An icy wind swept across the frozen plain

Forward: This story is the sequel to my first story, Duo: The Great Destroyer Never Again. While I would recommend reading that first, it is not necessary to enjoy this story. This is a basic outline of what occurred:

In AC 198, Hilde Maxwell died at the hands of a pirate group calling themselves the Wraiths. Duo forsook the help and advice of his fellow pilots and headed for space, blinded by rage, and intent on revenge.

During his first encounter with the Wraiths, Duo's Gundam was destroyed by a wickedly fast and maneuverable Gundam piloted by the Wraith's leader. Now that the Wraiths believed him dead, Duo infiltrated their organization and used his superior piloting and combat skills to catch the eye of the Wraith's leader.

The Wraiths were led by a former Oz general named Hugh Cobalt. He was impressed by Duo's skill and soon granted him command of a squadron of suits. As Duo made ready to destroy General Cobalt, the Wraiths revealed their true intentions. General Cobalt manipulated standing orders from Trieze Kushrenada in hopes of seizing power for himself.

Preventer forces seceded and joined the Wraiths while Quatre used his company's resources to create new Gundams for Trowa, himself, and Wuffie. Heero was shot and nearly killed in a failed assassination attempt and Releena was almost killed when the Senate hall was destroyed by an unknown terrorist in Cobalt's employ.

Shortly after Duo constructed a new Gundam of his own, named Deathscythe Vengeance, from materials taken from his ersatz employer, the battle began. Duo ended the battle by grabbing hold of Cobalt's Gundam with his own and pressing the self-destruct button. Duo Maxwell was listed Missing in Action and presumed dead.

______________________________________________________________________________

twenty years later…

1

An icy wind swept across the frozen plain. Gray clouds swirled over head and threatened rain. A broken factory loomed out of the gloom. The walls were made of rusted corrugated steel. The roof was holed and the wind whistled through the cracks, like the wail of some dying demon.

The factory's only remaining door was a huge affair. It was mounted on rails and most closely resembled a hanger door from a bygone era. A faded symbol dominated its surface. A gigantic red star. Beneath it were faded letters in a dead language. Once upon a time they had proclaimed the site's identity:

St. Petersburg Facility for the Production of Soviet Armaments

In this day and age, this meant almost nothing. Perhaps there were a few history scholars who recognized the significance, but would regard it as only a minor reference to a subject they had studied. There was a time, however, when this meant something, when it had significance. There was a time when this meant triumph for half of the world, and terror for the other.

The facility's insides did not match its exterior. It was filled with gleaming machinery and well-oiled conveyer belts. A cargo skiff was waiting in a concealed loading dock. Its pilot waited nervously while the factory's automated processes loaded his craft.

He didn't know what was in the crates. He didn't care beyond the fact that he knew that if the Preventers caught him hauling the stuff, he would be in very serious trouble. He rubbed his hands together and tried to settle his nerves. All he had to do was get them to the spaceport and whatever the hell it was would be shipped off to wherever it was supposed to go. then he could get paid, feed his family, and pray he never got called by those strangers in black coats again. He sighed. That last, he reflected, was highly unlikely.

A light pinged to life on his dashboard. Everything was ready. Rubbing his hands together one last time, he glanced through the rear view port to ensure the loading dock was clear. Then he grabbed the altitude adjustment shaft and hauled back roughly. There was a cough from the engine followed by a low hum. The ungainly craft kicked upward, surrounded by a wreath of dust from the repulsor-lift backwash, to reach its maximum cruising height of one meter.

One last check of the gauges in the utilitarian cockpit satisfied the pilot that there were no problems. He wrestled with the control yoke until the craft was oriented towards the road and the distant city beyond. Then he pulled the throttle slowly to the half power mark and kicked the accelerator. The skiff burst forward with a roar and careened toward the distant sky-line of St. Petersburg.

* * *

Two days later, on a dusty airstrip in Cairo, an ancient, propeller-driven cargo plain buzzed in for a landing. Rusted and archaic machinery helped it to taxi and began unloading its cargo.

One such loader received a hefty pile of twenty industrial crates. Each of these was a large wooden box, nailed shut and stuffed with packing material. The loader made its way down the runway and drew level with a parked tractor trailer.

A man leaped out of the giant truck's cab and jogged across the fiery asphalt. The loader operator dropped to the ground to meet him. By now, two more men had emerged from the eighteen wheeler's cabin and were coming up to join the first man.

The operator spoke first. "Cargo Lot 87659. this one yours?"

The man nodded, "It should be. Dimmetri, check it."

A tall man who looked even more uncomfortable in the blistering heat than his companions hauled himself up onto the loader's bed. He bent down to scrutinize the label of the first crate. "It's in Russian." He called down. "Trying to translate it now."

The loader's operator gave the first man a quizzical look. "Russian? What's that?"

The man gave a faint smile. "Dead language."

"Ah." The operator nodded to show that he understood, though he clearly didn't.

Dimmetri stood. "It's what we came for." He called down again.

The first man smiled, then turned to the operator. "Where do I sign?"

The operator handed him a Palm Pilot and a stylus. "What's all this stuff for, a museum?"

The first man gave him a sour look. "More questions mean less tip."

"Ah, yes, of course. None of my business." the operator agreed hastily.

"Remember that." the man said with a thin smile before scratching his signature across the Palm Pilot's surface. He then held it out for the other man to take.

"Thank you sir." The operator said as he reached for the device. He jumped, startled, as Dimmetri dropped lightly to the ground beside him. Unnerved, he ran a quick check of the signature. "Everything uh…" a nervous glance at Dimmetri, "everything seems fine sir."

The man nodded. "Bring the loader to the back of the truck." The operator nodded and scrambled up to the control seat.

The loader coughed to life and backed up slowly. The operator spun the wheel and expertly brought it to line up perfectly with the open back of the trailer. He punched another button and the wheels locked. He then swung around in his seat and began operating a set of levers. The cargo platform rose on hydraulic pistons until it was level with the floor of the trailer. Another lever pull and the platform slid easily into the waiting space. Then the loader pulled away, leaving the crates stacked neatly at the back of the cargo space.

The operator brought the loader back onto the run-way and then scrambled down again. "Sir you need to sign again."

"What?" the man looked up.

The operator nodded. "Yes sir. It's a liability waiver. Any damage to your freight from this point on is not the responsibility of Global Enterprises' Shipping Concern or the Cairo Inter-continental airfield."

"All right." the man grumbled as he took the proffered Palm Pilot. He noticed that the operator's finger just happened to be pointing to a box at the bottom of the screen labeled "Service Charge". He snorted and scrawled his signature in the indicated box. Then he tapped an inordinately high number in the tips box. In the comments box beneath that, he scrawled: Silence is golden.

He handed the Palm back to the operator with a smirk. The operator's eyes widened slightly. Then he gave his best approximation of a salute and jumped back into his loader.

The man waited till the loader was well on its way before turning to his companions. "All right. Dimmetri, get the camouflage nets, Derrick, help him."

The two men nodded and headed for the back of the truck. The first man hopped back into the truck's cabin and pulled a concealed screen from under the dash board. On it he flicked a switch labeled Cargo Scan Masker to on. Then he re-concealed the panel and headed for the back. Now, if they were scanned at a checkpoint, they would appear to be hauling a few crates of preserved food. If Derrick and Dimmetri did their jobs right, a cursory visual inspection would confirm that fact.

He entered the back of the truck just in time to see his two companions pulling a sheet of what looked like super thick Seran Wrap taut over the pile of crates. It fit snugly against the bottom of the pile. Dimmetri thumbed a switch on the wall. The wrap glowed faintly for a moment, then seemed to disappear. At first glance the crates seemed the same. However, now each of them bore the seal of a dried food manufacturer on its side.

The man smiled briefly before jumping to the ground and beckoning for his companions to join him. "All right, good work. One last check, everyone have their Jordanian passports and working papers?" He held out a sheaf of expertly forged identification papers and nodded as the other two men produced similar packets.

"Very well. Lets go." All three headed for the cabin and piled in. The eighteen-wheeler spun around and headed for the road. On their way from the airfield, they passed a sign that read:

Jordan Sector Border - 300 kilometers

* * *

Sally Poe sat in her booth at Preventer headquarters and watched the alert board idly. It was nearing three in the morning and there had been no alerts for two weeks. I hope Wuffie hasn't waited up. He knew I had graveyard shift. Sally smiled as she thought of her husband. Knowing him, he'd be along shortly with a cup of tea.

She almost didn't notice when the incoming transmission light beeped to life. "Huh? At this hour?" she murmured to herself. She flicked the accept switch. Static appeared on her screen. A mechanical voice repeated a pre recorded message:

"four-seven-six… transmission on encrypted line E-three-T-nine-four-seven-six… transmission on encrypted line E-three-T-nine…"

Sally looked at the comm in surprise and blinked a few times to make sure she wasn't dreaming.

"encrypted line E-three-T-nine-four-seven-six… transmission on…" The message repeated ceaselessly.

Sally clicked the respond button. "This is Water using secret line R to respond." Her fingers danced across the keyboard as she entered the command code. The message stopped its repetition and for a moment there was no sound but the hiss of static. No image appeared on the screen but a voice did issue from the speaker.

"Do the preventers still put out fires?"

Huh? Sally thought to herself. This wasn't anything close to what might be considered normal protocol. The term "put out fires" had been used by the preventers to describe themselves within the organization. That slang, however, had not been used since the very early days of the organization.

"This is Water. Follow standard transmission protocol or prepare to have line terminated."

The voice did not sound disturbed by this prospect as it repeated. "Do the preventers still put out fires?"

What the hell is up with this guy? Now that she though about it, she realized that the secret line he was transmitting on was extremely old. It had been discontinued shortly after the end of Marimaia Wars.

"Do the preventers still put out fires?"

Sally Poe ground her teeth. I might as well see what he wants. "Yes, we put out fires."

A pause. Probably a transmission lag. He must be transmitting from very far away indeed. "Good. Old coals are being slowly kindled."

"What?" Sally drew back momentarily. "What do you mean?"

Again, the voice refused a straight answer. "Beneath the baking desert sun, the dove of peace is hunted. The flames grow larger with each passing dawn and soon all may be consumed. Only if Earth, Water, Wind, and Fire band together once more may this coal be silenced from its smoldering."

Sally shook her head. "Speak sense damnit! Follow protocol or prepare to have this line terminated."

After the appropriate lag: "Two days ago a intercontinental shipment plane delivered a package to Cairo. It was then smuggled across the Jordanian border by way of a delivery truck. It is now en-route to a dessert enclave. I do not know the location. You must find it soon. The fox has spied the dove."

Sally was now fully bewildered. But she took accurate note of the strange informant's information. "Who are you?"

The lag went on so long she feared he had cut the line. Then finally: "I am a shade of what has been. Leave the ghosts to themselves. Only the dove of peace and her rose matter now."

Then, only static.

What the hell?

She heard the door hiss open behind her. She spun, startled, to face the visitor. Wuffie gave her a slightly bemuse smile. "What's wrong?"

Sally shook her head. "I just got an incredibly odd message. He asked if we still put out fires."

Wuffie handed her a steaming cup of green tea. He then popped the transmission log disk from its holder and spun it in his hand. "I'll give this to Trent. He's been bored out of his mind, it'll give him something to do."

"Right."

"Will everything be all right?"

Sally looked distant for a moment as her mind drifted back across memories of battle and pain. "Lord, I hope so. Oh Lord, how I hope."