Megatron paced, fuming. The assault on the NEST base had gone all wrong. He couldn't risk sending his Decepticon reserves to attack, so he had sent his "improved" Flyboys… and they had all been decimated to scrap metal. Along with their Pretender commander.
He would not attack the base again. He would wait until the mutants were elsewhere, away from the Autobots. They would be vulnerable and he would have nothing to lose. His spies had informed him that soon the Flock would be leaving Diego Garcia. Details were moot at this point, but he would find them out soon enough. Until then, all he could do was wait. Wait, and keep building up new units. He was already making more improvements for the Flyboys that would rectify their various weaknesses. They were complicated enough for him to use, and stupid enough to follow any order… even if it was a suicide order.
His own secret lair was beneath the ocean floor, somewhere in the Bering Strait. What looked like a skeletal factory had been established along one wall; mass-production of Flyboys was under way. Technological pieces scavenged from the Nemesis sprawled there as well, providing him with access to various communications and infiltration ware that humans knew nothing of. Such machinery was beyond their comprehension and probably would not be developed in their cultures for the next thousand years.
Though they will not live to see that day, Megatron thought, relishing the impending doom of humanity.