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.

5. Dark Sunrise

Chapter Four

Dark Sunrise

"History- written by so-called civilians- speaks of the rise and decline of civilizations as though these events happened in a vacuum."

"The intelligent observer of history understands that civilizations are organic entities- beings. They require nourishment to grow, and gain nourishment from other civilizations, succeeding or failing based on their aggression and prowess in taking what they need."

"Civilians mask this aggression in the sanitized guise of politics."

"Warriors retain a higher degree of purity and are more direct."

"It is time for the Te'Dak Tohl civilization to rise."

"This world must decline to nourish our growth."

"-And then we will move on to the next."

Sub-General Jekketh

Commanding Officer,

Ground Forces 7th Grand

Army of the Te'Dak Tohl

Edwards City, California

The urgency of Father Howard's mandate was not so weighty as to prevent him from seeing a certain metaphorical humor in his task as he led a dozen young boys and old men through the darkness in hopes of achieving a good.

A dozen seemed a strangely appropriate number of followers to the Catholic Priest, though the symbolic element hadn't dawned on him until this very moment.

Howard's church, St. John's, was less than two blocks behind in the darkened streets of the desert town, and already there were countless indications of those in need of sanctuary- both physical and spiritual. Flashlights turned on the faces of businesses whose window panes and doors had been smashed in, and in every instance guilty creatures who by day only hours earlier had been common citizens scurried from their crimes of desperation bearing the things they perceived needing for this emergency.

"Come to St. John's for shelter!", the priest called as another figure retreated back towards the darkened heart of Edwards City- and as in half a dozen similar solicitations before, the clergyman's call went unanswered.

Howard was not discouraged though- he was getting the word out. Once the initial panic subsided and people realized that they would need refuge, they would know where to go and be welcomed.

Streets away, Father Howard could hear a voice on a loudspeaker- a policeman no doubt- advising citizens to seek safety in a civil defense shelter or in the basements of their own homes.

The priest had to fight the natural inclination toward bitterness as he and other community leaders had spoken out many times in the past to authorities civil and military that the city had outgrown the shelters provided for the population for an emergency. He and others had railed against excuses of "limited funds" from civil and military leaders while the cash had flowed to create parks and memorials, and to detail and beautify the reviving town.

Howard had understood this though, despite his own displeasure with the decisions made by advisory panels and planning boards. Money was not being wasted so much as it was being applied to the healing of the city's collective soul. Howard knew the human- the spiritual value of this, even as he had fought against elements of it.

Who wanted to face the possibility that something catastrophic could happen again? Who wanted to acknowledge it with the application of money that could soothe and rehabilitate?

Only now, the catastrophic was happening again- and Edwards City was not prepared.

The three civil defense shelters in the city would fill quickly if they were not filled already, and few of either the commercial or residential structures raised hastily in the years since The Zentraedi Holocaust had basements to them.

St. John's did have a basement though- that served alternately as a community center and reception hall for the parish. Now it would serve as a shelter for anyone who Father Howard could persuade to go to it.

Reaching an intersection that Howard barely recognized without the illumination of streetlights, the priest stopped his following of merciful crusaders to direct them to their work. As the group gathered around him, Howard could hear the ticking of the spring-wound alarm clocks which had been borrowed from his room and the sisters' lodgings. With inconsistent power, the mechanical timepieces had regained a certain popularity. And now, with most electrical devices non-functional, they had great utility.

"We will use this corner as a meeting place.", Howard instructed, feeling like a quarterback at the center of a huddle rather than a priest for a moment, "You four, will go one block north knocking on every residential door you come across… You four go south, and you west… Bring the people here in twenty minutes, and then we'll decide on a guide to see them back to the church. Anyone who can join in knocking on doors- encourage them to help. We have to be quick, but thorough. Go now with the blessing of The Lord."

Howard watched his volunteers part ways in haste- boys and old men.

The men and women in their prime who resided in and around Edwards City were affiliated for the most part with the military, and had rushed to the RDF base at the first indications of crisis. The Lord had provided what Father Howard had needed though, as He always did.

The strange quiet of the night was broken gradually and then steadily by the sound of aircraft engines coming from the direction of the base. The rumble did not diminish but rather compounded, bringing Howard comfort with the familiar sound that normally would have been ignored.

The sound represented missions that unlike Howard's were not benevolent- but in the context of this night, were regrettably necessary.

Father Howard asked for Divine guidance and protection for the defenders as their departure made the very streets quake, and then he used the butt end of his flashlight to smash the glass a door to a low-rise apartment.

He had his mission of equal importance to fulfill as well.

Egerton, England

Perhaps it had been the six months that the Earth had spent in a perpetual cycle of darkness and disk-like light following The Zentraedi Holocaust that Captain Howard Johnson remembered vividly that made every sunrise feel like a cause for celebration.

Every sunrise- except for this one.

The thin layer of ashen-grey clouds, not uncommon for England at this time of year, was all that kept daylight from feeling like complete nakedness to the RDF-Army officer as he tossed the travel bag he had packed for his week's leave at home into the back seat of the land rover parked outside of the main house's garage. His "Class-A" uniform, kept immaculate and impressive with brush and polish, had given way to the more practical, day-to-day utility uniform and boots- which now included Johnson's holstered sidearm at his hip.

Above the cloud deck, the skies rumbled with the sound of powerful jet engines- fighters no doubt. Egerton, removed in the country as it was, was still no stranger to the sound of military aircraft- few parts of the world still were.

The oddity was the number an proximity of fighters that Johnson was hearing now.

Captain Howard Johnson scanned the skies briefly, as though identifying the cloud-concealed aircraft somehow had a bearing on his obligations. The activities of the RDF Air Force had no impact on Johnson however, besides being a point of relevant curiosity- he had only one legitimate concern. He was on the clock to be back to RDF Base Salisbury.

This was his sole "official" obligation, but of course he was compelled by others.

That other obligations and their complications were becoming a voracious consumer of time and a general irritant to the army captain, but were ones he was bound to deal with.

The lesser consumers of precious time, Johnson's younger brother Andy and the other one whose name only came to him as "Aunt Moggie" spilled out of the rear kitchen door wearing the dress uniforms they had been graduated in. Now in less than an inspection-ready state, the enlisted men now strangely resembled their duffle bags which sagged from their shoulders like things with broken spirits, limp and formless in their mostly empty state.

The newest members of The Robotech Defense Forces had brought no utility uniforms home having expected to escape back briefly into the civilian world with civilian attire before returning to Falkirk in their "Class-A's" for out-processing from basic training and moving on to their first assignments.

Under normal circumstances, these assumptions would have been acceptable without question.

Recent events however had re-defined "normal circumstances".

Howard Johnson found himself suddenly impatient to be on the move- irrationally impatient- and was on the cusp of barking something short and militarily profane when the apparent cause of the delay maintained pursuit of the enlisted down the kitchen door steps.

The greater consumer of precious time, looking completely out of the moment and more like a tourist on safari in designer khaki outdoor-wear followed her younger child in a way that made her elder hope that she did not intend to climb into the small sport-utility vehicle to accompany them.

Lorraine Johnson was at least within the normal bounds of her character if not meshing with the moment in that her administrator and facilitator of all things domestic, Lucile, was at her heels like an extension of Lorraine herself.

"-You've just made it through basic training-.", the Johnson family matriarch protested to her youngest- clearly a continuation of some conversation that had begun inside and had been carried with her in her pursuit, "-What can they expect you to do?"

Dexter Johnson Sr., wise with years of experience to not put himself between his wife and another participant in a heated debate appeared inside of the kitchen door looking twenty years older than he had the night before in his pale color and leaning heavily on his cane.

"Lorraine, the boy has no choice in the matter… Howard, explain this to your mother for the love of God."

Howard Johnson motioned for the two enlisted men to deposit their duffles into the open rear gate of the vehicle.

His mother who would argue with conviction against the wetness of water if the inclination struck her was clearly in that mindset. There would be no "explaining" what Howard already knew his mother to understand on a rational level.

The best that could be done would be to distract her long enough to make an escape.

"It doesn't matter, Mum-.", Howard said as his father made his way slowly and on unsteady legs down the three steps to the pavement of the car path, "They're enlisted members of the armed service now and are expected to report to their assigned post- that's Falkirk for now."

As Dexter Johnson reached his wife and began to whisper something unheard to the others around them into her ear.

The sky directly overhead thundered with sonic booms and rattled powerfully the Johnson family home's windows in their panes.

Howard Johnson felt a renewed urgency to be on the move.

"We're gone in ninety seconds.", the army captain said with a tone that left no room for discussion- not even with the formidable Lorraine Johnson, "What are we going to do with them?"

His mother's eyes were wetting as Andy Johnson watched her hug his older brother and kiss him about the face. Her lips never seemed to stop moving in low, quickly spoken words- even when Howard had to pull away so he would have the chance to say his goodbyes to his father.

Lorraine quickly shifted her attention to her youngest, the fever of the moment only intensifying as her eyes flashed with visions of eighteen years of her boy's life passing in seconds.

"Don't do anything foolish or dangerous…", Lorraine commanded as resolutely as any direction Andy had received from a training sergeant in the previous three months. She punctuated her maternal commandments with kisses and would have continued speaking had it been possible.

"…And you never volunteer for anything heroic or think yourself a hero… You do anything you must to protect your life-."

Cattermole had shrunk away nearer to the land rover, escaping the discomfort of the alien, parental drama that Andy was playing a supporting role to.

In the numbness of all that had happened in only a matter of hours and the equally unsettling uncertainty of what still lay ahead, Andy suddenly felt uncomfortable with the doting of his mother as well.

"Mum, I have to go-."

Davidson, the head of Dexter Johnson's small, on-site security staff, had been joined by two subordinates nearby where they stood observing all in the invisible way that personal employees of the wealthy were accustomed to. Armed with sub-machineguns as they were licensed to be, Davidson and his men now broke from their traditional place of being nearby but aloof to join Howard Johnson by the land rover to initiate an interaction.

Looking weathered and rumpled as an old work boot, Davidson let the carrying strap of his weapon slide off his shoulder as he presented it with both hands to the army captain.

"Here, you may not need this, lad-.", Davidson said in his gravelly voice as he offered the HK sub-machinegun, "-But better to have if you do."

"Normally, I'd argue-.", Howard began to say as he accepted the weapon and instinctively checked to verify that the firing safety was on.

"You can give it back later.", Davidson said as though loaning a gardening tool to a neighbor, "We have more inside."

"Watch over my parents, Davidson.", Johnson said bluntly, adding, "Please."

The older man nodded as he completed the weapon's transfer by passing off the two spare clips he'd put into a deep coat pocket, "We'll trade stories over a pint when you're back."

"It's a deal.", Johnson agreed.

Davidson's men had followed their lead's example and had handed their weapons over to the two enlisted men who had accepted them after only brief hesitation.

Howard Jonson felt his heart leap into his throat in seeing his brother- looking so damn young- taking possession of the sub-machinegun. As though explaining the new reality of things to his mother, he had to remind himself that this was something that would have to become familiar to Andy- and quickly. Howard reminded himself of this as he wondered whether he could become familiar with it.

A moment later, and seeming odd by comparison, Lucile was handing each of the young men a twine-bound, paper parcel that was heavy with bottled water, hastily-made sandwiches, and small, non-perishable snack foods.

Howard got into the driver's seat of the rover after giving the house-keeper a quick hug, "Appreciated, but I don't think we'll have time for a picnic lunch before we get to where we're going."

"My father said he had thought something similar before he spent two days in a ditch a mile from the beach at Dunkerque.", Lucile replied with a sure wisdom as she stepped back from the vehicle.

Howard couldn't help but let a small laugh slip, "Good historical reference to start us off with, Lucile."

Howard was surprised to see his father assisting in the departure of his sons by ushering Andy and then Aunt Moggie into the passenger and rear seats respectively. It was only when their eyes locked for a moment that Howard could see that Dexter was hastening them away before he lost the battle to maintain his composure.

"We love you, and we're here for you lads if you need anything.", Dexter said as he closed the door with his free hand and then tottered back with cane and an aged man's gait to join his wife by their home.

The land rover's engine started smoothly- a benefit to regular and quality maintenance on a vehicle that the owner had a fair chance of never seeing again.

Like everything with an electrical component owned by the Johnsons, the land rover also was now enjoying the additional investment of EMP hardening that had become a mandatory "option" offered on civilian products following The Zentraedi Holocaust that had rendered useless 98% of the civilian vehicles, electronics, and appliances that had not been destroyed outright.

Not all could afford the feature that was now returning the investment a thousand times over, but the Johnsons were among the fortunate who could.

Assuming that the local power grid would be restored at some point relieving the Johnsons' generator of the burden of supplying electricity, the full luxuries of modern existence would continue. This membership in the elite carried with it though the strong possibility that Davidson and his men would be called upon to perform their professional duties.

The elite were popular and obvious targets during times of crisis for those who were not members.

Howard made sure that all being left behind were clear before putting the vehicle into gear and beginning down the drive toward the main gate to the grounds.

"Don't look back.", Howard advised his brother in the way that children were advised not to play with matches, "You want to, but don't. If you look back- they'll think that either you or they left something unsaid, and it will stick with them. So don't look back."

"I wasn't going to.", Andy said vacantly- the hollowness being one of mild shock and not apathy, "We've got to pick up Cedric by his mum's place-."

"I haven't forgotten.", Howard replied, bending his own rule slightly and looking in the rear view mirror just as the drive began its gentle right curve that terminated at the steel gate.

He instantly wished that he had not as his last glimpse of his parents was of his mother and Davidson supporting his father in a labored walk back toward the kitchen steps.

Never look back.

"-I'm going to get you chaps as far as Manchester, and then you're going to have to find your own way. I can't haul up to Falkirk and then back to Salisbury-. The logistics just don't work- there's going to be a hell of a run on petrol and I can't assume that I'm going to be able to fuel up again."

Andy shrugged, "As long s the train is running-."

Howard shook his head vigorously, "No- no trains. Normally, sure- but if hell starts raining down on the realm, they're as likely to get you killed in transit as there on time. There's a supply depot just west of Manchester- you can hitch a ride north from there and leapfrog to Falkirk."

Andy was skeptical, "Will that work with all that's going on?"

"Make it work.", Howard said more as an officer to an enlisted man than as an older brother to a younger, "You've given up a life where failure is an option-. Congratulations."

A moment's silence passed between three young men as the words were allowed to penetrate.

Andy looked down at the sub-machinegun resting across his lap in the way a young man might look at the surprise product of unwanted paternity.

"What was Davidson thinking, anyway?", he laughed, transferring the weapon to floorboard between his feet, "I think it would be a stretch to imagine a Zentraedi being intimidated by this-."

"It's not for the Zentraedi.", Cattermole said from the back seat- his voice heavy with understanding. His weapon was no longer on his lap either, but in his hands cradled like something to be guarded.

"It's for the loonies-.", Howard explained, "It hasn't sunk in just yet, but it won't be long before it really hits people- what's happening. Then all bets are off. People who remember the Holocaust could do anything- riot, loot- hell some have been known to react to stress by actually trying to get their selves killed. People are bananas when they're scared. You remember that- hear me?"

Longworth Road traveled southeast along the old Delph Reservoir and was devoid of even the modest traffic that could normally be expected at this early hour of the morning. There were eerie indications that people had been traveling at the time of the attack- cars rendered useless by EMP and abandoned on the shoulders of the road, but no signs of their occupants. After several minutes without a glimpse of another functioning vehicle, Andy was relieved to see signs of other human life in the form of two police cars speeding with sirens blaring in the opposite direction for reasons unknown.

There was no great, ebbing sea of humanity fleeing the way Andy had imagined there might be when his mind had been racing to brace him for what he might encounter.

It made sense in a way though. There was no present threat to flee from. Radio stations that had been designated as "civil communication infrastructure' and whose transmitters had been EMP hardened were broadcasting civil alert news of the orbital attacks on cities and military bases in the Americas and in eastern-most Asia.

All of Europe and Africa remained unscathed witnesses to the first hours of what was already being called "The Second Robotech War".

There were no burning cities to evacuate.

There were no regions of enemy occupation for refugees to migrate away from.

The portions of the Earth that had known the worst violence done by the indigenous population upon itself with a rich history of wars could only stand by, riveted to the reporting of ongoing tragedy on the other side of the world and wait in anticipation of what might come.

Howard turned off the radio after the female voice giving the real-time account of unfolding Armageddon began to repeat the dire accounts of the fate of New York, Ottawa, Chicago, Mexico City, Rio de Janeiro, Brasilia, Las Vegas, and Los Angeles. The repetition of the news was benefitting from the earlier telling in that the dramatic element had been polished noticeably. The facts being the same and with no heart to listen to the announcer's take on the unfolding tragedy, Howard had no compunction in silencing the radio for the moment.

"Maybe we get a pass.", Howard said in an empty stab at optimism as he took one hand away from the wheel long enough to put a cigarette into the corner of his mouth and light it.

He added after a moment's dark reflection on his initial though, "I mean, the Yanks have brought it on themselves, right? Anytime that anything catastrophic happens in a picture, it's in New York or Los Angeles, right? -So who knew that the Zentraedi enjoyed the cinema?"

The shared thought didn't provoke a laugh the way Howard had hoped, but Cattermole did from the back seat say bleakly, "So thanks to H.G. Wells and Speilberg , they probably also remembered to get their pox shots before they came. So much for the possibility of that tidy end to this mess…"

Howard changed gears quickly. He wasn't in a mental state to ponder the salvation of mankind.

"So have you given it more thought?"

Picking up on the fact that the question was primarily directed at him several long seconds after it had been posed, Andy replied with a simple, "Huh? Thought about what?"

"About the philosophical plight of human moral structure in a potentially godless universe-. What do you think I mean, you vacuous wank?!"

"-About an MOS?", Andy replied, struggling to come out of his own head and the whirling thoughts within.

Cattermole cut in, "-But I do have a thought on that last one too-."

Howard half-turned in his seat, "Do you mind? I'm trying to put the fire under my brother's ass- the subject in question seeming to have gained an immediate relevance about now."

Andy shook his head, saying, "Don't know really. Hadn't put much thought into it in the past forty-eight hours. I'm wondering if the whole officer's route bit is even an option anymore. We're going to need a lot of soldiers- right? A lot of them."

Howard's glare burned into his younger brother before he ever spoke, "Have you gone fuck-tarded on me now? You have the option of being an officer, and you're talking about being a rank-and-file? You know you're far too bright for that."

"But I'll get into the fight quicker if I go enlisted.", Andy said, defending his position, "What's wrong with the enlisted?"

Howard shook his head, "Look- there's nothing wrong with enlisted-. Man for man they're right, upstanding chaps and they're the muscle of the military-. –But tell me now, why did you join?"

Andy blinked, not sure from the experience of many dining room debates where this interrogation was going, "You're questioning my motives for joining now?"

"Not your motives-.", Howard said, easing the edge off his questions, "Your motivation. Don't overthink it- five words or less."

Andy blurted the only thing that made any sense, "To make a difference- I suppose."

"Ah!", Howard said with a nod as though finally succeeding in dredging up the truth he'd suspected, "-My point then-. If you go enlisted you'll make a difference, sure-. But it will be limited to your squad, your platoon- maybe the company you're with if you're lucky. Go officer and the limit to the difference you can make is only how high you're willing to climb. But it's not easy either-. The word responsibility is one you'll have to get chummy with."

"It's better than sharing a slit trench with Kingsley for the rest of the war though.", Cattermole pointed out from the back seat as the rover dipped into a shallow dell, "That decided it for me."

Howard mused, "Yeah- and do you want to have to take orders from the likes of this one here for the rest of you're career?"

Andy was quick to reply, "So that's two for the officer's track pro column. -I just can't see being able to give orders that would get people killed. –I mean, how do you do that?.."

Howard was thoughtful for a moment, "In truth, you don't ever get past that completely. You just make the best decisions you can and know that fewer people are hurt as a result. I'm morbidly curious to see how that holds up in practice, but… Oh, Christ…."

It was Andy's already emotionally threadbare state that caused him a moment's panic, thinking that something was seriously wrong with his brother before he realized that Howard's utterance of distress was externally driven.

Looking forward through the windscreen, Andy got his first glimpse of Egerton from the top of the rise on the other side of the dell- a sight he was accustomed to from years of seeing it on a regular basis. Only now, there was nothing regular about Egerton or its appearance.

There were signs of unrest and violence that could be seen even from several kilometers distance. Black smoke rose in pillars from several points toward the middle of town, footed with licks of orange flame, and softening into an even grey haze that was almost indistinguishable from the cloudy, winter sky.

Andy did not have to ask or think long to understand that this was the illogical but common aftermath to the desperate act of looting.

"Are we going to be able to pick Cedric up?", Andy asked his brother who was not braking, but was easing off the accelerator as though weighing the options of entering the devolving bubble of civilization.

"Not sure.", Howard said vaguely, sounding as though he was calculating things in his mind that neither enlisted man in his company had yet been trained to process, "We'll try. –But I'd keep that weapon handy-."

ASC Salvador Base,

Northern Brazil

The earthy dankness of the rain forest that Lieutenant Colonel Warren Mathias associated with summer nights was cloaked beneath the sharper, artificial, and foreboding smells of cordite and expended explosives.

These olfactory overtones were not strangers to Salvador Base, nor was it unusual that they should be more prevalent during the holiday season- the Zentraedi malcontents having long since identified the calendar days when human minds were more distracted by festive thoughts.

What was unusual was the ferocity and intensity of the attack, and the proportionate response that was required from base security troops to hold it in check and to maintain the perimeter.

And of course there was the unique aspect to this night's attack that it just happened to coincide with a planetary assault.

The coincidence of the extraterrestrial attack was immediately understood to be no coincidence at all. There clearly had been coordination at all levels and on a grand scale to be able to achieve such a feat-.

But how?

For the most part "unindoctrinated", terrestrial Zentraedi- malcontents being the actively militant strain- lived on average at a subsistence level on the food and needed commodities that they could steal or barter for with other Zentraedi and even a good many humans who were detached from Earth's reviving civilization.

These were no longer the disciplined fighting forces that had battled overwhelming numbers of Invid to a stalemate across the universe. These were a shadow of the warriors who had found themselves marooned years before with no hope of rescue. Any communications equipment that may have made it to Earth's surface with them had been either seized or destroyed quickly by the similarly tattered RDF, or had quickly fallen into disrepair and uselessness.

Still- it was evident that the Zentraedi had somehow found a way.

They had found a way to bridge the communication gap to call out into the cosmos.

They had found other surviving Zentraedi, combat effective and willing to rejoin the fight.

They had found a way to plan and coordinate without raising the least bit of suspicion in United Earth military and civilian minds alike.

And in doing this, they had restored Zentraedi who for all practical purposes had been reduced to little more than spear-toting savages into a functional, imbedded army.

That army was making its presence known around the perimeter of ASC Salvador Base, Lt Col "Mojo" Mathias was reminded as a salvo of six heavy mortar rounds plummeted in quick succession- walking an admirably straight line across the longest of the airfield's four runways.

The mortar rounds' approach had been masked by the heavy thrash of helicopter rotors as a flight crossed the northern grounds of the base in a dash east to support units defending the perimeter against a strong malcontent push. Mathias could see between the maintenance and storage buildings the luminous exchange of laser and tracer fire through the base's outer-perimeter microwave fence.

Knowing first-hand the better vantage enjoyed by pilots, Mathias understood how this element of Salvador's recently enhanced helicopter contingent was able to press with merciless speed on the ground-based opponent. Leading the full-throttle charge was a flight of four of the ASC's newly acquired VAH-1 "AJACS" attack helicopters- crudely so-designated. Much like Mojo's new Logan Veritech, the AJACS was the ASC's homegrown response to the RDF's former claim to dominance of the "transformable platform" market in combat air systems.

Admittedly- though not publicly conceded or admitted in response to RDF accusation- the Logan and the AJACS borrowed from some advanced software and pilot-computer interface systems created by the RDF's Veritech Design Bureau.

The end result was 100% ASC inspiration and effort however.

With qualities that were equal part tank and attack helicopter, the AJACS was ideal to lead the charge for the trailing Lakota gunships into malcontent fire that angled up to meet them as they approached.

Mathias saw the angular, armored bodies of the AJACS silhouetted by the strobe-flash of rocket pods loosing their savage contents. Dots of light- the minimal burn plumes of the Hydra rockets' engines- marked the transit of weapons through the smoke-hazed darkness on a steady slope that terminated in their disappearance into the jungle canopy.

Flashes lit the jungle just beyond the treeline, illuminating the toss of earth and splintered trees skyward as rocket warheads exploded in a spray of steel flechette. Door gunners in the trailing Lakotas raked the undergrowth of the gutted area, saturating "hot spots" that appeared to them on infra-red with laser and machinegun fire as the entire helicopter flight banked sharply to run south, parallel with the perimeter fenceline.

As the AJACS and Lakota gunship flights vanished from sight behind the base's maintenance and warehouse complex and the deafening beat of rotors began to subside, Mathias paused to observe the treeline that had just been visited with such violence to see how strongly the malcontent enfilade would resume. Even the most withering fire could be counted on to leave survivors, and even a reduced malcontent force could still be expected to join a fight as fearlessly as it had with the benefit of its full strength.

Mathias had come to understand that the term combat ineffective applied in the minds of Zentraedi only to those units whose ranks were no longer drawing breath.

It was an admirably resilient quality of the species- so long as you weren't the one charged with fighting them.

The lesson was not one that only Mathias had come to learn though. Even as the pilot was turning to finish his dash to the hangar where there were signs of frenzied preparation around the Cavaliers' new Logans, Salvador's light mecha units were moving to exploit the pause in malcontent offensive thinking.

A half-dozen anthropomorphic MB-1A light battloids charged across the base's runways toward the evisorated stretch of jungle that still burned and smoldered from the helicopter close air support. Lightly armed by mecha standards with a single EU-11 rapid-fire ion cannon gun pod, each "thin-skin" Battloid standing just over six meters in height was still more than a match for the average malcontent armed with conventional infantry weaponry.

The Battloids pressed hard on the salient, causing the ground to tremble as their mechanized feet carried the eight metric ton weigh of each at over 75 Kmph across the airfield. While these lesser members of the mecha "family" had little to nothing to fear from assault rifles, or even heavy machineguns- there was always the possibility that a malcontent lurking in the undergrowth was toting an anti-tank rocket. The latest technology still gave way to physics, and even the most venerable of shoulder-fired anti-tank rockets could still do grievous harm to an MB-1A "Light" Battloid and its pilot.

Only by applying the same aggression in movement as was employed by infantry fire-teams could the Battloids hope to keep the heads of any surviving malcontents down. Once they reached the treeline and entered the dense growth of the Amazon Jungle, malcontents who might have been carrying anti-tank rockets would find it more difficult to engage with them.

Until that moment, the MB-1As were exposed.

"Exposure" was never comfortable, but it was not unfamiliar to Chief Warrant Officer Emilo Santos of the ASC, 143rd Light Mecha Division, Civil Defense Corps.

Normally, units like Santos's platoon under Lieutenant Pasqual were deployed to the regenerating urban centers to support the quelling of unrest. In this capacity they were the "heavies" behind many Global Military Police actions that were restricted (ironically- considering the GMP name) to the Americas no farther north than the Rio Grande. This was fine to Santos however, as there was plenty of work to be had just in this portion of the world.

The "routine" in urban pacification was the standard show of force behind GMP action teams who did the bulk of the work in dispersing riots and restoring order to fragile cities and towns that were constantly threatening to tear themselves apart with each food shortage or utility interruption that were still far more common below Texas than in the higher latitudes of the North American or the European Sector.

Most of these GMP support actions amounted to little. Heavily armed police shock units were normally enough to give pause to undernourished civilians hurling rocks and bottles- but add the towering figure of a Battloid and the heavy trudge of its mechanized step, and the wills of the unruly were normally broken.

There was lethal violence as well though.

Santos had been forced to fire his weapon a number of times (nine to be exact), and while justified in each case by the circumstances- deaths had resulted. Thankfully most of the deaths had been those of malcontents on raids who simply refused to accept failure in their sordid pursuits, and preferred death to withdrawing from a raid empty-handed.

This was not disturbing to Santos- there was an abundance of Zentraedi in the world and the loss of those who would not conform to their new reality was not high on his priority list of tragedies to mourn.

It was these though- the malcontents who clung to their warrior ways- who occasionally caused the deaths of men and women who Santos knew and had responsibility for. There had been three, all lost to pre-Robotechnology anti-tank weapons used at close range within the three-dimensional confines of urban battlespaces. Even mecha like the comparatively diminutive MB-1A showed the same weakness in urban warfare as had been realized in the tanks and armored vehicles of the "old" world.

The strengths of giants just did not lend themselves to confined spaces that restricted maneuver.

For the sake of easing the tension and frustration of operating in urban environments as much as for maintaining a valuable cross-section of applicable combat skills, units like Santos's platoon were rotated regularly to the boonies. Here they supported ASC infantry patrols and offensive operations. And while it was true that the jungles of The Control Zone were "confined spaces" with which the Battloids had to cautiously contend, they did not present the same constant potential for three-dimensional attack by the enemy.

Here the malcontents were still wise to posses a healthy respect and of human mecha technology.

Santos was witnessing that healthy respect as the range to the treeline shrank to under a thousand meters with his squad still running a full charge to close the rest. Thermal and optical enhancement provided by his MB-1A showed clearly the humanoid shapes glowing in white retreating from positions inside the treeline. Other forms that would give off notable heat signatures for some time lay where the rocket and strafing attack of helicopter gunships had ended their lives and left them. Most of these featureless white forms were intact- others were not, and in these cases Santos was grateful for the inadvertent sanitization of the image provided by the IR overlay.

Santos could see the outgoing fire pouring from the pre-constructed firing positions within the perimeter that were occupied by infantrymen from Salvador Base's security force. Since the fire from the malcontents had dropped off completely with their retreat, there was the inevitable urge from the perimeter defenders to serve a final coup de gras to those who had chosen to pick the fight this holiest of evenings.

Had the base security troops not had so much experience with the local malcontent population, Santos might have worried that they would take up immediate pursuit of the enemy. They did show restraint though and it appeared that they would allow the Battloids to make the initial pursuit – reducing and scattering the malcontents more before the infantry engaged in mopping up.

As he closed to within five hundred meters of the perimeter, Chief Warrant Officer Santos felt a sudden twinge in his gut- a combination of instinct and intuition that told him that the malcontents were collapsing back into the jungle too willingly.

Santos's first subsequent thought was that the malcontents might not be so much driven, but in the act of drawing he and his squad in. Perhaps some of the "dead" were not so dead as they appeared and just waiting for a Battloid to come close enough to ensure a kill with an anti-tank rocket.

The true motivation for the malcontents' hasty retreat manifested itself suddenly and with little warning to Santos and his men in their distraction over fleeing micronized Zentraedi Warriors.

They were removing themselves from a cross-fire.

Santos, in second position in his squad on its advance got only a glimpse of something glowing slightly warmer than the ambient air temperature.

Something roughly humanoid in shape.

Something huge.

There were moments of connection in combat- moments when by means that did not stand up to rationality, great communication and understanding was achieved between combatants. More often than not, this connection was between members of a unit, as was the more plausible variant of the incredible.

Sometimes- on rare occasions- the connection was made between opponents whose sudden, violent collision bound them in the most intimate of relationships: one in which the life of one was to be taken by the other.

For an instant- a barely perceivable measure of time, Lieutenant Hyra of the Serhot Ran felt that connection with the alien being that piloted the laughably small mecha downrange of the lethal end of her Nacht-Rau's destabilized plasma cannon.

She sensed its last moment of terror at impending death.

The single, capsule-like energy projectile ripped from the gaping bore of the weapon mounted to the combat suit's left forearm through the mid-level growth of trees- incinerating leaves and lesser branches with the heat of its passage.

Designed to deliver an incapacitating or terminal blow to heavily armored targets and reinforced structures the plasma round passed cleanly through the lead MB-1A that had just become aware of the Nacht-Rau's presence, before piercing the light frontal armor of the second Battloid.

The energy round detonated scattering molten metal, dismembered mechanical limbs, and razor shards that had been the ASC mecha in all directions.

Hyra's single opening shot was followed by a quick series of short bursts from Sub-Lieutenant Ehral's Nador rifle. The Serhot Ran sub-lieutenant, who had survived the Re-Entry Transport Pod crash a season before with Action Commander Kevtok, Moyrt, Hyra, and three others of his same grade was now fully restored to his proper dimensions and operating the second Nacht-Rau in Hyra's improvised squad.

While locating and restoring Regults to operation for norghil warriors had not been exceedingly difficult, the Serhot Ran officers of the diminished reconnaissance expedition had hoped to make contact with marooned Quadranos of General Azonia's former command. These- it had been hoped- could be trained in the operation of the five Nacht-Rau combat suits whose Serhot Ran warriors had been killed in the transport crash.

Fate had denied Kevtok's team contact with Quadranos whose experience with the Queadlunn-Rau combat suits on which the Nacht-Rau was based, and who would have qualified in principle for the step up into the more formidable war machine. As such, the Serhot Ran resigned that they would simply have to make do.

However, based on these first moments of contact with the enemy- Hyra suspected that the force she had in hand might be adequate.

Ehral's first and second bursts of rapid-cycle destabilized plasma rounds cut apart two additional MB-1A Battloids before they could react to the destruction of the two that had fallen to Hyra's single shot.

His third and fourth shredded the remaining two on the retreat- shredding them disgracefully from the rear.

"Move to second position!", Hyra ordered, "Sensors on!"

The jungle splintered around the movement of Zentraedi war machines no longer concerned with stealth.

ASC infantry spilled out of their prepared dug-outs as the two Nacht-Rau combat suits advanced swiftly over the east perimeter fence behind the broad sweep of grazing fire from their Nador rifles that lit the area with the rapid pulse of their outgoing plasma bolts.

Under this same cover, Hyra's supporting two squads of Regults, an unevenly divided fifteen, vaulted free of the jungle's constriction to quickly form up in a standard wedge advance with their leader's Nacht-Rau on point. No longer concerned that their own sensor emissions would draw attention, targeting systems came on-line and provided Regult pilots precision in their aim as particle beam cannons joined the wash of fire pouring from Nador rifles.

While sweeping the battlefield with her rifle's aiming reticule and seeking a worthy adversary- if the micronians could even offer one- Hyra realized that her supporting Regults were alternating between reducing the structures of the outpost and firing with abandon on the displaced alien infantry scrambling on foot before them.

Hyra felt a sting of indignation flare deep in her brain and radiate out to her extremities with an electric tingle as the Warriors whom she had helped hand-pick for the privilege of operating the limited number of Regults that had been restored abandoned their discipline to recklessly distract themselves with targets of no particular value.

Reprimand was on her lips when she realized what she was witnessing.

This was the reciprocity- the venting of frustrations built up over the years of exile that these Warriors had been subject to. And for the aliens now fleeing in abject terror from the option of dying to either a particle beam blast or the less elegant stomp of a Regult foot, there was probably a comparable collapse in a falsely-constructed sense of control and superiority.

This was a good thing, Hyra resolved with a split-second's decision.

She would allow it.

Lt Hyra's attention was drawn north to where burning wreckage was tumbling out of the sky over the micronian installation- one of the peculiar, alien, rotating-wing aircraft no doubt. It, and the others like it, had devastated the forest very near to her position less than a minute before without even being aware of her composite unit. It was an offense in situational awareness that they would now pay for.

Her suspicion was confirmed with the scattering of the other ships of the flight- a panicked dissolution to element cohesion that could only mean that Action Commander Kevtok had entered the fight at the base's northern perimeter with his subordinate Regults.

Hyra could not see Kevtok's Nacht-Rau, or any of the Regults supporting him but could mark his rough position by the region of the alien post in which structures began to erupt in explosions and flare up quickly into flame.

Missiles leapt up into the smoke-saturated night sky from at least one concealed, anonymous Nacht-Rau and fanned out in quick pursuit and overtake of the fleeing alien airships.

A Lakota, possibly unaware that it had a missile in trail made a low, fast dash across the airfield. It was near center when the missile connected with the target, shattering the tail mid-way through the boom and splintering a rotor blade with the force of the same blast.

Uncontrollable, Hyra watched as the tailless airframe began to spin and gyrate with the rotation of the diminished rotor system and skidded from the sky into the hardened surface of one of the base's already useless runways. Fragile human forms could be seen to jump from the open compartment at the craft's midsection before it struck concrete- a desperate, snap-decision attempt at self preservation. Hyra saw one body vanish in mid-air as it crossed paths with spinning rotor blades. Another was lost a moment later under tumbling wreckage when the savaged helicopter rolled into the deck and burst into flame.

To the south now, a fuel storage facility identified by warriors familiar with this base from repeated yet commonly futile raids against it showed itself as a geyser of fire rose into the darkness.

Lieutenant Moyrt had struck now as well, destroying the first of three fixed targets that had been assigned to him.

Now was when meticulous preparation and planning for this single action began to yield results, Lt Hyra recognized.

It was also the moment when all but the objectives of the plan fell by the wayside.

Micronians were in a frenzied scramble in all directions and from all points. Some retreated from wrecked and burning buildings and vehicles while others seemed to rush to them. Utter chaos was the constant now as Hyra adhered to the core element of the plan Kevtok had decided upon for neutralizing this military outpost-.

Press for the center.

Destroy anything of military utility first.

Destroy everything else second.

Te'Dak Tohl- Serhot Ran shock troops would be landing within the hour here and at other human posts in the vast rain forest whose edges Hyra and the others of the reconnaissance force had not found in a season's travels to organize armed support for this night across the region. The action groups who would land here would not- could not- make use of any of the micronian facilities or material.

But they would need this tactically advantageous position to disembark and begin operations to clear organized alien resistance.

This left Kevtok and his reduced command with the conceptually simple task of clearing a landing zone and holding it.

The wail of Salvador Base's general alarm siren was suddenly choked off as it rose toward the apex of its range. Oddly unsettling as this was, it did not leave silence- but rather the many sounds of battle that perhaps it was partially intended to mask.

The rapid, cracking report of energy weapon fire intermingled with random "primary" explosions of missile warheads that had a pronounced jarring effect on the eardrums and joints, and the follow-on of "secondary" explosions that rolled over all like invisible sea swells.

If there were choppers aloft, they could not be heard anymore- but their rhythmic rotor-beat had been substituted abundantly by the clatter of automatic weapons fire punctuated with the fall of mortars and the occasional burst of a grenade. Like wildfire, skirmishes were springing up all over post as could be heard by the gunfire exchanges both near and far.

And like wildfire blazing with unsustainable intensity, these too could not last long.

Lieutenant Colonel Warren "Mojo" Mathias gritted his teeth through the building whine of his Logan Veritech's engines that tormented him in taking their leisurely time in achieving a full start. The world he had grown accustomed to with its stark contrast of high technology and primitive wilderness was coming to an end around him. –Or perhaps the façade was finally burning away to reveal the circle of Hell that had always been there.

Every pilot or soldier who had served in "The Zone" and had fought in a battle the way that the theater had defined fighting was forced to contemplate the possibility of a "last stand". It was that omnipresent risk of an environment rich with the enemy, the jungle, and little else that promised with near-certainty that there would be instances when the unfortunate would have to decide whether to meet their end with a fight or meekly.

Mathias had chosen the former- if that time were ever to come for him.

Now though was not that time.

Salvador Base was not to be his Alamo. It was rather a sinking ship that he had the means to abandon.

This wasn't cowardice-. Command and control- the hinge on which battles against numerically superior enemies often swung toward victory or defeat- was gone. The tower frequencies were static, cutting Mathias off from his superiors if they were even alive, and the tactical channels used by the base garrison was choked with calls of need for support, but no authority rallying unit fragments into a cohesive response.

The head had been severed cleanly and the body of Salvador Base was jerking and twitching now through its death throes.

Mathias and his Cavaliers had to escape Salvador Base- not for reasons of cowardice, but for reasons of necessity.

The fight here was finished even though the shooting and dying had not ended yet.

The flames leaping from the crumpled and unrecognizable mass of what had been a Lakota gunship only minutes before were subsiding at the site of its crash to earth on the tarmac between Hangars Three and Four. If Mathias had been a superstitious man, he might have taken this as a bad omen of what lay in store for his Cavalier Squadron as they made the perilous transition from ground to air in the midst of a full-press Zentraedi attack. Instead, he recognized that the Lakota had only come to earth here, having been morally wounded somewhere else over the base.

The hangar complex was at the base's center, and even the speediest attack would take some time to press this deep.

Time, within limits, was on his side.

The notion that the hangar complex was an island refuge was not solely Mathias's. Figures in combat dress- some wounded themselves- began to slog and stumble their way into the hangar buildings through the fully opened doors. They carried or dragged with them, half a dozen at first and then in a steady stream, wounded who could not bear themselves from the encompassing battlefield outside.

Mathias heard briefly over the sound of his own engines the horrid shrieking of the wounded upon whom the numbing effects of shock had not descended. These sounds were quickly muffled though as the canopy of Mathias's fighter lowered into place with the reassuring click of a good seal.

"Cavalier One to Squadron", Mathias said on his squadron's tactical frequency sounding surprisingly winded to himself, "Take-off is granted upon request. Rally twenty kliks due west."

"What about the base?", one of the junior pilots from B Flight asked, astonished that the order was to flee and not fight.

"There is no fucking base-!", Mathias snapped, "NOW GO!"

The rebuke was apparently successful as no additional words of descent were uttered from any in Mathias's command.

Mojo flipped the configuration mode control switch on his throttle and felt the heave of his Logan as thrust was diverted in a downward blast to lift the craft sufficiently to allow transformation. The sensation of borrowed Neuro-Pilot technology, a strange feeling of being outside of one's own body and joined with the machine settled over Mathias as arms and legs unfolded from the airframe, achieving Guardian configuration.

Mechanical legs answered the pilot's command to advance past the growing company of casualties still being borne into the hangar. Mathias focused on the mission now- hoping it would somehow dull the sensation of envious eyes following him with the intensity that only the condemned could envy those who might live.

Mathias knew that his survival was less than assured however- an armed and combat-ready Logan at his command or not. He had not yet laid eyes on the mecha that garrison units were reporting, but they were closing from all directions from these accounts. –And if they could bring down a Lakota or an AJACS, they could do the same to a Logan taking to the air in the slower, more vulnerable Guardian configuration.

Elements of B Flight were already onto the tarmac from the hangars across from the one that had housed Mathias's Logan. Like their commander, they advanced into the open in Guardian mode, and for the same reason. With the runways cratered, the only escape into the sky was the direct, vertical route.

A pair, then three powered up their engines hastily and were free of the ground.

The first was a little more than fifteen meters aloft when the white-hot, rippling flash of four missiles struck it broadside- smashing the fighter/robot hybrid into flaming hail of debris that sent earthbound personnel scattering below and littered the tarmac with mechanical carnage.

"-Where the hell-?!", Mathias demanded- knowing the answer at an instinctive level before the question had fully formed.

The pilot scanned the north end of the tarmac desperately and dreaded finding the Zentraedi mecha that the garrison had identified standing there with weapons brought to bear.

He did not.

Only three generic threat indicator boxes appeared on the interior of Mathias's helmet visor as he visually swept the area. The objects they encased were airborne and weaving as they closed on the squadron leader and the rest of his Cavaliers, but were both too small to be any kind of mecha and too large and slow in their movement to be missiles.

Drones- was the thought that immediately and logically came to the pilot's mind as his helmet was filled with the less ambiguous tonal indications of an active threat warning.

Radar missile lock.

Mathias snap-yawed his Guardian to allow the EU-11 ion cannon pod clutched in its right fist to engage as he settled the aiming reticule on the leading probe. Even as the squadron leader fired- easily obliterating the unmanned vehicle in a rapid pulse-stream of ion bolts- he realized he was fighting from the heart and not the head, and was in a disadvantageous tactical position.

Someone else recognized this as well.

A great volley of Zentraedi, short-range, multi-purpose missiles rose from behind the hangar and maintenance buildings at the north end of the tarmac like arrows fired by archers of old. Most continued skyward in a lazily arcing path of flight, while a handful leveled directly above the corrugated steel buildings to close directly on Mathias and other Logans that had now found their way into the air around him.

Unlikely as the prospect of confronting mecha-equipped Zentraedi had been- before this night- Mathias and his pilots had rigorously trained sometime ago to recognize and defeat this class of weapon. Fortunately, that training returned in an instant.

The pilot, as quick as his reflexes were, was still nanoseconds behind the response of his Logan's countermeasure systems which automatically filled the air with clouds of radar-reflective chaff strips as the ECM module housed under the nose cannon bathed the entire spread of missiles with electro-magnetic noise.

Sensing that the best outcome at his present level of flight was still in the catastrophic range, Mathias firewalled his throttles and felt his spine compress as his Logan shot into a skyward retreat leaving the enemy, their missiles, and Salvador Base falling away below.

A great wave of heat and its thermal updraft bounced Mathias and his Logan violently as it overtook them in the ascent.

Mathias stole a quick glimpse of the area he had just escaped a moment earlier, and before the arcing missile salvo he'd seen fired had returned to earth. Now in the aftermath of the detonation of plasma-napalm warheads, the tarmac was quickly losing its recognizable characteristics.

Hangars that had been sound and solid moments earlier were softening and crumpling in their exposure to intense, weaponized heat. There were no signs of any of the personnel who had been scrambling for cover when Mathias had taken to the air, and the pilot knew from his single, split-second glimpse of the area that there would be none found in the aftermath.

There was something below though- something that Mathias could not have seen from ground level on the tarmac. To the north end, beyond the aircraft support buildings and in the general region from which the missile attack had been launched- there was something to be seen from the advantage of altitude.

Three Zentraedi power armor suits- the female variety- and easily a dozen or more Battle Pods were now moving west around the cauldron of fire they had just created- lighting their path with the stunning brilliance of rapid-fire orange and blue. By comparison, the flicker of conventional automatic weapons fire- some of which had to be from ASC security and infantry troops- seemed pitiable at best.

This sight and the last dissolving evidence of at least three Logans of Mathias's command in the lake of plasma fire below clenched in the squadron leader's mind the fact that Salvador Base was lost.

The base may have been lost, but Mathias did not hold himself above a parting shot of vengeance as he abandoned a futile fight.

Flipping his weapon selector to the missile position, he put the aiming reticule on one of the armor suits at random. His combat computer made the selection of Hellfire missiles from the limited inventory carried by the Logan, and the pilot fired both.

Joined in a sweep of rockets and missiles fired by other Cavaliers who had escaped the tarmac, Mathias tracked his two weapons by the burn of their rocket motors as they rushed on the power armor suit and struck with a stunning, dual blast that was followed by a third, "secondary" explosion that toppled the mecha.

Mathias saw his squadron's retaliation rake the small Zentraedi unit in an attack that was more symbolically meaningful than game-changing.

He knew though he could not linger for a second attempt.

The pilot rolled his Guardian back slightly and flipped his configuration control switch back into "Fighter" mode. As he had practiced many times with a daredevil's glee, Mathias waited to feel his Logan realign into the form of an aircraft, and for the weightless sensation of stall.

At the moment he felt the latter, when his Logan was beginning to plummet by the tail from the sky at a 45º angle to earth- he punched the throttles to the firewall and engaged full afterburner. Mojo was rewarded with the slam of G-force that flattened him to his seat back as the Logan roared away into the night like a bullet from a rifle.

ASC Salvador Base fell away quickly, becoming a subdued glow in a sea of pitch black, like the last light of dying embers.

Mathias noticed this only peripherally as he suddenly became aware of his own heart pounding violently against his ribcage and the rush of blood through his ears. A chill swept over him as his flight suit tried to cool him through perspiration-soaked utility coveralls.

A not-so-clean get-away?-

A get-way nonetheless.

"Sound-off, Cavaliers.", Mathias ordered sounding more demoralized than he would have liked, but far less than he felt.

He heard callsigns blurted out quickly, accompanied by a simple, unadorned, "here", but he was only able to keep track of the count and not the particular identities.

Ten.

Ten, plus himself-. Eleven.

Eleven out of sixteen.

Mathias recognized that "it" wasn't sinking in yet.

He didn't want it to- there was much he had to do before he could afford to feel anger, or grief, or any of the other emotions he knew would hit him with a freight train's subtlety later.

Right now, he had the bulk of a squadron carrying ground-attack armament, flying unescorted through airspace that now had to be considered unsecure.

He needed top cover for his pilots, and he needed it before more Zentraedi arrived- which he knew could not be a long time in coming.

Mathias switched through the ASC Air Force's common tactical bands and found them to be choked with traffic including the stern direction of air controllers for pilots to change to other frequencies for further instruction.

"Any control station, any control station- this is Cavalier One. Request transfer to a proximal Sector Control for direction and combat assignment. Over."

Through the jumble of overlapping messages, Mathias was still able to pick out the reply intended for him as though following a conversation in a crowded room.

"Cavalier One, Fox Den. What is your number and composition? Over."

Mathias became immediately concerned.

He and his squadron were squawking valid ASC IFF- the question from the ground controller of the sector with the callsign "Fox Den" implied that they were not able to read or interpret the IFF. At a minimum, this meant that they were not making the electronic identification challenge- if their radar and IFF systems were functioning at all. By natural extension of this, anyone or anything could be passing through that sector's airspace without any way for Fox Den to verify their claimed identity.

It was already turning into oen hell of a war.

"I'm Leader plus ten Logans.", Mathias replied after confirming at a glance that he was transmitting on coded air.

"Are you armed?", Fox Den asked, hope strong in the man's voice.

"That's affirmative.", Mathias replied, "We're loaded for ground trade. –But we're in the open and could use some top cover."

"We're showing no bandits in ASC airspace, Cavalier One- you can relax-."

Mathias felt his temper flare in the way that only a huge quantity of adrenaline in the blood would foster.

"Relax, my ass, Fox Den!", Mathias snapped before regaining control, "Salvador Base has been overrun by at least three Female Power Armor, and a dozen plus Battle Pods. Are you receiving?"

There was a pause, and then, "Cavalier One, did you say operational Power Armor and Battle Pods on the move in the area of Salvador Base?"

"No, dickhead, not in the area of Salvador Base, in THE FUCKING MIDDLE OF IT!"

Whether taken aback by Mathias's shortness and profanity or by the report itself- it took Fox Den a moment longer to reply.

"Cavalier One, observe proper communications protocol please."

Mathias bit back something that would have come across with significantly more "edge" than what he had hurled at Fox Den thus far.

"Fox Den, can you receive data streaming? I can transmit my sensor logs and you can hand it over to your J-2 for review-."

"Negative, Cavalier One- not at this time, but we will pass on that report. Over."

"Great- happy to be of service-. How about that top cover, Fox Den? Traffic is going to get thick up here before long-. Over."

"Stand by, Cavalier One. Give us a minute to find a nearby Blue Force pocket, and we'll vector you in-."

"That's Blue Force, friendly- right, Fox Den?", Mathias clarified, demonstrating gallows humor before he was even aware he was doing so.

"Roger that, One- friendlies."

Action Commander Kevtok surveyed grimly the casualties inflicted by the strange, micronian mecha-aircraft that had wisely elected not to linger for a more enduring fight. Four Regults destroyed, and Sub-Lieutenant Nenopt's Nacht-Rau combat suit damaged significantly.

Kevtok understood the loss of the Regults and their norghil pilots- unfortunate as this was. Regults were minimalist expressions of mecha design with few substantial defensive qualities other than the safety provided to them by operating normally in great numbers. Lightly armored as they were, it was no surprise to the Serhot Ran officer that the micronian missiles had easily pierced their thin skins- killing instantly the pilots within.

The damage done to the Nacht-Rau was more perplexing and disturbing.

Both missiles that had struck Sub-Lieutenant Nenopt had struck his suit's left shoulder missile-launcher, compromising the launcher with the impressive savagery of their warheads. As designed, the Nacht-Rau's launcher exploded outward when several of its missiles detonated with the primary blast. This spared Nenopt, who was understandably stunned but otherwise perfectly functional- but what perplexed Kevtok was that the missiles had even reached him.

The automatic ECM in the crown of Nenopt's suit had been checked for full functionality before they had left the Transport Pod the day before- this system on all of their suits had been checked. Being fully functional, it should have immediately and automatically been directed to defeat any guided weapons threatening the suit.

The micronian missiles had tracked cleanly to target without showing the slightest sign of distraction.

Kevtok grappled with, then forced himself to concede that the micronians, while frail and ridiculously short in the numbers of warriors they could field had apparently dedicated much effort into the development of their weapons.

Naturally, this would make no difference in the inevitable outcome of the conflict that had been opened against them with an unmarred element of surprise- but on the individual level, this was a troubling revelation for Te'Dak Tohl Warriors.

Kevtok obliged himself to make it a high priority that the appropriate warning be disseminated as quickly as possible through the ranks once he was in a position to report it.

For now though, Kevtok had more immediate concerns.

The micronian warriors whose base this had been had now all either deserted their posts disgracefully, or had been isolated and were in the final stages of being slain.

Those who had abandoned the battle for flight into the jungle would find soon that the micronized norghil had volunteered in multitudes to participate in Kevtok's raid were in pursuit- driven by years of understandable frustration.

The micronians might have escaped an immediate death by fleeing from Kevtok's mecha, but their fate was nearly decided. Kevtok's micronized norghil lacked the benefit of their true size, of battle armor, and of advanced weaponry- but they were warriors again.

They would not give up the pursuit until the last kill was made, and Kevtok did not attempt to delude himself into believing that even an order to desist from him could change this.

Even disciplined warriors had to be allowed to exact revenge from time to time.

Kevtok sensed that the skirmishes on the alien post all around him were quickly dwindling as the micronian warriors who had stood their ground to fight were overwhelmed by norghil. Fate might have recognized the micronians' bravery, but it garnered them no favor.

This quality at least warranted respect from an adversary.

Kevtok had no time to reflect on the admirable traits of his opponent though.

Lieutenant Moyrt was arriving from the south, down a single Regult, to join up at the center where Lieutenant Hyra and her fully intact unit that had just arrived.

"The southern perimeter to center is cleared, Lord.", reported Moyrt.

"As is the west to center.", Hyra added.

Kevtok had sent four Regults east to probe for any substantial resistance, where they had found none. Only the micronian skirmishers remained, and they were quickly reducing.

"Then disperse by pairs in support of the norghil.", Kevtok ordered, "Sub-Lieutenant Nenopt will remain with me and we will establish a command post here at the center position and activate the navigational beacon to guide our shock units down. I don't want a breathing micronian left within twenty atohls by the time they arrive."

"Yes, Lord!", came the collective reply off of over three dozen sets of lips.

Pairs were quickly established and dispersed with equal speed. There was still some fighting to be had- asymmetric as it would be- and all wanted to be part of it.

Kevtok looked about him again. He had grown familiar through reconnaissance and surveillance of this outpost with its layout and how it had looked by daylight.

That was yesterday, of course.

He was mildly interested in seeing how it would look by day after sunrise today.

The California Coast,

68 Km North of Los Angeles

"Vigilante Squadron- feet wet."

Lieutenant Colonel Nigel "Jack" Winters had lost himself in the starry night. From just under 26,000m the Earth seemed a great distance away- its darkened curve only discernable from celestial firmament by the bow where the twinkling of stars terminated and the uniform inkiness of the Pacific began.

It was easy to lose one's self in the presence of such sights- and in truth, Winters had actively tried to do so. Some pilots around him were likely spinning their minds up to full burn thinking this would make them razor-sharp for the fight.

It might have worked for some- it was a personal choice.

Winters had done that in his youth and after many a sortie had come to realize he only entered the fight stressed with the effort of trying to be mindful of every detail around him.

He had learned and now knew how to navigate the "grey area" gulf between extreme focus and total distraction, and knew which latitude to keep that would allow him to enter the fray in his best state once the shooting began.

For now, that meant the Zen-like pursuit of appreciating a scene of natural splendor.

Experience with this particular enemy had also taught Winters to take in these rare moments of beauty, because the Zentraedi had demonstrated the ability to take them away.

If things were to go the way of the end of the last war, there was a possibility that it would be a long time again before Winters might see the stars.

But Colonel Ganyet "Switchblade" Mumuni had called "feet wet" for her squadron, marking the moment when they had crossed from flight over land to flight over sea, and that was a sign that the moment to bare teeth was approaching rapidly.

"Knight Hawk Squadron- feet wet.", Winters announced, consulting his cockpit's central MFD to verify that the California coast was indeed falling away.

Winters had not quite made connection to the experience he'd chosen to recollect- that of his space flight and combat qualifications years before. The grandeur of that moment Winters now found to be just out of reach. He had left those qualifications longing to be able to return to space one day.

Now, ironically, there was the real possibility that given the right circumstances- he might.

"Werewolves- feet wet."

Winters looked to his 9 o'clock, south to where he could see the last, two-ship element of Mumuni's Vigilantes keeping station at three kilometers. Beyond them, three kilometers further south another element formed the next chain link in the line in the same way that Dodger and Pinball formed the link to Winters and Vice's right.

So on and so on, the three Valkyrie squadrons formed a line spanning over 140Km with the 1404th Werewolves on the left flank and Knight Hawk Squadron on the right, sweeping the sky westward in search of a fight.

Winters could not see the elements that marked the extreme ends of the formation- but generous intervals were the reason Mumuni had ordered a line almost immediately following "wheels up". There was no such thing as "top cover" from orbiting warships and their arsenal of energy weapons. A sparse formation however made for a poor target.

The breadth of the line would also force any Zentraedi fighters encountered to distribute themselves accordingly or risk envelopment. Even in doing so with superior numbers, Mumuni knew the Zentraedi would still be at a disadvantage at long and intermediate distances where the range and quality of missiles each side was bringing to the fight was key.

Spread as they were over the sky, the Valkyries could still reach farther and cover one another in a missile duel.

This, Winters knew, Mumuni was gambling would allow the Valkyries to whittle down a larger force to allow them a reasonable chance at staying in the fight when the battlespace shrank and quarters became closer.

"Half-Satans- feet wet."

It was possible that it wouldn't come down to a knife fight, Winters reminded himself as the first of the trailing Adventurer II squadrons crossed over water.

The 333rd Half-Satans, 77th Harpies, 403rd Grey Owls, and 149th Thunderclaps trailed the Valkyrie line in a narrower but deeper box formation and were the reason that the greyhound-like fighters were not charging at full speed on toward battle.

They were also the element of the mission package that might prevent the Valkyries from having to directly enter the fight at all.

Despite his love affair with fighters that had spanned his professional life, and his particular fondness for the Valkyrie- Winters knew as all Veritech pilots did that the advanced, transformable fighter lacked the weapons-carrying capacity to allow it to be a single-platform solution to all air combat scenarios.

Whether offensively or defensively, the RDF-AF still needed a "pack mule" to bring volume of fire to bear.

The Adventurer II, though less "sexy" than the Valkyrie with its comparatively lumbering speed but significant ordinance capacity was ideal for that role.

This particular morning the draft horses of the RDF were heavily laden with 20 apiece of the anti-ship variant of the Falcon Reflex missile carried by the Valkyries, the AASM-4 "Griffin". Slower and with a significantly shorter range than its sub-light engine driven big brother, the Ballista- the Griffin was no less lethal and possessed the desirable quality of being able to be deployed from a wider variety of platforms- including the Adventurer II. Their heavy Protex warheads could inflict significant damage on a warship, and with near-nuclear yield in their explosive force were almost certainly lethal to the intended targets of this intercept mission.

There were Zentraedi Re-Entry Transport Pods coming down.

War games had predicted it in many scenarios in which the Earth's surface had not been flattened outright- and the tattered remains of satellite and ground-based surveillance had confirmed it. For the time, the movement of hostiles from orbit to ground was directed at the Americas and the Pacific Rim, and the indications were that the force of ferrying Transport Pods numbered in the hundreds of thousands.

And there were certain to be more, Winters knew. Zentraedi never did anything "small".

In that context, three Valkyrie squadrons and four Adventurer II attack squadrons seemed- was- insignificant.

But Edwards was the only base in the NORAMWEST "complex" that was functioning at a level to sortie aircraft against a landing force whose track indicated that they were moving in the direction of southern California.

They would have to hold the line until reinforcements arrived.

That was the conceptually simple purpose of the intercept force under Mumuni's command with the operational callsign, "Militia".

That reinforcement would have to be soon Winters also knew- or else it might be a very short war for three Valkyrie and four Adventurer II squadrons.

"Militia Leader, this is Prospector.", said a controller from an AWACS EC-33 who had assumed tactical authority and command and control functions over the intercept package from the moment of take-off, "You're exiting our AOR. Transitioning your C2 to Typhoon. Good hunting."

"Typhoon has C2.", Mumuni acknowledged, "Thanks for the ride, Prospector. Keep the door open- we won't be long. Typhoon, are you on-line?"

"Affirmative, Militia Leader- Typhoon is on-line and has C2. Link up at your ready."

"Militia Flight", Mumuni said immediately, "Switch to Typhoon's InfoLink feed and verify. Call out exceptions."

As the satellite constellation that normally provided a seamless, bi-directional connection to the RDF's "InfoLink" C4I system had been in a state of collapse at the time the mission package had taken off from Edwards, it was necessary to plug them into a redundant "socket" for the purposes of data sharing and collaborative combat systems communication. The AWACS had been provided with that capability to support InfoLink within its AOR, and connect to as many other C2 platforms as its encrypted communications systems could reach.

Hearing no "exceptions"- failures by her subordinates to connect to tTyphoon's InfoLink feed- Mumuni's next words came after a pause, "-Well then, we're looking for some mischief-. Can you assist?"

"Your vector is good, Militia Leader. Maintain course, speed, and altitude. Estimate outer BVR engagement envelope in three minutes. ROE is weapons free- engage upon request Militia Leader."

"Roger that, Typhoon.", Mumuni replied, "Three minutes."

Winters reached out to his control panel's central MFD and expanded the range on the integrated navigation/radar function out to 1,500Km. Marilyn's own powerful, phased-array SAR sensor package did not have the ability to see this distance- but borrowing the far more powerful radar of the AWACS through InfoLink, Winters was able to extend his "vision".

What he saw, with the exception of Tyhoon to the northeast with a flight of Valkyries flying guard and a dozen or so commercial flights far out into the Mojave who were rushing to the closest commercial port that could take them was nothing.

Winters expanded the range again out to 2,000Km.

Nothing.

2,500Km.

A cluster of contacts in red appeared just inside of the top edge of the MFD screen- compressed with the scale setting into a singular, blinking blob- but identified and designated clearly by IFF as "hostile".

Winters tapped the "cluster" on the screen and by muscle-memory selected his desired display function option from the menu that appeared without having to look for it.

A smaller window opened in the main display layer, showing a "zoomed" representation of the "hostiles".

Winters found himself looking at a column of three box formations of Re-Entry Transport Pods- a hundred or more per formation- with a substantial escort force of Gnerl Fighter Pods leading and flanking.

The moment that Winters had tried to offset, but the one he had known would come sooner or later was on him suddenly.

The tight little knot in his gut formed and as it clenched and grew, the irony of moments in the past when Winters had felt mild pangs of guilt at having an edge over malcontent Zentraedi was not lost on him. Some par of him had always wanted the false nobility of a fight on equal footing-.

Be careful what you ask for, old chap….

The rate of closure with the Zentraedi landing force seemed incredible to Winters despite decades of experience with supersonic flight. Kilometers of range were devoured as the aliens still 10,000 meters above the Valkyrie line eased on a gradual decent into the upper stratosphere, slowing gradually in the sparse air from sub-orbital speed.

The logical, tactical portion of Winters' mind assured him that this actually provided Militia Flight an advantage- that the Zentraedi would soon find themselves charging into a wall of missiles that they were travelling too fast to evade by maneuver.

The primal part- the little angel whose lineage had provided survival instinct to the human race since they had hunted wooly mammoths with stone-headed spears and the little demon who was double-knotting Winters' gut- now told him that he was doing the aerial equivalent of standing in the path of a charging bull.

All to the gentle, rhythmic- thump…thump…thump- of the sensor display refreshing with each pulse of Typhoon's radar.

2,400Km.

The appreciation of the starry sky and remembrance of the elation of his first space flight had now retreated to the recesses of Winters' brain. Rate of closure, angle of attack, the high-altitude performance characteristics of Gnerls and the probable kill ratio of weapons Militia Flight was carrying to the number of inbound Zentraedi meshed in equations whose ultimate solution was the answer to the question of whether Winters could expect to walk away from the approaching fight.

2,312Km.

"Militia Flight, listen up!"

Colonel Mumuni's voice came to those who were beginning to drift in their extreme focus with the same sobering effects as a splash of cold water to the face.

"We're going to execute a two-part sequence starting at maximum range with our Adventurers. I want a staggered release of all your ordinance- Griffins then Falcons. No target overlap on the Griffins-. What we don't destroy will scatter and open up the formation for the Falcons to start work on the escorts."

"As soon as you're empty, Adventurers- you turn tail for home. Airspace between here and Edwards is still secure."

"Valkyries, the Adventurers will poke the nest- when the hornets come out, we'll star our work. We'll knock down what we can with missiles BVR, and the ones we can't we'll take down as close to the deck as we can get them where we'll have the performance edge."

"Sure-.", someone laughed nervously, "What could possibly go wrong?.."

Mumuni could have pounced on the speaker, but a number of other chuckles on the line told her it was an expression of common anxiety- and as long as it was not contrary to her authority should be allowed to pass- which she did.

The anonymous voice had a valid point of which all were aware. Each Adventurer II, though carrying a primary load of Griffins also rounded out its capacity with an additional eight Falcon missiles that would allow the attack aircraft to participate in covering their own retreat. This would be helpful, but when one added the collective air-to-air weapons load of the Valkyries to that of the Adventurer IIs – the arithmetic did not result in a balanced equation.

There were more bandits than the "Militia" had bullets.

And this was the first wave.

Winters was aware of the relentless beat of InfoLink refreshing his fighter's tactical display. By comparison to his own heart that he found now to be racing, it felt ominously slow like a drumbeat heralding the march of the condemned to a theatrically embellished execution.

Thump..…Thump..…Thump..…Thump..…

2,247Km.

"Say, Preacher-.", Winters said trying to sound optimistic, "Any word back yet from The Almighty?"

Wayne was hesitant in his reply, taking the question far more seriously than Winters had intended.

"Working on it, Jack… The Lord's answering a lot of calls tonight I think."

"Keep at it then- and remind him nicely about that good thing I did for those people at that place back whenever-."

"You're bargaining, Jack."

"Perpetually."

2,201Km

Thump..…Thump..…Thump..…Thump..…

Silence settled over the common frequency again.

No conversation, though conversation should have been shunned in these circumstances anyway. Only the relentless beat of cycling system processes, the gentle hiss of air from the life support systems, and pounding of hearts in chests.

And it was the bearing of the wait that had Winters ready to scream for the simple need to release the tension.

-But there were other tried and proven practices also.

Winters pursed his lips to give voice to the old cavalry tune that had been rattling around inside of his skull for some time now- but he found his lips to have gone dry and he with no spit left to correct this. And all the while the horrible little imp that had gotten the better of men in combat for centuries, urging them on to the foolish, tickled the impulse center of the pilot's brain loose his missiles and just get on with it…

Thump…..Thump…...Thump…..Thump….

"Trailer for sale or rent.

Rooms to let for fifty cents,

No phone, no pool, no pets.

I ain't got no cigarettes-."

Winters laughed as he recognized Mumuni's XO, Lt Col "Dusty" Drake's particularly bad singing voice that was likely making Roger Miller flip in his grave. The horrid rendition of the long-dead singer's trademark song that had crackled its tale repeatedly on Roxanna's juke box now fell in perfect step with the pulse of InfoLink.

While harsh on the ears, it was still somehow calming to the nerves.

Winters half-expected Militia Flight's "amateur microphone night" to be quelled by Mumuni quickly, until he heard Switchblade join in herself with a nervy, giddy snicker- at which point the proverbial flood gates of mediocre singing talent opned.

Winters recalled with some amusement a psy-war briefing he'd read about the stunning effect music had had on Zentraedi during their pursuit of SDF-1, and how exposure to human culture since that time would likely result in a null effect should the circumstances come about again.

Hearing his helmet fill with the unskilled voices of dozens of pilots singing in near unison caused Winters to differ.

This might scare the Zentraedi more than the horrible, syrupy, pop-ballads of Lynn Minmei.

"Aw, but- two hours of pushin' a broom buys a-

Eight by twelve, four-bit room.

I'm a man of means, by no means-

King of the road…"

2,147Km

"Third boxcar, midnight train-

Destination- Bangor, Maine.

Old, worn-out suit `n shoes-

I don't pay no union dues-."

Winters continued to monitor the path and descent of the aliens who were still out of reach. Their altitude advantage had lessened by half among the Gnerls who were now clearly assuming a screening formation- advised no doubt by the Zentraedi counterpart to "Typhoon" somewhere high above.

The Re-Entry Transports were staying high, likely needing the minimal resistance of the ultra-thin air to maintain their speed.

Clearly the transports knew themselves to be the hunted and were hoping that rapid merge and then separation would allow at least some of their numbers to make planetfall.

Winters was happy to let them continue under that tactically flawed assumption.

2,087Km

"I smoke old stogies I have found-

Short, but not too big around.

I'm a man of means, by no means-

King of the road…"

2,041Km

"I know every engineer on every train-

All of their children, and all of their names.

And every hand-out in every town,

And all the locks that ain't locked when no one's around-."

2,002Km

"Uncage `em, Adventuerers!"

Mumuni's unpolished order ceased the singing as abruptly as if she had pressed an invisible "STOP" button, and more importantly engaged her command's minds uniformly on the task now at hand.

Weapons Systems Officers in Adventurer IIs finalized the flight programs of the Griffins carried by their aircraft. InfoLink recommended targets for each weapon, sorting out the intricacies of targeting overlap in nanoseconds. Secondary targets, in the unlikely case of overshoot or the even more remote chance of a "miss" would be selected on the fly by the "genius" weapons without need of consultation with their human masters.

Falcon Reflex missiles were programmed with an even less restrictive program that gave them the liberty to auto-acquire and destroy the first Gnerl they encountered with the single prerequisite of verifying that they were not competing with another Falcon for the same target.

"Fox One!"

The call repeated over and over as Adventurer II pilots released their Griffin and Falcon Reflex missiles.

Below and to port, Winters saw the weapons passing- accelerating quickly to their hypersonic, maximum speed before beginning their gradual, target-intercept ascent. Protoculture compression reaction engines drove the weapons with virtually no visible exhaust trail and a negligible light emission, allowing the weapons to slip quickly and easily out of sight.

They would be reliant on Typhoon's radar to guide them semi-actively for the next 1,300 kilometers before their own seeker heads could acquire and allow them to operate with complete autonomy. Even if the AWACS's external guidance were to be lost, both variants of the Reflex missile could fall back on the information they had already been provided to formulate independently their own logical search patterns to locate a target.

No matter the method of target intercept, the Reflex missiles now in flight were almost certain to live up to the motto popular to their designers: "One shot is one killed."

Winters was just losing visual track on the outgoing Reflex missiles when the Adventurer II pilots began to call, "Bingo missiles".

They were now flying "empty" and providing no added value to the mission package.

"Take it home, Adventurers.", Mumuni ordered, "We'll cover your egress."

"Roger that, Militia Leader.", replied the Adventurer II package leader, "We'll put the beer on ice for your return."

Element by element, the Adventurer IIs dropped out of trailing formation and banked sharply away to head again for land as quickly as they could sustainably fly. Other than the Valkyries still advancing toward the inbound hostiles and the slim to modest possibility of soliciting protection from other "friendlies" who might still get into the fight- the Adventurer IIs were virtually defenseless.

Winters could not fathom what could compel a pilot to want to fly a lumbering target like one of the retreating attack aircraft into a fight, but he had great admiration for those pilots who felt the compulsion.

"Typhoon, Militia Leader- give us a vector for attack."

"Roger that, Militia Leader. Come right to course three-one-zero and ascend to angels thirty-two. Push it up to the stops."

"Militia Flight, you heard the man.", Mumuni said to her subordinates, "Time to earn your combat pay."

Winters gently banked right into a climb that gradually turned Marilyn's nose northwest. With the silken smoothness of flight at such an extreme altitude, it was easy to forget the speed one was travelling at- but a sudden maneuver could quickly remind the careless pilot. –And the opening moments of an engagement were no time to risk GLOC.

Once on the new course though and on the steady climb toward 32,000m, it was safe to spur the thoroughbred Valkyrie from a leisurely trot to a full gallop.

With Vice still on his starboard wing, Winters pushed his throttles slowly up to the firewall with the associated reward of the rising whine and roar of the fighter's twin PFR/PR-2001-B engines. The sound ended abruptly with a small bump as the Valkyrie exceeded the speed of sound, but the steady vibration of applied power remained.

Mach 2, and 3 came up quickly and fell behind before Winters had to level out to his assigned altitude. Now more than ever, with the stars all around and no engine noise to compete with his breathing, Winters felt again as though he had returned to space.

The waking dream was a decadence that he had no time to indulge in though.

Winters' central MFD was showing him that the fusillade of Griffins and Falcons fired by the Adventurer IIs were beginning to activate and seek autonomously.

The placid and pristine night was about to get brutal.

Point Lieutenant Daehlarha, a veteran of many campaigns against norghil, and a respectable number against Invid was well acquainted with combat and violence.

He had watched the rapid closure of alien missiles fired from far outside of the reach of his Gnerl, and had known that Fate's whim would quickly decide death for some in the combined assault force his fighter group was assisting to escort.

What Daehlarha was not prepared for was the startling lethality of the weapons that the aliens had loosed upon the assault force.

In rapid succession, almost as a chain reaction, missiles had decimated the flight of Re-Entry Transports that Daehlarha and the other fighter group commanders had been charged to defend. And though he could not be certain, the point lieutenant was almost certain it had been a single missile per transport that had caused inflicted so great a loss.

Daehlarha had been high above one such Re-Entry Transport when it had met its end with the leading wave of alien weapons. The blast, which he did not see directly but had nearly caused him to lose control of his Gnerl, lit the sky all around him. And when Daehlarha had looked down instinctively, only a fiery, churning cloud of unrecognizable wreckage could be seen falling aft where a Re-Entry Transport had been the moment before.

Quick glimpses and impressions of opening moments of battle were all around as other transports were shattered in progression back through the column formation. The concussive force of primary and secondary explosions could be seen to snap the wings off of Gnerls who had been holding station too close, or spun others hopelessly out of control.

Even the rugged Nacht-Rau combat suits, piloted within the transport column formation by their Serhot Ran warriors were tossed and forced to abandon the cover from enemy sensors provided by the transports.

As quickly and impressively as the aliens had raked the assault force with destruction, it was something Daehlarha had glimpsed- or thought he had glimpsed- in those intense moments of chaos that was oddly the greatest concern to him.

He was nearly certain that as the alien missiles had merged with the leading elements of Gnerls- norghil units trained but still wet from the tube and placed on point to absorb the expected damage of the alien resistance- he saw single missiles appear to split into several. In this way, Daehlarha had seen clearly a single missile obliterate four Gnerls flying in formation before the explosion of the Re-Entry Transport he'd been flying over had thrown his fighter, requiring all of his mental focus and effort to maintain control.

These pilots were no more or less dead than they would have been had they been killed individually by four separate weapons- but the disconcerting element that Daehlarha could not get past was that the insidiously simple concept was one that the aliens were fielding, and that not even the Te'Dak Tohl had a counterpart for.

Perhaps the aliens were not so unsophisticated in the practice of war as what had been briefed.

"Jack-.", Preacher said with a calm but joyless tone of voice, "The Lord just got back to me and said he's leaning to our favor."

From 500Km, the pulse and glitter of detonating Griffin Reflex missiles could still be distinguished from the comparatively muted glow of stars.

"Well he ain't a friend of whoever's on the receiving end of that.", Vice said with equal parts spite and pity.

A glance at his center MFD showed Winters that the number of Zentraedi transports moving toward the California coast had been halved at least and possibly reduced by two-thirds. But the survivors were already forming up into sparse parallel columns and pressing on, undeterred.

Of more immediate concern to the "Militia" Valkyries was the "swarm" of Gnerl Fighter Pods that like a fighter having received a stunning but not finishing cross to the head were beginning to recover and come off the ropes.

And also now, there was something else as well.-

"Tally!", called out Mumuni, clearly also seeing the new threat, "Power Armor!"

A glance at his MFD showed Winters an IFF quick recognition window had opened showing the "mug shot" of a Queadlunn-Rau power armor suit. Oddly though, the box was bracketed by a flashing yellow border indicating that the IFF system was admitting that its identification was only probable.

Winters dismissed the peculiarity as being a result of Typhoon's extreme range and the burden on the AWACS's systems associated with processing and management of so much data. It was the only explanation as Zentraedi fielded only two variants of power armor, and the type provided to the male sect had no atmospheric flight capabilities.

Queadlunn-Rau however meant Quadranos- the female warrior elite and their renowned skill and tenacity in combat.

"Battle Braziers!- They're females!", Piglet from Dalton's section of B-Flight called out, giving voice to what InfoLink was already telling all.

"Great-!", Maverick chipped in with false optimism, "A little chocolate and Midol and we've got this in the bag!"

Winters wanted to share in Maverick's well-constructed front of joviality on the matter, but like the other pilot he knew from simulations and war games that Gnerls and Female Power Armor were a deadly combination. The Gnerls could be expected to perform the offensive role for the Zentraedi force in the BVR engagement, all the way down to "knife-fighting" range, at which point the Queadlunn-Rau could engage with their vastly superior short-range weaponry.

Winters had been killed by Quadranos and their lethal war machines enough times in simulation to know that he did not want to be within reach of the swarms of short-range missiles they could loose on a target, or to get into a turning battle with an opponent who could change their axis of movement with as little effort as he could execute a snap-roll.

"Target the Quadranos!- Weapons free!", Colonel Mumuni ordered, clearly thinking through the same tactical scenario as Winters had been, "Do not get into a dogfight with them!"

Despite rules of conduct, there were moments that Winters had a great urge to kiss his superior.

The range on the leading Gnerls who were dividing into more tactically sound four-ship elements slipped under 400Km, allowing Marilyn's radar to assume acquisition and tracking functions independent of the AWACS, "Typhoon". InfoLink still networked the Valkyries and prevented targeting overlap as Winters uncaged and assigned his four Falcon Reflex missiles.

Selecting the "Split-2/Elect" attack profile, the pilot enabled the genius weapons with the option of identifying and auto-selecting a new "target pair" based on the estimated likelihood of a double-kill. In a target-rich environment in which the objective was to "thin the herd", it was a better use of the multi-warhead Falcon than selecting one of the "Lock" profiles that identified for the missile the pilot's desired target for destruction.

A shrill tone filled Winters' ears as his missiles indicated their readiness for flight.

"Fox Three!"

The coded term reflected that the Falcons were being launched within the engagement sphere in which they would leave the rails as "active" weapons- homing autonomously using their own radars. The Adventurer IIs had loosed their missiles "Fox One", at a range minutes earlier where the Falcons and Griffins were dependent on Typhoon's reflected radar energy to guide them in "semi-active" mode to the range where their own seeker heads could take over.

It was an exercise that made little difference to Winters as he verbally documented his attack on his flight recorder, but one that analysts could be counted upon to ping pilots on if they did not report accurately. But by now, it was second nature.

Marilyn felt immediately lighter as weapons left her inner stations at one-second intervals and began to respond to the controls more like a fighter as the bump of the missiles' wash quickly subsided.

By Winters' estimation the second, smaller fusillade of missiles would reach their targets at roughly the same time that the Valkyries could loose the last of their BVR weapons. The Basilisks were every bit as reliable and lethal in their element as the Falcons, but lacked the "sucker punch" of multiple warheads. They were however the last bit of "longer reach" that the Valkyries had over their Gnerl counterparts, and would decide just how many of them there would be when the fight entered the "slugging match" stage.

"Vice-.", Winters said to his wingman who would be supporting him in that capacity in minutes, "When this turns into a furball, and it will-. Watch for the strays. We're going to have them too scattered for them to think about big formation tactics, so watch for the strays. The buggers with the brains to recognize that this is going to be a one-on-one show will be the ones with enough experience to make a real go at it-. We're going welter-weight style on this one."

"Jab and move, jab and move-.", Vincenz said, asserting his understanding, "You just make sure to land the jabs on our lady friends-."

Winters laughed mirthlessly, "-I train and wait a dozen years for a stand-up fight, and I start by brawling with women-. Great..."

Winters saw that the first Falcons released by the Valkyries were beginning to penetrate the leading line of Gnerl elements, seeking the loose two and four-suit elements of Queadlunn-Rau intermingling with Gnerls toward the escort formation's center.

His target acquisition system and combat computer also began to identify Gnerls that were coming into range to be targets for Marilyn's Basilisk missiles.

Despite the temptation, Winters elected to keep his Basilisks caged for a few moments longer. Once the Falcons had done their work and the composition and sum total of the enemy was figured, the best use of these weapons would become clear.

There was not going to be a perfect combat scenario in which the Valkyries would peel back the layers of the enemy onion one by one and reducing them to nil. In some combination, Gnerls and Quadrano-operated Queadlunn-Rau would close with the Valkyries into furball range.

If on no other point, Switchblade had been right about one thing Winters knew- the Valkyrie pilots would be earning their combat pay this morning.

An All Platform Release, Multipurpose, Semi-Active, Long Range, Multi-warhead AMSLM-4 "Falcon" missile, indistinguishable from any other in the swarm of 192 released by the Valkyries with the exception of its serial number and the hastily scribbled greeting of, "WELCOME TO EARTH!" written in grease pencil on the warhead casing steered itself through gaps in Gnerl elements that human reflexes would have been too slow to navigate.

The weapon's ATGC-8 tactical guidance computer worked in perfect coordination with its subordinate microprocessors to monitor the track of its targets and regulate the power and direction of vectored thrust to position the missile for optimal intercept.

It had been released with the instruction to seek a specific Queadlunn-Rau combat suit as an intercept mark, and to divide its load of four, Mk-7 independent warheads evenly between the mark and a proximal target not already selected by another Falcon. When the ATGC-8 had been unable to deconflict a target overlap problem with the other missiles in the swarm through InfoLink, it opted without hesitation for the liberty it had been granted to select a new target pair.

The leading cluster of Zentraedi combat suits was spoken for with a half dozen exceptions that could not be aligned by the computer's calculation for an effective "Split-2" engagement. The next cluster in trail was less picked-over, and provided the missile a choice of options that fit its attack profile.

The genius weapon steered itself to the point in space it predicted to be most advantageous for warhead release, oblivious in all of its complex computations that it was designing its own suicide.

With nanoseconds to release point, the missile's warhead housing panels blew free and were swept away by the slipstream of hypersonic flight, and the warheads ejected from the delivery platform. In pairs, the Mk-7 warheads fired their terminal flight motors at a calculated angle to not only intercept their targets, but to make contact with their known "weak" areas and better ensure a kill.

Lieutenant Hralm of the 762nd Serhot Ran had not had enough time to feel fear between the instant when he realized that his Nacht-Rau combat suit was being actively targeted by an alien missile, the moment when he realized his suit's focused-energy countermeasure system was having no effect on the weapon's acquisition, and when he felt the enormous, concussive double-blow.

Air was still rushing from his lungs, and though he could not hear it through bleeding and dulled ears- air was beginning to hiss from ruptured seals in the suit's pressure layer as his power armor tumbled out of control and out of formation.

Hralm resisted the instinct to fight his machine's tumble, clinging instead to his training to relax his body and to allow the suit to stabilize.

An eternity spanning ten seconds elapsed before Hralm's alternating view of starry sky and darkened sea was replaced by a constant and perfect black of the world below. His instrumentation which had fluttered with the twin missile strike normalized and confirmed that he was face down and also in a spin. Firing his suit's booster with maximum opposing yaw countered the spin and had him into controlled flight again in seconds.

It was as the world stabilized beneath him that Hralm felt himself pricked all over by the cold spines of delayed distress.

It was also the moment when he saw the remains of another Nacht-Rau – severed gruesomely at the waist into two halves- tumbling toward the sea.

Hralm knew well every Warrior in his unit well and those of the other Serhot Ran units in the landing force by name at least.

The lieutenant realized that his suit's Nador rifle was no longer in its grasp, and that a system status warning was advising him that the Nacht-Rau's hip and leg missile launchers were off-line from one of the two enemy weapons that he now realized had struck him low and from behind.

In spite of this however, he had cause for Warrior's vengeance- a mandate to draw blood for a comrade's blood spilled, and Hralm was determined as he powered at full throttle in pursuit of the landing force that had left him behind to fulfill that obligation.

Point Lieutenant Daehlarha had never believed in Fate in moments of calm in the reverent way he saw other Warriors speak of it. It was simply a convenient way to explain the random, and to comfort one's self in thinking that there were rules to all things- and that if one adhered to them, one might put off the impenetrable mysteries of Death and what lay beyond.

Daehlarha, in the presence of other Warriors, had given Fate its due observation- if only in form and not true devotion.

During battle though- Daehlarha found that he vacillated in his position of belief.

Fate was real because twice missiles had passed close enough to his fighter's canopy to have been snatched from the air had he been able to reach out for them.

Fate was a lie told to weak-minded norghil because the alien fighters who had twice loosed missiles on the now decimated landing force were now in range to be themselves fired upon- and Daehlarha's targeting system would not acquire.

The lie of Fate's existence was after all preferable to discovering it to be real, and having chosen to side against you.

Daehlarha waited as his sensors cycled again as they had three times already. This time though, instead of a jittery display- the tactical sensor display flashed rows of meaningless numbers and went dark.

The pilot reached out and manually reset the system, hoping to restore even the reduced functions he had seen only moment before. He was not rewarded by so much as the meaningless rows of numbers and symbols he had seen. The screen remained dark, and his systems status display told him that he was witnessing a hardware failure from which sensor functions could not be recovered.

Fate was a vile, vindictive creature that reveled in bringing misery on those who dared not worship it- even for a moment…

"You're fucking kidding me!.."

Vice's profane exclamation of disbelief, while breaking most of the rules of combat communication protocol were not unwarranted, and certainly not an isolated thought.

Falcon Reflex missiles had swept the Quadranos like God's own sword- registering hundreds of hits.

As those combat suits fell from the sky, burning in the minds of the pilots who had fired the missiles upon them- a third to nearly half eventually pulled themselves out of the plummet to earth and returned onto the course flown by their comrades.

"I'm so getting a fuckin' refund on the part of my taxes that goes to RDF Material Command!", spat Vice, his blood now as "up" as Winters had ever witnessed, "They send us to fight hundred-to-one odds and give us a load of DUDS!.."

Winters, sympathetic to and in agreement with Vice's position was nonetheless focused on the Zentraedi who were now actively trying to kill him.

The remaining transports and a vastly reduced detachment was now to Militia Flight's rear, to the southeast- out of reach of anything the Valkyries still carried in inventory. They were on a descent now, slowing- likely opting to get to ground as quickly as possible to offset the chances that more Griffins would rise up to meet them.

And the fact that there were not was puzzling to Winters.

The force of Re-Entry Transports, still over a hundred strong was within reach of ground-based, long range missiles from Edwards and inside of the tracking range of any number of AWACS radar systems.

Why was the sky not filling with SAM fire?

Seeing the great beast that was the bulk of the surviving Zentraedi escorts complete its sluggish, unwieldy, collective turn in the direction of Militia Flight reminded the squadron leader that the transports were no longer his concern.

Gnerls and Queadlunn-Rau power armor (oddly still only being classified by IFF as "probable") were beginning to merge with the great hail of Basilisks the Valkyries had hurled at them in what was being identified by Typhoon and InfoLink as "Kill Box 4". The medium-range weapons had locked cleanly from the moment of uncaging and had flown true from the rails- but the math was indisputable. Even if every Basilisk scored a "kill"- the Valkyries were still going to have to get in close to use the only weapons left to them- dogfighting missiles and guns.

Fortunately though, the Valkyrie's designers had provided other methods of evening the odds against a numerically superior force.

As long as the Zentraedi kept trying to acquire the Valkyries with their attack radar, the RDF fighters' "offensive" ECM system would continue to use their own radars to burn out the Zentraedi sensors and blind them.

"Just pray they're stupid enough to keep trying to paint us-.", Winters pled, consciously asking in his own atypical way for the grace of The Almighty.

"Workin' it, Jack!"

-And of course Preacher was also on the task.

The sky above and to the southwest of Militia Flight rippled in a ribbon of simultaneous explosions as Basilisks met their targets. Unlike the initial strike of Griffin Reflex missiles on Zentraedi transports, which only hinted at the violence that had manifested itself- these targets were significantly closer and the effectiveness of the RDF weapons clearer.

Some instances of a Basilisk finding its target were marked by the flash of the detonating warhead. Others- fewer, more dramatic instances followed the initial detonation with a fireball falling away from the flight of Zentraedi with the wreckage spiraling toward the sea trailing streamers of flame.

And again- curiously- some "hits" on Queadlunn-Rau power armor suits resulted in the mecha tumbling for a distance before returning to controlled flight.

"Son-of-a-bitch…", Winters muttered, vaguely aware of the irony that the Queadlunn-Rau were piloted exclusively by female Zentraedi Warriors.

Vice might have made an accurate statement in the process of making a rash one- Militia Flight could have been carrying at least some "duds".

"Bandits, tally-ho!", called Captain Peter "Dodger" Lindsay from a narrowed distance off Vice's starboard wing, "Twelve o'clock high, a dozen plus!"

Winters knew the "bandits" Dodger was speaking of by their position- but the squadron leader was only visually tracking them by the target indicator boxes projected onto the interior of his helmet visor. Dodger was twelve years his junior, and had admittedly keener eyes to work with, but-.

Within first one, and then successively all the indicator boxes Winters gazed upon, black flecks that stood out slightly darker than the sky behind them- devoid at this point of any recognizable shape.

These were his first glimpse of the enemy though.

Vice, Dodger, and Dodger's wingman Capt "Pinball" Ott, hand not bunched up, but had tightened up this portion of Mumuni's contracting "line" to form a very loose "finger four" formation. Winters had been of a mind to order it anyway, wanting the offensive and defensive versatility inherent in the pairing of two, two-ship elements.

"They're coming in too hot-.", Winters noted as the black flecks took on clear form as Gnerls. The bandits had either already lost their radars, or had shut them off for fear of losing them because Winters' threat warning system was not detecting attack radar emissions.

The Gnerls meant to make a slashing run with their guns.

"Get ready on my hack to chop throttle, apply brakes and flaps, and climb! We'll follow Tail-Ed Charlie down and start taking the fight to the deck. Stay out of their bloody cone of fire!"

Winters braced himself- this was going to hurt.

The Gnerls closed, seeming to glide in lethal majesty into a position high above, but still ahead of the Knight Hawk element of four Valkyries. Their angle of attack was extreme, Winters knew- too extreme to easily alter, Winters hoped.

"Hack!"

Winters jerked Marilyn's throttles back to little more than an idle and applied 50% airbrakes and flaps, which automatically unswept the Valkyrie's variable-sweep wings as well.

The world's largest invisible rugby player struck Winters in a flying tackle at a full run from behind, throwing him forward into his harnesses as the Valkyrie's airspeed bled rapidly off. The pilot fought to keep his head up and eyes outside of the cockpit as he pulled the stick back into his gut.

Marilyn's nose pitched up with a groan of the airframe that Winters heard over his own strain against Newton's sadistic edicts. A maneuver that should have flattened him into his seat only eased the effects of the continuing, rapid deceleration of the fighter.

Winters was able though to fix eyes on the Gnerls who were still locked into their insanely steep dive. They had gambled on their speed and altitude advantage to execute a slashing run, but had foolishly ignored the possibility of an overshoot.

As they dropped below Marilyn's nose and tore by in an unsuccessful merge that was well outside of the 45º "cone" of fire they could sweep with their nose-mounted particle beam tri-cannon, Winters was sure that their flight leader was beginning to understand his or her mistake.

It was going to cost them.

"Break and pursue!", Winters ordered, retracting the speed brakes and flaps before rolling his fighter to port onto her back and then pulling the nose through level flight and into a dive. Although the Valkyrie had slipped out of supersonic flight, its speed was still great enough to make the maneuver grueling with a rapid pile-up of G-force that came with the directional change.

Winters lost the stars and sky as the fighter's nose dipped below the horizon and came to point at the same steep angle of attack as its former aggressors turned prey- who were now also presenting their tails.

Marilyn's combat computer systems instantly seized upon the irresistible targets. The "Fury" dogfighting missiles on the outer weapon stations and the smaller Asp "mini-missiles" in their launcher pods were aware of the potential targets from the moment that their seeker heads were pointed in the Gnerls' direction and they began to fill the Valkyrie's cockpit with the "growl" of target acquisition.

They required only that the pilot assign a specific target out of the many for them and to pull the trigger.

Seductive as the option was, Winters possessed a level of tactical thought that exceeded the missiles' in both practicality and forethought. The Gnerls were giving Winters' a fighter pilot's wet dream of a near-zero angle deflection shot, and with little ability to maneuver defensively.

While their dive speed was opening the range, this was a "gun" shot if ever a pilot had been presented one.

Also, Winters knew, this fight was still bound to be an endurance match, and he wanted to keep the missile option as long as possible.

The Furies and Asps would stay caged a little longer.

Flipping his weapon-selector into the notch for employment of the Valkyrie's laser cannons, Winters was rewarded with the appearance of the aiming reticule on the interior of his visor. He had hit target drones with regularity at 6,000 meters in level flight, and had even been known to score a hit at 7,000.

Gnerls were considerably larger than target drones, and their range had only opened to just under five kilometers.

"Fox Four!"

The night filled with laser bolts fired at a cyclic rate of 3,600 per minute- their lurid red glow muted by the pilot's night optics to a more subdued wash of milky green.

"Tail-End Charlie"- holding the rear covering position of the Gnerl flight was saturated through the tail with the barrage, losing the high and port engine in a flash of secondary explosions, before losing the port wing that was already under tremendous stress in the dive to structural failure.

The Gnerl, now hopeless to recover, tumbled out of formation and out of control, spinning out of sight into the darkness.

Winters consciously put the knowledge that Gnerl Fighter Pods lacked an ejection seat, or any device to save the life of the pilot in the event of emergency out of his mind.

A blaze of laser fire to starboard marked Dodger's entry into the fight, and like his squadron leader, a hit was scored on a relatively stationary target. Bits flew free of the target without any spectacular indications of the laser bolts finding their target- but as debris continued to come off the airframe, both wings and the single vertical rudder ctore away with a large portion of the high engine.

Scratch two.

The remaining Gnerls had known from the moment of overshot that they had transitioned into defensive posture. The sudden loss of two comrades at the rear of their formation confirmed the knowledge.

Unable to see the Valkyries in the large blind spots their design created for their pilots, the Gnerls broke their already loosened formation and began to corkscrew to bleed off airspeed to allow themselves the ability to maneuver without risk of snapping off their own wings in the ever-thickening air.

The brief window of "easy kills" was over, Winters recognized, moving his weapon-selector back to missile mode.

Furies and Asps growled angrily, like wild animals cornered and ready to fight.

"Bandits!", Vice called, perfectly performing the wingman's role of minding the defensive while his "leader" performed the offensive work, "Four high at five, comin' down!"

Winters selected a barrel-rolling target at random with his aiming reticule, closed the firing safety and depressed the trigger.

"Fox Two!"

Another Gnerl crossed Marilyn's centerline, creating an irresistible target as the first Asp shattered the port wing of the first.

Winters fired on the second Gnerl before forcing himself to tear free.

"Break right and disengage!"

The pilot snap-rolled right and eased his dive as he began to scan the sky around his starboard rudder, looking for the bandits that Vice had called out.

They were there, coming down as Vincenz had reported, but not at the same, kamikaze angle of attack chosen foolishly by their predecessors.

They still were coming in at a high rate of speed though, and building energy in their dive.

Winters tried to swallow his heart back into his chest- even as it looked as though the Gnerls would overshoot.

Point Lieutenant Daehlarha uttered something unflattering that likened the aliens and their fighters in the most derogatory way to Invid as a pair executed a perfectly synchronized turn into his attack run- throwing off his approach and defeating a shot before he could take it.

The comparison to Invid- the implied insult not withstanding- was not entirely unjustified. The alien fighters were far more nimble than the point lieutenant's Gnerl- being easily 30% the Fighter Pod's size and weight. They were showing themselves to be not quite as maneuverable as an Invid Trooper or even the heavier Shock Trooper was in space flight- but where they were demonstrating vast superiority to the Zentraedi's constant and traditional foe was in tactical prowess and combat proficiency.

These aliens were showing that they would not be lured or provoked into an ill-advised attack that a Warrior might turn easily into a kill of his opponent the way Invid routinely could. Shamefully (but wisely Daehlarha admitted) these micronians would retreat from a fight that was not in their favor, or at least maneuver to negate the advantage held over them- as Daehlarha had just seen.

With the aliens' technological edge which Daehlarha had also unfortunately experienced, the point lieutenant was forced to concede grudgingly that tactical doctrines practiced by the Te'Dak Tohl against both Invid and norghil were to be of little use.

-Except for one known to all Zentraedi.

Attrition.

Daehlarha and the other fighter group commanders who had been tasked with escorting the landing force of Re-Entry Transports had already used up the bulk of their norghil pilots absorbing the initial alien missile attacks.

-But some norghil remained.

These could still be used to some benefit.

Daehlarha was already seeing his Te'Dak Tohl Gnerl pilots beginning the tried practice of isolating and compartmentalizing the aliens into pockets for elimination. If he could distract the aliens with his remaining norghil, this would happen much quicker and the aliens would be positioned for the gathering Serhot Ran whose numbers were steadily building above.

It would be a less sophisticated victory than Te'Dak Tohl were accustomed to- but a victory was still a victory.

The point lieutenant recognized that he would have to survive first to organize and execute his vision.

As Daehlarha succeeded with the struggle of bringing his Gnerl out of a high-speed dive and into level with the horizon, a pair of alien fighters whipped through his forward hemisphere just above his cone of cannon fire.

His sensors were gone, but he still had missiles that were serving no purpose as long as they occupied his fighter's launchers.

Daehlarha worked his control yokes and rudder to snap-roll right into a turn that was tight enough to start his warning system blaring its predictions of structural overload of the airframe. The point lieutenant ignored the warning, knowing his Gnerl and where the danger line truly lay.

The nose came around, not as quickly as he wanted, but fast enough to bring the retreating alien fighters again into his forward hemisphere.

Close enough for his missiles to auto-acquire- maybe.

Daehlarha depressed the trigger.

Captain Carl "Bucket" Bailer of the 1404th Werewolves had just visually confirmed that the two surviving Gnerls of the six-ship element that he and his lead, Captain Aaron "Dumpy" Morris, had just bounced had disengaged and were withdrawing to the northwest.

The heightened state of awareness he'd gained in brief but vicious engagement added considerably to the "pucker factor" of hearing a missile launch warning buzz harshly in his ears.

Bucket's head snapped aft and to starboard where he saw the pulsing glow of a missile tracking. His Valkyrie's countermeasure systems had engaged automatically by this point, dispensing chaff and flares in a steady stream as his ECM bathed the missile's seeker head with electronic noise.

Still, somehow the missile appeared to be tracking true.

Bucket threw his stick left and hauled it back into his groin, reversing the turn of his fighter and putting the stream of chaff and flares directly between the missile and himself.

The Zentraedi missile lost active contact on the fighter it had auto-acquired almost immediately after launch, and passed blindly through a wall of confusing radar returns. The barrage of electromagnetic energy that swept the missile's attack bandwidth did not subside however but narrowed in its focus to the exact frequency of the missile's pulse radar.

Lacking the sophistication to realize it was blinded, the missile interpreted the persisting energy assault the only way it could and reacted.

Detonation.

"Shit!", Bucket yelped as the Zentraedi missile detonated near enough to toss him about in his restraints, peppering his Valkyrie with fragmentation shards.

Warning sirens wailed as the Valkyrie advised the pilot of damage incurred by the near-miss. Bucket's eyes were outside of the cockpit though, scanning for his attacker who he had not yet seen. The aircraft still responded to the controls, and Bucket saw no indication of fire- so without consulting the Valkyrie's self-diagnosis, the pilot was confident he was still in the fight.

He had to find the bandit though to either engage or evade him.

One near-miss per sortie was enough for Bucket, and a firm reminder that he did not want to sustain a hit.

"Bucket- where the hell are your?!"

Dumpy's call was both concerned and commanding because he was not only unable to support his wingman, but at the same time was also exposed without his wingman's support.

"West of you-!", Bucket replied, giving his best estimation as he intently scanned the sky and horizon to find the aggressor who had gotten off a shot on him.

At his 9 o'clock he found a pair- no, two pairs of Gnerls coming up from below the line of the horizon. In a banking turn as he was, Bucket knew he was showing his enemy a "plan view" of his Valkyrie- the broadest possible target that he could offer.

Instinctively knowing to reduce his aspect and get out of the bandits' gun sights, Bucket nulled his turn and rolled the Valkyrie onto its back to disengage by means of a dive.

Point Lieutenant Daehlarha's frustration that the long-odds missile shot had failed to kill the alien fighter was muted as his opponent's evasion brought him left again, back into the sweep of Daehlarha's cannons.

More pleasing to the Gnerl pilot was the apparent fact that the micronian pilot had not yet seen him, and was exposing a top-down view of his aircraft to Daehlarha.

An expert shot, it was more than the Gnerl pilot needed.

Daehlarha quickly centered his aiming reticule and pressed the firing trigger.

A stream of particle beam fire ripped in rapid alternating sequence from the three cannons of the Gnerl's nose-mounted gun cluster and shredded the Valkyrie from amidships to tail as it began to roll over in an attempt to dive out of the engagement.

Streams of fire and debris trailed the alien fighter as spiraled down toward the sea- a gratifying sight to Daehlarha.

Just as the Gnerl pilot was turning his attention to the second alien fighter with whom his first "kill" had been paired, he saw something separate from the nose end of the plummeting aircraft. It had left the fighter at too high a velocity and at too perfect of a right angle to be wreckage breaking off.

Losing the object quickly and without the ability to confirm his first suspicion, Daehlarha knew it had to be some sort of escape mechanism for the alien pilot.

Frustration returned to the Gnerl pilot.

Even when they were killed, the aliens refused to be killed.

Dumpy turned his Valkyrie on an opening 90º angle to the four-ship element of Gnerls the moment he saw Bucket's silk (actually nylon) open into a perfect canopy.

"Bucket's down!", the pilot announced, "I saw a chute-. Typhoon, advise SAR that we've got a pilot down! -And get me the hell out of here!- Vector me in to the closest friendly!"

"Aw shit!.. –They spiked Icky!"

Switchblade heard the call as she was leveling out of a rolling dive that had succeeded in shaking the pair of Gnerls that had latched on to her the moment her wingman, Cosmo had broken away to foil the attack of another pair.

The report and the sight were the ones she'd dreaded and expected from the first moment of seeing the magnitude of the Zentraedi attack.

A Valkyrie- one of her Valkyries- was going down in flames.

There was little to identify the tumbling fireball as a Veritech except for the first-hand report of the other pilot, and no reason to rush SAR to the scene. There was no sign that the pilot whom Mumuni had brushed elbows with and bummed a cigarette from at the bar only hours before had managed to eject- and there was no chance of surviving within the plunging inferno.

It had been bound to happen, Mumuni reminded herself- sooner or later.

It was beginning to happen with measurable frequency now, and the hearing of the warnings from Typhoon, or a quick glance at a tactical detail-embellished radar display easily explained why.

The fight that had begun stretched out over a broad line had quickly contracted into four "kill boxes". As the number of bandits had begun to rise, and Valkyries were forced to seek each other out for mutual protection and support- the four kill boxes had coalesced into two.

Now, Typhoon had just announced that the two had merged into one.

The sweeping melee had turned into a brawling furball at 10,000 meters altitude- and it was precisely the fight the Zentraedi wanted. It was also the one that Mumuni knew she and her pilots had to avoid.

Valkyries were increasingly defensive, and spending equal or greater time clearing one another's tails of Gnerls than they were employing the sharp end of the spear.

Fighter Pods could be seen setting up their simple, yet effective "slashing runs" from the perimeter of the kill box that they were steadily gaining control of- executing, and withdrawing for their next attempt with impunity.

Mumuni knew it was time to leave- if egress was still possible.

By the "natural" development of the fight, if there was such a thing, the aerial battle had begun to drift east from the moment of first merge and had continued to roll back toward the California coast building speed like a sea squall as it went.

This meant that any break she and her pilots could make from the fight would not be a clean one. The enemy was sure to pursue, if for no other reason than to rejoin with the landing force it had split from to fight the Valkyries.

"Typhoon, Militia Leader- I'm calling it!", Mumuni blurted indignantly, "Get my people out of here! -And get Prospector on the line-! We're going to need SAM cover and any fighters he can scrape up for rear guard!"

"Copy that, Militia Leader-. We're vectoring you out by element and will have Prospector set a defensive line at the coast. –Hang in there!"

Winters had heard Mumuni's decision to withdraw, which was not cowardice in any sense but rather the only intelligent call that could be made. With two Fury missiles left on Marilyn's weapons stations before he would have to resort to guns for every shot, and with still more bandits than open sky- it was a call that Winters was glad Mumuni had made.

"Jack" Winters had more immediate concerns though.

Less than thirty seconds before, a pair of Gnerls had crossed his nose below on a 110º "slice", possibly unaware of he and Vice spotting them as they transitioned starboard to port- an irresistible target for any fighter pilot.

Winters, now alternating the element "lead" roll with Vice to stretch the ordinance each carried called his intent to attack and was rolling into the saddle for a low-deflection shot when Vice spotted three Gnerls closing with the same intent high on their seven o'clock zones.

Vice had broken formation to clear Winters' tail, but had only taken two Gnerls with him.

The remaining Fighter Pod, likely the lead, had stuck with Winters, and in a position the RDF pilot did not want him to remain in.

A trail of chaff and flares from Marilyn's countermeasure dispensers along with a steady electromagnetic curtain aft had decoyed four missiles fired line-of-sight at the Valkyrie while the pilot dove and barrel-rolled for the deck through a hail of particle beam fire that was becoming distressingly accurate.

Conventional thinking said that diving from a Gnerl was not a sound tactical practice. They were heavier, Winters knew, and would overtake a Valkyrie in all but a full-powered dive- excluding the possibility that the Gnerl pilot had his throttle to the stops as well.

But they had started their dive below 8,000 meters and there the denser air would work to the Valkyrie's advantage.

Going to the deck, the Gnerl pilot would have to be mindful of the stress put on his airframe and wings in a powered dive.

In a fight on the deck, the Valkyrie's greater wing load capacity would give it the maneuvering edge.

Almost as an afterthought, Winters had also hoped- after pitching sharply down toward the Pacific- that the Gnerl's weight and velocity would overtake him and that he might roll around his opponent and swap positions in his (or her Winters reminded himself) passing.

The Gnerl pilot was clearly experienced though, and recognized the performance characteristics of his machine. He was sparing with the throttle in the dive and kept his rate of closure measured and controlled, which gave him the time and range to zero-in his cannon-fire.

At 3,500 meters, below and beyond the level where a sane pilot would have begun his pull-out, Winters hauled the stick back and grunted and strained through the rush of blood into his legs.

Marilyn groaned also as the nose came up and away from the rapidly-approaching sea For a moment Winters was not certain which he feared more- smacking her belly into the wave-tops, or returning to Edwards and to Lyle with a bent aircraft.

As the Valkyrie's nose rose to match the horizon at an altitude below where most seagulls flew, a stream of particle beam bolts ripped the air around the canopy close enough for Winters to feel their radiant heat.

He had not forgotten the Gnerl, but had been in the process of checking his tail with the expectation of seeing the last of a water column where the Gnerl should have gone into the drink.

Incredibly- horrifyingly- the Gnerl was still back there, bracketed by Marilyn's tail rudders, and resuming his gun attack.

Winters could only assume that the dive to the deck had rattled the Zentraedi pilot as it was the only reason he could think of that he had not yet been torn apart by the Gnerl's powerful nose cannon cluster.

It was the last and only advantage that Winters expected to get with his adversary.

Winters opened Marilyn's speed brakes and pulled the fighter's nose high- almost into a stall as he drew the throttles back.

Nose high, he retracted the brakes as he rolled the fighter over and brought the throttles back to mid-range. He peered through the top of his canopy that now looked down on the sea and found himself staring at the Gnerl pilot who was gazing back up at him through his own acrylic windscreen.

Like wrestlers grappling and tumbling with one another on a mat, the two fighters began an immediate scissor roll- each trying to bleed off airspeed and force the other out front and into position for a gun shot.

Despite the proximity to the deck, Winters felt hints of relief as dark sky and darker sea rolled before him. In this match, he had the clear and inevitable advantage as the Gnerl with its minimal wing surface had a stall speed 100 knots higher than the Valkyrie.

Winters only had to bleed him out.

The Gnerl pilot, likely unaware of the exact speed at which the Valkyrie would fall from the air, still must have suspected his disadvantage and chose an unorthodox tactic that Winters would not have guessed with even his wildest attempt.

Inverted and in the superior position, the Gnerl pulled its nose slightly down and toward the deck- hoping to either "bump" the Valkyrie in, or force a panic mistake in Winters causing him to plow his own aircraft into the waves.

Winters clenched his teeth (among other things) as he fought the panic reaction and continued the smooth roll of his fighter- watching the Gnerl drop past like a brawler over-extending himself with a missed punch.

The fluid motion of the Gnerl through the air ended suddenly- probably as its rudder clipped a wave-top- and the alien fighter was snatched by the sea from the air.

Looking aft as he leveled and then began to climb away from the unforgiving Pacific, Winters saw the last tumbling bits of Gnerl wreckage bounce once more over the water's surface before vanishing below in sheets of spray.

You and me and the devil makes three, you poor sod…

"Jack- is that you coming off the deck at my eleven?"

Winters recognized the voice immediately as Vincenz's, but was puzzled by the question as he located a Valkyrie high off his starboard wing. "Blue Force" recognition through InfoLink and the Valkyrie's independent IFF systems should have not only shown Winters to his wingman as a "friendly", but identified his unit affiliation and specific identity.

"All but the twelve pounds of me I just sweated off-.", Winters replied as a comforting distance opened between his fighter and the ocean.

The dogfight continued to churned above, broad and sweeping toward the coast- but it had not gotten down to this level yet. Winters still had a few moments to collect his nerves.

"-Am I not squawking?"

"I'm not reading.", Vincenz replied, "Damn ditto tried to part my hair down the middle with a particle beam and clipped my IFF receiver in the process. Fuck if this ain't gonna drive up my insurance premium .…"

Winters scanned the sky above as he was forming up with Vice again. Per Mumuni's orders and Typhoon's direction, there were Valkyries trying to break from contact above and he knew the pilots flying all of them.

It wasn't a question of whether he and Vice would enter the fray again to help open the exit, it was a matter of where they could tie on to have the greatest impact.

"-You're grazed too, you know.", Vice advised.

"What?"

"Port rudder- you're missing a bit off the top.", Vice reported pensively, "Lyle's gonna have words with us both."

"Probably-.", Winters agreed, "But in our defense- I think these blokes have been trying to kill us-."

"At a minimum."

Lieutenant Hralm was now in clear violation of orders.

Orders had come from a point lieutenant, 7th in the chain of command of the assault force- a responsibility that he had not likely given much thought to given the length of the list preceding his own name.

Fate had an interesting way of turning assumptions on their heads despite the best efforts in planning and execution.

No one had or legitimately could have predicted the savagery that such a small number of micronian defenders were capable of until the moment of contact.

Estimation and predictions were irrelevant though when fire was being exchanged- as was the willingness or preparedness of the combatants to accept Fate's direction.

Battle was its own entity with little reason and fewer rules.

The acting commander had quickly assessed the situation presented to him, and had decided that the Serhot Ran and their Nacht-Rau combat suits had become more critical to ground operations and should therefore fly on with the transports moving inland, rather than linger with the Gnerls in a now-inconsequential skirmish with the alien fighters.

The majority of the Serhot Ran had obeyed.

Others, like Hralm, had opted to delay compliance long enough to satisfy a guiding principle of the elite shock troop corps- vengeance for fallen comrades.

The assault force would be easily found at one of four landing zone options- after.

The fight had rolled quickly east and was nearing land by the time Hralm had recovered from a dual missile hit to his combat suit and had been able rejoin.

From high above, the opening to the "pocket" formed by the Gnerls to trap the alien fighters could be seen easily- and more to the point of the tactic, the pocket could be seen failing.

Alien fighters were beginning to slip out in numbers and were making a low-altitude dash east that the Gnerls would be hard pressed to match. Unlike Invid who could be counted on to stay in a fight once joined, and to remain with that fight until the last- the micronians were more strongly geared toward self-preservation.

They had not allowed the pocket to envelop them completely, nor had they allowed it to close entirely- always shifting east toward their base of operation. This had driven more than anything the progression of the fight back toward land.

Beginning his dive in the near-vertical, Hralm knew only the alien fighters flying at the highest level would be target options. Even with the Nacht-Rau's impressive vectored thrust booster system, pulling the heavy combat suit out of a dive required significant distance to avoid catastrophe. This limited his options in his ambush from above, but there was always the possibility that a foolish alien combatant could be lured by his pass out for individual battle at lower level.

This option would unfold or not shortly- but first, Hralm selected his first target from altitude as he pressed his suit to its maximum dive speed and readied his energy weapons systems that would not give him away with acquisition before striking.

Air-to-air combat- any combat really- was not unlike poker played with the highest stakes.

Much relied on estimation- whether your hand was better than your opponent's.

Much relied on intuition- in how you played a hand.

-And as in poker, sometimes the deciding factor was the bluff- how well you played off having absolutely nothing.

Captain Jonathan "Rebound" Clifton had been watching his element lead from Knight Hawk Squadron's B-Flight, Captain Alan "Gecko" Home bluff Gnerls now for almost three minutes- an eternity air dueling.

Apparently the Zentraedi had been quick students of exactly how effective RDF missiles were, and of how lethal to their own fighters they could be.

Holding the north edge of the pocket breech open with the squadron XO, "Buster" Dalton and Preacher on his wing, Rebound had seen Gecko blast no less than a half dozen Gnerls with nothing more than his Valkyrie's attack radar- and a half dozen times Rebound had seen Gnerls retreat from a Valkyrie carrying no missiles.

As Paul Newman had pointed out once in one of his signature roles, sometimes nothing was a pretty cool hand.

Bluffing had its nemesis though- the "call"- and being an experienced poker player, Rebound knew Gecko to know that even the best bluffer had to occasionally show the goods.

For that reason, Rebound now found himself matching Gecko in a 5-G, left banking turn to execute a gun shot on a fleeing Gnerl. While Gecko's eyes were forward on his target, Rebound's were everywhere else.

There were two Gnerls who Gecko had flushed 45 seconds earlier- and they were beginning to creep back into the fight from where they had egressed to the north. They had shown their sensors to have been burned out, so a missile "snap-shot" from their range was improbable, and they would not be in a viable gun-shot position or range for another twenty seconds or more by Rebound's estimation.

A single stray was loitering to the northeast as wellt- a tourist in the trade for the moment and probably waiting for additional support before rushing four Valkyries. A wise decision, given the RDF fighters' demonstrated performance this night.

But it was the one that Rebound had not seen yet that gave him the most concern, because he was inevitably the one who got you.

Looking for him, Rebound kept his head on a swivel scanning all parts of the sky in a trained and deliberate pattern until Gecko could take his shot.

Militia Flight would be clear of the pocket soon- a minute at most, and then they could disengage and get the hell home to arm up again for the second round of what promised to be a long, first match.

Rebound's eyes were beginning to scan high when Preacher gave the warning cry that no pilot wanted to hear mid-attack-.

"Four suits high! COMING DOWN!"

As though guided by Preacher's words, Rebound's eyes found the power armor above- nearly directly above- and in a sheer dive.

He or him appeared to be a she today, and treacherously they were making their collective approach with sensors down to not give themselves away on the attack.

They transformed from dark dots to having recognizable form in the literal blink of an eye, and Rebound had barely the time to realize that with their suicidal angle of attack, he had no chance of managing an intercept.

The words would not come quickly enough either to warn Gecko.

"Gecko- HIGH!...", Rebound managed to blurt incoherently before the power armor was within striking distance.

Capsule-like, a single, orange energy-round that seemed unusually large to Rebound in the fraction of a second that he saw it, passed from one of the descending power armor suits and struck Gecko's Valkyrie at the center of the wing-junction box. What followed was not so much an explosion, but rather an inferno that appeared to devour the fighter in a blazing orb.

It was only a second warning from Preacher that jolted Rebound into realizing that he himself was passing through a hail of laser fire.

The exact words did not register, but freed the portion of the pilot's mind required to roll out and away from the attack in a maneuver that was more instinct and training than conscious thought.

Lt Col Fred "Buster" Dalton watched the amorphous blaze that had been Gecko's Valkyrie separate into three distinct molten masses, tumble away, and spiral out of sight trailing tendrils of oily fire.

Dalton's mind was working analytically, tactically- in the cold, calculating, mechanical way that it needed to function to allow him to survive the fight. It had not registered on any emotional level what had just happened to a long-time squadron-mate and friend- it couldn't.

Not yet.

Within Dalton's focus, something immediately stood out as suspiciously out of place in the attack that had killed Gecko.

Queadlunn-Rau power armor carried no energy weapons with the characteristics he had just seen exhibited. Periodic "refresher training" which all RDF personnel, but particularly the active-combat MOS's, were obliged to attend all included a day on the hosting facility's "live fire" range. During these demonstrations which most looked forward to with the same zeal as what had once been felt by many for professional wrestling matches or monster-truck rallies, former Zentraedi Warriors turned RDF would remind the attending humans of the unpolished lethality of the machines that The Robotech Masters had provided them.

Dalton had never seen anything demonstrated like what had just killed Captain Alan "Gecko" Home.

Things suddenly connected in the parts of Dalton where he was not an officer or a fighter pilot, but a husband and father- and then it struck him solidly.

"-Repeat again-.", came Winters voice, "What was that?"

Dalton realized he had spoken- mumbled really- without recognizing that he was doing so.

"They just got Gecko, Jack.", Dalton said, the weighty draping of shock begin to slide free of his shoulders.

"-Was there a chute? -Did he get out?"

The numbness was gone now and a searing rage flared and spread.

"No."

Dalton's tactical mind quickly summed up the equation.

Four Queadlunn-Rau combat suits- presumably fully armed and functional.

One Valkyrie with two Fury dogfighting missiles, 350 rounds of "mixed bag" in the gun pod, and as many bolts of laser fire as the generators could pump out before melting down.

It was about to be a bad "last" day for one Zentraedi in particular- and as many of the other three who chose to get in Dalton's way.

"Preacher, get Rebound back to the squadron-."

From his position to the southwest, Winters saw Dalton break from the main engagement and from his wingman, Preacher.

Twin trails of partial afterburner lit the early morning as the squadron leader watched his executive officer take up pursuit through night optics.

Winters knew that he should have been calling Dalton back to the formation- ordering him to do so, but he found that he wasn't.

He had not seen Gecko go down, and so the finality of what had happened was only setting in now as Dalton's words and tone spun around inside of his skull.

Winters realized suddenly that he was not ordering Dalton back because he was keen on seeing the blood-debt collected too.

"Rebound- are you out there?", Winters asked realizing that he was moments from losing visual contact with Dalton.

"Yeah-.", Rebound replied instantly, though sounding winded, "I'm banged up- losing an engine, but I'm here."

"I've got eyes on him, Jack.", Preacher said, the concern clear in his voice, "He's going to need cover to limp back to base- but I'm losing Buster-."

"Rebound, form up with Preacher and then rally with Vice.", Winters said letting the orders flow as the thoughts came to him.

Maybe he would be able to argue or explain his way out of this when Mumuni and Major General Butler had time to loop back and review after action reports- and maybe he wouldn't. But for the time being, he had a pilot out on his own, and he could not afford to lose more pilots this night.

"-Stay with the others and get back to Edwards. I'll grab Buster and be along directly. Keep the porch light on for us-."

Winters checked to verify that he and Vice had not developed a tail before he broke from his wingman.

"Dodger, Pinball-. Are you up for one more tangle?"

"-Try holding us back, Jack.", Pinball replied from a generous distance west of Winters.

"We're in.", Dodger affirmed.

No word had been spoken of Winters' true, underlying intent that in a matter of moments had come to fall in perfect step with Dalton's. But it was clear that the two pilots from A Flight whom Winters had "tapped" to join in were on the same page as well.

It was an insane, "rookie" stunt that Dalton was pulling, and Winters knew he would be obligated to lay into him accordingly. First though, he wanted to get him back.

-But hopefully not before the score could be evened up for Gecko.

Brasilia

Three months of urban warfare had defaced and gutted Brasilia, one of the world's few cities that had escaped serious damage or devastation in The Zentraedi Holocaust a half-decade before.

It had gone from a vibrant population center whose nights were alive with cosmopolitan social activity to the shell of civilization whose dominant sounds were the low moans of wind through smashed building faces punctuated frequently by the sharp and distinct sounds of violence.

Rapid as this shift had been, there was no comparison to the overall degradation of Brasilia that had been accomplished earlier this night in a split second.

Major Mason Colven, "Gator" Company, 149th Mecha Armor Regiment was certain that there was no longer a right-angle to any building in all of Brasilia.

The single particle beam blast from orbital Zentraedi gunfire had struck somewhere southwest of the city. Homestead Base, standing to the northeast in a vacated warehouse complex had been jolted by the blast wave in the lee of the city violently enough to leave the corrugated metal structures that had been restored by engineers slumping away from the site of impact. Other structures had collapsed on Homestead, and fires had been quick to flare up wherever combustibles had been compromised.

Brasilia by comparison, visible and less than four kilometers away, had taken on a raked appearance and was now glowing luridly from within as though the infernal landscape of hell had decided to breech somewhere in the city's center.

If there was any "silver lining"- any viewing of the glass as "half full"- it was, Colven reminded himself, that the civilian population of Brasilia had fled months earlier between the rise of active malcontent insurgency and the "stabilization" of the city.

Certainly there were still the vermin known as looters, and pockets of the ACWs (Avenging Civic Warriors) who were a presence in any war zone, mostly getting underfoot of the professionals while attempting to "do their part" in the fight for "home".

There were also units deployed within all districts of Brasilia and many other s outside of the city that had been posted to monitor for any signs that the great wave of malcontents who had left might be attempting a gradual flow back in.

-And of course there was also the ASC presence- not hostile but not entirely friendly as they held regions of the city and were reliable only insofar as their treatment of Zentraedi- malcontents (all Zentraedi in their view it seemed)- was more dire than the RDF-Army's.

-And this was Brasilia.

Colven did not want to invest the emotional energy in imagining the condition of any of these groups who were the occupants of the burning city. There was much to do to secure Homestead Base and bind its wounds before any thought could be given to reaching out to assist those in Brasilia proper.

Also, emotional energy had a way of spilling over into other areas outside of the ones it was invested in. This led to loss of focus, and in times of crisis loss of focus more often than not led to the additional loss of lives.

-Though it was likely that this might be a moot point.

Major Colven looked briefly, one last time at the standard-issue dosimetry badge that was normally clipped to the same chain as his dog tags and hung about his neck. This morning, the exposed strip of radiation-sensitive film had been a soft, dove-grey- an expected shade for the age of the badge. Now, the film was blackened with incident radiation received in a single, massive dose from the particle beam strike.

Oddly, Colven felt fine with the exception of the sting of his skin that was not as biting as some mild sun burns he had brought upon himself over the years.

The difference was of course that he had been inside the officers' mess at the time of the strike greeting the holiday with beer and Buffalo wings.

Colven felt fine, but despite the fact that he had been indoors, and even though he and the others in the officers' mess had immediately ingested the radiation meds found in the mess hall's emergency medical kit- the dosimetry badge neither lied nor tried to soften the unpleasant truth.

It would take time, of course- hours, maybe a day before he and the others would feel the first symptoms- and 36 to 48 hours before the signs of radiation sickness became acute-. But Colven knew this was as "fine" as he was ever going to feel again.

The dosimetry badge clattered as it was chucked like a skipping stone over a mill pond across the concrete surface of the warehouse turned mecha pool.

Maintenance and weapons crews seldom seen attending to mecha at the same time worked together now to arm Gator Company's Gladiator Mk-III Destroids, supplemented in their numbers by any enlisted personnel whose path they had crossed.

Some of the specialized equipment used for this purpose had been damaged in the initial attack, but enough was functional to adequately support the arming process.

It was in the number of qualified operators that the detail was falling short. Young muscle however filled the gaps to accomplish the movement and loading of ordinance where mechanical means were falling short.

A common expression of vengeful determination was worn by many young faces, aging them years in its display. The act of arming the Destroids was not "pay back" for the sucker-punch just received- not by any stretch of the imagination.

-But it was a good start.

And "pay back" for the enlisted was certainly in order.

Unlike the festivities that had been planned for officers- a significant minority on Homestead Base- the party for the enlisted had spilled out into the night around the enlisted mess. When the particle beam had struck- many had been seriously burned immediately and then mauled moments later when the blast wave swept them with shrapnel-like debris.

Casualty collection points had quickly been established all around post to assist the instantly-overwhelmed medical staff. The wounded to be triaged and those fewer, less fortunate who had died from initial trauma were still swelling these CCPs within eyeshot of those who were working feverishly in the mecha pool.

Of these casualties was a portion of Gator Company's "Destroid Drivers" who had retired to quarters early. This decision had been fatal for seventeen and had resulted in the serious injury of nine when the officers' barracks had folded under the slumping collapse of the adjacent warehouse serving as the quartermaster's depot.

Gator Company now teetered on what normally would have been considered at "combat ineffective unit strength" with its reduced number of "ready" Drivers. In Colven's estimation though, right now the RDF as a whole was probably in some state of combat ineffectiveness or another.

This was just Gator Company's- Homestead Base's- bad hand that they had been dealt to play in a night of many bad hands.

Twenty-one Gators stood waiting around a sheet of corrugated steel that had been leveled over two rolling tool cabinets to form a table. Colven's own, personal copy of the area map of Brasilia had been flattened out over the improvised table and was held down at the corners against the night breeze by four metric wrenches from one of the cabinet's sets.

Colven had received his initial orders in the CP from Brigadier General Wendel himself while the CP was still smoky from fires that had just been extinguished. InfoLink had never come back up, and other communications with RDF-SOUTHCOM were spotty at best- but all of the fragments of information put together formed a picture clear enough for Wendel to decide on a first response. It was neither complete nor polished, but it was the best that could be cobbled together quickly and with the available information from the outside world.

"Okay, here it is-.", Colven said, motioning the officers and warrant officers of his diminished unit around the map to hear what was to be passed off as "the plan".

"We get to do a complete one-eighty in operations-. We just cleared Brasilia out, now we get to move in and hold it until we're extracted or relieved. We're setting up shop in the Federal District west of the Portuguese Highway and north of Vija Rao Tribas."

Colven outlined the area of the Federal District he had just described before making sweeping gestures outward.

"So, we know we've got malcontent hostiles to the north, at least half a day's march- but what we don't know is what the dittos- the invading ones- plan to do with the areas in the other directions. General Wendel thinks that the gun strike to our southwest was to prepare the area for a landing force in the open country. Maybe, maybe not- we've got no way of knowing."

"What this position we'll be reconnoitering will provide us is a buffer from attack- whichever direction it comes from. I know that there's twenty-two of us for any heavy work, but we've also got an infantry division, a Ranger Regiment, and a regiment of Gurkha Rifles just itchin' to have someone come looking for a fight. We can't seal off this part of the district air-tight, but between limited direct approaches and multiple choke points- we can make the dittos think twice about whether the fight is worth the warriors they'll lose fighting it."

Casey, one of Colven's warrant officer motioned that he had a question, and when acknowledged by his commander with a nod, asked, "Any signs that we will be getting reinforced or relieved, Major?"

The question was not an inappropriate one, Colven admitted to himself. He had no way of estimating where Brasilia figured into the region's order of priorities, or of how its garrison ranked.

Colven noticed also the absence of dosimetry badges hanging from the dog tags of his Destroid Drivers. Apparently they too had seen clearly the message conveyed by the badges and had found no need to continue revisiting it.

"Can't say I've gotten that call myself.", Colven replied, keeping focus on what needed to be done if any of the garrison of Homestead Base was to be saved, "But the best we can do right now is hole up and see what comes next. Any other questions?"

There were none- the prevailing mood being one sensible as this was at least something to do while the unit was still viable that might even result in an opportunity to fight.

"Okay then, Gators-. Saddle up in five."

Manchester, England

RDF-Manchester functioning as one of the two quartermaster's depots for the north-central UK was little more than a sprawling complex of warehouses, loading docks, and a lesser number of truck yards all bound in the trappings of a military post. Its intended purpose was to keep on hand all of the material required to make the military function- from "smart" weapons to boot laces- and to move these supplies out to the various other posts in its supply area on a regular, scheduled basis.

Now, not unlike the markets and stores that performed the same basic function for civilians on a lesser scale, the depot was struggling with all of the burdens of a sudden, massive, uniform demand for every conceivable stock item.

"8x4" supply trucks with their eight shoulder-high, all terrain tires and four metric-ton carrying capacity stretched in a line back to and through the depot's gates empty and with requisition orders as a proportionate flow of loaded transports rolled continuously out with critical supplies for untold destinations.

In the midst of this logistical tide, Howard had been hesitant to get closer to the depot than within eyeshot- and had made it absolutely clear to his passengers that he would not be attempting to enter the post lest he be somehow delayed or detained.

His passengers, now three- appeared understandably nervous but were accepting of the limits where Howard had to draw the line of assistance and who were grateful for being brought this far.

There had been a few final pieces of advice offered, parting words that were appropriate for exchange between an officer and enlistedmen who had not yet even been assigned to a military branch, and then Howard had left them by the roadside and disappeared south in haste- not looking back.

Entering RDF-Manchester had been easy enough- the three young men showing their military identification cards to the guards in Cyclone battloids at the gatehouse. The great movement of humanity which on the approach to Manchester was far less than the flood that Andy had expected was away from the city, the depot, and anything that might be a "target" to the Zentraedi.

Other than the fact that three enlistedmen who had wisely concealed in their duffle bags the sub-machineguns they had gotten from the Johnsons' hired guard, base security was more concerned at the moment with facilitating the flow of supply than the business of fresh graduates of basic training.

It was a four, nearly five kilometer walk from the point at which Howard had pulled the land rover to the side of the road to let his passengers off to where the three saw the first signs that the line of trucks might have an end to it. The unbroken column of 8x4s separated outside of the warehouse complex and forked three ways into the initial clusters of storage buildings.

With no clear indication of how to go about bargaining for transport or even which area of loading transports might produce the best results, the three enlistedmen chose at random a marshalling yard in which to begin.

With it being the 21st Century, and Manchester being an installation of the same extended military "family" that had listed among its assets starships capable of folding the very fabric of space- one could have expected some highly technologically advanced method of moving supplies from a warehouse to the 8x4 onto which it was to be loaded. To the contrary, the scene in the loading yard was almost unchanged from that which had played out countless millions of time since there had been goods in warehouses to be moved and wheeled conveyances with which to move them.

These were the gross details that the untrained eye would have immediately fixed upon.

Andy Johnson had been around warehouses, work loweries, and the men who labored in that world in relation to his father's construction business since before he had learned the meaning of work.

What he saw despite the false trappings of chaos was an organized element of the supply distribution system that was holding up remarkably well given the strain it was under.

Looking identical in the gross details to the system his father had to explained to him as a bored "pre" and early teen, Andy saw pallets of supplies electronically requisitioned, drawn from the warehouses, packaged for shipping, and pre-staged to be married with the lowery that would haul the supplies to their destinations. RFID tags, the size of a cigarette lighter, were clipped securely to binding straps with each bundle allowing quartermaster's personnel armed with tablet computers to guide drivers to the pallets that they were responsible for.

Despite the frenzy of vehicles and personnel which gave the truck yard the appearance of an ant colony fully at work, Andy felt an odd, mild relief as this was the first element of the military that he had come across that had made immediate sense to him.

Thinking back to Howard's question to he in particular- his brother's prod to decide on an MOS- the possibility of quartermaster's school and billeting became a clearly logical option.

It was an underappreciated but by no means disrespected specialty that had to function to allow all of the branches of the Service to operate-.

Andy recognized that he was drifting- a boyish tendency toward fancy that Senior Training Sergeant O'Shae and all of his cadre had not quite stomped, drilled, and regimented out of him. Andy caught it though, and remembered that he had to address the matter of getting back to Falkirk first before any "life decisions" could be made.

"Well, what do you think-?", Cedric asked as trucks arrived and stood waiting for a comparatively few number of forklifts to load pallets into their open beds before being hastened off by intense-looking quartermaster staff.

"-Stick out a thumb, or show our legs as they go by-?"

"I've got skinny hips.", Cattermole snorted, "I say we go back to the gate, wait for someone to veer left toward the M63, and hitch on."

Cedric shook his head, "Sure- because everyone going north is passing by Falkirk. –We could end up in Wales for all you know."

"-Which is still closer to Falkirk than we are now-.", Cattermole countered.

"-Girls-.", Andy said derisively stepping in, "Before someone loses an eye or breaks a nail-."

Of the two closest rows of pallets and the depot personnel overseeing the loading of supplies onto the arriving trucks, Johnson found the closest body who looked to have a handle on the goings-on, and approached him directly.

"Sergeant-.", Johnson called as the weathered, stocky man whose skin flushed pink in shocking contrast to the forest and earth tones of his BDUs began to turn away and move up the line of stacked supplies and idling 8x4s.

Taking direction from the tablet computer he carried, the mid-grade sergeant seemed oblivious to the call, requiring Andy to try a second time to even gain notice "Sergeant-!"

Clearly annoyed at having to acknowledge Johnson, who he had actually heard the first time but had chosen to ignore, the sergeant paused in his task long enough for the enlistedman to sprint the ten paces to speak without having to yell over the omnipresent rumble of powerful 8x4 turbo-diesel engines.

"If you three are the damn help I requested an hour ago, I'm joining the other side-.", the sergeant grumbled as Collins and Cattermole joined Johnson in their less than pristine dress uniforms.

"No sir.", Johnson said, and smelling the indications of a heavy smoker on the sergeant's breath he fished the pack of cigarettes from his breast pocket as an offering in gratitude for the NCO's attention.

The sergeant took an offered cigarette, warming very slightly to the three who could only have stood out more in the truck yard had they been wearing clown outfits.

"We're trying to get to Falkirk RTC, Sergeant.", Andy said bluntly, seeing that before the NCO had even put away his lighter that he was already showing signs of being mindful of the time being wasted, "Can you tell us if anyone is headed north?"

The sergeant grunted, "Plenty headed north-. Not sure about Falkirk though-."

"North is a good start.", Cedric said, not wanting to lose a good opportunity for hopes of the perfect one.

The sergeant drew long on his cigarette as he looked up and down the line of trucks standing in wait whose two-man crews had now all gotten out to unbundle pallets and had begun to manually load their own vehicles.

"-Alright- here it is then-. I've had these stiffs sitting here for fifteen minutes waiting for a lift truck to come and start loading them up. We've got a two hour back-up to clear before we can get on schedule, and that isn't gonna happen either-. So if you can bring yourselves to scuffing up your good shoes a little and help to start hand-load these loweries- I'll see that you get out on the first one headed in the direction of Falkirk."

"Done.", agreed Johnson, "Thank you, Sergeant-."

"Ah-hmm-.", the sergeant added, flexing his fingers in a "gimme" gesture as the enlistedman began to think the deal was closed.

Johnson, still holding the pack of cigarettes that now contained less than six, handed the "cherry" over to seal the bargain.

"Done."

Edwards City, California

Father Howard was a true believer that The Lord did not present challenges that His servants were incapable of overcoming- but he did acknowledge that some challenges were greater than others.

Even with Civil Defense volunteers systematically working the streets of Edwards City, calling by loudspeaker the population to established shelters and alternate shelters, and with civilians answering the call in droves- Howard was finding that sweeps of low-rise apartment buildings and single-family dwellings were turning up an equal number who had been reluctant to displace.

Volunteers from his parish had convinced some to leave their homes, and had even inspired a number to join in the canvassing effort. Others had been reluctant or opposed- even belligerently opposed- to leaving their homes, and in these cases Father Howard and his group had been forced to leave the steadfast with blessings and the open invitation to shelter at St. John's Church should their inclinations change.

After a little over an hour's effort though, Father Howard had sensed the approach of another of The Lord's "challenges", linked ironically to the success that his seekers were having. With each probe into an apartment building or residential area, Father Howard and his volunteers were succeeding in coaxing an average of thirty people out to return to the church for sanctuary.

By Father Howard's count, he was approaching the safe capacity of his church before he had ventured five blocks from its doors.

Then, as The Lord always did, He provided the means to solve the challenges he had set in place for His servants.

Coming up north along N Street, Father Howard and a flock of nearly forty had come across Imam Al-Ayubi, whose Dar Al-Hijrah Mosque (one of four in Southern California outside of Los Angeles) stood along the southeast edge of Edwards City. A mirror image of Father Howard's effort, Imam Al-Ayubi had appeared with a dozen men and boys of the small Muslim community, offering in the meeting with Howard not only news that the city's civic center still had abundant room to shelter the population, but also that he had come across Rabbi Steinberg of Shiloh Synagogue who was moving with volunteers through the dwellings in the southwest corner of the city.

Weekly dinners that had become a custom with the religious heads of Edwards City and that were alternately hosted by Al-Ayubi, Steinberg, Howard, and Reverend Gilbert of the larger Methodist congregation had done much to foster communication and cooperation in areas of common interest over the years- along with providing an opportunity for indulging in low-stakes poker.

Father Howard had wondered after initially crossing paths with the Imam earlier this night why none of the discussions at these dinners had ever broached the subject of what The Lord might require of them should a situation like the one currently unfolding arise.

Howard chalked it up to the imperfections of men who lacked The Lord's omnipotence. The immediate concerns of adequate food and basic necessities for families had always been more pressing.

-But for their limitations, the devout were doing His work admirably this night.

Father Howard had spotted Imam Al-Ayubi and his latest collection of souls coming east along Iniyo Street- they being easily identifiable by the red-filtered flashlights they carried. Howard had not even thought of the idea or benefits of modifying the lights he had distributed to his volunteers until the Imam had provided the suggestion as well as the tinted plastic sheeting and rubber bands needed to affect the change.

Since then, Howard's volunteers had been able to move more safely through the darkened streets and buildings with their night vision preserved.

"We're almost finished in this part of the city", Imam Al-Ayubi said without any other formalities as he got to within earshot of Father Howard.

Howard stood in awe of the Imam's stamina- he being the eldest of the four religious men in the non-secular dinner group, and having well over sixty birthdays behind him. Neither particularly thin nor obese, but somewhere in the "norm" of middle, the Imam had demonstrated on many occasions the ability to work beside men half his age as intently and just as long on even the most physically taxing projects. These "volunteer" construction projects were common in a city like Edwards that did not receive the recuperative funding or civil engineering support garnered to larger population centers. Breaks that Howard had taken to rest in these instances had been the pauses that Al-Aybi's faith had required him to take for prayer- but Howard suspected that in the absence of this ritual that Al-Ayubi could have just as easily plowed on.

"Our church is nearly full.", Howard said as the eyes of those who Al-Ayubi had collected questioned him as to what was to come next, "If you can spare a boy to guide these people to the civic center, we can move north and begin to work through that area."

The Imam nodded his agreement, "That should be quicker work- there are fewer residences and homes."

An overlapping series of deep booms, like thunder from beyond the horizon rolled without any warning across Edwards City, coming from a general southern direction. Gasps and yelps came from the people who had been urged to leave their homes for better shelter- the rumbling being mistaken clearly for explosions.

"I think you're right.", Howard replied to Al-Ayubi, making a conscious effort to seem unconcerned by the noise.

In reality, Father Howard knew tthe sound that all had heard well, and was fully aware of its implications. They had heard massive sonic booms, softened somewhat by height and distance as vehicles of great mass passed at high altitude somewhere to the south.

Sonic booms were not uncommon to Edwards City, but these were distinguishable from the common variety and ominously distinctive for one reason alone.

The craft producing them were not common to the skies of California.

"Lets keep our momentum up now-.", Howard said, "We still have a lot of ground to cover."

31Km North of Los Angeles

One down, three to go.

The thought was not as pleasing to Winters as it would have been had the "kill" of the elite Quadrano warrior been made by one of the four Knight Hawks in trail. Still, there had been a certain malevolent glee in introducing novices to the concept of dedicated SAM batteries to their first experience.

"Duck Blind 14", the RDF-Army mobile Basilisk SAM battery that stood as part of the defensive ring around Los Angeles had been tied into InfoLink and was tracking the four combat suits through Typhoon's radar even as the Valkyries had been taking up pursuit. A total of thirty batteries, 180 launchers in all on their deceptively swift, tank-like carrier vehicles had been establishing themselves as Militia Flight had crossed over from land to sea to meet the first wave of Zentraedi to approach the California coast.

As the wave had crashed ashore, the batteries had nearly all been stood up to engage in their work.

First action for the SAMs had been high-altitude, medium range shots fired in half-battery salvos at the Re-Entry Transports that Militia Flight had failed to bring down. Despite the fact that the Basilisk was not intended to down prey as large as a Zentraedi transport, in numbers they had been successful in bringing down seven along with a dozen more Gnerls that had been flying escort.

While the transports had quickly slipped outside of the engagement envelope for the ground-based launchers, the SAM units had been given their first taste of blood and were eager for a second- including Duck Blind 14.

The Knight Hawks had spent the few missiles that had remained between them within several minutes of taking up pursuit of Gecko's killer and her accomplices. Furies and Asps, designed to be "dogfighting" missiles and understood to have the limitation of smaller warheads were nonetheless rated as adequate to inflict serious if not fatal damage on a Queadlunn-Rau combat suit.

It was therefore puzzling that for seven weapons fired with seven hits spread over three combat suits, that not a single Quadrano had gone down.

Similarly they had absorbed a considerable amount of laser fire from the Valkyries' cannons with no signs of diminished integrity or flight-worthiness.

Dalton had made the call first to close in to optimum range for the Veritech's "hammer" of dogfighting weapons, the massive-bored, tri-barrel, 55mm GU-11 gun pod. With every second and third round being HEAP and depleted uranium sabot respectively, the probability of the stubborn combat suits surviving a solid, center mass hit were in the order of nil- assuming that the Zentraedi had not begun producing mecha made of diamond.

Buster had not gotten the opportunity to even steady his "pipper" on his selected target before its pilot had performed an incredible, belief-defying summersault in flight to fire a swarm of missiles back down the line at the engaging Valkyrie.

Only the Veritech's automatic countermeasure systems and its pilot's adrenaline-keyed reflexes had saved Dalton, all in the four-ship element knew.

It had also been a warning to Winters, now sobering from his blood-lust of minutes earlier, to back his pilots off and opt for more intelligent alternatives.

From fragments of transmissions Winters had been hearing on various tactical channels, and from what he was seeing through InfoLink on his cockpit's MFDs- it had been clear where the four power armor suits were heading.

The assault force that they had come down with was making to land somewhere in the desert, far to the east of Edwards, well into The Outlands- and these detached Quadranos were making every effort to rejoin them.

A lot of distance lay between the Zentraedi and their objective, Winters knew- as well as the striking area of several SAM batteries.

The individual launchers of Duck Blind 14 sat dispersed across three hills somewhere in the 11 o'clock region of L.A.'s outskirts, nearly invisible with their own search radars off and tracking passively using Prospector's superior radar. Intercept controllers aboard the AWACS had predicted the passage of the bandits through Duck Blind 14's area with ample warning to the battery commander who had made swift use of the gift to prepare in case the opportunity arose.

Rarity of rarities, the call had come from the pursuing flight of Valkyries asking whether the battery was able to engage and offering to hand the shot off.

The battery commander had been only too happy to oblige.

The "trick" Winters had found, or at least suspected with the benefit of "inside knowledge" was keeping the pressure on the combat suits to drive them through Duck Blind 14's kill box without giving away that he was driving them into the trap.

Whether they had been truly oblivious to the SAM battery or had felt confident in their ability to shrug off the threat, the Quadranos had maintained a true course to rendezvous with their landing force- a course that put them squarely in the sights of Duck Blind 14.

Winters had seen the three hillsides light up with the staggered launch of Basilisks. Spotting SAMs was tied into a sixth sense that all fighter pilots developed quickly, particularly after having one shot at them.

Winters had had SAMs shot at him- two over Iraq in The Gulf War and a multitude over Eastern Europe and Central Asia during The Global War.

While Duck Blind 14's Basilisks were not targeting him, and even though their imbedded IFF systems almost certainly precluded the possibility of an accidental fratricide, the sight of SAMs coming off the rail still woke that sixth sense in Winters.

From a generous distance aft of the targets in trail, an interval that the Knight Hawks had allowed to open to prevent having their own noses bloodied, the swift movement of Basilisks over the darkened California landscape was easy to track. Through the green of night vision, the "low visibility" rocket motors propelling the missiles still glittered as brilliantly as gems in a jeweler's display case.

The odd indifference shown by the flight of Queadlunn-Rau at the approach of the Basilisks- an impending intercept that they could not have overlooked- was explained a split-second before the paths of combat suits and SAMs merged.

From their nominal "belly down" flight configuration, the suits had half-rolled away from the missiles, giving the RDF weapons their full fronts- including the missile launchers that resided within the armor's barreled shoulders. With a singular burst of smoke and flame, the four suits put up a veritable wall of their own missiles that swept over the staggered fusillade of Basilisks- dashing them from the air.

-Mostly.

How it had happened against the odds, Winters had not been sure- but three Basilisks pierced the airborne firestorm that had been created by the collision of missiles. These three, whether targeted as such or taking their first target of opportunity, zeroed in on and struck the right flanking Queadlunn-Rau as one squarely in the center mass.

Shockingly rugged construction or not, survival of any manufactured form was an impossibility under the applied forces brought to bear by the missiles.

Winters had seen the anthropomorphic form shatter signaling instantaneous death for the Quadrano inside and had watched the readily identifiable limbs and segments scatter into the rolling terrain of California.

Now, with the violence of that first SAM kill being just under ninety seconds old- an eternity in air combat- Winters watched with interest as the scene began to replay itself over again.

Three Queadlunn-Rau to go, and they had discovered the error of allowing themselves to be driven by the Valkyries. That understanding had come too late though as another "Duck Blind" battery, this one being the northern "top" to L.A.'s defensive ring had waited patiently for the surviving Quadranos to cross into the center of their kill box before firing.

As a pursuit merge, the Basilisks piled on six to a target, but were slower in closing the distance to the Zentraedi power armor.

The Quadranos exploited the time as well as the terrain, dipping lower to hug the deck in an admirable yet desperate display of "hedge-hopping" flight.

The Basilisks, like earlier generations of smart weapons were independently tracking their targets now with their own active seeker heads, and were autonomously making course and speed alterations to better their chances of an intercept and kill.

Unlike their forerunners, the Basilisks were less susceptible to the "terrain masking" defensive efforts of the three surviving combat suits. When their seeker heads lost contact with their targets to the blocking effect of a hill, the missiles switched from a narrow to a broader scanning mode- anticipating the emergence point of the target.

When contact was re-established, the chase to the kill resumed.

Unaware of the features and abilities of the Basilisks, the Zentraedi warriors piloting the suits failed to build upon the terrain masking tactic with a radical change of course that might have succeeded in throwing the hunters off the pursuit. They instead opted to maintain a direct, high-speed course to rejoin their comrades- possibly thinking that SAMs would exhaust their fuel in the chase, or simply fail to re-acquire.

The decision whether made in ignorance or rushed calculation was in either case the wrong one.

A single combat suit emerged from behind the hump of a ridge where four Basilisks had accurately predicted it to appear. Whether the pilot was aware of the missiles or not, Winters saw that she had no reaction time as the four weapons ripple-detonated in her side, throwing the suit down in a roll into the jagged rock and baked earth of the arid landscape.

The suit disintegrated into a shower of its sturdier components and vanished quickly below to port and fell away behind the trailing Valkyries in a churning storm of dust.

"Goddamnit-!", snarled Dalton in a voice that gave sound to the way Winters had felt all too recently.

With only that one compounded word, Dalton spoke volumes to Winters who heard clearly that the violent deaths of two elite Quadranos did not even the score for Gecko. Dalton would see the last two go down, even if it meant running them into the deck himself.

A metaphor involving a white whale came to Winters' mind.

Winters could at least justify the pursuit now.

L.A. was falling rapidly behind, but the two surviving Quadranos had jinked left- northeast now- either to further distance themselves from the city's SAM defenses, or to seek the shelter of the irregular landscape of that region.

By design or coincidence, this change in course put the pair of Quadranos on a path toward RDF-Edwards, but Edwards City first.

As Winters pulled his mind back into the moment, he spotted the likely cause of Dalton's burst of profanity.

The trailing Queadlunn-Rau was leaving in its wake a thick trail of smoke.

Winters had missed the missile hit that had to have caused the damage, but Dalton's growl had clearly been one of frustration.

"Their on the ropes, Freddy.", Winters said, feeling suddenly that the situation had slipped out of his command.

He needed that back before Dalton's excursion into vengeance became lingering target fixation and someone- other than the Quadranos- was killed.

The Valkyries now had a clear numerical advantage, and it was time to get smart again and use that.

"Dodger, Pinball- put on some altitude and give us a bit of top cover. Buster and I will work them from this level."

Two Valkyries peeled from the sloppy "finger four" formation that had formed and climbed steeply into the sky. There was little chance at the moment of attack from above- detected Zentraedi activity was building, but it was all north and far to the east.

Dodger and Pinball were however closing off a possible avenue of escape for the two Zentraedi now pinned to the deck.

The distance to Edwards City and Edwards Base was shrinking rapidly though, and Winters was not above bringing the base's air defenses into Dalton's grudge match the way he had done with L.A.'s defensive ring.

"Joshua, this is Knight Hawk One-.", Winters called, addressing the base tower by callsign directly, "Wake up down there, we've got some trade inbound your way, and coming in hot-."

Brasilia

"There, sir!- Northeast-."

Naib Subedar Sri Rawal Singh looked in the direction indicated and gestured to by Naik Rao, whom he had posted as lookout with three other riflemen of his 3rd Platoon, C Company, 70th Gurkha Rifles. From atop the building that his men now sheltered in, Singh was reminded as to why he had been particular in choosing this structure over a multitude of others as an approximation of a fortified position immediately following the attack.

With the sun now over the eastern horizon and rising, this the highest rooftop in six square blocks provided an unobstructed panorama of the Federal District, its parks, and decent visibility of neighboring districts of the city. The damage that had been done to the already-savaged population center only hours before by the single particle beam strike in the outskirts was evident at a glance in every direction.

Buildings that had been gutted by months of fighting now appeared by the light of day like men staggering from a fight in which they had been soundly beaten. Structures that had been stripped of their cosmetic flesh to their steel and concrete skeletal bones now bore the additional indignity slouching and sagging with their newly incurred injury.

Combustibles where they had still existed in standing ruins had lit with exposure to the blast. Had this district of the city not already burned twice in the wake of intense fighting two months before, and as the result of probable post-looting vandalism only three weeks earlier, the fires from the strike might still have been burning.

Instead, they had consumed what little fuel remained ravenously and had left an even blanketing of ashen-grey smoke that clung to the district filling the manmade valleys of streets with the same.

Between low-rise commercial office and government buildings and through the gaps afforded by street intersections, Singh was able to quickly fix upon the sight that Naik Rao intended for him. The angled, armored shoulders of a Gladiator Mk IIII with a PBC-7 particle beam accelerator barrel protruding from each like an unspoken assurance of violence to challengers moved swiftly west. The Destroid's heavy, quick-paced mechanical step reached the Gurkhas in their OP over the low and persistent moan of the morning breeze- but was indicative of more than the one Gladiator in motion.

A Destroid unit- the one attached to Homestead whose drivers Singh had met in passing- was no doubt the one on the move.

Naib Subedar Singh toggled the visual zoom feature in his CVR-3 armor's helmet, alternating between enlarged glimpses of the Mk III to his north, and then trying to peer through the succession of gaps between buildings to search for the other RDF mecha that he knew to be somewhere..

As relieved as Singh should have been to see the mecha- a clear indication that despite the drop in communications that there was life and military organization still at Homestead- his optimism was reserved. The Gurkha platoon leader had a vantage point that the Destroid drivers did not, and with it a level of situational awareness that the mecha unit lacked.

To the west was the complementary element to what Naik Rao had called Singh urgently to the roof to see.

Approaching at a steady, unhurried pace with the sun behind and under a screen of drifting smoke, there were other mecha on the march.

An overflight and quick retreat of Aztec attack helicopters minutes earlier had drawn the attention of one of the Gurkha riflemen to the district to the west that lay beyond one of Brasilia's expansive public parks.

Through the mist-like veil of smoke, glimpses of menace had been seen.

Skull-like, bulbous bodies with a single, centered, unblinking red eye rode towering on legs that seemed comically thin and incapable of carrying such mass with their chicken-like step emerged first alone and then in pairs and groups, entering the western edge of the park. Particle beam cannons, mounted high on the bodies of these Regult Battle Pods like the antenna of insects swept the terrain before them- searching eagerly for a target that warranted their use..

Just over two kilometers distant, Singh, Rao, and the riflemen atop the building could see clearly enough as the Regults formed and advanced slowly in assault formation into and through thatches of trees as tall as themselves- causing ripples through the canopy with their movement. Only the missile launchers of "light" and "heavy" artillery Regults, and the stretched, elliptical sensor array of a Scout Pod remained constantly above the treetops and marked the progress of this probing platoon.

Whether the Zentraedi were aware of the Gladiators who were approaching the eastern edge of the park, it was unclear. The Aztecs had inadvertently spoiled the possibility of a complete surprise and ambush- but an enemy slowed significantly by caution was in some instances as desirable as one caught off-guard.

"How can we warn them?", Rao asked Singh- it occurring to the Naib Subedar only as a second thought that his corporal was referring to the Gladiators.

Singh had thought that very question through himself and provided Rao the only answer he could.

"We don't-. The Aztecs spotted that unit anyway, and if there isn't a UAV orbiting now, one is coming. We hold this position and keep our heads down."

Singh felt Rao's reaction and let it pass without comment. Gurkhas, either by ethnic or unit affiliation did not like shying away from a fight when one was validly to be had.

But there were other considerations as well.

Singh had fifteen of his men sheltering on the ground floor of the building in what had once been an office lounge or waiting area. To the man, including his medic, they were incapacitated with radiation burns and shrapnel wounds from when the particle beam blast had caught them exposed, enjoying the luxury of a bivouac fire that Singh had allowed given the "hostile free" condition of the area. And while Singh had suffered moments of guilt and self-loathing at allowing his men such a relaxed posture when manning an OP, he reminded himself that he had rigidly adhered to keeping the perimeter guards and sentries on duty in their full CVR-3.

Himself included, Singh knew that this was the sole reason that some of his men had escaped injury.

Havidar Roth, a fair-skinned, true English stand-out from the mostly ethnic Indian and Nepalese unit, who had accepted the traditional Gurkha title over the more Western-familiar "sergeant" had taken three riflemen on their Cyclones to return to Homestead two hours earlier. Their objective had been to re-establish contact after InfoLink had failed and no success had been had using "line-of-sight" radio to reach the divisional CP.

The sound of the Aztecs minutes before had callously aroused Singh's hopes that Roth had succeeded and that the sound of approaching choppers was the herald of med-evac birds.

Realization that they were attack helicopters, and the further revelation that Zentraedi mecha units were within the city limits of Brasilia dashed what little hope Singh held for a speedy extraction of his wounded.

They would have to shelter in place until the means to move the Gurkha casualties could be found.

Still, the presence of friendly mecha was a good sign.

The Gladiators would not acknowledge a signal to them until the fight was over lest they give away their presence to the enemy- Singh was sure of that much. Afterward though, if they would do as little as verbally relay a message to the Homestead CP- it would improve the chances Singh's men had of receiving the medical attention they desperately required.

The fight had to be fought and won by the Gladiators first though.

-But they had to know about the Zentraedi closing on them- didn't they?-

Confirmation of this came as Singh was assuring himself of it.

The screech of 155mm artillery shells splitting the air rose and drilled into the eardrums as the rounds came in from the northeast. Before the lagging boom of battery fire from the fire bases on and around Homestead reached the ears of the observing Gurkhas, the first salvo of artillery shells burst in a wide pattern over the western region of the park that divided the districts.

Singh could not see the rain of their contents, but did see the distinctive, white puffs of shell casings blowing free with small bursting charges.

There was a moment of quiet and stillness before the unseen contents of the artillery shells- twenty explosive bomblets each- began to shred the park and Zentraedi mecha alike.

The grey of smoke was joined momentarily by thin spires of rich brown earth and ejected bits of torn flora that rose above the treetops.

There were no massive explosions or geysers of flame to indicate where exactly the fall of bomblets had found Zentraedi mecha- but Singh knew better than to expect this.

The shape-charge bomblets were powerful, and lethal to both Zentraedi infantry and their thin-skinned "light" mecha such as the Regult- but the lethality came from the directed force of the charge. The bomblets would once in a thousand instances strike something critical enough to cause a catastrophic, "Hollywood" explosion. More often than not though, the "little killers" left only minimal exterior signs of damage to the mecha- normally a black-rimmed hole the size of a man's fist.

The true damage inflicted in contrast to the comparatively meek mark left was nothing less than gruesome.

The sudden change of pressure inside of the Battle Pod, or inside of the sealed armor suits of infantry burst organs and blood vessels- killing quicker in many cases than weapons with a more dramatic flair.

Not flashy- but highly effective.

Where there had been evidence of Regult movement through the "urban green area" moments before, there was mostly stillness now with the exception of the ripple of explosions felt by Singh and his men at a distance.

A second salvo of artillery fire ripped through the sky with a warbling scream- this time bursting further west over the district through which the Zentraedi probe had passed.

Without the concealment of the tree canopy, the fall of the bomblets was naked in its display of violence. Pinpoints of light flashed in the smoke of the western business district where the explosive hail struck buildings indiscriminately.

Two Regults that had just emerged from the confines of streets and structures received death blows from above and toppled sideways onto their sides with the death of their operators and the destruction of the computers that dictated the complex actions of movement and ambulatory stability.

As the crackle of distant explosions reached Sing and his men for a second time, a fire and weather weakened building at the edge of the western district bordering the park gave a visible shudder and collapsed into itself.

Before a great cloud of dust completely obscured the view of the block on which the building had stood, Singh saw with certainty three Regults advancing quickly south- wisely executing a change in the direction of their advance.

The moment's elation at seeing the steel rain of artillery douse the Zentraedi left Singh as he recognized the alien commander's call to flank right of the park by its southern edge.

Traversing the park and exposing the point unit to the open may have only been the inevitable fulfillment of their purpose- to detect danger for their following comrades to avoid. The loss of a squad, or a platoon- even a company of Zentraedi would not put them off mission.

The unsettling thought that the only target left in the vicinity of Brasilia worth the effort of attacking was Homestead Base did not sit well with Singh as he saw evidence of more Regults moving swiftly east beyond the southern limits of the park.

They were not deterred- only detoured and in the process of finding a better approach to the RDF post.

This unfortunately presented the distinct possibility that the Zentraedi and the fight that could not be far from ensuing might pass directly through Singh's "secure position" in the federal district.

"We need to move the wounded into the parking garage- now!", Singh ordered abruptly as his men looked to the northwest where the Aztecs had reappeared , moving in a swift attack formation in the direction of the southern flanking Zentraedi.

The Aztecs were nearly due north of Singh's observation post when all four banked sharply left as one, showing the Gurkhas first their tails and then a descending cloud of glittering flares and chaff streamers.

It was initially puzzling to Singh and his men why the Aztecs had so radically changed their course to depart, leaving a wake of countermeasures as they went. The retreat was not even clearly a retreat until first one, and then a second pursuing wave of missiles swept over the park from high in the west and descended in a shallow dive as they traveled east.

Within the first wave, some missiles leveled at a higher altitude in pursuit of the Aztecs that were now running northeast. Others continued to dip to treetop level and maintained flight nearly due-east.

Without the sophisticated ECM systems common to RDF, "fixed-wing" combat aircraft the Aztecs were run down easily and quickly by the pursuing missiles. So quickly were they overtaken that all four Aztecs were struck almost at once and cascaded as flaming debris from the sky in a ghastly approximation of the formation that they had been flying.

The missiles that had dropped to the lower level as part of the first, and as the entirety of the second wave now began to strike at the western face of the Federal District to Singh's north and pass into its interior.

In comparison to Homestead's artillery strike, the Zentraedi missile assault was spectacular in appearance.

Billows of orange flame engulfed and ascended the sides of buildings, churning into dirty clouds of black as plasma napalm warheads sublimated all but the structural concrete. Hopelessly abused, buildings slouched toward the intense heat as their steel members softened, and then pulled themselves down in cascading collapse.

What had been empty streets became rivers of fire that rose in sheets from where plasma napalm burned easily many things that natural flame could not.

A flight- perhaps a squadron at first and then many more Gnerl Fighter Pods came in low from the same direction from which the missiles had approached.

The air and ground trembled with the resonating power of their pulse-jet engines that for a moment sounded to Singh like the stampeding of elephants- a childhood memory that he still found terrifying.

The leading elements of Zentraedi fighters passed directly over the northern area of the Federal District through which the Gladiators had been passing an eternity ago.

Singh wanted- needed- to see a fusillade of missiles rise to swat the impudent Gnerls from the air, but there was nothing. Not a shot was fired from the sea of flame that the streets below now boiled in as the fighters made their pass and then made their exit with a lazy turn to the northeast.

Singh ignored what the lack of anti-aircraft fire implied for the Gladiator unit he and his men had spotted entering that area of the district. He also consciously chose to ignore that there were other units, RDF and ASC- but human all the same- dispersed through all areas of the district including the one that had been turned into an inferno.

These were unfortunate circumstances and largely beyond his control.

But Singh had men under his command that he was responsible for, and he could affect if not direct their fate.

As Naib Subedar Singh ushered- nearly threw- his men down the stairwell that accessed the roof- successive squadrons of Gnerls filled the sky above like marauding raptors seeking prey.

In a final rearward glance though, Singh saw something else. Shapes- humanoid shapes descending from the same Gnerl-dominated sky into the urban green area between the districts.

Queadlunn-Rau power armor.

Quadrano shock troops.

"Gators, sound off!", Major Colven called out on the coded tactical frequency he had successfully been communicating over a moment before with the combat-effective elements of his company.

Things had changed drastically in the interim however.

From the first call of, "Fighters!" blurted out by the Aztec flight leader, to the last- a cut-off scream- it had been seconds.

Whether intended as a warning to the Destroid Drivers of Gator Company or not, the single-word from the Aztecs had afforded enough time for the drivers to shelter their machines from observation ant attack.

The effectiveness of sheltering on the whole was yet to be seen though.

Colven was busily trying to determine his own condition before he could worry about his men- and his condition was diminished.

Multiple alarms and warning tones alerted the officer that he had suffered damage to most of the systems near to and outside of the armored hide of the Gladiator. This was to be expected with the most severe punishment though as the armor layers were intended to spare the pilot's life first, and preserve critical systems' functionality as a secondary concern.

Destroids could be replaced or repaired; Drivers were a more valued commodity.

While the Gladiator Mk III was a solid, reliable platform, and even its "delicate" systems were renowned for being able to absorb considerable punishment- there was just no shrugging off the damage done by the heat of plasma napalm.

The Zentraedi missile strike by simple chance had been nearer to Colven's Mk III than he would have liked. By the same token though, he had not been splashed directly with the sun-hot gel, but only thoroughly cooked by its radiant heat.

It had been enough though-.

Enough to "cook" most of his sensors with the exception of standard video optics.

Gone too was one of his two particle beam cannons that would have been ideal for engaging Regults at close range in the urban environment.

Colven's missile launchers had survived intact, and with their missiles protected within. They were also useless for anything more than line-of-sight firing with his radar and laser designator gone.

Oddly though, the rugged GU-11 gun pod carried by the mecha was showing no indications of anything but nominal function.

Colven chalked it up to the endurance of simpler, time-tested and refined technologies.

Still, he was partially blinded, and by the lack of radio traffic on any frequency- also deaf.

This was not a good way to face an enemy that by report of the late Aztecs was advancing toward him in substantial numbers.

Barring another pass and strike by the Gnerls that might still be lingering in the area, Colven knew that his best option was to collect what he could of his unit and return as quickly as possible to Homestead. There he hoped to find that the Gladiators of the wounded drivers that had been left in the rear were still in a serviceable condition to enter the fight. –Whatever the nature of that fight might be.

As Colven silenced the last of the alarms that had been forming an inharmonious symphony in his cockpit, he edged his Gladiator out of the side street in which he had taken cover from the air strike. The mecha moved admirably for the damage sustained as the driver directed it east. The Gladiator retained much of its swiftness of foot despite a slight mechanical limp it had developed- but the machine was moving and that was far better than humping it back to Homestead on foot.

Even at a reduced speed, Colven knew that he could dash back to Homestead in less than ten minutes if speed was the only concern. This was an ill-advised sprint along deserted highways and streets of course- completely exposed to both air attack and ground-based direct fire, so it was automatically the last option.

Contrary to the conventional wisdom of not exposing mecha to the three-dimensional threat potential of the urban environment, a solitary Destroid could actually benefit defensively from traveling by routes with manmade cover. It was at least no less dangerous than moving in the clear.

First though, Colven had to be certain that he was actually alone, which meant retreating to the "first fallback" position he had identified to his unit on the map before they had saddled-up for the Federal District.

Per the operational rules, a breakdown in communications or a general need to withdraw from the Federal District would include rallying first at the fallback position if it was tenable. Clearly, the present situation met both criteria, so Colven was confident that any of the other Gators who could make the fallback position were probably already on their way.

Once at the rallying point, Colven decided on five minutes being the time he would allow before forcing himself to withdraw completely for Homestead Base. Anyone who had not joined up by that time was either likely in need of assistance that Colven could not provide individually, or was in a state that was beyond helping.

Most of the men in the company carried with them a family photo similar to the laminated one Colven had in the breast pocket of his utility uniform, and this understandably made it more difficult for the major to face the likelihood that he would be leaving a number of his men behind. What had been a dangerous but stabilizing area of operations for the RDF the day before had overnight become a desperately-contested, fluid one though. If the situation was to be salvaged for the resident forces and by extension the garrison and attached units of Homestead Base not slaughtered wholesale- then all able combatants had to make self-preservation an initial priority.

A force of martyrs would be of limited good this day and in the days to come.

Colven found himself approaching a bend in the street that he did not remember.

He slowed his Gladiator, hoping that a gutted building or the charred hulk of a burned-out car might strike him as familiar if not as a landmark he that had consciously put to memory on the way into the district for the possibility of backtracking.

Whether it was the grainy, deteriorated video image provided by his faltering optics systems, the position from which he was viewing his surroundings, or some combination coupled with flaws in his own memory- Colven was faced with the possibility that he had lost his way.

Reaching the edge of the district and then moving by position-bounding back to Homestead was not a concern. He could easily reach the outskirts of the district by following the streets east.

Colven's immediate concern was reaching the first fallback position quickly, and before any of his men who might have already gathered there applied the same five minute limit to the time they were willing to wait for others. A minute in this context could mean the difference between returning to base as part of a small group or alone.

Colven was considering doubling back a block to the last landmark he did recognize- a lamp post that had in some inexplicable way been bent to the near-perfect shape and proportions of an enormous walking cane.

Movement at the bend in the street, coming around and toward him caught the Destroid Driver's eye before he had fully decided on turning back.

Missiles.

This was the only thought Colven had time for before both struck his Gladiator in the frontal armor of the mecha's center mass, throwing it onto its back despite its substantial weight.

Within the cockpit, Colven fought to keep the senses that he had left. His ears rang a shrill tone as his body ached all over from the force of the blow dealt to his mecha.

-He was even conscious of his teeth hurting…

Colven could not understand where the missiles had come from.

They had come in at too low and level an angle to have been fired from a Gnerls somewhere overhead, and the Regults who had opted to flank the park by the south could not have possibly gotten completely around the Federal District and into his path of retreat.

It did not matter, Colven knew, going through the motions of getting his mecha back to its feet. He could not fight whoever had laid him out while on his back.

The Nacht-Rau combat suit- unknown in its pedigree to Colven in the glimpse he got of it- had stepped out from behind the full cover of the building at the bend of the street. Its heavy destabilized plasma cannon charged and primed, it was as quick for the Serhot Ran warrior to aim as it was for Colven to realize he was being drawn down upon.

Sub-Lieutenant Gorla watched his single energy round easily pierce the center chest of the stubby micronian mecha and scatter its limbs and metal guts in violent spray.

Like a grotesque testament and memorial to what had just happened, the legs of the machine stood still in the same wide stance as they had a moment before when there had been something to the machine above the waist.

Contact reports were being made in brief by other members of Gorla's platoon with the same ending as what the sub-lieutenant would report in turn.

Target mecha engaged.

Target mecha destroyed with minimal difficulty.

Gorla speculated that the ease of his victory was partially due to the sad state he had found the alien mecha in. He reminded himself not to dismiss the alien technology that was reportedly wreaking havoc on other units in other landing areas.

The next time, Gorla knew, Fate might not decide so heavily in his favor.

He hoped so, at least.

Otherwise, this invasion had the potential of being a great bore…

The Antelope Valley, California

23Km Southwest of Rogers Lake

Desperation was a new sensation to Lieutenant Hralm, and one that he was finding distasteful.

In campaigns against norghil and even a lesser number against Invid- he had felt fear- discouragement even, from time to time-.

But never desperation.

Hralm was alone now- Sub-Lieutenant Bren having absorbed the brunt of yet another ground-based missile attack that had met them head-on from somewhere over the horizon.

A battle-hardened Serhot Ran Warrior like Hralm, and a comrade in many of the same fights, Bren had nonetheless exited life with a scream of terror that had escaped him in the moment before Death had whisked him away.

That scream, and the vision of Bren's Nacht-Rau disintegrating on the desert floor clung firmly to the regions and in the crevices of Hralm's brain where fear resided.

And it was there that fear had spawned desperation.

Hralm's weapon systems were still functioning- mostly- though an alien missile and less significant hits from the projectile cannons of the two stubborn micronian fighters in trail had seriously damaged his suit's boosters. He could no longer maneuver adequately to turn suddenly on them and fight in the air, nor could he hope to stay in the air for long.

Hralm remembered all too clearly how Bren's demise had begun a great distance back with similar damage to his suit.

And there was that scream…

The lieutenant resolved to go to ground on his terms, and continue the fight from there.

It was absolutely the worst option, except for all of the others available to him.

Still, confident as Hralm was in his abilities to fight this battle to an acceptable outcome- the open terrain of a desert was not the place to make that stand.

Ahead however, there were indications of a micronian population center- small, but sufficient for the purpose. Multiple briefings from intelligence officers had provided the Te'Dak Tohl forces with the knowledge that despite their uselessness, the micronian military forces could be expected to show protective inclinations toward their non-combatants.

This would foster caution on the part of his pursuers, Hralm calculated.

He needed only to put himself into the proximity of civilians.

Edwards City

That something was about to happen- this was no surprise to Father Howard.

The sound of Valkyrie engines, deep and powerful in their tone, was no stranger to any resident of Edwards City who had lived there for more than two days. Their approach from the west was not uncommon either.

It was the combination of another distinguishable engine sound- a higher, shriller sustained note- also coming from the west that felt to the priest like a clear warning of danger approaching.

What happened as Father Howard frantically directed refugees of the city into an alley off of 7th Street less than two blocks from the sanctuary he'd promised at St John's, he could not have conjured had he been given a week to allow his imagination to go wild.

Something massive and with immense weight made contact with Edwards City west of the ground on which Howard stood, and with enough force to cause a sensible tremor to run through the pavement beneath his feet. Its cataclysmic approach was not heard as a pair of Valkyries swept by overhead, rattling glass panes in their window frames, but rather seen by the great cloud of dust and shower of smashed brick that split and rose up like the sea before the prow of a ship and rained down in its wake.

It burst through the face of a store across 7th Street that disintegrated before it as it slid to a stop on what Father Howard somehow identified to be its belly. The scene, though grossly off-scale and both geographically and situationally off- was stll familiar to Father Howard.

The priest remembered a hill that he and his brothers would toboggan down as children, and how the snow would fly in the creating of a sled path the way that earth and brick had flown before this thing-.

It rose from the debris it had created in a cascade of dust and building fragments, roughly the shape of a man but lacking anything above the exaggerated shoulders. As it reached what seemed to be its full height, it towered over the two-storey market and single-occupancy apartment that had somehow remained intact to either side of its passage.

Facing Goliath, Father Howard found a sudden and clearer understanding of David's bravery and faith.

Howard hadn't a sling, nor was there a chunk of brick or concrete in the abundance littering the street around him that he would have been able to throw as an approximation of a stone.

All the same though, the giant seemed to spasm and shudder as though afflicted by a sudden palsy. Unsteady on its feet, it half-turned to the left and then toppled over heavily onto its back- demolishing the market to its foundation beneath it.

A breathless moment passed, and then there was movement at the center of the great thing's chest.

All around him, Father Howard realized that the refugees he'd seen to shelter in the alley had emerged in the same daze of disbelief that he was gripped by. All were fixated on whatever was to happen next, and though Father Howard's mind screamed prudent warning at him usher those around him quickly to safety- he could not

Neither he nor they could move, but rather stayed in place determined to be witness to whatever was to happen.

The chest of the machine lifted, swung upwards toward the shoulders, aided from within by the arm of the living creature- the Zentraedi- inside.

This was not a parable from The Bible.

That single thought sobered Father Howard from his shock more jarringly than had his head been dunked in ice water.

It was not a fallen meteorite that Howard and the displaced residents with him were looking at, it was at its core a living creature that either individually or as part of a greater whole meant harm to this world and these people. Even if those around him had not made the connection yet, Howard understood instantly the peril represented by the alien whose upper torso was now out of its armor suit, and who was showing the indications of being nearly free.

Howard turned on those whom he and his volunteers had gathered and began to shove them back toward the alley. He was vaguely aware of directions, warnings, curses exploding from him with enough force to sting his throat- but it had the desired effect.

The same sobriety Howard had regained a moment before swept over the dozen or so men, women, and children who had gathered around the priest- and in a healthy panic they began to retreat back into the alley.

Looking over his shoulder, Father Howard saw the alien was now out of its machine.

No longer an it, but something tragically familiar in its form and movement, the Zentraedi was staggering toward him with the darkened street lights standing well below shoulder-level. It wore a helmet and flight suit not that different from what Howard had seen human pilots wearing to operate their machines, but even as it stooped and reached for the priest there was something about the helmet masking the face that still gave the Zentraedi a surreal quality in the human's eyes.

Hralm fought to focus as the ringing in his ears came and went with bursts and spots of light that danced through his vision. A distant sensation of vertigo rushed suddenly over him, but with effort he managed to stay on his feet despite it hitting him as he was bowed over.

The cold night air that tasted slightly sweet to him did much to keep Hralm from drifting completely into a daze.

While he could not remember why specifically, he remembered that he needed one of these creatures that were now retreating before him.

One in particular was standing its ground as though in its puny proportions it posed any threat to a Serhot Ran Warrior.

It even snatched a fragment of debris from the ground and hurled it harmlessly into the palm of Hralm's hand as he reached for it.

It was an admirable yet futile display of courage.

The small thing twitched and struggled feebly in Hralm's grip as he raised it to eye level. Its eyes blazed in both terror and defiance- a mixed expression that Hralm had seen many times on the faces of norghil before dispatching them.

The tiny mouth worked in a constant frenzy of words that were lost under that shriek that mingled with the horrid ringing in Hralm's ears.

The shrieking…

What was that shrieking?...

"HEY THERE!"

The words, meaningless in the alien tongue nonetheless caused Hralm to spin in reflex toward them.

One of the alien fighters that had hunted him to ground- clearly the same, but strangely different in that it had sprouted arms from beneath its wings and now stood on legs that were not totally dissimilar from those of a Regult squatted in the street less than ten paces away. The blast of thruster exhaust- the source of the screech that Hralm had not been able to identify in his grogginess- still scattered debris in the street beneath the mecha's feet as the engines powered down.

-And Hralm's mind cleared to realize that it was pointing an ugly, rifle-like weapon directly at him.

"Don't squeeze the shaman."

The GU-11 gun pod roared, illuminating that block of 7th Street with the muzzle flash of its discharge.

55mm shells tore a hole through the chest of the Zentraedi in a cloud of dark blue flesh and blood that settled onto the street like gruesome dew as the lifeless giant's body crumpled at the knees and rolled backwards into a butchered heap.

Winters safetied the gun pod, and as Dalton's Guardian came down to earth on the other side of the slaughtered alien. As the moment of action ebbed, the pilot felt a surge of panic for the priest whose life the whole exercise had been intended to save.

"Freddy- check him! He has the Vickers!"

Dalton nudged the Zentraedi's lifeless right arm that had come to rest at his side with the muzzle of his own gun pod. The movement loosened the fingers enough to allow the escape of the clergyman, who came free of the fist like an agitated cat leaving a sack.

Without any intent of drama, Winters exhaled the full contents of his lungs in grateful relief which was amplified as he had not switched off his Valkyrie's loudspeaker system.

"Oh, thank Christ, Padre-."

Father Howard paused in his effort to pat himself down thoroughly and verify that all of the parts were still in working order.

"Lieutenant Colonel Winters?.."

"Yes-. Fancy meeting you here like this. Christmas miracle, eh?", Winters snickered- giddy with the rush of post-violence endorphins.

"Talk about a new spin on Guardian angels-.", Dalton added glibly.

Howard, satisfied that there was no damage beyond bruising quickly made The Sign of The Cross in the direction of Winters', then Dalton's Guardians, saying simply as he hastened toward the alley through which the refugees had fled, "The Lord keep you both. –And Winters-."

"-Padre?"

"Don't blaspheme."

Winters gawked inadvertently as the clergyman withdrew from sight, leaving the two Guardians standing over the dead invader whose blood had begun to run in streams from a growing pool into the gutter.

"-You're welcome…."

Looking over the corpse between them, Winters easily saw into Dalton's cockpit to find his XO looking utterly deflated. Dalton's head had rolled forward to rest chin-to-chest, and moved side to side in what Winters instantly recognized as an unconscious display of self-chastising.

"Freddy, are you okay there?"

Dalton swept his face with his hand wearily as he raised it to meet his friend's gaze.

"Yeah- fine. I did a really stupid thing, didn't I?"

Winters was not up to a cathartic moment, but understood that Dalton needed to vent- if only a little.

"Not the dumbest thing I've ever seen, but somewhere in the top twenty or so."

Dalton shook his head continuously, "-I'm sorry-. Look if you need to-."

Winters saw the direction Dalton's thoughts were going, "Oh, God no-. No one should have an inquiry made against them after what's happened tonight- and you know how I hate paperwork anyway. I'm satisfied to let the whole thing drift if you swear to me that it won't happen again, and as long as Arnie and Ganyet don't bring it up-. –I need you around, Freddy."

Dalton nodded, "Done… -Thanks."

"Don't mention it."

"No, seriously-. Thanks, Jack."

"Seriously, don't mention it. I mean don't mention it to anyone-. If Ganyet hears that you charged off as she was ordering us back to base, and that I hadn't sanctioned it, and wasn't handing you your ass for it-. That would be it for both of us."

"Done.", Dalton said, and this time it was.

Dodger and Pinball made a low-level, low speed pass over the street in which the two Guardians still stood over the slain Zentraedi. Winters was not sure how long it had been since Dalton had taken up pursuit of the aliens, and since he and the other two Valkyrie pilots had joined- but he knew that they were all being missed by now.

More importantly, the Zentraedi had not been stopped, or even significantly slowed in their landing operations.

Winters knew he had to get all of his surviving pilots and functioning ships back to Edwards to re-arm and sortie again.

"Jack-."

Dalton's voice had changed significantly in the span of Winters' thoughts. He was off of apologies, and clearly sounding concerned about something that was eluding Winters.

"Freddy?"

"What's wrong with this picture?"

"It's Christmas Eve and I'm not blotto and horizontal?.."

"No, this picture-."

Dalton's Guardian motioned toward the dead Zentraedi warrior with the muzzle of its gun pod.

Winters looked- carefully. When the point of Dalton's concern escaped his first examination of the gristly mess, he tired again.

This time it clicked, and Dalton gave Winters' realization of the obvious voice.

"No tits. This crawled out of a female armor suit, and it's a dude, Jack."

Winters was not prepared to perform a full anatomical check, but every element of the dead alien's form indicated a male warrior.

"Zentraedi corss-dressers-. Who would have guessed?"

Dalton's expression was sober and grave.

"This has to be significant somehow, Jack. Intelligence has got to come out and check out this ditto and his power armor. The energy weapon, whatever it was, that killed Gecko- I've never seen anything like it- and I've seen everything in the Zentraedi inventory."

Winters nodded, "I think you're right, but we have to get back to Edwards to report it."

Dalton motioned to the sky, saying as though opening a door, "After you-."

Winters fired his thrusters and felt Marilyn easily lift free of the deck.

As the block of Edwards City and its buildings fell away, Winters was joined in his ascent and slow turn east toward base by Dalton

The sky over the Mojave was beginning to lighten ever so slightly, the first hints at the approaching day.

"Jack-?"

"Freddy?"

"Did you really say, don't squeeze the shaman?"

"What?- I thought it was appropriate and witty."

"Don't squeeze the shaman?", Dalton laughed, "How long have you been waiting to use that nugget?"

"I swear, it just came to me."

"Right-."

"Oh, and you could have done better?"

"Maybe-. Sure."

"Well, let's hear it then, Mr. Rickles-."

"I was leaning toward- le'go my dago."

Winters laughed, "Jesus, now that's awful!"

"Yeah, I know.", Dalton admitted, "Oh, and Jack-."

"Freddy?"

"Don't blaspheme."

Yellowstone City

The skies above the alien capital shook constantly with the waves of Gnerls passing over as the city itself continued to burn intensely.

Sub-General Jekketh descended the gangway ramp of his shuttle which had brought him down from his orbiting command ship at the first indication that the airspace had been secured.

In the midst of the flame and smoke, and with the alien sun only beginning to edge over the eastern horizon, there was little about this city that stood out strongly to Jekketh as being indicative of a ruling seat. There was nothing recognizable in the ruins that spoke of power or even suggested pride in the civilization that was governed from this place.

If he had known the prize to be so unremarkable, Jekketh might have elected foregoing his tradition of personally going to inspect it- had it not been a tradition.

Unadorned and unimpressive as the city was, this did not tarnish is any way Jekketh's accomplishment.

Swift victory.

Overwhelming victory.

While the fighting was still intense in most of the landing zones over this hemisphere of the world, and though landing zones on the other had not yet even been established- this act was still an indication of victory.

Only hours before, Jekketh reminded himself, Breetai and the leaders of his weak alien allies had occupied this very same city.

This may not have been complete victory yet, but it was victory.

A hollow victory.

While Jekketh observed his tradition, the element of his tradition that he chose to ignore was that he was observing it alone.

Jekketh had been alerted of the unexpected sighting of Zor's Battle Fortress- apparently restored to full-functionality- and had been witness to the exchange between Supreme General Krymina and Breetai before his cowardly retreat.

Like Krymina, Jekketh felt the sting of being deprived of full potential of that confrontation- not a single shot had been fired from either side.

Jekketh felt the sting of Breetai's slight more acutely also.

Without Breetai here, and without Zor's Battle Fortress here on this world, Supreme General Krymina's attention was elsewhere.

She had not declined Jekketh's traditional invitation to accompany him to the surface; she had simply not acknowledged it.

No doubt, her mind was already involved in the chase she would soon be making in hopes of cornering Breetai and forcing him to face Fate's inevitable judgment.

Until this was done, Jekketh knew that she would neither see nor appreciate the colossal contribution that his subjugation of this world was to her vision for the future of the Te'Dak Tohl.

It would come though.

Jekketh assured himself that it would come.

And when it did, he was determined that his quelling of the aliens' resistance would be a feat worthy of her gratitude.

Jekketh's personal aides and staff had accompanied him, and had similarly disembarked to participate in the triumph.

The sub-general had not spoken to any of them up to this point- he rarely if ever did while appreciating the moment.

They all noticed in him an agitation as he passed their small group, headed again for his shuttle whose engines had only completed idling down less than a minute before.

"Come, we are leaving.", Jekketh said without pausing or caring to see if he would be followed, "There is no value to an empty city."

"We still have work to be done to seize this planet's only value."

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