Une had been right when she predicted his things were in a mess – the duffel had been thrown together, clothing clearly ripped from hangers and out of drawers and stuffed into the bag any way they would fit, with his toiletries and other personal effects tossed into the mix for good measure. It was barely a moment's looking before Zechs concluded that the only way he was going to find anything would be to upend the whole damned thing out onto the ground and sort as he repacked.
Swearing softly to himself as he began to do just that, he missed the quiet chuckle from behind him and so jumped half out of his skin when another pair of hands joined him in his sorting.
Otto laughed at him again for his trouble and earned himself the pleasure of having some of the cursing directed at him personally.
"And here I thought I was doing you a favour by offering to help with this mess," he teased back, an impish light in his eyes.
"And I'll be grateful, I'm sure, when I haven't just had five years taken off my life!"
Otto laughed at him again, shaking his head as he began to refold clothes and separate out personal items. "It'll do you good; get your blood flowing," he replied, ignored the disbelieving splutter, and sighed. "Well, at least everyone's things are in the same mess," he said, folding and setting aside a shirt that Zechs, after looking at it twice, realised wasn't his own. "It's going to take weeks to sort this lot out. People will be handing back misplaced items next year!"
Zechs shook his head. "When we get a base more organised, or when we pull back from this campaign, I'll simply send the whole lot to the laundry and let them return anything that's not mine to its rightful owner. I'd suggest you pass that idea around – it might save some time. Right at the moment, I'm only interested in finding a change of clothes and my soap. I have another mission to fly in an hour."
Otto's face showed his surprise but he was too well-trained to ask a superior officer for details of his orders, so he set himself simply to rooting through the piles of stuff until he and Zechs had located a clean set of clothes between them.
Zechs sighed as he took the bundle from Otto and began shoving the rest of the mass back into his bag, looking up with a grateful smile when Otto stopped him and said, "Leave it with me, sir. I'll have it straight for you by the time you get back."
"Thank you."
"It's no trouble." Otto took the bag from Zechs and slung it over his shoulder easily, noting that it was a good bit lighter than his own. "You made little Walker's day, by the way," he commented.
Zechs looked at him, scowling. "Walker?"
Otto nodded. "The pilot you sent to the command bunker last night?" he reminded, making Zechs smile as he recalled.
"Ah, yes. The little Aries officer. He's a brave lad."
"Yes, sir. Good pilot, too – he's in my unit. You made his day, speaking to him the way you did. All he's talked about all day was what you said to him and how you sent him to talk to His Excellency. He's star-struck. It's absolute hero-worship."
Zechs shook his head, trying to fight away the blush he could feel threatening. It wasn't that he hadn't known his pilots, for the most part, looked up to him, but that was going a little far. "I barely talked to the boy. I was trying to steady him – he said he hadn't been in combat before."
Otto shrugged. "Well, whatever you said worked. I don't think he's actually noticed anything else all day."
"As long as he's alright."
"Perfectly. Driving my Squadron commander mad, as it happens. Walker's only been out of the Academy three weeks; we were all expecting to have to nursemaid him through today but he's bouncing off the walls, he's so happy."
The imagery Otto's words called to mind made Zechs chuckle in genuine amusement. "I'm glad he's not hurt," the blond admitted. "He seemed a nice boy."
"Earnest and eager as a boy scout," Otto replied. "If it weren't for the big puppy-dog eyes and the fact that he's actually quite the talent, he'd be irritating as hell. He'll be better when we've had chance to season him a bit."
Zechs canted the other man a sideways look, remembering far too clearly what that meant from his own first days in an active unit. Fortunately for the sake of his dignity, Treize had been his Squadron commander from day one and had made it clear that, whilst he didn't mind a bit of light hazing, the more rambunctious and embarrassing practices that new pilots usually had to suffer didn't meet with his approval and any behaviour unbecoming to a gentleman was strictly forbidden.
"Don't be too rough with him," he warned Otto, recalling how grateful he'd been for his older friend's rules. Noin and his other Academy mates had written him some real horror stories.
Otto shrugged. "Oh, we won't be. We won't need to be, once we get through this. A few drinks, his first woman… he'll be fine, I promise."
Zechs shot him another look but settled for shaking his head ruefully as the two of them approached the large trailers at the centre of the hastily thrown together formation. The large red crosses on the sides and roofs of the vehicles marked them as medical stations in the time-honoured international convention.
The inside of the trailers was chaos, but Zechs could see on first glance that it was organised chaos. Doctors and nurses scurried about with the brisk pace unique to military medics performing triage, dressing wounds, dispensing advice and discharging those men fit enough to leave with a supportive clap on the shoulder.
It took one of the nurses a few minutes to spot Zechs and Otto where they were hovering just inside the door. He came hurrying over when he did, offering an apologetic smile.
"Sorry to leave you standing there, Major Marquise. What can I help you with? You're not hurt, I hope?"
"His Excellency sent me," Zechs replied. "I'm supposed to ask you about water to wash in and…."
The nurse cut him off mid-word. "Ah!" he interrupted. "Of course. I'm sorry, yes, we did get that message. Apparently you're in for a quick turn around?"
Zechs exchanged a glance with Otto before nodding. "Somewhat."
"Right, then. This way." The nurse led the way across the inside of the first trailer swiftly, pulling back a flap in the canvas walls and showing both pilots into a little ante-chamber section off the main body. They were intended, Zechs knew, to house critical patients or for performing emergency surgery and it pleased him to see that this space was empty, clearly having not been used.
The nurse offered Zechs a quick smile. "A doctor will be in to look at you in a moment," he said.
"That's not necessary," Zechs demurred. "A basin of water will be enough."
"His Excellency's orders, sir, sorry. He was very specific about wanting you looked over properly. He said something about you 'overdoing things again' and asked if we could do anything to compensate."
Zechs sighed. "Thank you." He waited until the nurse had stepped back out of the small space and then, with Otto manfully smothering chuckles at his side, swore softly. "Manipulative bastard."
"His Excellency?" Otto asked. "He just knows you too well, sir."
"He's just spent ten minutes taping my hands for me, purely to throw me off the scent! Doesn't he have better things to do?" Zechs demanded.
Otto had no idea whether he was expected to answer or not, but he did so anyway. "Well, would you have come here with an open injury?" he asked, wondering what Zechs could have done to his hands of all things. "Or would you have avoided the medics, treated yourself, changed clothes and gone on your next mission?" He shrugged knowingly. "He saw you in Dover, after all. You don't even feel that you're hurt when you get a bee in your bonnet about something."
Zechs, privately acknowledging the truth of the words, still glowered at his friend, annoyed even more when Otto simply laughed at him.
He was saved from any other commentary by the appearance of a doctor, who in time-honoured military fashion, ordered Otto outside the canvas screen and Zechs to strip to the waist without so much as pausing to say hello.
Half an hour later, poked and prodded at, jabbed with needles and dosed with pills, Zechs found himself making the grateful acquaintance of a pre-packaged, self-heating bowl of stew, a couple of mugs of instant coffee and another bottle of concentrated nutrient drink.
Those wolfed down with the speed of a man that hadn't eaten for most of a day, Zechs turned his attention to the rest of his refreshment. He sluiced his body with tepid water and liberal amounts of soap, applied his razor and his toothbrush cursorily, and brushed a dry chemical shampoo through his hair to pull the dirt and the sweat from it. It wasn't a replacement for washing and conditioning it properly but it did keep him looking presentable in the short term and as long as he caught his hair before it became truly bad, it would work for a good few days.
Treize always had wondered how a career soldier managed waist length hair in the field.
After swiftly buttoning and buckling the clean uniform he and Otto had found into place, the blond slid his helmet back over his head and made his way from the medical trailers over to the open area of desert the engineers and mechanics had claimed as their own.
His Taurus suit was standing in the middle of a hive of activity, its twin sister next to it as their maintenance crews scurried around them. Valder's Taurus looked like it had been grounded for a while, its service hatches closed and its fuel leads disconnected as the last few of its techs moved around it. His own, on the other hand, was still half in pieces as Meiser commanded his crew to do in an hour what should have taken a day. Zechs knew he'd both taken damage to his suit in his long combat stint and caused it himself with his aggressive, unceasing piloting.
"Good evening, gentlemen," he greeted politely, as he drew level with the engineers. "Is there anything I can do to help?"
The look he received from his crew chief would have been frightening, if Zechs had been one to be easily rattled. "Yes, sir," Meiser replied shortly. "You can stay out of the way."
Zechs felt his eyebrows lift underneath the mask. "I beg your pardon?" he asked mildly.
"You can stay out of the way," the chief repeated. "Unless you want to tell me what you've been thinking all day. Was there a point to pushing an experimental suit like this, or were you just feeling suicidal?"
The man's tone was well past the bounds of respect. Zechs should have hauled him over the coals for it, berating him for the lack of deference at the very least. Even without the fact that Zechs was a Major to Meiser's Lieutenant, the Special's de facto second in command to a simple Mechanic, no crew chief that wanted to keep his job ever spoke to his pilot that way. Pilots were the thoroughbreds of the organisation, and anyone in any support role learned early in their career to handle them accordingly.
This crew chief, though, thought nothing of yelling at his pilot when he felt it warranted. That might well have been why Zechs liked him. Certainly, Treize had been taken with the man's bluntly challenging nature when they'd met.
Considering the engineer's words, Zechs tilted his head to one side, rocking back onto his heels in the desert sand. "I was thinking it would be wise for me to do everything I could to keep as many personnel alive as possible," he replied, stating the obvious somewhat. "As for pushing an experimental suit – I had little choice and I hardly considered it 'suicidal'. And, now we know how it holds up to full combat conditions."
"Yeah, we do," Meiser agreed. "Three suits out of six down and destroyed, one badly damaged and inoperable, the other two needing extensive maintenance. They're going to be an expensive business, these Taurus's."
"Probably," Zechs agreed quietly. "How soon will the suit be ready? I regret having to push but I'm scheduled on another mission in just under twenty minutes."
Meiser cracked a grim smile. "You don't regret it at all," he retorted. "If you have to fly in just under twenty minutes, your suit will be ready for you in just under fifteen. Time enough for you to run through a proper pre-flight check and engine start, sir," he added pointedly.
Zechs smiled in acknowledgement. "Thank you, Meiser. Are you certain there's nothing I can do?" he asked again, knowing what he would be told.
"Positive," the engineer growled. "Here, sit there," he all but ordered, gesturing at his own little folding stool, "and read this." He picked up a handwritten file and shoved it into Zechs's hands. "It's a list of modifications made to the suit in the last half hour."
The smile he offered this time was warm, genuine. "One good thing about you flying like that – at least I know where you're straining the suit. Usually takes months to start seeing that kind of data."
"Taurus Two to Taurus Leader, I am clear for take off. Awaiting orders."
Zechs heard the words of his squadron second as he brought his own suit into the air in a launch that was far more graceful and controlled than his first of the day.
"Acknowledged, Taurus Two. Please match heading and speed to Taurus Leader and stand by for further instruction."
Meiser had been good to his word, presenting Zechs with a fully functional Taurus just five minutes before he was scheduled to fly out of the temporary base. It had been none too soon, because Valder Farkill had strolled up a moment later, looking rested and relaxed.
As the second Taurus suit came into position above, behind and to the left of Zechs's, the radio crackled again. "And here we are again, eh, Marquise?"
Farkill's voice was just as smug and annoying as it had been when they'd last spoken that morning. Zechs counted it as a blessing that he hadn't had to deal with the other man all day.
They'd taken the mutual decision to fight independently very early on, knowing they could do more good apart than together. Combined, their combat abilities were overwhelming but there was no point in focussing all that force in one small area when the entire line of the retreat was under attack – they were better using their individual skills to fire fight any particular spots of concentrated enemy action or weakening defence.
"Yes, Captain, here we are again. I trust you have no objections to your orders?" Zechs challenged, all but daring the other man to complain.
He received a droll chuckle in response. "Tell me what they are and I'll let you know," Farkill replied. "Our lord and master didn't deign to tell me what he wanted me to do. He just ordered me to report to my suit."
Zechs raised an eyebrow, smirking to himself. Treize had the most roundabout way of apologising for things the blond had ever encountered. He'd annoyed Zechs with his approach to Valder that morning and this – leaving the other man in the dark whilst briefing Zechs fully – was his way of compensating. By allowing the blond to have superior information, he was also allowing him to regain the superior position.
"You were given your orders before I was available for command discussion," Zechs commented. "We're conducting a hit-and-run raid on a nearby A.I.S. outpost as a diversionary tactic, drawing fire whilst the main force digs in and prepares to counter-attack." As he spoke, Zechs tied his command computer into the systems on the other Taurus and began an information dump that would give the other pilot the details of co-ordinates and attack vectors he was going to need. The data also included the sketched out details of Treize's plans for the counter-offensive, information which had arrived by medium of a disc in Lady Une's hands just before Valder himself showed up. Zechs hadn't really had chance to read it himself yet, but it would gall the other pilot to no end that Zechs was privy to such high-level tactics when he wasn't.
There were a few minutes of silence, and then a stunned whistle echoed over the radio. "Jesus Christ, Marquise. I take it all back!" Valder exclaimed.
Zechs didn't reply to the comment immediately. "Prepare to switch mode," he instructed, seeing from his heads-up display that the two suits were far enough from the main lines. "In three…two…one…and…mark!" he counted off, and hit the controls that would take his Taurus from its humanoid shape to that of a sleek fighter craft. His readouts showed Valder doing the same, and Zechs gave him just enough time to complete the exchange, then began relaying more orders. "Set course and speed according to program on my mark."
"Acknowledged. Standing by."
"Mark!"
Fluidly, both mobile suits banked to come to the heading that would bring them over the outpost Treize had designated, both pilots letting one foot push heavily on the pedal that controlled engine output as they simultaneously let one hand pull back on the control it held to tilt the nose. The suits banked so tightly they almost pivoted in place, and then both men bore down hard with their feet, straightening their noses and accelerating so suddenly the suits seemed to jump forward.
Twin sonic booms shattered the still desert air – the reason that Zechs had waited to clear the camp before coming to full speed – and the momentary turbulence of approaching the sound barrier died away. The two Taurus's had just crossed into realms that had been previously reserved only for true planes.
"Mach speed achieved," Zechs noted into the pick-up for his 'black box' recorder. "What were you saying, Valder?" he asked his radio.
There was a dark chuckle in answer. "I take it the general was a touch annoyed at being caught on the hop like that?" the other man asked.
Zechs scowled. "What do you mean by that?" he demanded.
"These counter-attack plans." There was another low whistle of appreciation. "Vicious, Marquise. Beautiful, but fucking vicious. I didn't think he had it in him."
Had what in him? Zechs wondered, feeling suddenly chilled. Quickly, letting subconscious thought and muscle memory take over the piloting, the blond pulled up the file and skimmed his eyes over it. He frowned at plans for a series of surgical strikes against the towns and bases in the region, a run of leapfrogging, unceasing hits in an expanding wave deep into enemy territory, especially at the intended attacks on some of the bigger civilian areas but he didn't see what Farkill was calling 'vicious.'
"I really do take it all back," the other pilot continued, his tone of voice menacing. "The bastard's a genius. No fucking wonder they called him the Oncoming Storm."