush us."

"We can see their exhaust plumes. Permission to engage?"

"Permission granted. Can you hit them?"

"Yeah. We can put a sabot round through the hill to get them."

"Alright. Engage targets."

Infantry scattered to positions behind the tanks. The armored fighting vehicles halted before firing four APFSDS darts. The projectiles passed through the air at speeds approaching Mach 6 or 7.

"They're burning. Good kill. I repeat, good kill," I called to the tanks.

"Acknowledged."

"I don't see any survivors."

Internally, I wasn't sure what was up with that. The tanks didn't do anything. My best guess was that they had been ditched, probably in a hurry because the engines were still on. With that admittedly suspicious exchange over, we began to go along again.

"Keep your eyes peeled, everyone. I think something may be up," I called out to everyone. I received a chorus of acknowledgment from the men. While I want to live, immensely so, I have a responsibility to the men that are serving with me, from the greenest private to the best mobile suit driver. I do know that casualties happen, but I want to avoid them as much as is humanly possible. There are better pilots than me like Char, but I'm confident in my skills as a Zaku driver. To be honest, I find that confidence and a cool head will serve you just fine in just about any situation from a firefight to civilian life.

We continued moving along with my Zaku handling in tip top condition. My techs had really put some care into making it ready for this mission. I love the Zaku so much; it's a great machine. It handles easily and takes care of you as long as you take care of it. This means that you exploit Minovsky jamming, jump jets, and the psychological impact of a what amounts to a walking god of warfare. Fighting an MS for the first time is often in the favor of the MS drivers, as we discovered in training exercises against tankers, because of the "holy-shit quotient," as I like to call it. We whipped them the first time because of the HSQ of the Zakus, Minovsky jamming screwing with their targeting, and jump jets making target acquisition difficult. Jump jets and Minovsky jamming are the only reliable things of the three. A fairly skilled pilot, like myself, can tap and feather the jump jets to make quick jinking that makes hitting difficult along with Minovsky interference sealing the deal. Our tankers have trained to fight under Minovsky particle saturated battlefields and are effective. This is why, after a while, us Zaku drivers had to become exceedingly sneaky and careful in Zaku vs Magellan battles. If it hits, a 175mm shell will fuck up your suit. This is why you don't get hit and use combined arms and the unique advantages of your MS to win. These exercises served to humble mobile suit drivers to understand that combined arms is required to win; sadly, not all my fellow Zaku drivers got the memo, metaphorically speaking

I finally arrived at the base in Arizona. It was a fairly large affair with mobile suit hangars, well hangars for all kinds of Zeon vehicles, really. A perimeter was guarded by squads of patrolling Zakus and foot soldiers. That was good.

I radioed in about two kilometers from the base, "Arizona Base #8, this is Captain Johnson Harris with armor and infrantry reinforcements. We are incoming."

"We see you Captain Harris. Please give the identification code," answered a female operator.

"Yes ma'am. Alpha-Mike-Charly-Seven-Six-Three."

"You're clear to enter, Captain Harris. Your suit is going into hanger 1-C"

And so, I marched the Zaku to the base in the desert. If there's anything I really hate about the desert, it's the lack of cover. A tank can go hull down with some success and conceal itself, but a MS has to rely on Minovky particle interference and the man behind the controls being on the ball. Not that this was much different from space warfare, but at least there you always knew where your enemy was and longer ranges made getting hit and hitting much more difficult. Mobile suits aren't the solution to all problems in the same way that throwing infantry or armor at a problem is not the solution to every situation.

I drove the Zaku down to the first row of hangars, building C. The hangar door was open and I carefully walked the suit in before turning in place and backing carefully into an open spot. Then I halted the reaction, effectively turning off the fusion reactor. I popped the cover and opened up the cockpit. It amazingly was cooler than the interior of the cockpit despite it , but that's what happens when you're sitting on top of a fusion reactor. I tensed at the breeze before relaxing and realizing that no, there was no hull breach because I am on a planet. Stupid me.

A small crowd had gathered around me, a motley collection of techs and pilots. I took the stairs down to meet them. They were my men, and I needed to get to know them. A good unit is comparable to family. I'd had this bond with my old team before being transferred here. I hoped my boys up in the high frontier were doing alright without me.

I got some strange looks as they finally saw me up close. It's understandable. I'm a short guy, 5' 8", with black skin, dark eyes, and dark brown hair. It generally pisses me off when people ask if I am of African descent; I'm not. Is it that hard for people to realize that there are black-skinned people from other places? I am of indigenous Australian descent as a matter of fact.

"Hello gentlemen, I'm your new CO. My name is Captain Johnson Harris," I stated.

"Good morning, sir," answered one of the pilots. She was a fair skinned brunette with a lean, wiry figure and blue eyes that were, if I say so myself, gorgeous. Her rank pins indicated that she was a first lieutenant. She probably is the second-in-command, the leader if I buy it.

"What's your name, Lieutenant?" I inquired, trying to be polite and avoid sounding like I was a stalker or something.

"First Lieutenant Mary Smith. I was the temporary CO after Captain Eyrie bought it," she answered. I could tell that she was a bit upset about the death of her former commander.

"I bet the Captain was a good man. I sincerely hope to live up to him as a leader. I heard he was a good leader," I replied, trying to remain sympathetic, but I never actually knew the man, a bit of an impediment.

"Thank you. I understand your position, sir. So, you're an ace?" she asked.

"I really hate bragging, but I am. Eight kills, albeit against Balls. What I consider to be a greater achievement is never losing a wingman," I answered honestly, "How are you organized?"

"Four teams of three Zakus. Why do you ask?"

"In my experiences, I find this normal organization inadequate. This is why a I have used three teams of four mobile suits. This is based on the infantry's fireteam or the finger-four formation used by aircraft. Every person has a buddy backing them up, a wingman if you will," I replied.

"I'm doubtful of if the merit of completely changing the structure of our unit is for the best, but I'll try it. How much time have you logged with ground combat?"

"124 hours more or less."

"At least you have some idea of what your doing," she muttered.

"Excuse me," I said.

She tensed for a moment when I said this. In the Zeon military, it is acceptable for a superior to hit a soldier for disobedience. I don't do that; I haven't needed to at the very least. The Lieutenant recognized that what she said was something that some commanders would hit their subordinates for saying.

"Just messing with you, there. I know I don't have that much experience in ground combat, but I'm willing to and have to learn," I then said, putting my arms up.

She breathed a quick sigh of relief and hesitantly laughed.

"Any kills yourself, Lieutenant Smith?"

"Just two, I got a pair of tanks," she said.

"Good job. Are there any simulators on base that we can use for training or do we have to do live fire exercises?"

"No sims, Captain."

"Alright then, who is my direct superior and where can I find him?"

"That would be Major Louis Armstrong, sir. You can find him in the command center. It's at the center of the base, the tent with Zeon flag. You can't miss it."

I thought back to when I entered the camp with the bird's eye view I had. I remembered which tent had the big flagpole, mentally plotting out a route to it.

"I know which place your talking about. I'm a bit worried about getting lost, so would you please come with me?"

"Yes sir."

"I would like to talk to the rest of you, but I've got shit to do which may involve paperwork. We all know how much that sucks," I said as I left with Lieutenant Smith with some chuckles at my paperwork joke. But yes, paperwork sucks.

We made our way through the camp. Most of the personnel were wearing their fatigue pants with the fatigue shirt left unbuttoned with the sleeves rolled up.. Only myself and the lieutenant were in our dress uniforms, myself because it was what I was wearing. She probably was wearing hers to make a good first impression with her new commander.

"So I take it the base commander isn't too anal about correctly wearing uniforms," I said.

"He really isn't as long as you are off duty. He mostly leaves it up to the unit commanders then. Colonel expects people properly wearing their uniforms when on duty and if they are giving a report. Basically, wear it properly on duty and wear it comfortably off duty. Colonel gives a bit more leeway for us Zaku drivers because -let's face it- it gets pretty, pardon my language, fucking hot in the cockpit," she answered.

"I hear you loud and clear. It can be worse in space. I know that space is only slightly above absolute zero, but the only way to get rid of heat is to radiate it away. You can't always do this, as radiator fins have a tendency to get shot off in combat by the enemy, so it gets fucking hot in the cockpit even with the heat sinks and coolant. At least here, the convection can cool things off a bit," I answered. I can't quite understand how guys like Char can stand constant burn; I tried it once and nearly passed out from heatstroke. I suppose he's just a tougher SOB than I am.

We eventually arrived at the command tent. It was pretty large as command tents usually are with a bunch of radios, tables, maps, and charts, the standard fare. There were a bunch of officers and assistants around but one guy really stood out. He was around 6' 4" and full of muscle with piercing green eyes and a shaved head. He had a major's rank tabs. This guy was probably my superior, Major Armstrong.

My suspicions were confirmed a moment later when Lieutenant Smith said, "The big guy over there, that's Major Armstrong."

I walked up to the man and saluted before presenting myself to him, saying, "Sir, good morning, sir. Captain Johnson Harris reporting for duty. May I please have a moment of your time?"

"Of course, son," he replied with a deep gravelly voice, "What would you like to talk about?"

"Sir, I'd like to schedule a few training exercises with my new command."

"Son, you can have some time to do that tomorrow. Just fill out the proper paperwork and turn it in to me or my secretary," said the major, handing me a short stack of five or so forms. Fucking paperwork.

"Thank you, sir."

"Not a problem, son. You see that bulletin board over there? That's where the weekly schedule is posted. Missions assignments will be given to you personally under normal circumstances. I know you've been serving in space up until now, but I expect you to adapt quickly like any good Zeon officer. There is nothing a Zeon officer cannot do," said Major Armstrong.

"Yes sir. I understand you clearly," I answered.

"Son, you're dismissed."

I snapped to attention, said, "Yes sir," made an about face, and left. My to-do list was as follows: be introduced to team, fill out paperwork, sleep. I didn't want or have the energy to do anything more, and the simplest plans are sometimes the best.

"Lieutenant, let's return. I still have yet to be introduced to the rest of my unit. Shall we?" I said to her.

"Of course, sir," she said and the two of us began to walk all the way across the base. I just followed Lieutenant Smith's lead; I trusted that she knew where she was going. Besides, I had a nice view of her rear, and it was quite a nice one. I'm not the kind to let this get in the way of work, though. There are far more important things than asses, no matter how nice they may look, like staying alive and keeping your men alive. To be honest, what inspired me to become a leader was a book I read about the United States Marine Corps. I try to live with honor, courage, and commitment and apply the eleven leadership principles to my daily life.

"Lieutenant, where are we going?" I asked, genuinely curious.

"I'm taking you over to the barracks for our unit. You can meet the rest of the drivers their. The mess will be open for dinner at six o' clock."

"That's great. I'd like to make a quick announcement when we get there."

"You want to do a training exercise with your new unit, right Captain?" asked Smith. Now she was not dumb. She was observant at the very least. Definitely the kind of person I want watching my back.

"You were listening to my conversation with Major Armstrong, weren't you? I don't mind. I want observant subordinates with initiative," I asked, "You are indeed correct."

"Well, thank you Captain," she answered smiling. I grinned back, already beginning to like her. She was pretty, took initiative, and observant. These are traits that I like in subordinates that keep them alive. You can't simply micromanage your team; this always ends as an abject failure. They need to be able to act independently of you. Decentralized leadership is what they call it. I was honestly rather excited to meet my new team. My second-in-command seemed sharp at the very least and she was likely a decent gauge of what I could expect of my new troops. A good leader must set an example for their men to follow.

The barracks in question consisted of a large field tent. We have individual quarters because we're commissioned officers, which works out to internal subdivisions via drapes in tents. One thing I find nice about the North American front is that there will be no language barrier if I ever get some leave. The official language of the Principality is English, the language used when the first space colonies were built because it was the commonly understood lingua franca of the day, and the most common second language is Japanese, the current lingua franca. I admittedly have an accent because of the differences in English and Japanese, mostly resulting from how words are stressed, with Japanese using a tonal stress and English a dynamic stress. The Zeon dialect of Japanese could be likened to the differences between Quebecois French and Standard French, though this was a rough analogy and didn't quite make apparent the differences.

"Lieutenant, could you tell me a bit about the Feddie ground forces?" I inquired along the way.

"Well, the Feddie tanks, Type 61s, have extreme difficulties in hitting targets at 3000 meters. I think this stems from how they sight the guns into a convergence zone at 2500 meters. 500 meters out from that, the rounds spread apart enough that hitting even a stationary Zaku is virtually impossible. They also have quite a few other problems which make them plain old shitty tanks. The off-axis recoil of the two guns is hell on the frame of the Type-61 unlike the centerline recoil of our Magellas. Furthermore, they have a one-man turret with the commander also performing the role of a gunner. This causes what amounts to an information overload in the commander, given that they not only have to command the tank but perform all the duties of a gunner. It's simply too much for one man. According to tankers, there is a rather substantial shot trap in the frontal armor which causes hits to bounce up from the glacis into the underside of the turret. It also lacks a coaxial machine gun, forcing the commander to unbutton if he wants to engage close infantry which also prevents him from firing the main guns.

The biggest threat that we face are guided missile teams. A well placed wire guided missile to the leg will take you out without exception. This is why you see the cage armor on the legs of our Zakus."

"If one of our designers had done that, we would have fired them, but then again, we have the Magella. At least it's pretty comfy and roomy for a tank," I commented.

We really didn't talk much after this, and simply walked in silence. As a mental exercise, I began comparing the Magella tank and the Type 61. The Magella has the turret mounted on a flimsy stalk-thing which is easy for the enemy to target and destroy, killing the tank. In theory, it presents a better field of vision, but with combined arms, that can be left to Zakus. That was why some of the Magellas around the base looked so different, engineering crews had lowered the turrets onto the hulls of the tanks. They had also eliminated the 35mm cannon assembly on front and placed the two on either side of the turret and one as a pintle armament to place thick glacis armor on the weak point of the autocannons. The ingenuity of Zeon engineers let us turn our sub-par Magellas into fearsome war machines worthy of the title of tank. There finally was a decent Zeon tank. Arrogant Zaku drivers would not care, but they have not quite grasped the concept that having a decent tank makes their job easier and safer.

I'm a bit paranoid about my personal wellbeing. Does this make me a coward? It probably does, but I'm a competent ace of a coward. I can't say the same of some of the Zaku drivers I've met, but I'll respect them. Mobile suits are very difficult to pilot because of all the things that have to be done near simultaneously in order to be combat effective. You don't need to be a genius to pilot one, but you need excellent hand-eye coordination. They may magnify the destructive potential of a single man many times but this comes at a price of requiring a certain breed of men for a pilot. There is an esprit de corps because every mobile suit pilot recognizes -or should recognize- in fellow pilots because we're a select bunch.

By this time, we arrived inside the building. They had some put on some good music over the speakers they had rigged up. It was a some heavy rock stuff, not quite up to the level of say death metal but pretty heavy nonetheless. In my experience as a member of the military, music preference seems to near universally opt to metal and hard rock. I can't exactly complain. A few fans turned on the ceiling, cooling down the oppressive Arizona heat. A group of people were sitting down. There was a small "room" in the front where a group of ten soldiers were sitting around, waiting for me in their dress uniforms.

"Alright Captain, these are the pilots of our. unit. Second Lieutenant Frederick May, Second Lieutenant Oliver Lewis, First Lieutenant Erica Patricks, First Lieutenant Adolf Hartman, Second Lieutenant Eric Galland, Second Lieutenant John Fischer, Second Lieutenant Patrick Steel, Second Lieutenant David Flint, Second Lieutenant Harrison Jarvis, and Second Lieutenant Rachel Harrington."

I looked them over. May was tallish blond man. He had broad shoulders and blue eyes. His uniform looked good, as if he had prepared it the night before. What I noticed most about him was how he carried himself. He stood up straight with his shoulders back and chest out; he didn't flinch when I looked him in the eye. He was probably a proud man, but one that could be trusted not to do something stupid. This is why giving a good first impression is important; conclusions can be made before words are even exchanged.

Lewis had dark brown hair and olive skin. His eyes were brown and his uniform slightly sloppy. He was relaxed and didn't look nervous when I looked him in the eye. I nodded slightly and he nodded back. Probably a bit of a slacker, but with a hidden steel. I wasn't sure whether to be disgusted or amused at how similar this was to me.

Patricks was redhead with pale skin and freckles. Her eyes were a remarkably pretty green. She subconsiously snapped to attention as best she could while seated. Military discipline had definitely been instilled in her. She was wearing her dress uniform like the rest of the pilots. I noticed a small grease stain on it, but it was excusable as she had been eating. She looked reliable and intelligent at the very least and her rank made her a candidate for a team leader.

Hartman had a round face with dark eyes and hair. The man wore a pair of round, steel rimmed glasses. He seemed like a generally nice guy. He smiled slightly, almost imperceptible if you weren't observant. He seemed confident if a little cocky. I made a mental note to convince him to grow a Hitler-stache. With a German surname and a personal name of Adolf, it seemed amusingly fitting. I idly wondered if he already had the nickname of Hitler; if he didn't, I must make it so.

Galland was a short, lean guy with mousy brown hair and moderately tanned skin. His eyes were a moderately light hazel. Like the rest of him, his face was lean nearly devoid of fat. He stood with the earned confidence of a veteran. His body talked the talk, but could he walk the walk. If he was a good as he seemed, than he probably could, but I could have simply misread him.

Fischer had dirty blond hair, blue eyes, and boyish good looks. He looked barely into his twenties. He seemed slightly nervous when I met his eyes, but he didn't look away. There was a slight tensing of his mouth; he probably realized that I was testing him. His uniform was fairly neat with a few Irish pennants here and there, but nothing terribly out of place. At the very least, he had guts.

Steel was an older man with leathery skin and brown hair. He smelled faintly of ash, so he was probably a smoker. His eyes were also a deep brown and belied some amusement. He was under the command of a man younger than him, but if this interfered with the unit's cohesion, I would not hesitate to set him straight. He smiled in a friendly fashion. He probably was good guy, though. I returned a slight grin of my own to him.

Flint was a young man and looked rather inexperienced. He had light brown hair and green eyes. I could find no flaw in his uniform, so he at least had some attention to detail. He seemed to quiver a bit in his boots when I met him eye to eye, but I did my best to nonverbally assure him. I'd need to see how he did in the field before I was confident of him. I might want to pair him up with Steel because of the older man's experience and, if my assessment was right, friendly nature.

Jarvis, well I wasn't quite sure of what to make of him, he had dark skin and similarly dark eyes. He looked to be of African descent. He seemed easygoing and relaxed, but his uniform was rather sloppy. I met his eyes and he didn't look away but didn't seem terribly interested. He was hitting many of my dislike buttons already. He also seemed rather cocky, like the arrogant Zaku drivers, the kind I dislike. He had already given a bad impression before we even exchanged words. Most units seem to have one bad seed, and Jarvis seemed to be this unit's.

Harrington was rather tall and muscular for a woman, being about an inch taller than me. She had brown hair pulled back into a neat ponytail and hazel eyes. My immediate thought was "butch lesbian," but that was probably just jumping to conclusions. She was neat and organized and simply extruded an aura of competence. Where Jarvis seemed sloppy and insubordinate, Harrington seemed neat and disciplined. I was already beginning to like her in the same fashion as Smith.

"Well, ladies and gentleman. I'm your new CO. I'm going to see if we can do some group training tomorrow. You should know by 0900 if this is happening. I'll start with the standard introduction stuff and talk about myself for a bit. I expect you to at least pretend to be paying attention," I said, getting a few chuckles, "I'm Captain Johnson Harris. I've recently transferred here from the war in space, so I have a bit to learn about ground combat. It improves my chances of survival and yours if you help out on this endeavor. I might as well get this out now, but I'm going to change the team arrangements from four teams of three suits to three teams of four suit. It may be a bit jarring of a change at first, but it has worked well in my experience."

With my little speech finished, I began to meet the members of my unit.