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.

3. Sunset

Chapter Two

Sunset

"I know what I have done-."

"I know what I am doing and will not beg forgiveness or attempt to make feeble excuses."

"My only reward now is to one day have my grave dug deep in the ashes of all that The Robotech Masters created and once ruled-."

- Darius

UES Hyperion,

258 kilometers southeast of Cuba

"Takeo, Sunny-. Five hundred meters out. Call the ball."

Lieutenant Commander Mochitsura "Takeo" Kusunoki made a final check of his approach and alignment to "the boat" as his VF-1S Valkyrie plummeted through the glide path at full flaps and full throttle.

Despite the innovations of Robotechnology and technology in general, the process of bringing an aircraft back aboard a conventional aircraft carrier had remained the same. The pilot was guided in to visual range by Primary Flight Control (or "Pri-Fli") until he or she had eyeballs on the boat. At that point it became a well-practiced matter of maintaining the correct airspeed and attitude while keeping the "meatball" projected byt the Fresnel lens of the carrier's optical landing system on the center mark of the aircraft's HUD.

These tasks accomplished, the aircraft would meet the carrier in "the trap"- a 12-meter span of the angled recovery deck across which were spanned the four arresting wires of which the aircraft's arresting hook would engage one, bringing it to a complete stop in 30 meters.

Simple enough.

Simple enough so long as it was daylight, that the seas were calm, the wind speed and direction constant- and of course if the pilot had the nerve and presence of mind to overcome the sense that he was intentionally crashing into the steel deck of a warship- which in fact he was.

The sea was anything but predictable though and a pilot had to be able to bring his or her plane back aboard the boat in any combination of adverse conditions which Kusunoki had on more occasions than he cared to remember.

This morning the sea was kind. The sun was low at the pilot's back, the visibility good, and the pitch and roll of the boat minor and gentle at most.

"Takeo has the ball.", Kusunoki said as Hyperion filled his windscreen and he was able to make out fine details in her deck and the equipment and crew that manned it. He straightened and stiffened his spine to prepare as the carrier's deck seemed to rise up to meet him.

As seams and dimples in the deck plates became visible at 130 knots of closure, Kusunoki could see and determine by experience that he'd snag the prized #3 wire. Any capture that brought the plane back aboard safely was a good one, but catching the third wire to rear in sequence- the wire naval aviators were trained to aim for- meant a better assessment by the ever-watchful Landing Signals Officer (LSO), and a shorter time in review sessions.

Tires kissed steel deck and no sooner did Kusunoki feel his spine compress than he was thrown forward into his shoulder harnesses as hook and hydraulically balanced arresting wire cooperated to bring his fighter, Oka, to a halt.

Kusunoki chopped the throttles back to the rear stops and looked to find "The Blues" (the aircraft handlers in their blue jerseys and blue helmets) awaiting his signal.. The lieutenant commander quickly shut his engines down and gave the succession of hand gestures that told the deck crew that his aircraft was safe to approach and be moved.

As a deck tractor rolled out from the edge of the starboard deck to join up by tow bar to Oka's forward landing strut, the ordinance handlers- or, "Red Shirts" rushed out in two pairs to insert the safety pins back into the missiles that occupied the full hard point racks on the Valkyrie's wings.

Kusunoki popped his canopy and began to release his safety harnesses as the deck crew quickly cleared his fighter from the flight line. In addition to the remaining three airborne ships from his squadron element that had flown CAP with him, Kusunoki had been aware of no less than half a dozen other aircraft lining up in the queue to return to the boat.

That was flight ops on a carrier.

Aircraft were constantly launching and being recovered, and when the pace was at its fastest these events were rarely spaced by more than sixty seconds. It was the most maticulously choreographed and dangerous set of interrelated activities still to be found on the face of the Earth that did not involve live weapons fire. It had to happen 24x7, and it was all done by enlisted men and women who on average were just over half Kusunoki's age.

As an artificial sea breeze generated by the ship's movement swept out the sterile smell of filtered air from Kusunoki's cockpit through the open canopy and the tractor driver backed his aircraft precisely into a slot of open deck space to be disarmed, the pilot wondered whether the activities aboard the boat would go on long without tangible fear of direct attack.

Seventy-two hours earlier, Hyperion had completed a six month patrol of the Caribbean Sea, supporting directly the RDF-Army operations in Venezuela and Brazil. Her duties in these areas had ended in the practical sense with the arrival of her sister-ship, UES Phoebe and the normal customs and ceremonies involved in being relieved that had been hosted in Hyperion's senior officers' ward room.

It had been a well-prepared, "dress whites" event that Kusunoki had passed through as quickly as he could. It had not been an aversion to the event, as par for course the ship's galley had pulled out all of the stops in their offerings and the good booze was being served. No, rather it was an eagerness to have the last pleasantries of relinquishing the operational area to Phoebe and UES Atlas (that had been with Hyperion on patrol for three months and still had three months of duty remaining) and to turn northeast for Charleston and home.

Even Vice Admiral Coleridge had appeared anxious to turn support duties over to Vice Admiral Osborne so she could order Captain Swensen to get Hyperion underway- which she would have done as soon as Phoebe had received the last of her launches carrying her officers. Coleridge would have done this, only Fleet had been less expedient in issuing Hyperion sailing orders to return home than the crew had been desirous of carrying them out.

The orders had come late the next day.

So it had been that Hyperion and her crew had been en route to Charleston with no hope of reaching home by Christmas, but in good spirits nonetheless at the prospect of being with family again for at least some part of the holiday season- that was until the call had come.

Well out to sea and east of Florida, Hyperion had received the puzzling orders to reverse her course and return to the patrol area she had run circuits in for half a year.

Admiral Coleridge's address to the ship's crew had explained only that the orders had come from the very top and that only focused execution of duty was the way to shorten the delay to a well-deserved homecoming.

The effect of the orders had been crushing, naturally.

Morale had dropped so heavily that Kusunoki had been sure that he had heard the keel plates breaking out of the ship. Still, watches had been stood like clockwork, patrols flown, and the ship made ready to rejoin battle.

Kusunoki snapped out of his thoughts as the trap caught Knoxville from his flight and brought her Valkyrie to a screeching halt on the deck just a little under forty meters away. The Blues and Red Shirts awaited their signal and then rushed out to perform the same services for Lieutenant Harris as they had for Kusunoki roughly a minute before.

"Bad Times are Coming…", warned the motto of The Stormy Petrels written in gothic type on scrollwork beneath a grim reaper riding a diving black bird that trailed streaks of flame from its talon-bared claws.

The artwork on the rudder of Knoxville's fighter seemed to have a particular relevance to Kusunoki today.

Bad times were coming.

All aboard Hyperion could feel it, though in true nautical tradition refused to speak of it except for in the exaggerated, oracular way that old salts and hard-shells used to craft stories for the amazement and intimidation of "wogs".

One could not put a finger on it, but there was something at work besides the explanation from up the chain that forces were being massed to counter rising malcontent activity in The Control Zone.

Perhaps it was the Army of The Southern Cross?

The ASC certainly sensed bad times coming, though possibly not from the malcontents. They, having nothing more than a coastal waters force that could not pass in any respectable way for a "navy" had nonetheless not been oblivious of the movement of three additional carrier battle groups into their sphere of operations.

Furthermore, they had reacted as Kusunoki would have expected them to react: with an increased defensive posture. The fact that CAP was being flown with air-to-air weapons only, and with double the number of ships aloft per patrol was evidence that Admiral Coleridge was responding with an unspoken message to the wall of ASC fighters that shadowed her battle group's movement into the theater.

Concern and precaution were warranted, as Kusunoki well knew. In his CAP this morning alone, his Valkyrie's target identification systems had shown rotating squadrons of the ASC's newer Corsair III fighters standing just outside of their radar range from Hyperion and her fast support ships. This was as close as Hyperion's CAP would allow them to come, and as far back as they dare drive them without making the appearance of threatening ASC airspace.

Still, both sides were aware that the Corsair IIIs could be equipped with any number of high-speed, sea-skimming ASMs, and that they were only a short sprint from being within range to acquire and engage the battle group.

The battle group and the ASC did not have each other by the throat per say, but both had to be comforted by the discomfort of being within each other's reach.

It was only natural; Kusunoki had to remind himself- that the ASC had to interpret the increase of carrier battle groups in the waters off of South America as a possible threat. And they reacting to that threat gave just cause to the RDF Navy to act defensively as well. It was all natural if one overlooked the millions of hostile aliens that regarded the RDF and ASC as slight variations of the same enemy and behaved accordingly.

It was all dizzying if one thought too much about it- so Kusunoki did not.

Kusunoki had no desire to fire on another human being. He had been forced to come closer than he liked several months back, and that still troubled him. There had been no shots fired then, and with the grace of divinity the ASC was as unmotivated to fire on the RDF as Kusunoki was to fire on them.

Hopefully the issue of sanity did not enter into the equation though- as the ASC had proven itself clearly insane on many occasions.

Don't think about it.

LCDR Kusunoki realized that he was no longer alone and looked over to find that his plane captain, Senior Chief Petty Officer Gerard had not only affixed a ladder to the side of his fighter but had ascended it to ascertain why the pilot was not making his escape after being confined to the cockpit for nearly five hours.

"You alright, Commander?", the senior chief asked with a discernable measure of concern in his voice and as he inserted the safety pin back into the ejection seat's control handle.

"Fine.", Kusunoki said, handing his helmet over to the NCO as he rose from his seat, "My mind was wandering, that's all.

Kusunoki followed Gerard down the ladder rungs to the deck where he received back his helmet. The deck tractor was moving Knoxville's fighter into place beside his where in moments the ordinance crew would strip it of its weapons as they were doing to his now, making it safe too for transfer down to the hangar deck.

"That's the good thing about my job, sir.", Gerard said with genuine appreciation, "Damn if I'm not too busy all the time to think too much."

Kusunoki was already thinking ahead to debriefing as he said with a distant voice, "Be thankful for small favors, Chief-."

"Aye sir-."

Kusunoki walked up the fuselage of his aircraft with the intent of going forward to "the island" where he'd enter the labyrinth of stairwells, hatches, and passages to make his way to the locker room and showers. He passed his gloved hand over the smooth skin of the Valkyrie and over the cherry blossom nose art and the kangi of his native language that said Oka.

"Oka", or, "cherry blossom" had seemed an appropriate name for his ship to Kusunoki, borrowing from the famous haiku in which the warrior compared himself to the flower falling at the peak of its perfection. He had also chosen the name with a lesser level of irreverence as "Oka" had been the name given to the rocket-powered flying bombs that had been intended to provide the kamikaze of the Second World War with the sword needed to slash back the marauding American fleets that were slowly strangling the home islands.

Kusunoki could not help but think of this reference each time his fighter slammed into the deck upon return to the boat. Nor could he ignore how the same American sailors battled by the kamikaze had blunted the psychological edge of the Oka by discovering the phonic similarities to and renaming the weapon with the Japanese word, "Boca"- meaning, "foolish".

The latter, given the tensions with the ASC in the face of the malcontent threat seemed somewhat more poignant to Kusunoki now.

Vice Admiral Nicole K. Coleridge surveyed the whole of the Caribbean Sea as it was represented on the holographic projection table at the center of CIC. Various other display windows hung open, drafted in light and suspended in the air over the map supplying information at a glance to the flag officer and her staff - but it was the map itself that held her attention.

UES Phoebe was completing the southern Caribbean leg of her patrol circuit that essentially followed the coastal line of Venezuela from its east-most point in Atlantic waters to its west-most in the tropical sea. At that point the second of the pair of carriers always on the circuit would be at the beginning of the leg and she would reverse herself along a more northerly route to repeat the process again.

Sailing this pattern kept an "on line" carrier's air wing within reasonable distance from most "hot spots" in The Control Zone, and able to defend the critical oil production and refining facilities in Venezuela. During the "off line", northerly portion of the cruise, the ship and crew had the needed time to take on supplies, affect repairs as needed, and generally decompress from the frenzy of round-the-clock operations that was life aboard a carrier.

Some stresses were accepted as part of service on a carrier, such as the long watches and crowded living conditions. Others were not and were the peculiar products of human behavior.

The ASC took every opportunity to show their displeasure at having a warship flying RDF colors so near to "their" territory.

Normally this meant heightened air patrol activity within ASC airspace between a carrier's position and critical ASC installations and infrastructure. Sometimes this meant air patrols that came perilously close to the carrier itself, warranting fighter intercept to watch and warn off the watchers. And always there was a nearby ASC air presence shadowing at a distance when carrier air elements ventured inland for air support duties.

This, to Coleridge, was the oddest aspect of the overall situation.

The ASC made a point of keeping an unblinking eye on the patrolling carriers off the South American coastline, but had never denied access to the continent's interior to the carriers' air wings for planned operations or even the more ad hoc calls by RDF Army units for air support. The ASC was known to "route" RDF air elements through their airspace- "escort" them even- but never deny access.

It was odd to Coleridge, but only on and just below the surface of the behavior. Part of it, one recognized, was that it was the same brand of inflated bravado displayed by schoolyard bullies who depended on the threat of violence to be enough to prevent an actual need for violence to preserve their position and standing.

It was a bluff that neither side wanted to have called.

The other part, less psychologically complex, was that whether it was an ASC bomb or an RDF one- a bomb dropped on a malcontent or a malcontent position was a bomb dropped and one that benefited both Terran forces in the region.

Allowing the RDF to operate under supervision yielded considerable reward for the ASC with minimal risk.

Vice Admiral Coleridge normally did not care much about ASC motivations in the neurotic and paranoid things that they seemed to do as standard practice. She was concerned with their capabilities and how that affected her operational obligations.

ASC motivations now seemed increasingly relevant though as Hyperion would soon be joining the Venezuela circuit, and according to the map display she pored over and communications with their commanders- UES Vulcan and UES Dwight D. Eisenhower (a venerable Nimitz Class carrier and legacy vessel of the U.S. Navy) would be patrolling the northeast Atlantic coast. Never had there been such a carrier presence bracketing ASC territory, and both the ASC and the RDF were aware of it.

Coleridge could only hope that diplomatic and military liaison efforts to justify and pave the way for the increased naval presence were as swift as the movement of the carrier forces themselves. Though she had relinquished her role as "on scene commander" to Vice Admiral Osborne days ago, Fleet had made the decision to put her back into the top slot once Hyperion was back on-station, meaning that by default any tensions and ugliness with The Army of the Southern Cross would be hers to shoulder in the region.

At least this time it could be forgiven if the flag officers neglected the ceremony of the event.

There were other concerns that required Coleridge's more immediate attention now. Most pressing in her mind now was her own flagship's need for underway replenishment, or "UnRep".

When Hyperion had left the Caribbean days earlier for home, she had done so with her aviation fuel bunkers at the halfway mark, and without the restocking of her magazines. As her sailing orders had outlined a direct course to home port, it had been hardly a critical issue and no one had wanted to delay homecoming by taking on supplies that would just have to be unloaded upon reaching Charleston.

When Hyperion had been ordered to turn about and make best speed back to the Caribbean patrol area, there had been no time to perform the delicate dance of running two massive ships side-to-side for hours while the transfer of weapons and fuel from support ship to carrier was accomplished. It had been Coleridge's intention to put Hyperion actively into the patrol circuit as soon as possible, cutting her support craft loose near Cuba, and then rendezvousing at the western end of the circuit again for UnRep.

This decision had been made based on the intelligence information that had been available from The Control Zone at the time. Since then, each successive report had painted an incrementally dire picture of the situation in the area. It had become less of a question of if Hyperion's fighters and attack bombers might be called upon to intervene on the part of human interests, but when.

Depleted munitions and aviation fuel stores suddenly took on an emptier and more critical feeling.

Coleridge did not second-guess the decision she had made at the time she had ordered her command to turn south again- it had been made based on the best information available. There was no arguing though that she was at another decision point. She either had to slow and delay her entry into the circuit to UnRep, allowing her the luxury of a ship full of stores should a need to join battle arise- or: to join the circuit now and postpone UnRep- hoping for a clean, first pass of Venezuela.

The agitated ASC and the increasingly aggressive posture they were displaying was a factor that also could not have been anticipated, but was a real one to be considered now.

"What's your thought, Jan?", Coleridge asked of Captain Jan Swensen who stood beside her at the chart table, thinking many of if not the exact same thoughts without question.

Swensen's gaze drifted south of Hyperion's position to where one of her Cat's Eye Recon airborne tracking radar aircraft was monitoring the rotating presence of a number of ASC squadrons.

"A tough call.", Swensen admitted, "Our Valkyries can hold their own and even do double-duty if they have to, so long as the bullets and bombs hold out. If we join the battle line now, we're gambling that we won't need to send our Adventurers inland extensively."

"So, I'm asking you what you think.", Coleridge said, probing for more than the obvious.

Swensen ran his fingers along the line of his jaw and over the short-cropped beard of strawberry blonde hair he kept before replying, "Frankly, Admiral, I'm more concerned about the ASC and the kind of craziness they may be inclined to pull if something should provoke them than I am of not being able to sortie ground-support missions. We have three carriers on station. If we should have to pull out of the line, we can do that with minimal disruption."

"I prefer that to thoughts of having a half-dozen ASMs come screaming in at us while we're joined at the hip to a tender."

Coleridge took a half-step back from the table, saying in a decisive tone, "I agree. We can UnRep north of the western end of the circuit and top off on all we need. Our support ships can then re-supply at a depot in Panama and be back on station before we need them again. We just need to keep our fingers crossed that the lid stays on The Control Zone for the next few days."

"I'll put on my lucky underwear, ma'am."

Coleridge laughed, "Do that-. I've already doubled up on mine. Signal the support ships with orders. Then get me Vice Admiral Osborne on the line-. I'll assume the OSC role at fourteen-hundred and let him start to breathe again."

"Aye, ma'am."

The Amazon River Basin,

Brazil

This was the last deep breath before blows began to be exchanged.

Action Commander Kevtok had seen far too many battles to count, and in truth had never seen the point in or had had the desire to count them, but could for the most part remember in each of them a moment like the one he was experiencing now.

It was the moment when all of the major planning was concluded and a course of action set. It was the moment when only the small and final details of preparation were being attended to by subordinates.

It was the moment when all that was left was to wait- for the next critical moment.

And that moment was almost at hand.

Like most moments preceding great action, Kevtok had arrived at this one as much by chance as by any element of planning. This was not to say that there had not been purpose and planning behind his original mission and journey to this alien world now some half a year ago- but like many events in the many campaigns he had participated in, the mission had changed- evolved.

Action Commander Kevtok had gone into the deep sleep of stasis aboard the Trendok 145 Robotech Factory with the expectation of waking up aboard the specially constructed Re-Entry Transport Pod designed especially for the mission and with the sole purpose of reconnoitering the alien world where Zor's Battle Fortress had ended its chase across the stars.

His orders, given to him directly by Supreme General Krymina, had been clear and concise. He and his small security force would observe and assess the indigenous alien population's military strength and capabilities while at the same time providing protection for the team of specialists who would gather critical, on-site meteorological, geographical, and biological information needed to stage an assault on a planetary scale. To a lesser extent, Kevtok had been expected to discretely engage and interrogate the marooned warriors and remnants of Dolza's norghil forces for whatever intelligence benefit could be gleaned.

All of this was to be done with the dual purposes of acquiring The Battle Fortress to serve the Te'Dak Tohl in Supreme General Krymina's revolt against the weakened Robotech Masters, and to begin that central effort by first defeating perhaps their greatest and sole remaining warlord- Breetai.

This had been the objective of Kevtok's mission, and the operational guidance he had set out under.

As Kevtok had experienced before though, the mission he had set out to complete had not been the one he had actually found himself executing.

The deviation from plan had begun with the random, almost inconceivably improbable intercept of his transport by an alien fighter patrol. The damage sustained and emergency landing that followed that was scarcely better than what would have qualified as a "crash" had claimed the lives of most of his Serhot Ran security force and survey team of specialists.

Initial prospects of success had been grim given these setbacks. Even Kevtok's ability to communicate with The 7th Grand Army had been substantially reduced and he himself had had moments wondering whether he and the team's survivors would be simply awaiting the arrival of Supreme General Krymina without having accomplished their mission- or worse; would become permanent captives of this alien world should Krymina's inclination to invade change.

The discovery, also by random chance, that this alien world was viable for the growth of The Invid Flower of Life- the energy source that drove all Robotechnology- had changed everything though, both operationally and fundamentally. While the question had been raised whether Zor's Battle Fortress still existed in a state where it could serve the Te'Dak Tohl, the presence and flourish of The Flower of Life made this world a strategic asset that would be sought by The Robotech Masters and Invid alike- making it a resource that the Te'Dak Tohl would require to battle both.

Even in his limited communications capacity, Kevtok had been able to convey this discovery to Supreme General Krymina, and the nature of his presence on this alien world had changed.

The 7th Grand Army of The Te'Dak Tohl was coming still- yes- but the operation could no longer be a clumsy smashing of the world as the Zentraedi were so capable of. This would have to be an invasion, and after that- an occupation.

Kevtok was still required to gather intelligence, but as much as possible he would now have to prepare this world for invasion.

At first, the notion of three Serhot Ran officers orchestrating any sort of credible preparation for a planetary invasion had seemed ludicrous at best and had been a daunting proposition to Kevtok. The possibility of having a substantial effect on the overall outcome of Te'Dak Tohl operations had seemed remote in the extreme, and more likely to be inconsequential at best.

This had been Kevtok's first impression and one he had guarded from his few remaining subordinates.

This also had been before he had discovered and fully explored the potential of the vast resource that had been in place on this world for some time, awaiting an effort to give them purpose: the norghil.

The norghil, the expendables- marooned for years already on this world had been thought of initially in Krymina's original plan to be little more than additional collateral damage in the seizure of The Battle Fortress had suddenly gained potential for advantage in Kevtok's mind as the nature of the operation changed to occupation while minimalizing damage to the world.

For whatever reason, the indigenous species of humans had not finished the work that they had begun with the defeat of Dolza's forces. Beyond sparing the lives of their former enemies, these creatures had actually made attempts to indoctrinate and assimilate the norghil into their own society.

In some cases, such as Breetai, many of his commanders and millions of his warriors, the human effort had achieved a measure of results. This had clearly produced in the alien mind some unfounded hope that the success could be broadened and peace achieved through a reconditioning of the warrior caste.

What the humans had not recognized and what Kevtok had quietly admitted to himself that he had not fully appreciated was the depth and hold that the warrior identity had on the norghil. It was not to be as simple for the humans as washing the norghil of the battle-gained blood that so justly stained them.

The norghil, or at least those deserving of the name Zentraedi had no interest in being cleansed or indoctrinated.

They were followers of The Warrior's Code, and all that the human attempts to assimilate them had accomplished was to provide them the skills to survive in a hostile environment and the time needed to become useful in adherence to their duty. It would not be duty to The Masters this time though, but to the Te'Dak Tohl.

Action Commander Kevtok had been skeptical at first.

How could the already inferior warrior caste that had further deteriorated into a trained rabble be recovered and effectively directed into useful service that they would have had to suspect meant only further servitude under a new ruling regime?

Kevtok had been concerned that even the intimidating lore so carefully crafted around the Te'Dak Tohl would be insufficient to align any significant number of norghil behind him and make them submit to his cause.

Greater than this concern though had been Kevtok's surprise that the recruiting of norghil in the region that he and his unit had found themselves stranded in had required almost no intimidation at all. Perhaps it was the simpler intellects that The Masters had provided the warrior caste with, or maybe their need to be governed- but the norghil had flocked to the opportunity to serve once again.

Kevtok had discovered that the apparatus to governing the norghil in great numbers had already been in place. Though far from being inspection ready, the officers, sub-officers, and warriors who had been stripped of all of the formal trappings of service had still retained a basic, military structure. Units were governed by officers and controlled by sub-officers- only now the scavenging for supplies had replaced the battling of Invid.

Again, by chance, Kevtok had happened across the right command element at precisely the right moment to allow him to assert himself and the will of Supreme General Krymina by proxy. Initial sacrifices had had to be made, and some discret follow-on purges as well, but military rigor and discipline was quickly restored once a common purpose was identified.

There had been challenges since- many of them- but none that had not been overcome dutifully by the marooned norghil who had survived Dolza's command.

Gratifying and inspiring as this was to Kevtok, there was a disturbing undertone to all that had been achieved in a season's time- or to the point, what the norghil had achieved under his direction in a season's time.

Was this the same warrior caste that Kevtok had spent most of his life stalking and subduing by orders of The Robotech Masters?

Were these the same organic automatons that had only been fit to hurl in multitudes against the Invid onslaught who now, deprived of all that seemed necessary to achieve success had positioned themselves stealthily and superbly for participation in an attack that the humans showed no signs of even suspecting?

Kevtok could think of innumerable occasions on this world where he had only been able to identify what needed to be done to achieve a particular objective in a series of critical objectives. These were circumstances where the how of success had come from norghil officers, sub-officers, and in some astounding cases, from warriors.

Norghil, expendables, had in small groups received additional training appropriate for the actions necessary from Te'Dak Tohl and then had themselves propagated this new knowledge to comrades dispersed across the region.

It had been norghil that had identified human installations where the weapons and supplies needed for the approaching fight could be found in quantity, and in almost every case it had been norghil who had planned and executed the raids, collected the material, and distributed it through intricate networks that they had established.

There was no question by now that Kevtok was at the head of it all and in command, but he was responsible for the success in the same removed way that Supreme General Krymina was responsible for the successes of The 7th Grand Army of the Te'Dak Tohl.

Kevtok provided the vision and high-level direction.

The staggering success belonged to the norghil.

This Kevtok found troubling.

He did not fear the norghil- their enthusiasm to serve had surpassed questioning in Kevtok's mind some time ago.

What Kevtok found troubling was that preconceptions he had long operated under that did not bear up when applied to the norghil company he now kept.

If proof of a theory was in it validation or discrediting, then what was to be said of the norghil based on what he had seen in a season's time?

What could be said of that theory when reviewing the dirtied, but otherwise fully functional ten Regult Combat Pods that squatted patiently in wait under the cover of dense jungle not a hundred paces from Kevtok's flightless Transport Pod.

The Regults, like thirty-seven others scattered across the region had been repatriated back from human storage facilities a piece at a time by norghil raiders. They had been then carried great distances and reassembled with only minimal tools by warriors who had been reduced to a micronized state by the indigenous population after their stranding.

And these were expendables?

Had they been Te'Dak Tohl, their initiative and ingenuity would have been recognized and commended

These warriors though- stripped of everything that made them Zentraedi but their own flesh- had carried The Warrior's Code inside them and would soon be ready to carry the fight back to the aliens. And so perhaps not everything Zentraedi had been stripped from them.

Their struggle had been long and arduous- and Kevtok had to grudgingly admit a level of admiration for the norghil discarded by The Robotech Masters. They would have the reward that many of them sought - to be able to join battle again under the Imperial standard.

They would have that dignity again, and the satisfaction of seeing enemy who had determined them vanquished fall- in part- by their efforts. The norghil would be allowed to demonstrate to the humans that no Zentraedi was defeated while their was breath in the warrior's lungs or a pulse through their arteries.

What awaited these norghil beyond that was questionable.

Supreme General Krymina's position on their disposition had been clear. At best, the remains of Dolza's command were contaminated by their exposure to the aliens- at worst they were infectious.

Their condition could not be allowed to spread into the ranks of the modified norghil who now served the Te'Dak Tohl and Supreme General Krymina.

And weren't these Zentraedi who had been moving out to staging areas and preparing for battle by Kevtok's command still only norghil?

How many of their kind had Kevtok killed directly, or helped in killing indirectly?

He had never bothered to count.

Kevtok forced these thoughts from his mind.

There were too many issues of substance left to be attended to, and still the very real possibility that his blood and that of his surviving team would be spilled in the fight to come.

The fight to come-.

If Action Commander Kevtok did not think too deeply on the subject, he could still convince himself that he had a measure of control over things. He knew, despite Sub-Commander Fral's assurances that he did not.

Fral- the top lieutenant to the slain Yeshta's unit of allied warriors and loose network of other units across the continent- had promised Kevtok at even the slightest hint of the action commander's doubt that the norghil warriors who would conduct select preparatory missions at the time of the main invasion could be trusted to adhere to the timetable and not execute prematurely.

But how could that promise be taken as solid?

It required only one small unit commander with a grudge to be impatient, or for a unit in transit to happen upon the enemy and choose to fight rather than withdraw and evade to continue on toward their assigned objective-.

And what of the Regult pilots? The warriors who over the past two weeks had been undergoing the re-enlargement process in the downed Transport Pod's functional scaling chambers to allow them to operate the machines that had been so secretively re-assembled for their use. These warriors had been deploying in their natural size for days, carrying only enough rations to sustain them and clad in little more than improvised loin cloths. Surely it would only take a human military unit to cross paths with one of these warriors for the enemy to suspect that a threat was building against them.

No, there was no real command and control element to Kevtok's plans. At best- the very most he could hope for was synchronized chaos that the spearhead units of the 7th Grand Army would be able to exploit.

Fate had now assumed command.

"Lord-."

Kevtok turned to find Sub-Commander Fral approaching him up the long, gradual rise of the small hill he stood on at the edge of the dense jungle.

Fral's burns, sustained at the time of Yeshta's assassination, had for all practical purposes healed now- though like many a warrior's wounds left clear scars that would never vanish fully.

As his burns had healed with the assistance of powerful antibiotics and a regiment of steroids, Fral had proven himself indispensable to Kevtok in terms of his organizational and planning skills. His early utility had been blunted somewhat by the nearly constant pain from his wounds, but with a constant supply of human intervenes painkillers it had been managed well enough to allow Fral to perform his duty and justify Kevtok's trust.

Fral had been indispensable- of this, there was no question, but Kevtok was not without his concerns. It had begun weeks earlier when the last of scabs had given way to the new, discolored flesh of scars.

Kevtok had first noticed the tremors one late night when he and Fral had been receiving the report of a returning small reconnaissance force that had been dispatched to observe a human outpost in the jungle days earlier. Inwardly, it had alarmed Kevtok to see Fral visibly quaking and mentally distracted as these were familiar signs of The Withering- though Kevtok knew this to not be possible as Fral was norghil.

But it had to be true-.

That night, and approaching a critical time for coordinating support actions for the invasion, Kevtok had considered the possibility that he was on the verge of loosing his link to the marooned norghil forces that were critical to his plans.

Only the next morning and unlike Te'Dak Tohl warriors afflicted with The Withering, Fral's symptoms had vanished.

It was puzzling, but Kevtok had been too engaged in planning and preparation to give Fral's infirmities much thought.

That was until the next episode that appeared to be slightly worse, but that again seemed to lift from the sub-commander with time.

There had been several such occasions like this since that Kevtok had seen- now that he was aware to be looking for them. And in that time, he had come to understand that it was not The Withering at all.

Kevtok had come across Fral taking from stolen human supplies the pain killers he had relied on early in his recovery that had allowed him to function. With his wounds healed and the antibiotics and steroids no longer required, Kevtok did not understand how the pain was persisting.

It had taken the explanation by a norghil sub-lieutenant in a chance conversation that Kevtok had overheard for him to understand that some human medical supplies had strange effects on warriors. The bits of the conversation that Kevtok had overheard had told him that the painkillers could sometimes become a necessary part of a warrior's daily rations even after his or her wounds were healed. There were even cases where these medications had suddenly become toxic and that warriors had been found dead with many spent units of these pre-measured dosages.

Odd, but clearly a shortcoming of human medical technology.

It was unfortunately also a shortcoming that was affecting Fral, and by extension Kevtok's operational capabilities.

He had since monitored the situation, and had others around Fral monitor it for him.

The sub-commander had continued to function and was fit for duty- now.

"Yes?", Kevtok asked, studying Fral without overtly doing so. There were no signs of distraction or of the tremors- he could be trusted to be reliable for several hours by the signs that Kevtok had become adept at reading.

"A medium-range security patrol is returning, Lord, with a report of observing heightened micronian military activity in a designated target area. The unit commander requests an audience with you personally to make his report.", Fral said with appropriate urgency, then added, "And as you requested, I must inform you that Lieutenant Hyra has completed the re-enlargement process in the scaling chamber and will be revived shortly."

Kevtok nodded his approval that Fral was attending to even the peripheral instructions that the action commander had heaped upon him at the morning's briefing.

"Good. Is-?"

Fral had anticipated the question and replied before it had been asked, "Lieutenant Moyrt is there to attend to her, Lord."

Kevtok was aware that he would have to begin the re-enlargement process soon himself if he was to be able to participate in the actions he had been so meticulously planning. It could wait just a few more minutes though.

"Bring me to this patrol leader, Fral."

"Yes, Lord- this way."

The weighty, panicked sensation of drowning closed on Hyra from all sides and from within as she jolted into consciousness.

This was the third time in her life she had experienced this particular trauma, and barring a direct order from Supreme General Krymina herself- Hyra vowed this would be the last.

The first had been with her Awakening from stasis and her entry into the world of the living from a period of who-knew-how-long in stasis after manufacture. She remembered that the least as the initial shock had been followed by a bombardment of new but strangely familiar experiences- such as moving, hearing words and comprehending, and engaging in verbal response to simple questions as she was examined by technicians to verify functionality and readiness for service.

The second occurrence had been no less unpleasant, and in some ways more so as she had emerged from stasis aboard the transport in the middle of an attack upon it by alien fighters.

Hyra had gotten past that experience by sheer necessity.

This time- she unfortunately both knew exactly what to expect and had no urgent diversion to distract her from it.

Let it come… Let it come…. Let it-…

Hyra spasmed in a wrenching agony that oddly seemed to originate in her guts as her lungs recognized that they were filled with process emersion fluid and expelled it in two great, oily heaves.

"-There we go-.", Moyrt said, his voice instantly recognized by Hyra and sounding as though she had just faded back into a conversation that she had allowed her attention to stray from.

"Welcome back."

Hyra felt the restraints in the scaling chamber release and realized that her legs would not support her. She toppled nude and slick with the same fluid that still burned her lungs and tasted thick and bitter in her mouth out and found herself caught by two sets of strong hands.

Hyra was vaguely aware that she was being laid out on a cold, smooth surface- but mostly felt dizzy. Like motion or zero-gravity sickness, she knew she had a better chance of beating the building nausea if she could lock her sight on a fixed object- but her eyelids were reluctant.

"Don't do that-."

Hyra recognized this voice and likely the owner of the second set of hands. It was Specialist First Class Breha- one of the two surviving members of the mission's survey team, and a botany specialist by occupational category. With the demise of the medical technician assigned to the mission, Breha had also taken on many of those responsibilities. It was fortunate that in addition to basic medical skills, he also had knowledge of the operation of the scaling chamber- although Hyra could think of nothing fortunate about the device at this particular moment.

"Let us wash the fluid off.", Moyrt instructed, "Believe me, you don't want it in your eyes. It burns worse than anything you can imagine."

Hyra mumbled her understanding in something that might have been a word.

A spray of cold water- colder even than the metal surface she had been laid on washed over her face and head and had swept down to her waist before the shock forced her to sit bolt-upright with a surprised squeal.

Her eyes were open now.

"-You!-.", was all Hyra managed between gasps of breath- mostly because her dazed mind could not think of anything offensive enough to follow the single pronoun with.

Moyrt quickly handed Hyra a blanket from the transport's stores to dry herself with. The cleansing station had been wrecked in the crash and the drying cycle of the four-stage process rendered inoperative with it.

"Hate me now, but the sick feeling's gone now, isn't it?", Moyrt said, not quite offering an apology.

But the nausea was gone and most of the haziness inside of Hyra's head. She still hated him a little for it though.

Breha helped Hyra swing her legs out over the side of the metal table on which they had laid her out. The transport's small infirmary compartment looked familiar, but at the same time was distinctly different. It took her a few moments to realize the compartment was smaller- and then a few more to recognize that the compartment was not smaller, but rather that she was larger.

The scaling process had succeeded in returning her to her original state.

"How do you feel?", Breha asked.

Hyra got the impression that the question was of the analytical and not the compassionate nature.

"-Uncentered.", Hyra said- unable to think of another word to describe the sensations through her body. She had the presence of mind to be thankful that back aboard the Trendok 145 Robotech Factory, she had been transferred immediately from the scaling chamber into stasis- sparing her the experience she was enjoying now.

"It passes.", Moyrt said, "Give it an hour or so, and you'll be over it completely."

"Really?", Hyra asked, knowing that Moyrt had been in her exact position only two hours before.

"No.", Moyrt said bluntly and unrepentantly for making a false statement, "I'm still getting that headache in waves- and the aches haven't let up yet."

"That takes a day or two.", Breha advised having been back to his full stature for a week to oversee the re-enlargement of the warriors who were charged with piloting the reconstructed Regults, "You have to appreciate that every cell in your bodies has been multiplied and linked to return you to-."

"I think I'm going to be sick-.", Hyra said, feeling a sudden churning in her belly, "-Or maybe I'm hungry."

Moyrt laughed and offered Hyra a drinking pouch, "That's you- not able to tell one from the other. Drink slowly first-. I made the mistake of tying to eat too soon and- well, it wasn't an experience I'd wish on you."

Hyra reached for the flexible pouch Moyrt held and realized that her hand was going well to the right of target. Moyrt took her hand in his free one and guided it over to the hand holding the drinking pouch where a transfer was achieved.

"Oh, and that's another thing-.", Moyrt added as Hyra brought the pouch back carefully toward her.

Lining up the drinking tube with her mouth was proving difficult as though her brain was trying to control someone else's arm and hand.

"Your coordination and special perception may be off for a short while.", Breha said as Hyra was experiencing the reality of his words, "That will come back quickly though."

"Will I be fit to fight?", Hyra asked around the plastic tube that she had finally managed to pass between her lips.

"As long as it's not in the next five or ten minutes.", Breha assured her, "And if it makes you feel any better, you're recovering quicker than Lieutenant Moyrt did."

Moyrt glared at Breha who pretended expertly not to notice.

"Nothing new or surprising there.", Hyra muttered between sips of water that had something strangely sweet added to it. She didn't want to ask, and assumed that whatever she was being given was to speed her back to a condition more closely resembling normal.

"Anything else you want to tell me?"

"You seem to have grown something.", Moyrt said, glancing down toward Hyra's mid-section where the blanket only partially covered her.

Hyra felt the surprise and terror in her expression as her head snapped forward in a downward glance.

Nothing different there.

"Got you.", Moyrt said with a malicious laugh.

Hyra fixed on her friend with a hateful glare, saying, "When I'm myself again, I'm going to choose the moment you're going to really regret how much you're enjoying yourself."

Moyrt feigned a wounded look, "And to think I took the trouble of running the checks and diagnostics on your Nacht-Rau for you-."

Hyra swallowed more of the liquid she had been offering before replying, "Great- that's just more for me to do later. Where's my uniform?"

Moyrt shook his head seeing that his friend's nature had been unaffected, "Glad to see that you're still yourself."

Edwards AFB, The Mojave Desert

Lieutenant Colonel Nigel Patrick Winters had only had three "jobs" in his life, not to include the standard childhood chores for a weekly allowance as a boy.

During secondary school and through the first year of university he had worked for a regional parcel service operating in southeastern England primarily. Decent money and a good outlet for a teenage boy's energies, he had been forced to trade in an ugly green uniform of cargo shorts and matching shirt and a set of van keys for the tutor's trade in mathematics that allowed for better flexibility in hours.

And then he had been a fighter pilot- first for the RAF and then the RDF.

The commonality of all three taxable "professions" was that none delved particularly deeply into or provided the professional with insight into human psychology- beyond the experience that he or she brought with them and accrued along the way.

As a "delivery boy" Winters had heard stories- mostly tripe- of lonely female patrons, mostly living on back-country roads, being in need of packages other than the ones parcel services were paid to drop off on a doorstep. He had even suspected a customer or two on his route to fall into that category- but had never been certain enough in pegging any of these ladies to be comfortable in that adolescent way to try to peg these ladies.

He had just never seen those "clear tells" that the other blokes had been so on about.

In his time tutoring math, he had cracked one or two "tough equations"- but had spent most of his time trying to interpret why a paying customer and fellow student couldn't comprehend what seemed so obvious to him- and trying to apply that to a teaching approach that would soak in and stick.

Even this wasn't anything that Freud would have recognized as psychology.

The closest, Winters resolved, that he had ever come to understanding what made people tick was his the application of his current trade.

Half of success as a fighter pilot was tied to one's ability to harness and direct aggression, which included intimidation. To understand what intimidated an opponent, one had to understand commonly what people- or Zentraedi- feared.

Perhaps not the noblest application of the understanding of the human condition, but for Winters certainly the closest to psychology.

And one could never tell if he had really tapped into something or just been more technically proficient at the trade than the enemy- could one?

Afterall, in any real scenario applying the fighter pilot's trade, success meant survival- and also usually that the other chap wasn't in a condition to critique the victor's mastery of the warrior's version of psychology.

No- and at the moment none of it could explain to Winters the conflicting emotions he felt as he approached the side entrance to the Wing Briefing Room- the only briefing room on post that could accommodate the pilots of four squadrons at once.

Winters had briefed many times in his military career. He had briefed superiors and subordinates, military personnel and civilians- once, during his RAF days he had even briefed a classroom of school children on "Why I Like Being a Pilot"- though speaking to children on "career day" at the behest of a then-potential "Mrs." Winters hardly counted as briefing.

How many times had he briefed though?

Hundreds, surely.

Thousandds?- possibly.

Still, as the general, low murmur of Type-A personalities growing restless became audible to him at the door, Winters could not remember the last time he had felt the butterflies in the stomach he was feeling now.

Was it nerves?

No-. He resolved, not nerves. That would have been a knot.

Then what?

Stepping through the door and seeing the podium at the elevated platform before the stadium-style chamber, it struck him.

Giddiness.

It was the feeling of perhaps not redemption, but at least reclamation of the life that best suited him. It was akin to a rebirth, or perhaps as Rio's darling lucky may have understood- a beat-up, old cat exercising the option of its last life.

Whistles and howls ripped the air of the room as Winters crossed the distance to the elevated platform. Wheel cap tucked under his left arm and swagger stick under his right, he kept his eyes forward and pretended to not notice a reaction that would have been more common to Mick Jagger than Nigel Patrick Winters from a gathering.

Ganyet Mumuni sat in the front row of seats looking as worn and tired as she had hours earlier at The High Desert Pilot's Social Club, but even in this state and probably despite her best efforts she couldn't help but show hints of a smile.

Winters reached the three steps of the platform and could barely resist the temptation to run the rest of the distance as the howls, chants, and cheers continued to whirl around him.

"-About fuckin' time you got back to work, you lazy bastard!-", came an anonymous, well-intended jab from the section predominantly occupied by the Gunfighters Squadron.

Winters placed his hat and stick on the podium and plugged a pen drive into the podium's interface port to allow him access to the briefing materials.

From the area of the audience that was most rowdy, and by no small coincidence the area infested with Knight Hawk Squadron, came-

"-Jack, baby!- If I didn't have a girlfriend, I'd SO fuck you right now!-"

Winters tapped the microphone to find it live.

"Thanks, Vice-.", he said benignly, "Thank you for making my big return socially awkward-."

A general laugh rolled through the gathering of pilots before the noise level dropped down to nothing as attention focused on Winters and the top slide of the briefing projected onto the screen behind him.

"Welcome to-.", Winters continued before being cut short by movement through the general entrance to his left.

Major Garret "Scooter" Phillips rushed in, failing in his attempt to look inconspicuous as he crossed the front of the room to join the rest of Knight Hawk Squadron.

For those who were not familiar with Scooter, of which there were only a few in the room, and particularly of "The Ritual" that ceremoniously preceded every mission he flew- the magazine rolled up beneath his arm may have been a clue as to the reason for his tardiness to the briefing.

Winters took it in stride- welcomed the minor distraction even.

"Sit-Rep, Scooter?", Winters asked, "Are we good?"

Phillips gave the thumbs-up as he took his seat, reporting dutifully, "Good volume, good texture. We're good, Jack."

Winters nodded his acknowledgment of the good omen.

"As I was saying-. Welcome to the briefing for Operation Rapier.", Winters said feeling a sudden, warm calm wash over him as the lights dimmed and a dusky darkness enveloped all.

"I doubt I have to give any of you the background underlying this operation-. We all know why we're here."

A solemn grumble from the darkness confirmed Winters supposition without question.

Winters continued, "-So, I'll skip to my general expectations. What I want from every stick on this sortie is nothing less than wanton acts of gratuitous and unspeakable violence against the enemy-."

"We take it back to him today."

A singular howl swept out of the darkness and over Winters like an invisible tsunami and confirmed for the squadron leader that all were on the same page.

Senior Master Sergeant Lyle DeVeoo watched as the ordinance handlers carefully maneuvered the cradle-lift cart transporting a fully loaded GU-11 gun pod into position beneath the center point of Winters' VF-1S Valkyrie.

As the other ordinance teams were exiting the HAS with empty lift carts whose lethal cargo now caused Marilyn's wings to droop dramatically, the "gun wranglers" (so self-named) raised the weapon slowly until the Valkyrie's mounting socket accepted and secured the gun pod's mounting spar/grip. The fighter's landing gear bent at the flex joints as their shock absorbers took on the additional weight of the last element of her armament, and the cart was quickly withdrawn and driven away under its own power.

For a few seconds under the harsh and brilliant glare of the aircraft shelter's lights, Lyle had a moment alone with these things of dreadful beauty.

Vice and Preacher's Valkyries also occupied other slots on the concrete floor of the HAS, identically armed and in all other visible respects the same as Winters' ship with the exception of nose art and tail numbers. But at the same time, Marilyn had a distinct and expectant glow about her that was not all simply a matter of perception.

The VF-1S had not flown in three months; even when other fighters in the squadron had been taken off of the "combat ready" roster for standard maintenance or repair of battle damage.

It seemed that no one wanted anyone to fly the squadron leader's fighter, except for the squadron leader.

In that time and to keep the Valkyrie ready, "just in case", Lyle had overseen the complete overhaul of all of her avionics, computer, hydraulic and mechanical systems- as well as the replacement of both Pratt & Whitney twin-stage Protoculture Fusion Reaction / Plasma Reaction PFR/PR-2001-B engines.

"Hands-on" as Lyle had been in what had for all intents and purposes been the complete break-down and reconstruction of the fighter, it had also been an ideal teaching experience for Senior Airmen Ghurdyt, Aptur, and Kakim- who had proven both eager and adept at learning what lessons Lyle had to offer.

While technically still generalists in Veritech maintenance (the RDF at some levels and in some commands still being grudging in allowing indoctrinated Zentraedi too much knowledge of or access to critical systems) the three former Warriors of the Empire had gained a great bit of expertise in working with the various specialists in the Wing's support elements. They were punctual, quick to learn and retain, and attentive to details- and moreover had gained some level of trust with each group with which they worked.

By no means were Ghurdyt, Aptur, and Kakim ready to replace Lyle as plane captain to Knight Hawk Squadron, or take on those responsibilities with another squadron- they still had much formal training and many qualifications between themselves and that level of responsibility. Lyle had reached a point where he could assign them complex and difficult tasks though, and count on them to be carried out reliably.

Lyle still checked, of course- "trust but verify" as the Russians were fond of saying, rumor had it- but when it came to his "babies" this was always standard practice for Lyle anyway.

Even Winters ha relaxed his stance on the Zentraedi airmen laying hands on squadron aircraft.

As one of the first interactions between the excitable squadron commander and the maintenance technicians had been Winters drawing a weapon on them for no offense of theirs- this was a significant improvement in trust.

Ghurdyt, Aptur, and Kakim had been with the squadron in Brazil and had shown every bit of the tenacity and fearlessness that one would expect of a Zentraedi Warrior when things had gone badly with the ASC there. While Winters had never said it directly, Lyle was sure that his position on the three had truly begun to soften during and following that trying episode.

Since that time, he had only shown mild discomfort on the occasions he had seen them engaged in maintenance work on the squadron's Valkyries- including his own. In ways that only could take place between mechanics and machines, they had been- intimate- with every fighter under Lyle's charge, but in its happening the pilots and plane captain alike had found that despite their initial misgivings- this appeared to be alright..

In reality, in all respects -and with legitimate contributions from Ghurdyt, Aptur, and Kakim, Marilyn was the best maintained, and most inspection and combat ready aircraft in the entire NORAMWEST command cluster and was only waiting for the opportunity to fly again.

That moment had come.

Lyle's "moment" ended abruptly, intruded upon from two directions as his Zentraedi apprentices entered the HAS through the gaping doors that opened to the tarmac, and by the three pilots whose aircraft occupied the hardened shelter.

Helmet, pressure suits G-pants, parachute, and the various pieces of standard flight gear carried on their person by all pilots adorned Winters' form again for the first time in what had been too long for Lyle's liking. The lieutenant colonel carried it all with ease though- naturally, and like he had hung it all up only the day before in his locker and the flight-prep room.

The pilots talked energetically between themselves as they came out of the hall connecting flight-prep to the HAS, resembling athletes enthusiastically taking the field rather than men about to set out on a killing. One not familiar with the pilots of Knight Hawk Squadron- pilots in general, really- might have found their casual manner disturbing, perhaps even offensive.

Lyle did know his pilots though- as well as he knew their aircraft at least, and he knew that this was their way.

When they strapped in and the canopies snapped home, their minds and attitudes would be all business.

"Well sheeyt…", Lyle said, loud enough to draw the attention of Winters as the CO split from the other pilots and he and the plane captain both converged on Marilyn.

Lyle drew a clean, bandanna-style, red handkerchief from his coverall pocket as he reached the nose of the waiting fighter and went through the motions of polishing the way that the prideful polish a thing of value to remove a blemish that only they can see.

"We done thought you didn' love us no more…", Lyle said making a final pass with his handkerchief over the nose art- a replication of the iconic image of the long-dead starlet standing in a billowing dress over a subway grate's updraft that he had air-brushed on himself- before leaning casually against the ladder that had been set in place at the cockpit's side.

Winters was in the process of his "walk-around" of the fighter, checking needlessly for signs of disrepair, dysfunction, and verifying that all of the ship's ordinance was firmly secured to the rails, fuses in place, and safety pins removed.

"You know how I'm bad at calling.", Winters said, ducking beneath the port engine intake to give the GU-11 gun pod a firm shove with his booted foot before going starboard to inspect the rockets and missiles suspended from the starboard wing.

"Can you find it in your hearts to forgive me?"

Lyle stooped under the fuselage to stay with the pilot in his walk-around that was rapidly drawing to a close.

"Ah s'pect Ah can.", Lyle said as he followed Winters aft to inspect the fighter's flare and chaff dispensers, "-But Ah gotta ask yer intentions b'fore ya go takin' mah baby out."

Winters and Lyle found themselves on the port side again walking forward, the pilot's inspection of his ship now complete.

"Only the worst intentions, I assure you.", Winters said, reaching the ladder at the cockpit's side, "What do you always say?- Ride her hard and put her up wet?"

Lyle patted the fuselage like a stable hand might pat the side of a horse's neck, "Yeah, rough's how she likes it-. Ya ain' been in the saddle `n a while, so just ease into it a little, would ya? Geyt used ta one `nother again `n all-."

As Winters ascended the ladder and threw a leg over the cockpit rim to step in, Senior Airman Aptur appeared with the clear intent of helping the CO to strap in.

Benignly, Lyle waved him off, saying, "Ah got this one-."

Unoffended, Aptur withdrew to offer assistance elsewhere.

Lyle joined Winters at cockpit-side as the pilot settled into the ejection seat and began to plug his suit in to the life-support, pressurized air, and electronics systems. The plane captain worked with familiarity around the pilot's activities and movements to fasten and secure his seat harnesses and one by one pull the straps taut.

As Winters put his helmet on and attached the oxygen mask to its fastening point, he recognized the hint of concern that Lyle was working to conceal.

"Hey-. It's going to be fine.", Winters assured the plane captain, "Just like riding a bicycle- right? Only at higher speeds and carrying explosives."

Lyle chuckled, "Well, hell- when'ya put it like that-."

Winters nodded his head to port, "Go on, clear out."

Lyle extracted the safety pin from the ejection seat handle and quickly descended the ladder and was pulling it away as Marilyn's flaps, elevators, and rudders began to move with the pilot's check of control surfaces. He was well clear of the fighter when Winters whistled shrilly at him.

"Yeah-?", Lyle called back.

Winters motioned into the cockpit, "-One more thing-. How do you start this contraption again?"

Lyle thumbed toward the open HAS doors.

"Geyt!"

Winters inserted a memory stick into the main computer port and locked it into place before tapping the flashing "START" icon that blinked at him from the center multi-functional display screen.

The cockpit flickered to life around him as the engine compressors started to drone and the turbines began to whir to life, slowly ascending in pitch into a high whine. The engines each gave a distinct "pop" as the plasma reaction stages lit and Winters felt the gentle push of thrust against the locked wheel brakes.

Winters moved his oxygen mask close to his mouth so to speak into the built-in microphone.

"Joshua, this is Knight Hawk Leader-. Request permission to taxi and prioritization for take-off-. Over."

Edwards Tower- "Joshua"- replied cleanly over the scrambled radio frequency, "Roger that, Knight Hawk Leader- You are clear to taxi to Runway Zero-Five. Wind is steady from zero-eight-zero at five. Take-off on request- you're in first slot…. Welcome back, Jack."

Winters, now at the point of facing what was to be done this morning replied with a grim laugh, "Thank you, Joshua-. Hope to hear you say that again in a few hours-."

Winters released the brakes and eased the throttles a touch forward. Marilyn rolled smoothly out of the HAS, into the chilled air and early light of sunrise, and onto the tarmac. Swinging the nose right Winters passed the other squadron HAS with Vice and Preacher following in column at safe intervals. The other fighters were clearly powering up now too, and though he could not hear it over the sounds of his own engines, Winters knew that the Edwards flight line was coming alive with the preliminary sounds of action.

Marilyn crossed the runway apron and the ramp to Runway 50, made the right turn and was then nose-on with the long strip of the Rogers lakebed.

A stiff breeze blew through the closing gap between the Valkyrie's canopy and cockpit rim as Winters closed and secured it. It smelled of the desert morning- a clean and invigorating scent.

Without additional ceremony, Winters centered his front wheel and slowly eased the throttles forward until they reached the stops.

Illuminated by the edge of the rising sun and casting long shadows from the slightest terrain features, the lakebed began to roll by and quickly became a blur as Marilyn built speed for take-off.

SDF-3

From the first days that humans had learned to use buoyant materials to ferry them over water, those pioneers and those who would later be called sailors had probably been superstitious.

As with any new technology that involved carrying man away from his natural element, there had been peril for those who had gone down to the sea. How many countless thousands had gone out beyond sight of land to see beasts unimaginable to their land-loving contemporaries, or had been caught by a following sea or in a sudden squall that had appeared from nowhere?

How many had been seen going over the horizon by loved ones and those left behind never to be seen again? Victims, all knew, of sailing beyond the edge of the Earth or into the jaws of some unseen malevolent force.

For thousands of years, when experience and heritage were the teacher of the men of the sea and science not yet even a concept, one could understand the rise of certain superstitions and their being embraced by subsequent generations. After all, were those who had not made a sacrificial offering to a sea god not among those who were taken by the uncompromising waves? Did those who did not read the signs both subtle and gross not pay the price for their negligence?

Even when the old sea gods had died and been swallowed up by the same watery tomb that was the resting place for those who had offended them in centuries past- did sailors still not carry their superstitions like a second religion? Didn't every ship that had gone on every expedition, or fought in every battle have that sailor whose "trusty scar", "tricky leg", or collective "bones" was looked to for advice like an oracle for seafarers?

Did sailors not put their new vessels into the sea first with religious ceremony?

And when was the last time an albatross had been slain by a mariner?

Superstition may have changed form over the centuries, but it was still a very real part of the sailor's constitution.

Vice Admiral Lisa Hayes-Hunter had never been a sailor in the truest sense of the word, having never served aboard a nautical vessel. She did not discredit herself for this though as she may not have been a seafarer- but she had earned her right to call herself a starfarer.

And with that, Vice Admiral Hayes-Hunter felt she was at least entitled to intuition if not superstition.

Hayes-Hunter's intuition was telling her now that something was amiss as she stood alone on the admiral's bridge, high in the conning tower of the recently-completed ship.

Always having been masterful in her self-awareness and self-control (professionally speaking at least), the thought had crossed Hayes-Hunter's mind that perhaps it was just memories of the past weaving themselves into events of the present that was having such an effect on her.

She had been Commander Hays and executive officer under Henry J. Gloval, and had been on the bridge of SDF-1 on an early February day in 2009 when the plans for the ship to make her maiden flight had taken a radical and historic turn.

As Captain Hayes she had been on the bridge of her first command, SDF-2, preparing for the controversial mission to take The Robotech War to The Masters' doorstep when the renegade Zentraedi Khyron and Azonia had attacked and irreparably crippled the second Battle Fortress.

Minutes later, she had been at her old post again aboard SDF-1 when the great ship made her final flight and had gone down defiantly with her guns blazing at the hands of the two blindly-obsessed Zentraedi commanders.

Only Admiral Gloval's selfless act of physically throwing her into the bridge's escape capsule and jettisoning her in the final moments before the collision between Khyron and Azonia's cruiser turned suicide-missile and SDF-1 had saved her from joining her friends Gloval, CDR Claudia Grant, LCDRs Kim Young, Samantha Porter, and Vanessa Leeds in being among the last casualties of the war.

That act had stayed with her in the years since, though she could never remember the event with consistent clarity. In those final moments when the Zentraedi's intent became unmistakably clear, Admiral Gloval had been closest to Kim, "Sammie" and Vanessa in relation to the escape pod.

In the time it had taken him to save her, Hayes-Hunter knew with certainty that he could have saved them- and perhaps even himself.

He had ignored the simple logic of numbers and had chosen to save her instead.

Gloval was Russian, and true to one of the stereotypes of that people was calculating and pragmatic. If his intentions had been to simply save as many lives as he could in the moment he had to act, he had made a poor decision.

If though, his intention had been something else-.

In the months leading up to that final battle, after Admiral Gloval had pinned on her captain's eagle and had informed Hayes she would command SDF-2 under his flag in the offensive against The Robotech Masters- she had gotten a sense repeatedly in conversations with him. She had gotten the sense that he did not expect to make the journey or fight the campaign that he had so meticulously planned in conjunction with the United Earth's new ally, Breetai. He went through the motions, spoke of hardships of war to come that they would have to face together- and mostly Hayes had accepted his words at face value.

Other times, Glovval had spoken to her in a way that sounded more of a father passing on his mantle to a favored child rather than a senior officer speaking to a subordinate.

It was really only after that horrid day that it had clicked for Hayes.

In the dark of night it had come to her many times, and each time she had confessed her suspicions to Rick who had explained it away each time in the way one expected a pilot to, once you got to know pilots-. He had assured her that her survival had been the result of a snap-decision made in a split-second by Gloval and nothing more.

Rick Hunter had not known Gloval the way she had though- not even after he had assumed command of SDF-1's fighter wing. The man had never made a snap-decision in his life- even when a split-second was all he had to make it in.

No, despite what Rick had told her over and over- Gloval had saved her with purpose.

She had felt it each time she had made another unexpected leap in rank- gaining three stars in just under three years. General Breetai had told her that he had pressed for the promotions sensing her potential and not having the luxury to wait on her building experience.

There had been more than that at work though.

Lisa Hayes, now Hayes-Hunter had sensed it at seeing the main structural members for SDF-3 assembled some twenty-eight months before, just as she had felt it at each of her promotion ceremonies- a sense that events were unfolding by some plan that she was only aware of in the execution, but that Gloval had known of all along.

She would not go so far as to call it providence or destiny- but it was something greater than random chance at work.

This was what her intuition told her, and like sailors of old she had come to trust her intuition.

Her trust in her intuition was also what made the sudden heightening of alert throughout the Fleet and in The Control Zone all that more disquieting.

Something was wrong, and she knew it.

And if her intuition was not enough, Breetai's intuition cinched it. The certainty of danger afoot was certain in the way that those who rely on intuition can pass judgment on a thing with no more proof than "that feeling".

-Or maybe "that feeling" was just a coincidental memory of a February day on the bridge of SDF-1.

SDF-3 was not SDF-1 though- a fact that Hayes-Hunter had reminded anyone of significance who had not already had that fact drilled into their head by Dr. Emil Lang- another of the few who had served aboard SDF-1 and had survived to see the completion of SDF-3.

Once described in conversation aptly to Hayes-Hunter' way of thinking as being equal parts Deadalus, Dr. Frankenstein, and Dr. Strangelove- Lang was at the same time the Rosetta Stone that had made the wringing of Robotechnology out of a charred hulk that had crashed on Macross Island possible.

That genius had produced- besides endless rants on the potential of Robotechnology for humanity and the directions it could be taken- a vessel that Zor himself would have recognized as being very much like his own, if not mistaking it for the same.

Unlike the angular lines of SDF-1 and SDF-2, SDF-3 had the rounded, organic exterior that was more common to the appearance of Zentraedi vessels. The similarity with her distant Zentraedi cousins ended at the depth of her outer hull though, as did the similarity with any of her Terran relatives. SDF-3 was the "great experiment" (as Lang had called her), designed to not only operate autonomously away from support for extended periods, but also to support the other ships of the battle group she was intended to lead.

At just over 1,600 meters (25% larger in dimensions and tonnage than the SDF—1) SDF-3 was more than a warship. At her core was a "Dynamic Manufacturing Facility"- identical in function and operation to the production facilities aboard Robotech Factories. With the proper quantity of raw materials, SDF-3 could generate without limit everything from synthesized rations and uniforms for her crew to new fighters for her hangars, or munitions to restock her own magazines.

In theory, the only limitations to her operational endurance was her Protoculture fuel supply (estimated to be viable for no less than 130 Terran years) and a functional crew to operate her.

So went the theory.

As for her warship attributes, SDF-3 was another milestone in and the pinnacle of combat systems. From an air combat wing of the latest generation of Veritech Fighters, to the full range of energy weapon and missile system technologies in the REF inventory, to the awesome firepower of her twin Reflex Cannon main battery and the latest energy barrier system- SDF-3 could stand toe-to-toe with any known vessel and trade body blows.

So went the theory.

Looking out through the forward view port over the long, sweeping foredecks of maroon colored (a throwback in appearance also to Zor's original Battle Fortress) Terilium alloy, Vice Admiral Hayes-Hunter was soberly aware that much about the new ship was still theory. One of the few remaining common elements shared with SDF-1.

Maintenance craft and EVA worker details could be seen moving about the ship's outer hull at various points double-checking final details that had been double-checked twice before. Kilometers of decorative bunting that had been run up from the ship's decks to her main sensor mast heads in anticipation of a grand christening ceremony were in the last stages of coming down, as were the decorative touches to the interior of the spacedock that had been the site of her final fitting out.

With the possibility now that SDF-3 might be called into immediate action, there was no time or latitude for such pleasantries. A scenario reminiscent again of the beginning of SDF-1's service life- a life that Hayes-Hunter hoped SDF-3 would not parallel to its termination.

The door at the aft end of the admiral's bridge slid open, washing the dimmed compartment with the light of the corridor beyond and allowing the shadow of a figure to be thrown long over the vacant stations.

"Admiral, ma'am-?"

"Yes, Captain?", Hayes-Hunter replied, not taking her eyes off the activities going on about her flagship. She had recognized Captain Hollenkamp from his reflection in the acrylic of view port.

Oddly, Hollenkamp was at least ten years older than she, but by virtue of her meteoric rise to Vice Admiral had the obligation to answer to her as his clear superior. It had never been an issue with the captain who Hayes-Hunter had chosen personally to command SDF-3 for his flawless and impressive service record, and for the aggressive combat philosophy he had been known for trying to impart on students at the RDF Academy's Space Warfare School.

"Ma'am, Lieutenant General Hunter has just come aboard.", Hollenkamp informed Hayes-Hunter, "-And like you said, he's declined the transfer of flags ceremony."

Hayes-Hunter smiled slightly, turning to face the ship's commander, "Skull One is aboard- that's General Hunter's transfer of flags. That damn Veritech is his thirty ton lucky bottlecap."

And it was.

Roy Folker's old VF-1S Veritech fighter had never been more than a figurative arm's reach from Rick Hunter since he had inherited it after Folker's unfortunate death from wounds sustained in combat. Even though Rick himself had long since been taken off the combat roster of the famous Skull Squadron (ceding its leadership to Max Sterling) he still made a point of having Skull One nearby and available, and would even act as his own transport from place to place when conditions permitted.

"We all have our quirks, ma'am.", Hollenkamp advised.

"-And our spouse's.", Hayes-Hunter added.

"Additionally, Admiral-.", Hollenkamp continued, reporting on his command, "The final provisions and stores are now aboard and will be secure within the hour. We can put out any time."

"-Without a shake-down cruise.", Hayes-Hunter reminded him.

Hollenkamp crossed to the center of the admiral's bridge and leaned on the darkened holographic display table, saying almost casually, "Well, the first test of the Saturn 5 rocket was a full-up flight test. That turned out pretty well-. And we have ten times the number of PhDs and about a trillion times the computer power dedicated to simulations behind us. I'm not completely behind the idea either, but the odds are better for us than against us."

"Mmm-.", Hayes-Hunter hummed her partial agreement, "Of course the Saturn 5 rocket never had the threat of someone shooting at it- or a lot of someones."

"True.", Hollenkamp agreed, "But is anyone ever truly ready for combat?"

Hayes-Hunter nodded, "Point well taken, Captain."

Hollenkamp paused hesitantly in the silence and then asked, "So, you think there's something behind all of this? I mean, General Breetai ordering the Fleet to go pretty much to stand-by?"

Hayes-Hunter shook her head, "I want to say he's just being cautious, but I honestly don't know, Julian- I honestly don't know. I'm feeling something in my gut, and I can't shake it."

"Me too.", Hollenkamp agreed, "Funny how sometimes you spend so much of your career trying to be right, only to hope most of the time that your instincts are wrong."

"Yeah, funny.", Hayes-Hunter agreed, "In a not-so-funny way."

"Well", Hollenkamp resolved, "If some rogue Zentraedi decides to try to mix it up with us and expects to find the defenses of six years ago- he's gonna have a helluva rude surprise, Admiral."

Hayes-Hunter said solemnly, "If a rogue Zentraedi commander with a large enough force decides to mix it up with us, Julian- we could all be in for a rude surprise. Let's hope that this is one of those instances where our instincts are wrong."

"Amen to that, Admiral."

14 Km North of Brasilia

"You're gonna need a bigger boat-."

The image through Whilite's mini-binoculars jumped and trembled as he worked to stifle the laugh that he, and every other Ranger in 3rd Platoon- Echo Company really- needed.

They had been up and operational for just over thirty-six hours now, and though it would take much more to break any of the Rangers in the unit- the first signs of fatigue were setting in.

Fortunately, Staff Sergeant Byerly always knew what to say and at what moment to say it to relieve just enough of the pressure to allow the mission to carry on fluidly. It was part of that odd composition that made for a good sergeant- knowing when to be a comedian, when to apply the "mom's touch", and when to apply a firm boot in the ass.

Byerly had perfected the balance.

The fact that daylight was on the rise also, and with it the need to remain "holed up" in observation positions meant that the platoon- the company- could begin to sleep in shifts. The Ranges would not squander the opportunity as there was a sense that their strength would be needed in whatever came next.

The Zentraedi were not likely to go anywhere by daylight, and if they did- particularly if they decided to go somewhere aggressively- the positions of their encampments had been called in already to nearby firebases and the proper settings dialed in to no less than four batteries of artillery.

They did not know it, but the Zentraedi that Whilite was observing were a simple call and twenty seconds away from a saturating steel rain.

If he, or another made the call.

What troubled Whilite more than the fact that he and the bulk of 4th Ranger were in the field, shadowing and observing a malcontent force that if it became aware of the Rangers' presence could easily overwhelm them by sheer weight of numbers was that there was still no clear reason as to why the malcontents were here.

Operation Masterson and its push into the sector of Brasilia identified as "Abilene" had been expected to elicit a reaction from the malcontents still dug in deep within Brasilia- but their reaction had not been the one that the operational planners had anticipated. Instead of experiencing violent counterattack, the Rangers and their supporting forces had witnessed nothing less than a complete withdrawal of the Zentraedi from the former capital..

There had been bloodshed- certainly- but not on the scale that there could have been.

The Zentraedi had simply packed up shop and pulled out- putting up what could only be classified as the required rear guarding action to facilitate a clean escape- not even true resistance.

"Lawman", or more commonly known as General Wendel of the 129th Infantry Division had monitored the Zentraedi exodus from his command post, "Homestead", through the electronic eyes of UCAVs, Destroids, and helmet cameras like everyone else involved in Masterson. He had watched as the Zentraedi had washed through the streets like the creep and flow of rising flood waters- rolling north and out into the countryside.

Wendel had taken the natural precaution of defense, drawing what forces he could to surround the areas of Brasilia that the RDF and ASC already held collectively and had ordered units in outlying areas to shelter in place and defend themselves the best they could.

The order had been pointless though. The sudden Zentraedi movement had not resulted in any kind of massive counterattack- not even a skirmish beyond the brief and bloody melee that had ensued at the initiation of the alien withdrawal.

Officers and staff at Homestead, officers and troops spread throughout Brasilia had watched the aliens simply walk away. Some RDF units had been so close as to have been within spitting distance of the alien throngs as they withdrew- but had been within such proximity without incident beyond the regular spiteful glares of the withdrawing malcontents.

Contrary to their nature, the Zentraedi had just left.

They had just left, marched north beyond the city limits and had set up camp, organized it seemed into groups of regimental size or less.

"Sergeant-.", Whilite said finally, snapping the flip-up dust covers of his binoculars back into place before slipping the glasses into their carrying pouch on his rig, "-We are living in some strange times."

"Christmas is the season of miracles.", Byerly snorted incredulously, "Maybe this is their version of peace on Earth and blah, blah, blah.."

"Sure, and I'm Saint Nick-.", Whilite replied.

No, the Zentraedi were hatching something- of that, Whilite had no doubt. It was the what that he could not zero-in on.

It had nothing to do with peace and good will- that much was for sure.

The Zentraedi had abandoned Brasilia, and had not instigated a fight other than perhaps the bloodbath that had flared up in their rear lines- but pacifism was clearly far from their intent.

Every Zentraedi walking, riding a modestly impressive number of salvaged civilian vehicles, or pulling a cart did so laden to absolute capacity with the implements of violence. The order had even come down from Lawman himself to all units, reinforcing standard ROE: that firing was sanctioned only in cases of immanent danger or self-defense- so concerned had Command been of arousing the anger of so many armed Zentraedi.

So with their weapons, they had left the city, gone a short distance and bivouacked.

Almost as quickly, 4th Ranger had re-equipped for field operations, gotten a hot meal into them, and under the cover of night had slipped out to pursue, shadow, and observe.

And now, here they all were- malcontents and Rangers spread out in a crude semi-circle north of and seeming to cap Brasilia with the Terran forces "holding" the interior line.

The ASC was here too- Whilite had known this as a fact since around 0240 and had suspected they would be in the field since much earlier- when intel had predicted it. A quick security sweep east of 3rd Platoon's right flank position by 2nd Squad had happened quietly upon an ASC Rcon OP- supposedly without drawing attention to itself.

Whilite didn't care one way or the other about what the ASC did or did not know about his platoon's whereabouts- he even invited their knowing.

If any kind of shooting were to start, even ASC humans would still be humans- and allies in one form or another by default.

The artillery was zeroed in though, just waiting for the first signs of unrest to equalize the balance of forces and end the Zentraedi plan before it got started- whatever that plan was.

"I don't get it, Michelle-.", Whilite said quietly. A fire team from 1st Squad lay in concealment a few meters down the incline of the hill and in its brush and weedy cover, well hidden from Zentraedi eyes but possibly still within earshot of their lieutenant both speaking informally to the platoon sergeant and voicing confusion.

"They could have turned every street into Omaha Beach- but they walk out and then set up camp like they're getting ready to take the place by storm again-. What the hell kind of sense does that make?"

Byerly shrugged, "The saying about rats and a sinking ship comes to mind, El-Tee."

"The ship wasn't sinking though.", Whilite argued, figuring as the words passed his lips that the same argument had probably been made aboard the Titanic for a while too.

Byerly shook her head, "Don't know what to tell you except that they''re going to find strollin' back in a helluva lot harder than it was strollin' out."

"Yeah-.", Whilite agreed- not even attempting to sound convinced as he thought of a regiment's strength of Rangers and probably as many ASC recon and regulars buffering the outskirts of Brasilia from malcontents whose strength in numbers was divisional at least.

"-We've got the poor bastards right where we want `em."

Staff Sergeant Byerly's choice of iconic film phrases suddenly seemed that much more appropriate.

If the shooting started, they were gonna need a bigger boat.

Ft. Georgy Zhukov

Kursk, Ukraine

Winter had come to the steppes in late September this year- a lingering aftereffect in the environment from The Zentraedi Holocaust that would take decades to right itself scientists said- but the season now had Ukraine firmly in its teeth.

Harsh winter weather was no stranger to the region though, and as much a part of the Slavic peoples' composition as class struggle and endured hardships.

As a Russian, born, raised, and having spent his formative years in a hamlet outside of Smolensk, the stiff wind carrying the saucer-size snowflakes of a passing weather front were hardly noticed by Captain Alexander Cherghuliev of the RDF-Army's 5th Guards Armor Corps.

While not Smolensk, Ft. Georgy Zhukov and Ukraine was as much a home to Cherghuliev. It was more than the similarities in climate, or the fact that Zhukov was his duty post- it was the fact that Cherghuliev's family already had history in Kursk and in the legacy unit in which he served. His grandfather, Sergeant Sergay Cherghuliev of the then-Soviet 5th Guards Tank Army had fought on this land and had bled into its soil during The Great Patriotic War at the battle that had made Kursk famous.

As a small boy, Cherghuliev could remember his grandfather taking him to the boundless fields where only the occasional rusted hulk of a tank gave any indication that there had once been violence there and had woven intricate and elaborate verbal tapestries of the glories and horrors he had seen. Though not a conscious decision yet, Cherghuliev had known then that he would return to this place to do the things his grandfather had done before him.

Cherghuliev had been far too young for The Global War, but to his parents' dismay had been of the age of service at the time that The United Earth Robotech Defense Forces- Army had been looking to swell its ranks.

Cherghuliev's impulse had been to enlist, but his mother a university teacher of chemistry and his father a university-educated manager of an electronics component factory had convinced him that at the least he should make his career in the military an officer's career.

And he had.

He had entered the Army as a second lieutenant and had been accepted into the armored warfare school with the officer's rank to satisfy is his parents and on a path that appealed to him and was pleasing to his grandfather in the final months of his life.

Still, at the moment it was of little comfort- it was the holidays and while Alexander Cherghuliev should have been home reading stories of Christmas and Grandfather Frost to his daughter, Natasha- four, while his wife Natalya nursed three-month old Mikhal- he was instead concluding an unanticipated exercise and would be attending to his tank platoon's follow-on activities for several more hours.

It was an understood risk that the 5th Guards shouldered in being attached to the 301st Mobile Planetary Defense Battery Regiment- that as the ground-level defense component, they could be activated and expected to move out at a moment's notice. And while this did not preclude the possibility of this happening during the holiday season, it was almost unheard of to have an emergency mobilization drill sprung upon them during those times.

It had not been broached by Division, or alluded to in the issuance of the drill orders earlier that day- but it had not gone unnoticed by the 301st or the 5th Guards that the "drill" orders had come hard on the heels of the 12-hour recall orders that had come down directly from OMCS.

Cherghuliev as he had entered Army service had been under the illusion that all things in the Army were clearly defined and outlined so that there was no chance of misinterpretation or misunderstanding. He had since discovered that in many things, it was still required that one be able to read between the lines of "official" communication.

The 12-hour recall order combined with the mobilization drill alluded to something more than testing the readiness of military units at a time when they could be expected to be the least ready.

It alluded to a real concern felt all the way up to The Military Chief of Staff that lacked clear form but still warranted preparedness.

This was what Cherghuliev read between the lines.

All of the tankers in his platoon- all of the men and women in the 5th and the 301st had still used the few and rare idle moments during the drill to speak of what they would be doing with family on Christmas Day- but there was a common sense that this was talk that was as much to steady nerves as to actually plan for the next day.

The hardest part for Cherghuliev was conceiving of and delivering in a convincing manner a lie to Natalya that dismissed the odd convergence of events that he now found himself in.

"Why would they choose to do this today?", Natalya had asked standing by the half-decorated tree with Mikhal over her right shoulder.

"Because General Khuchenko is a bitter old man with no family and the need for another star-.", Alexander had explained as he had taken his quick-deployment bag out of the front closet of his family's modest officer's quarters apartment on his way out the door.

"-This is his sad version of a family gathering at Christmas."

The lie had been quickly rendered and Cherghuliev had seen in his wife's eyes that she was not convinced- but in the absence of facts that he likely would not have been allowed to share in any event, it was the best he could do to comfort her.

He had told her that he would be back likely in the late hours of the night or early hours of the morning and would be there to lead the family in prayer over The Holy Feast-.

-After.

Cherghuliev was certain that similar if not the same lie had been told as many times to spouses, sweethearts, and family as there were members in the combined unit. He was also equally certain that just as many times the lie was accepted with muted disbelief.

Still- it looked now as though he, and the other liars of his unit might make good on their promises.

As Cherghuliev stood just inside of the open motor pool shelter doors, one of the centerpieces of the 301st glided by silently through the center of the marshalling yard.

At just under 85 meters in length, the M-71 Synchro Cannon Hover Platform was the least toted and the only Army-owned planetary defense asset in the RDF inventory. Simple in concept but more challenging in justification to a heavily strained Armed Forces Financing Committee, the Synchro Cannon was not unlike a self-propelled artillery piece- only with more firepower in orders of magnitude.

Though difficult to make out through the driving snow while the cannon was stowed flush to the body of its transport platform, the energy weapon was nothing less than a miniaturized and modified version of the SDF-1's famous Reflex Cannon- a glorified variant of particle beam weapon technology. The Synchro Cannon borrowed from the Cold War era concept of the mobile, short-range tactical nuclear missile launcher- only this incarnation directed its destructive potential outwards.

As had just been practiced in the drill from which Cherghuliev was returning, the Synchro Cannon units- deployed throughout the "open" landscapes of the Earth- were designed to engage any enemy space-going force that might penetrate the outer perimeters of the Earth's developing Aegis Planetary Defense System and reach middle to low orbit.

The Synchro Cannon had the reach to engage warships at a much greater distance- even out beyond the constellation of A.R.M.D. II space platforms standing at their geostationary guard posts- however "turf conflicts" between the RDF-Army and REF had greatly reduced the Synchro Cannon's area of responsibility.

True to political aspect of the design of any major weapons system, the Synchro Cannon had been defined in concept as much by inter-service tensions and rivalries as it had been by practical requirement.

The other and beneficial side of that same coin was however that the concept of a "smaller" Reflex Cannon had appealed to the REF as well. While as an Army program alone, the Synchro Cannon may not have received adequate funding to see operational life- with REF interest and the prospect of a joint project with multiple applications- the program had been funded sufficiently to bear viable fruit.

Though not commonly discussed, it was nonetheless a matter of record that many system components developed for the Synchro Cannon system had found their way into other military systems.

The Long Range Acquisition and Targeting System- or "LRATS" used to feed target data to the Synchro Cannon in the prospect absence of the InfoLink data network had been integrated into a number of ground-based missile systems.

Even the maglev drive and stabilization system that supported and propelled the cannon's platform on an invisible cushion of parallel magnetic fields had found its way into other systems. The irony here, Cherghuliev recognized, that the maglev had appeared in a Southern Cross weapons system- the newly revealed VHT- before it had been incorporated into any other RDF or REF vehicles.

-Another constant and bi-product of military R&D: the sustainment of a healthy industrial and technological espionage community.

The Synchro Cannon had spawned many offshoots, both dramatic and subdued- including a variant of the transport platform itself that carried a ground-based variant of the REF's Mk-9 "Ballista" ASM- another project that the REF just happened to have been interested in pursuing jointly with the RDF-Army- but it was the formation of the Mobile Planetary Defense Battery units that had affected Cherghuliev most directly.

The MPDBs, built around the operations of the Synchro Cannons and Ballista Hover Platforms required a ground-level defense with mobility and speed equal to their own. It was coincidental that in the steppes of Ukraine that The 5th Guards Armored Corps and its mix of traditional and mecha armor fit the need precisely of the 301st.

As was so common these days with the fusion of new and old technologies, The 5th Guards provided the "fist" of armor to pave the way to anywhere in the region that the 301st might choose to operate from.

Operationally, the services of neither The 5th Guards nor the 301st had been called upon- yet.

No marauding Zentraedi space cruiser or Invid transport had ventured to within the Synchro Cannon or Ballista Platform's striking distance, and there were no mased forces of enemy mecha for The 5th Guards to defend them against.

Combined, they were a unit guarding against the hypothetical armed with the state-of-the-art theoretical.

But as the old adage had said, the best weapons system was the one that you never had to use.

Cherghuliev began to feel the weariness from the day set in on him along with the numbing effects of the winter cold.

He wanted to be home again, and soon- and his enemy right now was the required after-action paperwork that stood between him and that goal.

The Panama Canal RDF Military Control Zone

The heat and sultriness of the air never diminished in Central America.

December was as June, which was as March or September- always the same, smothering blanket of heat and humidity.

Some said that with time, one became acclimatized to the tropical swelter- but those who had said that had probably not spent much time in Panama.

Second Lieutenant Khoa Nguyen of the 443rd Regiment, RDF-Army Corps of Engineers was rounding out his eighth month in Panama, and he had not yet acclimatized to the region.

Certainly he had felt heat and humidity before- having gone through "officers' boot camp" in Fort Benning, Georgia and through the regional Corps of Engineers training at the "Learning Center" in Huntsville, Alabama.

Khoa had even returned to Vietnam with his family, before The Zentraedi Holocaust, to see his father's ancestral village.

Nothing though in memory or training had prepared Nguyen for the oppressive climate and relentless, malicious insects of Panama.

Early in his tour, when he had first been attached to the 443rd, Captain Adams of his company had made the remark that Panama was "one continuous shower that never ran out of hot water". –And Nguyen had quickly come to believe that.

As his father, an officer commanding a company with 4th Ranger Regiment had assured him he would- Khoa had even experienced moments of doubt that the Army was the path he wanted to follow in applying his engineering education and skills. But also following his father's advice, he had simply put his shoulder into his work and had pressed forward.

Now, standing over Lock 47 as cranes lifted out the last of the collapsed and stacked molding and scaffolding that been a constant image of ongoing work for months- Khoa Nguyen knew that he was in the place that he was meant to be- despite the heat.

The Panama Canal- like almost every other significant achievement of humankind had been devastated by The Zentraedi Holocaust. Skeptics had at a glance written the engineering marvel of the early 20th Century off as unsalvageable and beyond repair- or at least low on the list of priority of things to repair given the scope of worldwide devastation.

General Javier Gonzago, of the RDF's Central America Command had conceded willingly, almost joyfully that The Panama Canal could not be repaired.

It would be rebuilt and improved upon.

Khoa Nguyen had remembered early stories coming out of the region- early photos and video clips showing modern earth moving equipment at work side-by-side with teams of mules driven by local laborers in the first efforts to clear away the debris of the old canal.

By the time he had earned his right to call himself an engineer, though not yet an Army engineer, Gonzago's outlandish prophecy was becoming reality. Beyond reality, it was also becoming an inspirational example to all parts of the world that the Earth could come back.

Nguyen had realized this most when on his final spring recess at university when he had happened to be walking along a street to see a construction crew repairing a sewer line. Not gratifying work, not glorious by any stretch of the imagination- but the words scrawled across the back of one of the workers' denim vest said all that needed to be said about the true genius of Gonzago's vision.

It had read:

"IF IT CAN HAPPEN IN PANAMA, WHY NOT HERE?"

There had been a lot of hard work between then and now, both in training and in actual, "hands in the dirt" work- but it was happening in Panama, and Second Lieutenant Khoa Nguyen was part of it.

Actually, it was happening all over the world.

The Panama Canal had been reborn, and a grander achievement than its original incarnation. The breadth of the stepped waterway had been increased to a remarkable 75 meters, making it passable to all ships currently afloat and restoring it to the status of the fastest route between the Pacific and the Atlantic. Though gates and pumping stations would still have to be tested and final adjustments inevitably made, there was every reason to expect that ships would again be making the shortened passage again within three to four months.

With a similar effort underway at the site of The Suez Canal, maritime commerce held the promise of returning to pre-holocaust normalcy within a matter of years.

With that, planetary trade would resume again and the wheels of reconstruction would be able to turn that much more quickly.

At graduation from Huntsville, the commandant of the Corps of Engineers had told all those receiving their certification that the soldier in the Corps of Engineers wore two hats and carried dual responsibilities. They were warriors, and with that carried the responsibilities of preserving and defending the peace. But they were also engineers, and in the world they lived in that meant that they shouldered the burden of laying the foundation upon which the Earth would rebuild itself again.

In his time at "The Canal", Nguyen had performed both duties- or at least been exposed to the dangers of the former.

With the entire garrison of Panama Base assigned to support and protect the Canal project, direct contact with malcontents had been rare in Nguyen's first five months on site. A buffer zone running parallel to the canal itself and never less than four kilometers deep had been established and held with great integrity by the infantry and mecha armor forces.

There had been incidents all along though. Mostly mortar attacks from extreme range that had little hope of doing more than intimidating- and certainly had no chance of significantly disrupting the work being performed by the engineers.

Still, it was a level of peril that Khoa Nguyen had had to experience before knowing that the combat arm of the military would probably not have been the best choice for him.

It was probably the waiting that was the worst- the waiting that took place between the wail of the warning siren and the fall of the first mortar round. The waiting and the uncertainty of where the free-falling bomb would land- that was what got Khoa each time.

The first three attacks he had been through, all within the first two weeks of his time at The Canal- Khoa had played off, not so much with bravado but the acceptance of danger that his father had always shown when talking about life in a Ranger unit.

The fear never quite subsided, but it wasn't until the end of his second month when one of the random mortars lobbed by a hidden malcontent team beyond the perimeter struck a cluster of empty steel container drums and sent three engineers that Nguyen had come to know to hospital- sending one home eventually- that Khoa had actually come to recognize the violence of the region.

Even that incident could have been worse though. An infantryman had told Nguyen later that the mortar had been of the fragmentation sort, and intended to detonate overhead. If its fuse had been set properly, if it had not crashed into the cluster of empty drums and detonated there- it likely would have killed instead of wounded.

It had been a lucky "miss"- but one after which Nguyen always was sure to have his flak vest and helmet with him and on whenever outside of the cover of a solid structure.

Over the past two to two-and-a-half months, the attacks had grown worse in frequency if not the accuracy of mortars lobbed- and malcontents had even been killed trying to penetrate the canal zone's perimeter. Nguyen had even taken to the practice of carrying a rifle if he was to be out at a work site in the pre-dawn or dusk hours- an addition to the side arms all officers were required to carry regardless.

And then, as inexplicably as the violence had increased- it had dropped to nothing.

Not a siren had been heard in ten days, nor the whistle and boom of an incoming round.

But now there were strange orders from OMCS, and though the Corps of Engineers did not associate regularly with the infantry security elements- if one stood in their proximity for long enough to observe them, there was a sense about them that said that they were bracing up for something that they could not clearly mark or identify.

This was life in The Panama Canal Zone, which Nguyen reminded himself was nothing like what his father dealt with on a daily basis in Brasilia and The Zentraedi Control Zone.

This was probably just the peak of tensions and would blow over soon though.

One never got used to the heat in Panama and his father had told him that there was never any getting used to violence, but looking at just how far this project had come in eight months, and knowing that he had been part of it- Khoa Nguyen knew that he had chosen the right path.

ASC Salvador Base,

Salvador de Norte, Brazil

1 minute, 45 seconds.

Lieutenant Colonel Warren "Mojo" Mathias was not hearing the wail of the general alarm siren that seemed to shake the entire base to include the slabs of tarmac concrete that he stood on. He was focused on the stopwatch he held in his meaty right fist- the timepiece he had started at the initiation of the readiness drill that only General Braddock's staff, himself, and several other officers of the Army of the Southern Cross base had foreknowledge of.

Two minutes.

All over the flight line, ground crews were scrambling to arm the "Alert Stand-by" aircraft, as Mathias was certain the support crews further to the west were preparing the mecha elements attached to Salvador.

Of particular interest to Mathias was the arming of the base's newest acquisitions- a squadron of "Logan" Veritech Fighters.

The fact that they were the aircraft of his squadron, Cavalier Squadron, was something of a contributing factor to his interest.

Training for he and the Cavaliers on the new ASC transformable aircraft had been ongoing for nearly two years- well before a fully functional prototype had been flown, and before his squadron had traded in their Phantom interceptors for the latest siblings in the Robotechnology family.

It had seemed ridiculous at times to train to operate machines that did not yet exist, but at every turn he and the other pilots had been assured that the Logans were coming and that training and equipment would converge operationally in the not-so-distant future.

That too had seemed unlikely to Mathias, as it was a poorly kept secret that the design board was having difficulties with some of the fundamental questions of control systems that were required to make something as complex as a transformable vehicle operationally viable. But something had changed at some point, and the ASC that had seemed to be a distant second runner-up in the Robotechnology race had made it to the finish line with a sudden surge.

Of course, having the Logans in their possession was of no use to Cavalier Squadron if they could not be prepared for flight and combat in a rapid order and at a moment's notice.

2 minutes, 30 seconds.

Salvador Base had learned something of an embarrassing lesson in preparedness for rapid response- and not from the normal tutors, the population of Zentraedi malcontents whose limited cooperation with the ASC had dissolved three months before.

No, the painful and costly blow to Salvador- to the ASC in this secotr as it applied to revenue generation- had come from two squadrons of RDF pilots when a potentially lucrative business arrangement had gone horribly and unexpectedly wrong.

Mathias had felt the sting of being caught off guard and on the ground- a wound only made more raw by the fact that a skillfully executed pursuit and intercept had been interrupted before the kill by supporting RDF forces.

Mathias had made it a point to not let a single man- an arrogant, priggish, conceited, syrupy-idealism driven, swaggering, self-righteous-.

Mathias was not going to allow one man become his white whale-.

But he had not denied himself the self-indulgent hope of a rematch.

And from what Mathias had experienced with the delivered product- the Logan Veritech was the tool to bring to the event.

It was an ugly little bastard- there was no denying it, Mathias knew- but the Logan had not been designed or built to impress with its aesthetic qualities. It lacked the reach of weapons available to the VF series Valkyrie Veritech to be any kind of a match at long ranges- but within its striking distance-.

The Logan, despite its primary role as a ground support and attack platform, could carry any air-to-air weapon in the ASC or ASC/RDF shared inventory. At all altitudes and in all conditions it was more maneuverable than the aging Valkyrie with a higher rate of turn, smaller turn radius, superior thrust-to-weight ratio, and subsequently a better rate of climb. At some altitudes, it even was a match for the sleeker Valkyrie in speed.

Down on the deck though, where Mathias dreamt of the moment taking place- the Logan was a hands-down superior aircraft- and able to absorb punishment as well as it could dispense it- and far better than its flashier elder.

Fighting Valkyries was not the Logan's primary role though, nor was his Mathias reminded himself.

Even if it would have been wholly gratifying.

Three minutes.

The malcontents were in the final phases of staging something in the region- something big.

The Army of the Southern Cross and The Alliance of Independent States that it defended regionally from the enormous, marooned alien population within was aware of it. The United Earth Government and its branches of the Robotech Defense Forces thought themselves magnanimous and publicly carried themselves so for the scraps of intelligence that they threw to the AIS and the command of the ASC- but these intelligence offerings were merely slight illumination on trends, events, and individuals that the ASC was already conscious of and monitoring.

There was no great skill in intelligence gathering or analysis required to see that something massive was being worked toward a moment of execution by the aliens.

Three months earlier, Mathias had been a participant in the event- ironically named with the benefit of hindsight, "Operation Back Step"- that had begun The Zentraedi Control Zone on the course that had carried it to this point.

The initial reaction of the malcontents was understandable- expected even. Alien rage and the natural reciprocity had flared in central Brazil and for a time reached a level of violence that seemed disproportionate in response to the blow dealt to them- even for Zentraedi.

Then, as the flash of anger should have been subsiding the areas experiencing malcontent attack expanded and the disjointed attacks and raids took on a focused and unexpected form. The aliens had begun to raid military posts and depots- often suffering what should have been crippling casualties for the sake of making off with weapons and supplies- sometimes in insignificant qualities. Armed supply convoys were hit and their cargo seized, units in the field were attacked and the bodies of the dead stripped of anything that could be useful in battle.

Only battles had never really come in the three months since Back Step.

There had been allusions to battle, hints and indicators that had set the ASC and RDF-Army scrambling to prepare for battle- but never the grand battles themselves that Zentraedi were renown for excellence in.

Some population centers- Brasilia being the most noteworthy- had fallen under alien siege and had therefore become centers of world attention as much for publicity reasons as any legitimate reason. Cities in The Control Zone became the objects of the public's attention and the progress of the RDF and ASC in "securing" them from the aliens the measure of success in maintaining the peace.

Only it was bullshit, and anyone with more than a week in The Control Zone knew it.

All the while humans around the world were looking to the capture of another block of gutted buildings in Brasilia as being a step towards victory over the malcontents, units and posts deep in the bush- like Salvador Base- were aware that they were being watched and studied by the same malcontents. There was an increase of skirmishes between ASC and malcontent patrols around every major base to support this assertion- and almost every unit sent into the field to sweep the area for suspicious alien activity came across badly disposed-of malcontent observation posts.

There was always a level of violence, but one at a level where it quickly became obvious that the malcontents were holding back. Probably holding back for something bigger.

And then there was the spread of the same activities both north and south. The same violent raids that spoke of preparation for something greater.

RDF and ASC PR put the best spin on it all that they could- but anyone in the field knew.

Mathias knew.

And when the level of raids and skirmishes had dropped off over the past ten days to almost nothing- all knew that the something big was close at hand.

If either the RDF or the ASC had had some idea of where the coordination was coming from- and it had to be coordinated at some level- the similarities of action north, south, and center were too great to be coincidental- then they would have struck preemptively.

But there was no central, strong figure to be looked at as a mastermind. There had not been since the death of a Zentraedi named Yeshta.

Knowing that at some point the hammer would come down, and with no way to prevent it- the Earth's military, ASC and RDF alike, had no choice but to dig in and brace.

Four minutes.

That meant being able to get the ASC Air Force's latest weapons system off the ground and into a fight in under five minutes.

That was appearing possible, but the prospect of getting where Mathias wanted to be was not looking promising.

The ordinance handling crews within a span of seconds moved their self-propelled carts away from the four Logans that occupied the hangar. The airmen and NCOs who had probably been aware on some level that they were being drilled and that they were being observed looked out to Mathias in silent expectation- waiting to see whether their efforts to complete the task in the allotted time had been successful.

Mathias thumbed the switch on the stopwatch.

4-17-64.

Mathias waved his arm in a wide arc at the Logans in the hangar- intentionally appearing more perturbed than he actually was.

"Strip `em and do it over!"

At some point, lost in his own focus, Mathias had not noticed that his XO, Lieutenant Colonel Benedicto Giermo had snuck up on him close enough to be able to read the stopwatch over his shoulder.

"Four and a quarter minutes is respectable-.", the exec reminded his superior.

"Four and a quarter is respectable-.", Mathias admitted quietly, as though the ground crews some forty meters away might hear him, "Three and a half is desirable."

Giermo lit a cigarette and offered one to Mathias who accepted. The heat was building already and slender, Latino pilot hoped that a dose of nicotine would ease the agitation of his thick-blooded, northern comrade.

"You think they can get to a proficiency of taking a bare squadron and arming them up in three and a half minutes?", Giermo asked, his tone guardedly doubtful, "Hell, Warren- even ready ordinance storage is a hundred meters away by regulation. Maybe if we had the ground crews start to sleep in the hangars-."

"We'll get `em hammocks.", Mathias resolved, inflexible in his determination, "If we don't get down to three-thirty, it won't be for lack of trying."

Giermo followed Mathias's gave across the tarmac and the runway apron to the far side of the airfield.

The XO realized after a moment that the path of Mathias' stare was probably subconscious at some level as it drew an invisible line through the concrete surfaces that had been shot to temporary uselessness by an element of rebelling Valkyries three months earlier, to the new storage building that had been built to replace one destroyed by the same RDF pilots.

The building was noticeably new with the fresh paint on its corrugated steel skin, and the replacement concrete slabs that bridged the runway aprons and main runways was still not weathered to the same shade as the slabs it connected- but these were minor scars to Salvador Base that went unnoticed to those who did not know to look for them.

Mathias knew to look for them though, and many times Giermo had caught him surveying these old wounds.

The squadron leader's determination to shorten to the absolute limit the ready-response time of his command was probably related to this in some way, Giermo was certain- and perhaps indicative of something else.

And why not?

Besides the obvious embarrassment of a fully garrisoned ASC base, deep within ASC-controlled territory being taken off-guard from within, there was the more real-world implications of what had happened here.

More than the overall insignificant financial loss that had been incurred with the destruction of harvested "product", there had been the real fear that the ASC's elicit source of supplemental funding would become broad, public knowledge.

There had also been the military embarrassment that after being dealt the heavy psychological blow of being attacked on their own soil, the ASC had been unable to close with and engage two squadrons of Valkyries until they had entered the clear, out over the sea.

General Braddock, and even Lt Col Mathias had taken heavy flak and both official and unofficial reprimand for all of that, and in their presence one could tell that they were still feeling the sting.

There was plenty of "sting" to go around, and at all levels and in all locations across the ASC domain- but here at Salvador was where it was felt most keenly.

Giermo, possibly more capable of seeing the benefit in the circumstances better than either Mathias or Braddock, recognized that because of "the incident" (as it was called on post) there were changes and improvements being made across the ASC and its areas of operation.

Gaps in the ground-based air tracking network were almost completely closed now and the need for and effort towards air-based C2 had been embraced and was being pursued.

Cooperative combat techniques and mutual support between ASC bases had evolved significantly in a short span of time as the notion of "regional" control expanded to encompass all of The Control Zone and not just an ASC base's immediate AOR.

Things were changing, and in Giermo's mind- not a moment too soon.

The malcontents were gearing up and psyching up to strike- and everyone from General Leonard at the head of High Command to the freshest private in a deployed rifle company knew that it was going to be a broad and violent action. Even the RDF was fortifying in the region, bringing in additional forces and increasing a maritime presence offshore.

This too was a cause of great concern to the ASC, because despite every appearance indicative of "cooperative action"- The RDF had to recognize that the ASC would take the brunt of whatever was to come in South America.

Like the Japanese Fighting Fish, who was to say that the RDF would not reserve its strength as the ASC and malcontents exsanguinated one anotherfor the opportunity to do away with both after the initial clash?

These were questions that crossed Lieutenant Colonel Giermo's mind, but ones that he had no way of answering except with the passage of time and the unfolding of events.

Until then, the best he could do was to help Mathias in achieving his goal of having their squadron- the air wing of Salvador Base, actually- ready for flight and a fight in three minutes and thirty seconds.

The Outlands

The trucks were raising too much dust.

This could not be helped, Point Lieutenant Natif understood as he monitored the progress of the shoddy column on a map- cross-referencing the few identifiable terrain features with the numeric co-ordinates provided by a small, beaten, civilian GPS navigation device- but this was his lingering impression.

There was no avoiding the beige cloud of parched desert earth being kicked up by the tires of thirty-three micronian vehicles as they rumbled and bounced along their path over the landscape of scrubby brush and sun-baked rock. The vehicles- mostly of the civilian type, but also seven large military cargo transport vehicles and four smaller personnel transports- had all been taken in raids or ambushes during the time since Natif and the unit that had formed around him had rejected the micronian ways offered to them in so-called "indoctrination centers".

Natif had seen the spineless advocacy for "life in peace" as what it was- the micronian fear of Zentraedi Warriors in their midst.

Natif, and others had abandoned new "occupations" and had taken to the land without regret- surviving as best they could by the meager resources that could be taken, but adhering to The Warrior's Code.

Early raids on isolated micronian encampments and smaller permanent settlements had cost the lives of a disproportionate number of warriors who had in those early days lacked anything more than improvised hand weapons- but these deaths were no fewer and more fitting of a warrior than those deaths to malnourishment, sickness, or exposure. With each of these early raids though, Natif and his warriors gained more of the tools and skills needed to make the next raid more efficient.

They, as with many other units that had formed in the wastelands under similar circumstances to Natif's, had adapted and survived. They had in fact survived long enough to confront the inevitable issue that arose after the concern of survival- purpose.

As less time was consumed with the mere act of acquiring the means of sustenance, the realization began to set in to all that had sworn allegiance to Natif that The Warrior's Code could give them the basic means of surviving- but no reason for surviving.

Even Natif had been forced to admit to himself in many restless nights when the bivouac fires were dying amongst clusters of sleeping warriors that without a war that they were only the shell of warriors. Natif had even entertained the proposals of several of his lieutenants and sub-lieutenants that their new existence was unsustainable and that perhaps dying in a defiant raid on a more formidable target was preferable to living like scavengers on the outskirts of an alien society.

Natif had rejected these proposals after some thought, of course. Perhaps it had been cowardice as the occasional grumblings of warriors had suggested before their insolence had been quelled with reminders of discipline under the purview of The Warrior's Code- but Natif did not feel this to be so in his core.

He- all of the Warriors under his command- had seen hard times and desperate moments in battling the Invid. Fundamentally, this was no different. Only on this world, in these circumstances, victory could not be seized by aggression and maneuver.

Patience had to prevail, and astute observation to be able to recognize a moment of advantage that could be exploited by the way that Zentraedi knew best.

And it had come.

Scarcely half a season earlier, and in whispers at first at exchanges of goods between the warrior factions of the wastelands who had not sunken to battle amongst themselves. Word had come from lands far to the south that something was coming that would restore them all as Warriors- if they could only adhere to The Warrior's Code for a while longer.

Natif had been skeptical at first- all had.

But at subsequent exchanges, and then a short time later by trusted couriers through the frail network of verbal communications that had appeared after the marooning on this world, simple instructions had come:

Gather warriors.

Acquire weapons and supplies.

Choose regional targets of importance to the micronians.

Await word on a time to initiate action.

Some credibility had been gained by the couriers in that they would speak only to the commanders of improvised units- and only after assurances that even the four basic instructions they carried be defended from reaching micronian ears by death if necessary.

There were also the scraps of intelligence that flowed freely through micronian civilian channels. Things were happening to the south.

It all seemed possible.

Natif could never convince himself beyond question that some great uprising of Warriors was building toward a single, decisive action- but at the same time it did not matter. His unit had ceased to lose Warriors to desertion in the night. In-fighting amongst factions in the wastelands had dropped to nothing.

Even if the vague promises of salvation were false- Natif and his Warriors could stand as some semblance of Warriors again.

The moment of action, of truth, was approaching now- possibly.

Seven days earlier a courier- a familiar one who had carried the messages of promise to Natif and his Warriors all along- had delivered a simple message- a date.

His stay with Natif's unit had been short- barely long enough to deliver the message and to fill his canteens from the small spring that had provided Natif and his Warriors uncontaminated water in the desolate region. Then he had gone as quickly as he had arrived.

Word came days later that the courier- a stout and able Warrior- had been intercepted further east by a micronian military patrol and had died by the only shot he had fired with his weapon- the one he had fired into his own head.

The message- the date- suddenly carried with it much more credibility in Natif's mind.

-And it seemed right.

Micronians, Natif had observed, were given at times to the observance of rituals that reduced their situational awareness and as a result weakened their defenses.

Such a day of ritual was approaching, and it happened to be the same day as the date that was the courier's message.

Tactically- in terms of coordinating some kind of "grand" action as had been promised- there were difficulties in that no specific time had been set to initiate action. This was a minor concern to Natif though, as accurate timekeeping , especially as it applied to multiple, independent units of Warriors was a distant memory.

Natif knew the target he had selected though, and knew roughly how long it would take to move his unit into a position to strike at the optimal moment.

This was as "coordinated" as he could manage, and had resolved that it would have to be enough in the absence of better guidance.

The target- a permanent micronian settlement of moderate size that sustained a mixed population of micronian military and civilians would be within striking distance by just after nightfall if the progress of the column maintained its pace. Preparations would take a short time longer, and Natif had the attention of initiating his attack before first light- when micronians were typically at their most vulnerable.

The attack would be initially stunning, and by Natif's orders to his Warriors and by their determination would be costly in lives and material to the micronian population of the settlement as squads infiltrated the porous perimeter and engaged in squad-level actions any micronians that crossed their path. In the end though, it was understood that the garrison of the nearby military post that the settlement supported would engage and overwhelm the raid.

This was inevitable.

This was accepted.

For his part, Natif was weary of this world and its strange alien inhabitants.

Tonight's action would bring him relief from its frustrations one way or another.

First though, Natif had to position himself and his unit to act- and a potential problem had presented itself minutes earlier.

The possibility had always been there, as it was with any movement over open terrain- the possibility of detection by the enemy. The knowing of the possibility was not the same as the facing of the certainty though.

- And there was no doubt that Natif's column had been detected.

"What is their position and altitude now, Delkyoht?", Natif yelled back into the rear of the 8/4 cargo truck's cab over the deep growl of the truck's turbo-diesel engine and the noise of the column in movement.

His senior sub-lieutenant, gifted in understanding the function of micronian electronics, had been monitoring the portable radar unit that had been seized in an early raid of a military supply convoy and that he had rigged to the roof of the transport for the very purpose it was now being used for.

"Fifteen kilometers northwest, Lord- at an altitude of seven kilometers. Heading almost precisely east."

Natif quickly converted the alien measurements into the system he was more familiar with and was able to roughly identify the location of the aircraft Delkyoht had detected. Based on the sub-lieutenant's reading of the micronian device, the aircraft- undoubtedly military- would pass north of the column outside of striking range of the four warriors armed with shoulder-fired anti-aircraft missiles spread across the vehicles of the convoy.

Neither the appearance of the aircraft, nor their maintaining of distance surprised the point lieutenant. At the time of the first calls for preparation brought by courier, an imperative for mutual self-defense by all loyal Zentraedi had been issued as well. As the couriers' messages had begun to be taken seriously, so had the call for mutual self defense.

Natif had participated with other unit commanders in organizing the best defense that could be mounted in the wastelands against the greatest micronian threat against the collective units- air power. A perimeter of whatever anti-aircraft weapons could be scavenged or stolen had been created around the area that the units had come to occupy for their characteristics of topographical cover.

The heaviest defenses had been set along the paths of routine micronian air patrols, and recently these defensive positions had even been ordered to encourage engagements when possible. As had been hoped, these skirmishes that regularly cost the Warrior units heavier casualties than the micronians had also focused micronian attention on the defenses themselves and away from the Warrior encampments and their raiding activites.

It had been a gamble- a deliberate sacrifice of Warriors in the hopes of furthering a greater good.

And it seemed that it had worked.

The very fact that Natif had been able to hide thirty-three stolen vehicles, as well as arms and supplies for 163 Warriors in rough dugout caches scraped into the walls of craters created by Zentraedi heavy energy weapons was proof. And this proof was substantiated by the fact that other units in the same region had accomplished the same thing- and some more extensively even than Natif and his Warriors.

All of this could be lost now though- if the micronians chose to attack.

Why did they not attack?

Natif studied his map carefully and confirmed his initial conclusion that there was no substantial terrain that they could take refuge in for some distance. Even if defendable ground could be reached this would be of minimal defensive value against aircraft.

Perhaps the micronians were still wary of the lessons that had been taught to them recently by the defensive perimeter around the cratered region-?

As much as Natif wanted to believe this, if the micronians chose to attack the fear of anti-aircraft weapons would not survive long. Natif's Warriors, armed with surface-to-air weapons as they were had only two missiles apiece. Enough for a statement of defiance, but hardly a real defense for a column of vehicles moving over open ground.

Why did the micronians not attack?

Perhaps they were not military aircraft? -Or military transports with escorts ordered only to take defensive action of the transports they guarded.

This was possible.

"Delkyoht- can you be sure that the micronian aircraft are fighters?", Natif asked as he scanned the distant skies pointlessly with a remarkably pristine set of RDF-Army field glasses.

"Not absolutely, Lord.", the sub-lieutenant yelled back over the noise of movement, "-But they are flying in four ship elements common to micronian patrols- and their number indicates at least two squadrons' strength."

Natif tried to keep his concerns from becoming visible to the other Warriors crammed into the truck's cab- they were beginning to appear edgy already.

There could be little doubt now that they were fighters passing just beyond reach- and if fighters, there was no doubt that they were equally aware of the column and that it was not a migrant micronian civilian band by virtue of the radar system in use.

Perhaps it was a fighter strike group- but one with an assignment that precluded the possibility of attack on a random Zentraedi unit that had not taken hostile action against them?

This was possible too.

Other Zentraedi units were on the move this day too-. Larger units, and possibly less disciplined in reserving their strength for the objectives they had identified for themselves.

Perhaps one or more of these had elected to engage the first micronian military units they had encountered and what Delkyoht was tracking was the RDF's response?

"Delkyoht- inform me of the slightest-."

The world shook violently as the 8/4 cargo truck seemed to lift free of the ground and Natif and the Warriors in the cab with him felt a powerful shockwave roll through and over them.

Natif did not register the hearing of any sound, but a lifetime of battle let him know instantly what the cause of the concussion was- even before the first, flaming chunks of debris that had been one of the civilian vehicles in the column began to rain down around his own truck amidst a thinner hail of the bodies and body parts of Warriors who had been crammed into its open bed-.

"That was a kill-.", Maj. Vaughn "Vice" Vincenz observed with the same eager acknowledgment of death that one might have expected from a vulture.

Winters, who had fired the opening shot- a single Hellfire missile- waited for the reaction from the single-file column of trucks that they had "crept up" upon from the rear.

The fireball of burning petroleum fuel and the secondary explosions of small arms munitions cooking off had hardly changed from orange to oily black when the motorized carivan broke their line and split in every open direction to avoid the fate of their companion that had been obliterated at the rear of their formation.

"Creeping up" on the column had been no simple task, and not the plan that Winters had laid out in the briefing room at Edwards hours earlier. It had been a spontaneous modification of the plan that Winters had devised for locating and approaching a fixed position somewhere inside of Crater Range- but as all combatants knew, no "plan" survived first contact with the enemy.

The JSTARS that had been assigned to support Operation Rapier had spotted this column of suspected malcontent vehicles, as well as half a dozen others even before they had left sight of Crater Range. In a matter of minutes, every fighter and attack aircraft in the NORAMWEST triad had been called to scramble on what had started as an operation rooted primarily in the composite wing at Edwards.

Still 170 kilometers west at that time, Winters- who had been given operational command despite Mumuni's superior rank- had ordered the Adventurer II component of the strike package to assume a fighter formation and take on the course of an Outlands CAP circuit while the Valkyries cut north- well out of the range of the portable microwave radar system detected by the JSTARS- for an end-run around the column to make their approach from the rear to the east.

Though these malcontents' first indication of danger had been the loss of one of their vehicles- the lead-on moves had been taking place for nearly forty minutes.

Thirty kilometers out and already at treetop level of the scrubby mesquite and other limited plant life of The Outlands, the Valkyrie element had formed up into a sweeping line of advance and dropped to comb the weeds in the awkward, chicken-like "Guardian" configuration of the transformable fighters. Ungainly and peculiar-looking as the Guardian was, and disadvantageous as the form was for air-to-air operations, for ground attack it still allowed the options of sonic-speed approach to a zero-closure rate hover, and all with the full armaments of the ship able to be brought to bear.

Though the assault line, nearly a kilometer abreast, had kicked up an enormous dust cloud in its wake as it had advanced, with the sun still low in the sky behind it there had been little chance that the westward moving malcontents could have seen their approach.

Only the obliteration of the truck at the rear of their column had made them aware that they were being stalked.

Now their panic would work to the Valkyrie element's advantage, Winters knew- and the worst of the fight would be over in minutes.

-But hopefully not before the Valkyrie pilots derived a level of satisfaction from the engagement.

"They're scattering-.", Winters said, as the squadrons ate up the range and loosened their formation in anticipation of return-fire, "All squadrons, weapons free. Vigilantes, and Knight Hawks, stay hedge-top-. Werewolves and Gunfighters go high for top cover- break!"

Through his peripheral vision, Winters caught the hint of motion that was the Werewolves and the Gunfighters tearing away skyward from their flanking positions on the advancing line and rocketing away in the swift and nimble Fighter configuration of their craft. The squadron leader had little time to observe the break-away maneuver or the attention it drew from the malcontents as his pilots to either side of his ship began taking full advantage of the authorization to loose hell on the grossly outmatched enemy.

Thin smoke trails streaked out ahead of the line of Valkyries, converging as they went on the remaining earthbound targets that clung stubbornly to the notion of and attempted evasion. The desert seemed to explode beneath and around the malcontent vehicles, taking them in a rapid succession. A Hellfire or Maverick would strike, sending the vehicle toppling like a child's toy kicked by its angered owner. Then a second would strike, or several at nearly the same moment and what an instant before had been an easily recognizable form was dashed across the arid landscape in a scatter of burning debris.

By the time the Knight Hawks and Vigilantes closed to within half a kilometer, there was nothing remotely resembling a vehicle remaining. Fires smudged the morning desert sky with dark smoke as the earth itself in areas took on a broken appearance- as though the underworld had cracked through to clutch and claw at the world of the living.

Still, as Winters set Marilyn down in a wide-legged stance some 250 meters out from the closest heap of burning carnage, there was movement from within and around the remains of the malcontent convoy.

Alone or in small groups, a humanoid form would dash from one element of cover to another. Sometimes a distinct glitter- a muzzle flash from a weapon- would accompany the movement or mark where the condemned had chosen to make their final stand.

The reply from one or more Guardian would be swift and brutally disproportionate as their advance continued at a leisurely pace on the ground in their mechanical approximation of a "chicken walk". A tight cluster of Hydra rockets, or a focused stream of cannon-round tracers would zip back in response.

Winters saw no exchange continue past that point and had no need to close the firing trigger again himself. He was aware though of the chatter between pilots as the line of Valkyries continued to move forward over ground.

Verbal exchanges were professional, cold and removed it seemed from the reality of what was being done- but there was an undertone of dark indulgence. There was a disturbing and primal human need being serviced by employment of high military technology.

Reciprocity.

Winters knew every pilot in his squadron and in Mumuni's Vigilantes as well, but did not recognize- did not want to recognize the owner of the words that summed up the direction of the fight with sinister simplicity-

"I think we're gonna win this one-."

Natif propped himself up against a weather-smoothed rock outcropping and awaited the decision of Fate.

He had been careless in letting his guard down, and the Invid had exploited that moment's weakness to their greatest advantage. But it was of little consequence as while he could no longer remember clearly the name of the world he was on or the mission he had been charged to execute- he could remember that the reinforcements were on their way.

That memory stayed clear and powerful in his mind as other things grew distorted and blended into one another.

Rescue- at last- was on its way.

This world that had every characteristic of a hot climate had suddenly grown very cold despite the fires of burning Regults from Natif's patrol. The flaming heaps did not even resemble the Zentraedi war machines anymore so swift and violent had been the Invid attack.

It had even stripped Natif of his body armor and both legs above the knees.

The rock that now supported Natif was warm though, and in his crawl to it he had found at least one leg that he had brought with him to put back into its place later.

He had only to wait now- Fate had all but decided in his favor already.

Reinforcements were coming.

Blurred as his vision was growing and distant as sound had become, he could still feel the tremors through the ground and hear the motorized whir as Regults were advancing in their heavy step up to and through the site of the ambush.

They would drive off the Invid, possibly even pursuing them back to their Hive

Invid were only truly defeated when the battle was fought and won in their own nest.

Natif resolved that he would wait by this rock for the time being though.

With reinforcements would come a new suit of body armor and a new Regult to carry him- and perhaps in their sweep of the area the Warriors reinforcing his patrol had already found his other leg.

He would need that to pass his next inspection.

In his dimming vision, he could see them moving up now and he waved to signal his presence.

It was possible that a fellow Warrior might stop to give him water.

He was now almost as thirsty as he was cold- but even this he could endure as these were distant discomforts and all would be set right as the reinforcements arrived from the rear.

Natif was almost free of this world- he could feel it.

Winters wasn't sure what need had driven him to dismount Marilyn, which still squatted low in Guardian mode some twenty paces away. There was no practical reason to leave the relative safety of the Valkyrie, and every reason not to- this was not a good decision.

Still, Winters had decided and was now swallowed in the immediate aftermath of revenge.

The air was hazy with smoke and the stench of burning diesel fuel and whiffs of cordite as the occasional bullet still cooked off within the burning wreck of a truck.

Otherwise there was silence save the thud and crunch of Guardian feet on desert soil as the Knight Hawks and Vigilantes explored the products of their operational success. There were no screams of agony from the wounded, no pleas in an alien tongue for assistance or curses of defiance.

Only the light desert wind and the snap and crackle of the nearby fires consuming what would burn.

Winters followed the blood trail- two broad and irregular streaks of deep blue-green.

It had been the sight of the trail that had for some reason caught his attention within the cockpit and had prompted him to get out. Now, as the drag marks and the twin trails bent around the side of a rock outcropping, Winters registered just how foolish he actually was being.

He had done worse.

He had done worse this morning.

He had only done what had needed to be done, and this- no matter how distasteful was part of it.

Winters unholstered his .44 revolver and thumbed back the hammer to the cocked position. The weapon felt unusually light for its size and the glitter of chrome gave it a nobler, more distinguished air than perhaps what it deserved for its occupation.

"Jack-! What the hell are you doing?"

Good question.

Winters recognized the voice as Pinball's, and that he was hearing it over Ott's Guardian's external speakers- but it was a good question that Winters was turning over inside of his own skull.

"Jack this area ain't secure yet- get back into your plane and let Air Assault mop up!"

The drag marks and blood trail ended in a pool that had formed at the gnawed-away stumps of the source and owner.

The malcontent lay half-draped over the rock outcropping, an arm around it the way a shipwreck survivor in the water might be expected to cling to flotsam. His other arm clutched a severed leg to his chest possessively as though it were a rare commodity that might be snatched from him.

The alien wheezed in the short pants of the dying and with a shift of the wind Winters caught the strong coppery odor of alien blood, the earthier wreak of accumulated sweat and grime from outdoor living, and an undertone of urine that quite often was an olfactory marker of the wounded.

Glassy, the Zentraedi's eyes rolled to fix unsteadily on Winters, seeing past or maybe not seeing at all the muzzle of the Smith & Wesson Model 29 pointed directly between them.

There was a hint of recognition there.

"Just put one in him if you're gonna, Jack, and get back in the plane!"

Winters realized that his wingman, Vice, had joined Pinball in observing his strange extra-vehicular activity.

The trigger would not move under his finger though as the Zentraedi continued to stare at him- through him.

"Nothing personal, you understand-.", Winters said, finding his own tone appallingly conversational, "-You were just being a bit rougher on my chaps than I could allow. –But nothing personal."

The Zentraedi's arm came up, allowing the dismembered leg it clutched to tumble free of its grip, and made a waving motion at Winters in full extension.

No, not waving- the fingers were grasping.

He was reaching-.

Winters was suddenly aware of the flask zipped securely in his flight suit's breast pocket. There was no conceivable way that the alien could have known what the bulge was, but the pilot was equally certain that it was what he wanted.

As Winters thumbed forward the hammer of his revolver and holstered it again, he unzipped the pocket with his flask. To the west, a distant but familiar sound took distinct form and made perfect sense.

Helicopter rotors from the Lakotas attached to the 113th Air Assault Division that had been at the Fort Irwin training center, and had been eager to trade a training experience for actual trigger time when Major General Butler had made the inquiry.

Knowing the general destination, the 113th had set out hours before the faster Valkyries and Adventurer IIs of the fixed wing component to the operation, but were only now arriving to the post-fight.

Dust swirled as Winters felt the rotor blast of several Lakotas as they passed directly overhead.

Looking up, he saw eyes in faces under combat helmets staring back at him and at the general mess that had been made of the desert.

Looking back, Winters found that the Zentraedi was no longer reaching for drink or wheezing for air. His eyes were still open and eerily still fixed on the pilot, but he was no longer there.

Dry as Winters found his own mouth, he slipped the flask back into his pocket without drinking.

"-Sorry, old boy- nothing personal."

The GS-95 Robotech Factory

Bars, and particularly military bars were never intended to facilitate wholesome and heart-warming holiday gatherings.

Almost the opposite, bars on military bases had at holiday times the tendency to become the place where personnel separated from home in the joyous seasons went to avoid that reality. Most often- the vast majority of times- this was done with the consumption of much alcohol, but with few "incidents". Sometimes, inner sorrow and frustration surfaced, and the local stockade or brig could be counted on to be more heavily inhabited.

It was no coincidence that holiday times were the busiest times of the year for MPs.

There were alternatives on any post to the designated and approved watering hole, of course.

Mess staff seemed to understand the great importance of their services at certain times more than others and would put in that greater measure of effort to soften the blow of separation from family with cheery decoration and the best seasonal menu offerings that could be managed. These elements helped, but in the end there was nothing that could be done to make cold grey and stainless steel feel convincingly like home.

In the end, it was the responsibility of the individual to manage the "holiday blues" and to decide for themselves the way they would muscle through until they could be joined again with loved ones.

"Opie, we are so gettin' laid-.", Petty Officer Thatcher said, checking to make certain that his uniform had retained the immaculate condition it had been in upon entering the lounge some hours ago.

The waitress had just brought a fresh round of drinks, the third bought by the two sensormen for themselves and the two civilian contractors that they had coaxed away from the bar to join them at a table. The two strikingly attractive programmers with Eastern European accents had vanished minutes before to the ladies room in group fashion that was for some reason customary to women, and unless they both were hiding the bladders of camels, their extended absence could only be accounted for by primping and conversation that had to take place away from their male company.

There was of course the outside possibility that they were slipping the company of the two NCOs, but there had been no indication that this was the case. They had been engaged in conversation about home, their work, the "meaning" of the unexpected orders that was keeping so many of the military personnel on the GS-95-.

Things were going well.

"-You just play that, hey, I'm Scandinavian too and it'll be just like home shit", Thatcher instructed like a quarterback outlining the critical play of the game, "and I'll pull the, hey, I'm dark and exotic angle- `n BAM!"

Petty Officer Orson Cobb picked up his glass of beer and after a moment's thought pointed out, "Poland isn't Scandinavia, Thatch."

Thatcher, undeterred picked up his own beer, "Yeah, well neither is Minnesota, but if you wanna be cleaving something soft and pink later, you find a way to make that shit work-."

"Aye sir, tracking that.", Cobb agreed.

Thatcher was halfway to sipping through the foam head of his beer when his eyes fixed on something beyond Cobb and in the direction of the restrooms.

"Contact, zero-six-zero, CBDR-."

Cobb set his beer down and worked to quickly get his game face on again. A few more rounds of drinks, a little more small talk about inconsequential things, and the evening promised to have a good return on investment. After all, Thatch had refrained (as much for his own benefit as Cobb's) from letting slip his strangely appropriate nickname of "Opie", and-.

Her name-. What was her name again?

Cobb felt his face start to flush with panic as he realized he could not remember the girl's name exactly but brought it under control again.

It was some strange Slavic twist on August, but after three or four beers and seeing how those inviting hips had curved around into a very comfortable looking personal seat cushion as she and her friend had sauntered off to the ladies' room- that final syllable or two had just abandoned Cobb.

Goddamnit, think or risk hairy palms and blindness!-

"Beata, Augustynka-.", Thatcher said waving the girls back in toward their chairs and their fresh drinks like a carnally motivated LSO.

Bless you, Thatch, God bless you and God damn Budwieser-.

Beata, slightly shorter than her companion and noticeably thicker- especially through the chest as Thatch liked his women- settled back into her chair and leaned in over the table eager to re-engage in conversation where it had been left off. Her pale skin was rosen from gin and tonic from her blonde hairline down to the inviting hint of ample cleavage that had appeared where the buttons of a company work shirt had miraculously come open sometime during her time in the bathroom.

Cobb noticed this as well, naturally, but Augustynka made a point of grazing his hand with the full contours of her bottom as she maneuvered into the chair he had pulled out from under the table for her.

Oh yes, things were looking good.

"So what is it you do now in Fleet?", Augustynka asked as she collected her long, brown hair and draped the silken mass over her shoulder to fall across her less substantial but nonetheless impressive chest.

The accent to Cobb was all Bond film villainess- naughty Bond film villainess.

"We crew the Gordon P. Samuels.", Thatcher said, quicker on his feet than Cobb to respond and still able to assist his lady friend in finding her drink, "We're sensormen- trackers. Tracker team leads, actually-."

"What we do is interpret the signals gathered up by the ship's sensors and determine what's a good guy, what's a bad guy, and what's nothing but cosmic noise-.", Cobb elaborated as perfect jade eyes watched him unblinkingly and with a hint of a strong buzz.

Beata motioned emphatically, saying, "My first job was calibrating sensor arrays after installation! I started on older PRS-32s, but got job writing software for newer phased arrays last year. Better systems-. More- how you say?- deeper reach?"

"Oh, much deeper.", Thatcher agreed, on the surface at least, "You never worked on the Sam did you?"

The technician/programmer thought for a moment, working through a cloud of gin to sort through memories of the unmemorable.

"Don't know- but maybe you use my equipment, yes?"

"Hope keeps me living-.", Thatcher said with genuine sentiment.

Augustynka's full lower lip pouted dramatically as she said with some regret, "I write and customize simulation software- I don't think you've worked on anything of mine."

Feeling daring, Cobb let his hand slide from the back of her chair to the small of her back, saying, "Well, you never know- everyone aboard ship has to have at least one alternate job- and I'm a notoriously good multi-tasker-."

"-And we all appreciate it, Petty Officer Cobb!"

A chair was yanked out from under the table next to Thatcher and Cobb's, and before all four feet had met the deck again, an individual high on both trackers' list of persons they least wanted to come across in a social situation had occupied it.

"Lieutenant Jeffrey Randall, ladies-.", said the Alpha Veritech pilot as he extended his hand first toward Cobb's companion, "-And you are Augustynka- how do you do?"

A quick and jovial pumping of joined hands followed before Randall repeated the act with Thatcher's interest, "-And you are Beata-. How do you do?"

Dumbfounded, Beata asked, "How you know our names?"

Randall, rocked his officer's uniform-clad, highly fit form back and forth in his chair, ran his fingers through his meticulously groomed, sand-colored hair, and replied seriously, "Well, in my line of work, you have to have a keen eye for detail and you have to pick up on it quick, or- Oh, hell- who am I kidding?- I heard Thatch and Cobb here say your names-."

Cobb wasn't certain if Thatcher felt it too, but for himself the sudden change in the direction of the ladies' attention had nearly torn his eyebrows off.

"You are pilot then?", Augustynka asked, as though Randall's every attempt to show the wings on his chest was not clear enough. Civilians- they never noticed such details.

"Combat aviator, ma'am- I'm with the Star Streaks aboard the Samuels.", Randall said, "And these gentlemen are an integral part of the team that gets us into the fight- they deserve your respect and admiration."

"What can we do for you, Lieutenant?", Thatcher asked with that practiced "polite" tone that actually said, piss off you miserable cocksucker.

"Well, here's what-.", Randall said speaking directly to the trackers' quarry, "The squadron over there, we stepped in for a drink-."

The squadron was easy to identify as either by invitation or some invisible magnetism that worked only on civilians, the women in the lounge were gravitating towards them. There were few fighter squadrons left in the REF that were strictly male- but by luck of the draw the Star Streaks had managed this condition.

It made the scam they were now working- that they had worked before- that much easier. They had found at some point that their cooperative tactical skills extended beyond the cockpit.

"-And", Randall continued, "We got a little sidetracked getting here so there weren't any good tables really."

"That's the benefit of forethought over trained reaction, sir.", Cobb pointed out.

Randall nodded, acknowledging the two NCOs without actually acknowledging them, "True enough-. But as I was saying, my wingman Wilkes there- he's the one who was too shy to come and talk to you directly, miss-."

Beata blushed and stole a quick glance at her "admirer".

"As I was saying, Wilkes there knows a guy who works the training center here on The Factory, and found out that one of the gravity chambers has just gotten some minor maintenance completed. So, instead of being jammed up into this stockyard, we're getting a few people together to take the party to the gravity chamber. Have you ladies ever been in a zero-G chamber?"

Augustynka replied, "-Of course, for trans-atmospheric flight orientation-."

"Ah, yeah-.", Randall said, "But that's not zero-G tag, is it?"

"No, we've never tried that.", Beata admitted as the allegedly "shy" Wilkes was making his way toward the table to join the growing company.

Randall slammed his hands, palms down onto the table, exclaiming, "Well, damnit then!- It's time!"

"What's time, boss?", Wilkes, who had forgotten that he was supposed to be bashful, asked with a smile and a nod to Thatcher's former companion for the evening.

"Damnit if you didn't peg it, Wilkes-. They've never played zero-G tag before. They'll need a drink or two first, but once the edge of fear is gone- I think they'll be naturals."

"Roger that, sir- they look all natural to me."

Wilkes made an ushering motion in the direction of the buzzards that were the Star Streaks, and the sensormen's female companionship left without a parting word.

Cobb rationalized that since the invitation had seemed open to all at the table, that the two young women had seen no need for parting salutations.

Civilians. They just didn't know.

Randall watched as the male to female ratio of his group equalized more by two before turning his attention back to the emptier table occupied by the two petty officers.

"So, how are you guys doing tonight?"

Thatcher picked up his beer, "Fuck you, sir."

Cobb had lost all interest in his own drink but added, "Yeah, fuck you very much, sir."

Randall got to his feet in a single, spry hop, "Oh, you're not fucking me tonight, guys- thanks for the offer, but I've got better prospects. Thanks for warming them up for us though."

Thatcher shook his head, clearly wanting to say more but knowing it was a fight whose odds were stacked against him in every way.

Before slipping away, Randall added, "We'd really invite you- really- but there's that whole fraternization thing and-. Well, you know."

Neither petty officer chose to look in the direction of the evidence of their defeat, but rather rediscovered their beers.

"I can't tell if we just got cock-blocked, or ass-raped.", Cobb muttered after a moment. The heart-wrenching disappointment of so much work lost had not hit him yet, but like a well-placed kick in the groin- he was sure that agony was coming and would stay a while.

Thatcher shook his head- clearly he was feeling the first waves of it- "No. No, no, no, no- no motherfuckin' no! That did not just happen."

"That just happened, Thatch. Have your beer."

"That wasn't no cock-block, Opie- we just witnessed a- a snatchnapping!"

Cobb shrugged, "Well, we're bunked in an overflow barracks tonight anyway-. Where the hell were you thinking of taking them? Not a heck of a lot of private places on this hollowed-out rock."

Thatcher shot Cobb a burning glare of indignation, "Just be pissed off about this with me for a minute, will you? I hope she's got something that makes his dick rot off."

Cobb shrugged, "Well, if that's true- then it would have been your dick that would have rotted off if it weren't for Randall. Does that mean he did you a favor?"

Thatcher smoldered, "You're just not getting this horny and enraged thing, are you?"

Actually, Cobb understood perfectly but was determined to not let it get to him. The Star Streaks and their hoard of buxom acquaintances would pull up stakes soon and allow those with less glamorous occupations access to the water hole.

And besides, with the world as it was- if this was the worst that happened to them all night, they'd be doing well for themselves.

The Outlands

What twenty minutes before had looked like the scene of a massacre now looked like the scene of a massacre hosting an armed forces open-house.

A detachment of air assault troops and their Lakota conveyances had set down to "secure" the area of the fight and to begin to sort through what remained to glean what could be learned by battlefield intelligence gathering methods.

Joined on the desert floor a short distance from the idle Lakotas were the Valkyries of the four squadrons that had left Edwards hours earlier.

Like their air assault counterparts, the Valkyrie pilots explored the scene with cautious and guarded curiosity- seeking souvenirs more than any telling intelligence artifact. They had been in the fight and had witnessed the key lesson first hand- truck convoy vs. Valkyrie fighters-.

No contest. A knock-out in the first round, with the loser down for the count.

Or what remained of him at least.

The air assault troops in company strength, the other elements of their division that had been tapped to participate in Rapier having moved on to similar scenes of carnage elsewhere in The Outlands, searched bodies and picked through wreckage where it had cooled sufficiently. They were piecing together clues of the battle that the dead malcontents- now lined up in spaced and even rows- had intended to fight, unlike the Valkyrie pilots who were reveling in the fight that the malcontents had lost.

"Well, they weren't out for a picnic, `n that's for damn sure.", Captain Ellis of Fox Company reported to Winters and Mumuni primarily.

Their executive officers, Dalton and Drake had joined Duggan, the Werewolves' CO, in investigating the peculiar site of an Army 8/4 cargo truck that had been in malcontent possession, which had also been blown cleanly in half by an AGM and left with the front end standing perfectly on its nose as though set that way intentionally.

There was no sign of Beale, the Gunfighters' CO- probably somewhere similiarly engaged.

They would get later all of the insight being imparted on Mumuni and Winters now-. But at the moment, the spectacle of the moment still held precedence.

For his part, Winters was more concerned with answers.

"-Or, if they were off to a barbecue", Ellis said as an afterthought, "They were bringing the fireworks."

The Army captain led the full and lieutenant colonels a short distance to where an abused field artillery piece lay on the ground, freed of its carriage base apparently by the explosion that had destroyed the vehicle towing it.

An assortment of other weapons found by the Fox Company troops ranging in size from mortar tubes to assault rifles had been laid out neatly nearby also to await inventory and collection.

"That ole' 105 may have seen its hay day back in The Global War, but it was still in good enough order to shoot before you folks got to it.", Ellis said tapping the piece with his booted toe, "We found twelve unexploded shells- we'll have to wait until all of the fires die down before we know if there are any cooked off rounds to tally up-. Same's true for the 100 and 80 mortar tubes. Toss in a whole lot of Soviet surplus assault rifles, with more rounds of ammunition than I would have thought you could scrape together out here, and-. Well, hell- I don't know what it means- but I wouldn't have wanted to be where they were going."

"No guesses on that?", Mumuni asked, wondering as she studied the destroyed howitzer exactly how and where the malcontents had come across such a substantial weapon in the relative waste of The Outlands.

Ellis shrugged, "We're looking, but I wouldn't hold my breath for a map with a big X on it or anything, ma'am."

"You're not suggesting they were land navigating out here by memory, are you?", Winters asked, suddenly wanting another cigarette but fighting the urge as he had already gone through five in the short time he'd been out of the cockpit.

"No sir.", explained Ellis, "But look at the mess you made of the trucks and the dittos in `em-. Paper doesn't hold up quite as well."

Winters had seen enough early on and had spent the time since trying not to see any more than he had to. He understood the captain's point though. Shaped-charge missile warheads, fragmentation and high-explosive cannon shells did have a diminishing effect on something as insubstantial as a map.

It was a point of curiosity now though- a moot point at best.

These malcontents were not going to get to where they had intended to go.

"-Figure though", Ellis speculated, "Those 8/4s have a range of about five hundred kliks with a full pair of tanks, and we know they were carrying extra fuel in drums- probably for the civilian vehicles. Hell, if they took the right route, they could have made it near to Nellis or China Lake- maybe."

Mumuni seemed unconvinced, "Attack a military base with a towed cannon and three mortars? The isolation would have had to really have gotten to them for them to try that."

Ellis shrugged again, defending his off-the-cuff theory meekly, "I didn't say it would have been a long fight, Colonel. Hell, I've seen dittos stir up the shit just to get themselves wasted. Personally, I think it's a kind of depression they get-. They can't hack it being pacified, so they decide to go out like warriors. Who knows?"

Winters found himself giving in to his need for a sixth cigarette. The wind had shifted and was carrying the thick and distinctively unpleasant odor of burned alien flesh in his direction.

"It's as good an explanation as any, I suppose."

RDF Headquarters,

Yellowstone City

The RDF Military Chief of Staff, General Breetai sat at the head of the table in his briefing room surrounded by the Joint Chiefs representing the five divisions that constituted the greater Robotech Defense Force.

All were as quiet with thought as the senior officer, or at least made the obligatory gesture of acting to be as Commander Weitzel of the obscure Information Fusion Division presented an early briefing at the MCS' request.

Maps and video imagery appeared on the large holographic display over the briefing table to provide a frame of reference to the REF officer's talking points as she continued in a professional tone that hinted of understandable nervous tension.

"-And while the situation in and outside of Brasilia is the most stark and shocking, it is mimicked by similar situations all throughout Brazil and The Control Zone overall.", Weitzel's disembodied voice continued clearly with a moderately detailed map of the northern half of South America showing in pulsating red dots the areas she spoke of while supplemental images flashed through on sub-windows in a slide show format, "San Pablo, Salvador, Rio de Janeiro, Forteleza, Manaus, Caritiba- the list goes on. Similar conditions are reported and being reported and actively monitored in states bordering Brazil."

"Zentraedi populations, consistent with markers defining them as malcontents are withdrawing from major population centers armed for battle, but are establishing and maintaining positions without any offensive activity near to the centers they withdrew from."

"There is also lesser activity similar to what is being seen in The Control Zone taking place through Central, and even some areas of North America."

Breetai waited for a natural pause before asking, "And you say that these Zentraedi populations are consistently armed regardless of their location?"

Weitzel's voice came back immediately, "Armed heavily General, sir. If we are to infer anything from this, we should lean heavily toward interpreting this to say that either they expect to be attacked, or they plan to mount an attack. Both interpretations are offset somewhat by the fact that if they were expecting to be attacked, they have abandoned their greatest advantage- defensible positions, namely the civilian population centers. Or, similarly, if they are planning to attack- they have abandoned their significant bases of operation."

"At this point, we can only say with some degree of certainty what they are capable of- not what they will do or why."

"Is there evidence of communication between these malcontent elements?", Breetai asked looking for logical signs of common activity.

Weitzel replied, "There is evidence through SIGINT and Spec-Ops intercepts of couriers that malcontent groups within their own regions are communicating on a minimal basis, but there is no strong evidence of broader coordination. Not at this time."

Solemn expressions around Breetai's briefing room grew more grim as the threat of a dangerous force imbedded already in an unstable region was compounded by unclear motivations.

Breetai withdrew from the micro-cosmos of The Control Zone and expanded his scope of interest in asking, "And what of Zentraedi activity monitored by our tracking and listening stations in the Sol System?"

There was a pause, but Weitzel replied concisely, "No signs of escalation or organized activity in any sense, General Breetai. This can change quickly, of course- but of the rogue units we are aware of, there has been no indication of massing of forces or preparations to sortie to another region of the system."

Breetai remained in his own thoughts for several more moments before asking, "Are there any other updates that you need to share with us, Commander?"

"No, General- I was drawing near to conclusion."

Breetai nodded, saying, "In that case, we will speak again in two hours. Updates of an urgent nature should be brought to my attention immediately, of course."

"Naturally, sir.", Weitzel complied, "I will speak with you in two hours."

As the video conference session ended, the holographic displays vanished and the light level in the briefing room rose to its normal state.

All were silent around the table.

"Thoughts?", Breetai invited, his voice saying clearly that he had his own but was looking for perspective from the various disciplines of military operation surrounding him.

"Well-.", General Wallace, RDF-Army Chief of Staff said, leaning forward to engage his colleagues up and down the table around him, "-I can't say I see the extraterrestrial element or influence that this Commander Weitzel was intimating in her white paper, but I can speak to what I'm seeing clearly in development in the American sectors. We're seeing the prelude to a big damn brush war. I think that whoever is orchestrating this has set up as many simultaneous but independent offensive actions as could be organized, and we should look for them to go off all at once or as very near to at once as the malcontents can manage-."

"Given the time of the year, I think we can expect to see the shooting start inside of twenty-four hours. The Zentraedi, though not participants are nonetheless not oblivious to our major holidays and the inherent distraction they cause to normal, civilian society."

General Westenhoff, Commandant of the RDF-Marine Corps whose roles and responsibilities were evolving with the growth of the REF, allowed a gap between Wallace's last word and his first that a knife blade could not been inserted into easily.

"I'll grant you almost all of your points, Nate- but something does not figure on a basic tactical level. Weitzel hit it squarely on the head- there is no benefit either offensively or defensively to the malcontents in abandoning the population centers. Maybe if it had happened in isolation- one or two cities- maybe then we could dismiss it as the rash act of a few regional commanders-. This though-."

"This smells like some common plan to me."

Wallace countered, "I agree with your reasoning, but the fact is that we can approach this as a mater of xeno-psychology and try to figure out what's driving the malcontents to do a clearly foolish thing, or we can take full advantage of the upper hand we've been given."

"If the malcontents should feel the need to initiate hostilities, we have them in the open. Look at the lessons of The Tet Offensive- the flare of violence was brilliant and impressive, but it also brought the Viet Cong out into the open where they could be dealt with decisively. They were a hobbled and inconsequential force in the Vietnam War following that one action."

"I say that if the malcontents want to make some sort of statement with an act of sheer and reckless bravado- then bring it."

"This time next year we may still be mending holes in South American cities and licking some wounds, but we won't be doing it while keeping an eye on the malcontents."

"Between ourselves and the ASC, we have the boots on the ground to mount a spirited fight.", Wallace's aide added, "And within forty-eight hours we'll have increased our presence another thirty-five to forty percent. There's no question about air dominance."

Breetai interjected, "All of this being what it may, I don't want us to develop tunnel vision. Not at this level. When I brief the President in a few minutes, I will present the opinion that I seem to be hearing that this is a regional event- so far as we are able to determine. I doubt I will be able to convince him to raise the planetary alert level though, given the lack of activity on any of the other continents or in the rogue Zentraedi fleet elements we have knowledge of-."

"-However, I believe in constant training and that the best time to execute a surprise readiness drill is when we know our forces are least likely to be able to respond well to it-."

"Admiral Griffin, am I correct that there are full-up readiness drills that have been drafted for the REF Fleet?"

Griffin, Chief of Operations for the REF appeared slightly caught off guard by the question- particularly as he seemed fully aware of the intent behind it.

"Yes General, we have several readiness drill plans for standing up the combat divisions of the Fleet. All are geared to gauge response time in bringing the Fleet from a low order of readiness to deployment-ready. None have been executed on a large scale yet as some of the details are being finalized-."

"You've identified precisely what I'm looking for, Admiral.", Breetai said, "I'm curious as to see how the Fleet is able to improvise. And besides, it's a training event- correct?"

"Of course, sir."

Breetai rose from the table, "Then we will meet again in an hour and a half. I will expect status reports on tasks at that time, and then we will see what new information Commander Weitzel has for us."

REF Schiaparelli Base, Mars

Olympus Mons in its ancient grandeur in all likelihood did not notice the recent incursion of Man from Mars' nearest cousin in the Sol System.

Standing with its peak towering some 27 kilometers above its base, over three times the height of Earth's Mt Everest comparatively, the measurable effect of Man's arrival was negligible.

More ambitious in scale and engineering complexity than either the new REF Moon Bases at Tycho, Copernicus, and The Sea of Tranquility- or its pre-Robotech War predecessor, Sera Base- Schiaparelli Base was granted without contest to be the largest extraterrestrial engineering project ever undertaken and would remain so until funding was received for and the initial stages of the Aegis Space Station- "Project Daedalus" – were initiated. With 90% of the base and all of its massive storage facilities embedded into the ancient volcanic and igneous rock of Olympus Mons- a feat of excavation that alone had taken 23 months, the Terran outpost was still little more than a scratch in the solar system's largest geographic feature.

Completed in terms of construction some 11 months earlier, not all of the elements envisioned to make the base "self-sustaining" had come on line yet. Life support was still heavily dependent on artificial air recycling systems as opposed to the eventual "balanced systems" approach in which the base's greenhouses would perform much of the work in providing life-sustaining oxygen for the human and Zentraedi inhabitants of Schiaparelli. Also, with the greenhouses not yet in full operation, the base was still dependent upon regular reprovisioning visits from REF supply transports to feed its 12,723 inhabitants.

Functionally speaking- in terms of the intent for building Schiaparelli Base- the installation was fully operational though.

Massive warehouses stocked with military material and supplies of every type were nearing capacity- brought in quietly by the same supply transports that still delivered food, supplies, mail, and new personnel to the base. Schiaparelli's mission as an emergency supply depot was proceeding in step with the timetable set for it.

In terms of self-defense, Schiaparelli was already a fortress island in the barren waste of Mars and the vast expanses of nothing that separated it from Earth.

The corridors of Schiaparelli's officers' barracking area had been dimmed to a lower level to indicate if not to exactly simulate "night" according to "Zulu" time on Earth- the clock kept on all REF vessels, off-world stations and posts. Like all things on the base where there was little in the way of luxury or frivolity, there was a legitimate psychological reason for the routine change in interior illumination. Not in all, but in a percentage of human and even the less common Zentraedi personnel- there was a true need to experience the day-and-night cycle taken for granted by those who saw the sun on a daily basis. With few exterior viewing ports, with most of the base built into the rock of Olympus Mons, and with few excursions into the hostile "outside" environment of Mars- the changing of illumination was the only semi-natural indicator of the passage of time.

The dimming of the lights seemed to have a particular effect on the small number of children that called the base home either with a single parent or both whose billet and situation conflicts necessitated the presence of the young civilians.

Lieutenant Commander Kevin Kroft, REF, found that the changing of illumination and its drowsing effects were most acute on his children Martin and Meagan after a heavy meal in the officers' mess- and particularly so when it was what was passed off by the mess staff as "turkey".

Certainly, the slices of "meat" in the hot trays on the serving line probably contained turkey- in some quantity- but Kroft had grown up in a time when the real thing was abundantly available at holiday times, and he could still tell the difference.

Still, it was what Martin and Meagan knew- and oddly enough it did have the sedative quality of the real thing that was only assisted by wearing effects of the general excitement level felt all day by children on Christmas Eve, and by the hour-long show of Christmas carols put on voluntarily by the vocally gifted personnel who formed the base's choir.

Now, carrying a half-conscious Meagan who in that state was still able to cling to her father at the hip and around the neck, Kevin Kroft made the final turn onto the corridor that would bring he and his children back to the small apartment-style quarters provided for them. Martin led the way, still giving every indication of being as full of energy as an eight-year old boy could be expected to be, but his father knew better. As soon as his level of activity slowed, the day's exertions would catch up to him.

Within two hours, Kevin knew that he would be able to dig out the carefully hidden Christmas presents for his children and place them under the small artificial tree that occupied a corner of the apartment's closet-sized living room. He could then catch a few winks himself before the inevitable waking of the children at an unusually early hour for the discovery of what Santa had brought them.

It would be a nice time, Kevin knew as he handed Martin his electronic access card to allow the boy the "treat" of working the electronic door lock- but not as nice as it could have been. His wife Amanda's leave to Schiaparelli from her post on an A.R.M.D. II platform had been scrubbed, and her trip would likely be delayed no less than a week which was when the next transport from Earth was due to arrive.

It was only a delay though, Kevin struggled to maintain, and best of all- the children were unaware. Tempting as it had been to tell them that their mother would be with them on or shortly after Christmas, Kevin had kept his promise to Amanda to make it a surprise- and now he was glad that he had.

The benefit of them not knowing to expect their mother was that they would be spared the disappointment Kevin was feeling.

"You still have to read it, Daddy-.", Meagan said, sensing even with her eyes closed that she was home.

"I didn't forget, pumpkin-.", Kroft said locking the door to the apartment as it slid shut behind him.

Martin was already in the living room, pretending to make sure that the tree was still in perfect order to attract the attention of Santa- but really checking with optimism to see whether the jolly intruder may have had already visited in their absence from the apartment. A sigh said it all to Kevin.

No luck.

"Why don't you two go and brush your teeth, and I'll get the book out to read to you before you tuck in for the night.", Kevin suggested, putting Meagan down onto her own feet and making sure she was steady on them before letting go of her completely.

Still clearly frustrated that Santa was obeying the rules of Christmas and had not made an early delivery, Martin kicked the fire resistant area rug that was something of a luxury item on a post like Schiaparelli and protested, "-But I brushed this morning-."

Kevin motioned both children toward the bathroom, "And you'll both brush again tonight. Don't you know that Santa checks for clean teeth these days?"

Martin, able to spot nonsense when he came across it countered immediately with, "That's the Tooth Fairy-."

It was a good attempt at any rate Kevin knew, but sometimes trickery didn't work, "Well, they're part of the same union so they share notes. Brush your teeth. Dad has to dig out the book anyway."

Knowing he wouldn't win the battle and always mindful of his sister, Martin took Meagan by the hand and led her back to the bathroom that was barely big enough for one.

Once Kevin heard the water start to run into the metal wash basin, he opened the small storage closet in the living room and brought down a box filled with Christmas items. Sorting through it, he remembered he would later have to dig out the children's stockings to be filled with candy and small nick-knacks for the next morning.

He wouldn't be stuffing Amanda's stocking for a while it seemed- in any sense of the phrase, wholesome or otherwise..

Finding the book in question, he tossed it onto the small sofa and placed the box back into the closet- closing the door when he was finished.

The duty phone on the wall just inside of the living room buzzed loudly while the on-post pager Kroft was required to carry as "essential personnel" with the engineering division went off at the same time.

Kroft paused, dreading having to pick up the phone but unable to avoid it. His responsibilities knew no break for the holidays.

He reached the phone before the fourth buzz and snatched it off its cradle.

"Kroft."

"Commander, sir- it's Lieutenant Nung, sorry to bother you."

Kroft recognized the junior officer by his voice before he had had the chance to identify himself. He was a capable Reflex engineer and knowledgeable about the function of the base's twin Reflex furnace power plant- so it was unusual for him to be calling.

"Yes, Lieutenant?- What can I do for you?"

"Not me, sir- Commander Schlosser.", Nung explained, "We're starting to run through the checks for bringing the auxiliary power grid back on-line, and he wants all hands on deck to assist."

Kroft paused in a moment of confusion and mild panic.

The auxiliary power grid had been taken down the day before for routine maintenance and for tweaking of some of the system's routing nodes- but the carefully planned schedule called for the work to go on through the 26th and for the grid to be re-enabled at 0030 on the 27th. Kroft had led the detail in charge of distributing the work through the shifts and establishing the timetable of work.

"Is there a problem?", Kroft asked, hearing the sounds of tooth-brushing from the bathroom beginning to come to a conclusion.

"Not sure, sir. Commander Schlosser just showed up a few minutes ago and issued the orders."

This was puzzling to Kroft. Schlosser, his superior and the head of the base's engineering division was a dedicated officer and a consummate, detail-oriented perfectionist- but he was also rarely, very rarely found in the engineering areas outside of his duty hours.

Something of concern was happening.

"Right-.", Kroft said, "Give me a few minutes, and I'll-."

Nung cut in, "Oh, no sir-. This watch can run the checklist. You're to be here in ninety minutes though. I'm just putting out the word with as much warning as possible."

Kroft heard himself sigh, "Okay- that'll be easier on the kids. Won't scare `em."

"Understood, sir. We'll see you in ninety mikes."

Kroft heard the line go dead and he hastily hung up the phone.

"What won't scare us, Dad?"

One of the things that Kroft had found consistently reliable about children, or at least his children, was their ability to hear exactly the things that they should not hear, or things that could not be easily explained away. Martin was particularly gifted at this.

Kevin Kroft sat on the sofa and noticed that not only had his son brushed his teeth but had also gotten into his pajamas. The sequence of events for the visit from Santa now being non-negotiable in the boy's mind, he had bought in completely and was pressing on with urgency toward bedtime.

"Nothing-.", Kevin said, "That's why nothing will scare you. Work was just calling me because they need a little help later with something. I can read you and Meagan the story and tuck you in. I'll be back well before Santa arrives."

Martin was on his side of the couch when Meagan showed up in her night shirt and took her place on her father's knee. Bedtime stories were nothing new, it was just that this one was special for Christmas..

Getting comfortable, Meagan announced quite business-like, "Okay, Daddy- I'm ready."

Kevin chuckled- the girl had a lot of her mother's assertiveness in her.

"Oh, you're ready, huh?-"

Kroft opened the dog-eared book that his parents had read to him years before and put on his best story-telling voice.

"T'was the night before Christmas, and all through the house, not a creature was stirring- not even a mouse…."

Egerton, England

..You're in it now, Andy Johnson…

Andy wasn't sure why Cedric's words that had recurred in his mind so many times over the past twelve weeks had come to him at that particular moment.

For the first time in three months- excluding the past 36 hours of course- he was totally enjoying himself and at ease.

Lucile, ever the domestic force had timed supper perfectly for the Johnson family and their guests and had begun to set out serving dishes before Andy had set his duffle bag down in the room that had been his- but felt strangely alien to him now.

His father and mother, Howard, Cedric and his mother, and the unexpected yet welcome addition of Aunt Moggie who seemed at times socially uncomfortable with his surroundings had all spent nearly three hours at the table and had eaten until they had been ready to burst and had nearly cleaned out the wine cellar before the elder Johnsons had been forced to retire with the hour.

Cedric and his mother despite the invitation to stay in one of the ample home's several guest rooms had taken their leave at that time also, accepting only Dexter Johnson's insistence that the family car and driver take the Collins home.

Hours of spirited political debate and social chat had worn both sides down to where resistance had been minimal and the offer had been accepted quickly.

Seeing his guests off from the main foyer, Dexter Johnson's last comment before following his wife up to the master bedroom for the evening had been the suggestion to his sons to start a fire in the fireplace of his study and take the opportunity to catch up on "talk between lads".

Andy had been somewhat shocked by the offer because to his living memory, his father had never been comfortable in leaving anyone unattended in his most personal space in his home. He did not protest, or even allow himself to show puzzlement. The moment had been too perfect.

Andy felt that in his father's eyes, he had done something right with his life and this was his reward.

Dry and split white oak had caught quickly in the hearth and had quickly been enveloped by a radiant blaze that had filled the study with a comforting warmth and that threw shadows with the dance of the flames.

Howard had quickly found that the cabinet that his father kept his good cognac and cigars in had been mysteriously left open, implying invitation- and the three young men had been quick to take it.

With only two high-backed leather chairs available near the fireplace, Cattermole had volunteered to retreat into the shadows and onto the matching leather couch- joining in conversation as it stretched on late into the night but only re-entering the light to refill his snifter or to take another cigar from the box that remained open on the table.

Food, alcohol, and the sudden absence of stress had done the guest in at some point, leaving the brothers to themselves with only the background noise of Cattermole's impressive snoring.

"You know-.", Andy said, leaning forward to tap the ashes from one of his father's Italian Tipperillos, "-I keep waiting for Da to come kicking in the door to pin our ears back like the time he caught us getting into these when we were- God-. How old were we?"

"Too young to know when to try to sneak a cigar if I remember right.", Howard said over the rim of his cognac snifter, "The left side of my ass still stings from that beating. –Could've been worse though…"

Andy remembered a sore bottom from the event also, and laughed as he asked, "How?"

Howard shrugged his way out of his uniform coat that had already been open and in an untidy state contrary to regs for several hours now.

"Could've been Ma-."

Andy laughed, nearly spilling the cognac that was allowing his mind to go to bizarre places with the thought of the scene that could have been.

"We'd've lost our bottoms altogether, the two of us.", Andy said shaking his head with the acknowledgment of a danger never realized, "Like that tine when you were twelve and Ma had to go see the head master because you'd been caught tongue-fencing with Sara Percy. I know you remember that. Hell, I remember that, and I didn't even take the lashing-. The belt probably remembers that-."

Howard blew rings of smoke casually- a trick Andy had never been able to master despite his best efforts to learn and Howard's to teach.

"-I was thirteen, and it was totally worth the lashing. She had very gifted lips you know. You should have seen what I learned she could do with them that next spring."

"No-.", scoffed Andy, "No, I probably shouldn't have- but I can imagine. –Proper Sara Percy, eh? Would've never figured-."

Howard tapped the ashes of his thin cigar into the ashtray and noted how he was getting down to the nub of his smoke. He wrestled with whether he could get a few more minutes from this one, or if he should perhaps light another. It was a bit of a quandary, as his father's generosity did know limits.

He chose the third option of tossing the Tipperillo nub into the fire and focusing the indulgences of his vices on liquid forms.

"So, you gonna tell me about her or do I have to pry it out of you?"

Shocked, and automatically defensive, Andy stammered unconvincingly, "Who?"

Howard rolled his eyes, "Who-. The leggy brunette whose ass you were target-locked to for the whole graduation ceremony."

"Was not-.", Andy protested, "-You could see that from the stands?"

"No, but you took off into the crowds looking for someone as soon as you were dismissed, and later when I saw the two of you- I just figured-. Well, I don't know what I figured-. Actually I do know what I figured, but I thought I'd hear your side first."

"You're really quick to judge these days, Howard- you know that don't you?"

"That's not a denial of anything."

"Or an admission either.", Andy pointed out, feeling the Johnson genetic ability to debate coming to the surface.

"Oh for Christ's sake-!", came from the dark regions of the leather couch where neither brother had noticed a sudden end to the snoring, "He banged her like a kettle drum!- And it was gruesome, and I don't want to think about it ever again thank you very much!"

Howard raised an eyebrow, "Ah, the truth comes out! Thank you, Aunt Moggie."

A loud snore was the only reply.

"Well-.", admitted Andy, "It was something like that- only I think the whole thing was a little more polished than Moggie lets on."

"No it wasn't!"

The voice lapsed into another snore.

Howard thumbed in the general direction of the couch., "Is he normally like this?"

Andy tossed the last of his cigar into the fire, though he could have easily made it last a bit longer, "The word normal doesn't really apply to Moggie I'm finding."

"We're getting off subject anyway.", Howard said, "Yeah, I figured it was something like that. Do you want my advice?"

"Do I have a choice?"

"No."

"Then why not-."

Howard took a sip of his cognac thoughtfully before saying, "Forget her."

"What? You don't know her."

Howard laughed again, "I know the type. They come in both genders, too, so it's not just some misogynistic thing bubbling up in me either. She's a bed buddy."

"How's that?", Andy asked, knowing that Howard would spin out his theory whether he was invited to or not, so it was better to let it run its course.

He was too much Dexter Johnson's son.

"Look", explained Howard, "-First time away from home. All of the demands, all of the pressures-. She wants someone to cling to-. Or rather, wanted someone to cling to and give her peace of mind. There's a couple like her in every bunch- in training and operational, trust me. I've written the disciplinary actions on them."

"Well-.", Andy began, looking for firm footing to argue from.

"Well nothing.", Howard followed on, giving no quarter, "Trust your big brother on this one. Or don't-. But tell me, when you finally caught up to her- what did she say? What were her parting words to you there, lover?"

Andy set his snifter down on the table and watched how it caught the flicker of the fire that was now beginning its decline.

"Not a chance, eh?"

Howard shook his head apologetically, "Sorry, but probably not. Just as well though. Don't you have bigger issues to grapple with now?"

Still lost in moments that seemed further and further away, Andy asked vacantly, "Like what?"

Howard laughed, "God, she shagged your brain into neutral, didn't she? I'm just talking about the little matter of getting your commission, what branch of service it will be- what occupational specialty-? Little details like that."

The warm glow of the evening had deserted Andy fully now.

"Well, I'd say intelligence is probably not my game-."

Edwards City, The Mojave Dessert

The scene within The High Desert Pilot's Social Club was fitting of the patchwork venue.

The "celebration" going on- that had been going on for hours now was not all one thing or another, but many things that merged and blended together at rough edges that normally should not have meshed.

Pilots told war stories around symbols of "peace on Earth", and toasted the day's slaughter of aliens in the same breath as wishing good will to men.

Holiday music had migrated with the children who had come with both parents into the Club's smaller, rarely used "lounge" where more holiday and age appropriate entertainment and refreshment had been provided by Roxanna- free of charge. Wives and girlfriends rotated through the lounge in a supervisory capacity in turns- making certain that the children were as oblivious to the activities of their parents in the bar as much as they monitored the children's behavior.

The air in the main bar was charged with a positive energy, and the mood was relaxed and informal despite the fact that a little less than an hour before Major General Butler had appeared to congratulate the pilots who had participated in Operation Rapier that morning on their stunning success. The composite wing commander had toasted the pilots, the pilots had toasted back- and the evening had carried on.

Butler had since joined Winters at his customary table with Colonel Mumuni and her executive officer Lt Col Drake for drinks and to talk as the predictable battle between the bar's ancient jukebox and slightly less aged karaoke machine kicked into high gear.

The karaoke faction was winning at the moment with Lt Col Neil "Dingo" Duggan and his Werewolves on point- observing a squadron tradition that Winters found he had even lost his XO to for the moment.

The worst part, Winters found himself thinking through the soft mental haze afforded by medium-quality bourbon, was that none of them were particularly good singers.

"I saw a werewolf with a Chinese menu in his hand-."

"-Walkin' through the streets of Soho in the rain-.", croaked Dingo to the aide of karaoke-provided piano and guitar, and with more melody coming from his Australian accent than his attempts at singing.

Dalton, slightly more vocally gifted, took over as the microphone was passed to him-.

"He was lookin' for the place called Le Ho Phuc's-."

"-Gonna get a big dish of beef chow mein!"

The splintery frame and boards of the Club shook as the bar exploded with joined voices-.

"Ahhhhhh-HOOOOO!- Werewolves of London-."

"Ahhhh-HOOOOOO!"

"Ahhhhhh-HOOOOO!- Werewolves of London-."

"Ahhhh-HOOOOOO!"

"Ya hear `em hwlin' round your kitchen door-."

"Better not let `em in!"

"-Little old lady got mutilated late last night-."

"Werewolves of London again!"

Mumuni glanced over her shoulder at the chorus that was now engaged in what might have loosely been referred to as "dancing" and in the tone of one who was being pointlessly flogged, muttered,

"We're being punished, aren't we?"

Butler laughed more in surrender than in humor, "With this group-? Ganyet, I think we're getting off easy."

"Ahhhhhh-HOOOOO!- Werewolves of London-."

"Ahhhh-HOOOOOO!"

Rio appeared at the table to refill Winters' tumbler from the bottle she had left there, shaking her hips rhythmically to what was being accepted as music.

Winters ground out his cigarette into the full ashtray at the center of the table and gave in to a display of affection, slipping his arm around the young woman's thin waist.

"Oh, Rio- you're a fine girl. What a good wife you would be.", Winters said looking up at her as she was only slightly taller standing than he sitting, "-But my life, my love and my lady is the sea-."

Rio tweaked Winters' nose and playfully snatched away his wheel cap, placing it on her head as she gyrated her way back to the bar.

Butler shook his head at his old friend.

"You ought to give that girl a break, Jack.", the wing commander advised in a fraternal tone, "For some reason she seems taken with you."

"Marry her, you mean?", Winters asked flatly as he lit another cigarette.

Butler laughed, "I meant cutting her loose-. She can do much better."

"She can.", Mumuni affirmed without solicitation.

Winters glanced back and forth between his two superiors feeling much as he imagined Caesar had felt on the Senate floor, "Thanks for the vote of confidence."

Mumuni's XO Drake, silent to this point said sympathetically, "Aw, Jesus loves you still, Jack-. It's the rest of us that think you're an asshole."

Winters motioned toward the bar, "I can leave if you don't want me here-."

Roxanna had brought out the "good scotch" for Butler and had left the bottle on the table which Butler now used to refill his glass over diminished ice cubes..

"Easy, Jack- just busting your balls a little. You're entirely too tense for what you accomplished today."

Winters settled into his chair again in a posture that said that he meant to stay a while. Reflecting on Butler's words, he realized that the general was not that far off target. He was having difficulty smelling the proverbial roses.

"I know-.", Winters admitted, swirling the bourbon around in his glass and looking into it as though it were a crystal ball that would give him answers, "-It just doesn't figure."

Butler groaned and set his drink down, "Jack, it never figures. Today was just another ugly thing that had to be done in a chain of ugly things to keep the world as we know it spinning. –And that's all."

"I suppose you're right.", Winters allowed grudgingly.

Mumuni glanced to Butler as though prompting him and said, "Did you tell him?"

Butler shook his head, "No, not yet."

"Tell me what?", Winters asked.

Casually, Butler said, "Lieutenant General Hume was very impressed with Operation Rapier and wanted to know who had been involved in the planning of it. If we play this right, it could be very good for you Jack."

Winters scoffed at the thought, "We would have done as much by sitting on our bums for another four hours and getting called up on a scramble. Besides, Hume remembers me for my most notable skills of assaulting his staff and the ASC in general-. I've got to live that down a little more before I can expect a laurel wreath."

Butler shrugged having made his attempt, "Well, this helps anyway. Keep your nose clean and who can tell-?"

Winters felt a sudden fullness in his bladder that he had not noticed before. Pushing away from the table, he got to his feet- finding that despite the amount of bourbon he had consumed they were servicing him well. Like the nicotine from the cigarettes he'd been chain-smoking through, the alcohol was having a zero-sum effect on him tonight- neither good nor bad.

His friend Butler had been right- he was just not connecting with the overall mood tonight, and he could not even explain why to himself.

"-I'm getting my hat back-.", Winters said, retreating toward the bar.

"-So you know what I had to be thinkin' when she said that she wanted to get into something comfortable-.", Maj. "Vice" Vincenz recounted to Piglet and Gecko at the bar through a grin that assured both listeners that the best of the story was yet to come, "Well, she comes back into the living room a minute or two later wearing sweats of all fuckin' things, and I realize I completely misunderstood. It was a little embarrassing because I was bare-assed naked on the couch by this point-."

Capt. Hamilton "Piglet" Vought laughed and shook his head, "Only you, Vice-. How the hell did you talk your way outta that one?"

"I think he was probably trying to talk his way into that one, Piglet.", Gecko pointed out, "But I'm curious too-. Go on Vice, astound us…"

Put off by his squadron mates' lack of faith, Vincenz continued defiantly, "Well, shit-. You know, sometimes you just have to press forward through adversity. So, the best thing I can come up with is- Well, c'mon! It ain't gonna suck itself!"

Vice's limited audience burst into laughter over the lewd mental image that both were too intoxicated to find appalling.

"And that worked?", Piglet asked in true awe.

Vice sighed regretfully, "Fuck no-. I had to get into what clothes she didn't throw out the window as I was going down her apartment stairs. Scared the hell out of the old couple that live below her-."

"So then there'll be no second date?", Gecko asked.

Vice shrugged, "Maybe with hindsight she'll see it was an honest mistake-."

"-Do I want to ask about this?"

The three pilots at the bar found their commander had joined them, but had likely missed the critical elements of Vice's epic tale.

"Probably not, Skipper.", Gecko advised.

Winters glanced up and down the bar and then as far past the saloon-style doors to the kitchen as his vantage point could allow.

"Yeah, coming from Vice- probably not. Has anyone seen Rio? Particularly, has anyone seen Rio with my hat?"

The three pilots exchanged looks, none having been paying attention to the whereabouts of the squadron leader's significant other.

"-In the back, I think, Jack.", Vice said, "Sorry, we didn't know we were supposed to be tracking her-."

Winters growled in frustration, a sound disproportionate to the inconvenience suffered it seemed to his subordinates.

"No matter-. It's not like I don't know where she sleeps or something-. If you see her though-."

"-Get the hat. Right.", inferred Piglet, "Nicely though."

"Nicely.", Winters affirmed, "-Or I'll kick your ass."

"Speaking of which-.", Gecko said, halting Winters as he tried to step away, "Helluva good play call today, Jack-. Thanks for letting me come back in on a win."

Winters grunted, "Some win-. It was like toad hunting with shotguns. The dumb bastards would have had a better chance shooting themselves in the head than we gave them catching them in the open like that. –But if it makes you feel better, Gecko- you're welcome."

Gecko clearly did not feel better- not now-.

"-Okaaaay…."

"You coulda just kicked him in the groin, Jack.", Vice pointed out, observing Gecko's reaction.

Winters decided to withdraw from a situation that could only go badly from this point.

"I'm going to go have a piss-. Watch for Rio for me."

The men's room in The High Desert Pilot's Social Club had two atmospheres dependant upon the season.

In the spring and summer, it was hot and at its best smelled like damp cinderblocks and cement despite the arid climate of the Mojave.

In the fall and winter, it was cold and smelled of damp cinderblocks and cement.

It was not intended to be a meeting place for socialization, though it had been known to be used for socialization of sorts by some- most notoriously, Vice. For Winters though, at this moment, the men's room was perfect in its simplicity and utility.

At the moment, it was a refuge from socialization, and as urine began to splash loudly into the long, trough urinal mounted crudely on the wall opposite the single plywood toilet stall, Winters appreciated its other utility as well.

Interestingly, in its latter function- the cold even seemed to help.

The creak and slam of the door into the bare block was a familiar sound to Winters as he had learned the door had a tendency to resist being opened at first, and then give to the point where it nearly threw itself into the wall. Nothing was unusual about the men's room door banging open, and one learned to maintain a "stream" despite the reflex to jump.

Something was different this time- but not in the sound.

Something in the way that the hairs on Winters' neck stood up.

Something was out of place.

Despite the alcohol that had brought him to this sanctuary of relief, Winters zeroed in on the peculiarity after only a moment.

"Ganyet- if you're here to help, I should remind you that tapping more than three times constitutes playing with it. And we should really just keep our relationship professional."

Mumuni laughed, "Thanks, no-. I'm only interested in adult sizes."

It was cold in the men's room, Winters rationalized without comment as he secured and zipped.

"People will talk regardless-."

Mumuni folded her arms over her chest and got the expression on her face that Winters knew all too well. She was in "commanding officer mode", she had him cornered, and she was going to get answers.

"So, let's have it then.", Mumuni said, as though the "it" was a thing out in plain view between them to be discussed, "What's got you in such a snit?"

"I don't know-.", admitted Winters in a mumble, "Today-. I-. I just don't know."

Mumuni's expression was now one of equal parts concern and bafflement, "Can you guess?- Because I'm really not getting you, Winters, and I'm wondering if you're not permanently cracked up! You're sullen and bitter when you're busted, you're sullen and bitter when you're winning-. Do you have a history of depression in your family that didn't find its way into your medical jacket?"

Winters swiped violently at the air, as though deflecting Mumuni's probing.

"Oh, for Christ's sake Ganyet- back off!"

Mumuni, half Winters' size did not budge an inch or blink an eye but came back at him with equal force, "I can't back off, Jack! I can't back off because you're a sharp, intuitive officer, and you're sniffing at something in the air- and you won't give me even a hint at what it is! So give!"

Surprisingly, Winters did not find himself in a fighting mood. He and Mumuni both had their blood up, but it wasn't at each other.

"I really don't know, Ganyet. Something about today doesn't feel right. We caught almost two hundred Zentraedi warriors out in the open. It was stupid for them to be moving like that in the daylight- clearly stupid. First day in the field stupid. And these blokes had experience under their belt. –And so did the five or six other units that got shot up outside of Crater Range."

Mumuni blinked and rationalized, "Maybe it was like Ellis said-. Maybe they didn't have a point except to bring a fight and get themselves killed."

Winters dismissed the suggestion, saying, "No-. You can walk out into the desert with a rifle to find trouble and get yourself killed. These buggers were hauling artillery. They were looking to kill before they got themselves killed. If you're doing that, you move under cover of darkness and damn sure not in broad daylight. They were moving at that time because they had to. They had to be somewhere at a certain time, so they were all forced to move out- and that's what we tripped over today."

Mumuni nodded understanding Winters reasoning finally.

"I can see that, Jack- but the fact is that we did spot their movement, and we did put an end to whatever they thought they were going to do. We stopped them, remember?"

Though he knew how irrational it would sound, Winters replied, "Did we? Because it doesn't feel like we ended anything except a couple hundred miserable lives."

Mumuni shrugged helplessly, "What can I say? War's hell."

Winters forced a grin, "Yeah, war's hell."

Mumuni motioned toward the door, "Come on, I'll buy you a drink and we can toast a miserable victory."

"Sounds good.", Winters agreed.

Before Mumuni could reach for the handle, the door to the men's room flew open with unusual force and Scooter rushed in.

The pilot was sweating more than his customary drinking sweat, and his hand clutched at his abdomen about his belt buckle as though he'd been gut shot.

"Sorry for barging in like that- but, you know-.", Phillips explained glancing desperately at the toilet stall.

"Right-.", Winters said, "We were on our way out anyway. Just give us a second to attain minimum safe distance."

Scooter bolted for the stall, saying urgently as he went, "Better hurry- this is gonna be brutal!"

Winters opened the men's room door for Mumuni, advising, "We'd better do as the man says-. More than anyone I know, Scooter knows his shit-."

The main bar room of The High Desert Pilot's Social Club had not lost tempo or even skipped a beat in the absence of the two squadron leaders. If they had been missed at all, it was a well-concealed fact.

Only Major General Butler showed signs of interest at Winters and Mumuni's comings and goings, and seemed relieved that they had emerged together and peacefully from the men's room.

"So what are you drinking?', Mumuni asked, fully intent on making good on her promise to buy the next round.

"Something strong and sure to cause liver damage.", Winters said hopefully.

Rio intercepted the two from behind a small cluster of pilots holding Winters' hat out to him and wearing a scornful look that was directed more at Mumuni than her man.

Winters read the expression for what it was, explaining to Rio, "Honestly, it's not what it looks like-."

A small, impish grin appeared on the portion of Rio's face she allowed to show.

A joke? Yes, almost certainly her stab at humor.

Winters only had the energy to give a small laugh.

"You're evil, you know-."

The power in the bar died- the lights flickering out as the jukebox that had begun playing again went silent.

"Hey, Roxanna-.", someone yelled in the blackness, "For what you charge for drinks around here, you could pay the electric bill you know!"

There were a few laughs, but what Winters was most aware of was that Rio had found him in the darkness and had her arms tightly around his mid-section like a child seeking protection.

He was also aware that the knot- the knot in his belly that had been conspicuously absent during the mission that morning had returned and felt to be the size of a cannonball.

He noticed also that the darkness was not limited only to the bar.

Points across The Antelope Valley that should have been shining with the lights of Edwards City and its suburbs were also dark.

Then the emergency alert pagers, worn by every pilot and critical operations officer in the bar began to chirp in the same shrill and urgent tone.

Winters heard a voice that he barely recognized as his own.

"Oh Christ-."

Sol Traffic Control and Threat Monitoring Center,

Cheyenne Mountain, Colorado

Since it had first become operational in 1966 as a secret command facility for the U.S.-Canadian cooperative command, NORAD, few locations on Earth had borne the responsibilities of keeping the vigilant watch for the threats of unparalleled destruction the way Cheyenne Mountain had served in this capacity. The responsibility of raising that flag had been a very real one since the facility's conception, but one that all hoped would never have to be executed.

It had come close on a number of occasions when the threat had only been that of the thermonuclear destruction that Man had become capable of bringing upon himself.

The first true execution of that duty came with the appearance of Dolza's Imperial Fleet that preceded by mere minutes The Zentraedi Holocaust- and since, Cheyenne Mountain had stood watch with all hoping that the flag would never have to be raised again.

Only now, it seemed that it would.

General Adelle Thurgood had lived through one holocaust and its aftermath already, and had dedicated herself to seeing that if it were at all within her powers that nothing of the kind would ever happen again.

Despite all of the active measures and the intelligence, and contrary to every indication of what should have been true- it looked from her post in the STCTMC that it was happening again.

And on her watch.

It had begun just over a minute before with a gravitational flux so strong that initial reaction in the STCTMC had been that an "impossible" failure of the triple-redundant monitoring instruments had occurred.

A massive EMP that had darkened half the planet had put that possibility to rest moments later, followed by the almost instantaneous appearance of space-going bogeys- hundreds of them, building rapidly toward thousands- at all points around the Earth.

All questions and hope that it was not what it seemed had survived scarcely sixty-two seconds.

Now, all that remained for Thurgood was the duty of raising the flag.

The scenario to report did not require the assistance of analysts or of the computers that were calculating the next move of the enemy that had just appeared.

Thurgood, over the rising clamor of task-oriented conversations around her, picked up the receiver from the red telephone at her commander's console and said with a noticeable tremor to her voice despite her efforts-.

"Coms, flash to all operational and emergency response commands: Wormwood. I repeat, Wormwood."

" –This is not an exercise…"

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