Robotech: The Enforcers' War

by GVincent

Sequel to- "Robotech: The Ashes of Empire" & "Robotech: The Smoldering Earth" The renegade Te'Dak Tohl Zentraedi forces of Supreme General Krymina launch their campaign to seize Zor's Battle Fortress and The Invid Flower of Life on an Earth in internal turmoil in their revolt against The Robotech Masters. Earth forces struggle to unite and to repel this new Zentraedi threat.

2. Just Another Day

ROBOTECH:

The Enforcers' War

By GVincent

"ACHILLES' baneful wrath- resound, O goddess- that impos'd

Infinite sorrows on the Greeks, and many brave souls loos'd

From breasts heroic; sent them far, to that invisible cave

That no light comforts, and their limbs to dogs and vultures gave-."

The Iliad,

Homer

Chapter One

..Just Another Day…

"It is a broadly accepted misconception that space is a great void- unless you are speaking merely of a concentration of physical matter per unit of volume."

"When you expand the definition of content to less empirically measurable and quantifiable things than matter- say, the notion of threat or danger for instance- then your perspective on space changes drastically."

"The universe is filled- seems almost to exceed its capacity even- with dangers both modest and immeasurable."

"To say that we were unaware of danger is untrue."

"To say that we were unprepared is grossly unjust."

"To be frank and accurate is to say that we were unaware of and unprepared for the source from which the danger would come."

General Breetai

Military Chief of Staff,

Robotech Defense Forces,

United Earth

Deep Space

The fleet units of the 7th Grand Army of the Te'Dak Tohl stood at station like a constellation whose significance lay not in subjective recognition of a meaningful form in the random clustering of stars associated in some way with the viewer's greater culture, but as the gatherings of metal forms whose purpose was of significance to a culture by well-calculated design.

Zentraedi armies had gathered in such ways for the making of war against the enemies and the subjects of The Robotech Masters for centuries, so it would have been false to say that such a sight had never been seen. Particular and unique to this massing of Zentraedi warships though was the party whose interests they now stood ready to serve.

Like all constellations this one too was disintegrating, though at a comparatively accelerated rate to those composed actually of stars. Stellar constellations vanished over the span of millennia- the movement of the stars that had created them slowly robbing the cultures that had named them of the form that had inspired their naming. Conversely, the engineered constellation that was the fleet of the 7th Grand Army had formed with purpose and had built upon this meaning as its ranks thinned by the leaping of entire units into hyperspace.

First to depart had been the Trendok 145 Robotech Automated Factory. Arguably the core of the constellation by virtue of its sheer size that dwarfed by orders of magnitude even the largest vessels of the fleet, The Factory had long since recovered from the minor damage of an insignificant norghil retaliation to the purging of their armies that had enabled the sudden growth of the 7th Grand Army.

The Trendok 145 had departed, leaping in spacefold across the reaches of the cosmos, not released from the service of the Te'Dak Tohl but rather to a new position from which it could perform its function. It would arrive in a quiet pocket of space in just over a week's time and would remain there in anticipation of serving the children both biological and mechanical of its fertile, technological womb. Vast holds stood filled with the material critical for the conduct of any Zentraedi operation while the cloning facilities of the same Factory were well on their way to producing the next generation of warriors who would succeed those who were sure to fall.

According to a meticulously constructed timetable based on the product of refined planning, the fleet elements had begun less than an hour before to depart as well. Each unit, some as small as task forces comprised of as few a three scout ships while others constituting entire battle groups sortied with specific and well-defined assignments that would build upon one another toward achieving the main and common goal to which all energy in the 7th Grand Army had been dedicated for a Tirolian season and a half.

Now that activities were in execution that heretofore had been only interdependent events on a long list, Sub-General Caldettas still did not feel the governed excitement that he had expected to well up within him at this moment. Moreover as he walked the route from Artoc's command center to Supreme General Krymina's quarters- a path he could have walked as easily by memory in total darkness- he did not sense that nervous excitement in the officers, warriors, and crew he passed in the corridors either. A stranger to the 7th Grand Army's flagship who had not been privileged to the labors of the past season and a half would likely not have known by the signs and general disposition of those around him that the opening moves of naked insurrection were afoot.

And perhaps this had been by Supreme General Krymina's design.

The commanding officer had removed herself to her quarters shortly after the unceremonious transfer of her flag back to Artoc from the Trendok 145 days earlier, and had scarcely been seen since with the exception of receiving her meals from attendants. The final order of execution initiating the operation had even come to the command center via intercom and with much the same intonation of urgency that the crew and staff might have expected in an order to make a minor change in the fleet's course.

There would be a rise in tension and a change in the prevailing mood of the crew eventuallly. There was no avoiding this, Caldettas knew. For now though, the general atmosphere was an eerie still and quiet.

Sub-General Caldettas made a brief examination of self and a minor adjustment to the line of his uniform tunic and trousers as he arrived at the door of Supreme General Krymina's quarters. He paid no attention to the two armed guards standing post at the door, constant and unaffected by his approach as the corridor's light fixtures overhead, but rather pressed the intercom's buzzer switch without acknowledging their presence.

"Yes?"

Supreme General Krymina's voice was the calm that exemplified the strange stillness that was prevalent throughout the ship. In the single word there was a hint that she not only knew who was at her cabin door but had expected his arrival at precisely that moment.

"Caldettas, Supreme General.", the army's executive officer announced, feeling foolish for the reasons of his perception.

"Enter.", came the reply.

Those unfamiliar with Krymina and her blunt and icy mannerisms might have heard in the reply an invitation whose offer they would have been hesitant to accept.

Caldettas had no such fears though.

The door slid open smoothly with only the softest whisper allowing Caldettas to enter. Given the power afforded to a Zentraedi flag officer- either warrior caste or Te'Dak Tohl,- by The Robotech Masters, it seemed to Caldettas that the living accommodations provided for them was disproportionately modest.

A case in point was Supreme General Krymina's quarters that consisted like the quarters of all senior and commanding officers of a bunk, a private lavatory and cleansing station, a standard workstation, and a locker slightly larger than those provided to the rank and file for the storage of uniforms. Only the addition of a briefing table for six and the additional space required to accommodate it separated the features of the supreme general's quarters from Caldettas's own.

It was at the briefing table, seated at the head, that Caldettas found Krymina- but not alone as he had expected. The Tirolians, Darius and the perpetually infirm Philisto sat in proportionate chairs custom-manufactured for them by the Trendok 145 atop the briefing table.

At Darius's insistence he and Philisto had transferred to Artoc at the same time as Supreme General Krymina's flag. The transition that had required the effort of nearly as many personnel for the quantity of ornate appointments to their living space that they had acquired in their time aboard The Factory.

Sub-General Caldettas had not seen the point in bringing the alien scientists aboard the flagship and had not known that they would be sharing each other's company until almost the moment that Artoc had retracted moorings from its slip in spacedock to depart. Their training and skills lay in the sciences, not military strategy- giving them no function aboard a command ship during combat operations. Given even the very remote possibility that the scientists might be injured or killed before they could perform the services of rendering the conquest of the alien world useful to the Te'Dak Tohl seemed argument enough in Caldettas's mind to leave them far from the battle in the isolated safety of The Factory, and under the guard of the garrison and the battle group that Krymina had detached for its reinforced defense.

Still, Supreme General Krymina had granted the willful Darius's "request", and the Tirolians had become guests of the Artoc.

More disconcerting to Caldettas than finding Krymina in the company of the openly devious and misanthropic Darius was the fact that Caldettas's thoughts of only moments earlier had seemed to conjure the Tirolians. It was their comparatively opulent style of living that had caused Caldettas to reflect for the first time on just how unpolished the existence of the Zentraedi was when compared with what Darius had referred to on many occasions in his company as "the bare essentials"- and had done so only partially in jest.

On each of these occasions Caldettas's reaction to the self-pitying complaints of the self-indulgent Tirolians had been disgust primarily. Disgust that they had allowed themselves to grow so distracted by things that served no function as to waste their energies harping on the absence of them. The root cause of the moral corruption that had weakened The Robotech Masters to a state of collapse could be seen in these members of the race from whom The Masters had elevated themselves.

This preoccupation with excessive comfort and ornamented surroundings magnified as the egos of The Masters surely would amplify them gave Caldettas insight into the motivations that The Masters had for creating the Zentraedi. It transcended the need to maintain order over a vast empire spanning an entire galaxy and defending themselves from the Invid by meeting them squarely on their own terms.

Caldettas realized through his interactions with Darius and Philisto that The Robotech Masters needed others to do the brute work of governance to allow them the time to indulge in their self-image as gods and to pursue their own appetites.

When he thought of this, Caldettas could not help but feel the burn of indignation toward those he had served without question for so long.

Had Supreme General Krymina not conceived of the idea herself, Caldettas was certain that with his new understanding of these deeply flawed, self-appointed demigods that he would have proposed insurrection himself.
He had not though. The realization of the problem the resolution had been hers. Caldettas resigned himself to the probability that the best he could hope to do was to facilitate his superior's vision.

Caldettas trusted Krymina's vision as much as he trusted the intuition that had led her to conceive of it. It was those qualities along with Caldettas's facilitation that made her a successful warrior.

He trusted that her intuition made her trust of their Tirolian "allies" a qualified one. Darius in particular, this was likely why Krymina had the Tirolians aboard Artoc. Her instincts told her to watch them as surely as Caldettas's told him to suspect every one of their acts. Krymina knew that their labors and creativity were a volatile resource to be closely monitored, and not ones to be trusted if left alone with the manufacturing might of a Robotech Factory.

Darius and Philisto had claimed many times to participate for reasons of revenge, though there was certainly more to them and their motives than that. Unspoken compulsions not withstanding, revenge against The Robotech Masters was a suitable enough cause for Krymina to keep their company.

They were suitable allies so long as either side had a knife to the other's throat.

"-Ahhh-!", Darius said, transparently feigning happiness to see the grand army's executive officer, "And with you here now, Sub-General- the intellectual foundation of our cozy, little rebellion is again united!"

As though to supplement Caldettas's understanding of what he had walked in on, Krymina motioned to the Tirolians and explained, "Darius was encouraging me to imbibe in wine and attempting to rationalize how the consumption of a mind-numbing agent was useful at a moment of action. He was less than successful."

Darius glanced up at the Zentraedi sub-general who towered above him, his face slightly flushed from drink, and said, "-As though our paltry , little food synthesizer could produce enough wine in a week to even bring color to her cheeks-. And I suspect that you will not partake either, Sub-General?"

Caldettas shook his head, saying, "No, I regret I must decline. It's as impractical a practice as it is unfamiliar."

"Self-rule is unfamiliar, but you do not shy away from that.", Darius pointed out.

Caldettas was preparing to engage in the debate that Darius was laying the grounds for when he realized the Tirolian's goal was the confrontation itself and not the discussion. The sub-general opted to sidestep the snare.

"Supreme General, I beg to report-."

"Our time to beg is growing short, Caldettas.", Krymina interrupted, perhaps accepting Darius's challenge in Caldettas's place and putting an end to the debate with a single, decisive stroke, "Report-."

Unfazed, Caldettas continued, "Sub-General Jekketh's units have assembled at departure stations- finally."

Caldettas's report required no lengthy explanation for Krymina to understand fully, nor did Caldettas need to voice how the whole series of events involving Jekketh and his expanded force annoyed him.

Supreme General Krymina had fulfilled her agreement with Jekketh to review and consider his proposal for war exercises with his enlarged army as the first modified clones had begun to form the ranks of new units in the sub-general's command. After minor modification, Krymina had given her approval to Jekketh's plan and within a week's time of that nod had turned Jekketh loose on a lifeless world for the purpose of stress-testing the forces Darius had delivered.

Sub-General Caldettas had governed magnificently his irritation at the special considerations Jekketh had all but demanded and received from Krymina in the staging of his exercise- but he had been forced to quickly concede to the benefits he enjoyed from them as Krymina had said he would. Jekketh had all but vanished for weeks and with him had taken the incessant meddling and interruptions he frequently brought to the operational planning process.

Almost contrary to Caldettas's experience, Jekketh had been a non-factor for the most part except for those instances in which Caldettas had actually been forced to solicit Jekketh's engagement in the process. Even in these cases, Caldettas had sent undeveloped plan components to Jekketh with the request that details be filled in as appropriate from the ground force commander's level- and in each instance the component was returned within the allotted time and in a completed state.

There had even been little push-back from Jekketh in planning for the seizure or elimination of key strategic sites on the alien world as identified by Action Commander Kevtok and his reconnaissance force whose intelligence and observations had been invaluable to the planning effort. Caldettas suspected that this simply meant that Jekketh was placating him with formulated "intended" plans of action and would, as he normally did, execute operations as it suited him.

This was fine with Caldettas though. Jekketh was aware of the higher objectives of the operation that now included capture of the world in as serviceable a condition as possible- a fundamental change made since Kevtok's discovery that The Flower of Life was able to grow on this alien world. As for losses among the indigenous population and to some extent even in the expanded ranks of Jekketh's "improved" norghil army- Supreme General Krymina was unconcerned and was therefore unconcerned with the particulars of Jekketh's field operations. This being the case, Caldettas was able to find satisfaction in simply getting Jekketh to contribute to operational planning on his terms.

"Has Jekketh submitted an after action report for his exercise?", Krymina asked with mild concern, "I have not seen one."

"No, Liege- he has not.", Caldettas replied, qualifying the statement with, "Though he alluded to one being nearly complete. My impression was that he was satisfied with the performance of his new warriors."

Darius interjected without warning and in a tone that one would have expected from a man defending his work, "You expected otherwise, Sub-General?"

"I was not implying that at all.", Caldettas countered, still wary not to be cornered into the argument that Darius was still in search of.

Supreme General Krymina rendered aid to her executive officer though her tone spoke more of her desire to hear the details of his report than of one to be of genuine assistance.

"You were saying, Caldettas-?"

Caldettas collected himself and felt his thoughts fall back into proper order as he continued-.

"The last Phase One units have just sortied, Supreme General. Phase Two units will begin their departures per the timetable within the hour. Forward deployed reconnaissance and observation units continue to report slightly elevated though nominal alien fleet activity within the operational system based on the observed baseline. –It would seem that the aliens are unaware that any significant action has initiated against them."

Krymina's expression grew distant with thought as did her voice as she said, "To be unprepared is highly uncharacteristic of Breetai, Caldettas. We should take some comfort in our apparent possession of the element of surprise, but I want none of our commanders to become complacent or to take that advantage for granted. Breetai is renowned for victory against long odds and impossible situations- I do not wish to build upon his legend."

"All precautions are being taken, Liege.", Caldettas assured Krymina, "Based on observed enemy fleet strength and concentrations, Supreme General, every projected simulation shows our forces to be ultimately victorious. Admittedly though, the greatest random element is Breetai's Robotech Factory."

Krymina nodded, a slight flicker of concern showing in her eyes. The presence of a Robotech Automated Factory, apparently under the control of Breetai and his alien allies and in orbit around their world had been detected by the earliest Te'Dak Tohl scout units deployed to the system for long-range intelligence gathering. While the Factories had never been designed or even intended to participate in active combat, the formidable arsenal provided to even the smallest Factory designs made them a factor to be carefully considered.

The problem had been debated at length within the ranks of Krymina's planning staff and by her lieutenants in her presence. Concerns and arguments on both sides could essentially be reduced to the questions of whether Breetai had "active" control over the Factory orbiting the alien world, or a more passive one- borrowing support and favor from the facility's Hypercomp. If he had active control, would he commit his most valued asset to the defense of the alien world with whom he had sided against The Masters?

The only knowing of the answer to these questions was to be had in action.

"We shall see."

"I still advocate using the Trendok 145 to draw Breetai's Factory away, Supreme General.", Darius volunteered without solicitation and echoing the argument that he had made (also without invitation) at any number of planning sessions to which he had invited himself.

"Remove that variable from the equation."

Caldettas felt the need to sigh heavily though did not surrender to the urge as he prepared to respond with the argument that had been used time and time again.

"The possible benefits of removing the Factory from Breetai's control are strongly offset by the fact that we would be surrendering the surprise we have worked so hard to maintain, Darius. There's no telling whether Breetai's captured Factory even remains linked to The Network and would respond to an order to fold away from the alien world. –And, if it should, we would only have relocated an ideal platform for launching a retaliatory action against us to an area not under our direct control. No, tactically the best solution is to-."

Krymina interrupted, saying flatly, "This issue has been decided, Darius. Your contributions in the scientific fields are highly valued, but we have agreed that you will leave military matters to us."

Darius nodded his compliance, looking as he always did- not quite convinced of the correctness of his subordination to Zentraedi, but grudgingly accepting it.

"Of course, Supreme General."

Krymina's attention returned to Caldettas, "And what of Kevtok?"

Sub-General Caldettas had noticed in the time since when Action Commander Kevtok's mission had evolved from a purely intelligence-gathering operation to one of preparing an operational area for invasion that Supreme General Krymina's interest in his activities had increased dramatically.

The executive officer, knowing his superior, suspected that it had as much to do with symmetry in purpose that Krymina recognized between Kevtok and herself. She saw Kevtok as a scaled version of herself in his clandestine moves against Breetai and the aliens, acting much as she was against The Masters- preparing to strike from the shadows.

"Kevtok's observations and second-hand intelligence has been very useful in planning the landings in the portion of that particular continent on which he is operating.", Caldettas reported truthfully, "Coupled with our own long-range surveillance, we have been able to identify military installations and critical infrastructure better than in any other region. I am most curious however in seeing how effective his acquired force is at the diversionary attacks he has been alluding to at the time of our landings. I'm interested to see what he's managed to assemble in the way of a fighting force that has been scavenged from norghil warriors and mostly alien weaponry."

Krymina gave a small nod that may have been missed by some but that told Caldettas that she too had some interest in the matter. Unexpected battle damage to Kevtok's transport in its approach to the alien world had rendered most of its advanced communications systems useless- leaving only text message and file transfer functionality as a means of conferring while retaining security encryption. It had been sufficient to provide observation reports and maps that when matched with the topographical scans of scout vessels deployed at long range from the world fused into detailed intelligence on an area large enough to land three action armies. While the prevailing method of the landings was still to be to smash anything that could possibly provide the aliens a point from which to mount resistance or a counterattack, the sort of information being provided by Kevtok had allowed the planning staff to better prioritize targets in the region- more so than in any other.

While Caldettas realized that he as the chief planner of the landings and as an officer in general should have been both elated and grateful for this sort of detailed intelligence from the ground, he still found himself concerned.

After all- the intelligence had come through Kevtok, mostly from norghil marooned on the alien world.

Similarly, the "synchronized attacks" to take place that Kevtok had repeatedly alluded to in communications were to be executed by forces of norghil that the action commander had been hastily organizing and preparing.

In all of this, what concerned Caldettas the most was not that the intelligence was flawed or that the norghil whom Kevtok had conscripted into his service would fail or hinder the landings of the 7th Grand Army-. It was the possibility that they might perform the role Kevtok had been preparing them for admirably, and in doing so prove so many of the "truths" held by the average Te'Dak Tohl warrior about the common norghil as being in fact, grossly false.

It did not matter, Caldettas forced himself to resolve. Even in the best case projections of the invasion- action was to be fierce and nearly constant for some time. Warriors would be too distracted by their duty to have time to possibly foster some kind of kinship with genetic relatives whose norghil affiliation and alien contamination had already sealed their ultimate fate.

"I should like to review his reports and general support plans once we are secure in fold.", Krymina said.

"The sum of Kevtok's communications are filed together.", Caldettas replied, "I will have a copy of all of them pushed to your personal data store."

"Thank you.", Krymina said as a mere formality, "Is that all, Caldettas?"

"Yes, Liege.", Caldettas said blandly.

"Caldettas-."

"Yes, Supreme General?"

"You don't seem pleased that the operation that you've spent so much time planning is finally in motion. Didn't we have a conversation once about enjoying these moments?"

Caldettas sighed heavily, recalling several such conversations, "Yes, Supreme General-. However, as I said in each case, my enjoyment will come when the operation achieves what it was intended to accomplish. Until then, it is little more to me than calculations and variables in play. –When it is done, Supreme General."

"Soon, Caldettas.", Krymina assured her executive officer, "Soon."

Edwards City, the Mojave Desert,

California

0357hrs.

Lieutenant Colonel Nigel Patrick Winters awoke with a sudden start of panic that had him in a half-sitting position before he was even aware of waking.

The jarring transition between sleep and consciousness passed quickly like the sting of a slap to the face, and Winters' muscles relaxed dropping him heavily into the pillows once again. It was always the same breed of panic that awoke him a consistent three minutes before the rousing beep of the alarm clock. It wasn't a panic of distress or impending danger, but of the same kind as one would feel in looking at one's watch to discover that one was late for something important and unrecoverably so.

It had never made sense to Winters in the time it had been happening and it did not seem to matter how early he set the alarm because the jolting start to his days persisted. A shock into consciousness three minutes before the alarm appeared to be his daily torment-.

Or at least one of many.

At least, Winters resolved, he could count on regular company in bed to share with his mornings' discomfort. Over the breath of wind that carried a pattering of sand against the metal exterior of the trailer and the humming of the electric space heater that kept the chill of the desert nights out of the small bedroom Winters heard the first of another familiar morning sound. Starting softly but gaining volume with a rhythmic pulse to his breathing, Lucky's purr began to fill the room as a single paw found Winters' shoulder with the quiver of a cat's first morning stretch.

The worn mattress beside Winters was still warm in the space Rio had occupied all night and he was not surprised to not find her there. As much as he had the misfortune of waking before the alarm clock's revelry, Rio had a sense that always woke her earlier. Whether she suffered from the same affliction as Winters, he did not know as her waking had never roused him. As usual though, over the sounds of wind, sand, heater, and cat he could hear her out in the trailer's main room attempting to be quiet as she prepared the coffee machine for its morning duty.

There was another constant of morning to get out of way that Winters saw no need to put off longer than he had to.

Swinging his legs over the edge of the bed and sitting up he switched the clock selector switch from the alarm tone to the radio as he felt the first tickling deep in his chest. A forceful, hacking cough rattled his solid frame as his lungs launched their daily retaliation against years of smoking. The fit was brief this morning though- briefer than most anyway- and Winters opened his eyes to the day and the red glow of the alarm clock's LED face.

On his place on the mattress, Lucky indulged in a full toe-to-tail stretch and made his morning contemplation of the human with his single eye as the clock reached 4:00 and the radio crackled to life.

"This is the BBC Foreign Service-.", said the pleasant female voice that regularly greeted Winters as the first he heard in his day, "-And this is the morning news for the twenty-third of December."

Winters found the half pack of cigarettes and his lighter on the nightstand and had a smoke lit before he was consciously aware of doing so. It was a step on the path to summoning the strength to shower in hopes of achieving a human state- which he would have to do quickly. Freddy would be along shortly to pick him up for the commute to the base.

Freddy could be counted on to be punctual too as his presence on base had actual purpose recently, unlike the bureaucratic monotony of the purgatory that Winters' professional life had become recently.

Penance for his sins.

"High ranking officials in the Robotech Defense Forces are still reeling from yesterday's revelation by the Army of the Southern Cross of three independently developed and manufactured transformable forms of mecha- effectively ending the RDF monopoly on claims to that technology.", the female voice continued in her soothing tone, "Press releases from RDF public relations and responses to subsequent inquiries show officials unwilling to speculate at this time as to the reason for the sudden leap in ASC technological capability or on its significance in the malcontent situation in Central and South America that continues to deteriorate the stability of the region."

Unwilling to speculate Winters knew translated roughly into common English- the RDF had no idea and was caught completely off guard.

Certainly RDF Intelligence had known that having achieved several Destroid models of their own design that the ASC had turned their eyes ambitiously toward ascending to the next level of mastery in Robotechnology- transformable mecha. What Winters knew that the BBC and the press in general did not apparently was that the designs had been in a final mechanical-engineered form for some time and that working prototypes with limited function had even been built.

By "final mechanical-engineered form" and "limited function" was meant though that while each of the loosely named "Veritech" forms designed by the ASC- a hover tank, a helicopter/jet hybrid, and most disturbing to Winters a ground support attack fighter variant- were mature in their mechanical development, the highly sophisticated interface between pilot and machine had been known to still be out of the reach of General Marcus Leonard's home grown military industry.

Until now, it seemed.

"Neuropilot"- the bastard stepchild of Zor's research into The Flower of Life, and taken from the information that had been salvaged from his crashed space cruiser before it had been rebuilt and renamed SDF-1 – had been the missing piece that separated the ASC from achieving true Robotechnology. Neuropilot, the nexus of advanced computer programming, system design, and the wonders of bio-ethereal energy that allowed Veritech pilots after training to control the movements of their machines as naturally as had they been their own bodies had been the breath of God that the ASC could not blow into their inanimate things to make them living.

Constant as a way of things though, secrets never stayed secrets forever. However it had happened that knowledge was no longer the sole possession of The United Earth Robotech Defense Forces.

What Winters was most apprehensive of and dreaded to know the most was what the BBC newswoman had said- what it meant for the future.

"In other news from the American Sectors, the frequency and violence of clashes between malcontent Zentraedi paramilitary factions and local security and military forces continues to rise.", the newswoman continued along a clear segue, "The period of relative peace in xeno-human coexistence even within the highly volatile Zentraedi Control Zone of Brazil and Venezuela ended abruptly some three months ago with the political assassination of the leader of the largest Zentraedi repatriation movement in The Zone that sparked weeks of unrest and random acts of anti-human terrorism. Despite the findings of a Southern Cross Military Police investigation that concluded the assassination to be the isolated act of a local human supremacist group, and despite the efforts of local and planetary government to reconcile the situation peacefully incidents of attacks on human population centers and military installations have continued to occur and with greater regularity."

"When asked yesterday at a daily security briefing whether the continuation, escalation, and apparent increased sophistication of malcontent Zentraedi attacks within The Control Zone and those that have taken place as far north as the North American Outlands constitute signs of coordinated activity- ASC Military Police spokesman, Colonel Antonio Castagne had the following to say-."

There was a brief pause as an audio clip was cued to allow the PR voice of the ASC Military Police to speak for himself- a full day after the fact.

Winters braced himself as nicotine drove away the morning shakes for the polished, unrepentant lie that was certain to follow. He had gained some familiarity with Castagne over the past few weeks through sound bites or quotes in print, and in them Winters had found that quality that was universal to all PR officers. Castagne had the voice, personality, and word craftsmanship to be able to tell a person that their liver would be eaten out by rabid sewer rats and to make it come across as being just dandy. That gift made him well-suited for his job.

The RDF and United Earth Government had similar models in corresponding posts, but Winters had come to recognize and appreciate Castagne for the artist he was. This was probably by necessity- a sink or swim ultimatum in his career considering who he represented. The ASC, and in particular the Military Police, had many a questionable act to put a favorable spin on- and Castagne was a master.

A true disciple of Goebbels.

"-No.", came the solid, paternal voice of the ASC officer as though responding to the BBC newswoman's recap of the question that had been posed, "I don't think that this string of attacks on civilians and on some minor military posts should cause people to become overly alarmed. The rumors of some, great Zentraedi coalition is completely unsubstantial. While it's true that most if not all of the malcontent factions share a set of common goals and interests, the leadership of these groups has never shown itself capable of putting aside deep-set rivalries and suspicions of one another to unify. I think- and there is intelligence to back this- that the more likely explanation for what we are seeing and what many are interpreting as organization is that there are a number of factions that have become proficient at raiding and that they are seizing opportunities as they find them. The apparent spread of these raiding incidents into Central and even North America can be explained as dispersed, independent factions learning of the successes of others and gaining the courage to engage in raiding on their own. With the intelligence we have in hand, this explanation is far more plausible than any specter of a larger, organized, Zentraedi menace."

Winters shook his head with grudging admiration for the man's ability to spontaneously generate fertilizer.

Masterful.

All of the best could spin straw into gold when the need arose. Two of the same type as Castagne- one speaking for the RDF Air Force, and another for the ASC- had spun a "friendly" attack on an ASC base deep in The Control Zone some three months ago into a malcontent "assault", not unlike what Castagne had just spoken of.

Pure gold.

Winters knew it to be gold plated at best though. Just shiny and pretty enough to pass casual inspection and fade quickly into the public's rapidly-blurred memory. Winters knew the story of the ASC base to be gold-plated all too well as he was still living the consequences, and he suspected that much if not all of what Castagne had just told the public was as genuine.

Shiny and pretty was what the world wanted sometimes though. With all the dirty realities there were to choose from, sometimes an illusion was a welcome thing.

The first smells of brewing coffee and the unmistakable sound of a military land rover coming up the bare patch of packed desert sand that served as something close to a driveway for the trailer brought Winters back to the moment and to the fact that he had to be up and moving. Unwilling to hear more of the world as the spin-doctors of authority wanted it to be and passed on by the BBC, Winters switched off the radio in the clock and made for the shower in the trailer's small bathroom.

The sound of the bathroom door closing and the shower starting to run told Rio that Winters was awake and that her timing in rising before him had been sufficient to allow the small water heater and coffee maker to do their respective jobs. The likelihood of the morning starting smoothly was exponentially better.

Keyed in also to the series of events that had to take place for the day to begin without friction, Lucky the cat took the sound of the shower running as his cue to come out to be fed. Scraps of chicken beckoned from a plate on the countertop next to the coffee machine, a feeding location that would have sent Winters through the roof.

He was in the shower though as both Rio and Lucky knew, and morsels eaten in peril tasted the best.

A tapping on the trailer door made Rio jump slightly even though she had heard the rover pull up the driveway and knew it to be Dalton. Even with this forewarning she found that she scared too easily- an understandable affliction given her life she knew, but one that was still embarrassing. As the door to the trailer opened cautiously, Rio swept enough hair over the scarred side of her face to conceal the more visible testimony to the life she had lived.

Lieutenant Colonel Fred Dalton leaned partially through the doorway to announce himself without fully intruding.

"Hello-?"

Out of Dalton's line of sight, Rio thumped her heel on the floor prompting the pilot to lean further in until he was able to see her. At this point she waved him in with a fluid gesture that continued into a physical invitation to have a cup of coffee from the pot that was nearly done brewing.

Dalton stepped inside and shut the door behind himself quickly lest the cold, desert pre-dawn suck the modest warmth of the trailer out into the darkness. Out of courtesy he removed his airman's cap and stuffed it into the pocket of his leather aviator's jacket before responding to the offer of coffee.

"A small cup maybe-.", Dalton said as he realized he was being studied intently by the cat through its single eye.

Satisfied that the human was no immediate threat and probably wouldn't betray the secret of a countertop feeding, Lucky returned to his meal with the gusto of an animal that had known hard times.

"Did Jack just hop in the shower?", Dalton asked as Rio handed him half a cup of liquid life- black as he took it.

Rio nodded and poured herself a half cup as well. Dalton had noticed over the years that the young woman had been in Winters' company that she never took more for herself than what she offered to a guest. Whether this was just an attempt at being a good hostess or the result of some acquired neurosis, Dalton wasn't sure.

Rio wasn't saying either.

"So, are you talking to me today, Rio?", Dalton asked, going through the paces he went through every day that he picked Winters up.

Rio simply hinted at a smile under a veil of hair and shook her head.

"Okay-.", Dalton said, sipping at his coffee, "Maybe tomorrow then."

It probably wouldn't be tomorrow either, Dalton knew. That was fine too as he wasn't sure what they would talk about if Rio did decide to break her silence. Dalton recognized that for him at least it was more about the chase at this point- his coyote to her roadrunner. He had never heard her utter an intelligible sound and did not know how seriously to take Winters' claims that she was given to talking incessantly when the mood struck her.

It didn't matter though- Rio always got her point across, spoken word or not.

"Sorry that I'm here so early-.", Dalton said sipping at his coffee again and watching the cat do an amusing, feline "happy dance" with its hind quarters as tasty tid-bits were devoured, "I wanted to stop by someplace in town to get doughnuts for A Flight-. They had the watch on Alert Five last night and I figured that was desserving of a little something. And God knows that Gecko's gotta be dying for something other than hospital food-. That's probably what cures or kills the wounded."

Rio nodded sympathetically and Dalton took it that with her having been present so many times when Winters had "talked shop" with the other pilots of Knight Hawk Squadron that she understood him to mean that half of the squadron had been on five minute stand-by. For someone who appeared to be within her rights to be hard-hearted with the world, Rio was always a good one for sympathy.

More of her sympathy was probably directed at Captain Alan "Gecko" Home whose participation in a standard patrol of The Outlands ten days before as part of a four ship element led by Major Eugene "Preacher" Wayne had nearly made the sharp turn from routine to tragic. Like a frog in the proverbial hot-pot, rogue Zentraedi activity and hostility had been building gradually for months and it was not until the water had reached a boil that the pilots in the NORAMWEST command had consciously recognized the fact.

The "boil" for Gecko had been in a low-level pass with wingman Cisco over a previously unplotted encampment in the southwest corner of the wastelands. Not an uncommon practice, one or two high-speed passes usually gave a gross indicator whether the inhabitants were "friendly"- migrant humans or "indoctrinated" Zentraedi- or "hostile", the other kind of either species, by whether or not random shots were fired up at the patrolling aircraft.

Fire had come this time, but not from scavenged or stolen assault rifles or laser weapons. An SA-9, shoulder-fired, anti-aircraft missile had sprung up from a rocky formation overlooking the encampment to greet Gecko and Cisco unexpectedly. The countermeasure systems of the Valkyries had been set to automatic and flares had been dispensed in quantity in the split second between when the small but lethal missile had left the tube and when its second stage rocket motor had fired. At such close range, this had been enough infrared distraction to confuse the all-aspect seeker head of theSA-9 just enough to throw the missile off beyond its normal CEP (circular error probable) before the warhead detonated.

The fortune of this for Gecko whose Valkyrie in the lead had taken the brunt of the blast was offset by the misfortune that the high-velocity shards of the fragmentation warhead were both partially ingested by his port engine and partially struck his fuselage and canopy at the worst possible angle and at which it was weakest: from the side.

Metal splinters from the warhead as well as terilium and plexiglass spall had zipped around the tight space of the cockpit and no less than twenty bits had imbedded themselves into the pilot including a single shard that had somehow passed through Gecko's facemask and then his right cheek without so much as grazing a tooth. Whether it had been training and experience, the escape-enabling effects of shock, or a combination of both- Gecko had not augered his aircraft into The Outlands after taking that hit at low altitude, but had managed to limp home on one engine under the escort of the rest of the element.

Later, after emergency trauma surgery, the doctors had commented to Winters and Dalton that the fact that the pilot had maintained consciousness for the flight home and landing had been miraculous given the amount of blood loss. When told later, Lyle had commented that the blood hadn't been "lost"- it was just all over the inside of the cockpit. Regardless, Gecko had found the hard way out of flight duty for at least two weeks and probably longer.

He had also been one of the first pilots from NORAMWEST command to discover the hard way that rogue Zentraedi hostility had increased in the normally quiet backwaters of The Outlands, and with the added edge of better weaponry. Gecko had demonstrated the having of a greater share of that intangible variable of luck than others though as he had brought his plane home and survived whereas other pilots had joined the ranks of the KIAs.

"Anyway-.", Dalton continued, changing the subject to one he'd been tasked to bring to closure before he had left the house himself, "Linda told me to remind you that you and Jack were invited to Christmas dinner and that she and the kids would be really upset if you didn't show up-. I think she meant they'd be upset if you didn't show up-. Jack might be another story, but I told her you two are a package deal at holiday times."

Rio's expression changed to one of deep concern.

Dalton waved off the unspoken reservation Rio was conveying, "Oh, forget it-. We'll have plenty to eat. You know Linda, she starts hoarding and scraping around the first of September and has had me call in one or two favors over at the base commissary. The bird is already Bogarting the freezer. Besides- she says if there's not enough, she'll just give Jack the boot."

"I don't quite grasp what I ever did to that woman-."

Winters had emerged from the bedroom and bathroom area of the trailer in his faded flight suit and worn officer's jack boots and was attacking his regulation-length graying hair with a comb as he shook his head despairingly.

"It probably has something to do with the way you always seem to get me nearly killed.", Dalton suggested, raising his coffee cup in a toasting motion, "Wives react funny to that."

Winters gave a noncommittal grunt as he drew from the holster at his hip the Smith & Wesson Model 29 revolver, opened the cylinder, and began to drop heavy .44 magnum cartridges into the chambers.

"She shouldn't worry too much, Freddy.", Winters said, snapping the cylinder of the pistol home with a jerk of his wrist and dropping the long, chromed firearm back into its holster, "You're a pilot the same as the rest of us- you're too bloody stupid to die."

"Amen to that.", Dalton agreed as he crossed the short floor distance to the trailer's kitchenette where he placed his now emptied coffee cup in the sink and shooed the cat from the counter before Winters could notice him.

"Still, that doesn't mean the wife has to like you. –She does appreciate you letting us keep the presents here though. The kids are getting to be that sneaky age where they still say that they believe in Santa- but you know they're checking the house for presents anyway."

Winters looked over at a small, neat stack of boxes wrapped in a variety of decorative papers- some of which were even intended for the Christmas season. Wrapping paper could be found, but not with great regularity yet and never in great quantity or diversity of style. He had actually had no say in whether Linda could stash the little Daltons' Christmas booty in his home- not that he would have objected. He had simply come home one day two weeks ago and had found himself minus that much usable floor space but with Lucky's eager endorsement at having a new surface to lounge on.

Linda Dalton had achieved the perfect "covert op", ingressing and egressing the operational area without warning and without being detected, and had achieved her objective without resistance. At the very least, she had avoided Winters- which he assumed was the highest objective after finding a place to stash presents.

"Clever lads.", Winter said with genuine approval, "And I was worried about how you were going to have to break the sad news to them one day-."

"-That there's no Santa?", Dalton clarified.

"I just figured on eventually telling them that I'd shot him down for violating restricted airspace. –Linda would back me on that, don't you think?"

Dalton shook his head, "No, don't think she could. She tells them you're busy every Christmas stealing the toys from the Whos in Whoville."

"Ah, slippery that one, she is-. Though do you think splashing Father Christmas would count as one, or nine? I mean, what- one sled, and what is it-? Eight reindeer?"

Rio shot Winters a harsh look as she handed him a thermal mug of coffee that she had just filled. Accepting as she was, there was a limit to the irreverence she would abide by.

"You're a sick man, Jack.", Dalton said taking his airman's cap from out of his jacket's pocket and shaking it free of the fold he'd made in it, "You know that, don't you?"

Winters slipped into his leather aviator's jacket and completed the ensemble by taking up his equally worn leather wheel cap and the sawed-off length of cane that had served him as a swagger stick.

"No, just born with a heart three sizes too small according to Linda- and besides, I was thinking of Lyle-.", Winters explained, "I mean, it's the difference between one stencil on Marilyn's side and nine-. Though I suspect you could stencil on a sled, and then a reindeer with eight hash marks. –Are the ones with red noses worth more points?"

Dalton opened the trailer door with a sigh of humbled resignation, "Let's go before I'm forced to think about the special circle of Hell that you're headed to."

Winters grazed his lips over the top of Rio's head in something like a "fly-by" kiss, saying to her, "We'll see you at work later. We have to get Freddy to the base so he can do pilot things and so I can justify office space. –The hell Freddy was talking about I suspect."

Rio's fingers clutched at Winters' jacket as he moved toward the door Dalton was holding open for him, but she released it and let him slip away- her hands running down the length of his left arm to his fingertips like the melodramatic "parting touch" between young lovers in a bad 1940s "going to war" romance movie.

Rio did have her understandable frailties.

The desert's cold night air bit sharply in small breaths of wind at Winters' neck that was still damp from his quick shower. A waxing moon was midway through its decent in the west and was just luminous enough to cast faint shadows with its pale blue light.

Edwards City could be seen as a soft glow in the humidity-free air, low on the horizon beneath a dramatic curtain of stars. "The Suburbs", still devoid of street lights or even well-defined streets for that matter were more easily seen this early morning by virtue of the random dwellings that despite the shortages of just about everything else were adorned with Christmas lights. Winters had noticed the lights about the same time the young Daltons' presents had taken up residence in his closet-sized living room. His first impression had been one of wastefulness- the power flow to Edwards City and to The Suburbs in particular were too inconsistent, and people certainly had better things to spend their money and moreover the recovering manufacturing capacity of the planet on than multi-colored strands of lights.

And then one morning while Dalton was picking him up for the drive to the base, a morning not unlike this one- the underlying human imparative struck Winters. It wasn't an "Ebenezer Scrooge reborn" moment where he wanted to throw money to a boy in the street to have him buy the prize turkey for the Cratchit family, but just a glimpse of the lights out of the corner of his eye in which for a brief moment he was certain he smelled the ginger cookies his grandmother had baked at holiday time. It had been by no means a life altering moment, but it did ram home the thought that the way back to normalcy began with small details and small nostalgic comforts.

God bless us, every one-.

"What?", Dalton asked, snapping Winters out of the drift of thought he was in.

"What, what?", Winters replied.

Dalton dug a pack of cigarettes out of his jacket's inner pocket and having placed a cancer stick between his lips offered the pack to Winters.

"I thought you said something-."

"Mumbled something, maybe-.", Winters said, taking Dalton's offering of a two minute contribution to chronic health problems, "Perhaps desk duty has finally driven me to crack."

"You were cracked already.", Dalton reminded Winters as he ruined both their night vision with the striking of his lighter, "If you go full-blown whacko, you can file for disability though."

"Or they'd promote me.", Winters said.

Both men stepped up and climbed into the lightly armored, six-wheeled land rover that Dalton had signed out of the motor pool at the beginning of the week. Dalton settled in behind the wheel and started the powerful, turbocharged engine that sent vibrations through the entire chassis with its low growl. The lights came on, bathing all before the rover in brilliant illumination including the hulk of a car bound up beneath a dirty, weathered blue plastic tarp.

"You ever going to get that Mustang running, Jack?", Dalton asked as he reversed carefully out of the driveway path and onto the modestly wider dirt road that would lead at a few kilometers distance to actual pavement.

"Not yet.", Winters replied between a sip of coffee and a drag on his cigarette. It was a standard answer to a standard question. In fact, he hadn't even taken the tarp off the car in weeks. This was only slightly less productive than his normal habit of opening the bonnet with various manuals at hand to stare at and tinker with for hours the enigma of the internal combustion engine. "I'm thinking of starting a new project- maybe build a boat in my basement."

"You'd need a basement first, Jack.", Dalton reminded him.

"Well then, two new projects-. Christ, Freddy, do you have to bugger all of my aspirations?"

"Only the unrealistic ones.", Dalton replied, "So, yeah- that's all of them."

"At least you keep me grounded."

Dalton turned onto the paved road in the direction of Edwards City.

"Speaking of grounded- what's going on upon high these days?"

Winters glowered at Dalton over the red glow of his cigarette's tip that matched the soft light from the rover's instrument panel, "You're just two teaspoons of salt in the wound today, aren't you?"

"Okay, when you see Gecko later you two can debate over whose life sucks worse right now.", Dalton said unsympathetically, "-And I wasn't looking for a fight. I was just asking what was going on in the big building these days."

"I'll have you know that we're only staying together for the children-.", Winters said before allowing Dalton's inadvertent slight to roll off him, "I've been invited this morning to an intelligence brief about the ASC's new toys- that's at zero-nine-hundred. Other than that, I thought I'd do the normal-. Shift things around on my desk a little, have a long lunch at the O-Club, and then maybe nine holes of golf this afternoon."

"That's how the Air Force gets shit done-.", Dalton mused, "Word around the campfire says that we're importing squadrons. Any truth to that?"

Winters grunted, "We'll see some of those reinforcements, but most are going to bases in CENTAM and SOUTHAM. Ganyet had a fit when she heard yesterday."

Dalton nodded his understanding. Since her promotion to full colonel had taken effect, Ganyet "Switchblade" Mumuni had been feeling the full weight of tactical command of the composite air wing at Edwards. There was a lot of weight to be towed, insufficient pilots and resources to do it well, and replacements for the losses all of the squadrons on base had suffered were slow in coming.

"Table scraps, eh?"

Winters shook his head, "Not quite- we're getting a full Valkyrie squadron attached."

Dalton laughed in surprise, "Then what's the problem?"

"-From Victoria-.", Winters added.

Dalton was silent behind the wheel for a moment while his mind turned over and over the single, vague hint that Winters had tossed him.

RDF Victoria Air Force Base had the distinction of being the largest military installation in the southern hemisphere- a bragging right achieved by the fact that Australia had assimilated the fewest number of Zentraedi following The Robotech War and had kept most of its population centers relatively intact in the south. With the central and northern territories desolate and naturally devoid of all but the smallest settlements, a single, large military outpost had served the continent well as opposed to the more common approach used in other parts of the world of creating smaller, geographically distributed but mutually supporting posts.

Victoria Base for all of its importance to the continent had still gained the stigma of being the end of the Earth, and perhaps rightfully so. While its service history was not one to be ashamed of by any stretch of the imagination, popular consensus in the RDF community was that the post on the untamed continent was a natural magnet to the service's most untamed units.

From Winters' point of view and of the squadron he had hinted at to Dalton, the popular consensus was not unwarranted.

Dalton began to chuckle with the dawning of understanding- the same sophomoric, mischievous laugh spawned by the humor of "hot boxing" a confined space for an unsuspecting victim. Dalton knew immediately whom Winters was alluding to.

"Ahhhhhh-HOOOOOOOO!", Dalton howled, turning his head slightly to bay at visible but setting moon, "Dingo and his bunch, eh?"

"Rabble is more fitting, I think-.", Winters said, rolling down the ballistic glass window of the rover to toss away his cigarette as it burned down to the filter, "-And that's saying something coming from Knight Hawk Squadron."

Indeed it was a statement. Every base had its "black sheep" squadron to one degree or another, and what the Knight Hawks were to Edwards, the 1404th Werewolves were to Victoria. In light of this, and with Lt Gen Hume, commanding officer of NORAMWEST, in showing preference to his bases at Nellis and China Lake had sent the Werewolves to Edwards.

"Well-.", Dalton said in that way that Winters recognized as the prelude to one of his "make the best of it" rationalizations for which American Mid-Westerners were so famous, "At least its going to be interesting around here."

Winters uttered a grunt that was part agreement and part resignation, "Maybe flying a desk isn't as bad a duty these days as I'd thought."

"They know about Roxanna's joint though, so one thing's for sure, Jack.", Dalton said with concern, "We'd better make it to beer call before they do or we'll find the place drunk dry."

"No argument here.", Winters agreed.

Light posts began to drift by on either side of the road on which the rover was traveling and up ahead the first buildings marking the Edwards City limits began to loom up. The windows of most dwellings and storefronts were dark, but Dalton knew of a few eateries that would be open.

"Okay then, boss-.", Dalton said to Winters, "Command decision time. Are we getting doughnuts or biscuits for the boys?"

Looking at the prospect of another day in a cramped office, Winters found tht any appetite he had had was now gone, making the options moot for him.

"I don't know-. What's worse for them in general?"

"Probably doughnuts."

"Doughnuts it is then."

RDF Intelligence Annex, RDF Headquarters,

Yellowstone City

Intelligence "round tables"- the daily briefing to the Vice-Commander of RDF Intelligence by the various division commanders and "external" representatives- were known to be contentious.

The comparison had been made by many to a "high rollers" poke game. Only the best of reading others while guarding against being read sat at the table, and the stakes were always high. The "hands" were words, and as much could be inferred from what was not said as what was said.

In theory though, everyone was playing for the same team.

In theory.

As with all things in the recovering United Earth, needs in the RDF Intelligence community were great and the resources scarce. Performance for an intelligence entity equated to leverage in claims on the resources available.

As performance was based on the dissemination of useful information to military and Government consumers, information was almost always scrutinized and debated by the parties other than the one rendering it. At the level of the "round table", like any gathering of fierce intellectual competitors, there was often as much emphasis on being the one who was right as there was on intelligence information being right.

The underlying idea of the "round table" remained though- the sharing of intelligence information and trends in thinking. And like any high-stakes forum for intellectuals, there tended to be disagreements from time to time.

Commander Anne Weitzel, REF Intelligence, was familiar with the game of the round table as it was played from a spectator's point of view. Like watching a tournament political chess match, she had come to know the players and their personalities on the board.

Weitzel had become much more familiar with the game from a seat at the table over the past two months and had found the change in seating made worlds of difference. The arguments that regularly arose that would have merely been jarring as a spectator now had a distinct sting as a player. Weitzel recognized though that as distasteful as the confrontations often were, it was an arena that she was going to have to master in the name of the marginalized Information Fusion Division.

Maybe Ephraim was to blame-.

Ephraim Shiloah, RDF Air Force Intelligence, had not yet been confirmed by the United Earth Lower Council Military Selection Committee to wear the star that now adorned his uniform epaulettes when he had started to insist that Weitzel join the regular roster of attendees.

Weitzel had not needed her years of analysis experience to understand what that meant either.

The IFD, or "Warped Corps" (a name she was fond of but would have to shed the public use of) as a backwater intelligence group would be in need of a new commander as soon as Brigadier General Shiloah was settled into his new post as Vice-Commander for Sentient Intelligence.

Without explicitly saying that Weitzel was a "shoe-in" for the position of IFD honcho, or overtly saying that he even favored her heavily for the job, Ephraim had told her that he wanted her at the meetings, "-To be sure someone could look out for shop interests when he was swimming with bigger sharks-." Weitzel had accepted the tap gratefully, even enthusiastically at first- but over time had begun to wonder whether the headaches and chores of disparate intelligence fragments wasn't a better daily existence.

Still, if Ephraim had faith in her to pull it off-. She owed him her best effort at least.

Weitzel settled in at her seat beside Shiloah and began to tidy the small stack of file folders she had brought with her by habit- in case anyone should ask for details on the topics she might speak on when her turn came. Shiloah, who had come armed only with his standard cup of tea and a leather portfolio case containing his smart tablet smiled paternally at the junior officer as he saw how her pile nearly reached the height of her coffee cup that stood beside it on the tabletop.

"You should really slim down you know, Anne.", Shiloah said quietly with words that in another setting might have been offensive to a woman.

"They're going to think you're a caveman's secretary if you keep bringing a file cabinet with you to every meeting."

Weitzel squared away the corners of her folders and picked up her cup of coffee- her brain requiring more charging before the morning's melee.

"I can't help it. I feel naked if I don't feel prepared, and I still take my best notes on paper. Maybe I am a troglodyte-."

Shiloah shrugged, "Not a troglodyte- but not a friend of trees. I hope you get wise before your back gives out. Take my word for it- no one at this table has interest in great detail- or the span of attention. True information exchanges take place at the lower levels. We're just here to look confident for our superiors and say we know what's going on. –Oh, and bicker of course."

Weitzel smiled, hearing an echo of aspersions cast regularly by analysts whose company she was sharing less and less frequently these days by the demands of the job she was being nudged toward.

"Is that the official party line?"

Shiloah nodded and said, "Yes, unofficially-."

The briefing room's long, rectangular table had filled to capacity with the noteworthy exceptions of the Chair at the head and the seat normally occupied by Colonel Kalehahea, General Breetai's staff advisor from the Office of The Military Chief of Staff.

As the meeting secretary, a fine-featured Army major with red hair and fading freckles, worked at a nearby computer terminal a hologram viewscreen appeared over the table bearing the OMCS crest and the flashing banner that warned all present that their words were being heard elsewhere through a secure communications link, saying in white letters over orange- "TOP SECRET TRANSMISSION IN PRGRESS"

"Colonel Kalehahea, sir-.", said the meeting secretary in a deeper voice than what one might have expected from such a slight frame, "-Are you on and receiving?"

Paper shuffling could be heard and seemed to come from behind the hologram that still stood as a field of blue with the OMCS crest at the center. This was not unusual that the video portion of the link had not been activated from Kalehahea's end of the link. As a member of General Breetai's staff, Kalehahea was perpetually overwhelmed and likely had materials before him that he would be working on in parallel as the meeting progressed. The group at the table had no need to see these materials- even if it was only a glimpse by video comlink- and it was likely that the documents were compartmentalized and therefore to be guarded with extra care.

"OMCS here.", Kalehahea said as the paper shuffling subsided, "Sorry to deprive you all of the privilege of seeing my pretty face, but-."

A few chuckles came from around the table, but the secretary spoke for the group, saying, "Understood, sir. We'll come upstairs if we start to suffer from withdrawal."

"Good enough."

The final face at the table was accounted for as Major General Charyce Clarke, short and slender with dark ebony skin and darker eyes entered the room at her brisk pace that many officers and staff who towered over her found difficult to match. The Vice Commander of Intelligence was imposing in her meticulously kept Army uniform despite her diminutive stature. Her features were deceptive in reporting truthfully her age which was irrelevant, but she had about her the distinctive air of a "West Pointer" which she was- or had been in the pre-Unification days when West Point had been among the top national military academies in the world.

Weitzel found herself drawn to and liking Clarke. As an intelligence officer, she had once or twice revealed herself to be slightly behind the curve in technical matters- but her duties were mostly administrative and high-level analytical. As an administrator and as the Chief of Staff for the Military Intelligence Services her West Point schooling showed through clearly in the execution of her duties.

Per protocol, those seated at the table had begun to rise the moment Clarke had entered the room. Per Clarke's general attitude toward this particular element of protocol, she quickly motioned them back into their seats.

"Let's get started, shall we?", General Clarke said as she laid out her own organizer on the table before her. Like Shiloah's, it contained an electronic smart tablet that was no doubt wired into compartmentalized areas of the network whose existance Weitzel was not even aware of. Through the device, she had access to everything that was about to be presented to her- leaving only the forum for its own sake. Anything not accessible through the smart tablet, Clarke had a whole staff to acquire for her. There were benefits to being a flag officer.

"We all saw the news and read the paper this morning.", Clarke said bluntly, laying her hands palms down on the table to show herself balanced by a West Point graduate's ring on her right ring finger and an equally attention-grabbing engagement and wedding band set on her left, "So, everyone knows that the word is out to the public that the ASC is now a full-blown member of the Robotechnology Club-. We knew the day was coming, but we still cannot account for how it came so fast. –No jokes please-."

Clarke was starched, polished, and straight-laced as they came, but she would occasionally allow familiar humor to slip when a dire subject required a touch of levity.

"For the sake of saving face, we're allowing the ASC claims of internal technological development to go uncontested. But to everyone at this table and our friends in TV-Land- good morning, Paté-."

"Good morning, ma'am.", Kalehahea replied through the comlink from his office one building over and two floors up.

"-We know it's bullshit.", Clarke continued, "To be short on the matter, I'll tell you what I've been briefed by the Ministry of Internal Intelligence and by the Chief Security Officer at the Ministry of Robotech Sciences-. No one can account for the transfer of research data, materials, or of the research products from MRS to the ASC that would have been required to accomplish such a technological quantum leap in so short a period of time. Access and custody chains for all relevant materials have been internally and independently reviewed- and nothing. IG and Facilities Security at production sites have also verified security integrity-. So, we have a genuine mystery on our hands that, my boss, General Breetai, as well as the Council Committees on Robotech Sciences and on Intelligence, and also the President will be wanting answers to- yesterday. So, with that in mind, Signals- what do you have for me?"

Brigadier General Keenan, a fit but thick-bodied career Air Force type (for the RCAF before the RDF) leaned forward to the conference table to put his heavy forearms on its polished surface and said with resignation, "So far, nothing of interest, ma'am. We're forced to concur with the MII and facilities security investigations- the information did not pass through any routers, switches, or firewalls that touched the secure enclave. We, as you all know, keep airtight monitoring on all encrypted and unencrypted radio and satellite communications coming in and out of ASC entities and cover fronts. Again, nothing. We have even performed net scans on the commercial network and switches on irregular activity by anyone remotely related to military Robotech R&D."

"Nothing."

"Finally, we hacked ASC military R and D, and puppet corporation gateway servers and databases deeper than we've ever dared attempt before-. We found evidence of the technical files in question being there, but no indication of how the transfer was achieved."

"Nothing."

Cyber-Intelligence and cyber-warfare had actually shrunk in prominence directly following The Zentraedi Holocaust because of the near-total destruction of the telecommunications infrastructure that supported the Internet. That infrastructure was regenerating rapidly and it was widely known and accepted that the "cyber" disciplines in the military sense would again one day require their own agency within the Ministry of Defense. For now though, Signals Intelligence had oversight of those duties and to General Keenan's credit had done amazing things.

This particular instance was evidence however of what even Keenan had asserted on many occasions- that technology in and of itself was not always a solution to a problem. This, and the fact that SIGINT tread minimally into the domain of and was no threat to the budgets of the other intelligence groups allowed Keenan to disengage from the discussion without drawing fire from the others at the table.

"Then I'm eager to hear from SENTINT-.", Major General Clarke said with clear frustration in her voice as she turned her gaze on Shiloah, "Ephraim?"

"SENTINT"; or, "Sentient Intelligence" (formerly "human intelligence" until an astute staffer pointed out that a great number of the most valued resources in this area of information gathering were not human) had barely been Shiloah's division long enough for the ink on his confirmation papers to dry- but he was already totally in his element.

Shiloah adjusted his glasses on the bridge of his nose as he replied to his superior, "We have theories of course, ma'am. Unfortunately we have nothing to substantiate them or support one more than another."

"Exhaustive investigations into all personnel with access to those materials has bore no fruit. Their activities and to a possible point of motive, their financials have all remained within the norms-. If the leak is internal to MRS or RDF R&D, this suggests that we are not dealing with a mole who is working for financial gain, but rather possibly for ideology. Idealists, if they are able to govern and conceal their passions to achieve their ends, are often the hardest to identify as they leave a light paper trail of incriminating evidence."

"-And-.", added Assistant Minister Glenmont of the Ministry of Domestic Investigations, one of the few "regulars" at the daily intelligence briefing who appeared in a suit and not a military uniform, "-Also they are sometimes the hardest to nail by profile. If we're looking for an idealist- we're looking for: someone who likely justifies the unauthorized dissemination of highly classified information to external entities by rationalizing that it serves a greater common good. –The world as it were, over an established political entity like the construct of The United Earth-."

"Well, go back fifteen years to the cusp of Unification- who at this table wouldn't have fallen into that profile? Who in R and D, or industry, or in the military for that matter who has risen to the level where they could successfully access that quantity and classification of material, transfer it to unsanctioned parties, and then successfully cover it up does not fit that profile either? If we're looking for people who are willing to risk for the sake of ideals, I'll need to know where everyone here at this table was on the night in question- for starters."

Grim chuckles circulated around the table letting Glenmont know that his point was understood and taken.

"We haven't thrown in the towel yet though.", Glenmont assured those around him, "But any answer we're going to provide is going to come from good, old-fashion police work."

General Clarke was not visibly perturbed by the lack of answers she was receiving, but was showing signs of greater determination to get some.

"Then old-fashion police work it will have to be. At the same time, whoever is responsible for this information theft is clearly well-versed in our established way of thinking and operating. How else would they cover their tracks so well? We're dealing with outside of the box thinkers, and the best countermeasure for that kind are other outside of the box thinkers-."

"The IFD has been unusually quiet in this discussion. -Commander?"

Weitzel felt the immediate rush of heat and chill that came only from being thrust unexpectedly into the center of attention, or less likely in her case the early onset of menopause. Every officer in the military was accustomed to briefing in one form or another, so the acuteness of the sensation Weitzel felt was not the common fear of speaking. She was the proverbial small fish in the big pond and more precisely, she was the representative of an underfunded and marginalized intelligence office who was being looked to by the Vice-Commander to provide possible answers where the "big fish" could not.

This, Weitzel knew, turned the pond into dangerous waters to be swimming in.

The REF officer fought the strong urge to clear her throat before beginning and instead found herself speaking in a strong, disciplined tone-.

"To borrow from a fictional detective of some fame, General, when you eliminate all of the other possibilities- what remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth.", Weitzel prefaced, "The information did not simply pass through the ether into ASC hands- someone on the inside must have initially accessed it. I'll concede that my colleagues at Internal Intelligence in coordination with the security elements at MRS and the various services have done a thorough job investigating. I suspect that the investigation was one that was built over the framework of the security posture and procedures in place. As there have been no findings, except to say that it's been confirmed that the ASC does have MRS and RDF R&D materials- then I'd say that someone has found a weakness in our security posture. To try to detect a breech source by running checks against the normal security mechanisms is probably futile. –As Holmes said; whatever is left must be the truth."

Weitzel felt the inevitable heavy stares of superiors feeling slighted by her words falling upon her. Beside her though, through an otherwise expressionless face, she felt the proud smile of Shiloah's eyes. That was enough to keep her speaking with confidence in advocating the improbable- the hallmark of the IFD.

"We're looking for a straight line from Point A to Point B- I don't think that anyone sophisticated enough to make use of the information that was stolen would be so direct. I think the information probably passed from Point A, to B through L before reaching Point M. We might find that path and it may lead us to our mole- but I think that the best clues and evidence we will find will be at the sources. If we've checked the personnel and systems at MRS, R&D, and production sites by standard means- then it's time to start getting creative."

"Did the information pass out of our control through secure servers, networks, switches, and firewalls?- No. Then we start by asking, how do you move that quantity of data without using those channels? Once you've determined that- then you can compile a list of who at least would have the access needed to perform such a task. Then, as Assistant Minister Glenmont said, it's old-fashion police work."

"The evidence has to be there. No one is that thorough in covering their tracks."

Glenmont clapped his hands together dramatically like a man eager to begin on a task he'd been given and said with only the amount of venom he wished to display showing, "-Well then, if that's all we have to do-. Really, Commander- where should we begin? Dismantle all of the classified equipment at MRS and RDF R&D and dust for prints? Have General Keenan hack the private email accounts and computers of everyone in the ASC?"

Weitzel replied without blinking, "As many as you can-. Why not? I'm not an expert on investigative practices. But I wouldn't hold my breath. I don't think the receiving point on the ASC end will be anyone with clear ties to them. That's why I stressed revising the investigation at the source of the leak."

"In your professional investigative opinion?", Glenmont reiterated.

Weitzel repeated her earlier admission, "As I said, I have no investigative background- not in that sense. I'm only pointing out that the investigation needs to take a new path to yield results."

Glenmont sneered, "Funny, it seems that you just regurgitated what General Clarke said and elaborated a little-."

Weitzel nodded, "Yes, I did hear her say a number of the things I said-. Did you?"

Glenmont said dismissively, "I heard her clearly, Commander-. But unlike the IFD, others around this table are responsible for generating credible and actionable information."

"And how's that going?", Weitzel asked before she felt Shiloah tap her on her knee as a clear warning that she was best to wave off and withdraw from the building argument.

Ephraim was right of course, as he always was. Weitzel's blood was up though and on a personal level she was ready for a fight. Shiloah, however, was her governor that reminded her that she was here to perform a professional role.

Major General Clarke smothered the glowing embers of contest before they could flare into the flame of full-blown conflict.

"We're not going to solve this at the table this morning. What I want by twelve-hundred today is what we know at this point, what it causes us to strongly suspect, and I want it written and polished in small, easy to understand words. I also want clear plans for a re-attack on this situation from everyone at the table. My boss is going to have heartburn over the lack of answers, I want him to at least know that there's relief on the horizon."

"Circle the wagons on this one and everyone provide the pieces you have- even the scraps. We can't give the full picture today, but we can start cobbling together a rough sketch."

Major General Clarke's well-manicured nail traced down the touch-screen of her smart tablet scrolling through notes that she had made and that only she was privileged to see at the table. While she set the agenda for the round table, even she was subject to the whims of the Commander of Intelligence. Her notes often reflected questions raised in a pre-brief meeting that directly preceded the round table. These were the questions she was expected to have answers for and accounted for most deviations from the agenda as it was sent out.

The silence as Clarke reviewed her notes also opened a void that allowed Glenmont and Weitzel to trade broadsides of hateful stares. Like two stray dogs circling the same scrap of food, the bristling and bearing of teeth was much a display to offset by intimidation a real fight as it was a legitimate threat of violence.

Posturing was an important part of the game at the table.

"Zentraedi cruiser reconstruction in The Control Zone.", Clarke said, paraphrasing the next item on her agenda notes, "Didn't we have these things blown up already? I just don't think the malcontents are taking us seriously."

"We may have knocked the sense out of them three months ago- and Fleet Intelligence can speak to that.", Commodore Wendel of the REF Intelligence Division volunteered, "There's every indication that the Zentraedi workforce on site of these cruisers is working at a frenzied pace around the clock- but with no discernable gains. Can we have imagery-?"

The officer in charge of providing the technical support for the briefing to include imagery resources complied quickly.

The lights in the briefing room dimmed to allow better contrast for the hologram screens that appeared over the table for all to see. The satellite image of a downed Zentraedi scout ship, one of three at the site familiar to all from frequent viewings over the course of years appeared. Wounds opened months earlier by a combined ASC Air Force and RDF-AF strike had closed though the scars could still be seen by the eye that was keen to look for them.

Crude scaffolds had reappeared, and the rickety support infrastructure set up around the vessel to support its repair had risen again from the badly mauled state it had been diminished to by the same air strike.

Wendel continued after noting the time stamp in the lower right corner of the photo still, "This was sixteen hours ago-. Can we go back forty-eight hours?"

The technician complied moving one holographic image aside in the air and reducing it slightly to accommodate a second that showed a photo from nearly the same aspect forty-eight hours before.

There was, as was to be expected in these two snapshots in time, visibly different areas of the ship's outer hull that seemed to be in the progress of repair by the concentration of workers and the appearance of activity. On the grounds immediately surrounding the ship at the center of the image, there was a noteworthy change in the quantity and placement of tarp-covered supplies that were assumed to be materials to affect repairs, scavenged or stolen from wherever they could be had.

For all of this though, one clear element of the photo remained constant when one was not distracted by the overt differences.

The ship itself appeared unchanged.

"And back two weeks if we have those images available.", Wendel said building with his tone toward a point.

A third image appeared, showing mostly the same outer appearance of the ship with only the area of labor and the quantity and placement of supplies as a variable.

"I could show more shots from UAVs and high altitude surveillance flights along with endless sensor logs from the same birds, but I'll give you the short version.", Wendel said, broaching his point after masterfully building to it,.

"For all of the apparent labor involved in the repair efforts on this particular scout vessel there has been a zero increase in the amount of power output from its main reactor. Also, there has been a negligible expansion of areas of the ship consuming power. This begs the question of: what exactly are the Zentraedi doing at this site, and where are the tons of supplies that have been stockpiled there going? Our opinion at Fleet Intel is that we're being shown a well-conceived but only moderately effectively executed ruse. So, what activity are they trying to draw our attention away from?"

"The clues to that may lie in what constitutes those heaps we see covered in taprs.", Commander Weitzel suggested, surprising Shiloah again by speaking out so soon after locking horns with Glenmont, "We are supposed to assume that these are materials and supplies needed to repair the warships. We've all seen the photos- supplies come in, they vanish- consumed, again we are to assume, by the work on the vessels. What if they are not repair materials?"

"Army Intelligence can partially speak to that.", General Pritchard, representing that group, volunteered, "Supplementing Fleet analysis with eyes-forward observation has been difficult. Malcontent patrol activity in the area is prohibitively intense. But from some intel-gathering ambush operations in the area, we can say that the supplies we've intercepted moving in and out of the area have not been of a repair nature. Weapons in great quantity, ammunition, food, medicine-. We've always known at this table that this site, in addition to being the location of these downed cruisers has served as an improvised supply depot. Recent activity seems to suggest that the emphasis is shifting from the former as a priority to the latter."

"Does the acquired intelligence suggest where these supplies are going?", General Clarke asked.

Pritchard hesitated, "The assumption is that with all of the escalating malcontent activity in the region, it is going out to the various points where it is needed. Gaining confirmation of this is more difficult. As you all know, airborne surveillance of ground movements through the rain forest are extremely difficult at best. Both our forces and ASC forces are already stretched thin combating malcontent activity- this limits the number of units we can commit to SOG and LRRP. And the malcontents we have ambushed both inbound and outbound to this site have developed a simple but effective counterintelligence measure for preventing us from gaining a comprehensive view of their movements through captured maps and documents. We've found over the past eight to ten weeks that supply columns carry with them only partial maps of their routes. Rendezvous points are established, but origin and terminal points are never defined for the route as a whole. It's unclear as to whether the supply detachments are even fully aware of their final destinations when they set out."

Again, it's simple in concept- but effective, and requires masterful coordination at some level of command that we have yet to identify. And I assure you, that from what we've seen the effort for these supply movements is no longer dedicated to repairing these vessels."

"They're moving their supplies into forward positions.", Weitzel suggested, "Raids on ASC outposts and storage depots have increased by seventy-five percent over the past six weeks, Army Intelligence can vouch for that-. And while previously the most commonly stolen supplies were food and medicine, the emphasis has shifted to weapons and munitions. The malcontents are showing the tendency to escalate the fight in The Control Zone, shifting away from their former emphasis of activity- at this site anyway- of setting a stage for escape."

"Suggesting what?", Glenmont asked, sensing that Weitzel was way out on a cracking limb- which she was-, "That they've spent years working to escape and then suddenly they've just given up the idea and have elected to fight out an existence here? That seems like a very drastic mind-shift in three months."

"Possibly, yes.", Weitzel conceded, "Or maybe they don't need these ships to make their escape anymore."

Glenmont saw the direction that Weitzel was going and laid his snare in her path, "-Which all fits neatly into another theory that you just happen to have readily available for us. Right?"

"Right.", agreed Weitzel, "A theory, agreed, that I feel may be a valid one given the information I have in hand. Unfortunately, the IFD doesn't have the luxury of the resources that I need to either confirm or refute that theory. If anyone would like to volunteer the resources up, I'll be happy to do the leg-work and then stand by the findings- either way."

From his position as one of the "haves" to Weitzel's of the "have nots", Glenmont asked, "And how's that going for you?"

"-Pardon me for interrupting, General-.", Colonel Kalehahea cut in like an incorporeal voice from the heavens interceding in the petty squabbles of men, "Before you break the dueling pistols out to settle this- OMCS needs a sidebar discussion with the IFD once your meeting has concluded."

General Clarke nodded her approval, "We'll send Commander Witzel your way once we're finished here, Paté. And, this seems like a good point to issue an action item and move on. This one is going to require more than satellite or UAV photography. A do-out to everyone at the table- by noon I want to know what sentient assets can be brought to bear on this and how soon we can start getting data in. Consider this a high priority. I want to know what the malcontents are thinking and doing here."

"Next item-."

Brasilia, Brazil

The official term that had been adopted by the Robotech Defense Force Army was MOUT: Military Operations in Urban Terrain- though it did go by other names.

Second Lieutenant Edward Whilite, 3rd Platoon, Echo Company, 4th Ranger Regiment had in the time that he and his troops had been conducting MOUT heard it go by several. Amongst the ones most popular with Whilite and his Rangers if for no other reason than it could still inspire a grin despite the stress and fatigue of urban combat was the handle hung upon it by the Brits. Rotating out of Brasilia ten days after 4th Ranger had rotated in, the soldiers of His Majesty's 8th Royal Marine Commandos had dedicated every waking moment that they interacted with 4th Rangers to impart upon their replacements the concentrated knowledge and "lessons learned" they had acquired in a month's time conducting MOUT.

This included the peculiar throwback term that they preferred of "FISH"; or, "Fighting In Somebody's House".

Accepting the wisdom and "how-to" pointers specific to Brasilia offered by the Royal Marines with just the obligatory "anything you can do, I can do better" bravado common to Type-A personalities, 4th Rangers had quickly and smoothly taken the baton and had even found itself occasionally using the adopted term, "FISH".

They had been carrying the baton, borrowing the wisdom of the Royal Marines, and adding elements of their own now for thirty-seven days.

In that time to 4th Rangers, from the Regimental CO down to the freshest private, of whom there were an ever-increasing number, it had become clear that neither "MOUT" nor "FISH" adequately described what they were engaged in and another term had been sought unofficially to frame it.

Someone had come up with the correct handle, an old term, but one that Whilite remembered and one that clicked immediately:

Rattenkrieg.

Rat warfare.

MOUT was a mode of warfare that the Rangers could easily switch into much as the Royal Marines before them had- this was something that tapped into the core values of their identity and the emphasis of their training when the conditions were just so. Stealth, superior gathering and application of intelligence in planning, effective small-unit tactics, and violence of action were all requirements of MOUT and central to the Ranger's being.

Conditions in combat, any combat, and particularly urban combat were rarely just so however.

What the Zentraedi Holocaust had not done to the city of Brasilia at the time that it had knocked the majority of the world's population centers back into the Stone Age- two months of imbedded conflict had.

The glass and steel construction of Brasilia's most prominent buildings that had caused the city to shine like a jewel in an alpine setting of lush green even after the rise of shoddy slum construction in the wake of the apocalypse had been horribly mauled. Neat and orderly streets had become porous battle lines fiercely disputed and tenuously held in the complex realm of three-dimensional warfare.

The world's first, self-proclaimed, "modern city" had in the blink of an eye joined the ranks of other war-ravaged cities of history such as Troy at the hands of the Greeks, Rome under the Vandals, Stalingrad by the Germans, Berlin by the Russians returning the favor, Hué, or more recently Islamabad, Budapest, or Hong Kong in the Global War.

Like these other cities of fame, hopes of quick and decisive action through maneuver and tactics had all but completely evaporated. Though gains were still made periodically through assaults on "key positions", the whole securing of Brasilia had bogged down into what was for the most part room-to-room fighting- a knife duel in a broom closet.

Hopes of a decisive action had actually been just that. If military planners had learned nothing else about MOUT over the years it was that the more successful the offense, the more logistically draining on the attacking force. Every building, block, road and alleyway had to be actively held and defended or what was yours by day would quickly become the enemy's again by night. These "holding forces" required all of the support of any combat unit, increasing the strain on logistics and thus adding to the number of units dedicated to Brasilia yet again. Hopes were just that and quickly dashed as the whole thing had become a great slogging match almost quicker than either the RDF-Army or ASC had been able to support.

For this reason, rattenkrieg seemed the most appropriate term to frame what fighting had become in Brasilia.

Martial terminology always sounded best in German anyway.

And what had been the cause?

It was hardly important, Whilite knew, but still it was a very human question that one could not help but ask after seeing the volume of casualties choppered away daily.

It had had something to do with the assassination of a Zentraedi separatist leader some three months before by a well-organized cell of a known "human defense" militia that just happened to coincide with a joint RDF-ASC air strike on the downed Zentraedi cruisers that the separatists had been restoring to facilitate their escape from imprisonment on Earth.

-And Santa Claus would be delivering toys to the good children of the world in under a week.

There was no question that the strike on the space cruisers had been a sanctioned and formally organized military operation under the auspices of some RDF and ASC agreement or another-. But for Whilite's money, and having gained some insight into how things worked in "The Zone" which was dominated by Southern Cross influence- the assassination of the Zentraedi leader whose name Whilite could no longer remember was as likely carried out by the Boy Scouts as any human defense militia.

Their intel had been too accurate, the planning and execution too tight, and the fact not broadly known that state-of-the-art military hardware had played a part all added up to something else.

That had been the spark.

The kindling was not nearly as complex. The Zentraedi malcontents in the region were through with Earth. They had toiled and labored under the promise of escape only to have it snatched at the eleventh hour from them. It was a frustration that was easy to understand and one that had exploded into violence.

This was the fire that Whilite, his Rangers, and God only knew how many other units in The Control Zone of northern South America were now fighting. Only, who could have expected it to grow so large and spread so far?

When frustration turned to violence, one could expect an intense flash- but a localized one. After all, not every Zentraedi in The Zone was a follower of the slain leader, nor had they all expected to make their escape aboard three scout-class vessels. For some reason though, the flash had caught and spread as a blaze as far south as Argentina, and as far north as to show increased malcontent activity in The Outlands of the North American Sector.

Maybe the malcontents were just looking for an excuse across the board- maybe.

What was more disturbing was that the "flash" of violence had not subsided in three months as one would have expected it to as the fuel of frustration was burned away. The violence had been sustained- escalated even, and most disturbingly with a sense of purpose. The violence had brought in both the RDF and ASC in force in sometimes-coordinated efforts to quell it, and many small regional disturbances had been stabilized.

In the process of stabilization though, tangible evidence of what units in the field had come to suspect began to emerge. There were signs that malcontent groups were acting cooperatively- networking. Military supplies or hardware stolen on a raid in Columbia might be discovered in a malcontent camp in Venezuela or moving south into the depths of the Amazon basin following an ambush on a Zentraedi supply party moving along a known route.

Nothing conclusive- maps containing routes from origin to destination had become scarce at best as intelligence artifacts found on the bodies of slain warriors- only portions of routes were now found.

Intuition and some intelligence-based insight had in the field lent itself to successful raids on temporary supply depots and munitions dumps in dense jungles or difficult to access regions all over The Control Zone, but had never yielded answers to where the material might be going and why.

Coupled with the drop-off in prisoners that could be taken alive in raids- the Zentraedi had developed the tendency to kill their own wounded when on the retreat rather than the familiar and standard abandonment- sentient intelligence was meager as well. Even "snatch and grab" operations had taken on new complexity as the intended prisoners seemed bent on death before disclosure of any beneficial knowledge they might possess.

Malcontents were now more likely to shoot themselves or fall on a grenade upon realizing their situation in a snatch-and-grab as they were to mount a futile resistance. Even the successfully captured had recently begun to take gruesome measures to end their own lives- Whilite having heard of cases where unattended prisoners might chew off their own tongues or tear out the radial arteries of their wrists with their own teeth to avoid interrogation.

Fanaticism in terms of duty and loyalty had returned to the Zentraedi malcontents where it had been dissolving only months before. That much was clear.

The questions of why, and to whom the new loyalty was oriented was still yet to be answered.

Intelligence entities both military and civilian were battling over various explanations.

Brutal but otherwise unsophisticated raids on isolated human population centers that had once been the means by which malcontent Zentraedi acquired sustenance had dwindled. Shockingly, the raids on the "soft" targets of civilian areas had been replaced by increasingly effective attacks on military ones.

Seemingly overnight, the Zentraedi had rediscover their military discipline and had brought it to bear on their UE-RDF and ASC counterparts who had been initially taken off-guard. Perhaps it had been the nature of the Zentraedi targets of attack that had surprised the terran military.

In the past, rogue Zentraedi had chosen to attack the most visible elements of the UE military forces- units in the field. Whether as Warriors of The Empire or as malcontent hostages of an alien world, their eagerness for a fight had remained constant.

The norm had become well-planned and equipped raids on supply bases and routes that avoided contact with UE military combat units. After-action assessments of the raids also suggested that the raids had specific objectives in terms of supplies and materials stolen.

Certainly, food, clothing, weapons, and ammunition were still high items on the list of those stolen in any raid- but peculiar things had begun to appear on those lists as well. Most noteworthy of these items and that which caused the average grunt to mst scratch his head was the theft of disassembled Zentraedi mecha components that were awaiting collection and destruction.

Whilite thought that the Zentraedi intent was clear: to gather enough parts to assemble functional mecha. While this was a reasonable assumption, there were elements to that line of reason that made no sense.

First and foremost was the fact that Zentraedi mecha required a full-sized Zentraedi pilot. The Earth had not seen a full-sized Zentraedi in years. Following The Robotech War, even the most die-hard Zentraedi warriors had eventually turned themselves into "indoctrination centers" to be micronized and re-educated. It wasn't so much a matter of choice as it was a matter of survival. Food in the quantity required to sustain a full-sized Zentraedi did not exist readily, especially in the areas most heavily populated by the giants- and furthermore the average warrior did not have the knowledge to identify food in the raw or the skills to hunt for them.

Surrender became a more pleasant alternative to starvation once the aliens had begun to experience the latter.

Humans had quickly recognized that micronized Zentraedi would begin to desire their former size superiority once their bellies were full and had moved with conviction to make sure that the ability to return to that state was safely out of the hands of the aliens. "Scaling chambers" were either confiscated and secured or destroyed utterly wherever they were found, and exhaustive efforts along these lines had left military and civilian leaders confident that no Zentraedi would again attain a giant's stature without supervised UE Government consent.

Secondly, and no less important in Whilite's mind in the mystery of the stolen mecha components was the fact that with as many "pieces" as had been stolen, the total number of functional mecha that could be assembled from them was relatively few. Unofficial estimates and outright speculation that Whilite had heard varied from fifty to a hundred Battle Pods at most. Even a hundred Battle Pods- if they had capable pilots and if they could be massed- would still be quickly and easily overwhelmed by air and mecha forces of the UE militaries.

To Whilite's thinking, a Zentraedi veteran had to be painfully aware of this.

Of course, Whilite realized, desperation often clouded logical thinking. Perhaps the mentality was for the Zentraedi that it was better to die in a way that they knew than to live in a way that they did not.

Whilite was sure that the RDF could accommodate them.

The lieutenant forced himself to mentally back off of matters he had little insight on and less ability to control- though the temptation to speculate was great.

His world was smaller, more black and white. His world was rattenkrieg for now- mostly.

Mostly being the operative word, as today he and his unit along with the rest of Echo Company were going to be able to fight as Rangers again.

Regiment had determined that the two square blocks that the joint force had been operating in for two weeks was secure and stable enough to be turned over to a holding force of ASC Army and Global Military Police, and that the more skilled elements of the Rangers could move to expanding the pocket of human control in Brasilia.

There would be an assault this morning.

The decision to expand by assault from the stabilized "Dodge Sector" into the area on the map of Brasilia now dubbed "Abilene" (a wit somewhere in command having decided that good names for the city's sectors should all come from the rough-and-tumble towns of the Classic American West) had not been a snap one. Reconnaissance by remotely controlled drones and by squad-sized probe elements had been ongoing in Abilene as well as other sectors since the arrival of 4th Ranger, and had supported detailed planning for the event.

The missing element that had prevented the preferred Ranger method of rapid and decisive advancement on any objective had been the element of security.

4th Ranger had arrived in Brasilia eager, but from the moment of first boots on the ground had been spread woefully thin across the spectrum of duties and responsibilities involved in securing and holding an urban battlefield. The Royal Marines had warned of this, as they had warned of relatively inert quality of the ASC in Brasilia.

The Southern Cross forces in their various forms, the Royal Marines had reported and 4th Ranger had discovered, were technically proficient in the arts of MOUT- but their sense of urgency- their eagerness was less admirable.

They had no fire in the belly to support operations.

Or, perhaps they had no fire in the belly to support RDF Army operating in "their city".

Certainly, the ASC infantry or specialized units of GMP could be trusted to hold a sector like Dodge that had been gutted, flattened, and combed a dozen times over by 4th Ranger to quell malcontent resistance. It was even being entrusted to provide security for the four refugee camps that the corps of engineers had been forced to raise outside of the city limits for the tidal flood of humanity that washed out of a city in turmoil and the countertide that always seemed to gravitate toward the stabilizing force of the Army from the rural areas.

This was far from they being deemed trustworthy of defending the rear and flanks of a Ranger force assaulting new territory.

Looking over one's shoulder was no way to advance, and 4th Ranger knew and understood it universally.

What was required to allow 4th Ranger to regain forward momentum was a force that could be relied upon to watch the backs of those who were focused on pressing forward.

The solution had been one that the Royal Marine Commandoes had requested specifically, but whose arrival had come too late to support them but who were proving indispensable to 4th Ranger. 129th Infantry had assumed the mantle of patrolling and holding the "secured" areas of Brasilia, and were performing that role with distinction. Units had even been drawn to support the Ranger spearhead in the assaults that had expanded control into Dodge Sector much as some of the same units were supporting the assault this morning.

As effective as they were in MOUT, the 128th Infantry did not provide that little extra edge of intimidation needed to give the malcontents pause when thinking of resistance to UE military expansion in Brasilia. For all of their efforts, the 129th was familiar to the malcontents who saw them for what they were- another RDF-Army infantry unit.

The answer to the "dominance in action" question was to find something unfamiliar to the Zentraedi- a unit that could shock them into a lingering fear. His Majesty's Royal Marine Commandos had known the answer and had set the request into motion- it was 4th Ranger's fortune to reap the benefits.

The answer was Gurkhas.

More specifically, His Majesty's 1st Brigade of Royal Gurkha Rifles (1RGR) had arrived eight days before under cover of darkness and by that dawn had already shown the value of their presence. A "legacy unit" of the pre-Unification British Army in the same way that 4th Ranger was one to the Ranger regiments of The Army of the United States, 1RGR had a celebrated history to it.

Gurkha (or as speakers of the word's native tongue pronounced it, Gorkhas) had been part of the British Army since India had been a territory of The Empire. Selected for their loyalty and ferocity in battle as a "martial people", the Gurkhas of Nepal and affiliated peoples of Northern India had contributed to military victories under the Union Jack since 1815.

Though Unification had thinned the purity of the Gurkha Brigades' blood somewhat- their composition no longer predominantly Nepalese or Indian- their ferocity and tenacity in battle had not dwindled as a result..

Field Marshal Manekshaw, former Chief of Staff of the British Indian Army had perhaps said it best when he had been famously quoted, "If a man says he is not afraid of dying, he is either lying or he is a Gurkha."

Lieutenant Whilite now understood what had inspired Manekshaw to those words over a century before, but what was more impressive to him was the willingness- the near compulsion- of the Gurkhas to kill the enemy before them. This was not satiation of bloodlust though, but rather a disciplined, dutiful, almost religiously-obligatory fulfillment of a sworn oath.

1RGR's first night in Brasilia, their boots not yet dusty from the filth of the battered city, the Gurkhas had found (some rumored sought out) no less than a dozen skirmishes. Thirty-six Gurkhas had found themselves choppered out to hospital as a result, seventeen had been killed. In trade, Zentraedi malcontents had left sixty-three dead in the streets, alleys, and gutted buildings of the sectors the Gurkhas had been rushed into as reinforcement.

Steady aim of rifle, strong thrust of bayonet, and even the skilled use of traditional Gurkha sacred kukri knife had earned these stoic warriors immediate recognition and respect from both 4th Ranger and the enemy.

The Zentraedi name of narik kruvok, translated loosely into "warriors who carry the kruvok" had even been heard by battlefield intelligence staff uttered over open radio channels referring to the Gurkhas and the kukri that did resemble with their heavy, forward curving blades the Zentraedi kruvok knife.

The kukri still was a badge particular to the Gurkhas and not solely a ceremonial one. Both human and Zentraedi combatants in Brasilia were aware of the increasing frequency with which decapitated Zentraedi bodies were being found.

As with all "legacy units", 1RGR had not been allowed in its transition into the RDF-Army to rest on its historical laurels. Rather, their aggressive combat philosophy and their prowess at backing it up with action had made them an excellent operational test bed for the latest experiment in Robotechnology to be added to the Army inventory- the Cyclone.

Formally known in the design phase as the "Military Veritech Riding Armor System" (MVRAS- dubbed by some Army wit had cleverly dubbed Move Our Asses) the concept when proposed within the Robotech Design Bureau must have elicited at least one chuckle as truly pushing the envelope of the possible as it applied to the domesticated alien science.

The MVRS satisfied a practical military requirement of high and rapid mobility for the infantryman in its form as a motorcycle, while satisfying another in augmenting the physical and combat abilities of the infantryman as a component suit of power armor.

Early prototypes were generously described as disastrous as the technical complexities of disintegrating a machine at the component level and reassembling it entirely into a different form were encountered, studied, and resolved. No deaths but multiple injuries were incurred even before the quirky mecha system entered is "locomotive transformation" testing stages, and the program had skirted cancelation on more than one occasion.

Only championing from the highest levels of command- rumored to be MCS General Breetai himself- had saved the program. Breetai's advocacy of the MVRS's potential value carried its own weight, but was echoed vehemently by every former Imperial Zentraedi Warrior who now served in the UE military- which was to say most of them.

While the MVRS was a concept that filled a niche in what designers at The Robotech Design Ministry speculated would be needed in case of a large-scale encounter with the phantom alien menace of The Invid- former Imperial Warriors knew.

Zentraedi memories of battlefields flooded with thousands, hundreds of thousands, sometimes millions of Invid Troopers and Shock Troopers did not fade easily or with time. Maximizing the potential of every infantryman was not just prudent but an imperative for survival. The MVRS, while not the perfect solution, was the best solution that could be sped into production and fielded.

While there was no data available to assess its effectiveness against Invid, its performance against Zentraedi malcontents in its limited application was promising.

The marriage of the Gurkha and the Cyclone was an ideal match enhancing the potential of both, and for these reasons and had brought them to Brasilia.

Lieutenant Whilite recognized the martial skills of Company C, 70th Gurkha Rifles, the unit assigned to augment Echo Company' s presence in Dodge and support their movement into Abilene, but there was more to the men who carried the kukri than their performance in the fight. These men (for stubborn reasons of tradition, no woman had yet been accepted into the ranks of the Gurkhas) had a quiet certainty about them, an earnestness in their conduct of all things including themselves that made an ally feel safe in their midst.

There was something that could be said for that as the Gurkhas would be providing perimeter security for the Rangers of Echo Company as they cleared and secured a building on the fringe of Abilene known only as "Three". It was certainly more than could be said for ASC whose perimeters were notoriously flimsy and porous when their role was one of support and not the primary action.

Lt. Whilite opened the VeLCDRo-fastened cover flap of his wristwatch and checked the time though mission and Zulu time would have both been readily visible had he simply snapped his helmet visor down into position. The M-36 tactical helmet portion of the greater "Stalker" body armor system had many functions and features that were advantageous in battle, but for some things there was the comfort of doing things the "traditional" way.

Three minutes

Three minutes until the "go" word of "Peacemaker" would start Operation Masterson- which in planning and up to the day before had been Operation Hickok. 3rd Platoon's Staff Sergeant Michelle Byerly had joked about the change with Whilite upon hearing of it, pointing out that someone had probably reminded the planning staff that Wild Bill had been shot in the head from behind ending an illustrious career abruptly.

No one would admit to putting stock in a clear jinx, but no one wanted to tempt fate either.

So, it had become Operation Masterson to seize by speed and violence of action a large chunk of Abilene Sector in one brutal grab. Painstaking surveillance and reconnaissance had fed into meticulous planning and staging, and still somehow to Whilite's chagrin it had come to squatting in a sewer pipe in the minutes leading up to "go hour" calf-deep in water that would have had to have been filtered, boiled, and chlorinated to be elevated to septic.

Still, the manhole cover leading up from the drainage sewer was a scant sixteen meters from the objective structure's southwest corner. Moreover, this potential path of approach showed minimal signs of monitoring by the thirty-five to forty-five Zentraedi malcontents estimated by intelligence to occupy "Three" at any given time.

The Zentraedi, unfamiliar as they had been with the complexities of urban combat and three-dimensional warfare at the time of their marooning on Earth had since shown their great capacity for adaptation in learning. Early in their struggle for Brasilia they had learned the valuable, bloody lesson that attacks to their defensive positions did not always come from street level. They had learned to mine rooftops or at least post guards to prevent easy vertical incursion. They had learned that sewers, underground electrical and mechanical access tunnels could also provide their opponents with the advantage of surprise much the same way that Invid had been known to sometimes prepare a battlefield with tunneling.

The latter association made and the consequences of unpreparedness remembered, many sewers and infrastructure tunnels had been collapsed. Some had been collapsed expertly, rendering them useless and impassible. The RDF Army Corps of Engineers had found that others had been collapsed more hastily, and with effort could be salvaged for use in covert or offensive operations.

Fortunately for 1st and 3rd Platoons, the malcontents had not been as thorough as they could have been in collapsing the sewer lines approaching and within Abilene Sector. An assessment by the combat engineers that the lines were "salvageable" in terms of providing a route of covered movement had been proven true by a weeks's work done mostly by hand.

An additional stroke of good Fortune for the Rangers was that the malcontents had not yet learned in full the value of periodically checking on areas ore avenues of approach that they considered secure. It was a costly lesson to be learned by them today at the hands of their Ranger instructors- but a lesson that the Rangers hoped the pupils would not be able to pass on to their comrades.

2nd and 4th Platoons would insert from Lakota "slicks" via fast line once the opening assault had stunned Three's occupants. Threats to the fast-roping Rangers would be confirmed as clear before the first sounds of rotor blades echoed in the desolate streets. Carefully executed probing operations conducted by RAV surveillance units had shown that the building was not unlike a turtle- uniformly hard throughout the "shell"- but relatively soft once it was penetrated.

After the peril of helicopter insertion, 2nd and 4th Platoons were expected to have the easiest work.

"Breeching team, get your game faces on.", Sgt Byerly whispered in the dark from the third position in 1st Squad's combat order. She was apparently keeping as close an eye on the time as Whilite and the steady, serious tone of her voice told of it as it carried back along the line, "Secure the breech and the stairwell and open the path for the follow-on fire teams. Watch your intervals and keep your movements clean. Two minutes-."

Imbedded with 2nd Squad Whilite would move in with the first of the fire teams but would hold just inside the breech with Byerly in the command position. Though not on the point of the building clearing, this position was far from "safe", and in the dark Whilite felt for the grip of his M-36 "Bulldog" in its leg bag and found it to be there and the firing safety on.

For this operation like other building clearings that Echo Company had conducted in Brasilia, the Rangers had given up- sometimes reluctantly- their rugged and familiar new best friends, their M-35-A "Electric-Terminator" assault pulse rifles.

The M-36 was for all intents and purposes the same weapon, firing the new and same powerful 8x55mm caseless round as the M-35-A and with the same rate of fire and accuracy. Though the Rangers had all qualified on the new weapon prior to deploying to Brasilia, the "bull-pup" configuration of the M-36 did still feel alien to most from time to time. The "bull-pup" rifle deviated from the classic assault rifle configuration in that it moved the breech, magazine, and electrical firing system to the rear of the grip instead of forward. The advantage was that it allowed the same barrel length, equaling the same accuracy, but housed in a weapon that was overall shorter.

To "traditionalists", like Whilite though it would always be just a little awkward.

The shorter forward barrel length had also meant sacrificing the tube-magazine fed, pump-action grenade launcher still standard to the M-35-A in favor of a single-shot variant. As a grenade launcher was of reduced value in building clearing operations, the loss of the higher capacity system was not mourned greatly.

The innovation that both the M-35-A and M-36 both brought the Rangers, was one that had been anticipated for years in assault rifle development and that was now delivering- nearly maintenance-free use. Both weapons had traded conventional gas-operated, mechanical firing systems for an electrical one. With no moving parts involved in capturing and utilizing the expanding gas of a fired round to chamber the next came the elimination of weapons jamming due to build-up of grit.

In proving and acceptance testing, neither the M-35-A nor the M-36 had ever jammed due to particulate contamination. Testers had even gone so far as to actively pour sand and dust into the barrels before clearing and firing- all with the same flawless performance as the final result.

Still, M-35-A versus M-36, Whilite preferred the "classic" configuration.

Building clearing presented tactical challenges that could not all be resolved by a single weapon or MOS, even the M-36 in the hands of a Ranger. Sometimes the resolution did not lie in technical innovation, but rather in going (as some called it) "old school".

The breeching team of 1st Squad had embedded within its fire teams a pair of sappers borrowed from the engineers, as did each squad in each platoon on-line for the assault this morning. Along with their standard gear of primer cord, plastic explosives, and pre-formed charges was the "old-school" tool for opening doors that made no pretense of sophistication. Each sapper carried a sub-machinegun slung to be able to join the fight if needed, but for their primary task of clearing doors and obstacles each carried an over-and-under, double barrel, 10-gauge shotgun.

Like the sappers carrying them, the weapon made no claim of subtlety, but was without argument an effective tool.

"Forward Eyes show clear, wings and rollers. –Suicide Tinks in place and standing by.", came a voice over the secure tactical frequency. As set down in the operational timetable, the surveillance team liaison would communicate a brief and final situational report to the assault force. The few words spoken were actually the culmination of hours of work that had been done by a remote surveillance unit attached to 4th Rangers for this very purpose.

Hours before, nimble and nearly silent, RAV-6 "Tinkerbelle" surveillance probes had been flown into the target structure. Each drone, slightly smaller than the average dinner plate was a carbon fiber mini-airframe that rode a cushion of air generated by a centrally mounted rotating wing propeller.

A light weight optics and audio package gave the operator and anyone else granted access to the InfoLink system virtual eyes and ears into any place the RAV-6 could be maneuvered.

The Tinkerbelle's ground-roaming cousin, the RGV-3 "Woodchuck" provided the same functions and features as its airborne counterpart, but was carried over terra firma by four independently motor driven, articulated leg-mounted wheels. The Woodchuck could negotiate all but the most broken or cluttered ground, and more importantly for the purposes of MOUT- move up and stairs and over most urban debris. Proponents of the Woodchuck were also quick to point out that because its earthbound nature allowed the RGV to sit idle, it had a considerably longer loiter time in an observation position than the RAV-6, which inevitably would drain its battery supply with the effort of flight.

Lt. Whilite was satisfied to allow the argument to be one indulged in by the well-trained operators controlling the two systems. It was the fruits of their labor that concerned him, and juicy fruit it was.

Through the Personal Integrated Combat System (PICS) mounted on the left forearm of his body armor, Whilite toggled through the multiple camera feeds available to him through surveillance application. Each view as seen through the PICS's small, but high-resolution LCD screen was a view of the world into which he and the Rangers under his command would be charging in roughly a minute.

Around him, his Rangers were similarly taking last peaks at the surveillance feeds to familiarize themselves visually with their assigned objectives. Specifics of a room's appearance could and likely would change once doors were blown in and the bullets started flying- but no harm came from trying to see what could be seen only moments before one had to be there in the flesh.

Mostly the views of the building's key corridors were clear and devoid of malcontent sentries. The Zentraedi in Brasilia had become aware that their enemy could attack at night and actually preferred to do so, but their vigilance in defense still tended to wane in the pre-dawn hours. It was natural to human and Zentraedi alike that in the absence of a perceived or material threat, boredom set in and with it the tendency to lose focus.

There were no sentries walking the three floors of the low-rise building - apparently the attention to defense was being directed outward, and these eyes were likely growing heavy with tedium and the promise of first light.

Whilite felt in his gut that the prime hunting hour was almost upon them.

For himself, Whilite knew that there was nothing more to be gained by viewing surveillance feeds. Preparing was over, the doing time was almost at hand. He knew all that he was going to know going into the fight- and for any other contingency he was going to have to rely on his training and that of the Rangers around him.

That had gotten them through before and would again today.

As individually capable as a Ranger was in his training and the technologies he brought to a fight- there was still an enormous dependency on all supporting personnel doing their jobs in order to allow him to operate safely and achieve the mission objectives.

For instance, Whilite knew that as part of their defensive posture of "Three", the malcontents had set anti-personnel mines in all of the stairwells and covering the standard points of entry. While the assault had no intention of going in through the front door, there no avoiding mines at some point. Adept as their sappers were at clearing mines, the Rangers knew that they could not do this in person faster and more surely than a malcontent could detonate a mine.

The quandary of clearing this type of threat was solved by the same support element that was responsible for locating them.

Both the RAV-6 and RGV-3 had since their conception been realized by both EOD and their developers to be ideal for remotely clearing explosives, mines, and booby-traps. As a result, "sapper packages" had been developed for both platforms.

Consisting of an easily mounted plastic explosive charge, the sapper package transformed the Tinkerbelle into a "Suicide Tink", and the Woodchuck into the more coarsely nicknamed- "You're Fucked".

Politically correct names not withstanding- Tinkerbelles and Woodchucks rigged with sapper packages had been moved into position already to neutralize the threats that had been discovered.

Whilite was certain that if the operators did their job, if he did his, and the hundreds of others supporting this morning's assault all did theirs- there was nothing to be worried about.

This was mildly comforting.

"Thirty seconds.", Sgt Byerly announced, adding for its motivational qualities the first half of Echo Company's unofficial mantra, "Kill something every day-."

Twenty-five sets of lips formed the unified reply in the darkness as final preparations were completed.

"-Even if it's small-."

"Homestead" was as good a callsign for divisional HQ as any, and "Lawman" seemed an appropriate one for the voice of C2 coming from the Joint Operations Center over the encrypted tactical channels.

The JOC was actually a room specially constructed by the engineers in a corner of the warehouse on the outskirts of Brasilia that also served as Division HQ for the 129th Infantry and barracking for its senior officers and staff. Junior officers, NCOs, and enlisted were similarly accommodated in the six other warehouses of what had once been part of a sprawling industrial park before having been thoroughly looted by refugee and malcontent alike, or in satellite tent camps that that had been erected within the post perimeter.

Whatever the original purpose of the structure, it had taken the Corps of Engineers just over a week to make it serviceable for Army use, and this was well before the arrival of 4th Ranger as an attachment to 129th Infantry. What had been gutted, corrugated steel shells had quickly become ready housing for the equipment and facilities to not only make the former warehouses a functioning command post, but to support all of personnel assigned to the command.

Captain Duc Ho Nguyen, Echo Company, 4th Ranger Regiment, found many things about MOUT in Brasilia to be to his disliking. Among the top of the list and in varying order depending on how the offending element was affecting him at that moment were things such as: having to secure and hold a population center not only from the malcontents who one would expect conflict from, but also from the city's own population.

The areas of the city that were considered "in dispute" or in flux were porous not only to the Zentraedi threat, but also to the threat from looters and pillagers. Not that all that was worth stealing from what remained of Brasilia hadn't already been stolen, but the lowest form of human life still seemed determined to try to carry off what was left.

It was more than the parasitic nature of looters that offended Nguyen- it was the fact that they inevitably chose to skirmish with Army forces when discovered. Rarely did this result in deaths or serious injuries for the Army, but regularly ended badly for the unscrupulous..

Gratifying as it would have been to simply leave the parasitic elements to tend to their own wounds (or die from them), the Army was obligated to provide evacuation and medical assistance in these cases. This translated to Army resources- personnel, evacuation helicopter flight hours, medical supplies, hospital beds, food- all going to patching together the lowest denomination of the species and thus being unavailable for a soldier.

Humanity had a strange way of cannibalizing itself in times of strife. If it wasn't the looters, it was the ACWs. Avenging Civic Warriors- as Nguyen's men had started to call them- were that peculiar breed of human who felt obligated to join in the defensive fight for their home, but without benefit of training, organization, coordination wwith friendly forces- the basics.

ACWs having formed small partisan bands in the early days of the battle for Brasilia had become a scarce and endangered species quickly. Those who had not been killed at the eager hands of malcontents had either lost heart and abandoned the fight when it was clear that the Zentraedi would not be driven off by their sheer determination, or had given up on "home" when "home" had become a gutted shell. Others had surrendered the fight to hunger and hardship- the thrill and romance of war having lost its sheen- or had found themselves battling more looters than Zentraedi.

The Army had been forced to chopper a good many ACWs out to hospital in the early days, but their presence in Brasilia had dwindled quickly.

Sadly, and the most detestable aspect of the ACW phenomena, unlike looters these urban vigilantes had a nasty habit of leaving booby-traps in their wake as the left the combat zone. Some were unsophisticated and obvious, others showed true ingenuity. All had done in a malcontent or looter in the battle's three months.

Unfortunately, booby-traps did not discriminate and Nguyen's Rangers had taken casualties of varying severity compliments of ACWs who had long since skipped town.

Fighting the enemy was never the hardest part- it was the peripheral complexities that made war truly hell.

Nguyen, his Rangers- all of the terran military forces in Brasilia under the auspice of defending something- were also inevitably burdened by the innumerable human tragedies that they were aware of but could do little about.

This was the weight of seeing a displaced population dependent completely upon the Army for protection and sustenance, and with no clear sense of their future. They could only watch as "home" was pulverized within earshot in hopes that one day there would be something left to return to.

There were also the wanderers who straggled into the refugee camps, mostly in groups. These were the souls who had come great distances , braving hot zones and combat areas looking for some shelter from a deteriorating region and often finding only a variation on the nightmare they had fled.

Then there were the worst in Nguyen's mind- the "shell people". Those who could be found in any displaced group of humanity. Those who still breathed, ate, went through all the motions of life- but whose eyes were windows to a hollow space. These waited for whatever would come next without any hope or purpose.

One grew hardened against it all quickly- and maybe that was the most loathsome part of it all.

Maybe it was because it was the holiday season that he conditions in Brasilia felt particularly bleak to Nguyen. Holidays were a strange time to be in the military and especially if you were in a deployed unit.

One would be inclined to believe that having others around you, going through the same thing would help- and in some ways it did. Often small tokens of good will and gestures of kindness were more common this time of year in between even the members of the most hardened combat units. Certainly, the support elements from USO to the mess staff did their best to bring the holidays to Brasilia- and their efforts were appreciated.

As one of the strange paradoxes of human nature though, there was something in forcing the holidays that gave it an artificial quality. But there was no question about the underlying effort and sentiment that was behind the attempt.

In the end, everyone had their own coping mechanisms.

Captain Nguyen had his regular emails and sometimes even paper letters from home. Many of his Rangers had this comfort and were helped along by it. Those who did not sometimes, and especially during the holiday season, found themselves the beneficiaries of home base and USO sponsored letter campaigns. These letters were admittedly no substitute for notes from a loved one, but they had the benefit of being a pleasant surprise- and that itself was a change from the norm in The Control Zone.

Of the letters he received from family, electronically or on paper, Nguyen especially looked forward to those from his eldest son, Second Lieutenant Khoa Nguyen, 443rd Regiment, RDF Army Corps of Engineers.

Duc Ho Nguyen had no favorite among his children, loving them all equally for their unique personalities and gifts. Khoa was different though in that he, also an Army officer, had the most in common with his father in his chosen path in life. This was not to say that every experience was analogous, but even with Khoa's first deployment Duc could feel the bond of something shared growing between them. Toil, exhaustion, distance from home- all were a kinship shared without having to drone on as one might have to with someone who did not live that life in order to establish that understanding.

And there were the things that fell between the written lines. Things that were expressed in an included random thought, a choice of phrase that could only be understood between comrades, or friends, or father and son- or something that was all of those combined.

Khoa's letters were the ones Duc read with the greatest of ease, and his letters to his eldest son the ones he wrote that flowed with the least effort.

Nguyen had received such a letter the day before.

He had fought the urge to open and read it immediately but rather with supreme self-control had folded it up and kept it in his pocket reserving it. It was still in his pocket as the moments until Operation Masterson ticked away. It would be his carrot when the day's work was done, but for now Nguyen needed to focus on the work.

Focus would normally not have been a problem for Nguyen. Ranger unit officers were without exception "lead from the front" types who wanted to have their ass in the same grass as their units. That common peril and the responsibilities of being a commanding officer had a way of concentrating the mind.

"Higher Ranks"- which was not to say Colonel Gilliam, 4th Ranger Regiment's CO- had a slightly different philosophy.

Brigadier General Wendel, 129th Infantry's CO and the on-scene commander fro Brasilia by default was no stranger to combat either as a combatant or a unit commander. He understood why a company commander would want o be up front with his unit, but at the same time had made a decision he was entitled to make. Particularly that at some point in the chain of command there was going to be a "disconnect", or at least a disruption in the decision-making and execution flow.

In an operation like Masterson, where success depended less on the tactical decisions of officers at the front of the action than it did on the audacity and prowess of the clearing teams Wendel had chosen to make the split at the company CO level. For that reason the JOC, Homestead, was thick with silver railroad tracks representing the companies of 4th Ranger Regiment and for each a building to be seized this morning.

Protests from company COs dutiful to the men and women under them had gone up to Colonel Gilliam to include one from Nguyen.

His only comment had been, "Welcome to my world."

And that was that.

So, like every other company commander in the regiment, Nguyen found himself in the JOC serving as the "organic link" to the front for Wendel at the cost of having to use a synthetic one to command his unit.

Certainly in terms of the quantity and availability of information for decision-making, posting in the JOC was a second choice to none. The room glowed with LCD screens displaying video, LIDAR, and SAR feeds from orbiting UAVs as well as tables of commonly relevant information. Each company commander had a holopgaphic display table depicting in great detail the immediate surroundings of and interior of his unit's target building through which he could monitor their progress in real-time. And also there was the C2 staff provided by the headquarters unit to support each CO with communications and command support as was needed.

To Nguyen, it was all very impressive- but also very nearly sensory overload for something he felt he could achieve as easily by just being at "Three" with Echo Company.

It was also an option that was not one that he was free to choose. So, with unspoken apology that his Rangers clearly understood, he had taken final readiness reports from his platoon leaders, given the company their final briefing, and had parted ways with them- though only in the physical sense.

Captain Nguyen found strength to endure the separation in an unlikely source. If he, Nguyen reasoned, was displeased with not having an active role in the fight, his "Top", Sergeant Major MacDonald was likely going crazy with the frustrations.

While Nguyen was distanced from his responsibilities as Echo Company commander, MacDonald was distanced similarly from his very "hands-on" responsibilities which were in fact every detail of carrying out Nguyen's commands.

"Mac", Nguyen said as he surveyed the concealed positions of his Rangers seen in the holographic model as uniquely identified icons. With most identifiers Nguyen could picture a face- though some names were too new for memory to associate yet.

From the representation of icons though, the captain could see the assault force straining in their positions, waiting to surge forward at the giving of "the word". In many ways, by using the technology of the JOC he could be the eyes that saw all and prevented potential problems from becoming real ones. Virtual command- one of those technological things that sounded great in principle, but came up lacking somehow when stood up next to traditional methods.

"-Give me a warm and fuzzy feeling-."

The sergeant major half-turned from where he stood over the controllers assigned to Echo Company C2, "All good here, Captain-. All squads in final positions, and we're wired and networked seven ways from Sunday The only thing we're missing is the dirty movie channel."

"I'm keeping you out of trouble with the wife.", Nguyen said dryly.

A little humor helped the seconds to tick by.

There was something about a Destroid that shifted the psychological balance in a fight.

There was something about a company of Destroids that decided it.

Major Mason Colven, "Gator" Company, 149th Mecha Armor Regiment had cut his battle teeth in "conventional" armored cavalry in The Persian Gulf War and then The Global War, but even the main battle tank at near the apex of its technology did not possess the "shock and awe" instilled by Destroids.

Colven had been amongst the first of his MOS to be lured to "Project Tomahawk" in early 1999 with the ambiguous hint of the project's general goal: "a main battle tank with legs", or as the effort became known, "tracks to trudge".

Tankers being traditionalists by nature- neither their machines nor their mode of operation having changed radically since the establishment of tank warfare's basic principles by Heinz Guderian's Achtung Panzer!- the community had on the whole been skeptical of armor that moved like infantry. As with the advent of any technology though, some had seen potential in the concept that proposed a war machine with the mobility qualities of the humanoid form with the armament and protection of the tank.

Some, like Colven who had been a 1st Lieutenant when he had first become involved in Tomahawk and had loved the "science fiction" of the idea as much as the practical application had toughed it out through the highly technical design streamlining of the "Generation 1" Destroids. An initial handful of officers and NCOs had set down the doctrine and tactics for machines that had not walked outside of development and testing facilities yet. In some ways more innovative than Guderian sixty-something years earlier, they had begun to take the vision of a machine and turn it into a vision of a combat system.

By the time that Tomahawk had completed its exhausting sprint through development- when it was clear that a viable fighting machine could and would be produced- the reins had been handed to higher ranking officers whose names would be the ones remembered associated with Project Tomahawk. By then, Colven understood that this was life in a high-profile program, but that he had been engaged since the beginning.

Colven was also actively engaged in late 2001 when the first experimental Destroid units had been deployed for field testing and validation. No one would remember the names of the men and women who took those first Destroids out, Colven knew, but none of the brass who wanted the glory of Tomahawk for themselves could erase archive still photos and video of those first "Destroid Drivers"- in which Colven's image was immortalized.

With a few exceptions, people had little nostalgia for technology- immortalized did not mean remembered. Evidence of this was the "Gen 2" Mk-III Gladiators that Major Colven and his company of officers and warrant officers were at the controls of today for Operation Masterson. Military personnel and the civilian population down to school children could routinely identify the machine on sight, but few understood how the new Gen-2 series had come to be.

Colven had been there for that too.

Following The Zentraedi Holocaust of The Robotech War, a time commonly but not officially referred to as "The Scramble", when the Earth had been inundated with roughly a billion marooned aliens- many still with their own mecha, all hostile- the Gen-1 Destroids had received their first exposure to full-scale battle.

The results were mixed.

Engaging both Zentraedi mecha, mostly variants of the standard Regult Combat Pod (translated poorly to "Battle Pod"- the name that had stuck for most humans), and Zentraedi infantry in their giant form under the darkening skies of a bombarded Earth, the uniform flaws of the Gen-1s became apparent.

Much as the famous Panzerkampfwagen VI-B "Tiger II"- a significantly more sophisticated and robust machine had fallen victim individually in battle to the lesser but vastly more numerous M-4 "Shermans"- so had the Gen-1 Destroids been savaged in many battles by the fast but frail Regults or the sheer volume of Zentraedi infantry. Colven had seen some of these battles and had been in the thick of them- and had also been luckier than many to come away alive.

By the end of The Scramble, it was the fact that the marooned alien forces had exhausted both their munitions and what supplies they had to sustain themselves that saw the RDF victorious- not military superiority in any category.

Slowly at first, and then in droves as sickness and starvation began to afflict the marooned Zentraedi ranks- the warriors surrendered themselves to "indoctrination centers" where the hastily conceived notion of domesticating the former enemy was being put into practice. Surprisingly to humans, and with great thanks to the advocacy of conversion by General Breetai, the program had an 83% success rate.

Assimilation of a new, massive minority into the world demographic had immediate ramifications on all fronts. As it applied to the military, once loyalty of the aliens was assured, it meant an almost immediate reconstitution and expansion of the Robotech Defense Forces. The new "volunteers" brought with them many familiar military virtues- bravery, loyalty, tenacity- but more crucial was their experience.

The common experience of the Zentraedi that had made their marooned force so formidable against the Terran one in The Scramble had been an experience gained fighting the threat that would almost certainly face humanity given enough time- The Invid.

Former Warriors of The Empire, from General Breetai down to the lowest warrior grade, warned their new human comrades of battles that would not involve thousands, but millions. Based on the RDF Army experiences of The Scramble, and with first-hand knowledge of the Invid threat from new Zentraedi allies- the lessons needed to rewrite the doctrine of Mecha Warfare 101 were in place.

Also in place was the list required changes to be made to Terran fighting machines to allow them to meet the new threat and stand a chance at survival.

The basic requirements of the Generation-2 Destroid had been established.

The general public for the most part did not know that all of these elements had converged to create the Destroids that they saw and recognized today any more than they recognized that the Destroid had been a critical stepping stone to the "favored child" of human Robotechnology- the Veritech Transformable Fighter.

At military "open houses", or in civilian technology journals, or in the flood of recruiting advertisements- civilians only saw smaller, faster, more agile Destroids that retained the lethality of firepower of the Gen-1s. They did not know the underlying expectation that the relative few might be called upon to face many times their number of Invid when the day of meeting arrived.

For that matter, Major Mason Colven only knew these things in theory that was supported by his involvement in The Scramble. He had never seen an Invid- no human had. But he knew the ferocity the Zentraedi brought to a fight, and now understood where they had developed it.

Colven was willing but not anxious to try his hand against the same opponent.

There were no Invid on Earth, and in particular none in Brasilia- but there were malcontent Zentraedi.

The four platoons of Gator Company, 48 Gladiator Mk-IIIs strong- would participate in Operation Masterson today serving two functions. The first, the practical- they would serve as heavy bases of fire to establish and defend the perimeter of "Abilene". Secondly, and if successfully executed it would negate the need to perform their primary function- to look menacing.

Intimidation was still the keystone of psychological warfare- an enemy afraid to fight was an enemy already defeated.

Smaller than the Gen-1 Gladiator, the Mk-III at 8.4 meters still was grand enough in stature to give a micronized Zentraedi malcontent armed with a conventional assault rifle and perhaps at most an infantry anit-armor rocket a moment's pause. As with any fighting group, the malcontents had their share of the "foolish brave"- but their numbers were few. An anti-armor rocket, even an older system back when they were strictly known as anti-tank, could still inflict serious damage on Gen-2 Destroid, possibly even knocking it out of action, if employed by an experienced user.

"Experienced" users were hesitant to fire such weapons however, recognizing that those who fired a rocket at a Destroid and did not take it out with the first hit were unlikely to get a second chance.

Unlike conventional armored vehicles that were highly vulnerable in urban combat zones because they lost the ability to maneuver- Destroids still retained all of their agility and the ability to instantaneously change their direction of attack. This did not preclude the possibility that a brave and experienced malcontent might lie in wait until he could take a first shot at a passing Destroid's weaker flank- but to account for this possibility the Destroids had adopted the protection of grenadiers like their tank predecessors.

For the purposes of Operation Masterson, Major Colven had supreme confidence in the units acting for his unit as grenadiers and supporting them in keeping the perimeter because the units were Gurkhas.

If the malcontents did not have a healthy fear of Destroids, they had learned to identify the 70th Gurkha Rifles by general appearance and by their Cyclones- and the malcontents did fear the Gurkhas.

"Peacemaker."

This was the "go word" that Colven and his drivers had been anticipating since they had mounted up and moved into deployment position over an hour before. Still, even at the appointed 0-Hour, the actual order to execute was jarring as it promised violence and danger.

"Wake up, Gators!", Colven barked, making coarse his natural voice that he had been told on many occasions seemed soft for an officer in the profession of armored warfare, "Move out to assigned forward positions! All units go weapons-free."

Forty-eight Gladiators at 19 metric tons each surged into a dash that seemed impossibly fast for machines of their size from staggered holding positions four city blocks back from their objective. If the broad-fanning fusillade of smoke-generating rockets launched from batteries well in the rear of Dodge Sector were not an indication to Brasilia that a military operation had begun, the thunder of Destroid feet that cracked the pavement it crossed was.

The city quaked visibly along the path of their advance that quickly crossed into unsecured territory.

Within the confines of the armor-reinforced pilot's compartment, Colven felt fewer sensations from the actual movement of his Gladiator than he did the sensations generated by the Destroid's NeuroPilot control system. Identical in principle and the forerunner of the system that allowed Veritech pilots to efficiently control their machines in the Guardian or Battloid modes, the Gladiator's NeuroPilot system translated the pilot's natural neural impulses into ambulatory commands. Similarly, a feedback system provided the pilot with familiar sensations that his brain could interpret. Hence, though strapped securely in an aircraft style ejection seat, Colven could feel the balance and movement of his Gladiator and its humanoid extremities.

Use of NeuroPilot took training- extreme training to become proficient, but the system was tested and proven. Even "the jitters" that trainees commonly experienced in training- a fluttery sensation throughout the body when they disconnected from NeuroPilot- subsided quickly with repeated use of the system.

One even grew accustomed to the 3-D video image that was projected into the inside of the driver's helmet visor to give him a virtual view of the world that tracked with his head movements. Drivers very rarely vomited after graduating the training course, and Colven had not lost his lunch in years.

Being a Destroid Driver in combat was an odd merging of the virtual and real worlds. One recognized that one was encased in the strongest part of a machine clad in tons of armor, but the realism of NeuroPilot and the video and audio interfaces were enough to remind a pilot that he was actually in combat.

As the navigational and tactical overlays projected onto the video image inside of Colven's helmet visor guided him through the dark and empty streets at the head of his platoon, he sensed and then saw the passage of Cyclones in motorcycle form to either side of his Gladiator. The Cyclones, either in motorcycle or Batttloid mode could easily keep pace with the Destroids and as a result were able to physically screen the larger machines even at a brisk pace of advance.

What Colven could not imagine feeling comfortable with, and what he admired the Gurkhas for was being so close to the trampling feet of tons of moving mecha. Responsibility for staying out from underfoot was the Gurkhas much in the same way that a small dog running with its master was responsible for not getting stepped on.

Mason was sure it had happened before, but he didn't want to think of the results, and he did not want any part of finding out if his speculation of the results was accurate.

They- Gator Company and their Gurkha grenadiers- would be in perimeter positions in seconds. So far, there had been no shots fired from windows or rooftops with their passing through the unsecured streets.

Every indication was that whatever malcontents were in Abilene Sector were in the process of being caught completely off-guard.

The building known for operational purposes as "Three" was by the naked eye simply a darker shape against a dark cityscape in Abilene Sector.

First light was beginning to soften the lowest edge of the eastern sky, but in the absence of streetlights or any type of artificial illumination for that matter made the seeing of anything but the crudest of details impossible.

Impossible, that was, unless you had help.

Corporal Armand König had "help" seeing all through an integrated optical enhancement riflescope that was currently showing the world in the milky green view to a well-trained sniper's eye. His spotter, Staff Sergeant Crowell was seeing the world in the same way, only through a spotter's scope that lacked the killing implement of the militarized Remington .350 Magnum rifle to which König's optics were attached.

Munich-born, but raised in various areas of the Middle East and South Africa as a result of his father's employment with a large energy corporation, König had learned to handle a rifle at an early age. It had been mainly for sport and competition before The Zentraedi Holocaust, but after-.

After, the skills had taken on a more serious application.

What König had not been aware of, and what he certainly had not been prepared for before qualifying for and beginning his training as an RDF Army sniper was the ragging he would receive from others in his chosen occupation because of the coincidental irony of his name. Though there was no family relation (Armand had checked since) it was a Major König who had fought the epic sniper's duel with and lost to Vassili Zaitsev in the rubble of Stalingrad. The ominous implications were not lost on Armand König, even before the additional benign taunting of other snipers.

This was not Stalingrad though, and though König had seen amateur Zentraedi approximations of "snipers", he had never seen one that qualified as a Vassili Zaitsev. This morning König had training, skill, and the proper equipment on his side.

Most importantly as it pertained to the sniper's trade- he had the element of surprise.

Crowell and König had moved into their position in a building a mere 400 meters away from "Three" just after dark the night before and resumed observation of the routines of the malcontents that they had monitored for several nights in a row.

The same watches, the same watch lengths- König had even begun to recognize four or five faces among the malcontent residents of Three. He recognized the guard walking the length of roof from the southeast to the southwest corner. There was no name attached to the face, but König knew him well enough by now to know that he smoked cigarettes in chains of three and within five minutes of the last could be counted upon to urinate off the roof into the dark street below.

An enemy's routine and adherence to it was one of the sniper's best friends.

König was less certain of the identity of the guard walking the northern sentry circuit of the roof. Maybe one of his "familiars", but with the guard's back to him mostly, the corporal could not be absolutely sure. It didn't matter, the path and pace the sentry walked was consistent even if the guard's identity was not as sure. A mark was a mark.

The southwest guard had finished what Crowell and König had come to call the "drag and drain" routine five minutes before and though he could not know it, t was sure to be his last time. Crowell was only waiting on the "go" word before ordering the shooter to engage. König was out of the direct communications loop, his focus being solely on training his weapon on the mark- keeping the "death dot" at the center of the crosshairs hovered over the center body mass.

Some shooters preferred to make head shots exclusively, and when the objective was to pin a large number of malcontents down by intimidation there was a certain benefit to making the head of one of their comrades disintegrate-. For the purpose of taking out a sentry with the first shot every time though, a soft-nosed .350 Magnum Remington put through the third shirt button did the trick.

König had made that particular shot over a hundred times in the course of this particular tour of "The Zone", and like those marks who had gone down in the tours before- none had yet to get up again.

"Shooter stand by.", Crowell said in a low, even voice that told König that the "go word" had come through.

"Standing by-."

Crowell made a final adjustment to his spotter's scope, "Target at Four-three-one meters, slight down angle. Wind left at three."

König had already set his scope to account for the correct range and only needed to make a slight shift left to compensate for windage.

A rising hiss of rocket motors rose from the rear of the sniper's position as the scheduled, opening barrage of tactical missiles bearing smoke warheads reached their apex somewhere overhead.

The sentry on the southwest corner of "Three" heard the sound as well as König could clearly see his expression change from one of boredom to one of shock. The Zentraedi's head began to tilt back as his eyes tracked the flight path of missiles unseen by König in their skyward path.

"Shoot"

König pulled the trigger as his lungs emptied in a controlled breath.

The modified Remington kicked hard through its carbon-fiber but into its master's shoulder as the silencer and flash suppressor reduced the weapon's report to little more than the heavy smack sound of a fastball meeting a catcher's mitt.

The malcontent sentry was thrown backwards and vanished beneath König's line of sight as the heavy slug bore through his body.

"Target down.", König said, cycling the bolt of his rifle with a smooth, single action that did not require him to take his eye away from the scope. Brass clattered in the dark and while some shooters were religious about policing their spent casings, König would leave his behind.

A spent cartridge bore unique strike marks and was better than a calling card. If a sniper could develop a reputation- particularly a lethal one- and the enemy knew him to be on the prowl in a sector, they would restrict their own movements and keep their heads down.

This was half of the sniper's operational value.

"Confirmed.", Crowell agreed, "Target down."

Responsible for clearing the roof of "Three" and keeping it clear of malcontents until elements of 4th Ranger could fast-rope in from Lakotas that were inbound at this moment, König had already shifted his crosshairs to the single remaining sentry on the roof.

"Shift to target right-.", Crowell instructed unnecessarily but requiring the time to fix the range, "Range four-six-seven meters, elevation and windage same."

There was no need for the shooter to adjust his scope for so minor a change in distance- he could compensate for these negligible factors himself.

The second roof sentry's eyes were still turned up at the sky when König steadied the death dot on him. He was transfixed by the descending missiles and clearly not connected their implication with his circumstances. The sentry was also clearly unaware that his counterpart had been dispatched a good stone's throw away from him.

"Shoot."

The Remington kicked a second time and the second sentry went down into a motionless heap on Three's rooftop.

"Target down."

"Confirmed-. Target down. Stand by."

Through his riflescope, König saw the plunge of a missile dropping into the canyon of a street formed between "Three" and another building. The thin burn trail it left dissipated quickly but was replaced almost immediately by a rising billow of dense covering smoke.

At the same moment, a rapid succession of four flashes whose report mingled with other explosions marked the detonation of "Suicide Tinks" on the rooftop and within the structure- clearing anti-personnel mines.

The smoke that was intended to mask the movement of the Ranger assault force moving on "Three" would also rob König of his visibility in seconds as well. By instinct his right hand moved from the rifle grip to the scope to switch scope modes into infra-red. The milky green world vanished into a monochromatic, "hot white" representation of objects based on their radiant heat.

This was no distraction to the corporal who had trained and operated in all modes extensively.

"Target- acquire.", Crowell instructed from behind his spotter's scope, "Second floor, center. Single mark at the window."

König trained down and over smoothly, finding a white silhouette standing out clearly against a cold black and grey background. Another sniper team had primary responsibility for the floor as Crowell and König had for the rooftop- but in the absence of marks in their area, ROE gave them permission to take shots of opportunity.

This mark would be felled by whoever was quickest on the trigger, and bragging rights would belong to that shooter later at the after-action debrief.

"Target acquired-.", König said placing his dot in a field of white heat.

"Shoot."

"Jai Mahakali, Ayo Gorkhali!"

Glory be to the Goddess of War, here come the Gorkhas!-

The traditional Gurkha war cry carried from the throat of Naib Subedar Sri Rawal Singh, 3rd Platoon, Company C, 70th Gurkha Rifles, 1RGR as it echoed in his ears, carried by radio com-link from the mouths of his men. The Naib Subedar (a legacy rank equivalent to lieutenant) gunned the throttle of his VR-052 Cyclone and with a slight turn of the handles and a shift of his weight to one side and then the other led his platoon streaking past the advancing Gladiators that thundered forward like a technological approximation of war elephants.

On straight, open, paved road the Cyclone in motorcycle mode could reach speeds of 336 kmph or better if one took liberties with the electrical governors as many a rider was inclined to do. On broken ground, or in the case of Brasilia's shattered and debris-strewn streets, safe speed was significantly slower. While everything about the Cyclone system was geared toward delivering infantry with the maximum firepower available on a fast, highly mobile platform- there were still limitations.

The Cyclone had never been promised to be the "perfect" solution, only the best solution to a need at the time.

Though the Cyclones could not presently sprint to the full speed that the powerful wheel hub-mounted electrical motors could drive them, all of the other navigational features built into the transformable motorcycle were available and critical for 3rd Platoon's lightning advance. Forward-scanning millimeter wave radar identified obstacles in the Cyclone's path and projected warning icons onto the interior of the rider's visor along with the assortment of other HUD-style projections. Navigational waypoints and required course change markers kept the rider on a

path to destination without having to refer to a map while InfoLink provided as great a wealth of battlespace tactical information as could be gathered by feeding sensor platforms and were selected by the rider for display.

"Final right ahead!", Singh called to the squad he would take a security position with. They followed in staggered trail and had the same navigational aides as their naib subedar, but Singh did not have the habit of allowing even the smallest opportunity for chance to act against him.

"Assume covering positions and eliminate threats upon identification!"

Singh eased pressure on the thumb-paddle throttle and let the grip of the all-terrain tires bleed off the bike's speed as he leaned heavily into the final turn. The streets ahead were already dense with smoke- the barrage of smoke-generating missiles having had enough time to do their work.

Without a doubt, if the malcontents in Abilene Sector did not know by now what buildings were to be the focus of the push, they would soon. Regardless, Both the Gurkhuas who would be holding the street-level and the Rangers who would be clearing buildings operated with the benefit of image intensification optics. By the time the smoke in the target areas of Abilene had cleared, the perimeter would be established and the assaults well under way or over.

Naib Subedar Singh thumbed at the Cyclone's mode toggle switch and leapt with the cycle into what had become known amongst riders as the "antelope hop".

To the rider of a conventional motorcycle, the act of releasing the handlebars and catapulting one's self free of the seat would have appeared suicidal- daredevilish at least- and they would have been correct. The Cyclone not being a conventional motorcycle negated this conventional thinking though.

Had Singh not assisted in his own ejection from the rider's seat, the cycle's seat would have thrown him free in the split second before the vehicle appeared to disintegrate beneath him. The level of trust in the machine required to execute a committed "antelope hop" was high, and universally agreed by all graduates of the Cyclone rider's school to be the most difficult portion of the training. As with almost every other aspect of operating the symbiotic mecha armor however, rider and machine had to cooperate to achieve the full potential of their union.

The cycle disintegrated beneath Singh, but not in a random or catastrophic fashion. Interlocks released and magnetic pads separated the cycle into its bi-functional components (BFCs) in a mechanical spray with a pulse of parallel fields. The BFCs were then, in a split second drawn to the attachment points of the rider's CVR-3 body armor by means of harmonized complementary magnetic fields. The CVR-3, reminiscent more of medieval European suits of plate armor than the lightweight, highly ambulatory armor worn by all RDF infantry became in that instant the base for the exoskeletal Battloid form of the transformable mecha.

When Singh's feet touched the pavement at just over 70Kmph, it was with less shock to his own joints and more stability than human reflexes or strength could have provided alone. Moreover, he and the others in his platoon were able to translate their forward momentum into a run and build upon it with the artificial enhancement of their power armor suits.

Impervious now to anything in the conventional arms sense short of an anti-tank rocket, the squad directly under Singh and his first sergeant, Havildar Grogan, took holding positions at street corners or inside staved in doorways and windows. Seeing the world in infra-red, the squad scanned glassless windows and the edges of rooftops through artificial smoke for forms that would have to be automatically regarded as threats. There was always the disquieting possibility of an accident or misidentification, but Brasilia had been devoid of pure civilians for some time.

Generally, few questions were raised about Zentraedi KIAs and only slightly more about humans in a well-established combat area.

Scanning the floors of the abandoned building across the street from his position with the visual enhancement of infra-red imaging, Singh engaged targeting portion of his VR-052 Cyclone's integrated combat system. Following the same principle as either the Veritech's or the Destroid's helmet acquisition and targeting system, the Cyclone pilot only had to place the aiming reticule on a threat to train all available weapons.

As Singh surveyed carefully the heat contrasts of the gutted building, his power armor automatically tracked with the muzzle of the Battloid's primary weapon, the PR-45 particle beam rifle. Intentional movements of the arm would override the "smart gun" tracking of the operator's head movements, but when fired in this mode the anti-light and medium mecha weapon was superbly accurate despite a size and weight that would have made it impractical for an infantryman to handle without the added strength of Cyclone power armor.

The street was quaking, with the approach of the Gladiators. Bits of rubble dancing on the fractured pavement as debris from crumbling structures shook free and began to rain down on the sidewalks and street.

Then, an urgent call from Rifleman Wallace in Singh's squad-.

"Two marks!- Third floor, left!"

Naib Subedar Singh only had to shift the direction of his gaze slightly to see the shapes in hot white that had not been there only moments before. They were humanoid in form, but too large at a glance to be human and a shade of radiant white that translated to the higher body temperature normal to Zentraedi.

Of more concern was the well-defined, dull grey object being carried by one of the featureless Zentraedi forms. Tubular and long, it did not require extensive familiarity with common battlefield weapons systems to recognize it as some form of rocket tube.

The Gurkhas of 3rd Platoon in a position to take action required no prompting to do so. Half a dozen PR-45s erupted into a converging blaze of rapid particle beam fire.

Singh lost clear view of the two targets as the infra red image dissolved into a bloom of heat as the steel and concrete of the building was mauled and reduced by the intense enfilade of energy weapons fire.

"Hold fire!", Singh ordered, deactivating his infra-red imager to take in the fall of flaming debris that was visible despite the smokescreen that was only beginning to dissipate, "I think we got them-."

The air split with a sizzling thunderclap as two massive energy bolts entered and blew out the entire area of the structure that the Gurkhas had just finished saturating. Chunks of concrete and burning, twisted steel showered the area- several smaller bits even dinging off of Singh's own power armor.

A pair of Gladiators took form, their dual shoulder-mounted particle beam cannons that had finished the skirmish looking particularly sinister as they emerged from the diluting murk.

"I know we got `em-."

Singh had to be amused at Major Colven's understatement- subtlety not being a common quality of mecha-armor types. As Destroid pilots were fond of saying though, there was no kill like overkill.

"Lawman, Deputy Three-.", Colven reported as he and another Gladiator in his command took up position, "Perimeter established and uncontested."

The drainage sewer pipe around Whilite that had felt claustrophobic moments before began to close in as a pronounced tremble strengthened into a full shuddering of the world.

By this time electronic suppression was already in place blocking all but the UHF tactical and InfoLink frequencies that supported Operation Masterson.

The malcontents had to be aware that a fight was almost upon them though- there was no doubting this. There was no concealing the movement of Destroids in an urban combat zone, and previous employment left little doubt as to what their presence meant. Radio communications or not, word would spread within minutes to every nest of malcontents in the city that the Terran forces were on the move. The element of surprise had only moments to live- beyond that the winning of the day would depend on swiftness and violence of action.

Kilo for kilo, the Rangers knew that Zentraedi warriors were every bit as willing and good at the violence portion- so swiftness was the card that would decide things.

Muffled, but still audible- the report of energy weapons firing in short, rapid bursts found its way down to poised assault team. The Gurkhas were reducing malcontent positions and assumedly drawing fire in return- but it was an exchange that did not cause great concern to the Rangers as the contest was stacked in the favor of the 70th Rifles with their Cyclones.

Whilite sucked in a full breath as Destroids passed heavily nearby and he found himself wondering just how well the engineers had reinforced the concrete tube he and his Rangers were covering in.

The relevance of the question was short-lived.

"Go, go- GO!", came with commanding power from Sgt. Byerly as Whilite felt a general shuffle forward around him.

A dozen more squatted paces forward and Whilite found himself scrambling with the rest of his Rangers up the ladder of the vertical access shaft. As he was able to make out part of the rim of the manhole around the form of the Ranger ahead of him, Whilite heard a series of muffled blasts- these were "Suicide Tinks" taking out emerging threats and targets of opportunity within Three.

It was typical of MOUT though that planned action should be joined so quickly and critically by the improvised. These were the moments in which an operation's success or failure hinged on the flexibility, skill, and initiative of the participants.

Whilite emerged from the manhole to the heavy report of a sapper's water impulse charge that was being used to open the wall of Three. The lieutenant drew his rifle from his leg bag on the run and had it to his shoulder before the pressure on his eardrums from the charge had completely subsided.

"Breech open, stairwell secure!", called the breeching team leader clearly to inform the charging assault teams that the "door" had been kicked open.

Even in the dense covering smoke and without the benefit of his helmet's infra-red optics, Lt Whilite knew exactly where every Ranger in his "stick" was positioned in their movement. The operation was only minutes old, but all of its critical movements and actions had already been practiced dozens of times.

Weeks of effort by probing recon teams and also by Tinkerbelle and Woodchuck operators had not been solely for taking pretty pictures for the benefit of intel officers and planners. Full scale models of the approaches to the target building and more critically of the interior floor layouts had been created in a number of dilapidated but securely held warehouses on the edge of Brasilia.

The "models" were actually only two-dimensional, using whatever materials were at hand to show the placement of rooms, doors, and whatever other significant features had to be represented for drilling purposes- but the important factor was that in terms of scale and distances the models were accurate.

Echo Company had in a sense raided this building dozens if not scores of times already, each platoon developing a firm knowledge of their areas of responsibility and a strong sense of the building overall.

Muscular memory had been developed and cemented so that Whilite was prepared to find himself at the southwest corner of Three after twenty-one measured paces. It was still reassuring to have the white hot infra-red shape of Byerly in front of him to verify that his muscular memory was true, but by now he could have navigated to the breeching point blindfolded

The malcontents were awake now and in a panicked mode of defense.

The unmistakable clatter of AK-47 assault riffles sliced through the covering smoke as defenders fired blindly from windows into the street. The pop and zing of rifle rounds along with clatter of chipping pavement and scattering debris gave each Ranger a rough idea of where the enemy was aiming and despite being well off of their path of advance, also gave the Rangers an incentive to reach the rallying point.

Firing inward from their perimeter holding positions, the Gurkhas were making a clear effort to suppress or neutralize the malcontent defensive positions- but the Zentraedi were not new enough at the ways of MOUT to be distracted. They knew well by hard-learned experience that they had more to fear immediately from the Ranger assault teams than from the fierce but fixed Gurkhas.

Whilite suddenly found himself at the corner of the building and the remarkably door-shaped wall breech the sappars had created with a water impulse charge. The sharp odor of expended plastic explosives was still strong in the air as Whilite followed Byerly through the hole and into the churning dust and smoke of the stairwell beyond the breeched wall.

The inside of the stairwell looked every bit as tattered as could be expected for the harsh treatment it had received in the past few minutes alone. Blast marks along with the lingering dust and smoke marked where Suicide Timks had neutralized malcontent anti-personnel mines that had been laid to make the wisely predicted entry point of the stairwell- a so-called "fatal funnel"- a sure kill box.

Corporal Van Dorn, the sapper who had initially opened the outer wall of Three to the Rangers, was in the final stages of setting a second water impulse charge against the heavy, steel fire door that separated the stairwell from the first level interior. The breeching device was not like a doughnut shape charge or a length of primer cord that used explosive force to cut through structural mass, but rather "pushed" an obstacle out of the way. In the case of the steel door or the area of outer wall before it, a water jacket was sandwiched between the small explosive charge and the object to be pushed. The water, incapable of being compressed, amplified manifold and directed the force of the explosives to achieve the desired effect.

The door would be gone in a second likely incapacitating or killing anything directly on the other side, but knowing what exactly lay on the other side was still beneficial to the assault team.

"Eyes Forward Four, Echo Three Actual- what's the view?", Whilite asked as he flattened himself against the stairwell wall with the rest of the squad. Impulse charges directed the force of their explosion predictably, but there was no such thing as being too safe.

"Three Actual, Eyes Four", replied the controller of a RAV-6 unit whose probes were hovering strategically beyond the fire door, "Southwest corridor clear- we're monitoring."

Whilite gave a nod and a specific hand gesture to Byerly who passed it on to Van Dorn.

"Fire in the hole!"

Rangers tucked their heads and braced a moment before they were hit with the concussive force of the small plastic explosive charge detonating.

Whilite could feel saline mist in his nostrils and taste it on his lips as the pressure of the explosion rolled off. He opened his eyes to find the squad's point fire team, PFCs Roth and Grady tossing "flash-bang" stun grenades through the now doorless portal in preparation.

A great flash, like the photostrobes of a legion of paparazzi going off at once, and a considerably more jarring concussive blast followed. In the stairwell, the effect of the two flash-bangs was uncomfortable enough- to any malcontent in the corridor or lurking just behind a door in a room off the main hall- the blast would have been disorienting at the least and more likely temporarily debilitating.

Roth and Grady charged through stairwell doorway into the building and were followed by successive clearing teams until Whilite too found himself on the move with his Bulldog shouldered and at the ready.

Things began to accelerate in pace as 3rd Platoon pushed into the main level. The other platoons of Echo Company began to either charge up the stairwell to penetrate the floors above, or down to clear and secure the basement. The sound of approaching Lakotas told all that 4th Platoon would be on the rooftop in seconds to "cap" the structure and join the assault from above.

Muffled by the floors and the walls that separated them, all of the on-station platoons of Echo Company could hear one another's weapons fire as the clearing portion of the operation built momentum.

Things had always happened quickly in battle, PFC Allison Ekhart of the 703rd Remote Tactical Surveillance Regiment suspected without the benefit of actually participating in every battle up to this one.

It was a sound assumption though as battle was at best organized chaos, and more often heavier on the chaos than the organized. And while integration of sophisticated C2, surveillance, and communications systems provided an operational commander with a wealth of information on which to base decisions and direction, it also multiplied by an order of magnitude the information elements being monitored at any given moment in a battle.

Where insufficient information used to be the greatest challenge to a commander, information overload was now as great or a greater threat.

Technology provided infinite possibilities in terms of application, but it was still up to the Mk-1 human being to successfully interpret and apply it.

Collecting, interpreting, disseminating, and applying battlespace information was the primary purpose of the 703rd- and on occasion they were called upon to act on it as well.

In a room off the Ops Center, the detachment from the 703rd assigned to support 129th Infantry in Brasilia had crammed in as many of their portable command stations as the chamber would hold without splitting at the seams. Adding the body per control station and the supervisory NCOs made for uncomfortable duty accommodations, but the benefit of real action was that it focused the mind on the mission.

From this room and two others like it the 703rd detachment had probed, video-logged, and mapped the interiors of the four buildings that 4th Ranger was now in the process of assaulting.

Having provided the best intel possible up front, their duty was now to be "Eyes Forward", seeing into rooms and hallways before a friendly boot set foot into it, and identifying dangers before a friendly lives were exposed to it.

And under specific circumstances, they could be called upon to intervene proactively.

Ekhart had remote-driven four, scrappy RGV-3 Woodchucks into "Three" hours before the Rangers of the assault force had even assembled for their final briefings. Each wheeled probe, roughly the size of a large shoebox, was deceptively agile and capable in traversing broken ground or obstacles, and was even capable of climbing the steepest of stairs.

One by one, Ekhart had moved them into key observation positions in two rooms where they could monitor without fear of being found without an active search. The sparseness of sentry patrols inside of "Three" played a large part in Ekhart's ability to move her RGVs into place without detection. Like a child's game of hide and go-seek, much in the success of positioning the probe drones without detection relied upon a balance of skill, intuition, and old fashion luck.

A benefit not widely discussed though was that the game came with the same exhilarating rush that the operators had felt as a child trying their best not to be tagged "it", and with none of the dire personal consequences particular to the real world if they failed.

PFC Ekhart monitored two rooms from two camera angles each on her portable control station. Subdivided, the screen offered her an adequate image from each Woodchuck camera while allowing her to monitor the progress of the penetrating Ranger assault force relative to the position of each of her RGV-3s on a standard C2 display. Every Woodchuck and Tinkerbelle on station was carrying a "sapper" or "suicide" package, including Ekhart's- and under strict ROE she was authorized to use them appropriately. Certainly, having been through many operations with her four RGVs- Groucho, Harpo, Zeppo, and Frank (Ekhart could never remember the fourth Marx Brother's name-) she would regret the loss of any of them- but sentimental attachment aside, an RGV could be lost without a family's mourning.

Movement in Frank's video feed windows caught Ekhart's eye and was quickly corroborated by the view from Zeppo.

The wall of this particular interior room had been crudely hacked through by the malcontent Zentraedi occupants in order to allow them to move parallel to the main corridors without moving through them.

The Zentraedi had grasped that element of moving by cover it seemed.

Ironically, Ekhart had used the same wall breech to move the two Woodchucks now monitoring the room into position.

As the RGV operator watched the Rangers move northward along the main corridor on the C2 display, breeching and securing rooms as they went, two Zentraedi at first and then a third squeezed their considerable frames through the improvised portal. All armed heavily, one even carrying a squad medium machinegun- so there was little question of intent. Parallel to the axis of the Ranger's advance though, it was their ability to use that firepower that was the greatest cause of concern- neither a medium machinegun nor assault rifles being renown for respecting the protective qualities of drywall.

Unlike some situations Ekhart had experienced, ROE clearly granted her the ability to act. She had eyes on a clear threat to the assault, and none of the Rangers were in close enough proximity to be harmed by her actions.

"Echo Three, Eyes Six-. Three dittos, Room Eight Right. Moving to neutralize-."

With a paddle controller that would have been familiar to anyone who as a child had owned a remote-control toy car, Ekhart moved the closest Woodchuck in the room out from its concealed position steering directly for and rapidly to the three malcontents.

The RGV was spotted almost instantly which Ekhart could see from the expressions on all three Zentraedi faces as they turned to the bumping frame of the video image. A hint of confusion (it was likely none had ever seen an RGV) quickly gave way to action as the small machine's presence could not be easily interpreted as benign. The closest malcontent armed with an ancient SKS raised the weapon in the process of aiming.

Zeppo's camera rocked violently, but not so much as to not show the blast of its detonating brother and the airborne scatter of three Zentraedi to different points across the room.

"Sorry, boys-.", Ekhart said with no backing emotion, and then added more sincerely, "Sorry, Frank."

Whilite felt the shock of a nearby explosion jolt through the concrete floor and in turn through his knees as a door down the already debris-strewn hallway was kicked outward into the passage in a shower of splinters.

"Echo Three, Eyes Six-. Targets down, no movement. Approach and verify with caution.", said the same female voice that had warned of the threat.

"Six, Three Actual- roger that.", Whilite replied as Byerly marked the room that had just been cleared with an iridescent green sticker on the doorframe.

The two Rangers who had cleared the room emerged and moved quickly up the corridor to the next room in the sequence where a sapper was loading two fresh "dust-buster" shells into his 10-gauge shotgun.

Staff Sergeant Byerly took a knee and Whilite squatted beside her just inside the doorway of a cleared room to check the progress of 3rd Platoon relative to that of the platoons sweeping the other floors. Similar to two dimensional movements, one had to pace advancement when in a fight in three dimensions. Though not as immediately perilous, one neither wanted to be too far ahead or too far behind the advance lest a salient be created and possibly exploited by the enemy.

A quick check on the small screen of Byerly's Personal Integrated Combat System (PICS) interface, mounted on the left forearm of her armor showed 3rd Platoon to be right in step. The advance and room-by-room capture of Three was going faster than had been anticipated and the relatively infrequent report of rifle fire told Whilite and his ranking NCO that the malcontents were collapsing with minimal resistance.

Most gratifying, there had not been a single call for a medic- yet.

It was odd given the ferocity of the average malcontent that they were being so easily and quickly driven back, but it had been known to happen.

"Suicide Tinks are doin' all the work for us today, El-Tee.", Byerly said as a deep boom from an upper floor marked the explosion of another remote vehicle. There was a brief exchange of some automatic weapons fire, some friendly and some not, and a shotgun blast before as audible evidence of a room skirmish.

Whilite shook his head, "I get nervous when things go too well-."

"Give it time.", Byerly said with a grin as regular infantry began to file through cautiously, entering each secured room to begin to catalogue any noteworthy elements or contents.

Byerly, sensing the possibility of things taking a quick turn for the worse warned the passing elements of the 129th, "EOD ain't been through yet, so don't go kicking shit around in there-!"

Another door on the hall was blown in by shotgun and a grenade tossed in on a short fuse. The detonation was followed by a pair of Rangers rushing the room and a brief clatter of weapons fire. There was a moment of relative silence along the hall before the next clearing team moved up to begin again at the next door.

In weeks past, days before even- the Zentraedi had mounted spirited if not skilled defenses of buildings that would have led the assaulting force to believe that every room was a key position to the malcontents' defense of their evaporating territory in Brasilia. The rapid collapse of "Three" was becoming more disturbing to Whilite as he recalled many specific instances of this. Still- there was no indication that Three had been rigged as a single, large booby-trap- this not being the style of Zentraedi warriors in any case.

Byerly- tuning in again to her lieutenant's concerns- offered simply, "-Maybe they just don't want it today-."

An explosion out of sync with the tempo of the assault blew smoke and debris out of the open doorway of a room that had just been breeched. An eerie, heavy silence hung for a moment and was followed by the call that was dreaded no matter how many times it was heard.

"Medic!- MEDIC!-. DOC! .."

Corporal "Doc" Lancing rushed by the platoon leader and his staff sergeant drawing them into tow as she went. She had lingered with her gear just inside the initial breeching point in the stairwell, a position that would allow her the flexibility to render aide to any of Echo Company's platoons if called upon- but as fortunes of war were to have it, it was to a Ranger in 3rd Platoon to whom she would be attending.

As Whilite followed close behind, clutching his rifle as though it were a steel and carbon fiber security blanket, he noticed again that Lancing only had her .45 Glock 30 as means of self-defense. The rest of the bulk secured to her load-bearing gear was the tools and supplies of her medic's trade. In the field she could and would carry a rifle- the Zentraedi were notoriously indifferent to the primarily non-combatant role of medics- but in assault operations she was too valuable as a medic to assign to a clearing team.

Lancing ducked through the open doorway from which a cloud of dust was still settling. Followed a moment later by Whilite and Byerly whose inclination was first to sweep the room through the sights of their rifles to verify no other living threats, Lancing was already at work- seemingly oblivious to the possibility of danger to herself.

A single Zentraedi male lay face-down in a pool of spreading bluish-green blood, grapefruit –size exit wounds in his back showing where the Rangers' SCAP rounds had come out. A remarkably pristine H&K SMG (just the sort of item being stolen by Zentraedi raids these days) lay by the malcontent's lifeless hand- the trigger guard sawed away as was common with human weapons found on Zentraedi that allowed larger fingers to access the trigger.

Byerly gave the body a firm nudge with the toe of her boot. When there was no sign of life, she nodded the "all clear" to Whilite and they rejoined Lancing.

The medic had found her patient under the first aid care of PFC Franco. PFC Olsen, a Ranger of medium build and stature lay in the center of the room two meters from a clear blast point amid debris on the floor. The load-bearing gear over his body armor, and the outer Chameleon layers of the armor itself were shredded into irregular strands and patches from the throw of shrapnel. Red blood had stained the upper portions of the Ranger's body armor and had begun to accumulate on the floor about his head.

Similarly torn and stained also from Olsen's blood, Franco knelt over the wounded man's slowly writhing body holding a thick gauze compress whose absorbency had reached its limit to the left side of Olsen's face.

Whilite recognized immediately that both the wounded man and the Ranger attending him were both in various degrees of shock. The lieutenant surprised himself though by feeling a flare of irritation at Franco.

It was not for a perceived act of carelessness that allowed his teammate to be wounded, or for an equally unfair notion that he had escaped injury where Olsen had not. It was the sense that Franco was in Lancing's way now.

Oddly, it was the thought that Olsen might come out of shock and begin to wail before Lancing could get a syrette of morphine into him that Whilite found burning just under his skin. Nothing set the already frayed nerves of a bystander on edge like the agonized cries of a warrior trained and expected to be indestructible.

Whilite quickly regained his scruples though, and neither voiced nor showed any signs of his selfish aggravation.

Lancing was in next to Franco and moving the novice's hands gingerly away to access the patient.

"-Here-. Let me see-.", Lancing instructed calmly but firmly.

Byerly was more direct in intervening. She hauled Franco away and to his feet by his load-bearing harness. To give the stunned Ranger something to help focus him back on the fight and not the wounded man, Byerly quickly found and thrust the private's weapon back into his hands.

Olsen groaned loudly- pain grappling with shock for dominance of the senses.

While Whilite again found himself hoping that a good dose of morphine was in the near future, Lancing appeared oblivious to all but the task at hand. She was as much in her element and undistracted as any dedicated professional at work.

A medical hand scanner came out of the medic's hip pouch and was quickly plugged into the wounded Ranger's body armor to draw readings from his bio-monitors. The data was displayed on the small screen and simultaneously streamed back to a supporting field hospital where the patient would be ambulanced.

Lancing made methodical passes over the wounded portion of the Ranger's face with the scanner's small sensor paddle getting a detailed MRI iimage of the underlying tissue and bone. Not quite up to the standards that would have satisfied "Bones" McCoy, the scanner did allow the medic to make a quicker, more detailed assessment of a casualty and have it in the hands of the trauma surgeons when they received him.

Byerly, sensing that Franco was on the backside of his brush with shock, nudged the private and asked directly, "What happened?"

Franco shook his head, "We put that big bastard down and were just clearing the room when-. I think someone just rigged a grenade under some trash-. Olsen might have tripped it, or maybe the ditto had the pin pulled and it rolled away as he went down-."

Byerly moved her radio mike in front of her mouth and said clearly, "Echo Three Bravo to all units, be advised we've had a booby trap detonation. All cleared rooms are to be checked by EOD before turning them over to battlefield intel for survey and inventory-. Out."

The staff sergeant moved Franco toward the door, "C'mon, you're on the bench for five. Let's go-."

Lancing's bloodied hand snapped out at the sergeant, waving a finger, "Set him down over there, Sarge- I want to check him quick for nerve trauma before you walk him to the rear."

Byerly nodded as she redirected Franco to the nearest wall where the floor space was clear and sat him down, "You're the boss, Doc-."

In all things pertaining to medical situations, Lancing was the boss- over Byerly, and even Whilite within limits.

Whilite was standing over the medic, waiting for direction also. Med-evac choppers were standing by in orbit literally a minute's flight away and could have Olsen on his way to a proper hospital in under five if Lancing made that call.

As Byerly had said, she was the boss in this situation.

"What's the word, Doc?", Whilite asked, hovering and beginning to feel helpless as the adrenaline left his system.

"Shock and multiple facial lacerations for sure.", Lancing said, sounding distant as she continued her examination and initial treatment, "Looks like his armor stopped the shrapnel to the body, and it don't look like anything penetrated his skull from what I can see-. All tissue damage. We're going to want to have him- both of them- checked for nerve trauma and TBI. Let me get Olsen stable and we can evac them both."

"Roger that.", Whilite said, feeling the weight come off his chest as he tapped the mike on his helmet, "Med One, Echo Three Actual- I need litter bearers for two back to the CCP for med-evac."

"Copy that Three Actual- stretchers for two coming up."

"-And have an engineer walk them up-.", Whilite added with a look from Byerly, "Damn place is booby-trapped like Spy vs. Spy-."

"Copy that Three Actual."

PFC Franco was trying to get to his feet again by this point, the now muffled and waning sound of grenade and automatic weapons' fire kindling the drive in him to complete the mission.

Byerly kept him seated if not still, "Stay put-. You're goin' for a ride to have a check-up from the neck up."

Franco tried to get to his feet once again, using his rifle to transfer his weight to his feet, "Hell, Sarge- I can walk-."

"Not if Doc says you can't-.", Byerly replied easily pushing him back down onto the floor, "Now stay put, or I'll make it so you can't walk."

Before the moment could turn for the worse for Franco, two pairs of litter bearers with an engineer and a medic leading the way entered the room.

Lancing was finishing the application of first aid and bandages to Olsen as his transport arrived to take him to the casualty collection point for evacuation. Lancing and the other medic traded words related to their trade as the two Rangers were moved onto stretchers and as quickly as the litter bearers had appeared, they were gone with the wounded.

Whilite was suddenly aware of two things- the first being that he was starting to get the post-adrenal jitters. The second was that chaotic sounds of battle he had grown accustomed to in the past month as being part of building assaults were dying out quickly.

"I hate it when it's quiet-."

Byerly, who had clearly been thinking along the same lines was able to immediately enter the conversation, "I feel you, El-Tee-. Like I said, dittos must not want it today."

"I hate that worse.", Whilite said and not without justification. Zentraedi were not known to back down from a fight without a good cause, and more often than not "backing down" still involved a stiffer resistance than what Echo Company was encountering in Three.

"Count ourselves lucky, I guess-.", suggested the sergeant, "Who knows why dittos do anything."

"Echo Three Charlie to Echo Three Actual. First level secure. Eight hostiles dead, two wounded. We're bringing up EOD and medics now. Over."

"Copy that, Three Charlie-.", Whilite replied, "Hand the floor over to EOD and intel and rally back at the base of the stairwell. We'll redeploy from there. Over."

"Roger that, will be there in two."

"Well, that's fourteen by my count on this floor-.", Byerly said trying not to sound as concerned as her expression said she was.

"Intel said, expect what-?", Whilite asked looking at the dead Zentraedi in the room that he and Byerly still occupied, "A dozen times three- at least?"

"Three to four.", Byerly affirmed, "Maybe they're hiding under desks or something?"

"Well, they're sure as hell not here fighting for the place.", Whilite grumbled.

"-Uh, Lawman- Echo One Actual- garage level sweep nearly complete-. ", said Lieutenant Forbes of Echo Company's 1st Platoon over the tac-com frequency, "We're going to need some Tinkerbelles and Woodchucks down here-. We seem to have a tunnel originating in a utility space and heading roughly northwest-."

"-Better send EOD too-. I don't think we want to send people in therewith the chance of booby-traps. Over."

His interest captured, Whilite flipped open the LCD panel of the PICS on his forearm and accessed the video monitoring application through InfoLink.

He quickly found several active feeds available from 1st Platoon and began to toggle between the window options. Heads were on swivels making the tilt and pan of the helmet cameras dizzying. The battle with motion sickness not withstanding, Whilite found the function of the video feeds to carry through.

In pieces he saw what could have been the utility room of any office building's basement with its pumps, air handlers, and pipes shown through night vision green. Recurring views of a cinderblock wall showed where a hole had been crudely hacked out to allow the digging of an equally amateur tunnel.

Views from other helmet cams showed a distinct path of dirt and small stones where the earth had been carted away.

Camera views strayed from the tunnel and its entrance to nearby stacks of storage cases that at a glance clearly were not among the "regular" items one would find in a civilian building's basement. Long, rectangular rifle cases sat arranged neatly beside equally distinctive ammunition cases that in their number probably accounted for thousands, if not tens of thousands of rounds for the same weapons.

Other crates and boxes were less immediately identifiable, but being military-type construction and with the nature of the cache established, Whilite was comfortable with guessing at the material category of the contents.

Captain Nguyen's voice, speaking from the JOC where he had been monitoring his company's movements, said clearly, "Echo One Actual, Lawman-. Secure and hold that area-. Touch nothing, there may be traps. We'll have a remote recon unit and EOD to you shortly. Do you copy? Out."

"Copy that, Lawman- will do.", Forbes said, "I think if it was booby-trapped though, we'd already be orbiting Mars. Over."

"All the same, One Actual- move your people back and keep them back until EOD can clear the area. Echo Two, Three, and Four- secure your AoRs and stand by to rally on One. Over."

"Two, roger.."

"Three, roger.", Whilite said in turn.

"Four, roger."

Byerly shook her head and took to the gruesome task remaining for the slain Zentraedi at her feet. Kneeling beside the corpse that was now filling the room with the thick smells of Zentraedi body odor- a sharp, coppery, unwashed armpit scent-, blood, and opened digestive tract, Byerly used both hands and all her strength to turn him over.

Technically speaking- "the book" dictated that enemy casualties were to be checked for any signs of life before being searched for battlefield intel. In this case, Byerly reasoned that the toe-nudge she had given the body a minute earlier to be sufficient.

Firing the same 8mm x 55mm shaped-charge armor piercing (SCAP) caseless round as the Terminator rifle, the work done on the malcontent by Franco and Olsen's Bulldogs had left little possibility of finding signs of life.

"Fuck, El-Tee-.", Byerly muttered with a grunt as the death smells grew overpowering even in her jaded nostrils, "-If today hasn't taken a turn for the bizarre."

Whilite stooped over and picked up the submachinegun, extracting the clip and clearing the chambered round. The bullet tumbled free to the floor and rolled just out of Whilite's reach.

He should have made the effort to retrieve it; "the book" stating that the enemy should be deprived of every material resource- even a single bullet. Whilite shook his head at the notion in the present situation. From what he had seen through 1st Platoon's helmet cams, a single bullet in the malcontents' possession was not going to be a determining factor in any fight.

Whilite's thoughts returned to the fight- or the lack thereof.

Having seen by video link what Forbes' 1st Platoon had seen in the basement set the disquieting thoughts spinning in Whilite's head.

Why hadn't there been more of a fight? His Rangers had assaulted Three well-armed, but not carrying the ammunition for a drawn-out fight, whereas the malcontents with just a little more forethought and planning could have defended for weeks against a division.

The first thought about the glimpse of weapons and ammunition he had seen cached led Whilite to his second thought. It was more of an unsubstantiated impression, but one that something in Forbes' voice seemed to support in its unease.

Whilite could not prove it of course, but there was something about the stockpile of weapons that just told him that there had been more at some point. Whether it had been days, hours, or minutes before Forbes had stumbled across the stash- Whilite was sure that at some point the quantity had been greater.

How many cases of rifles or boxes of ammunition could be moved through the tunnel that had been discovered in a panic? How much could be moved with an organized effort?

And who was waiting to receive on the other end?

"I feel you on that-.", Whilite agreed, standing again and kicking the ejected bullet across the room and into the oblivion of shadows and debris.

"I liked the old arrangement better where they took a position, we assaulted it, and they died stubbornly defending it. –What was wrong with that?"

"These must be those new progressive types-.", Byerly reasoned patting down the crudely made clothing of the dead Zentraedi.

A testimony to the skill Zentraedi possessed in adaptation and improvisation was the fact that in the absence of ready supplies of clothing to be had in their size, a good many had learned to make their own. Never of a quality that could be mistaken for tailored or mass-produced garments, the clothing was often of an adequately functional and durable sort. It tended more toward the more traditional Zentraedi uniform of tunic and trousers than more terrestrial garb- but it covered the wearer and protected him or her from the environment and the elements.

"-Matches, a pack of cigarettes, and three chocolate bar wrappers. Graveyard watch stuff-.", Byerly reported as she finished the meager inventory of the warrior's possessions.

"No copy of the team playbook?", Whilite asked hopefully. It was a foolish optimism. The flow of intel collected from malcontent KIAs had been reduced to a drip recently.

Byerly scoffed as she pulled the malcontent's tunic-front up over his face to mark him for the intel units as having been checked, "-And burn up a month's good luck in one shot? I don't think so."

"Worth asking anyway-."

The covering smokescreen that had been so dense at the time of Gator Company's arrival at the operational perimeter had thinned to little more than a light fog, leaving the Gladiators standing defensive positions in the open street completely exposed.

Major Colven knew that the sight to the enemy was as much a part of Gator Company's role in Masterson as any trigger-pulling they may have been called upon to perform. The irony of the towering Gladiators intimidating Zentraedi who were in their true form, giants, was not lost on Colven either. The old adage of the shoe being on the other foot came to mind.

By all accounts, Colven should have been judging the effectiveness of the defensive perimeter an overwhelming success. The dual blast he'd fired from his Destroid's twin PBC-7 cannons in support of the Gurkhas on his approach to his present position had also been the last shots he had fired.

Oddly, as it pertained to his portion of the perimeter- they had been the last shots fired altogether.

During the course of the assault on Three- the building that Colven's squad and Naib Subedar Singh's platoon were primarily responsible for defending from outside threats- not a single malcontent had made an effort to challenge the perimeter. Not a single shot had been fired, even at the Lakotas that had been exposed and vulnerable as they delivered from a stationary hover a platoon of Rangers by fast-rope onto Three's rooftop.

The malcontents had simply not come out to play, and while this was a welcome reaction in Colven's mind- it was highly irregular to the point of not being trusted.

Zentraedi never gave up without a fight-even if it was a futile one.

"Deputy Units, Eyes Top.", came the call from the voice of the UCAV controllers, "Be advised that we're seeing vehicle and foot movement away- repeat, outbound – from operational bull's eye center. Movement seems concentrated between bull's eye three-zero-zero through zero-four-five roughly two blocks outside of Deputy perimeter-. –Mean path of advance is roughly north."

Colven's attention was captured by the words that were equal parts unbelievable and unexplainable. Toggling up an image from an orbiting UCAV high above the operational sector, the major found himself looking upon a site that had been accurately reported by the JOC.

There was not just a Zentraedi presence on the streets in an arc northwest to northeast over Abilene, but a veritable, Biblical flood of aliens on foot, and most shockingly- moving away from the fight.

"All Deputy Units, Lawman-. Hold your positions and observe ROE. Over."

Baffled by the sight presented by several UCAV feeds, Colven almost did not register the clear and simple instructions from the JOC. He was fixated on the images, now not only of Zentraedi (presumably malcontents, but not officially classified as such until they made threat or fired on a "friendly") on foot, but of Zentraedi on foot pulling in teams improvised carts made of vehicle chassis and whatever else could be fitted with wheels and bear a load.

Vehicles, actual operable civilian vehicles ranging in size from small pick-ups to medium-size pack vans that had not been seen on the streets of Brasilia in months emerged randomly and in small numbers from underground parking garages and joined the exodus north.

Most shocking was the sheer number of Zentraedi- easily thousands overall Colven guessed and far more than intelligence officers had predicted to be in so small an area. They were there though- the Destroid driver could see them by his own Gladiators video optics.

Literally, they were all around Abilene and seemed intent on getting as far away from the sector as possible, as quickly as possible.

Lawman had been right to re-assert the rule of ROE to the forces in the operational sector, Colven realized as his own observation of portions of the fleeing mass revealed almost all to be visibly armed. ROE stated that outside of the perimeter Zentraedi were only to be engaged if making challenge to or attacking the perimeter. These Zentraedi were not, and to provoke them was at a glimpse risking to arouse the anger of a force of great numerical superiority.

Thoughts of The Alamo came to Colven's mind.

When Colven heard the instant response of Subedar Sumir Khan , the company CO to the Gurkhas holding the same sector as Colven's unit, he was not surprised.

"Lawman, Deputy Charlie Actual- request permission to exit the perimeter to secure prisoners for questioning-."

A pause from the JOC.

"Stand by Deputy Charlie Actual-."

Subedar Khan (wearing the same major's oak leaves as Colven) was no doubt seeing the same disjointed withdrawal of Zentraedi from the sector as Colven and was confident that a small number of his Gurkhas could quietly capture a malcontent and persuade information from him. This was technically within the bounds of ROE, but not an undertaking to be made without clearing it with the JOC.

"Deputy Charlie Actual, Lawman. That's a negative on your request. Hold your position. Over."

Colven could feel Khan's disappointment but understood Lawman's decision. A failed snatch and grab at this moment could find the Gurkhas easily cut off and surrounded, necessitating rescue. One could see how that could easily explode into just the kind of confrontation that the JOC was looking to avoid by it's adherence to ROE order.

The Control Zone was already a powder magazine prone to sparks. To provoke a fight was to toss a Molotov cocktail.

"Damn if we didn't just avoid a Little Big Horn, Captain."

Nguyen heard his senior NCO, Sergeant Major MacDonald's words and though in complete agreement with them made no attempt to respond to them. They said everything perfectly and concisely.

Additionally, Nguyen was absorbed in the increasing number of video feeds from various friendly sources that all showed variations of the same scene: fleeing Zentraedi carrying all they could bear, and headed for the not-so-distant northern city limits of Brasilia.

Exiting Brasilia to the north did not mean immediately vanishing into wilderness- far from it. It was many kilometers before open country gave way to regular cover, and hundreds of kilometers before a Zentraedi presently fleeing Brasilia would enter anything resembling rain forest. But open country allowed even a group the size of that now fleeing to evaporate into smaller parties that were harder to monitor and even more difficult to influence with direct action.

"Look at all they're carrying, Mac.", Nguyen said, deep in thought with the struggle to interpret what he was seeing, "They have to be carrying eighty to ninety kilos per ditto, yes?"

MacDonald understood the source of Nguyen's estimation, seeing that bar none the departing Zentraedi carried bundles and knapsacks that would have staggered even the most robust human. They were moving away quickly, but not at the expense of taking with them.

"Gotta be, sir.", MacDonald replied, "-And you can bet they're not just taking the good china with them."

Nguyen nodded in understanding, even if he did not understand the whole of what he was seeing.

"They're not retreating from the fight, Mac- they're choosing to fight somewhere else-. I feel field ops in our future."

"Suits me fine, sir.", MacDonald said as he worked his fingers over his jaw thoughtfully, "We've been cooped up in the city too long anyway."

The steady murmur of orders being passed and information being exchanged between the officers and staff of the JOC had risen to a modest din without becoming unruly. The only voice that rose at regular intervals to be heard over the others was Brigadier General Wendel's, and the rise and fall of his volume was as much for effect as effectiveness as he spoke by secure radio telephone to the commander of the ASC garrison in his HQ several kilometers away.

Captain Nguyen had had few interactions with the commanding officer of the 129th Infantry that were more than a minute's duration. With all of 4th Ranger Regiment in Brasilia, there just was no need for a company commander to interact frequently with the on-scene commander. To his credit though, Wendel did make a clear effort to have "face time" with the officers and even the enlisted under him which was not true of all general officers.

Nguyen did spend a good deal of his time in the JOC, where to the best of his knowledge Wendel spent all of his. Nguyen had found himself to be one who could quickly draw accurate impressions of those around him, and in being in proximity to the general for a number of weeks now he felt he had a reasonable handle on the officer.

General Wendel, Nguyen had learned, was a Pennsylvania man and the first to not follow a family tradition of farming. Nguyen, having a good number of relatives in farming in Vietnam could see how Wendel could have come easily from that tradition. Tall and slender as a stalk of corn, the general nonetheless had an aura of physicality about him that only came from being familiar with manual labor. He also had the grim, uncomplaining resolve of a man whose fortunes depended on the whims of nature. Nothing caused a panic in this man, or much of a reaction at all. The unexpected was greeted with stoicism and resolve to sort it all out in the best way it could be done.

This was not to say that Wendel did not have a fiery side- it came with the stars and billet. The fire surfaced when Wendel felt that his tight-lipped sense of the urgent was not shared by those around him or under his command.

The Army of the Southern Cross, Brasilia Garrison commander was feeling the flame now.

Captain Nguyen and Sergeant Major MacDonald were busy with the tasks of shifting Echo Company's gears from assaulting "Three" to securing and holding it, but not so much so that they could not keep track of Wendel's half of a heated conversation only meters away.

Gesturing to the holographic map table and the multiple command displays that the ASC Commander could not see, Wendel carried on passionately as though the ASC general was beside him and taking in the same tactical view.

"-I understand that, General Morales-", Brigadier General Wendel stated with a calm yet insistent tone that held in it just a hint of simmer, "-Yes. –Yes I understand that your forces and your assistance was not initially requested for this operation, however circumstances have changed and that effects us both."

Nguyen glanced sideways to find MacDonald shaking his head. One did not have to be around flag officers long to recognize an argument that was predominantly political- or in this case a matter of rubbing the other guy's face in the bull-patty.

Neither Nguyen nor MacDonald spent a lot of their time around generals, but they did have a lot of time in the Army and found the half of the conversation they were hearing to be familiar.

Wendel's tone was even still, but his complexion continued to darken past red to purple as he made his bid for the unobligated officer's support.

"This isn't a containment issue, sir. The force whose movement we're monitoring appeared outside of my operational perimeter. We're in no tactical position to mount any kind of pursuit in force without opening the entire controlled portion of the city up to malcontent incursion or even reoccupation."

"-No. –No there has been no exchange of fire at this time, but there's also no reason why they can't continue to march out of the city to the north and then just make a hook to hit either or both of us in the asses!"

"-No, I'm not saying that, but I am saying that not taking the minimal precaution of establishing a defensive line between our rear areas and the dittos' possible direction of approach could result in the loss of ground that your troops and mine have shed a lot of blood to gain-."

Sensing that Wendel might not be successful in securing Morales' support, Nguyen suddenly felt the distance between himself and Echo Company more acutely. There was a great temptation to try to slip away quietly and move to the front with his unit where he should have been anyway by his estimation, but Nguyen found that the force of discipline was a powerful one. Moments of unexpected tactical transition were dangerous enough without junior officers breaking the chain of command to obey their own intuition.

Then, what might have been argued to be "the inevitable" happened.

Nguyen didn't see the first shot fired on the JOC's large monitors, nor was it likely that anyone in the room did. It was almost as improbable that anyone would ever pin down who had fired and why as it was unimportant.

A shot had been fired in one direction and was quickly replied from the other, and in seconds it became an all-out exchange of fire.

"Shots fired!", someone in the JOC called out though by that time the entire staff knew, "All perimeter guard units are engaging!"

The phone drifted away from General Wendel's mouth while his lips formed a stream of voiceless obscenities. When the handset returned to its place at his ear, his tone was still calm, but carried an edge of scorn.

"General, I have to report to you now that we have an escalating firefight along our perimeter front. You would be well advised to activate any quick response units that you have and move them into defensive positions around our area of control to counter possible attack."

Wendel's face twisted in disgust as comments unheard by the staff around him were drilled into his ear by his ASC counterpart whose CP had potentially become part of the battlefront.

"-Yes, we will have more words about this later, but now we should make sure we're doing it in either your headquarters or mine and not on the retreat. –Very good, I'll have the tactical data feeds enabled and keep this line open for coordination."

Wendel waited for the line to close on the other end before slamming the handset emphatically into the cradle.

"Cocksucker!-", the CO snarled, venting the indignity of the argument he had just had before returning his attention to conduct of his forces.

"Well", the CO growled, his face lightening several shades of purple, "the ASC is on board now, praise be to God…. Coms, open up all firewalls for the established tactical data flow. Let's not give them an excuse for screwing up by withholding resources."

Officers and staff from the communications detachment were already at work and beginning to oversee the passing of data to the ASC CP before Wendel had finished speaking.

"Ops-", Wendel continued, "Start moving units into position along approaches for possible counterattack-. Wake everybody up. If they've got two hands, I want them holding a weapon and manning a position. –And get the airfield into action! I want top cover from anything that can carry a gun or a rocket pod. I wanna hear choppers sawing air in two minutes!"

The activity level in the JOC had gone in seconds from fast-paced to an orchestrated frenzy as orders went out across the areas of command. The loudspeakers across post began to wail the general alarm, a sound still audible over the din of voices inside the JOC.

"This is what they mean by no plan surviving first contact-.", Sergeant Major MacDonald thought aloud as he switched his gaze between four live video feeds of the firefights going on all around the Abilene perimeter.

Whether the images were coming from Destroids at street level or the orbiting UCAVs, they just showed different angles of the same event. Tracers and energy rounds zipped back and forth between the Gurkha and Gladiator positions and the retreating malcontent lines. At times, the volume of fire was so intense that it seemed unbelievable that the malcontents were withdrawing and not on the advance- but a trail of carnage in dead and wounded stretching back in their wake and lengthening confirmed it.

"Mac", Nguyen said quite professionally, "have our people hunker down and brace up for pushback- the dittos can change their minds about giving up the fight. –And have the sappers set charges to collapse that tunnel into the basement- in case. Tunnels work both ways-."

"Roger that, sir.", MacDonald complied.

Someone- someone who probably had never been in combat- had defined and named a condition called mecha malaise during the late developmental stages of the Gen-1 Destroids.

As the theory went, drivers cozied up inside of tons of machine and armor were prone to lose "the edge" to their situational awareness despite the latest in video, audio, and sensory systems that the Gen-1s were being equipped with because the machine-to-pilot input still possessed the synthetic qualities of well-rendered simulation. In short, the concern was that the "fear" was being filtered out of combat.

Further speculation warned of a so-called "Achilles Syndrome"- in which drivers afflicted with mecha malaise might unduly endanger themselves by operating under an assumption of invincibility provided by their machines-. One theoretical psychological condition feeding into another.

By this time, the Neuro-Pilot system was in advanced development and was the chosen interface to allow drivers control of their machines. Probably the same "experts" who had concocted "mecha malaise" and "Achilles Syndrome" had come up with the solution to both using Neuro-Pilot: make the information flow both ways.

Neuro-Pilot already used strategically placed sensor pads in the driver's suit to intercept nerve impulses that were translated into the Destroid's movements and fed back sensations that allowed the pilot to feel balance and the sensations of movement for their machine. A modest delay in schedule and a great deal of R&D money allowed the engineers to teach Neuro-Pilot how to send other nerve impulses back.

Thanks to all of this courtesy and forethought by those who would never operate a Destroid in combat, every driver since had experienced discomfort with every round received by his or her machine.

Minor, insignificant impacts by conventional small arms and lasers felt like mosquito bites, Major Colven had discovered. Heavier kinetic or energy rounds felt more like a malicious pinch.

Colven had reasoned that the engineers must have been mostly men because the groin was spared "sensory translation", foregoing the possibility of a "virtual" kick in the balls.

All of these features built into the Destroids were well-intentioned, but unnecessary in Colven's mind. He had been in combat before and knew that no level of technology could lead to either "mecha malaise" or "Achilles Syndrome" so long as the pilot was riding the machine to battle.

Fear 1.0 was still state-of-the-art in armor-penetration.

When the malcontent flight from Brasilia had begun, Subedar Khan of the Gurkhas' Company C had been quick to request permission to pursue. The JOC had ordered the Gurkhas- all of the units on the perimeter- to do no more than exit the lines.

The wisdom of those orders wa now self-evident.

The fight having begun though, neither Colven nor the Gurkhas had seen any reason not to fight from the very edge of the perimeter.

That had been two minutes ago- and things had changed in that small span of time.

Perimeter defense was mostly the clear threat of violence to deter the enemy substantiated by the ability to make good on the threat. This was why Gurkhas in Cyclone power armor held the key positions on the streets and why the Gladiators were on the scene- should the malcontents not correctly read the Gurkhas' intent.

If perimeter defense escalated from deterrence to violence, as it had been known to do, it was normally small unit action in intense but brief skirmishes. The balance of firepower was too greatly skewed for any but the insane or suicidally desperate among the malcontents to seek any other kind of confrontation.

What was not supposed to happen-. What never happened was that the malcontents would put all of the ferocity of a frontal assault into a full retreat.

That was until now.

As the first tracer had come his way, Major Colven had been willing- thrilled even- to return fire. His Gladiator's sensors and combat computer tracked every round fired at Colven and conveniently identified the attack's point of origin to allow the driver the chance to reply.

It was not a reply in kind however as the Gladiator mounted weapons designed for maximum effect against other mecha. The effect of any of these systems on targets of flesh and blood would have been understated by calling it excessive or gruesome.

To a lesser degree but not significantly less, this was also true of the Cyclones operated by the Gurkhas.

What had changed in the first thirty seconds of the exchange between the conventionally armed malcontents and the defenders of the Abilene perimeter was that the feeling of the melee had turned from one of being a fight to being murder.

The PR-45 particle beam rifles fired by the Cyclone-riding Gurkhas had been designed to pierce the biomechanical exoskeletons of Invid. A single energy bolt could chew through a line of twenty unarmored bodies being as lethat and effective against the last as the first.

-And there had been enough Zentraedi in the streets when the shooting had started to prove this.

Major Colven had quickly switched from using the GU-11 gun pod his Gladiator carried, loaded with alternating high-explosive fragmentation and high-explosive incendiary rounds to the PBC-7 particle beam cannons mounted in either of the Gladiator's shoulders. The particle beam cannons could be fired into the pavement of the street scattering only the spall that was created.

Colven had watched through high-resolution optics at a range of under 100 meters as the first 55mm HEF and HEI rounds from his gun pod had raked the retreating malcontent rear guard at a cyclic rate of ten per second. Bodies had either dissolved or been set ablaze depending on their proximity to either type of contact-detonating round.

Some had done both.

By a minute into the "fight", the sense of murder had become the fact of wholesale slaughter and at that point Colven had felt a reluctance in the Gurkhas to squeeze the trigger.

Damn if Colven hadn't quietly been urging the malcontents to just fling down their weapons and flee as fast as their feet would carry them.

Damn if the malcontents didn't continue to martyr themselves in successive receding waves by stubbornly continue to fire in a futile display of defiance.

As the fight reached the ripe age of 120 seconds, Colven was certain he had legitimate sins to confess before the day that he met his Maker.

The street was no longer a path for the movement of traffic but a carpet of shredded flesh and mangled bodies laying in clusters and heaps and joined to one another by spreading pools of blue-green.

"Weapons hold!"

Major Colven barely recognized the words as his own, neither by voice or by belief that he would utter them in the presence of the enemy.

"Hold your fire Goddamnit!"

Perimeter "defense" fire dropped away to nothing instantly, and the malcontent's fire subsided almost as fast.

An unspoken agreement had been reached that this mode of fighting was done for the day.

Watching the Zentraedi slip away- quickly now without the burden of making a fighting retreat- Colven knew that he would have to fight these very same Zentraedi again. Certain as that was though, he would not be party to massacring a grossly outmatched adversary.

War after all did have to have some rules.

Didn't it?

Edwards Air Force Base, California

Hospitals.

Hospitals to Lt Col Nigel Winters' way of thinking were an exercise in selective vision and acknowledgment. This was particularly true of military hospitals, and these even more so during times of escalated conflict.

Granted, there were elements of a hospital that one was expected to recognize and comment favorably on while passing through. One was to acknowledge the professionalism of the staff in attending to the infirm and wounded; their meticulous eye for detail in doing so, and how diligently they saw to their patients.

One was expected to recognize that wounds that even fifty years before would have been considered almost certainly fatal were now treated and overcome with great regularity.

These were the things one was supposed to see and acknowledge.

Then there were the elements of a military hospital that one was to overlook.

There were the recovery wards of six to twelve beds apiece, separated by walls of drawn curtains that were too thin to muffle the groans of the recovering as the agonies of wounds emerged from under the haze of pain-killers.

There was the stealthy and guilty movement of orderlies shuttling a still and shrouded form quickly from the ICU and out of the sight of patients and staff when medical science did not prevail.

There was the thin, pleasant veil of a practiced smile and comforting eyes worn by doctors, nurses, and orderlies alike as they moved through the halls and wards- veils that fell away at the first sound of approaching helicopters that might be ferrying more wounded to their care.

There were the rehabilitation and therapy wings where young men and women learned to cope without limbs that they had once taken for granted. One was not to consider the impact that would be when a loved one on touching the veteran in the dark of night gave an involuntary start at finding a healed stump where an arm or leg had once been- an element of a "whole person" that no sophisticated prosthetic could ever adequately replace.

And there was the smell.

More than anything it was the smell of hospitals and especially military hospitals that made the gorge rise in Winters' throat. That awful anti-septic and sterile smell that formed the inadequate olfactory veneer over the smell of blood and wounds.

Still, one had to choke it all down for morale's sake. One had to participate in the overall lie of seeing what was supposed to be acknowledged and walking blindly by what was not.

One was expected to participate in what was essentially a shrug to "the way things are in war".

It made it more bearable to have a purpose in visiting these sanctuaries of mercy and recovery.

Doctors and nurses had the healing and rehabilitating those who could be treated- it was how they found strength to wear their thin veils from day to day.

Winters had the purpose also- visiting Gecko.

Winters had made the trip to the hospital no less than a dozen times to visit Gecko, more than any other pilot in Knight Hawk Squadron. It was not that Winters felt more obligated to come and spend time than the others, it was simply a fact that he had more time available to him.

Winters was always sure to remind Gecko that his fellow pilots always had him in their thoughts, but that increased flight duties prevented them from stepping in as frequently as they normally would have. He was also equally sure not to mention that his higher frequency of visits was in no small part an escape from that circle of hell known as "the office". Gecko enjoyed the visits and was a sport because even though Winters suspected he understood his CO's ulterior motives, he never brought it up.

Arriving by elevator on the floor where the non-critical recovery wards were located, Winters realized that despite a dozen or more visits- that one hall was indistinguishable from the next. Fortunately the architects who had planned the hospital anticipated the disorientation their building would cause in visitors and they compensated accordingly.

Winters was able to find the one familiar feature on the floor- the nurse's station at the convergence of the halls. There three nurses, two female and a male, formed a medical huddle around an LCD computer screen – quietly absorbed in whatever it was that nurses did at nurse's stations.

So absorbed were the three in their mysterious activity that Winters was standing unnoticed for nearly a minute before he felt inclined to announce his presence by clearing his throat.

"Can I help you, Colonel?", asked the fair-skinned black woman in the immaculate blue scrubs who sat behind the terminal keyboard.

Keeping his voice low for reasons that he himself couldn't understand- one always seemed inclined to be quiet in a hospital- Winters replied, "Yes, could one of you be a dear- or a chap- and direct me to Captain Home? Sadly, I seem to have misplaced him.."

"Morning visiting hours aren't until ten-hundred, sir.", the senior nurse said firmly but benignly, "We really shouldn't-."

Winters cut her short without being overbearing, "Yes, I realize that but you see the thing of it is that this is more official than personal. I'm to be in a meeting around the time of your visiting hours and we're going over the details of Captain Home's, uh- incident- and I need just a little more detail."

The nurses at the station exchanged a glance with one another. In terms of hospital operations, rank had no bearing and Winters expected to be told to come back after ten.

Pitying Winters perhaps- possibly for the early hour or possibly for the weak story he had tried to pass off as justification- the senior nurse relented.

"B-8, sir.", the nurse said refreshing Winters' memory of exactly where Gecko had been residing since his close encounter with a shoulder-fired SAM.

"Ah-. Bingo.", Winters replied, the joke not carrying as well as he might have hoped, "Thank you."

Winters began to walk away when the nurse called after him, "Don't forget your official business, sir."

Winters spotted the waxed paper bag containing the consumable contraband he'd brought in with him specifically for Home and contrary to hospital rules.

"Right-."

Gurneys, wheelchairs, and fragile-looking pieces of rolling hospital equipment lined the walls of the hall that branched to either side into open air wards. "B-Ward", marked so by a sign, suddenly became very familiar to Winters as he entered.

The privacy curtain to bed #8 moved aside unexpectedly as Winters reached for it to reveal a figure in black standing just behind.. Winters started involuntarily, the white collar of a priest doing nothing to offset the surprise of nearly walking into him.

The clergyman was Father Howard, whom Winters recognized as the shepherd of the Catholic parish in Edwards City that Home attended. Though he had no formal affiliation with the military or military matters, Father Howard could almost be expected to be seen on base with the nuns of his church when the need for humanity or compassion exceeded what the RDF had provisioned Edwards.

Family activities for service personnel, Food and clothing drives organized for dwellers of The Outlands, or just spreading comfort and reassurance to the wounded in the hospital- Father Howard's uniform was as common and recognized a sight as any uniform on Edwards.

While Winters did not interact with Howard on a regular basis (he being C of E- technically), the lieutenant colonel had spoken with the priest on several occasions, the most recent having been at the baptism of Gecko's daughter almost a year and a half back now.

What struck the officer most was that there was immediate and genuine recognition in the priest's face upon seeing him before he stooped over at the waist to pick up the wax paper bag that Winters had not realized he had dropped.

"Colonel, you're looking well-.", Father Howard said, handing the bag back to Winters who accepted it.

Howard was a man of roughly the same age as Winters and who looked equally worn by the weight of his tasks as the squadron commander. Winters had to give the clergyman credit for durability though as his burdens didn't end with the chocks being kicked into place and the shut-down of engines.

"Minor episodes of cardiac arrest not withstanding-.", Winters said, feeling and sounding winded, "Jesus Christ, Padre- don't do that again please-."

"No need to blaspheme, Colonel.", Father Howard said more correctively than scornfully.

Winters tried to look around the priest who stood slightly shorter than he to his pilot's bed, "Please tell me you weren't administering last rites-."

Howard stifled a chuckle- unlike the popular stereotype of priests, Howard displayed a well-developed, even a sometimes off-color sense of humor. As one would expect of a man of his solemn vows though, he was quick to govern himself when slips did occur.

"Not at all.", Howard explained, "This past Sunday I spoke to Catherine after services and she said how being cooped up in the hospital was having an ill effect on Alan. Sister Gloria must have overheard this because yesterday afternoon I found a shoebox full of get-well cards made by her third grade class on my desk in my office. I was just delivering them."

Winters raised the bag and explained simply, "Food. –Gecko would probably do better to eat what you brought him though."

Father Howard patted Winters on the shoulder as he side-stepped him to leave, "It's the spirit of the act that counts, Colonel- Good deeds nourish the soul of the giver and the receiver."

"You would say it like that, wouldn't you, Padre?"

Howard waved over his shoulder as he left the ward, "Give my regards to your squadron and to Rio."

Staggered that the priest would remember Rio who to the best of Winters' memory had only met Howard the one time at the baptism, the pilot only managed, "And mine to your boss-."

Gecko was sitting upright in bed with a dozen or more construction paper and crayon cards fanned out across his lap when Winters stepped through the curtain. The squadron commander dropped the bag into the company of the other offerings as he took the seat beside the bed last occupied by the priest.

"I brought you something bad for you-.", Winters said as he set his wheel cap and cane-half made swagger stick on the bedside table.

Gecko opened the bag to the smell of fast food that by now was only just above room temperature.

"Mmmmmm-. Congealing grease, the major part of a healthy breakfast. No coffee?"

Winters dug around in the interior of his leather flight jacket and produced a flask with the squadron crest emblazoned on it and handed it to the convalescing Home.

"I'm on a military salary, remember? Be grateful for what you get."

Home, sandwich in one hand, the flask in the other, replied around a mouthful of semi-chewed biscuit and sausage, "Fair enough-. What brings you out this way, Jack?"

Winters shrugged, "Oh, you know-. Trying to get malingering pilots back into their planes- it's part of my job."

Home prodded back, "How do you find the time with all of the desk-jockeying?"

Winters drew breath through his teeth, feigning the receipt of sharp pain, "Touché. The chaps were just asking about you, so I thought I would drop by."

"Nice of you-.", Home said warmly, "I must be popular- two visitors in an hour."

Winters glanced in the direction that Father Howard had departed in, "I saw. I'm not sure how he got in- I had to lie about official business. To be honest, the Vicar scared the dickens out of me for a moment there that he was on official business too. I was worried you'd gone tango-uniform on us."

Home shook his head as another bite of his sandwich brought it down to the half-gone point, "Nope-. Only thing around here likely to kill me is boredom- or the food. And Father Howard has his work cut out for him-."

"How's that?"

"Scaring the dickens out of you-. Good luck."

Winters hadn't recognized the irony of the common phrase until Home had pointed it out. He laughed briefly, encouraged that Home's mind was sharp as ever.

"Yeah, good luck to him. So any word on when you're out?"

Gecko made a non-committal gesture, "Today, tomorrow at the latest I hope. That doesn't mean that the flight surgeon will clear me to saddle up right away- but at least I'm not here."

"Home for the holidays and all of that.", Winters said.

"Something like that I'm hoping. My face won't be as pretty for the family photos this year, but that's life I guess."

The bandages that had once covered the entire right side of Gecko's face had been replaced by smaller ones that covered injuries directly. Even the dark bruising around the pilot's right eye had subsided.

Not sounding convinced, Winters said, "Well, it is the season for miracles."

"Amen to that.", Home agreed with more conviction as he tipped Winters' flask in a toasting gesture.

Forty-five minutes of visitation with Gecko was about the limit that Winters could stand, not because of a lack of fondness for his subordinate and friend but rather because of his limited tolerance for his surroundings.

The walk to the base's main administrative building, a distance of just under two kilometers, and the time required to walk it in order to make it to his office by the start of his expected duty hours gave the lieutenant colonel justification to part company with Gecko. This was fine by both as they had had sufficient time to trade pleasantries, a few jokes, and what little important information had needed to be exchanged before the attending physician had begun morning rounds with his cadre.

After casual farewells and with the smells of the hospital becoming intolerably thick in his nostrils, Winters had made a hasty retreat to the elevators trying to breathe as little as possible before reaching the fresh air just a short ride and slightly longer walk away.

The surprise of finding Colonel Ganyet "Switchblade" Mumuni standing at the back of the descending elevator that opened to allow him on was enough to distract Winters from the odors of medical science.

The wing's fighter group commander was attired similarly to Winters in her flight suit and aviator's jacket, but physically had a more used and weary appearance about her. Her Valkyrie squadron, the Vigilantes, was coming off a week's rotation of intense operations in The Outlands- some of the results of which explained her presence in the base hospital.

Knight Hawk Squadron had skirted tragedy with Gecko's close encounter with a SAM. The Vigilantes had seen four of their own, a quarter of the squadron,, put into the hospital for various injuries received during the operations of only seven days.

The escalation in malcontent activity and resistance in The Outlands that had put four of Mumuni's pilots into the infirmary was the same reason that squadrons were being attached to NORAMWEST from elsewhere on the globe.

As dire as the situation was becoming in The Outlands, it did not escape Winters that Major General Butler had not returned him to "ready" flight status. Obviously part of his punishment for Salvador was to be that he would sit able-bodied on the sidelines of the fight while his comrades and subordinates were mauled.

Aware of this disparity wear that Mumuni was showing, he was both reserved and respectful in his greeting.

"Colonel, ma'am."

Mumuni nodded back, saying only, "-Jack."

Winters stood to the side of the elevator car and wrung his swagger stick in his hands behind his back as the doors closed and the trip to the lobby level continued. Mumuni slumped against the rear of the car, relaxed that only Winters would see her in this state. Winters took this as an indicator that he too could stand more at ease and did so without comment.

"How's Gecko?", Mumuni asked drawing her hand wearily over her face from her forehead to her chin as though the fatigue could be wiped away like sweat. The stress did not come away so easily, but the gesture seemed to make Mumuni feel better so Winters allowed her general appearance to go without comment.

"On the mend.", Winters said simply, "Mentally ready to be out of here. Physically-. Well, the doctors will say one way or the other today we're hoping. –And Corkscrew?"

Mumuni shrugged.

Major Charles "Corkscrew" Ethan had been the reason for Colonel Mumuni's visit to the hospital, being one of three casualties incurred on the same CAP of The Outlands three days before. Captain Miranda "Bucket" Pale had walked out of the hospital the day before with tissue damage and fractures to her left arm.

Captain Aaron "Humbug" Wilcock was still a resident of the hospital morgue after succumbing to injuries during surgery the day before and would be until the squadron could be relieved to attend a funeral whose arrangements were still being made by a fiancé who Winters knew of but could remember neither by name or face.

"Fine enough- all things considered.", Mumuni said as the elevator reached the lobby level and the doors opened. The elevator foyer was occupied by only a pair of nurses in their pale green scrubs who traded places on the elevator without comment or salutation with the two officers.

"-Fine enough to walk out of this place eventually.", Mumuni said, completing the statement she had begun in the elevator as she and Winters crossed over into the hospital main lobby with the typical lobby furniture that was most comfortable when you weren't sitting on it..

"That's something.", Winters said impartially.

Mumuni shook her head as the pair crossed the highly polished floor to the sound of their own boot heels. She replied with a noticeable edge not directed at Winters, "He's not out of the woods yet. The nurse said that the doctors are optimistic that he'll pull through. No one's willing to speculate on how well he'll pull through though. There's almost certainly nerve damage. I think it's fair to say that his time in the cockpit is over. But between him and Humbug, Corkscrew got the better deal-."

Winters nodded without a word.

Corkscrew had gotten the better deal despite the dealing of the same hand. Much the way that Gecko had gotten a face full of SAM during a low pass on a malcontent position, Corkscrew, Humbug, and Bucket had all taken their licking in the same flight element doing nearly the same thing. The element lead- the only pilot to escape without a scratch in the incident- had ordered his ships in to strike what had been identified as defended cache of weapons held by malcontent Zentraedi.

"Defended" as the FAC and the platoon of RDF-Army regulars he had been attached to had meant Zentraedi in a platoon's strength or more in defilade that was easily protected by small arms and medium machinegun. SOP, and completely appropriate under the circumstances was to call in air support rather than risk ground assault.

It was only when the Valkyrie element came in on a steady azimuth to deliver cluster munitions in a blanket strike of the area that two radar-directed guns had made their presence known from nearby depressions.

Going "low and slow" as they had been, and in a straight line between the two gun positions that allowed for prolonged exposure to crossfire, the Vigilantes had been the proverbial sitting ducks.

Valkyries were tough, durable, and designed to take punishment- true- but they were designed as nimble fighters first and foremost. A blaze of anti-aircraft fire at near point-blank range was not a punishment that the Valkyrie was intended or designed to shrug off.

A hail of 25mm explosive shells had made a mess of three Valkyries in as many seconds. Element Lead and Bucket had been quickest to climb away and the fraction of a second that Corkscrew and Humbug had lingered had made all the difference.

Corkscrew's fighter had taken two shells head-on in the canopy- destroying the acrylic windscreen and bubble, but absorbing most of the damage.

Examination of the damage to Humbug's fighter had shown he had taken only one shell at nearly an oblique angle- but the high-explosive round had penetrated the cockpit before exploding.

Luck was the last card that any pilot liked to play as it ceded control to an external and intangible force. There were times though when it was hard to argue that luck wasn't the only factor between near-tragedy and tragedy.

Winters had been in Flight Ops with just about every other soul who had authorization and who could squeeze in as the Vigilantes had come home to Edwards. Miraculously, all, even the severely wounded Humbug for whom SAR had been deployed expecting him to have to eject on his return flight, had managed to land their planes. Wilcock's plane had barely stopped rolling when the medics descended upon it and had whisked what was left of him away.

Cheers had gone up in Flight Ops over the return of all of the ships that had gone out that morning. Only later did word spread that the celebration was premature.

"Still, that's something.", Mumuni said referring again to the promise of Ethan's recovery to nearly full health.

It was.

-And hadn't they gotten the bastards?

They- the second element of Vigilantes who had been participating in the CAP that morning- had gotten the bastards in what could have only been called "extreme reciprocity".

Both gun emplacements and the malcontent-defended weapons cache had absorbed every cluster bomb, rocket, and GU-11 cannon shell the undamaged ships had carried to the point where the FAC had been recorded by the OA's AWACS as asking whether the pilots had identified new targets that he had been unaware of.

The odd part of the event that was heavily laden with unfortunate details was revealed when the after-action reports of the Vigilantes had been merged with that of the army platoon that had called them in on the malcontents. Their inspection of the cache (or what remained of it) after securing the position had shown it to be a stockpile of very little significance. Some food, some medicine, some small arms and ammunition.

It had been booty of little significance that the Zentraedi had defended like lions. The only assets of real value and worth defending had been the guns that had ambushed the Valkyrie element- and those could have likely been saved had the malcontents simply fled their position and drawn the RDF away with them.

In Winters' mind, therein lay the problem.

From speaking to his own pilots and from reading the reports coming across the intelligence desk from not only other squadrons at Edwards but across the NORAMWEST base cluster, this pointless brazenness was becoming common.

The Zentraedi had developed some form of bloodlust beyond their normal willingness to fight. Where before they would eagerly defend themselves and what they had stolen or acquired, they now seemed intent on exposing themselves to almost certain death just for the chance to have a shot at a Valkyrie.

But it wasn't just Valkyries.

Army patrols had been experiencing more and more ambushes that did not conform to the standard hit-and-run pattern that weaker forces employed on stronger ones. Fights were increasingly vicious and to the last man- or Zentraedi.

While the malcontents were increasingly aggressive toward anything in The Outlands, a peculiar trend had also begun to emerge in the pattern of their attacks. Rovers and supply vehicles were being taken in The Outlands whenever malcontents could get their hands on them and at costs in casualties that seemed disproportionate to the value of the mostly unarmed vehicles.

There had even been cases where supplies being carried by transports would be found discarded following the seizure of the trucks carrying them.

It was the strange and more frequent occurrences like this that Troubled Winters the most.

He could understand the malcontent need for transports in the wastelands, but to throw away supplies of any kind was just beyond reason. No niche of malcontents isolated in The Outlands was so well-provisioned that they could not benefit from a truckload of supplies- to trade if for nothing else.

There had been speculation in some intelligence groups that the malcontents might be intending a push north into the lower regions of Canada. This might explain the need for vehicles (not even Zentraedi would walk that distance if they didn't have to) but not the violence.

If they wanted to slip away, escalating the violence only served to work against them.

Perhaps, Winters had thought repeatedly, they just wanted to feel like Zentraedi again and not marooned castaways.

Winters would have normally consulted Mumuni on these ponderings, but now was hardly the time. He recognized also that he was hardly in a position where he could claim legitimacy in his observations. He was a raptor with clipped wings. These were observations to be made and questions to be asked by those who were not bench-warming (as Freddy had put it on occasion- not referring to Winters) on the sidelines.

"It's something.", Winters agreed as he followed Mumuni out of the automatic sliding doors at the front of the lobby and into the chill of the pre-dawn air.

In the time that Winters had spent in Gecko's company, an Army engineering detachment had arrived on one of the broad lawns beyond the hospital's staff parking lots. Measurements were being made and marker posts being driven into the neatly kept grassy expanse. The underlying reason lay in duffle-style sacks that were as large as man was tall and were being pushed at intervals off a truck that was moving slowly across the manicured grass.

Winters remembered that it was nearly the end of the month, and December at that.

It was common practice for military posts that skirted The Outlands or those in areas devoid of substantial population centers to offer at least minimal medical services to the isolated civilians in their spheres of operation. The bases of NORAMWEST rotated responsibility for this detail throughout the year.

As Nellis and China Lake would do in turn, Edwards would erect a tent city on post with a fully-functional medical clinic and all of the other necessities to temporarily support a population that could easily swell to over a thousand. Civilians would be examined by medics at pre-determined sites throughout The Outlands to assess condition and need, and those requiring services that could not be provided in the field would be choppered back to the base and be bivouacked until they could receive proper attention.

Every need from pre-natal exams and check-ups to dental and eye care, as well as almost any other medical concern, would be tended to in turn before the civilians were returned to the areas they called "home". It was far from a perfect system, but it did make some tangible difference in the lives of those who would otherwise have to go without even basic medical care. More importantly though, it gave the military- and by extension the UE Government- "face time" with the isolated populations.

In this way, the military and the Government were a real entity showing concern and not some vague notion that could be easily abandoned in the face of the demands of survival.

Winters had heard "Vice" Vincenz from his flight refer to it once, off-the-cuff, as, "band-aid and toothbrush diplomacy"- alluding to the basic hygiene supplies the civilians were returned to the wilderness with- complements of the RDF. The term had stuck with Winters, seeming appropriate.

The sun would be coming up soon, and with it Mumuni would be leading her flight on the last CAP of their rotation. Some of their duties would be ensuring that collection points for the movement of civilians to Edwards were free of malcontent influence or threat. The Vigilantes would also serve as the "on-call" air support for any unit in the OA that may require them.

It all boiled down to the squadron simply finishing their turn running the risks that Humbug, Corkscrew, and Gecko were all too familiar with.

Mumuni still had some time before preflight and mission briefing which was evident by the fact that she stopped with the clear intent to smoke.

Winters was quicker on the draw and had produced a pack of cigarettes, offering one to Mumuni before she had found her own in her inner coat pockets.

Mumuni accepted a cigarette and the flame from Winters' Zippo with a small laugh.

"I thought you never carried your own."

Winters lit a cigarette for himself and inhaled it both deeply and gratefully as it drove the stench of the hospital from his nose and throat.

"That's only what I tell my chaps so I can bum fags from them."

"You're a devious son-of-a-bitch, Winters- you know that don't you?"

"And that's on my good days.", Winters admitted proudly, "A cushy office job and still all of the benefits of a lieutenant colonel-. The world is my oyster. I don't even have to carry Arnie's golf clubs on Sundays."

Mumuni blew a long stream of smoke into the cold desert air and said, "I was thinking about that-."

"What, you want me to carry your golf clubs-?"

"No- I don't play.", Mumuni said bluntly, "I meant getting you out from behind that damn desk while you still remember what a Valkyrie looks like."

Winters laughed with genuine amusement, "Oh, Arnie's just going to leap at that- let me tell you."

"I was going to talk to him about it.", Mumuni said, "I just wanted to talk to you first."

Winters fell silent for a moment and then said contemplatively, "I wouldn't want you to stick your neck out for me-."

Mumuni glared icy fire at her taller subordinate, "It's not a favor, Jack-. I need pilots. We're getting shot to pieces out there and General Butler has one of our better sticks filing- supply invoices- or whatever the hell it is that you do all day-."

"Arnie's call, not mine.", Winters said defensively.

Mumuni finished her cigarette with a long drag that came out in an equally exaggerated stream.

"Yeah, Arnie's call- but I think it's a bad one, all things being as they are now."

Winters watched as Mumuni ignored a nearby ashtray and flicked her butt off into the decorative flower bed that ran alongside the walkway.

"Good luck convincing him."

Mumuni's hands slipped into her pockets to escape the chilled air, "Any thoughts on how to go about that? You're so good with people-."

"That I am."

RDF Headquarters, Yellowstone City

The morning intelligence briefing to Major General Clarke and subsequent "round table" had gone as well as any briefing and gathering of the intelligence divisions' top leaders could hope to go.

Commander Anne Weitzel had come to the conclusion that all of the fiery conflicts had to occur at that level to allow the working grades to focus on their mutual responsibilities to the higher command and to one another.

No blood had been spilled this morning though- or at least not the kind that was visible.

The peculiar side-effect of so emotionally-charged debates as the ones that the round-tables inevitably became was the euphoric "high" that one carried away form the experience- an adrenaline rush.

Weitzel had come up through the RDF Intelligence services and had made the transition to the REF without having ever deployed on a "combat" rotation. It had always been a matter of either not enough ships in service requiring an intelligence officer, or that by the time that the Fleet's size had exploded she had risen too high in rank to fill the billets available.

For whatever reason, Weitzel had never experienced the rush of combat that others with Fleet deployments under their belts spoke of cryptically. To Weitzel, intelligence had always been a methodical, analytical process distanced from physical danger.

In attending Major General Clarke's "round-tables", Weitzel was beginning to suspect that she was soon to be a seasoned veteran of a brand of combat particular to her job and her colleagues'.

A different sensation had come over Weitzel following the morning's meeting though- one that had not faded with distance from the near shouting match that marked the crescendo of nearly every round-table. It was a knot in the stomach caused by nerves that came from knowing that she had been summoned to enter uncharted territories.

Weitzel was going "Upstairs".

The RDF Headquarters building and the Intelligence Annex in which Weitzel worked had been standing and operating on the Federal Plaza in Yellowstone City for some eight years now- and she had unpacked her box of professional belongings into a cubicle when the building had still smelled of new carpet and fresh paint. She had never had occasion though to venture into the area of the complex that housed the Office of the Military Chief of Staff.

It was for this reason and to hopefully give her apprehensions time to settle themselves that Weitzel had elected to take the stairs up one level instead of the elevator.

OMCS may have been the same RDF, but it was clearly a different world from the one that Weitzel was familiar with.

There were no open suites of cubicle farms with their constant murmur of low conversation, the chirp of phones, or the incessant clatter of fingers on keyboards. A broad, immaculate corridor with marble flooring and decorated and appointed more like the hall of a palace or a luxury hotel was punctuated at regular intervals by solid wood doorways with gleaming brass handles, flag stands holding the appropriate standards, and identification plaques with inscriptions such as, "Chief of Fleet Operations", or; "Air Force Chief of Staff".

When officers or enlisted emerged from doorways or passed Weitzel in the hall they were dressed in inspection-ready Class-A uniforms to the man or woman- a departure from the more relaxed dress code Weitzel was accustomed to in the maze of cubes that was the IFD office. A moment's panic seized Weitzel in realizing that her uniform, though a navy blue, had suffered coffee stains some time in the not-so-distant past that dry cleaning had never completely removed. As the initial fear of reproach and reprimand subsided, Weitzel felt the uncomfortable shame of vanity in recognizing that the shock was the same as the shock she had felt as a teenager discovering a blemish on her face in the mirror.

Just keep moving and no one will notice.

Commander Weitzel identified by instinct the Office of the Military Chief of Staff from some distance and well before she could identify the flags of each service that stood outside the double doors, before she could read the plaque beside the doorway, or before she recognized the recess across the corridor as the private elevator specifically intended to shuttle the MCS through the levels of Headquarters. She had to remind herself that the impression she was feeling was one carefully crafted into the placement of and approach to the office.

Turning the handle to the double doors, Weitzel half-expected a booming voice to demand to know who dared to disturb The Great Oz- but there was none. Instead, an expansive reception area and office suite lay beyond. Weitzel shut the door carefully and quietly behind herself and crossed over the OMCS seal inlaid into the floor as she moved toward one of the administrative assistant's desks where a familiar face stood in official conversation with the REF senior petty officer behind it.

Colonel Kalehahea caught sight of Weitzel out of the corner of his eye and concluded quickly the business he had with his staff to greet her.

"Commander- I was worried you'd gotten lost.", Kalehahea said, advancing several steps to meet her.

"No sir.", Weitzel replied, "The meeting went long. I apologize for keeping you waiting."

Kalehahea, a fit, stocky Polynesian man of medium height whose box-top haircut was geometrically perfect shook his head with a smile, "No need to explain to me- I sit in on them. They don't really adhere to a schedule, but tend to go as long as General Clarke has patience for them."

"Still-.", Weitzel said, "I apologize for keeping you waiting- you're busy."

Kalehahea smiled, "Well, in all fairness then- it's not me who's been waiting to speak to you."

Weitzel was certain she felt her stomach bottom out atop her left ankle as the colonel motioned toward the MCS' office.

"This way-.", Kalehahea said in a casual way that could only come from someone accustomed to interacting with the senior-most ranking military officer in the Robotech Defense Forces on a daily basis.

Weitzel reminded herself that dealing with a five-star general was no different in protocol than was interacting with the full colonel who was leading her to him.

Weitzel also reminded herself to breathe.

Kalehahea knocked on the office door central to the reception area and opened it a crack.

"General, sir-. Commander Weitzel of the Information Fusion Division is here to see you as you requested."

"Come in.", was the reply in the deep, baritone voice that was of course familiar to Weitzel from sound and video clips on the news, and of course messages (normally of a morale-building nature) viewed at unit stand-ups.

Weitzel was unsure of what she had expected to furnish and decorate the office of the Military Chief of Staff, but she was immediately certain that what she found would not have been her expectation.

The walls were adorned minimally and with both framed photos and portraits that might have as easily been quickly chosen to decorate a conference room as the senior military officer's domain. A leather couch and chair set straddled a finely polished but otherwise unremarkable wooden coffee table to one side of the room, while a series of flat-panel plasma television monitors hung darkened on the same wall that contained the door to the personal lavatory.

The general's desk was large- spanning nearly the width of the large, curtain-drawn windows behind it. Its contents, like the office, were spartan. A flat-screen computer monitor, keyboard, touch-sensitive mouse pad, and a phone as the items of highest technology were present. Only a pen holder with writing implements, a pad of official OMCS stationary, and a plain desk clock occupied the desktop otherwise.

General Breetai was far more impressive and imposing in his sheer physical size and appearance. With much of the right side of his face and head covered by a metal half-helmet that both provided protection to the general's skull from ancient wounds and housed an unblinking electronic eye, one was still held and commanded by the gaze of his remaining natural eye.

The expression worn on the officer's pale blue face was stoic but not distant or unfriendly, and despite his size that was impressive by even the standards held to micronized Zentraedi males- his aura was not threatening.

Weitzel was at a loss for how to begin and was preparing to start with a generic salutation when General Breetai relieved her of the burden.

"Thank you for coming up, Commander."

Unsure of what else to say, Weitzel replied, "Thank you for having me up, sir- it's an honor and a privilege. –Though, I'm not exactly sure as to why I'm here-."

Breetai's mouth turned up slightly at the corners in a tight-lipped smile and a short, grunting laugh filled the office.

"Of course not, Commander. If you knew that without hint or clue you'd be well on your way to having me appoint you Chief of Military intelligence. I'll waste neither your valuable time nor mine hinting at what can be said directly though-."

Breetai opened a drawer behind his desk and removed a dossier folder, set it down on his desktop, and opened the brown face of the jacket to expose the fifty pages or more within. He thumbed quickly over pages that had clearly been gone through more than once by virtue of hand notes and markings in Zentraedi symbols that Weitzel could see from where she stood.

"Many officers and enlisted personnel in the various disciplines believe that their work rises to perhaps a level or two above them and is then lost to obscurity.", Breetai commented as he reached the end of the dossier and then closed the face of the jacket on the pages again, "But that simply isn't true, Commander. Sometimes great insight can be gained from reading information that is unfiltered and unprocessed by its movement up the chain of command."

"A short time ago, an intelligence object- a hypothesis of sorts, named Ascension crossed my desk and I had occasion to read it. I don't need to go into the details, Commander- you wrote it. –Intriguing. Quite intriguing- ."

Weitzel tried to grip with her toes at the inside of her shoes so that she would not come out of them. The tight-chested apprehension she'd entered the office with had dissolved and had been replaced with a strange euphoria akin to the first time a college professor had engaged her in conversation in class more like a peer than a student. Some part of her smirked inwardly and wished that Glenmont could have been present to silently observe a discussion between General Breetai and she on an intelligence project that came not only from her office but from her hand.

"Thank you, sir."

"Intriguing-.", Breetai repeated, then added the caveat, "-but not compelling with supporting facts. In short, Commander- it's interesting speculation. It did capture my curiosity though."

Weitzel found that some of the tightness in her chest had returned and she had to restrain herself from blurting out some defense for the thoughts she had committed to paper. Knowing that such an outburst would both likely abruptly end her audience with the Military Chief of Staff and at the same time make her look like a raving lunatic- Weitzel maintained her composure.

"In the three months since you wrote this", Breetai continued, "a perceivable change in the posture and the behavior of unindoctrinated Zentraedi has spread from the very region you identified in your hypothesis through much of South America, through all of Central America, and into a sizable portion of the west and southwest North American continent. It may only be coincidence- it is likely coincidence- but sometimes coincidences are not coincidences at all. I'm wondering, Commander, why your hypothesis has not been supplemented or updated in these three months?"

Feeling now like a third-grader caught not having done her homework, Weitzel replied with an effort not to sound sheepish, "General, sir, in all honesty I was unaware that anyone other than General Shiloah had even read or had any interest in it. I have been monitoring the developing situation in malcontent activities in the Americas, and have my theories of how they would fit into my hypothesis- but without resources to explore these theories, they are just theories. To the point, General sir, intelligence resources are strained enough coping with tangible events. Hoping to divert them to explore a theory is a professional pipe-dream, realistically speaking."

Breetai nodded, showing understanding.

"I see. The need for resources almost invariably exceeds the supply. This much is true. Let me be sure that I understand your hypothesis clearly though-."

"You believe that at some point a cooperative effort formed between marooned Zentraedi within The Control Zone and rogue Zentraedi fleet elements still operating in the Sol system to extricate warriors from Earth to possibly rejoin Imperial service?"

Weitzel nodded, "Yes sir, in short."

General Breetai continued, "You believe that a seemingly random encounter between a flight of A.R.M.D.-based Veritech fighters and a Zentraedi Re-Entry Pod was an indication of this cooperative effort?"

"Not the encounter itself sir", Weitzel explained, "But it is noteworthy that the transmissions detailed in my report began after the downing of that craft. It is also a fact that the craft was not confirmed as a kill-. Its destruction was never verified."

"I did read the outline, Commander.", Breetai reminded Weitzel.

"Of course, sir. Pardon me."

Unperturbed, Breetai continued, "Coded signals that to this point we've been unable to decrypt-?"

"That's correct, sir.", Weitzel affirmed, "We've run them through every Zentraedi algorithm we have, backwards and forward- and even a few we've developed on our own- but with no success. We're looking at an entirely new encryption sequence, General Breetai."

Breetai folded his hands together on the desktop to form a mass not much smaller than a small turkey and thought for a moment. After that moment had passed, he revealed his thoughts simply, saying:

"This could all be coincidence, Commander, but I'm driven by a factor that perhaps your peers and superiors are incapable or unwilling to see. They do not understand the Zentraedi as a whole. Certainly they understand facets of the Warrior mindset, to be sure- but they do not understand my people as a whole."

"Defeat, Commander, is not a concept familiar to or readily accepted by Zentraedi- and the smashing of Dolza's forces was a defeat unlike anything the Zentraedi have ever experienced. You see, we think of wars in terms of being fought over generations and not just years. In a very real sense, the event that most humans consider having ended the so-called Robotech War- was to Zentraedi perception only a single battle of an ongoing conflict."

"They have not quit the fight, Commander Weitzel. I know this because I would not if I were in their place."

Breetai fell silent again. He remained that way for what seemed to Weitzel as a long time, but she was unconcerned. She sensed that she was closer now- though closer to what was still a question.

"Do you know what one of the best things about my rank and position is, Commander Weitzel?", Breetai asked after letting his internal thoughts run their course.

A mischievous imp in the deep recesses of Weitzel's brain caused her to immediately think of the fantastic parking space if not chauffeured limousine provided to the Military Chief of Staff- but she answered as was expected.

"No sir."

"One of the great things about my job, Commander", Breetai explained, "is that resources never seem to be an issue when I ask for something."

"On your behalf, Commander, I am going to ask for some resources. You will provide Colonel Kalehahea with your wish list, and you will have it for a short time. Understand though that as you said, there are real activities and operations that are ongoing, so these resources will dry up. Do not get greedy, Commander."

Weitzel shook her head, "I won't, General. Thank you."

In earnest, Breetai told her, "You'll thank me by providing regular reports. Twice a day at noon and twenty-hundred hours to justify my generosity. And be assured, Commander- if this tree bears no fruit I'll be just as quick to see it cut down."

"I understand clearly, sir."

Breetai opened his hands with a simple gesture, "Good then. We're done here for the time being. You are dismissed, Commander."

Weitzel nodded with a respectful, "Thank you, sir."

As she turned to leave, Breetai said after her almost as a parting thought, "Commander-. I have to admit that I hope you're wrong in your hypothesis."

Weitzel stopped briefly to face the general again as she spoke, "Me too, sir. We'll see."

The GS-95 Robotech Factory

The volume of activity within the UE commandeered Robotech Factory's #4 Module main spacedock could have easily appeared chaotic to an outsider to operations. In the vast expanse between the mooring slips at which several dozen cruisers of the Fleet were anchored smaller craft- tugs, shuttles, and maintenance vehicles mostly- moved from point to point in great numbers.

The truth of the matter was that the movements of craft both large and small were neither chaotic nor hazardous, but rather most intricately choreographed.

To the eyes that would have seen chaos in the three-dimensional ballet of craft it would also have seemed unlikely that it had been scarcely four years since the automated facility had been pressed into Earth's service.

Captured in a joint human-Zentraedi operation, the station now assigned the name "Walhalla" had undergone a crash program of refitting and modification to serve its new masters.

The process had involved more than structural changes to the facility's interior spaces though.

In the centuries that the GS-95 had served The Robotech Masters by supporting the cosmos-roaming fleets of the Zentraedi, it had been controlled entirely by a Hypercomp computer system like every other of its colossal siblings. Semi-sentient, the Hypercomp had been quickly- and to some proponents of artificial intelligence- crudely disconnected from the major functions of the station. Considerations as basic as life support for the frail, organic captors that would have normally been monitored and regulated by the Hypercomp had to be assimilated and governed by the new governing body of aliens with their highly incompatible technology.

The learning curve had been steep and not without incident in replacing the Hypercomp's dynamic control of the factory with more compartmentalized and crew-driven systems. The first six months of RDF control had seen 48 deaths as systems were stood up in operational experimentation.

Lessons were learned with each tragedy though and those lessons applied to ever-improving control systems.

Some had argued that the alien technologies involved in effectively operating the GS-95 were too complex to be reliably replaced in mass with more familiar human technologies. These voices had argued that with proper monitoring the Hypercomp would likely obey the mandates of Zentraedi officers who could act as liaisons with the computer life-form on behalf of The United Earth.

These voices were given audience, their arguments heard- but in the end for reasons discussed only behind closed doors it was decided that the Hypercomp was at its core a minion to The Robotech Masters. Without certainty of its loyalty, The United Earth Government decided on the only course of action that was left to it: partial lobotomization.

Quietly and before objection could be raised by any who might object, the Hypercomp was functionally and intellectually whittled down to a security-acceptable level of operation.

So much for Asimovesque notions of AI potential or the rights that they may have been entitled to.

Hypercomp had spent its time since tending to the purely manufacturing aspects of its intended purpose. Material and machines both civilian and military were analyzed and reverse-engineered by the Hypercomp before being churned out flawlessly and in mind-boggling quantity off of innumerable automated production lines. Medicines and even MRE food stuffs in scarce supply and in great need by a slowly starving world population were provided for as well.

A wry wit had even commented to the press preemptively that the GS-95 produced food wasn't people. Though the question of what had happened to hundreds of thousands of hibernating Zentraedi had never been broached in great detail either-.

U.E.S.S. Gordon P. Samuels had cleared the inner channel space doors of the dock minutes before under human-monitored automatic pilot and had been joined by manned space tugs in her progress toward one of the countless slips in the repair yard. Easily dwarfed in gross tonnage and dimensions by any of her Zentraedi distant cousins, Gordon P. Samuels did have a distinction that could rouse human pride in being one of the first twenty of the Stratford Class frigates of Terran design and construction. While Zentraedi warships from Breetai's former command were being modified and refitted by the hundreds to address the possible need for large scale, deep space fleet actions in the future- the backbone of the rapidly expanding REF Fleet was smaller ships of the frigate and corvette classifications.

Though lacking the heavy firepower in energy weapons that was common to all but two classes of Zentraedi warship- the frigates and corvettes coming into REF service were wholly appropriate in design and armament for the missions they were intended to perform. Rogue Zentraedi activity was still significant within the Oort Cloud and the Kuiper Belt- frequently venturing into the Sol system as far as the great asteroid belt that orbited the sun between the paths of Mars and Jupiter.

As a result of what Intelligence interpreted to being "in-fighting" between surviving commanders, these units had not yet coalesced into anything as significant as what might have once been classified as a Zentraedi battle group or even a task force. As a result, the likelihood of full-scale fleet action was minimal.

What had been predicted as to be more likely, and whose prediction had proven valid, was the probability of sudden and intense encounters between small numbers of vessels within the relative confines of the Sol System.

In this combat arena, superior sensory systems, combat control systems and practices, and specialized weapons were a greater advantage than the raw destructive power wielded by Zentraedi warships. It was along this concept of operations that the Stratford Class frigate had been designed.

Ultra-sensitive passive sensors, a low EMS emission drive system and the full range of the latest guided weapons allowed the smaller frigate to stealthily stalk and then strike at the moment of its choosing the larger foe. It was no less than an embodiment of the Biblical David and Goliath story- only played out at ranges of tens of thousands of kilometers and with far deadlier weapons than stone slings.

Gordon P. Samuels had over the period of her short service life (this, her fourth patrol) justified the David analogy.

Below the UE colors and her hull number, FG-227, on the raked conning tower of her superstructure that sat three-quarters astern on her predominantly boxy hull softened only by the gentle curving of corners and edges that might otherwise produce sensor-reflective junctions were emblazoned seven Zentraedi imperial chevrons.

A Salan Class scout, and an impressive six Thuverl Salan Class destroyers- the mainstay of the Zentraedi fleet- were represented proudly by these markings. Samuels also wore with no less pride the signs of scars from each patrol that did not easily vanish even with the mending or replacement of hull plates and the application of sensor-aborbant laminant still roughly referred to as "paint" in casual conversation. She had her scars and had shed her blood to be both a combat-effective and a proud ship in the growing REF Fleet.

Commander Lauren Devereaux could not see the seven chevrons that adorned her command's tower as testimony to her battle history from inside the captain's bridge high over the main deck- but she was satisfied that Samuels would wear two more by the time she saw open space again.

Two Zentraedi destroyers in exchange for another three battle scars and regrettably the blood of seventeen crew- but overall a fair trade in Devereaux's mind.

Losing men and women under one's command was never easy, nor did it grow easier Devereaux was finding- but it was an unpleasant risk of the business and a heightened risk if one had resolved to pursue that business aggressively.

There was no question that CDR Devereaux chose to conduct "business" aggressively, as was commonly known and made apparent to the crew. Gordon P. Samuels had not been officially commissioned for an hour, and Devereaux not yet out of her dress whites from the ceremony when she had appeared in Crew's #1 Mess with a bucket of black paint and a brush. With genuine curiosity both officer and enlisted had watched as carefully and with notable artistic skill Devereaux had painted by free-hand in striking script the famous quotation by John Paul Jones:

"I do not wish to command any ship that cannot sail fast, for I intend to go in harm's way-."

Many, both officers and enlisted, had taken Devereaux's action to be the obligatory bravado of a commander buttressing the courage of her crew with inflated allusions to her own.

Many officers and enlisted had quickly learned themselves to be mistaken.

The first prey to find its way in to the sights of CDR Lauren Devereaux had been a battle-worn, but nonetheless battle-worthy, Zentraedi destroyer skirting the interior of the Kuiper Belt.

Its sensor effectiveness dulled by the drifting and tumbling ice and rock of the belt, and its commander wrongly convinced that the clutter would similarly conceal his vessel, the destroyer and its commander had showed no signs of being aware of the Samuels' presence from the moment that first contact was logged until Devereaux announced herself twelve hours later with a spread of four Mk-4 Pegasus anti-ship missiles at a range of just under forty-thousand kilometers.

Devereaux's announcement had made an impression.

Two of Samuels' weapons had been destroyed on the run to target by debris large enough to overcome the deflector field of the Mk-4s running at sub-light speeds.

Two had not.

The surviving two Pegasus ASMs found their mark and delivered their high-explosive, thermobaric warheads deep and true into the armored hull of the Zentraedi destroyer. Though ghastly as the warheads burst compartments within the alien warship's tough outer shell, the missiles did not deal an immediate death blow. Rather, the attack roused into action a giant many times larger than the hunter itself.

Gordon P. Samuels had found herself suddenly relying on her speed and maneuverability as a still-viable Zentraedi vessel brought all of the firepower it could bring to bear on her with remarkable resilience and ferocity.

Having slipped into the sensor-hash provided by the Kuiper Belt, the new officers and crew of the Gordon P. Samuels would have happily considered the engagement a success at having damaged a Zentraedi warship.

Commander Devereaux had had other ideas though and was to show her subordinates that she was a disciple of Jones in more than words.

Disengaging from the initial melee with the Zentraedi destroyer had taken a number of minutes. Reacquiring it and working into a favorable striking position without tearing the Samuels to pieces in the grinder of space debris that both adversaries were determined to use as screen took over thirty hours.

The kill ultimately came at thirty-two hours after second contact- a long time for any crew to be at battle stations and long enough to firmly cement in the minds of the crew of the Gordon P. Samuels exactly what breed of skipper led them.

This episode, and the eight others remarkably like it in the details related to CDR Devereaux's determination to make the kill were now matters of record. Tactical analysts and historians could scrutinize means and methods to their hearts' content if the exploits of the Gordon P. Samuels were ever remembered.

Devereaux had never shown any signs of concern over the matter, or of caring.

She had business to attend to.

Specifically, Commander Lauren Devereaux had a ship to put into dock for repairs, to turn around, and to take out again as quickly as Fleet would issue her the orders.

And during all these activities she wanted as badly to work in time for what made the fighting an imperative for her.

"Approaching center buoy.", said the navigator indicating the ship's position relative to the spacedock's intentionally most commonly used reference point, "Bearing zero-zero-five relative, range two thousand meters and closing. Velocity steady at one hundred meters per second."

The harbor pilot, operating from inside a control room in the facility's traffic control center monitored the Samuels' progress remotely and performed helm functions in cooperation with the ship's autopilot. The frigate's crew could still wrest control of their vessel easily from the outside command in cases of emergency, but the intricate and delicate act of bringing the ship in to port was generally trusted to the specialist in traffic control and the tug captains.

"Samuels, engaging braking thrusters to slow to fifty meters per second.", ordered the harbor pilot as he executed, "Stand by to come left fifty degrees."

"Slowing to fifty meters per second-. Standing by to alter course minus fifty and maintain level.", confirmed the navigator from his holographic chart table to the rear of the captain's bridge, "Passing spacedock center buoy low to starboard on my mark-…. Mark."

Commander Devereaux glanced several points off the protruding fixed sensor masts of the port bow to a series of vessel slips anchored to a structure protruding from the spacedock wall that was clearly not a part of The Factory's original design configuration. The ordinance handling wharf with two operating terminals and a third due to come on line in just under a month could handle up to thirty-six warships at a time depending on their class and was the last stop for all before heading out into space. It was also the first upon returning from patrol.

While the original design of all Robotech Factories set down by The Masters intended that all supply and provisioning of vessels take place in their berths scattered about the interior area of the spacedock, the design and process analysts of the GS-95's human captors found flaw in this "one-stop, full service" approach. The spread of munitions throughout the facility required multiple control and safety points and introduced more potential hazards in the transport and handling of munitions from point to point.

Centralizing the handling and storage of ordinance to a single wharf and its supporting storage areas burrowed deep into the solid rock of the asteroid that the GS-95 was built into allowed for better control over the most hazardous aspect of supplying the ships of the Fleet. Every missile, mine, or cannon round that found its way into an REF warship's magazines passed at one time or another through the handling process of the ordinance wharf. Only the weapons and ammunition in the ship's small arms lockers and the officers' sidearms were excluded from this rule.

Gordon P. Samuels would put in to the ordinance handling wharf in minutes and the orderly and efficient off-loading her munitions would take place accounting for her remaining inventory to the round.

CDR Devereaux was always quietly pleased that the off-loading process for her command was normally a relatively short one. Ordinance was issued to her with the intent that it be used, and she was only too happy to oblige.

Nothing was more distasteful than returning from a combat patrol with full magazines.

The ship would then travel across the spacedock again to the repair yard where her wounds would be mended, routine maintenance and upgrades conducted, and her status returned to "combat ready". This alone would take between fourteen and twenty days depending on the repair yard's workload and how the Samuels fit into the order of priority.

She would then be moved to a berth to await reprovisioning and orders from Fleet to go out on patrol again. Perhaps up to a month Samuels could expect a respite from action, and as hard-charging as Devereaux liked to be- this too was fine by her.

She ran her ship hard and her crew harder, and in the same way that the Samuels required time in the repair yards to get back into full fighting form, her crew needed time with family and loved ones- or at least away from action- to recollect and enter the fight sharp again.

Certainly, there would be training and official duties for all to keep them in step with the modifications that would be made aboard their ship even while they were away from it- but there would also be leave and a time to unwind.

Best of all, to Devereaux's way of thinking, was that all of this would take place during the holiday season- the closing days of Chanukah, Christmas, and of course New Years that also served for The United Earth as Unification Day.

Regardless of religious affiliations, a celebration could be looked forward to by all.

"Captain-.", said the executive officer, Lieutenant Commander Mitch Petersen, who had edged up beside his superior without her noticing even though he stood a full head's height over her, "-TAO reports all long-range sensor systems are powered down and secure for docking, CIC is secure as well. Sensor and fire control logs have been transferred for submission with your log to Fleet, ma'am."

Devereaux nodded, "Thank you, XO-. Do you have your travel arrangements lined up to get you home, Pete?"

Petersen relaxed his duty persona slightly at Devereaux's inquiry and leaned against the bulkhead under the viewport they were both looking out of. The ship wouldn't be into the ordinance handling wharf for several more minutes so there was time for a few brief pleasantries.

"Assuming all goes well here, I should be on a planet-bound shuttle in eighteen hours.", the executive officer said hopefully, "With any luck, I'll be putting the final ornaments on the tree with the kids this time tomorrow. And you? I'm guessing Ron and your girls didn't try to come up this time to see us in?"

Devereaux shook her head, "No, not this time of the year. With the holidays, all the personnel moving on and off station, not to mention all of the things going on at home- it just wasn't practical. I'm hoping to be back in Portland by Christmas morning though- late Christmas Eve if I'm lucky."

"Either way, it'll be nice.", Petersen observed, "A better Christmas than some of these poor bastards will have anyway-."

Devereaux followed the XO's gaze across the spacedock to where frigates, corvettes, and even an REF-refitted Thuverl Salan Class Zentraedi destroyer were in the process of being maneuvered out of their slips by harbor tugs. They would soon pull up to the ordinance handling wharf for arming, and then it would be out for patrol.

A lousy deal during the holidays, no matter how gung-ho the crew.

There were no "perfect" lives in the new world.

No one- or at least very few- lived without some kind of want or depravation.

And while those actively on military duty went to bed sheltered and with food in their bellies, there were the sacrifices of being away from home for extended periods. Whether it was a dire situation at home or simply not being there for the holidays- it was often the separation from loved ones that was the hardest.

Neither Devereaux nor her crew had drawn the short straw this time though, and morale despite a grueling patrol was good overall coming into port.

For the captain though, an unpleasant duty times seventeen still stood between her and the smell of a freshly cut evergreen at home.

She would have to call the families of those in her command who would not be coming home for the holidays.

Telegrams had already been sent by the Minister of Defense offering "deep, heartfelt sorrow" for the loss of the loved one and gratitude on behalf of all of the peoples of The United Earth- but Devereaux felt obliged to call or write herself to explain what a scripted, mass-generated form message could not.

Sometimes the calls went well- parents, or spouses expressing their appreciation for the simple act of the call and the solemn satisfaction they found in hearing and knowing from someone who had been "there" that the loved one had died in execution of their duties.

Other times- the calls did not go well. Sometimes, Devereaux had to deliver her well-rehearsed words to hateful curses, or even worse- to indignant silence. She had even received letters from time to time, dripping with venom for losses that a loved one could not accept. The worst had been an envelope Devereaux had received with no return address containing only a tattered photo of a large family of happy and smiling faces that she did not recognize- and with a figure who was near the center of the shot cut out crudely with scissors.

That one had stayed with Devereaux.

It was a painful part of command- one that the Services did not advertise in recruiting pamphlets or commercials.

It was something that Devereaux had learned to use to her advantage in executing her duties though. She had learned to use it to keep herself sharp.

Devereaux would muscle through it and force herself to make the calls knowing that the reward of Christmas lay just beyond.

Steel one's self as one often had to, even the toughest still needed a "carrot". The world had an ample supply of ugliness that could destroy a person from the inside out if it was allowed to, leaving them like the caricature of an emotional burn-out in a Hemingway story.

Devereaux would do what was required of her and then go home to enjoy the holiday season, neither looking back nor apologizing for either.

"Now hear this-.", came the voice of the chief of the watch over the ship's speakers, "All hands secure from mooring stations. Ordinance details perform your pre-offload checks and detail captains make report to the bridge."

Petty Officer Orson Cobb paid only minimal attention to the announcement as it had no bearing on him. His focus remained on cramming the few remaining personal possessions that had occupied his locker and the storage compartment beneath the mattress of his bunk into his sea bag.

Packing his personal effects in preparing to disembark always seemed to present a greater challenge than what he experienced in packing to come aboard. Aboard ship and away from the post exchange, it was nearly impossible to acquire enough "new" possessions to make a difference in the volume of things that needed to fit into a standard-issue duffle. However, like at the end of every patrol, Cobb found that no matter how neatly he folded or how he pressed- his sea bag just did not want to accept all of his belongings.

With a sigh of exasperation, the young man jerked the duffle off his bunk- the top in the small cabin's stack of three- and leaned against the nearest frame for support. Holding either side of the bag opening in a freckled hand, he placed his foot atop the neat arrangement of contents and pushed until he was sure the bottom of the bag would come out.

It didn't, and with a few more strategic pushes, the densely packed duffle surrendered just a little more space.

Cobb had not felt the slight bump of the Samuels meeting the mooring posts at the ordinance handling slip, or the tremor that always ran through the deck as the internal and external interlocks took hold. His focus had been solely on squaring his things and his personal space away so that when the moment came he could be released without delay.

It occurred to the Sensorman 1st Class at that moment that his eagerness to pack in order to depart from the confines of the ship for shore leave may have been suspiciously proportionate to his inability to do so. While life aboard an REF warship was filled around the clock with duties and training, the inevitable tedium and boredom eventually got to all to some degree.

That led to pranks.

Some pranks were more creative than others.

In his time aboard Gordon P. Samuels Cobb had participated in a few "classics" himself. Sneaking into the cabin of a shipmate while he was in the shower of the berthing cluster to replace his shoes with a pair that was half a size smaller just before he went on duty, or the timeless favorite of squeezing out half the contents of someone's toothpaste tube to replace it with the similarly colored and scented hemorrhoid cream. Awaiting a reaction, or the victim's attempt to stifle a reaction to these was a time-honored use of what little idle time one had aboard ship.

One of the most creative pranks Cobb had seen personally had been perpetrated by a senior master chief who had made the transition to space duty with the REF from his sea-faring origins in the British Royal Navy. A true "old salt" in every sense of the word, this NCO had acquired great skill with a thread and needle as was a Royal Navy tradition.

With great glee, Cobb and half a dozen other residents of the berthing cluster had watched as this senior master chief had sewn the edges of a junior NCO's bed linens and blanket into the underside of his mattress- making the tidy manner in which the man made his bunk after each use somewhat more permanent than he wanted.

This prank, foremost in his mind, had almost made Cobb check the seams of his duffle to see if they had maybe been taken in a little to reduce the capacity of his bag. The fact that he was able to pack the few remaining items on his bunk and then clasp the top shut allowed him to complete his task without giving in to paranoia though.

No sooner had Cobb passed the duffle's metal ring through the three eyelets of the bag's cuff and snapped the strap clasp into place than a dull, twin thud sounded through the door that then slid open. A young black man also with the stripes and rockers of a petty officer leaned in through the opening speaking as he entered-.

"Opie, we're late in sick bay in five-."

The unexpected entrance of Petty Officer Thatcher gave Cobb a start in its suddenness and in the focus he had directed toward the packing of his things. Thatcher was a Sensorman 1 like Cobb, and also like the resident of the cabin had the primary occupation of a "Tracker Lead".

With four enlisted subordinates a tracker team spent their primary duty watches crammed into the sensor shack of the CIC with eyes glued to monitor displays providing human interpretation and filtration of the EM signals picked up by the ship's sensors. Interpretive skill, experience, and a healthy dose of intuition allowed Tracker Leads to advise the Sensor Officer and the Tactical Actions Officer to maintain a clear picture of the spherical space around the Samuels and provide the CO with good situational awareness.

"-You skinnin' the anaconda or something-?", Thatcher asked, pausing mid-step two paces into the small space.

Cobb realized at once that his efforts in battling his duffle had left him flushed and sweating, a condition made more obvious by his pale complexion. Tracker Leads also had to possess the qualities of confidence that allowed them to call out a hunch over the numerous other crucial activities that went on in CIC at any given time- or in other situations barge-in with little warning.

Sometimes it had unforeseen consequences to say the least.

"No-.", Cobb replied trying not to sound too emphatic in his plea of innocence which in the circumstances would have marked him as guilty, "-Just trying to finish packing, Thatch-."

Thatcher looked with puzzlement at the duffle that had been sealed a moment before his entry, "Yeah, whatever-. Anyway, wash the lucky hand and let's get going. Mascell is supervising the inventory and box-up, and you know how she is-."

Cobb suddenly understood Thatcher's rush.

Pharmacist's Mate Mascell was a dark-haired beauty that the male portion of the crew enjoyed joking had fallen right off the Devil's own swimsuit calendar. They joked about it as visits to sick bay in which examination or treatment was performed by Mascell were analogous to visiting one of the circles of the underworld.

Those crew who actually served under Mascell did not have to joke- as they were far too certain.

Mascell was a skilled practitioner of the medical sciences though and no amount of joking ever dared contest that. Her unflinching and strict manner had prevented more than one serious medical incident from becoming an emergency, and all recognized it with respect. The way she was allowed her to be more efficient at her job, mostly by offsetting the normal flirtation that her attractiveness might have normally spawned in a crew of mostly young men.

Maybe this was why she was the way she was, or maybe it was just a coincidence.

Who could say?

What Cobb could say was that he did not want to be late for his duty related to coming into port- running inventory on non-perishable medical supplies and preparing them to either be put back into ship's stores or offloaded for replacement.

Tardiness to this detail by even a few minutes could result in hours of extra duties under PM Mascell's personal and unblinking scrutiny.

"Let's not keep the dragon-lady waiting-."

A ship putting in for refit and overhaul of major systems, machinery, and equipment was a more extensive process than when a vessel was expected to make quick repair and turn-around for her next patrol.

As Thatcher and Cobb moved forward through the passageways past ship's administration that was nestled between the petty officers' berthing area and #2 Crew's Mess the distinction and which mode the Samuels was engaged in became obvious.

Ship's files and documents on hard copy were being boxed and sealed for transfer to some cramped records storeroom "ashore". Though the records generated aboard ship were initially created and were stored electronically, hard copy was always kept for a prescribed period of time for purposes of redundancy.

Yomen and a small, select group of enlisted participated in this activity and would be responsible for maintaining constant chain of custody over the files detailing everything from personnel actions to consumption of the ship's consumables until the shore-side records division signed off on their receipt.

Activity in #2 Crew's Mess was no less meticulous and certainly more labor intensive. Cooks and cook's mates oversaw the emptying and inventorying of the mess's ready-use stores that were handed up by box and even individual can in some cases from the dry stores lockers located under flush hatches in the deck. Frozen and the now substantially reduced fresh stores would be off-loaded last. A small detail was even assigned to verifying the mess's inventory of serving trays, drinking vessels, and eating utensils before it would be locked away in shipboard storage. All the while food preparation areas, serving lines, and even the mess tables and benches were being scrubbed to a near surgically-clean state.

To the unindoctrinated details like the securing of #2 Crew's Mess may have seemed excessive for putting the ship in to dock, but as all things that were done aboard it served a specific purpose.

Cooking and eating utensils left unsecured could float free if the ship's artificial gravity should be deactivated or fail during repairs and then find their way into areas where their presence could cause damage. Likewise, kitchen spaces or eating surfaces left unlearned posed the potential hazard of fire when pressure hull integrity was tested by overpressurizing the hull- a state in which a flash fire required only an ignition source and a small amount of fuel. At the very least, uncleaned surfaces left unattended posed the potential fore illness later when the facilities came into use again- illness that could spread rapidly through a crew.

Every duty had a purpose and every crewman had a duty in putting Gordon P. Samuels into dock, which was mainly why Petty Officers Thatcher and Cobb were unperturbed by the dense movement of crew through the passages as they hurried to attend to theirs.

"You're just heading home for Christmas then?", Thatcher asked as he did the "stoop & step" through a knee-knocker hatch in the corridor frame just forward of the emergency gear locker beyond #2 Crew's Mess. Unlike the larger vessels in the fleet, many of the Samuels' airtight hatches were manually operated and closed in hatchways that no adult could walk through standing upright. The small openings were something that one got used to, but were also the cause of numerous head contusions and tirp-and-fall accidents among the newer members of the crew.

Black and blue shows that you're new- or so the saying went.

Cobb being slightly shorter than Thatcher followed him easily through the knee-knocker and made an immediate right into the ladder well that spanned all of the ship's main decks.

"St Paul for Christmas-.", Cobb replied as he descended the steep stairway passing a steady stream of enlisted coming the other way, "-Though I'll bet my uncle and brothers already cut a tree-."

"They lifted the ban on unauthorized tree harvesting in your sector?", Thatcher asked in surprise. There were still areas of the planet where the intentional destruction of trees was prosecuted almost as severely as violence against people or destruction of crops or livestock.

"A local ordinance went on the books last October saying that you could plant and harvest your own trees if at the same time you planted two that would stay for every one you cut down- and you have to have the local environmental reclamation officer sign off on the fact that the two you're leaving up are viable. All that shit for a Christmas tree-. Ain't it a kick in the butt though?"

"Yeah-.", Thatcher agreed as he led the way out of the ladder well and onto the corridor leading forward, "Millions of people still living without electricity and starving or freezing to death in some places and they've got a Fed who has to sign off on a Christmas tree!"

"Almost makes me want to go Jewish.", Cobb muttered as acknowledgment of the absurdity of it all.

"Really?"

"No, I love bacon too much.", Cobb said stepping through another knee-knocker behind Thatcher, "-And at some point before New Year's I've got to expert up on the new ASP narrow-band analyzer and database system and qualify or the lieutenant will have my ass when I come back aboard."

"Me too.", Thatcher sympathized, "It's gonna be rough squeezing that bookwork in between rum punches on the beach, but-."

"You're not going to spend Christmas with your mom, Thatch?", Cobb asked scornfully, "That's cold!"

"No- Ithaca, New York is cold-.", Thatcher corrected as the detail assigned to securing sick bay came into sight working ahead, "Cuba is warm. That's where she's meeting me for Christmas. I'm studying on the beach and will slip on my utilities long enough to qualify on the new ASP software at Guantanamo."

Cobb laughed, "Good luck on that."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"That means you're worse than me, Thatch.", Cobb said with a hint of admission, "The only thing you'll be studying on the beach is Cuban ass."

Thatcher shrugged his guilt, "Well, that too. Ma'll keep me on task at least some of the time. Anyway, it was her idea."

"Cuba? How'd she get travel authorization anyway?"

"A dude she knows on the reconstruction board also signs off on travel vouchers for the area's civilian travel authority. It was a favor she called in."

Cobb shook his head and with a snicker said, "I won't ask-."

Thatcher stopped, turned, and threatened with a balled fist, "Hey,that's my Ma' now-."

Cobb raised his hands defensively, "Nothin' meant by it-."

Pharmacist's Mate Mascell stood inside of the infirmary processing room with a clipboard in hand and a barcode scanner in a pouch at her hip looking like a sheriff in a Western. Every bandage, suture, and pill was to be accounted for and all working the detail knew that Mascell was absolutely the right NCO to accomplish the task.

Boxes and crates of general medical supplies were quickly accumulating against the bulkheads and those whose seals were not broken were being scanned for return to general inventory by crewmen carrying scanner guns like the one Mascell wore Peacemaker-like. She would oversee the emptying of the ship's pharmacy and drug locker later with a smaller chosen group before reporting to the ship's surgeon that all was in order.

The activity in sick bay being constant as it was, Thatcher and Cobb approached the PM with the expectation of having to announce their arrival and request tasking. It was that much more of a surprise therefore that without looking up from her clipboard she noted their arrival.

"Problems finding sick bay?"

"No ma'am.", Thatcher replied, "Right where it's always been."

"Then you have another reason for being late?", Mascell asked scratching down notes on the electronic clipboard with an inkless pen.

"Ma'am, we're not-.", Cobb began to protest.

Mascell's arm extended and a finger pointed to the chronometer that was mounted on the bulkhead.

The two sensormen had been due to report at 0830Z, the chronometer cruelly reported "0830:27".

"Crap-.", escaped Cobb's lips softly as he understood.

"Hope you boys didn't have any place to be in a rush.", Mascell said flatly, "There's a heap of opened stores to be gone through."

Christmas trees, St. Paul, Cuba and rum punch for that matter was going to be a little longer in coming.

RDF Regional Training Center 32,

Falkirk, Scotland

First light was on its way, and soon thereafter would come dawn.

Recruit Trainee Andy Johnson knew this because his wristwatch had told him some time ago and despite the thick of the woodland, the steady blow of fine snow, and heavy cloak of clouds that draped the Scottish landscape he knew it had to be coming.

More importantly, with the oncoming day would be the final push back to RTC 32 following the final basic land navigation and survival exercise in the training regiment that another recruit in Training Platoon 6045 had cleverly dubbed "The Frostbite March".

It actually hadn't been as bad as Andy had dreaded it to be.

Forty-something hours before following a breakfast in the mess that had been somewhat better than most, the recruits of the platoon had assembled in a classroom to receive a briefing on the training event from Senior Training Sergeant O'Shae before moving right into it.

True to O'Shae's blunt and paternally abrasive explanation, the recruits had been put onto trucks, driven out some forty-five kilometers from the training center that had become home over the past three months, and dropped at intervals in the middle of nowhere with the field uniform on their backs, the most basic contents of a survival kit, a day's rations, a compass and a map.

The worst part, looking back at it now Andy thought, had been that moment when the open-bed transport truck had rolled away along what could only be described loosely as a fire road in the woods, over a small rise with a dozen sets of eyes still looking back at him as though never to see him again- and then vanishing into the cover of the trees.

And then there had been the silence and the feeling of utter isolation- a near panic as Andy had realized that for the first time in recent memeory he did not have five people within arm's length at all times.

Andy had stood on the fire road for God-only-knew how long hearing only the groan of trees around him in the light wind and the far-off call of hearty woodland birds before the isolated feeling passed and recollection of numerous classroom instructions and field exercises took hold.

The map and compass came out and a quick survey of the area found identifiable landmarks that provided the recruit trainee a rough position on the map he carried- and with that position a direction to travel in order to reach the clearly marked objective of RTC 32.

Southwest.

Andy had strode into the woods remembering to find and hold a pace that he could maintain without exhausting or overexerting and sweating himself, and at the rate he found to be comfortable it seemed as though he could conceivably push on through the night and be back on post by mid-morning the next day.

That illusion had lasted all of ten minutes before the woodland grew thick and the peaks of distant hills that Andy had set as his visible bearing landmarks vanished from sight. The relatively open woodland floor with its soft bed of fallen leaves and pine needle that had skirted the fire road quickly closed up into dense thicket over broken and irregular ground. Andy had found himself keeping his compass in hand and checking at ever-increasing intervals just to assure himself that he was traveling southwest and not in circles.

He had suffered more than one panic moment when his estimation of distance traveled and direction did not yield landmarks like streams at the times he expected to come across them.

By the time the light began to weaken that afternoon and everything that Andy had been taught told him that he had to prepare a place to shelter for the night, it was clear he would not be walking into Falkirk RTC anytime the next morning, or the next afternoon for that matter.

That night, by the quickly dying embers of a small fire that had heated stones that were supposed to keep him warm through the night- Andy lay on a bumpy, uneven bed of pine boughs, wrapped in a rain poncho stuffed with dry leaves and pine needles gathered from under trees for insulation. As he drifted quickly off to an uneasy sleep shivering, his belly grumbling with only a few bites of his rations eaten to satiate it, Cedric's words from months ago rang as true to him as they had almost every day:

"You're in it now, Andy Johnson-."

The next morning, Andy had awaken- shivering- and in the dull, rising light things seemed almost as bleak as they had the night before. Per training though, Andy had risen stiffly from his mattress of branches and had warmed himself with a bit of stretching and light calisthenics. Breakfast was a few more bites of the contents of the MRE he had been provided, and then it was time to pack up and go.

The process of gathering his possessions had taken all of twenty seconds, during which Andy had noticed the dew collected on the low-hanging branches of the trees around him. A cloth in his survival kit was easily saturated with passes over the branch and inside of fifteen minutes its wetting and wringing allowed him to fill the small, half-liter canteen he had been provided.

By noon things had started to look decidedly up for Recruit Trainee Andy Johnson, even though the low-hanging, omnipresent clouds so typical of winter in The Isles had taken on the smell of snow.

One more night and then back to the relative comfort of a barracks, bad military food, and all of the verbal abuse one could hope for from O'Shae. At the moment of the thought, it seemed a comparative luxury to Andy whose traveling companions of damp cold and persistent hunger stayed faithfully with him on his romp through the woodlands.

Then Andy was suddenly aware that the slight discomforts he was feeling were not his only company.

The sensation was peculiar at first- that ominous race of chill along the spine that most often hit one in a dark basement or attic, and the perception that one was being watched. Then the mind took over, and Andy's mind went to the worst place first- wolf.

Wolf or feral dog, it didn't matter to Andy as either was an irrational fear that he had had since a dog had played a little too roughly with him as a small child forming one of his earliest memories.

Andy was sure it was a wolf, its presence marked by the crunching of leaves just beyond sight over a rise. It was a wolf- and suddenly the small, razor-sharp blade of the all-in-one tool that had been part of his issued supplies for the exercise seemed very insignificant to Andy Johnson.

It was relief enough to discover ten breathless seconds later that it was not a wolf stalking him over the rise in the woods.

It was a greater pleasure when the field uniform-clad figure that did appear caught sight of Andy with a glint of hazel eyes followed by the flash of a smile that said that she too was happy to see another person- and to Andy's grasp of the moment, particularly him.

Recruit Trainee Pamela Dunn had had an appeal to Andy from the very first day of training months earlier with an exchange of sordid remarks about whose bunk was who's in their stack- and her appeal had only grown from there.

Andy was very happy to see Pamela in that unrealistic and carnally optimistic way that young adolescent men had.

Brief greetings and a quick discussion had decided that the exercise had not expressly forbid the traveling of recruit trainees in pairs or groups, but only diminished the possibility by separating all of the participants at the onset of their long march home. Besides, as they neared the RTC, they could separate again to reach the objective with the appearance of having done it alone.

–And hadn't the core lesson of the modest survival training they had received been to take every advantage when presented with one?

It had been decided.

The second night spent in the shelter given by two rain ponchos and a fallen tree, despite a light snowfall that had begun just after dark had been warmer.

Much warmer.

"Well-.", Andy said with snow softly pelting the crude shelter he'd shared all night through sleep and several bouts of activity, "-Should we be on our way or should we order room service and stay in awhile?"

Pamela, who Andy had known to be awake for some time gave him a squeeze about the ribs and replied in a dreamy, "morning after" voice, "-I thought you were going to bring me breakfast in bed-."

In the dark, Andy found her forehead to kiss it, "Haven't I done enough for you already?"

Pamela drew just far enough away to adjust the fit of her trousers and to pull tight again the nylon belt around her waist, "I seem to remember a cooperative effort in that area."

Andy's fingers traced long-coveted curves that were still desirable despite the several layers of clothing that separated the toucher from the touched, "Several cooperative activities, thank you, love-."

Dunn gave something between a giggle and a snicker, "You've got energy- I'll give you that-. Energy isn't much without direction though-."

Andy wasn't sure if he was supposed to feel as taken aback as he did, but managed, "Well at least I have a competent teacher-."

"Competent?", Dunn replied, pausing in her redressing activities, "Just competent? I should flog you for that!"

Andy laughed, finding Dunn's slim waist and pulling her again to him, "Well, if you want to start advanced theory so soon, I'm game for it-!"

"Oh for God's sake-! You're not going to have at it again are you?!"

Both recruit trainees under the single shelter jolted at the voice that seemed within arm's length if not just outside of the ponchos that covered them. Andy wasn't sure if he was happy or more mortified at the thought that he recognized the voice.

"Cedric?"

"No, it's your mum and you've been a right naughty li'l tadger!"

Dunn's face was already buried in her hands as if to keep out the unpleasant reality as Andy asked, "And just how long have you been-?"

"Long enough to know that someone is a moaner."

Recruit Trainee Cattermole's response to the question directed at Cedric Collins was not improving Andy's outlook on the day.

"-Never pegged you as one of those."

"Oh God-!", Dunn exclaimed throwing aside the thin shelter of ponchos and stormed off beyond a cluster of fir trees with the indignant rage that only an embarrassed woman could muster and carry.

"Not the first time we're hearing that-.", Cattermole commented just loud enough to be heard as he emerged from under his own poncho and a pile of dry leaves two meters up the hill that partly formed the hollow and alongside the same tree Johnson and Dunn had sheltered beneath.

"Piss off, Aunt Moggie!"

"What's she on about?", Cedric asked emerging from his own cocoon beneath a tree at the rim of the hollow.

Now sitting upright and realizing that he was not in a state too far from undress, Andy surveyed his immediate surroundings and gratefully found only Colis and Cattermole sharing the immediate geography.

"You pick a hell of a time to announce yourselves, you two-."

Collins got unsteadily to his feet, a result of the stiffness of sleeping on uneven bedding for a second night.

"Well, I didn't even know you were there until after I'd tucked in.", Collins explained, gradually increasing his range of motion through trunk turns, "And I certainly didn't expect you were going to-."

Johnson raised a hand that halted his friend's sentence without an accompanying word.

"Fine-. Whatever.", Collins said stooping over gingerly to take up the poncho he'd wrapped himself in for the night, "-But really-. Shouldn't you have at least bought her dinner or something first? You know, some soft candlelight and music-."

Andy searched for Pamela out of the corner of his eye while pretending to be intent on disassembling their impromptu love nest, "Ceddie, I'm really at the end with this-. And what's your excuse?!"

The last question, directed to Cattermole whose body seemed to pop at every joint through a series of stretching bends, received the simple reply, "Oh- I'm a lecher."

Pamela Dunn exploded through the low boughs of the fir trees she had covered behind to collect herself and marched intently back to the fallen tree to take possession of her things again if not the remnants of her dignity.

"This just didn't happen-. Everyone understand? We're just going to pack up our kit, hike in the last few kliks to Falkirk for a spot of breakfast and a shower, and then we polish up for assembly to graduate-. And that's all we're going to do or say- right?"

As though to confirm understanding between the three other recruit trainees, Dunn pointed a single finger, dagger-like at each saying, "We're clear then, eh? Or am I going to have three sets of bloke-dangles nestled in with my socks in my foot locker?"

Andy replied cautiously for himself and the others, "I think we're clear on that."

Pamela pulled back the tangle that was her hair to put it as neatly as could be managed into rubber band she had for the purpose and said with a lingering hint of menace, "Good. Let's go then."

"Just a second then-.", Cattermole said finding a broken section of fallen tree limb on the ground and then throwing it in calculated arc over the hill he had slept on. The bit of wood landed with a distinct thud that was answered with the rustle of leaves that came from some great thing being disturbed.

"What?! What now?!"

A moment later Recruit Trainee Fisher Kingsley tripped over the hilltop still heavily under the influence of sleep.

"They ain' 'avin' a go a'it `gain, is they-?"

Dunn made a guttural sound of disgust as she snatched her things from Andy and began to trudge heavily southwest toward Falkirk.

RDF Headquarters,

Yellowstone City

Commander Anne Weitzel had not waken that morning with any expectation of meeting the RDF Military Chief of Staff, let alone being in his office twice in the same morning- but what her professionally honed intuition was telling her could not wait.

So certain was she of what she would have to tell the senior-most ranking officer in all of the United Earth's Robotech Defense Forces that she had not even paused for her normal custom of stepping into Brigadier General Shiloah's office to first run it by him for a sanity check.

There was no point on two counts:

First, she had crossed paths with him thirty paces outside of her new office that had once been his, and second there was no sanity check for the insane.

She had settled for explaining in brief her discovery in the walk from the Intelligence Annex over to the main headquarters building- an explanation that Shiloah took in without comment but with a sense of grave acceptance that grew with each step. Weitzel's theory and her rationale behind it required roughly the time it took to reach General Breetai's office, where his administrative aide asked no questions when the REF officer said that she had to speak with the MCS on a matter of the highest urgency.

Apparently her expression and that of the normally unflappable Shiloah were sufficient to validate her request.

"You need to breathe, Anne.", Shiloah said from where he stood looking ashen.

Weitzel, feeling the full weight of knowing as she had never felt before was unable to quit her pacing, but did manage to heed Shiloah's warning and draw breath.

"I'd say I was going to throw up, Ephraim- but I think my stomach has dropped too far for anything to make it out."

Shiloah said evenly with a tone that was as reassuring as a pat on the hand, "Just tell the Chief of Staff what you told me, and show him your initial data. Decisions on action are his. Your part is to provide the best insight you can for him to make those decisions. Just make your pitch."

Weitzel nodded and forced herself to stop pacing. It was unbecoming of an officer she knew, and conveyed panic even if there was none. She did not want her words to be misconstrued as a knee-jerk reaction- this was far too important.

"And what do I have Ephraim?- I'm thinking about it now. I've got a handful of graphs and a crack-pot idea held together by a thin venire of otherwise unrelated intel scraps-."

Shiloah said calmly, "You have the best information you can provide-. Welcome to the Intelligence Fusion Division, Anne. Do you hate me yet for handing it off to you?"

Weitzel laughed, realizing that she was about to do nothing different than she had done a thousand times before with Shiloah. Only there was a practical difference between laying out a wild theory to the paternal Shiloah and pitching the same thoughts to the MCS.

"Not yet, but-."

"Commander, the General will see you now."

The administrative aide who had spoken to Weitzel opened the door to the MCS's office for her. Weitzel entered mustering every ounce of strength and directing it toward poise, but felt inwardly as though she expected to see the gallows waiting for her on the other side.

Of course, there was no gallows- only General Breetai sitting at his desk reviewing something on his computer monitor that Weitzel was not privileged to from her vantage point. Also standing nearby as though he was a fixture of the office like the various flags in their stands was Breetai's chief aide, Colonel Kalehahea.

The Zentraedi officer maintained his fixed gaze on the screen for the time it took to enter several keystrokes on his keyboard before turning his attention fully to Weitzel.

"You're early, Commander.", Breetai said folding his hands in his lap as he pushed away slightly from his desk, "-Which tells me that you have something. Your color tells me that you have something of great importance. So, please- impart your knowledge."

The MCS's voice and expression were neutral, neither inviting nor discouraging.

Kalehahea, on the other hand, showed clear incredulity though Weitzel had not spoken a word on the main matter yet. Possibly it was the chief aide's self-assigned role to play the "bad cop", forcing those speaking to the General to clearly think out and refine what words passed their lips while allowing him to retain an air of accessibility.

It hardly mattered at that moment.

Weitzel drew a deep breath without exaggerating the act and risking the appearance of dramatics.

"General, sir, what I'm about to say is based on only the most preliminary data, but the possible implications are dire enough that it had to be brought to your attention immediately."

Breetai nodded, and leaned forward into the conversation placing his hands now squarely on his desk where together they occupied a good portion of the workspace.

"Caveat acknowledged, Commander. Out with it."

"General Breetai, I suspect an impending military event involving if not centered in The Control Zone of Brazil involving malcontent Zentraedi elements already present, and possibly if not probably rogue Zentraedi space units likely already operating within the Sol system-. –Sir."

Breetai blinked with the single eye left visible by the partial helmet he wore and a long moment passed breathlessly for Weitzel as she wasn't sure whether this first sign of comprehension would be followed by a roaring laugh or by an enraged, bellowing order to leave the officer's presence.

Much to Weitzel's relief, the Military Chief of Staff's response was neither.

He leaned back into his chair again and after a thoughtful moment asked calmly, "What would lead you to that bit of liberal speculation, Commander?"

Happy to at least have her foot in the door, Weitzel continued with the caution that a misspoken thought might damage her efforts.

"General, my statement is based on several elements coming out of a number of ongoing taskers. I will have to ask for your indulgence as I explain the connections which will require an amount of vision and a leap of faith-."

Something that might have been the foundations of a smile appeared thinly on Breetai's face as he said in reply, "Vision and a leap of faith are the primary reasons that I am sitting in this seat, Commander, and not still conducting military operations on behalf of The Robotech Masters. You have a measure of indulgence. Proceed."

Weitzel went to the conference table at the side of the general's office and approached the controls to the holographic projection system.

"May, I sir?"

"Please-.", Breetai allowed.

Weitzel inserted a thumb drive into the terminal port and activated the system. Taking up the remote control she quickly accessed the files she had hastily prepared and projected the first image- a map of Brazil and Venezuela- into the air with the crisp detail allowed by laser light.

"General, drawing first from corroborating reports and intel from RDF, Ministry of Intelligence, and ASC intel division sources I give you the terrestrial element-."

"As you're aware from various intelligence briefings, General, the past ninety days in The Control Zone have shown malcontent activity that is almost uniformly agreed to be indicative of coordinated activity."

The map of Brazil and Venezuela took on the additional feature of localized red splotches appearing in the areas where violence had flared and malcontent activity had noticeably increased.
"Early activity had been mostly high intensity, hard-target raids on military assets- bases, outposts, and supply depots where they were accessible. The net result, especially from the earliest of these raids, was the capture of a significant amount of military weaponry and material by malcontent elements. Attention of the malcontents then seemed to shift to the destabilization and occupation of civilian population centers, which was answered in turn by the RDF and ASC in the redeployment of combat units and support elements into these areas in order to reclaim and secure them-."

The broad splotches of red dissolved and were replaced by pinpoints of activity to which Weitzel had referred.

"Consensus had been that a new malcontent leader, Fral, was simply staging what amounted to little more than vengeance actions on these population centers to avenge the death of a slain malcontent leader and the damage caused to several downed cruisers that were under repair as his pet project."

"However, consensus- though not loudly spoken- also said that the scale and severity of the malcontent actions in the population centers was not consistent with the potential for violence that the malcontents posed in terms of numbers and available weaponry."

"They are holding back, all agree- just enough activity to keep RDF and ASC units engaged over a broad area. Some attribute this to a new malcontent strategy of attrition, General, but I'm beginning to think otherwise-."

At the touch of a button on the control that Weitzel held the map scaled out to encompass all three of the American continents and showed in the same red dots areas where violence had escalated noticeably in the timeframe identified.

"The southwestern sector of North America, critical military facilities in Central and all throughout South America-. Hostile activity has risen just enough to require the application of more RDF and ASC resources while at the same time spreading them all over three continents."

Weitzel toggled to the next visual aide, a chart of the Sol system laid out in good detail in three dimensions, marking areas of recent contact with rogue Zentraedi vessels in relation to the planets and features of the system and their orbital paths.

"The extraterrestrial element now, General Breetai.", Weitzel continued, "You are also familiar with the nature of each of these encounters between REF and rogue Zentraedi elements, all within the Kuiper Belt."

"Almost without exception these encounters consisted of an REF unit happening across a Zentraedi unit, normally of the scout or destroyer class. Almost without fail, the Zentraedi units withdrew from the engagement if circumstances allowed without attempting to make battle- a highly unusual mode of operation for a Zentraedi commander, you know better than most. Fleet Intelligence has interpreted this as an escalation in rogue Zentraedi monitoring of REF unit activity within the system-."

Breetai raised his hand pausing Weitzel in her briefing and said heavily, "Commander Weitzel, while interesting in its coincidental nature, what you're showing me is nothing more than the same as what you were saying at the table this morning. There is nothing compelling here."

Weitzel felt the alternating hot and cold flashes of panic at being cut short before she had the ability to bring her thinking together. It was either that or early menopause, but under the circumstances she knew it to be the former.

"Yes sir, you are correct.", Weitzel admitted, "There is nothing new here, and nothing I have not already said, but allow me two more minutes of your time."

"Make it good, Commander.", Breetai allowed without being threatening.

"As soon as I had the raw log data from our satellite and ground monitoring stations filtered and sorted for what I was looking for- particularly coded transmissions that we could not decipher within a specific band- I just took a quick glance at the volume of communications per twenty-four hour period over the past month. Here are some samples-."

The chart of the solar system vanished and was replaced by a graph showing numbers of intercepted transmissions on a given day with details shown on time periods during which the activity was most concentrated.

"This is one month ago, General. Seven hundred and fifty-three transmissions of varying lengths in a twenty-four hour period.

The chart refreshed, showing minor differences but remaining much the same.

"This is three weeks ago, a slight increase with a margin of error of plus or minus five percent of transmissions that may have been sorted incorrectly in compiling this data. –Now thirteen days ago."

The chart appeared with the volume of transmissions nearly doubling in both quantity and hourly density.

"And-.", Weitzel said with a tone that hinted at a thing of importance being on the verge of revelation, "Twelve days ago."

The next chart was a flat line indicating a sum of zero transmissions.

"Eleven days ago", Weitzel said, advancing to the next image that was exactly the same as the last.

"Ten."

No change.

"Nine… Eight…. Seven…."

Each successive chart remained a flat line

"The pieces do not fit together perfectly, I admit, General.", Weitzel ceded, "But look at it this way-. A little under four months ago a Zentraedi bandit on a track from well out into the Sol system was damaged by and REF intercept and went down inside The Control Zone. The first of the coded transmissions that we are not able to decipeher and that furthermore are not even recognized by the Zentraedi communications systems we possess began within days of that downing."

"Within a month, a Zentraedi coalition that by all reckoning should have fractured into in-fighting with the death of its leader is not only more cohesive than ever, but actually beginning to show signs of coordinated and expanding activities even beyond The Control Zone."

"Within three months, though the underlying motivations are unclear- the malcontents are waging a guerilla war of regional conflicts that has two organized and well-supplied militaries scrambling to keep a lid on an entire continent. At the same time, surveillance from rogue forces operating nearby in our own space increases measurably."

"Then, just as we seem to be reaching a crescendo to the one fine link between marooned and roaming rogue Zentraedil- that link goes dead. Silenced completely as though communications silence was suddenly more desirable than the flow of communications back and forth."

"You're suggesting of course that a rogue Zentraedi element has managed to contact, influence, and coordinate the actions of marooned malcontents in preparation for some kind of coordinated action- and that we're looking at the prelude to that action now..", Breetai said, summing more succinctly what Weitzel was driving at than she had dared to.

"I understand the connection you're trying to draw-.", Breetai said, "-And lean as the underlying data is- my own suspicions are becoming aroused.

Weitzel felt a good bit of the weight she had carried into the MCS's office on her shoulders lift as she now clearly had his attention. She did dread the next obstacle that was coming- the inevitable "but" that she felt looming somewhere in words the general had not yet spoken.

"However, I am presented with a practical command concern even in the shadow of this suspicion.", Breetai said, delivering the "but" that Weitzel was in fear of, "I have a military under my command that numbers in the high tens of millions. A full forty percent of my forces have either begun leave for the Christian holidays, or soon will, to be followed on by another thirty percent who will have leave for Unification Day with the New Year-."

"To assume a more readied stance, Commander, even if it applies to only one continent and the REF home defense elements- translates to essentially canceling or significantly reducing leave for millions of personnel."

"You understand the devastating blow to morale this would have, do you not?"

"I do, General.", Weitzel said solemnly, "I understand that this theory presents you with a difficult decision, but-."

Breetai shook his head, "No, I don't think you realize, Commander- but it's not your job to. It's mine. And the decision is not a difficult one, just an unpleasant one. Mind you if your theory turns out to hold no air, it could be a very unpleasant decision."

At the risk of speaking out of place, Weitzel pointed out, "Not as unpleasant though as if it does hold air, I'm afraid, General."

"Quite true, Commander.", the MCS said distantly, "Quite true. As any military operation has to have an objective, what I will need from you is a list of possible objectives that this theoretical attack might be intended to achieve."

"Certainly sir, you'll have my best effort."

"On this, I expect nothing less.", Breetai said firmly.

"And when will you require this, sir?"

"You will present your initial thoughts in two hours, Commander.", Breetai informed Weitzel, causing her stomach to drop completely through the floor, "And be convincing- you'll have the ears and company of the Service Chiefs if not the President and his advisory staff."

"Very good, sir.", Weitzel said feeling that it was anything but.

"You're dismissed then.", Breetai said, "Return here in two hours- prepared."

"Yes sir.", Weitzel said before turning without further comment and departing noticeably more quickly than she had entered the office.

Breetai waited a moment before reaching over to the phone on his desk and opening the line with the hands-free speaker mode

Breetai's hand was scarcely free of the device before an aide was responding to his call.

"Yes, General?"

Breetai said heavily, "Please contact RDF quadrant and sector commands and the REF CNO and inform them that there will be a video conference in two and a half hours. Also contact the Executive Office Chief of Staff and request the President's attendance. First though, I want a directive flashed through all services, all commands to halt processing of personnel leave and travel actions pending more specific instructions that will be issued shortly. Do you have all of that?"

"Yes, General.", said the aide sounding concerned despite her best efforts to retain a dispassionate manner.

"Good. Please contact the Executive Office and request the President for me."

"Yes, General."

Breetai closed the line.

Colonel Kalehahea who had stood passively by during the entire exchange between Weitzel and his superior finally broke his silence in his struggle with disbelief.

"General, you really intend to change vector on the bulk of our military personnel, right before the holidays? -And on the hunch of an intelligence officer who hasn't been in her billet long enough for her promotion paperwork to go through the system?"

Breetai responded without offense as he knew his aide's questions were not a challenge to his orders but only a sanity check as to what was about to be done.

"Pate- I've said on many occasions that there are far too many rogue Zentraedi elements still active and viable within reach of the Sol System for us to feel truly secure."

"I also know that military inactivity and allowing defeat in battle to go unanswered is not in the Zentraedi nature."

"Whether individually or in groups, they're out there waiting for an opportunity to redeem themselves if only in their own minds. Perhaps one faction leader or another has finally achieved the mass he sees necessary to stage an operation-. Perhaps he has reached a critical state in his diminishing level of supplies that demands he either act or withdraw completely-. I cannot know this."

"What I know is that it has been far too long since we have seen significant activity in the Zentraedi that we know are operating very nearby, and there's no getting around the questions raised by these transmissions."

"Prudence demands mitigating action, Pate- even if it is an inconvenience."

Kalehahea nodded his agreement, "I wasn't arguing that, sir. Do you really think that there's a commander skulking around out there that thinks he has a shot at winning at an attack with odds that long though?"

Breetai looked seriously at his subordinate, "No, I don't. But I believe that there may be a commander out there who believes enough in The Warrior's Code that he finds death in vain revenge for defeat preferable to living with the shame of it. That breed of commander and those who would follow him are the kind who concern me the most."

"I see your point, sir."

"I'm sure you do, but not with the clarity I see it, Pate."

Kalehahea smirked darkly, "Don't be so sure, General-. Human history has seen that type as well."

Breetai thought on the statement for a moment and then admitted, "Yes, it has, hasn't it? A flaw common to both species. So, let's talk about what to do next. How far can we push a state of readiness without arousing alarm in the civilian population?"

Kalehahea thought on it for a moment, "Short of canceling leave and approved of pending leave actions, General, we can issue recall restrictions."

"Place vital personnel and units on twelve or six hour recall notice and place ready response units into a heightened state of preparedness by issuing orders for a mobilization exercise. We'll get grumbles that will come together to sound like a roar, but it will probably just come across like high command being unfeeling, granite assholes rather than indication of concern."

"That's about as far as we dare push it without raising alarm."

Breetai nodded, "I agree. Draft the orders. I'll sign them as soon as I have spoken with the President."

The phone on Breetai's desk buzzed to inform him that the moment of speaking with his superior was at hand.

"Anne, you look as though you've seen your own ghost."

Weitzel snapped from her trance-like state that was carrying her on a direct line from General Breetai's private office to the outer office door. She had not noticed General Shiloah until he had spoken to her, and could have as easily continued on for some time before realizing that she was devoid of the company she had brought with her for her task.

"I may have, Ephraim-.",, Weitzel said trying to find some humor in the moment, "My career's ghost is probably a little closer to the truth."

Shiloah opened the door for Weitzel as a gentlemanly act and despite his seniority in rank, "The job takes chutzpah, Anne- but what is the old saying?- No risk, no reward."

Weitzel shook her head bleakly as the top office in the Robotech Defense Forces fell behind. Somehow, the air felt cooler the farther away it was.

"I'm not sure what the reward is, Ephraim. Being wrong right now feels a lot more appealing than being right. Oh, and I have a briefing to give in just under two hours-."

"To whom?", Shiloah asked.

"Everyone.", Weitzel said, hearing the despair in her own voice, "-Or more accurately, just everyone with three or more stars-. Oh, and the President and probably his whole advisory staff. That's all."

Shiloah shrugged, "Chutzpah, Anne. Remember chutzpah. Put together your facts, show how it supports your theory, and get ready for all hell to rain down on you. That's the job."

"Great-. And I thought the paperwork was distasteful."

"That's the fun part now.", Shiloah said with the voice of experience.

"Ephraim?"

"Yes?"

"Do you own a ceremonial sword to go with your dress blues?"

"Yes-. Why?"

"I don't. I may need to borrow yours to fall on if this goes really south."

Edwards AFB, The Mojave Desert,

Califonrnia

There was something about intelligence briefings that Winters found tedious and annoying.

He had first felt the disdain for the practice during his RAF days and his first actions in The Gulf War. The distaste took its definitive form during The Global War and in that form had remained a constant and true companion ever since.

It was not the underlying concept of the intelligence briefing that Winters disliked. How could it be? One could not argue with a practice that was intended to provide the combatant with foreknowledge of the intentions or at least the capabilities of those he was likely to encounter in the conduct of his mission.

What Winters could not stomach was the prima donna aura that many senior intelligence officers exuded in their dealings with operators. It was not an exclusivist attitude Winters had determined- he had never known an intelligence officer to hold out on a critical piece of information.

No, it was the unspoken attitude that lay just beneath everything that was said.

It was the, these are the most important words you will ever hear and you should revere my god-like benevolence for bestowing them upon you demeanor that rubbed Winters the wrong way.

Also, when things did not materialize the way the "all knowing" intelligence services predicted, Winters could not stomach how quickly the gears shifted and the party line became that of intelligence being an "imperfect art".

At least intelligence briefings did not wreak the way that hospitals did.

They tended to smell more like cow pastures.

Winters found intelligence briefings on Southern Cross capabilities no more appealing and normally less.

It seemed to the clipped-wing Valkyrie pilot that dedicating intelligence resources to spying on the military of less than a dozen Unification hold-outs was analogous to policing grade school playground bullies. In their time and element, they were a presence that had to be recognized and given their due attention- but in the grander, long-term vision they were a transient phenomenon.

–And weren't there Zentraedi to be looked after? About a billion of them?

Let them bleed each other out- that had been Winters attitude, especially since he had gotten to know the ASC so much better.

The Southern Cross was a force gnashing at the bit to take the fight to the Zentraedi, any Zentraedi, and the malcontents seemed more than willing to meet them head-to-head. Why not use that as the single stone to kill two birds?

Winters recalled echoes of conversations he had had in Brazil that seemed to ominously support that attitude.

Certainly though, the ASC could not quell the Zentraedi threat alone and despite the rants of their leadership, they were not at it alone. The RDF was there in force with as many boots on the ground and in most areas more.

And who was to say where these sudden technological advancements whose materialization was the focus of the day's briefing were coming from? Wasn't the bigger issue the greater role they would allow the ASC to play in theater?

Even this didn't matter.

The Zentraedi problem would be brought under control and then the independent states that fielded the ASC would begin to discover their differences. Like so many historical alliances of necessity, the ASC would eventually fall victim to its own success and implode for lack of a common threat to defend against.

If this was to be the ultimate outcome, Winters wasn't sure that he wouldn't drop a few helpful technological hints into the mail for the ASC high command.

As for the hows of the sudden ASC achievements, Winters was sure that there would be generations of conspiracy theorists to churn out volumes of speculation. Political scientists and historians could be expected to do the same for assessing the effect on the story of the world.

Winters looked forward to reading what was written with a jaded eye and a cynical mind.

Someone with authority had decided though that the ASC warranted the time and treasure required to monitor them closely. Briefings such as these were the result and as a consequence had to be endured

Colonel Malcolm Ethan Malcolm (Winters had decided in a preoccupying thought that his parents must have had some obsessive compulsion for symmetry) the NORAMWEST ranking intelligence officer had made a point of tearing himself away from General Hume's command at Nellis to impart his knowledge of the subject on General Butler and his staff.

Outranking Wintersas he did, Winters of course had to put on his best mask of respect and pretend to listen carefully as the full bird crowed through a briefing that had quickly taken on the character of an out-loud reading of operation manuals- three of them.

Much as the BBC had told Winters this morning and a UENN "talking head" had expanded upon later, the latest additions to the ASC inventory now going to the field were in essence a fighter (clearly a poor designation to anyone), an attack helicopter, and a hover tank that were all three also coincidentally transformable mecha.

Of the three new vehicles that the ASC was beating its chest about, the most innovative to Winters was what they had crudely named the "Veritech Hover Tank", or VHT-1 for its apparent mastery of the problems of magnetic levitation propulsion, or "Mag-Lev".

The RDF Army fielded a considerable force of main battle tanks that as a weapon system, despite the advent of faster and more viable mecha forms, had once again maintained a place of prominence in a modern fighting force. These main battle tanks retained a more classic appearance though to include the traditional track-drive system.

The VHT-1, at a glance and by Col Malcolm's interminable reporting had abandoned the caterpillar tracks for magnetic pads and accordingly, much greater speed. So impressive was the speed in the system configuration being called "transport mode" that the VHT-1 was now capable of outrunning its combat and logistical support elements at an impressive 160kmph.

Short-sightedness knew no limitations it seemed.

The promise that it could traverse open ground so quickly was offset greatly by the fact that the areas in which it was most likely to fight were not open. Also diminishing the impressiveness of the system was the fact that the monster of a main gun- a high-intensity ion cannon- could not be used in transport mode.

In tank mode, when the vehicle's admittedly fearsome firepower could be fully employed, it was a lumbering, bi-pedal thing not unlike a Valkyrie in Guardian mode- only lacking grace and agility.

What application the ASC saw for the VHT-1 over the RDF's Warrior battle tank was unclear. If its designers had one in mind, it was one on a battle field that did not require heavy firepower and fast mobility simultaneously.

The airborne additions to the family of transformable mecha made slightly more sense to Winters.

The Advanced Joint Attack Combat System (AJACS) Veritech Attack Helicopter had a sounder foundation of practical thought behind it- merging two prominent ASC operational needs into one airframe.

Clearly conceived to serve as close and lingering air support to ground units the AJACS's primary helicopter mode provided a large munitions carrying capacit across the platform's functional wing structures' multiple hard-points. Or, with its rotors stowed along a recessed dorsal compartment and with the craft functioning as an attack jet, the same munitions could be used in hit and run attacks against ground targets.

The Battloid form of the mecha, even more so than that of the more heavily armored Veritech Hover Tank, was more difficult to defend as a legitimate necessity.

Years before when the Valkyrie series had been only an outlandish idea in the initial stages of development Winters had been one of the voices of descent speaking against a three-form transformable fighter. Particularly the Battloid form he and others had argued intelligently was a configuration of the machine that surrendered almost every advantage that its advanced weapons systems and the airframe's remarkable agility had to offer.

Of course other schools of thought prevailed and the Valkyrie entered service with its three standard-setting configurations a well PR-promoted attribute.

Had the Battleoid ever been of real practical use?

Winters was still true to his camp of thought and could think of few if any combat scenarios in which he would want to expose his relatively lightly armored Valkyrie to fire with such a large target surface area and with a reduced capacity to fire back.

Still, the ASC had chosen to give the AJACS a Battloid form and with it all of the weaknesses therein. To Winters thinking this only showed that the ASC was deft at stealing ideas, but not necessarily sorting out the good ones.

Admittedly though, and where the ASC did manage to step ahead of the RDF in terms of close air support was the fact that the AJACS was crewed by a single pilot as opposed to the pilot and gunner required to operate the more conventional Aztec attack helicopter currently being fielded and continuously modified by the RDF. The same was true in comparing the AJACS' attack/bomber potential to the aging RDF A-9C "Adventurer II" that was crewed by a pilot and weapons systems officer.

To be candid and magnanimous, the ASC had achieved in the AJACS something akin to cross-breeding a Hi-24 "Hind" and a Ferrari, merging their desirable attributes while reducing the number of lives risked per craft by one over its nearest RDF equivalents.

What was true of the AJACS in its clearer "form following function" design was also true of the Veritech "fighter" that the ASC had developed.

As a pilot of the Valkyrie, Winters was both appalled and offended that this smaller mecha was even allowed to stake claim to the term "Veritech". If it was at all related to the Valkyrie, it was a stubby, little runt of a cousin.

Where the Valkyrie in fighter mode had the sleek lines and traditional look of a late 20th Century jet fighter- a killer- the "Logan" had more the appearance of a VW Bug with wings.

Its bulbous airframe with its high-sitting cockpit and elevated bubble canopy gave it the look of something incapable of the speeds it had been clocked at. What that pudgy body afforded the Logan, a comfort that Valkyrie pilots could not claim as their own, was a heavily armored cockpit intended to protect the single occupant from ground-based cannon and energy weapons fire.

Of course all of this Winters only saw as support to his argument that the Logan was not a "fighter" even in fighter mode any more than the ASC developed F-1B "Spector" was a fighter.

It was a glorified attack aircraft.

To use the analogy of a successful predecessor, it was an A-10 with delusions of grandeur- but in its element it showed at least the promise of greatness.

Being half the size and roughly half the dry weight of the Valkyrie and almost a third in both respects of the Adventurer II, the Logan did have the appeal of being able to make use of smaller airfields and unfinished bases of operation- as small as a clearing in the jungle. This gave it the ability to forward deploy with far greater ease than any aircraft of a similar role fielded by the RDF, and as a result gave it quicker reaction time to the threats it was clearly intended to counter.

Almost to Winters' dismay though, the Logan designers had seemed to take to heart the Valkyrie pilot's thoughts on the uselessness of the Battloid form. Only a Guardian mode served the Logan as an alternate configuration, strongly reminiscent of the Valkyrie's with its "half-plane with legs and arms" appearance, or "the chicken" as some had called it early on.

Awkward and initially unattractive as the Guardian forms of both Veritechs were, they did offer the pilot full VTOL capability- even when heavily loaded with ordinance. This offset any aesthetic consideration outright.

There were few surprises in the three forms of transformable war machines to the officers gathered around the table in General Butler's commander's briefing room. Much like the developmental stages of the VF-1 series Valkyrie, something that Winters was intimately familiar with, the machines that he and the other officers of Edwards were now being briefed on had flown and walked in static configurations for some time.

It was their sudden ability to transition between forms in an operationally suitable manner that was cause to take notice here and across the RDF.

The ASC;s stealing of the idea of the Veritech had been no great surprise. The theft of the ability to deliver it was a cause for greater concern.

"Thoughts or comments?", Major General Butler solicited from his seat at the head of the table.

Winters realized that in drifting into the vortex of various thoughts that were spinning inside his head- he had missed the concluding remarks of Colonel Malcolm's briefing.

That was fine though as Winters was fairly certain that the techniques of intelligence gathering had not yet advanced to clairvoyance. Not that an intelligence officer would admit that-.

"So what?"

A churn of murmurs voiced the collective shock at the statement, and Winters was doubly shocked after a moment's silence to realize that he had uttered the words. Perhaps not enough coffee that morning or a slug of bourbon from the night before still traveling through his bloodstream- but the words had been his and he was now obliged to justify them.

"Care to elaborate on that, Jack?", Butler said, more as a directive than an invitation.

Winters flipped open the folder of briefing photos and materials that had been provided in hardcopy and pushed them out fan-like onto the glassy, polished surface of the table.

"From my perspective-.", Winters said sifting through the photos without real purpose, "-the Southern Cross chaps have just honed their tactical edge somewhat. This isn't a strategic sea change by any stretch of the imagination. It smacks more of Veritech envy than any shift in their mode of warfighting."

Colonel Malcolm, looking slightly displeased at not having his briefing leave all in awe simply asked, "This wouldn't be a personal bias, would it Colonel Winters?"

Winters shook his head, "Not in the least. I'm still as unimpressed by that lot of tossers as I was when I got up this morning. Look at the bigger picture for a moment-. Their standard method is still to establish and deploy from a fixed stronghold- a base, or a forward staging area. Their air wing is still governed by ground based control that isn't even networked, or interoperable except for a few strategically key regions- and believe me, I know-."

"No, the Southern Cross is still focused on battlefield and regional domination. They may be holding a flashier hand, but they're still playing at the same game table."

Malcolm's expression soured visibly, "Your recent adventures in Brazil not withstanding, Winters, I think you're still missing the significant shit this development represents in The Control Zone."

Winters shrugged, "And begging your pardon, sir, I think you're overestimating it. The fight is already completely asymmetrical-. Hell, if they want to spend billions on fielding higher-tech ways of providing close air support to their troops, I say let them."

"This fighter, this chopper- they're nothing if not fancier ways to do the same hedge-hopping missions that are already supported perfectly by much cheaper platforms in our inventory."

"I'll say it again- they're showing off."

" It will take them eighteen months at least to deploy viable units that can start to learn the lessons that come with these new systems and it will be another thirty-six before they can start to field pilots who benefit from them."

"If you're looking for a great mystery to grapple with, figure out how they managed to adapt and mature the stolen technology so quickly and how they intend to produce these things on any scale. I assume they're not knitting them."

General Butler had personal knowledge of Winters' ability to annoy and could tell that the senior NORAMWEST intelligence officer was reaching that point. Rather than having to intervene in what could become a physical altercation, Butler chose to pull the advantages of rank by speaking.

"What Jack is stabbing at, Colonel, besides your patience is that the influence on the theater of operations generated by these Southern Cross advances cannot be accurately determined until we start to see how they intend to deploy them. If their production and application are limited and just provide an occasional wow effect- that will be one thing. If they make these platforms and their follow-ons the mainstay of their forces- that's another."

"I think the critical issue is-."

The dull but unmistakable sound of an explosion muffled by the dampening effects of the building's double-paned windows and solid construction was heard by all at the table and coincided with the slight rattling of framed photos on the wall.

Eyes turned instantly to the windows that looked out onto the dry Rogers Lake bed beyond the base's administrative compound and flight line facilities to where the first fingers of smoke could be seen rising into the otherwise flawless blue sky of the desert morning.

The phone at the head of the briefing table where Major General Butler could be expected to sit rang as the sirens of emergency vehicles began to wail from unseen places on the distant tarmac.

Butler picked up the phone and without hesitation said, "I heard-. Who was it?"

The tower chief was in the process of replying when Butler noticed the door to the briefing room was open and on the return swing, and that Winters was missing from the company of officers.

Winters had successfully flagged down a pair of airmen in a land rover in the HQ parking lot and had found them immediately willing to take him to the airfield.

Standing in the open bed of the vehicle holding the roll-bar to steady himself, Winters could still feel himself sweating at the temples and under the leather collar of his jacket despite the bracing chill of the morning air. Though the hangars and workshop buildings that occupied the tarmac obscured his view of the dry lakebed, Winters could tell from the position of the dwindling smoke plume that the crash had occurred far out and likely just inside of the opposite shore.

The Vigilantes had been flying and would have been due to return about now, so the dreadful question heavy on Winters' mind at least had an answer with a set possible cast.

As the rover turned onto the receiving tarmac the seventh of what had been an eight ship flight of Valkyries was rolling to a stop.

A swarm of ground crew personnel surrounded each and worked furiously to attend to the various tasks of securing each fighter. Two Valkyries stood away from the rest and away from each other with fire trucks standing nearby in the event that their services should be required.

At a glance Winters could see damage to the port engine and leading edge of the wing of one, but nothing that indicated a fire was imminent.

The trucks were a mandatory precaution as was the ambulance whose medics were performing a quick check on the pilot out of the back of their vehicle.

As the pilots congregated, their helmets coming off, Winters easily found the one pilot in particular he was looking for and whom he was happier than he would have admitted aloud was not involved in the crash on the lakebed.

Colonel Ganyet "Switchblade" Mumuni was well clear of her undamaged fighter and all of the others before she made any attempt at lighting a cigarette. Though the Valkyries' plasma reaction fusion engines did not require conventional petroleum-based fuel, smoking on the flight line or around secured aircraft was still forbidden by regulation.

There were times that regulations were ignored by both the violator and the enforcer alike though.

Mumuni was fixated on the task of lighting her cigarette as Winters drew near and as he did so he could see the cause of the effort. The cigarette between her lips danced at the tip from the tremors that at the same time made her hands shake.

Winters knew "the shakes" all too well- well enough to know that the cigarette his superior was so badly craving would not drive them away. On the other hand though, a nic-fit combined with the shakes was a whole other circle of hell to be experienced.

Better to have one's fix.

Winters was able to strike a flame on his Zippo with his first attempt and before Mumuni could even put her thumb on the wheel of her own for another try.

"Bad day at the office?"

Mumuni was able to steady her cigarette long enough to light it and let Winters' comment pass knowing it was not being made in bad taste or from insensitivity.

"You don't know the half-.", Mumuni said through an exhaled cloud of smoke that could not have possibly come from inside her small frame. Then sensing the question on the other squadron commander's mind she simply said as with any other professional issue, "Binky-. He got out though, we all saw silk."

Though he would have not consciously allowed the display, Winters felt a sigh of relief escape him before he could stop it. The fact that a parachute from the Valkyrie's "0-0" (zero-altitude, zero airspeed) ejection seat had been seen by Mumuni and others in her squadron was a good indication that the pilot had a considerable chance of surviving the ejection- assuming he had sustained no life-threatening injuries leading up to it.

A "bad" landing might mean a broken bone or in the worst cases a broken back- but fatal injuries from landing were extremely rare.

Looking across the lakebed to see the tiny dots of neon green that were the fire and rescue trucks against the dark smudge of smoke from aircraft wreckage said to Winters that the Valkyrie had fared much worse.

"Binky'll be in the service a long time to pay that off, I'm afraid.", Winters said suddenly realizing that he too wanted a cigarette badly.

Mumuni smiled weakly as she fished her sunglasses out of the pocket of her flight suit, "Well, everyone needs something worthwhile to spend that extra combat pay on."

Lt Col "Dusty" Drake, who had not been in the flight that had just returned but who had been on the scene when Winters had arrived came jogging over to where the two squadron leaders smoked as if gossiping.

"Medics just radioed the tower", the Vigilante XO said sounding relieved before he had even delivered the meat of the message, "Binky's got a helluva twisted ankle and a busted lip from kissing the lakebed, but he's fine otherwise. What the hell happened up there?"

Winters knew Drake didn't require a full explanation as he, like the "stand-by" element from Knight Hawk Squadron had likely been listening in on the Vigilante flight from the squadron ready rooms. For most patrols of The Outlands, listening to the routine and idle chatter between pilots was as exciting as listening to paint crack and peel- but when action was found the soundtrack of unfolding events was more closely followed than the finals match for The Gold Cup.

Mumuni shook her head as though she was still piecing together an event that she had been present for, "Not sure-. It was strange. We were near the southeast turn of the circuit to head back west, just coming up on the edge of Crater Range when we start to get painted by tracking radar."

"So I turn on the source, still at just under twenty-thousand and dive on it. -I'm at around seven thousand when I get into range and send two Shrikes back down the beam at the ground station."

"He's got to see me and see the two Shrikes homing in on him, but he never turns off his set. He gets off a few shots at me and my wingman with an old AA-gun before he gets a face full of Shrike."

"Then, before the pieces even stop falling, an old, rusted-out pickup truck makes a break for open desert from a depression or something. I doubt we would have even known he was there if he hadn't bolted."

"So, we heated up our Mavericks and take him out with a single shot."

Winters nodded in the direction of the landed Valkyrie flight and of the damaged ships noted, "Well, all that wasn't done by a single AA gun. Some of that's missile damage-."

Mumuni nodded, "Because after I made a couple of passes low and slow and saw nothing, I called the rest of the flight down to comb the area- I figured the dittos had to be hiding something and I wanted to know what it was."

"And?" asked Drake.

"And they were hiding three jokers with shoulder-fired SAMs- good ones. They waited for us to be right overhead before they shot. Binky took the worst hit- right under the belly-. Blew his damn gun pod clean off and bent the plane to boot. I don't know how he made it back this far honestly-."

Winters' mind began to grind away again on familiar suspicions recently developed.

This was too close to the misfortune that had befallen Gecko, Bucket, Corkscrew, and Humbug to be coincidence. Valkyries were becoming a prized game bird in The Outlands and there didn't appear to be a limit.

Worse though was that with all likelihood Knight Hawk Squadron was already into the engagement area having scrambled from their alert status the moment the first bullet had been reported as having been fired.

If the pattern held ture-.

Actually, there was no pattern except that a good many Zentraedi lately had gotten it into their minds that shooting at CAP fighters was good sport. Regularly these Zentraedi were left in no condition to practice that sport twice, but the practice remained an occurrence that was more and more frequent.

Still, the lack of clear reason beyond the possibility of some mass epidemic of suicide in the Zentraedi malcontent ranks was a bother to Winters.

Zentraedi always had a reason- they were not a people given to whimsy.

Mumuni's shaking had gone down considerably by the time she had finished her cigarette. Grinding the butt out under her boot heel she said almost casually to her XO,

"Dusty, have the ground crews break our reserve birds out of storage. I want them armed up and ready to raise wheels in twenty minutes- along with everyone else in the squadron."

"Armed for what?", Drake asked.

"What do you think? I want the cavalry just over the horizon if the Knight Hawks run into more of what we got.", Mumuni said, "And besides, the Army is already on its way in with air assault troops and they're always screaming for air cover."

"Got it.", Drake replied before starting back in the direction of the Valkyries from which he had come.

Normally there would be a debriefing and after-action assessment following a mission, even in a quick turn-around situation, and rarely were the reserve aircraft of a squadron so quickly brought into service. The malcontents had drawn blood though, and at all levels in the fighter wing SOP had a way of being curbed somewhat to facilitate a faster response.

"Getting shot at once in a day not enough for you?", Winters asked Mumuni knowing that even the most solid pilots needed a time to decompress after so close a call, "Let my chaps shoulder it for a while."

Mumuni shook her head, "No, that's been our mistake. They jab at us, we jab back, and then we let the dust settle before we head back. We've flushed some of them out and those we didn't are probably itching for a fight now."

"The Army will have boots on the ground in less than an hour. If we can get the dittos to bite again, we can really drop the hammer on them. I want in on that."

"Sure, but you have other squadrons to throw at this too-.", Winters suggested.

Mumuni turned viciously on Winters, snarling, "-Well, I'd ask for your help but I don't need a memo written on it!"

The words stung more pronouncedly than Winters would have believed possible and it must have shown on his face because Mumuni's expression had changed to show hints of apology before the breath carrying the offensive utterance had fully escaped.

Winters simply raised his hands to resign from the situation and turned after two backwards steps to walk away.

Mumuni's first instinct was to pursue and make amends, but she knew the wound she'd left was too raw to be closed this moment. She had given orders to have her squadron brought back up to combat readiness and she had that to attend to first.

Jack would wait.

A.R.M.D. II Space Platform, "Archer 42"

"Attention all hands, attention all hands-.", came the voice of the chief of the watch loudly over the PA system in the narrow corridors of the space station, "-Cargo transfer aboard is complete, offloading detail is secure. Transport shuttle to Walhalla will depart in thirty minutes. All personnel with liberty passes and transport authorization, report to Airlock Forty to embark. That is all."

Lieutenant Commander Thomas J. Queffle let the announcement pass before trying to continue the parting conversation with the Kasumi Corporation foreman, Franklin.

After two progress briefings a day on the station's upgrade that had taken place over the course of just under six weeks, it seemed wholly appropriate to the station commander to see the last of the contractors off of his platform.

The bulk of the contractor workforce, 137 strong, had departed a week earlier with the Kasumi vessel- a combination cargo ship and workshop all bound together inside of an ugly hull that protruded irregularly with robotic manipulator arms and that was nearly as long and high as the A.R.M.D. II. Neither the ship nor its crew had been at Archer 42 to add to its cosmetic beauty though. They had been there to perform, and they had performed a spacedock quality, end-to-end upgrade – and in astonishing time.

The "effort" had been an addition to the station's arsenal and all of the structural and systemic modifications that had been required to support it. In round-the-clock shifts based completely off of the Kasumi Oka Maru, mounting structures for two, four-gun batteries had risen from the outer hull of Archer 42- one dorsal and one ventral. Augmenting the battery of 160 Mk-4C Pegasus long-range, anti-ship missiles were eight modified Zentraedi-style heavy particle beam gun turrets identical to those wielded by REF warships.

While the addition of these guns did not make an A.R.M.D. II platform comparable in firepower to even the smallest Zentraedi vessel, it did offer the comfort to the crew of not being without offensive capability once the last volley of Pegasus missiles had left their launcher tubes.

True to the underlying theory of the A.R.M.D. II constellation orbiting the Earth, the eight guns new to each station were not intended to operate alone. Given the right defense scenario on which the platforms and the constellation arrangement had been designed, a station would act in coordination with all of the other stations above that planetary hemisphere.

That added up to a lot of gun batteries, and constituted a real threat to even a respectably sized Zentraedi battle group.

"Well, do I have to fill out any paperwork to activate the warrantee?", Queffle asked with a humor he and Franklin had developed over the course of the upgrade.

Franklin, a solid, round black man whose appearance spoke of overseeing many projects out in extreme weather before trying out his "space legs" shrugged and with feigned contractor's indifference replied, "Don't know, not my department."

In fact, Franklin had not only demonstrated expertise in his department by quickly and efficiently completing jobs on schedule, but also demonstrated a great deal of knowledge about everything related to his job. Questions that arose had been resolved quickly and mostly by Franklin who had contacted directly the individuals on three different continents who would know answers- and had even carried out the discussions in as many languages.

No, despite the fact that Archer 42 had been noticeably overcrowded for six weeks- Queffle was going to miss the company of many of the workers.

"We'll figure it out.", Queffle said, "And we'll probably never need the warranty anyway."

"Or I'll be a long ways gone before you know that you do-.", Franklin laughed, and extending his hand to shake offered a final, "Hope you never need them, but if you do- happy hunting."

"Thanks.", Queffle said, taking the man's thick hand and pumping it twice, "We hope to never need them either. Oh, and by the way-."

The station commander raised his left hand that held a bottle bound up inside a velvet bag and offered it to Franklin, saying-.

"A small gift from Archer 42."

Franklin accepted the parcel and drew down the sleeve to examine the contents.

"Johnny Walker Black-.", the foreman said approvingly, "I don't drink much, but when the occasion arises, this is the stuff to do it with."

Queffle shrugged, "Wish I could say that it was from my private stock, but it's really tribute from goodies acquired for our holiday bash."

"The sentiment's the same.", Franklin said, tipping his hat and stepping through the airlock, "Take `er easy now, Commander."

Queffle waited for the foreman to cross the short gangway that separated the smaller commercial vessel that had replaced Oka Maru from the military space station and to begin sealing the airlock on his side before the officer pressed the button in the control panel to do the same.

The inner and outer lock doors slid shut smoothly and met with a pronounced thud and click. When the panel showed green, signifying that the doors on both sides of the gangway had been secured, Queffle pressed the equalization switch evacuating the air from the gangway.

Moving to the intercom peanel above the airlock controls, the CO buzzed the control center.

"CC, Lieutenant Morris."

"Morris, Queffle-.", the commander announced himself, "Kasumi personnel have disembarked. Airlock and gangway are secure. Have Flight grant them departure upon request."

"Aye sir.", Morris complied, then added, "Commander, has Chief O'Toole found you with that com?"

Queffle paused in thought, wondering what communication could be so immediately important that the station's senior chief would hand carry it to the CO.

"No, he hasn't-. What com?"

"A general personnel directive from the top, sir. Leave restrictions, effective immediately-. I'm not sure what to make of it, but it's not going to go over well."

Queffle kicked the bulkhead before him with just enough force to know he'd done it and said for lack of ability to do anything else, "That figures-. I'm headed over to the shuttle bay now. If O'Toole pipes up to you, let him know."

"Aye sir."

Queffle closed out the channel and considered what was next on his list of things to be done. Morris's warning of the communication carried by O'Toole was reshuffling the list.

Almost any kind of restriction on leave was going to affect someone aboard Archer 42, and these were people who deserved the liberty they had put in for. No matter what a person's sense of duty or level of dedication, service aboard an A.R.M.D. II platform was a sentence served in a grey metal box. In some ways it was worse even than service aboard a ship of the Fleet as on a ship deployed a person had only the memory of home and family to remind them that they were away.

On a platform, one only had to go as far as the nearest port to look out and see Earth- right there, but well out of reach.

Liberty passes at holiday times were therefore highly-cherished things. Loss of them carried the same emotional weight as finding out about bad news from home.

Morris had been right- this was not going to be good.

In the knowing that there was to be bad news to a good portion of the station's crew, the task that Queffle had set for himself following seeing off the Kasumi contractors was that much more important.

As the CO had been parting ways with Franklin, there had been the ambiguous announcement made over the PA system regarding the offloading of cargo from one of the station's regular shuttles. Queffle had been on the inside track in knowing that the "cargo" included what were benignly known as "holiday rations".

In truth, "holiday rations" had been arriving aboard Archer 42, as well as aboard the other A.R.M.D. IIs in the defense constellation for a week or more. With the regular shipments of perishables and consumables were included extra allotments of meat, flour, sugar and most importantly- booze.

Alcohol was not forbidden on the station any more than it was aboard a REF vessel so long as it was controlled by the appropriate parties and rationed out through the dispensary. Seen as a privilege and not a right, alcohol was consumed (for the most part) with the fitting sense of responsibility and rarely were there cases of drunkenness or related discipline problems.

With the Christian holidays, and the joint celebration of New Years and Unification Day- restrictions were loosened just slightly and both the quantity and quality of alcohol allowed to the crew was increased. The bottle of scotch that Queffle had given to Franklin had come from a case that had been flown in the day before, and what remained was certain to have a lot of companionship because of the provisions that had just been offloaded.

"Holiday rations" would not push the crew over into a sense of extravagant living, not by any means- but they did have a way of helping a grey metal box less gloomy during festive times.

For that reason, it was important to Queffle to stop in on each provisions-handling detail. While the importance of the booty to all was known to every member of the details, there was always that weakness and temptation that came with being human to create one's own "personal stash".

An anticipated and expected visit by the CO had a way of keeping everyone honest and ensuring that the mess staff would have the makings of a special event for all aboard.

Queffle suspected that the extra niceties were going to be all that more critical to the crew this year as he made his way laterally through the station's narrow internal passages. It was outside of the shuttle bay serving the craft that had ferried in the supplies and that would have normally ferried off personnel that Queffle came across O'Toole- or more likely was intercepted by him.

The chief's normally sunny expression, now sullen, told the commander much as he raised a folded message form between the fingers of his meaty hand.

"How bad?", Queffle asked, knowing that there was no point in small talk. Beyond the open compartment doors he could see that expectant crew had already assembled to embark and were growing restless and concerned at not being allowed to do so.

"Bad.", O'Toole said flatly, "If I didn't know our people, Skipper, I'd be worried about mutiny."

Queffle opened the message form that was handed to him by O'Toole and scanned the body of the text quickly confirming both of O'Toole's assertions. The news was bad, and another crew might have been tempted tot mutiny.

"I can do it-.", O'Toole offered, accepting the unpleasant task as one he'd perform to preserve the good will generally afforded by the crew to the CO.

"No-.", Queffle said rejecting the suggestion outright as he folded the message form along its crease again and pinching it firmly into a sharper edge, "It comes with the oak leaves."

Lieutenant Amanda "Raven" Kroft let her sea bag slide off her right shoulder and lowered it to the deck careful not to either wrinkle the carefully pressed lines of her khaki uniform or to possibly damage the half dozen Christmas presents for the kids she had packed within. Intermingled with utility changes of uniform, and toiletries was a special outfit she'd wear for Kevin that was real satin and in a shade of deep hunter green that actually worked well with her fair complexion.

This would be the first time in four months that she had left Archer 42 on more than a short haul to the GS-95 Robotech Factory on station or squadron related business. The fact that it would be a trip to Mars's REF Schiaparelli Base via the massive alien space station, and for all intents and purposes trading one grey steel box with recycled air for another did not matter.

The grey steel box on Mars held all that was dear to her. Kevin, her husband was in the know- but son, Martin- eight, and daughter, Meagan- four, were unaware that Santa would be dropping off more than presents this year.

Seeing her family and seeing her children's surprise made the trip the closest Kroft could hope to get to heaven while still breathing.

And best of all, it was just a shuttle flight and a hitched ride on a cargo ship away.

Only something was wrong.

Amanda could sense it.

Shuttles came and went from Archer 42 on a daily basis. Supply replenishments, personnel transfers- for any number of reasons shuttles came and went, their comings and goings being a practiced exercises that ran like clockwork every time.

Except for now.

It did not take the so-called woman's intuition, or familiarity with the processes and time required to prepare a shuttle for departure to tip off Amanda or the 23 other passengers due to leave on this particular flight that something was amiss.

The shuttle's crew chief, who normally would have been verifying transport orders and moving personnel aboard as quickly as he could was standing just inside the airlock's inner hatch. He had been called aboard the shuttle minutes earlier, presumably by the pilot, and had emerged looking guilty and uneasy.

Nervous, Kroft decided after studying the young petty officer for a while was a better description. He looked nervous in the way that riot-control police looked nervous as they steeled themselves for a clash.

"What do you think, Lieutenant?"

Amanda emerged from her fog of thought to find a thin black woman in perhaps her early twenties and sounding faintly of the Caribbean looking to her for an explanation. Kroft had seen this petty officer before in the mess and in passing through the corridors and spaces of the station's lower decks around the mechanical spaces.

Why she should think that Kroft might have more insight into why they were not already on their way to the GS-95 was questionable. Still, as one of three first lieutenants on the deck, it made sense that the specialist might ask her.

"Part of me doesn't even want to know.", Kroft said bleakly.

There was a cold sensation resolving in the depths of her belly and with every passing second she expected less and less for the outcome of the delay to be favorable to those holding liberty passes.

Kroft consciously made an effort to assure herself that there were all kinds of explanations for the delay other than the one she dreaded the most.

"-Maybe this bird's been re-routed to another platform. It happens- a med-evac, or an admiral's kid needs to make the first flight home-."

There was a shuffle and a snap of limbs going to rigid attention.

Kroft found herself at attention too, reacting to those around her like a reflex.

"CO on deck!"

Lieutenant Commander Queffle waded through the personnel in the compartment making a waving gesture that told all to stand easy. He made no eye contact with anyone as he moved to and placed himself in front of the open airlock and gangway that led to the shuttle.

Raising a folded piece of paper, he now faced his subordinates and made a point of fixing his gaze on each in quick turn. His expression was stern but with an apologetic quality that resided just beneath the forced, hardened surface.

"Listen up!", Queffle said in a commander's matter-of-fact tone, "I'm not going to waste anyone's time reading this- there's no sugar-coating a turd-."

"The bottom line is that Command has imposed a twelve hour recall restriction on all leave, approved and pending. The order gives no justification beyond a credible need for readiness."

The CO's expression and tone softened slightly without losing his air of authority, "You all know what that means, and I'm sorry."

Lips remained tightly sealed, though if 23 people could have groaned, screamed, or begun sobbing through their pores, Kroft was certain that it would have been happening around her.

She was sure that she would have been doing all three.

Heavy exhalation was the only audible protest as overall composure and discipline was maintained.

Queffle folded the message form he was holding over again once more so he could slip it into his shirt pocket, hiding away the vile instrument of cruelty.

"We've all seen these come down the line before, and the order is rarely left standing for more than seventy-two hours. We'll agree that the timing blows- but that it's something that we'll wade through together."

"I will promise that everyone here and everyone in the queue for leave will keep their order and priority and we'll get you on your way as soon as we can."

"Maybe we don't get to have eggnog by the tree, but champagne on New Year's ain't bad-."

"That is all."

Without another word but carrying himself similar to the family dog that peed on the living room carpet, LCDR Queffle made his way out of the compartment so that the offended could vent collectively before gathering up their dignity and returning to the grey spaces of the station that was home.

Amanda Kroft fired up her determination that she would hold herself together until she could be back in the privacy of the small cabin she shared with another pilot of her squadron.

It was the same determination she had found and conjured regularly to get through the physical and mental rigors of basic and flight trainings, fighter school, and the periods of separation from her family.

Kroft bent at the waist to pick up her sea bag and felt three tears run their hot path along the bridge of her nose to drip on and darken in spots the fabric of the duffle.

There were some pains that determination just wouldn't carry one through.

RDF Regional Training Center 32,

Falkirk, Scotland

Exhaustion.

Recruit Trainee Andrew Eric Johnson had thought once that he had known what the word exhaustion meant.

Up to recently, exhaustion had been the fatigue of preparing for school exams, or the ache and physical drag of training up for and playing a football season through to the finals. It had been the relentless drain of emotion that surrounded and followed the burial of his eldest brother Dexter after his accidental death in the Army- and the slow way that the family- his parents in particular- had righted themselves again to a near even keel.

None of these things had been true exhaustion though.

Exhaustion in its truest form had skulked along in the shadows all throughout Andy's life, stalking him like a big cat might an antelope, biding its time and waiting for the ideal moment and position itself and pounce.

That moment had finally come at Falkirk.

Andy had discovered in twelve weeks that exhaustion was not simply a physical sensation, or a mental state, or even a combination of both.

It possessed qualities that attacked all the senses and at the same time the soul.

It was the blinding glare of fluorescent lights that came on at 0415 and drove into one's eyes like rusty nails. It lived in many smells, whether it be mud and sweat, or boot polish, or the cleansers used to mop floors and scrub toilets, or the smell of the chow line in the mess that actually turned the stomach when fatigue and hunger drove one beyond the ability to eat.

And exhaustion had a sound as well.

The sound varied from a grumble and growl up through the octaves to a shrill, piercing tone that drilled into the base of one's spine and rode the nerve fibers up clear to the center of one's brain.

The sound of exhaustion unlike its other qualities was owned, and it was owned by Senior Training Sergeant SMSgt. O'Shae.

Granted, the sound of exhaustion was borrowed from time to time by any or all of O'Shae's six attack dog, assistant training sergeant minions- but the sound truly belonged to O'Shae and had a distinct Irish brogue.

On the terminal march back into Falkirk RTC 32 from Training Platoon 6045's final survival and navigational training exercise, more than the uncomfortable gibes of his friend Cedric, Cattermole, or Kingsley- more than the smoldering, seething hatred of them all emanating from the equally teased and embarrassed Pamela Dunn- it was the thought of hearing that voice that Andy found the most daunting.

Every muscle burned and every joint ached as Andy slogged on in a dream-like state of weariness.

Andy was sure that one pointed or grinding remark would be all that it would take to do him in completely and finally make him gruel- as he was certain was O'Shae's ultimate goal in life.

Oddly though, in crossing over the training center's open perimeter and joined by members of other training platoons who were similarly straggling in, there were no marauding bands of training sergeants lying in wait to bully the recruit trainees the final two kilometers or so across mustering fields and parade grounds to the broad, squat cinderblock barracks buildings that had become home.

Nor were they lurking inside the doorway in ambush to catch the trainees off guard after lulling them into security.

In fact, there was no sign that the training sergeants were anywhere in the vicinity except for the two pieces of evidence that greeted and jarred each recruit at their bunk.

Hanging on the outside of each trainee's locker, cleaned, pressed, and polished meticulously were the trainees' dress uniforms for graduation.

On each pillow was the small token of comfort and affection of a chocolate bar.

The cumulative effect was overwhelming and for reasons he could not explain to himself beyond it being an effect of exhaustion- Andy Johnson found himself almost at tears.

Andy did not break down though. No one did.

Whether it was that they were all to tired to weep, still in need of showering and grooming before the 1100 graduation ceremony, or just plain afraid that this might be the final test in twelve weeks of training and testing- not a tear was shed.

As had become strict practice, showers were taken in ninety seconds or less. Teeth were brushed and for Andy the ability to shave with eight strokes of a safety razor was proven yet again.

All without word between recruit trainees.

Upon returning to the main bunk room, the trainees of Platoon 6045 found that their training sergeants, including O'Shae had reappeared.

There was no shouting now though. Their masters of twelve weeks now only assisted them in donning their dress uniforms and achieving the proper appearance, more like parents getting their children into their Sunday best than the menacing ghouls of drill and discipline they had been only days before.

Standing on the parade ground at attention and in perfect, measured formation with the rest of his platoon, Andy Johnson could scarcely remember how he had gotten there or what the opening remarks of Colonel Fitzpatrick, the training center commander had been. Goldfish like, his reality was the now and stretched back only the few seconds of memory that his spent brain would hold.

Flags and banners snapped crisply in small gusts of the Scottish wind that carried with it biting flecks of icy sleet that stung the face like pinpricks. These sensations helped to keep Andy focused.

"-And as we, your instructors, guides, and mentors congratulate you on the pride you have earned in your accomplishments-.", Colonel Fitzpatrick continued from the podium at the center of the platform that had been erected for the occasion, "-We are duty-bound and obligated to remind you of the charge you have now been given."

"You now shoulder the expectation to grow as the backbone of the Services and to rise to the challenges of defending your home. We have done our best to prepare you for this shared burden, and your instructors have certified you as ready to face the demands ahead."

"We are proud of you as you should be proud of yourselves, and we know you will justify that pride."

Fitzpatrick paused for a moment to allow a particularly strong gust to carry over the platform on which his officers and training staff were seated, over the assembled platoons of recruits, and over the review stands of invited families and friends before saying conclusively-.

"In accordance with prescribed standards and qualifications, I declare the Robotech Defense Forces, Falkirk Regional Training Center 32, Recruit Trainee Class 707 hereby graduated."

"Dismissed!"

A singular roar rose from the platoons who were now full, enlisted members of the Defense Forces. Andy realized his voice had joined and mingled with the others around him as he had without conscious forethought removed his enlisted man's cap and hurled it skyward to join hundreds of others without concern for retrieval.

The neat rows and columns of training platoons dissolved as the review stands emptied and loved ones not seen or heard from for three months began to mesh with the graduated class.

Cedric tugged on twhe sleeve of Andy's uniform coat and thrust a cap that had fallen back to earth into his hand as he half-turned to his friend. Pamela Dunn was disappearing into the mixing mass of uniformed figures and was only distinguishable by the tight French braid she'd woven her hair into. Glancing to Cedric and then looking quickly back, Andy's heart dropped slightly at having lost sight of the one who had not spoken to him for hours despite close proximity.

"Back in your cage, tiger.", Cedric said to his friend with a shake of his arm, "You can get back into that after we've seen the family and after she's had a little time to put a little distance between herself and this morning."

Andy pulled his arm free with a sharp tug but allowed Pamela to slip away without pursuit. He had learned volumes more about women in just the past twenty-four hours, but he had known enough before to grudgingly admit that Cedric was correct. Chasing her right now was the wrong thing to do- even if the opposite felt true.

Cedric was right on a second point as well, one that Andy found himself instantly ashamed at overlooking:

His family was here to see him.

He had not spoken to them in what seemed two lifetimes, but a week before- when his graduation from basic training had been a near certainty- RTC 32 had sent out official notice and invitation to the event.

Knowing that his family was wading through other reunions to find him as he was sure that Pamela's family was looking for her was enough to make Andy set the thoughts of his hazel-eyed Venus aside temporarily.

He'd find her again later.

"Come on then-.", Cedric urged, pulling Andy in tow by the sheer force of his will as he navigated them through variations on the same meetings and conversations between the newly indoctrinated and the families who had not seen them since they had given up their civilian status.

"Have you even seen your mum or my folks?", Andy asked as he scanned the crowd and found he could see no more than four or five meters deep in any direction.

"Who needs to see?", Cedric replied in the supremely confident voice Andy had come to know not just in training but on the football field before, or in anything really that Cedric had applied himself to.

"I mean penguins can find their mates in flocks of thousands without problems, so-... I shouldn't have mentioned mates, should have I?"

"I'll let it drift.", Andy replied as he was nearly crushed between a hulking enlistedman and his equally massive father. Escaping the vice-like collision though, he found his mind back on Pamela Dunn, "I suspect it all won't add up to much in the long run though."

"Probably not.", Cedric agreed as he led Andy around another uniformed graduate and the gathering of what looked to be everyone in the town from which she had come who were all determined to embrace her or pat her on the shoulder or back.

"What do you mean, probably not?", Andy heard himself demand a little more sharply than what could have been taken as a "healthy response" for the circumstances.

Cedric shot him a quick, disparaging look with his eyes rolling, "Oh, for God's sake..."

"What?!", Andy shot back defensively, "What's wrong with maybe wanting something- meaningful-?.."

Cedric shook his head and pressed on around a giant "group hug" that seemed more of a brawl at first glance with its flailing arms and bobbing heads.

After a moment he said back over his shoulder, "You want that alphabetically or in the order of importance? -Wanker…."

"Oh, there are the boys!"

All thoughts of Pamela Dunn evacuated Andy instantly like a guilty thing making its hasty retreat from judgment of a force and a voice that Andy had known all of his life. What Cedric had said scarcely a minute before about penguins being able to find one another in crowds of thousands suddenly had a certain credence to it.

Andy had heard his mother's voice, distinctive and unmistakable well before his eyes had fixed on her in the rolling boil of military and their families that was just beginning to thin.

Lorraine Johnson came at her son like a whirling Dervish with affectionate intent and Andy had to quell the defensive response he'd acquired with so much sparring practice in training. She snared him in an embrace a moment later and as Andy's nostrils filled with the light, floral scent that he had always identified with his mother, the uniform, the training, the twelve weeks of Falkirk, O'Shae, and his attack dogs all seemed to slough away.

He was home again in spirit and it felt good.

"Lorraine, the Government has just spent a prince's ransom in training that lad and you're going to smother him before it can get a return on the investment!"

Andy felt his mother's embrace slacken on him enough to allow him to see beyond her. He also realized that he'd been babbling an endless stream of affections as was only acceptable between mothers and their youngest sons. The display, as an afterthought, suddenly seemed wholly embarrassing and Andy found some relief in finding Cedric still in the clutches of his mother and jabbering the same way.

Andy's father, Dexter, stood close by- an arm reaching out to pat his shoulder. The old man still leaned heavily on his cane and beneath the fedora hat and woolen overcoat that was keeping the wind and weather out, he still looked like a man hobbled by ancient injury.

In his infirmity though, he seemed to stand taller and with more strength than Andy had remembered him showing in some time. In truth, his last recollection of his father had been the unexpectedly emotional goodbye at the railway station three months before after a short-lived but heated falling out over Andy's enlistment.

Like Andy, Dexter Johnson was much the same as before, but also somehow different.. It was in the eyes. There was pride there.

"Good Lord, boy-.", Dexter said as his pat on his son's back turned into a firm grope of his shoulder and upper arm, "They've had you at the gymnasium, I see-."

"Twice a day sometimes-.", Andy said, breaking out of his mother's embrace fully to put his arms around his father in a brief, masculine, back-slapping hug that was quickly offset with small talk, "So, how are things, Da?"

Dexter Johnson pounded his cane into the parade ground the way a man steadier on his feet might stomp his heel, "All hell if those blocks of flats we were building on the south end aren't still dragging along! All of the good men seem to be heading for your profession these days, and having a look at how you've filled out, who can blame them?!"

"Dexter!..", Lorraine Johnson exclaimed, appalled at some part of her husband's remark that Andy did not quite understand.

Dexter motioned toward his son with both hands demonstratively, "Well, God's blood, Lorraine!- Look at the lad! We put a skinny boy on a train and look at what we get back! Who'd blame men for choosing the military profession?"

"The question is, what profession in the military will he choose?"

With the comings and goings of so many figures in uniform, Andy had truly not seen his older brother, Howard, standing in plain sight in his RDF-Army uniform. The first and overwhelming urge that Andy felt was to hug the man who had wanted to dissuade him from the course that now found him where he stood- but the twin silver bars of Howard's captain's rank gave him pause.

"Good God, Enlistedman Johnson, you've been graduated for all of three minutes and you've already forgotten how to salute an officer?"

Andy snapped crisply, mechanically almost to attention and brought his hand up in salute to which his brother replied in kind.

"Now you can give your brother a hug."

As the two Johnson sons crushed each other in a bear hug, Andy felt some relief in knowing that it was still the Howard he had always known under the captain's bars.

Enlistedman Johnson.

Howard had called him Enlistedman Johnson, and that drove at the heart of the question that he had asked.

In a broad sense, Andy Johnson was a member of The United Earth Robotech Defense Forces now- as basic training was truly a joint services indoctrination. What was entirely his decision now, and what he suddenly realized he had not dedicated much thought to in the rigors of basic training, was what direction his military career would take.

Would he declare Army or Marine Corps, and be Private Johnson? Follow the English naval tradition and become Seaman Johnson?- aboard a sea-going vessel or a space cruiser perhaps?

Airman Johnson, if he found some appeal in the RDF-AF?

Andy felt his head begin to spin, but reminded himself that he had a week's time to declare and hopefully be accepted by his choice. If he did not make his choice though, he'd be placed in a lottery of random selection which more often than not meant Army- and likely infantry beyond that.

In that moment though, Andy decided that Falkirk and all of its trials had earned him the right to at least bid for what path he wanted to follow. The question of that path remained, but Andy resolved he'd take the time in the next seven days to think it through and decide.

And also, results of the "Green to Gold" exams were to be posted before the enlisted were granted leave today.

That would either broaden Andy's horizons of possibility to whatever he desired or narrow them to a handful of preferable options.

"Hey, you lot-.", Cedric Collins said drawing the attention of the Johnsons to him, "You need to meet the sorriest piece of work Falkirk has churned out in its rich and illustrious history-."

Andy had lost sight of Cattermole as the ranks of Training Platoon 6045 had fallen into place for review on the parade grounds and in truth had not been thinking of him remotely when the company of enlisted had been dismissed. He found himself happy at seeing him now though.

His left hand tucked into his trouser pocket and the right holding a cigarette, Cattermole looked as though he should have been discussing football scores in a pub while leaning against the bar rather than having just been graduated from basic training.

It was his way Andy had come to learn over the past months.

It was the cigarette that Andy fixated upon though. In an instant he realized that he could not remember the last time he had had one, and the sudden desire for one paled even his cravings to be alone in the dark with Pamela Dunn again.

"This compost heap is Aunt Moggie.", Cedric said motioning toward the other young man, "Aunt Moggie- the Johnsons, and of course Captain Johnson."

Cattermole reluctantly tossed away his cigarette butt as he nodded to Andy's parents and mustered a respectable salute to Howard- all the while Andy's mind still spun on how he had acquired a cigarette so quickly.

"A pleasure-.", Cattermole said benignly enough as he produced a whole pack of smokes from the trouser pocket he had kept his hand in. He offered the pack around, drawing a disdainful look from Cedric who was now clearly yearning for one as badly as Andy and who was similarly obliged not to accept in front of his mother.

Howard did lean forward to accept though and in gratitude offered his lighter to the enlistedman to light his cigarette.

"Aunt Moggie-.", Howard repeated as Cattermole's smoke lit, "A family name?"

Casually and without hint of offense, Cattermole replied, "That would be Lancelot, sir-. Scarcely better, so I settle for Lance, or just Moggie-."

"Fair enough.", Howard accepted, "God knows I've heard worse come out of basic-."

"Well, you'll use the name his mother gave him.", Lorraine Johnson insisted to her progeny, "And as your mother, I rank you on that, Captain."

Howard made a frail parody of a salute, "Yes, ma'am."

"So, we were discussing how Andy here was going to declare-.", Howard continued, directed at both Collins and Cattermole, "Any thoughts on the matter from you chaps? The Army can always use sturdy blokes-."

"Well, we're waiting for scores-.", Cedric explained knowing that Howard would understand having benefited from the officer acceleration program himself.

"You're waiting for scores.", Cattermole corrected producing from his pocket a folded slip of paper.

A snorting utterance of shock caught in Collins' throat as he gawked, "-And when did you get that?"

"About ninety seconds ago."

"And?"

"Ninety-fourth percentile.", Cattermole replied plainly, "And thank God. The thought of being stuck with Kingsley for the rest of my military days had me looking for a length of rope to tie my own noose."

"He-?", began Collins.

"-Didn't do as well.", Cattermole finished, "Great shock that that is."

Lorraine Johnson looked puzzled, "Ninety-fourth percentile of what? I'm not following you boys-."

"The eligibility test for the officer acceleration program, mum.", Howard explained, "Like what I did."

"Oh-!", Lorraine said, understanding fully and without additional thought, added, "Well, your parents must be immensely proud, Lance."

Visibly caught off guard by the well-intentioned remark, Cattermole recovered before it was perceivable to any but Andy and Cedric to reply, "No doubt."

"Then, what is it to be?", Howard followed on, "Mecha Cavalry can always use fresh blood."

Cattermole shrugged, "Not sure yet-. Somewhere that I can abuse authority-. Steal rice from starving orphans-. You know…."

Lorraine Johnson gasped, "How horrid!"

Cedric laughed, disarming the situation, "-He didn't mean it, Mrs. Johnson-."

"Yes I did."

Cedric gave Cattermole a shot in the ribs with his elbow, and continued, "-He's just like that. He's sort of like a cold sore- annoying, but you learn to work around it."

"Can I have that stitched on a pillow?"

"See-?", Cedric said allowing Cattermole's last comment to stand as an example.

Lorraine Johnson collected herself and said again, "Well, your parents must be proud."

"Ninety-fourth percentile-. I didn' know he knew t'read."

The same Irish brogue that had sliced into Andy Johnson so many times over twelve weeks penetrated his spine once again.

O'Shae.

Only after the initial shock of his voice, Andy realized that he felt no menace in it.

O'Shae recognized Howard's rank and made a dutiful and respectful salute. Whether this had an influence on the senior training sergeant's demeanor toward his now former-students was unclear, but in some ways Andy felt as he had as a small boy in the park- standing behind his brother for protection from bullies.

As that initial feeling passed, Andy sensed that the venom in O'Shae was just gone. Like an actor walking off stage, the training sergeant persona was shed like a character set aside until the next draw of the curtains.

"So, Senior Master Sergeant-.", Howard began, looking at Andy and apparently reading much of his thoughts in his face, "I trust this scrapper didn't give you too many nights unrest?"

"Na't'all, sir.", O'Shae said in a voice that Andy recognized in a moment as genuine pride, "He and Collins too-. Some of the finest we've produced here I can say. Some of the finest-."

O'Shae had in his grip a stack of forms identical to the one Cattermole had shown a minute before. Shuffling through them he found and presented one each to Andy and Cedric.

"-And it looks as though the next time I see these two, I'll be saluting them-. That is if they apply themselves and stay the course as we know they can do-. Congratulations, to you both."

Andy opened the folded sheet and found the critical line:

CUMULATIVE AVG: 97%

Andy was struck by the dual feelings of being weak in the knees and light as a feather at the same time. Cedric's expression showed that he was feeling something of the same, but to Andy's genuine surprise it was to the recent bane of his existence that he spoke next.

"Senior Master Sergeant O'Shae-."

O'Shae paused in his withdrawal from the group, "Yes, lad?"

"Thank you."

O'Shae seized Johnson's hand and pumped it twice in his firm and leathery grip, "Na, son-. You take care of the people y'll be charged with, an' tha's how y'll thank old O'Shae."

Without another word, the senior training sergeant released Andy- in many ways- and vanished in search of others from his graduated platoon.

"And so?", Cedric asked waving his score results at Andy.

"Ninety-seven.", Andy replied in a tone daring Cedric to have done better.

"Ha!", Cedric whooped gleefully, flattening Andy and telling him that he had done better, "Ninety-eight!"

With a single swipe of his hand, Howard grazed both across the backs of their heads, "And neither of you are officers yet, so put them away and zip up."

"Okay, ninety-three.", Andy replied, rubbing the stinging portion of his head where Howard's hand had made contact.

"That's Captain ninety-three to you, Enlistedman.", Howard reminded him with a bit of a swagger.

Dexter Johnson interceded in the evolving squabble between brothers that he had seen many times over and again throughout the years.

"Well, we have an eight o'clock train back to Eagerton. Assuming you have leave and can gather your kit in time, I think we should have a spot of supper before we go. There must be a local restaurant, I'm sure-."

"We're mostly packed already.", Cedric said, understanding that the suggestion was also an invitation to he and his mother who had not broken physical contact with him since finding him in the crowd earlier, "We just need to sign out from the post for leave."

Dexter Johnson nodded and turned his gaze to Cattermole, "And you, lad? I assure you that it wouldn't be an imposition for you and your family to join us-especially as you seem to have gotten chummy with the boys."

There was an uncomfortable pause again, though one that this time did not escape the attention of any in the group before Cattermole replied, "Unfortunately they weren't able to attend today-. And I suspect that I need to either confirm that I can stay on post, or I should be looking for lodging for the next week or so. –I must decline, regrettably."

Understanding the situation at last, Lorraine Johnson exploded in empathy the way Andy had seen her do thousands of times with her selected causes and charities- though in a balanced way that was not patronizing or condescending.

"Oh, certainly not! Not with the holidays upon us! We insist that you come to stay with us. I can't imagine spending Christmas in this dreary place- camp, not Scotland."

Cattermole was hesitant, "Still, I-."

"I can make it an order.", Howard offered.

Lorraine tagged off to rejoin the effort to bring Cattermole into the fold, "And you're practically family, having been there to see Andy become a grown man-."

Cattermole nodded his head to one side with an understanding only he, Cedric, and Andy shared, "Yes, that is true-. I could almost mark the moment for you."

Andy shot the other young man a glare that could have burned through steel.

"Then it's decided.", Lorraine said in clear delight, "You'll be our guest and if you feel you're loafing, I can promise to harass you incessantly for stories."

"I do have a few.", Cattermole admitted,

"Plus, she'll need you to have a full house possibly.", Howard said vaguely as he rediscovered the cigarette he had lit and then neglected.

"How's that?", asked Andy, truly not understanding.

"Some damn thing passed down from command that you'll grow accustom to.", Howard said over a drag on his cigarette, "I'm on twelve hour recall notice. Fortunately both Falkirk and home have me close enough to my unit-. –Anyway-. A hell of a time of the year to pull this."

"Does that effect Andy?", Lorraine asked her eldest surviving son, clearly concerned that the reunion she had been waiting for might be cut short.

Howard shook his head, "No, not really. They're on the books, but not really qualified to do much of anything besides be the cheering squad right now."

"Well", Lorraine hoped out loud, "I don't think it should come to anything much."

"No", Howard agreed, "Probably not. –And even a bleak Christmas is still Christmas."

Andy was preparing to suggest parting company for the sake of making a quicker escape from Falkirk and finding an establishment that offered real food when his eye caught a glimpse of Pamela Dunn.

With her was a late middle-aged couple that together could have produced her and were likely her parents. Suddenly the cravings for freedom, cigarettes, and real food were gone. Andy slipped away without a word to explain himself, and heard Cedric making some excuse as he went.

He didn't care really as he homed in on Pamela.

Still standing with her parents, she saw him too with a hint of a smile in her eyes that sent an electric surge through Andy. With renewed hope, he charged on as she advanced toward him to meet him halfway.

"I thought I'd missed you-.", Andy said knowing that he couldn't do what felt natural at the moment.

"No, I would have said goodbye.", Pamela said, taking his hand in both of hers.

Andy looked beyond her to the couple that was now keenly studying him and asked, "Are those your parents?"

"Yes."

Andy scoffed at having to lead the logical course of conversation, "So, maybe can I meet them-? You know-? Hello, I know your daughter-. Lovely girl…"

Pamela smiled and shook her head, "No, not right now. Things are complicated. It looks like I'm going to be an officer-."

"You too, eh?"

Pamela nodded, "Me too. We both need to focus on that."

Andy shrugged and fought the sensation he had felt before only in football when despite his best efforts, he knew he was in a losing struggle.

"I can multi-task, you know."

Pamela's arms slipped warmly around him and her soft lips grazed his left ear to whisper, "I'm sure we'll see each other around. Take care of yourself until then-. Okay?"

She escaped Andy's grasp without him putting up much of a fight. The strength had left him by that point.

No, things weren't quite okay.

Brasilia, Brazil

The Zentraedi were just gone, making the annex of Abilene Sector amongst the easiest won and most disquieting fights Lt. Whilite had been in to date.

As the platoon leader supervised his Rangers' removal of the slain malcontents' bodies from "Three", he was already thinking forward to the ultimate step in the day's activities- the after action report. Having a number of them now for Captain Nguyen's review, Whilite had learned that the shorter and more directly to the point the better.

With this in mind, Whilite had been working mentally at how to succinctly capture his platoon's activities this day.

He had come up with a thought or two.

We assaulted the building.

Some malcontent stayed to figh, some retreated.

The ones who stayed, died.

Of course, as Whilite knew well enough- accurate as his three-line report was- Regimental and Divisional Command liked a little more detail.

So, to appease people who wore oak leaves, eagles, and stars, he and all of the other officers and NCOs involved in the assault this day would provide more details. Numbers of hostiles encountered and killed, relevant details on their defensive posture and fighting abilities, the quantity and sophistication of booby traps and IEDs.

Blah, blah, blah….

Whilite would shovel it on like a kid padding his high school history paper until it felt "full" and then he'd pass it on to Captain Nguyen who would distill it for Regiment, who would distill it for Division, and so on and so forth.

Some things, Whilite had found, were just done for the reason that that was the way that they were done.

The process of removing malcontent bodies from the combat area was a good example of this. The average male Zentraedi warrior, even in a micronized state was around two to two-and-a-half meters tall and generally weighed in starting at around 120 kilos. Carrying just one corpse that size out to a collection area like the one that had been established on the sidewalk before Whilite could be burdensome for three of his human Rangers.

Carrying out the number of corpses that generally accumulated in the course of an action was downright exhausting.

Still, and despite the fact that the Zentraedi would leave their dead to rot as had been evident during the taking of any number of areas of Brasilia that Whilite had participated in, it was customary for the enemy dead to be carried out and not simply dragged out by their heels. There was of course always the self-aggrandizing justification of being better than the enemy by showing the respect to their dead that they did not show themselves, or the broader human notion that even a hostile sentient being was worthy of respect.

Yada-yada-yada…..

In the end it just boiled down to that it had been the way that the bodies of the enemy had always been handled, and that was the way that they would continue to be handled.

Nevermind that the "respect" afforded to the alien dead ended the moment they reached the burial pit.

A digital photo would be taken of the slain malcontent's face, associated with an assigned serial number (and in some cases a name if one could be determined) and these would be stored away in some Army database never to be accessed again. By the time of the upload though, the body would have already been cast as one of a layer into a burial pit that was actually more of an open crematorium, treated with plasma napalm, and hurriedly incinerated before decay or disease could manifest.

How many of the "honored dead" had ended up this way? The only evidence of their ever having existed being a digital photo that no one looked at, and a ten by three meter trench somewhere lined in the blackened glass that resulted from a plasma napalm fire.

Fuck `em.

That had become Whilite's prevailing attitude- about the dead at least. He had never nor would he ever (or so he swore to himself) allow the mistreatment of a wounded or captured malcontent. But as far as the dead went, fuck `em.

So if, as he stood there he were to hear the suspicious thumping that might or might not be the head of a Zentraedi corpse on stairs as it was dragged down to street level by the heels-. Well, that was a sound that he could argue was easily missed after the deafening effects of urban combat.

Even if urban combat had not been that day what it had been only a week before.

"Hey, El-Tee-!"

Shocked as his eardrums had been by the fight, Whilite was able to distinguish Staff Sergeant Byerly by her voice as well as her customary call without looking.

"Yeah?"

"The Old Man's coming up from the basement- just giving you the heads-up.", Byerly warned.

Whilite looked at the line of twenty-something bodies that had been lined up like cordwood on the sidewalk before replying in the grim humor he was finding came all too easily these days, "I hope we don't get accused of not playing nice with others-."

"Yeah, well they started it.", Byerly asserted as she offered her lieutenant a cigarette.

Whilite had had two in the time he had been supervising the collection of hostile kills and declined a third with a shake of his head. It wasn't that he didn't want another cigarette- the nicotine rush would subside before long if he did not kindle it- but rather he had noticed his inclination to smoke had increased dramatically during his time in Brasilia. Sometimes it wasn't even the need for the nicotine- sometimes it was just the fidgets- the need to do something with his hands to kill the nervous energy.

Cigarettes, Whilite knew, were not a responsible solution to nervous energy.

–And wouldn't it be a shame to survive the Army and The Zone to be done in by cancer?

"You hear the word on those tunnels, El-Tee?", Byerly asked as she lit a cigarette; clearly not as concerned as her lieutenant with the responsible use of tobacco.

"What about them, besides them being underground?"

Byerly gave her snorting laugh that Whilite now knew was as much a release of combat tension in these circumstances as a reflection on his stabs at humor. That was fine too.

"No-. They're sending Tinks and Woodchucks up the tunnels and-."

"Tunnels?"

"Yeah, they found a second in the basement here in another storage room. Anyway, they go across the street there, and probably across that street over there into the basement of that building-."

"Rattenkrieg-."

"What?"

"Nothing important. You were saying?"

"Well, what do you want to bet that we're going to find tunnels going out of those buildings too? Hell, I'll bet they would have tunneled clear out of the city if we'd given them long enough."

"Great-.", Whilite said heavily, "They've discovered Steve McQueen movies-. The thing I don't get is why they were so eager to leave today? Hell, they've been fighting for every slab of sidewalk concrete for months, and then they just walk away? That one is what gives me the red-ass."

Byerly nodded, "Sure, yeah- me too. What's the saying about rats and the sinking ship?"

Whilite looked around at the brutalized but still salvageable city as far as he could see it, "Are we sinking?"

Byerly shrugged, "Word has it that they asked that on the Titanic for quite a while too. Maybe they can tell us-."

Whilite followed his ranking sergeant's gaze back to the line of dead aliens.

"No, I like that they're doing what they're doing now. Absolutely nothing."

Byerly shrugged and took the opportunity to seat the butt of her rifle again in balance on her shoulder, "Maybe-. But I'm sensing some pursuit patrols and a few snatch-and-grabs in our future. Roast turkey MREs for everyone's Christmas dinner."

"That's why we joined the Army, Sergeant."

Naib Subedar Singh allowed his Cyclone, again in its faster motorcycle form, to roll to a stop just short of an intersection of what in Brasilia's recent, more peaceful past would have been busy city streets. The other three men he had detached to ride with him similarly came to a stop keeping adequate spacing that a surprise rocket strike from a malcontent who might be laying in wait for just such an opportunity would not take all four men out.

Singh swung the visor of his helmet up and felt the warming morning air wash over his face. With it came the smell that never vacated an urban combat area- the smell of smoke, of dank building interiors opened to the outdoors by the smashing of windows and exterior walls, and the smells of garbage accumulated and sewers no longer functioning properly.

All of these smells and the pitted, pocked, and scarred appearance of every building and street to be seen through a thin haze of smoke gave firm sensory testimony to the fact that Brasilia was a city in the throes of struggle.

But there was no struggle here now.

"Probe Five no contact.", Singh said to the CP and other Gurkhas of C Company who he knew to be listening.

Hours before, the malcontent Zentraedi who had bled blue-green every square centimeter of Brasilia they had lost to RDF and ASC forces for the past three months had simply packed up what they could carry and had left. Bloody skirmishes had developed along their rear lines during their withdrawal, but they had gone without so much as a shot fired to hold ground.

Prudently with the vastly outnumbered force that he had, the RDF operational commander had swiftly shifted gears to brace his units against a counter-attack that could have come from any or many points with the weight of an unexpectedly large malcontent force.

The counter-attack had not come though.

Rather the Zentraedi proceeded to do exactly what it had appeared they were doing from the first moments of their movement. They walked north to the boundaries of the city of Brasilia, into the outskirts, and were continuing on out into the open country beyond.

Though the mass Zentraedi movement had been observed by UAV and helicopter gunship alike through its progress, Singh and his men had held the perimeter for two hours before Lawman granted them permission to exit their lines to probe further out into what had been at sunrise firmly held malcontent areas of Brasilia. What Singh had seen personally and what the other hastily formed probes had reported was what Sing had expected to find: nothing.

There had been a number of stray dogs and cats whose keener senses and instincts had told them that all was clear and safe for them to come out from hiding places and forage for food. Similarly, the lowest denominator of humanity had been seen on occasion scrounging at their own peril the former fighting positions of malcontents that now stood abandoned.

Most strikingly though, and to Singh's genuine surprise, there were no Zentraedi hold-outs or die-hards.

He, from the moment he had made the first request to lead up a probe effort into the vacated regions of Brasilia, had expected to find no organized resistance. As with every force though, organized or otherwise, there were always those who would not abandon the fight. They were the deadly nuisance that laid booby traps for no purpose but malice, and who carried out their own personal guerilla wars long after their comrades had departed.

There was none of that here that Singh could see or sense. No random rifle or rocket shots, no IEDs triggered as he and his men had passed on their cycle mounts.

Indicators seen by all who had served in the city that the malcontents were increasing their cohesion and organization of efforts seemed validated in this moment. Whoever had been organizing had planned and executed a complete withdrawal from Brasilia- of this Singh was sure though it could not be confirmed yet.

"Probe Six- negative contact hostile or neutral.", reported one of Singh's subordinates, "Where are they?"

The rapid patter of distant rotor blades quickly rose into thunderous keynote and mixing echo off of concrete canyon walls as a flight of Lakota transport helicopters rushed north under the escort of gunships. Command could not commit the entire occupying force of Brasilia to chase the retreating malcontents, but someone was clearly being dispatched to put boots on the ground and monitor from weed-level.

"Back to our lines.", Singh instructed, ending for all intents and purposes the probe operation.

The thought of returning to an area that on a map was designated as firmly under friendly control should have been comforting. For some reason, Singh found it lacking that quality now.

RDF Headquarters, Yellowstone City

Commander Anne Weitzel could not say that a calm or supreme confidence had washed over her prior to the briefing she was now concluding.

Whether it was in person, or as it was now by video teleconference, there was no getting around the awareness that the Military Chief of Staff, the Joint Chiefs, as well as the President and his ministers and advisors were staring back at her and listening intently to and scrutinizing every word.

Yet Weitzel spoke with as much assurance as anyone in her particular field of intelligence could speak- with the weight of plausibility behind her. Earlier that morning she had argued before General Breetai the possibility of some kind of coordinated malcontent action in The Control Zone of South America to possibly include participation in some form by rogue Zentraedi fleet units. All had been based on coincidental pieces of hard battlespace intelligence bound together by carefully considered conjecture- in truth, what any bit of intelligence analysis was.

Weitzel's confidence and the weight of plausibility had doubled in the twenty minutes before the briefing she now gave by a number of events in The Control Zone that were still playing out.

Six population centers, including the fiercely contested city of Brasilia were showing signs of abandonment by the malcontents. Additionally, in a geographical region that averaged between fifty and a hundred RDF and ASC casualties per "good" day from skirmishes and random attacks on military posts- not a single malcontent-initiated action had taken place in 24 hours.

The possibility that Weitzel had argued to Breetai of cohesive malcontent action in The Control Zone was seeming less possible and more probable now.

The role of rogue fleet units and the enigmatic undecipherable signals was still a matter of question, but in Weitzel's mind and in her final (and now to some degree improvised) form of her briefing, it was ominous enough to report to the command authority.

"-Again, I stress that while the sum of this information can support no firm conclusions, the possible implications cannot be ignored and should be met with an appropriate level of preparedness."

Weitzel had briefed enough incredulous audiences to spot the signs of what she liked to call vulture swarm.

It was that pause after she concluded when all of the persons with interests to protect went into a hover waiting for someone to begin the dive assault on the bearer of the contrary or conflicting position. The opening attack was not always confrontational, but it opened the door and allowed easy escalation to that point.

What Weitzel had not expected was that the first "swoop and peck" on her briefing would come from the President.

Rudolph Valtarven, native of Switzerland and born in Geneva was a model of what was becoming typical of post-Holocaust, United Earth statesmen and politicians. In his mid-fifties, he had lived enough in the world before The Robotech War to gain experience in and know the functional mechanics of the world.

He had enough experience to be the bridge for the voting population back to a happier, more prosperous time that most could still remember while still having the vigor to fight the struggles required to bring that world back. Weitzel had voted for him herself based on his promises of measured and sustainable growth and recovery of the world's infrastructure, economy, and defensive capabilities.

That vote probably meant little to Valtarven now as he opened with a direct question.

"And what is the appropriate level of preparedness, Commander?"

Weitzel felt the blood drain from her body and could tell by the expression of General Shiloah that it was a visible reaction as well.

Unexpectedly but equally welcome, General Breetai took the opportunity to answer the question for his paralyzed subordinate from well down the chain of command.

"If I may field that question, Mr. President-.", Breetai said, knowing that only the President or one of his cabinet ministers had the authority to say otherwise, "-Commander Weitzel has done her portion of the work at hand by bringing this information to our attention and framing it in one possible model of interpretation. I believe it to be a strong model. It is the responsibility my office and my subordinates to propose the best course of action for your approval, sir."

Valtarven, perhaps recognizing that his question to Weitzel had been unfair given her responsibilities allowed the question to shift to the Military Chief of Staff, "So the question stands, General Breetai. What is the appropriate level of preparedness?"

Breetai contemplated the question for a moment- a brief moment.

None at the table in his briefing room, nor on any of the ends of the VTC doubted that Breetai knew instantly the correct military posture to assume- he had been making those decisions on a grander scale than had ever been known by a human being for easily three times the length of life held by any human at the table.

The moment's pause Breetai required was to temper the pure military solution enough as to make it acceptable in his new world where the military answered to the civilian.

"We cannot know the minds of the enemy or their full intent.", Breetai admitted as a beginning, "We can interpret- I believe we should interpret- the sudden, coordinated withdrawal of malcontents in The Control Zone from population centers as prelude to another action. This action may be localized or it may span South and Central America- but I feel it will be centered in The Control Zone. I believe that there is strong evidence that there is an external influence at work through the coded communications that Commander Weitzel detailed, but the nature and scope of that influence and potential involvement is undetermined."

"We can speculate on these things to no end, but what we cannot do is ignore that in terms of pacifying and stabilizing The Control Zone- today's events have presented us with a unique opportunity."

"I advocate that preparedness mean that we take advantage of the opportunity we have been given and at the same time taking steps to offset what is possible."

"Which would involve what?", Valtarven asked, understanding the logic but not the implied course.

"Immediate movement of all Atlantic carrier groups into the region to support future activities for an opening."

"I also strongly urge the movement of as many air and ground assets into the area as we can safely draw from other areas. The possibility of creating strong bastions of security and bases of operation for the future cannot be ignored.."

Valtarven nodded his understanding and asked, "Do we have sufficient quick-reaction forces available to affect this?"

"Yes, Mr. President-.", Breetai replied confidently, "We have four division strength units based out of the North and Central American Sectors that can begin to deploy within twenty-four hours of the go word."

"There are an additional two Marine amphibious rapid response units on station in the Caribbean presently with the option of drawing an additional two from the west coast of the African Sectors"

"We can follow on as needs demand with any number of combat-ready units from our choice of sectors. All will require coordination of course, but the basic operational plans already exist. It will also require at least the consultation of non-UE regional governments in South America, and of course The Army of the Southern Cross. Given the existing level of mistrust, that political obstacle may be larger than any material one we face."

"And also is something for my office to be concerned with primarily, General Breetai-.", Valtaven reminded the MCS, "-Should we decide to pursue this course. And what of Commander Weitzel's assertions of possible involvement by rogue Zentraedi fleet units? Increasing a presence in Brazil will hardly answer that threat."

Breetai replied without hesitation, "A possibility we must consider, Mr. President. Fortunately, the cumulative number of rogue units we project to be operating in the proximity of Sol, and their cohesion is a level that is manageable by the REF Fleet."

"Simply by deploying the units we have on stand-by in dock presently would significantly improve our planetary defense posture from such a threat."

"If Commander Weitzel's theory that a rogue fleet action would be conducted in support of a terrestrial operation in The Control Zone is to be accepted, I would suggest deploying our ready fleet units inside of the lunar orbital path. Minimal detachments could provide additional security for Mars bases and outer system stations."

"These are all actions we can take without elevating the planetary defense level. However, if you would consent to-."

Valtarven quelled the request before it was fully made, "No, General Breetai- escalating the planetary defense level necessitates the activation of any number of civil action plans that while benign would create a level of fear in the population that I do not see as warranted by what I am hearing from either Commander Weitzel or you. World confidence is still fragile, and panic is easily started and will as easily spread. That kind of reaction on a planetary scale could be more dangerous than any flare in The Control Zone- extraterrestrial participation or not."

Breetai phrased his protest carefully, saying with the greatest of care, "And while I understand this, Mr. President, I cannot stand by without at least advising action as I have outlined. In a real sense, we have the opportunity before us to gain a real advantage in The Control Zone and shorten the struggle by perhaps years."

"Coupled with the unknown factors of the meaning of these sudden malcontent mass movements in The Control Zone, and also the relative significance of the coded transmissions- I see no choice but acting."

It was President Valtarven's turn to be silently contemplative for a moment. As was true of a good card player so was it true of a good politician- his expression revealed nothing of his thinking or his intentions. All had to wait for him to voice them in his chosen words.

"An opportunity for gains, true. Do these gains warrant the worldwide disruption we might cause though, General Breetai?"

Breetai was non-committal, but forcibly so by the lack of facts he had to work from, "One just cannot say, Mr. President. Possibly."

Valtarven said, "And your order to the military forces to be on twelve hour recall notice essentially has the bulk of our Fleet personnel either on their ships or at least on the GS-95 station?"

"Yes, Mr. President."

"And you can activate the rapid response units for deployment to The Control Zone without elevation of the planetary defense level?"

"Yes, Mr. President."

Valtarven allowed his expression to reveal his decision at this point, and also to reveal that the decision was not to be questioned, "Then I authorize you, General Breetai, to take the steps you see fit to prepare for contingencies short of elevating the planetary defense level."

"If new information sufaces, I will naturally reconsider- but at this time I cannot consent to that magnitude of social disruption."

"I should like follow-on briefings at eight hour intervals though."

Breetai nodded both his understanding and agreement. He could not pull out all of the stops that he would have liked, but the President's orders allowed him to take his actions right up to a clearly defined line and that granted him a great deal of latitude.

"Yes, Mr. President- I will keep you informed myself."

Valtarven, rose from his chair in his cabinet room saying, "Thank you then, that will be all."

The VTC screen went to a blue screen with the UE Presidential seal at the center.

Now there was work to be done across the entire spectrum of the military services.

Still standing where the President's question had frozen her, it took Weitzel a moment to recognize that her boss, General Shiloah had joined her- more for emotional support that she clearly needed than anything official.

"Anne, you look like the cat that ate the canary"

Weitzel shook her head, "Maybe-. But I feel more like Pandora. –I'm a little afraid of what's going to come out of the box."

Shiloah put a hand on her shoulder as reassurance of having done the right thing, "Whatever comes out is what would have come out anyway. Raising the alarm isn't the same as being responsible for the outcome."

It didn't feel it to Weitzel, but she knew the statement to be true.

Edwards City, the Mojave Desert,

California

A Christmas tree was supposed to brighten any room no matter how bare the tree or gloomy the space during the holiday season.

The tree that towered in decorated, plastic splendor in a corner of The High Desert Pilot's Social Club was no slouch in its adornments, having decorations both genuine and improvised from all corners of the Earth. But like everything in the hodge-podge establishment; it looked conspicuously out of place.

There was sincerity in the tree though, in the placement of its ornaments that ranged from several hand-painted, blown glass balls that as rumor had it had come all the way from a hamlet in southern Germany, to the less exotic but no less cherished nutcracker soldiers created by painting faces and uniforms onto old-style wooden clothes pins.

The decorations ranged from the traditionally festive to the innovative as well. The custom of Roxanna setting out a tree had been started before Christmas tree light strands had become available again on the market, so Lyle had made his contribution by simply wiring together eighty or so electronics switches that he had scrounged from a heap of equipment on base that was to go to the recycling plant. A misuse of military property to be sure, but an ingenious way to give the tree a red, green and yellow twinkle.

The star- that was another story that neither Roxanna nor Winters would discuss at length.

While neither would confirm, or even entertain the possibility- someone had noted once that the star that now shone in gold metallic luster atop the tree had appeared about the same time of the scandal on base in which Major General Butler had been unofficially and unceremoniously demoted to brigadier general with the theft of a strikingly similar decorative star that had hung as one of a pair outside of his outer office.

It was a curious coincidence.

One could have argued that the tree had been made ugly in the attempt to make it festively beautiful. Others- those regular to The High Desert Pilot's Social Club- argued that it was the only tree fit to stand in the bar as it was just as mismatched and patchwork as everything else around it.

And in comparison to the unpainted boards and plywood that made up most of the floors and walls, it did achieve the goal of bringing some color and cheer to the establishment.

Color and cheer was present and spreading despite the chill from the desert night that invaded the bar through its many gaps and small openings- but it was the color and cheer that came from the beer tap and the battle mouth. Gecko had been released from the hospital late that afternoon. With his wife, Catherine, at his side he obliged the pilots of several squadrons with his harrowing tales of combat and hospitals as he was bought drink after drink by others.

Present also with Knight Hawk Squadron and no less enthusiastic to celebrate were the Vigilantes, whose pilot, Maj. "Corkscrew" Ethan, had passed a recovery milestone in that the doctors said he now had a chance of returning to active duty rather than the previous party line that his service career was probably over.

This was a far more appealing subject to drink to than the unfortunate Capt. "Humbug" Wilcock whose only passing had been into the next world.

Even Capt. "Binky" Hollingsworth who had been the source of so much drama earlier in the day when he had been forced to eject from his damaged Valkyrie just short of the eastern shore of Rogers Lake was present and in good spirits despite a badly twisted ankle, a bruised face, and the aches associated with the ribbing he got at losing his aircraft from the other pilots.

Sitting at his customary table in the same rickety chair in which he was always found, Winters was very conscious of what was going on around him. Sometimes celebrations were just celebrations, but other times they were a veiled effort to bleed off frustration through forced jokes and too much alcohol.

It didn't take a trained therapist to know the difference either, or to understand which type was going on at The High Desert Pilot's Social Club tonight.

It was for that reason mainly- that the frustration felt by the pilots was only his by proxy in his grounded state- that the tumbler glass sitting beside the bottle of bourbon on Winters' table had remained empty. He hadn't earned the right to drink in this company tonight.

Winters also worked to convince himself that he was abstaining to keep a clear head for the thinking he was sketching out on paper, but mostly it was that he had not earned the right.

"I don't know what worries me more- when you're swimming in the bottle or when you haven't touched it."

Winters flinched with a delayed start caused by his executive officer speaking to him while he was so deep in his own thoughts.

"Jesus, Freddy- you damn near put me into my grave-.", Winters grumbled as he tapped the ash off his cigarette into an ashtray already filled.

Dalton dropped himself into the chair next to Winters and set his half empty glass of beer on the table. It had clearly not been his first of the evening and was equally unlikely to be the last.

"I just go by Freddy these days-.", Dalton said, "-I dropped the Jesus, but I'm still pretty amazing."

"Yeah, glory be unto thee in the highest-.", Winters replied as he began to scratch at the paper again with a pencil point that was growing blunt again.

Dalton picked up his beer to draw a long swallow from it and then as the intoxicated often do motioned with the glass as though it was an extension of his body.

"What are you doing anyway?- I mean if coloring books are what you wanted for Christmas, I'm going to have to do some of that emergency, last minute shopping, but-."

Winters snatched the paper off the table and held the side with his work up toward his friend.

"What's this look like to you?"

Dalton studied the pencil rendered, amorphous blobs that occupied the center of the page bracketed and punctuated by groupings of squiggly lines.

"-Uh…. Two porcupines fucking?-.", Dalton said randomly grasping at straws, "This is one of those ink blot things isn't it?- You've been around Dr. Keopel too much Jack-."

Winters shook his head, "Be serious for a minute, Freddy-."

Dalton raised his hand defensively, "I know, give me a second, I can get this-."

Winters laid the paper down on the table and reoriented it for Dalton's vantage point. After scratching an "N" into what was the top, he explained, "It's The Outlands- Crater Range, to be exact- see?"

"This has nothing to do with my mother then?"

"Not a bit.", Winters said letting his XO's unwillingness to engage in the conversation slide as he moved his pencil over the improvised map, "Over here is where Gecko took that SAM in the chops-. And here is where Corkscrew and Humbug got theirs-. –And that chap from China Lake a week before that-."

With each recollection came a mark on the map.

"-And then, if we start to add in contact points-.", Winters continued, making a half dozen more marks that indicated geographically where malcontent AA elements had engaged or attempted to engage RDF air patrols of The Outlands.

Seeing that his boss was seriously pursuing a point, Dalton set down his beer and put significant effort into trying to follow.

"Do you see what I'm driving at?", Winters asked motioning over the map with his pencil as an exhibit of evidence.

Dalton shook his head, "No, not at all, Jack."

Winters moved the pencil over the paper again like a magician making a conjuring gesture with a wand over his upturned top hat.

"All of the contact points form a perimeter around Crater Range-.", Winters explained, drawing a faint circle that connected the points of contact he had marked.

"A perimeter around what, Jack?", Dalton asked, the logic that Winters seemed so bent on escaping him.

"That's a good bloody question.", Winters agreed, "But whatever it is, it's somewhere inside of Crater Range-."

Dalton laughed as he lit a cigarette and gave the map a doubtful second glance, "I don't know, Jack-. I mean, there's nothing in there-. I mean nothing to sustain life anyway. There's no water, the soil is barren and radioactive to boot. Heck, even Zentraedi would begin to suffer from radiation sickness eventually."

Winters nodded, "I know. And they know that we know. That's why there hasn't been an Army patrol in there since the general survey after The Holocaust. Or look at it this way-. We fly around the outskirts of Crater Range on our circuit of The Outlands. Sometimes we get painted, sometimes we get shot at, and each time we blow the ditto sods off the face of the Earth for their troubles. An Army unit comes in, does a general sweep of the area, BDA, after action intel, the works, and then they pack up and leave and everyone compares reports later before it's all filed away. –Right?"

Dalton nodded, "Yeah, pretty much-. But again, Jack, it's because there's never anything there."

"And don't you find that just a little queer?", Winters asked, "A dozen or so Zentraedi blokes first get a hold of some sophisticated piece of anti-aircraft weaponry, and then they decide they're going to camp out in the middle of nowhere on hopes of taking a shot at a passing CAP? No, that's not a little queer, that's Liberace queer-. No, it doesn't figure in my book."

Dalton shrugged, "Jack, read the paper, or turn on the news- everyone's taking it in the ass these days from Buenos Aires clear on up to us."

Winters tapped his finger on the map again, "True, but why here? Why around the one piece of The Outlands that even the Army doesn't want to go? Why not at one of a thousand points where we could be engaged on any given day? I think it's because they're keeping in proximity of something that they want to hide, but that they're hiding in the last place we want to look. They just let us clobber them a little from time to time to let us think we're accomplishing something and we don't look any deeper. It makes sense if you think about it- in an odd way."

Dalton sighed heavily and scratched his head as he looked at the map, "It makes sense maybe, Jack. You could look at this from a hundred different ways-."

"Like what?", Winters asked, "Spin one out for me-."

Dalton groaned, "-No, I've had too much to drink and you clearly haven't had enough. Can we look at this again in the morning?"

Winters shook his head, "No, if you're too blotto then I'll just walk through it with Ganyet-."

Dalton laughed, "Well, good luck with her too- she's been French kissing Comrade Smirnov all night."

Exasperated, Winters snarled before comprehending the inherent flaw in logic, "Isn't anyone sober here?!"

"Yeah, you.", Dalton replied, "Which brings me back to my point-."

"Hey, Jack-O!-"

Winters and Dalton both looked up from their conversation, but it was Winters who caught a right-cross punch across the left cheekbone that tumbled him heavily out of his chair and onto the floor, jarring the table, and splashing Dalton with his own beer before the glass too toppled to the floor and shattered.

Voices silenced across the bar, allowing the ancient jukebox with its crackling speakers to be heard without the din of conversations for the first time in hours.

Winters picked himself and his wheel cap up off the unfinished wood floor to find Lt Col Neil "Dingo" Duggan, commanding officer of the 1404th Werewolves standing in the same spot from which he'd sent Winters to the floor, and still in the stance that one might have expected to see a boxer of the 1930's keeping in the heat of a fight.

"Hello, Dingo-.", Winters replied before his fist came around like a lightning flash and sent the other pilot down heavily on the chairs of the next table, cracking the seatback off of one as it broke his fall to the floor.

From the floor, the felled pilot laughed heartily and said with an Australian accent thick enough to be seen, "Christ, Jack!- You still hit like a Sheila!"

Winters placed his cap back on his head over a reddening face that was going to bruise, took the two steps to where the other pilot was righting himself, and offered him a hand to his feet among the splintered wood and broken glass.

A collective sigh of relief was felt more than heard across the bar before conversations resumed.

"You know, this is why we can't have nice things-.", Dalton muttered as he picked up the intact tumbler Winters had not used yet, the bottle of bourbon that had not been opened, and Winters' swagger stick and map from the floor.

Dingo dusted his aviator's jacket and flight suit trousers off without apparent improvement and touched his face that was going to appear similar to Winters' in the morning.

"Hey, Freddy-.", Duggan said pulling a chair out from the table where Winters and Dalton had been sitting and dropped into it without thought of the chair he had just destroyed, "You still keepin' this one outta trouble?"

Dalton settled back into his seat, the rush of the moment having rendered him nearly sober he found, "Sometimes. It's a group effort really-."

Roxanna emerged from behind the bar to examine the damage done. A scornful glare passed alternately back and forth between Winters and Duggan as she assessed the loss of a chair and a beer glass.

"I didn't start it this time-.", Winters said preemptively proclaiming his innocence.

Duggan quickly backed him, "He didn't. But he's going to buy Freddy and I a beer on top of paying for that chair-."

Roxanna shook her head and snorted, "Him pay?- That'll be a first!"

The proprietor without another word motioned to Rio behind the bar to bring drinks as requested.

Rio, who at some point during the limited melee had found the time to bring a French knife out of the small kitchen in the rear set the piece of cutlery down behind the bar and began to fill two glasses similar to the one that had broken with beer from one of the taps.

Dingo sat with a boot heel on the edge of the table that he used to rock himself on the rear two legs of his chair, the shoddy furniture creaking all the time. Winters opted to light himself a cigarette rather than kick the other pilot over and add to the discomfort of their habitual manner of greeting.

Rio appeared tableside with the two glasses of beer, setting them down in front of Dalton and Duggan before reaching for the bourbon with the intention of pouring for Winters.

"No, I'm fine-.", Winters said, placing his hand over the top of his glass.

Rio then put her hand to the red, left cheek of Winters face, which he winced away from and repeated, "-I'm fine-."

Duggan laughed at the coddling Winters was receiving.

"No you're not, you're ugly as a water buffalo's ass!"

Rio turned a hateful glare on Duggan who let it roll off of him, taking it as understandable.

"And it's good to see you too, Rio. I knew someone had to be keeping old Union Jack Winters patched together."

Rio withdrew to the bar- possibly to get the knife.

Duggan looked around to find that his squadron had already found familiar faces and were into their first round of drinks. All was right with the world as he raised his glass to the two senior officers of Knight Hawk Squadron.

"Cheers."

Dalton tipped his glass back in reply before drinking, Winters simply released a long trail of smoke from his lungs into the air.

Duggan looked suspiciously at Winters' empty glass, asking, "Aren't you afraid of getting hurt when you fall off the wagon?"

Winters glanced at the bottle that he very much wanted to start emptying and said, "No, I tumble with the best of them."

Duggan found his own cigarettes and struck a gold lighter to light one, "Thank Christ, I thought you'd joined a program on me-!"

"Rehab is for quitters.", Winters said bluntly, "No, I'm just working something out before I start killing short-term memory."

A genuine spark of interest shone in Duggan's eye, "What kind of something?"

Winters found where Dalton had put his hand-drawn map back on the table, and with the entire upper left corner wet with beer still used it as a reference to explain.

"Something that has to do with why you're here. Freddy thinks I'm off my rocker, but-."

"I don't think you're off your rocker-.", Dalton countered, "I'm just not a hundred percent convinced."

Duggan cut in, "Well, I do think you're off your rocker, Jack, but that's what makes you fun-. Go on, I'm excited already."

Winters continued, "I'm thinking that there's more to the fire we've been taking lately. I think there's something going on inside of Crater Range. I just can't prove it, or even get my executive officer to buy into the idea-."

Dalton rolled his eyes and set his beer glass heavily on the table, "Oh, don't be that way, Jack-. I'm just mulling it over right now. Plus, we have a JSTARS pass through that area like- every seventy-two hours- and they've never intercepted a transmission coming out of that area, or the slightest hint of electronic activity within the range. If the dittos were in there, we'd see them coming and going, or at least get some kind of emission to say they were in there-."

"Point.", Duggan said, awarding a credit to Dalton's argument.

"Yes, a JSTARS every seventy-two hours exactly- like clockwork.", Winters countered, "I think they can pick up on a pattern if we keep it up long enough, Freddy. Give them a little credit for intelligence."

"Counterpoint.", Duggan said, awarding this time to Winters before tossing in, "I know- let's just get in there and thrash the bushes to see what comes out."

Dalton picked up his beer again and hunted for his cigarettes, "Yeah, except we are developing a nasty habit of losing people when we get in too close to Crater Range."

Duggan shrugged in the way that only one coming from the outside of the problem and its consequences could, "An even better reason to go in and stomp the buggers. Count the Werewolves in."

Dalton's cigarette hung unlit from his lips, "Just like that? Count us in-?"

"Sure. Why not?"

"Well-.", Dalton argued, and finding only one reason not to proceed, said, "No one's particularly motivated to get shot at unnecessarily."

"They're shooting at you already.", Duggan pointed out, "That's why we're here. Let's just go in there and give it back to the bastards. We get paid to get shot at. Might as well make it worth our while."

Winters found himself wanting the bourbon bottle more than ever as he said, "Another thing is that we aren't as many as we were a few months ago."

"Ohhhhh- that.", Duggan said, understanding instantly, "Yeah, I heard you had your wings clipped for shooting up Brazil. Good on you for that one. Those ASC fuckers needed their asses paddled for the shit they pull."

Dalton and Winters looked with surprise at Duggan .

"What?", Duggan asked, "You think we don't hear anything down in Victoria? Christ, pilots are worse than a knitting circle. No secrets."

Winters reached for the bottle, "Well, since my dirty laundry is aired- I think I'll have a drink."

"There's a man!", Duggan praised, "Just point us in the right direction. We'll take lots of gory pictures for you."

"We'd still need Ganyet on board.", Dalton pointed out, "And a plan, and buy-in from Arnie-."

"Little details-.", Duggan said, "Let's focus on the carnage right now."

Winters gave a small laugh, and in tapping the collar of his leather jacket that was conspicuously missing his fighter wings said, "Be careful around here, Dingo- thinking like that lost me these-."

Duggan turned in his seat to find Mumuni in the mixed crowd of at least three squadrons now, drinking with pilots from his command that she knew, "So, Ganyet's running the show, eh? She's reasonable. We can swing it with a good push."

"If you say so.", Dalton laughed.

"Don't underestimate my charm, Freddy.", Duggan said.

Winters rubbed his cheek before taking a swallow of bourbon, "I can attest to that."

A disruption rippled through the congregation of pilots and other assorted military in the bar, drawing the attention of Winters, Dalton, and Duggan. Winters first instinct was that an argument was flaring into a brawl- a distinct possibility since the exchange between he and Duggan earlier had put the proverbial blood into the water.

Only the room did not erupt into a storm of punches and kicks. Rather, glasses were set down where a table or bar space was available as service personnel opened a path and stood to attention.

Colonel Mumuni and Major General Arnold Butler waded through the gathering of pilots from his wing whom he motioned vigorously to stand at ease as he passed.

He made a visible effort not to see which of his pilots were present or how much collective imbibing was taking place. Another squadron not represented in the company would be flying patrol tomorrow, and tonight Nellis had the duty of manning the scramble alert watch- but there was always a level of discomfort involved in having a commander see his combatants in an intoxicated state- which a good many already were.

Seeing Mumuni lead the wing commander in their direction, Winters was instantly certain that Butler's visit had something to do with him- though he could not think what that something might be.

Winters led the others at the table in a rise to their feet that was intentionally slow to allow Butler time to stop them before they had a chance to complete the effort. The general, dressed down in civilian attire under his flight jacket whose two stars on the shoulders were the only indication that he was both military and a flag officer, walked quite casually up to the table and stopped just short.

"Mind if I join you?"

"In a drink, or our various conspiracies?", Winters replied.

Butler laughed, "Let's start with a drink. Conspiracies always sound more appealing after a few."

"By all means then-.", Winters said, motioning to an empty chair that Butler took, while Mumuni sat beside Dalton in another.

Having quickly spotted and recognized the wing commander in her establishment, Roxanna was at tableside with the "good" scotch and a glass for Butler before he had started to warm the seat he occupied.

"General- good to have you back."

Butler allowed her to fill his glass, replying, "Always a pleasure, Roxanna- I should get out here more often, but I have a wing to run, and I think I'd scare off the other fish."

"Not this bunch.", Roxanna assured Butler, noting for herself that the tempo of conversation throughout the bar was picking up again. Customers were mindful that they were in the presence of a superior officer, but there was a level of comfort that was spreading and most importantly, they were still drinking.

Butler noticed the broken chair that Duggan had done in with Winters' assistance and asked with caution, "Quiet night?"

Roxanna laughed, "With Jack and Dingo under the same roof?.. Hell, I'll be glad if I have a roof tomorrow."

"Let me know if you have a problem then.", Butler offered, "I can dock their pay."

Roxanna nodded her appreciation and set the bottle of scotch down on the table before Butler, "You just got your drinks on the house then."

"Much obliged.", Butler said genuinely, and nodding toward the tree that occupied the corner of the room, "Can I have my star back too? It sort of completes a set."

Roxanna's face blanked, "Not sure what you mean, General- but enjoy your drink."

Winters shrugged off the feeling of having been tossed to the wolves by his assumed friend- he knew he was tough on property from time to time. He looked back and forth between Mumuni and Butler several times waiting for an explanation before curiosity got the better of him.

"So, I take it this is a social call?"

"Let's call it a fifty-fifty mix.", Butler said, inhaling the rare luxury of well aged scotch before having a nip at it, "Or, you can just blame the whole thing on my Christmas generosity."

Winters raised an eyebrow and his glass, "I'm pretty sure we're not up for a pay increase. Care to elaborate, sir?"

"Colonel Mumuni stopped by my office this afternoon around the time the Werewolves were pulling into town and pointed out that we're importing talent-."

Duggan raised his glass at Butler appreciatively, "Thank you, sir-."

"-It's a figure of speech, Dingo, don't get too full of yourself.", Butler said before continuing on his original line, "-We're importing talent without using all that we have right here."

"If this is about singing in the base holiday pageant, sir-."

"Shut up, Jack.", Butler said, "Ganyet argued her ass off for this, so show her a little respect for her effort even if you don't have any for yourself."

Butler reached into his coat pocket and produced an oval case slightly larger than a ring box that he placed on the table and sent toward Winters with a flick of his forefinger.

Winters caught the case as it reached the edge of the table and placed it next to the bottle of bourbon without hesitation.

"And just like that, all's forgiven?"

Butler shook his head, "No, not forgiven or forgotten- but your flight status is at my discretion, remember. My top pilot says she needs every swinging Richard to pull the rope, including you- so I'm going to give her what she needs. But don't think that means that you're not on probation."

A moment passed before Winters reached for the case and opened it to find the same fighter pilot's wings he had surrendered three months before, every bit as beaten as he had remembered them.

"Don't be an asshole, Jack.", Mumuni advised, "We're doing you a favor too."

"A big one.", Butler added, "And if I feel the need to walk out of this bar after this drink- they go with me."

"Since you put it so tenderly-."

Winters pulled the fastening pin free of the box's velvet and foam backing and affixed the wings to his collar through the same holes the pin shaft had occupied before.

Duggan grinned in disbelief, "Well, I'll be damned- I have lived long enough to see Jack do something intelligent."

"We'll see.", Butler said raising his glass, "Cheers."

All drank with a moment of silence following.

The silence hung until Duggan said, almost conversationally, "So, Jack has this idea for a seek-and-destroy sort of thing that he wants to run by you-. I didn't hear it all, but in general the potential for a little vengeance and great violence was spectacular. Jack- you're on."

Winters nearly spilled the contents of his glass on himself with the surprise of Duggan's words.

"Very subtle, Dingo- thanks."

"Subtle is my middle name-. Well, actually it's Albert, but-."

"What kind of seek-and-destroy sort of thing?", Mumuni asked.

"The decisive kind- if I'm right.", Winters replied, then motioning around the room, "And with this lot, I think we have just the sticks we need to pull it off. And like Dingo said, if nothing else- there's a good chance at having a little pay-back."

Mumuni set her glass down, "What exactly, and when?"

"The when is as soon as we can wring the booze out of everyone and get the plan filed. The what is pretty straightforward.", Winters said, putting his bourbon down without finishing it and pushing the glass away, "Just bear with me, and I think you'll understand."

"Or fall out of your chair laughing.", Dalton said presenting a second option, "I'm not sure which camp I'm in yet."

"Let's say we were convinced and got on board.", Butler said in a tentative voice, "How soon are you trying to do this spectacular thing?"

Winters replied with certainty, "I can have this lot dried out and ready to be briefed in six hours. How quickly can you make the administrative and coordination thing happen?"

"I'm a major general, Jack, I can make things happen pretty quickly.", Butler stated, "But these pilots are getting about as sauced as a church spaghetti dinner-. There are regs about that sort of thing, or don't you remember?"

"Only if you're committed to having seen this.", Winters countered.

Butler looked around. Pilots were drinking- buzzed even, but far from drunk. There was an air of determination about them to reach that state though.

"And you're just going to say the word and they'll stop?"

"Something like that."

Winters looked to the bar's owner who had resumed her place behind the counter.

"Roxanna, be a love and cut the chaps off, would you?"

"What?"

"Cut them off-.", Winters repeated, "Get coffee brewing, and start settling up tabs. Do it for me?"

Roxanna's displeasure at the prospect of losing such a good night's business was clear, "Does this mean you're paying too?"

"Yes, fine-. I promise you'll make double on the back end if you help me now."

Roxanna shrugged, "Sure- I mean, what the hell? Why should a bar sell liquor?"

Turning back to the table, Winters found Butler looking sublimely amused.

"You really are serious, aren't you, Jack?"

"Serious as the plague.", Winters assured him.

Butler laughed, "Okay, even if I were to decide to look the other way on flight regs- which I'm not saying I will-. You still need to sell me on your idea."

"Prepare to be sold then-."

"I'm waiting."

Turning the map he'd drawn toward Mumuni and Butler, Winters began.

"Granted, this is a bad drawing of Crater Range, but I was marking points of enemy contact when I started to notice something-."

170