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.

6. Those Who Would Hold The Line

Chapter Five

Those Who Would Hold the Line

"SitRep as follows:"

"Communications with command- nil."

"Contact with the enemy- on all points."

"Provisions and ammo- low."

"Chances of extraction- less than promising."

"Yep, this has gotta be war."

"-These are the things they don't put in the recruiting brochures…"

- Lieutenant Edward James Whilite

3rd Platoon, Echo Company,

4th Ranger Regiment

RDF Fairchild Base,

Alaska

Lieutenant Commander Thomas Jefferson Queffle had slowly become aware of the harsh, white light bathing him mercilessly, and that he could not summon the strength to raise a hand to shield himself, or to roll to roll away from the glare.

He knew he wasn't dead- the uniform, throbbing ache throughout his body told him as much- and that this was not the hallowed glow of The Pearly Gates welcoming him home.

Certainty of his true whereabouts was not coming to him though.

He only knew he was under white light and that for some reason he was only aware of it through the leaden lid of his right eye.

"Commander Queffle?-.", a woman's raspy voice said to him on breath smelling strongly of coffee carrying through air that was cloying with the sanitary odor of antiseptic, "Can you hear me?"

Queffle tried to reply. He was unsure of what he was trying to say, but it was of no matter because his tongue felt thick and the noises that escaped his lips were far removed from intelligible words.

"Relax- you're safe.", said the woman's voice. There was a hint of cinnamon to the coffee she breathed on him.

She was however misunderstanding Queffle's immediate concerns, having her own to deal with.

Queffle tried to speak again, this time finding more success with annunciation in each successive word.

"-My crew-. Is my crew alright?'

Queffle tried, ill-advisedly, to open his right eye and was punished by the dagger stab of unsympathetic fluorescent illumination he had known to be waiting on the other side of his eyelid.

"Take it slow, Commander- your crew is here, and safe. Do you know where here is?"

Fragments of memories- disorganized and overall, foggy- swirled around inside of Queffle's skull much like-. Much like he had inside a corridor aboard Archer 42.

"I'm not on my station- that's gone- I remember that. I've got to be in a hospital somewhere, but I couldn't guess where-. Can I open my eyes- eye now?"

Queffle felt the light level around him diminish.

"Slowly.", the coffee-infused words instructed.

The commander's eyelid parted hesitantly, experimentally at first- allowing a quick peek of the world outside before clamping shut again. Several seconds passed before it would allow a second glimpse of his surroundings, which he found to be exactly what he expected.

His world expanded to the confines of a white isolation curtain that enclosed his hospital bed on all sides except for small gaps at the head where the ends of the curtain met the wall in their ceiling track. Around him there were no other visible details of the room worthy of noticing.

A short, thick-bodied woman- possibly of Central Asian descent- with close-cut hair of ebony curls stood close enough by the bedside in a white doctor's coat and appropriate duty attire to be the speaker/breather with whom Queffle had been conversing. Behind her, towering like a Great Sequoya with lanky build and an obsidian complexion made comparatively darker by sea-foam colored scrubs, was a male nurse with a shaven head who was quickly making notes on a tablet computer.

"I'm Dr. Harvey.", the physician said, sitting on the side of the bed with a visible relief that clearly stemmed from a rest from hours on her feet, "-And you're in hospital at Fairchild Base. Do you remember how you got here?"

The grogginess was fading quickly from Queffle, and he found it being replaced with equal speed by impatience, "Clearly, Doc-."

Queffle, without knowing why himself, tried to sit up and was racked with flashes of sharp pain that ran powerfully through his limbs and body. The exercise ended with an audible grunt and little movement to show for the attempt.

"-And that answers my next question-. How do you feel?", Dr. Harvey said with an I told you so tone to her words, "We'll get you sitting up in a few minutes here, but it's not going to be pleasant. You have no broken bones, but you've got enough contusions to pass for someone who walked into a pack of football hooligans wearing the wrong team's jersey."

"Well, black and blue have always been good colors for me.", Queffle said, attempting humor but finding it not only to not be the best medicine at the moment- but painful in much the same way as his attempt to move had been..

"-Getting back to your question. I remember ordering the crew to abandon their posts, and remember getting to the shuttle deck. Then I was in the shuttle and we had landed- a water landing-. –And then the rafts-."

Harvey's hand came to rest on his soothingly, "This isn't a debriefing, take your time. Don't rush it. Three of your shuttles made it to Fairchild and landed. Your shuttle had to ditch because of damage. You and your crew were recovered from life rafts. You'd been adrift for perhaps five hours."

The memory of the deaths of men and women on the other side of a pressure door aboard Archer 42 struck Queffle suddenly, powerfully- causing a physical twitch to run through his aching frame.

"How many did I lose?"

Harvey replied without any hint of calculation in her words, "The only important question is how many you saved. –And that's many times the number who were lost."

"I'm short on beds because of you, Commander- but they'll open up soon. There were some broken bones, a lot of cuts and contusions, and hypothermia across the board to one degree or another for those who ditched with you in your shuttle- but everyone is going to be fine."

"You managed a lot better than many."

"I'll remember that when I'm writing letters to the next-of-kin.", Queffle said bitterly before he was able to catch himself. It was a harsh statement to someone who didn't deserve to be on the receiving end of abrasiveness.

"-Sorry."

Harvey patted his hand, "It's fine. You're dealing with a lot right now."

Queffle lay for a moment in silence. Standard procedure meant that at some point, and probably sooner rather than later, he would have to file a final report addressing the first, last, and only major combat action of Archer 42. Certainly there would be a board of inquiry-.

Beyond that though-.

"What's next, Doc?", Queffle asked, understanding as he posed the question that maybe its full implications couldn't be answered by a physician.

Wearily, but keeping up a good front, Harvey rose to her feet with the need to move on to the many other patients she had alluded to who also required her attention.

"That's the question of the day for all of us, isn't it? I suppose we're going to find out."

Queffle touched his hand to the left side of his face to find the bandaging covering his eye.

"Dr. Harvey, my eye?-."

Harvey replied with a greater degree of certainty than she had used with her last words, "The optic nerve is burned, Commander. You'll regain your sight, but I'm sure there will be some permanent vision loss. It's too soon to tell how much. I think the chances are good that you'll eventually be back in the fight- if that's what you're concerned about."

"Am I that transparent?"

"No, it just seems like a natural response.", Harvey replied, adding the admission, "In truth, I wouldn't mind a little reciprocity myself."

For some reason- perhaps it being the garb of a physician, or Harvey's overall benign aura- Queffle found the doctor's yearning to be a real tickle of amusement.

"What happened to first doing no harm?"

Harvey paused in thought, maybe not having recognized the paradox.

"Well, that's to my patients. Let their doctors worry about them."

Lieutenant Chris "Ramrod" Staff of the Blue Banshees, formerly of A.R.M.D. II space station Archer 42 had never grasped the appeal of tea himself as a coffee drinker, but understood its broader variations and versatility of that breed of beverage.

Like coffee, there were blends that delivered the fighter pilot's friend- caffeine- and was sworn by, by many pilots who Ramrod had met from the European and Asian sectors and provinces.

There were also blends meant to soothe and sedate, and it had been that kind of tea that Ramrod had been on a mission to find somewhere on the unfamiliar Alaskan post.

He hadn't had to go far. Even as ground crews familiar with the repair and maintenance of Valkyries had been at work on assessing the flight and combat worthiness of the dozen surviving VAF-6 Alpha Veritechs of the Blue Banshees, Staff had found in the pilot's briefing room a box of chamomile tea bags beside the coffee maker and hot water dispenser.

Mugs in a cabinet over the sink clearly had owners by the character of the cartoons and sayings with which they were emblazoned, but Ramrod had not time nor energy to seek permission of their use before selecting one at random.

The owner was likely a pilot and would understand it was for a comrade in desperate need.

Ramrod did not drink tea habitually, and neither did the squadron CO, Lieutenant Amanda "Raven" Kroft- but she was in need of what little comfort the chamomile could provide. Had it been any other circumstance, she would likely have been given valium or another sedative to bring on sleep- but the possibility of a sudden call to action was too high to risk any more than the calming of nerves.

Hours earlier she had performed her duty flawlessly- commendably under the most desperate of circumstances.

She had led her squadron headlong into a force many times its own size, dealt the enemy a stunning blow, and then had pulled her squadron out again.

She had with little more than a handful of missiles between herself and her pilots, and sheer tenacity provided rear guard to cover the escape of the crew of Archer 42 to safe planetfall.

She had then with two other Alphas followed one of the shuttles- crippled on the retreat- to the drink and maintained top cover while SAR had taken its sweet time organizing and deploying rescue choppers to save the survivors from the icy and unforgiving Bering Sea.

Then, only after seeing to her twelve surviving pilots and providing details of her squadron's actions and observations to the Fairchild intelligence staff did she even think of asking the one question that Ramrod knew had to have been riding with her all the way.

Perhaps worse than bad news- the worst news- there had been nothing definitive that could be told to her. For all that she had done in the preceding hours, she was left in the purgatory of uncertainty.

Lieutenant Amanda "Raven" Kroft had then found a couch in the darkened corner of a pilots' ready room to curl-up tightly upon- and had not moved since.

Tea was not going to help what ailed Kroft, Staff knew- but what little he remembered from general first aid and medical trainings told him that he had to keep her from withdrawing further. Unthinkable and horrid as reality was threatening to be for the CO, she had to be in the here and now.

The airfield had been thundering continuously since Ramrod and The Blue Banshees had arrived. Valkyries, Adventurer IIs, SAR choppers and the various other aircraft that were using Fairchild as a waypoint to wherever their destinations might have been had been arriving and departing in a constant cycle. In his infrequent glimpses through windows to the outside, Ramrod had even seen several commercial aircraft that had been allowed to harbor temporarily from the Zentraedi storm until arrangements could be made for them to move on with military escort.

With this cyclic activity ongoing, the pilots' briefing and ready rooms had been conspicuously devoid of pilots with the exception of the detached Blue Banshees.

It was for this reason that Staff was shocked to the point of physically pausing in the corridor between the briefing room and the ready room to see another pilot in flight gear approaching him.

The thin, ginger-haired man wore the patch of a Valkyrie driver with a squadron insignia that was expectedly unfamiliar to Staff. He also wore on his shoulders the muted oak leaves of a lieutenant colonel.

Staff and the other pilot had scarcely laid eyes upon one another, but the Alpha pilot knew instantly that in their meeting that the Valkyrie pilot had found the object of his search.

"Are you the squadron honcho?", asked the Valkyrie driver, glancing with a flash of contempt at the steaming mug of tea Staff carried and the implication that he had time to consume it.

"No sir.", Ramrod replied, "I'm the XO-. Our CO's in there- and in a bad way right now."

"Injured?", the Valkyrie pilot, whose name by the tag on his breast was Morrison asked with the confusion of rushing into an unfamiliar situation under many stresses from many points.

"Shock, Colonel.", Ramrod explained trying to give Kroft's condition legitimate weight in relation to the circumstances, "She's got a husband and two young kids on Schiaparelli-."

"The Mars base?"

"Yes sir-. Contact was lost, and given the hammering that the Moon bases are taking-. You can only imagine. I'm trying to get her right- or as close to right as I can.", Staff explained.

There was a flash of sympathy that crossed Morrison's grim countenance, "I do understand, Lieutenant. I've got family in Ottawa, and I've got people with family in Yellowstone City and any number of posts- but I need pilots- now. You up to it if your CO can't pull out?"

Staff nodded, "Of course, Colonel- but-."

"-But it won't be necessary."

Staff, apparently more tightly wound by the day's events thus far than he had recognized nearly jumped out of his own skin- understanding at once Scrooge's reaction to the appearance of Jacob Marley in his bed chamber.

Kroft did not bear the physical weight of chains, but to Staff who knew her well could see she was under the burden of invisible ones.

"Kroft, sir.", Raven said dutifully, "Lieutenant, REF- Blue Banshee Squadron. How can we pitch in?"

Morrison nodded, satisfied with Kroft's few words that she was good enough to operate.

"-Tons of options, Lieutenant. The worst of the action is far to the southeast, but we're one of three posts in this sector with fighters and the dittos could change their minds at any time. I need to free up my Valkyries for CAP duty and long-range engagement if needed, but I still have a heap of escort work that needs to be done. Is your squadron game?"

"Call us Milton-Bradley, sir.", Kroft replied.

Morrison nodded again, "Good-. We're running mission assignments and briefings directly out of the Flight Ops Center for now. Gather your people and get over there and they'll set you up."

"Aye, sir.", Kroft said. The color had not returned to her face, but some strength was spinning up behind her voice.

"Thank you, Lieutenant.", Morrison said as he turned to depart in the same direction from which he had come, "We'll see you in the sky-."

"Aye, sir."

Staff waited for the insulated door to the outside through which Morrison had passed to close fully before he turned to Kroft.

"Are you really up to this?"

Kroft sagged somewhat, but maintained conviction- true conviction- in her voice, as though she was being held together by sheer will.

"Yeah, Chris- I have to be. Everyone's piss-scared and hurting right now. We can't all just lie down and worry. –Plus, Schiaparelli's only out of contact. The damn thing is built into a mountain. That's all that there is to know right now. Doing something constructive- maybe something destructive is what I need to be doing."

Staff wasn't thoroughly convinced, but knew that Kroft was correct on her key points. There was little known about Schiaparelli Base, other than contact had been lost. There was an abundance of work for fighter pilots in the Alaska Sector, and Kroft commanded a dozen. –And she did need to be engaged in something- to take her mind off of the possibilities if for no other reason.

"Is that for me?", Kroft asked, bringing Staff back with a question about the mug of tea he held.

"Yeah, I thought."

"You know I don't drink that shit- but thanks.", Kroft said, "Let's round up the squadron and get our asses over to Flight Ops. We're representing the REF in a sea of Air Force."

Staff set the mug down at the side of the corridor where it would not be underfoot- he'd get it back to its cabinet and its owner by extension later.

"You're a tough lady, Raven.", Staff laughed dryly.

"Thanks, Ramrod. So are you."

Yellowstone City

The capital city of The United Earth was an exhibit of the surreal by the full light of early morning.

Medium and low-rise buildings of all sizes and performing all functions that had stood forming perfect right-angles to the horizontal plane of the city now stood hunched and slouched away from the impact points of orbital particle beam blasts.

The immediate marring done to the city by the twin blasts- the charring of fires that had erupted instantaneously from the radiant heat and the scattering of debris from their force- was concealed mostly, sanitized by a pristine blanket of snow that had fallen through the night.

The clouds having moved away in the pre-dawn hours left a sapphire sky over the city whose uniformity in color and texture was corrupted by the sooty smudging of fires that burned and were too numerous to be realistically expected to be combated by the city's overwhelmed Yellowstone City Fire Department.

Additional evidence of large-scale violence also diminished what would otherwise have been a model of the ideal winter day. Contrails criss-crossed the overarching canopy of blue, overlapping, intersecting, corkscrewing, converging and diverging as visible records of aerial duels that raged at intervals and would certainly flare again.

For now though, the skies were quiet.

Only the soft pop of distant battle to the southeast, muffled considerably by distance gave any audible indication that conflict was still boiling.

Major Morris Hauck, United Earth Marine Corps, stood with a wide stance atop what was the immediate "high ground" for the benefit of surveying what had become for all intents and purposes an unsecured combat area. The fact that this combat area had been Federal Plaza 24 hours before was sadly ironic and quite inconsequential at the same time.

Hauck, when the rubble he now stood upon had been The United Earth Robotech Defense Forces Headquarters had been billeted to the offices of doctrine and training branched in the organizational tree under The Chief of Naval Operations. Neither he nor any of the Marines he had assumed command over in the past eight hours had seen a single hour of active combat. Many, like he, had served in forward operating bases and had been the target of malcontent attack- but their occupational specialties had precluded them from being ordered into direct contact.

What a difference a day made.

Forty-three Marines, thirty-one Army, twenty-eight Air Force, and a dozen REF personnel- junior officers, NCOs, and enlisted- were now his hodge-podge command. All were far more familiar with organizing and managing the bureaucratic elements of the military than participating in the mission that the ranking officer had decided as being the immediate priority.

Below Hauck's observation post, Marines, Army, Air Force, and REF all worked- some in various versions of dress uniform- at the task of clearing rubble and wreckage to free the comrades and colleagues trapped beneath.

The effort was not limited to military personnel however.

Before sunrise, even while it was uncertain whether Yellowstone City was to be classified as a ravaged city or an occupied one, civilians had begun to arrive as well. Some were employees of the Ministry of Defense- arriving by habit as much as anything at the time that they would have routinely reported for duty on a "normal" day.

Others were clearly not.

They did come though, some with as little as work gloves and the intent to use them, and others who brought work vehicles.

At sunrise, just as the scale of the task at hand was being revealed by daylight to those volunteers who had already been at the work for hours, a most welcome sight in Tonka-yellow arrived. A back-hoe and bulldozer with the name of a local construction company emblazoned prominently on their sides rolled up Unity Avenue and turned onto the expansive plaza, passing closely signs prohibiting motorized vehicles in the pedestrian area.

Construction workers, suited for battle in hard-hats and layers of labor-soiled outerwear took immediately to jobs that they were most familiar with.

Major Hauck gave no objection to deferring the specifics of "how-to" to the flannel and denim brigade.

Since the arrival and appropriate use of the construction equipment, the work of exposing and clearing the collapsed floors of RDF Headquarters to expose voids and niches had increased in tempo ten-fold.

For Hauck and the others who had been at work for hours and who were beginning to feel the first aches and weariness of fatigue, the accelerated pace of clearing also brought with it the first rewards.

A custodian in the blue overalls of his profession had been the first to be extracted from a pocket smaller than a coat closet in the rubble. He was bloodied from multiple cuts, bruised, and dazed- but to a roar of cheers he had walked free of his would-be tomb after two Marines had helped him to his feet.

Two male civilians and an Army sergeant in her utilities had been the next to be freed- more cuts and a broken wrist between them- but alive.

Reinvigorated, the improvised search and rescue team had continued in their labors.

The following hours had a mixed bag of reward and sorrowful disappointment.

Eight living souls had been freed and helped from the collapsed RDF Headquarters in that time. The bodies of nineteen had been extracted with equal care and laid respectfully in a line- behind a ridge of crumbled stone and concrete where they would not be immediately seen by those at work.

The labor of clearing rubble had not gone unnoticed in its progress, and to Major Hauck's legitimate concern he had monitored the monitoring activities of interested observers all morning.

Presently, a squad of Regult Combat Pods- likely a patrol element deployed to maintain a presence in the unsecured but uncontested interior of the city- stood looking on at the southeast corner of Federal Plaza at Unity and 7th Street.

Like a half dozen other small detachments of Regults that had come, observed, and departed all morning it was well within their ability to quickly and completely slaughter the gathering of humans moving and sifting through rubble.

Oddly and in contrast to Hauck's expectation of the invaders, none of them had.

If any sentient element of thought or feeling could be gleaned by the major from the uniform and unexpressive countenances of war machines, it was curiosity. Curiosity possibly in the admittedly odd appearance of the construction equipment that continued to work even under their observation- machinery that both in function and configuration were alien to the aliens.

-Or perhaps it was curiosity at the effort on display. Perhaps it was curiosity at the energy being invested in recovering both the living and the dead.

From atop his rubble-heap position, Hauck studied those studying him and the humans at work. Unblinking red electronic eyes gave no indication of what specifically the Zentraedi Warriors within the Regults were scrutinizing, but Hauck suspected that by his activities he had already distinguished himself as "leader" to the aliens. If their intent were to change, he was certain that he would be the first to know.

Their intent showed no signs of changing though. They were satisfied to observe- for now.

"Major!-.", came a call from an Army captain- Schiller- who was second in rank to Hauck and who had been supervising the excavation of what was turning out to be partially collapsed office space.

"-We've got a live one!"

That announcement, not having been heard for some time now, was all the prompting Hauck needed to quit his staring contest with the observing enemy unit and join the site of the latest rescue effort by long strides and bounds over a jagged and uneven route of snow-blanketed ruin.

Rescuers swarmed on the site of activity and a line quickly formed to remove, pass, and discard debris that machinery hadn't the delicacy to move.

"How many?", Hauck asked as Schiller met him over the trench that had been opened through multiple floors of the collapsed building.

"One for now, sir-.", Schiller said, glancing back down into the frenzy of work that was moving both at speed and with caution, "REF officer- a woman. Can't give you a name or a rank yet though, sir."

"Just give me another survivor, Captain- I'll take that.", Hauck replied.

"She's pinned pretty good here!", someone from within the huddle called out, "We're gonna need something to lift a concrete beam!"

Hauck scaled and stumbled down the compressed strata of what the day before had been floors of a standing building to move through a half dozen subordinates in order to assess the situation personally.

In a state different from, but fortunately no worse than what he had expected to find, Hauck saw the upper portion of a woman's body twisted in a contortionist's pose, nestled into a gap between structural members of the fallen building.

As Schiller had reported, she was in torn and bloodied REF uniform of the officers' variety, but with no visible badge of rank. Dark hair was matted to her face with dried blood- but small puffs of breath against the winter morning air showed her to be alive.

Somewhere around the knees though, where she was still partially concealed beneath crumpled sheetrock and ceiling tiling, her legs were clearly beneath the substantial mass of a poured concrete form.

Seeing an immediate need that his subordinates had not in their scramble to uncover the woman, Hauck quickly shrugged off his utility parka and draped it over what parts of the woman's body he could.

"-For Christ's sake, find something we can use as a lever!"

The woman stirred slightly at Hauck's imperative and through his last words he was certain that he had heard her mumble something.

Hauck quickly found a hand that felt intact enough beneath the parka he had laid over her and squeezed it gently as he spoke.

"Ma'am, I'm Major Hauck, Marines-. We're gonna get you out of here, but you're going to have to hold on just a little longer. Are you understanding me?"

The woman's head moved just enough to be a nod.

"Can you speak? What's your name?"

Hauck had to put his ear in close to hear the reply that came weakly.

"Weitzel… Anne… Commander, REF… Serial number-."

Hauck squeezed the hand he was holding, "That's enough, ma'am- this is a recue, not an interrogation. I'm happy to find you-. I finally have someone I can report to."

The REF officer was clearly too weak to laugh, but at the same time Hauck sensed that the humor was not lost on her.

She mumbled something else that Hauck lost under the sound of boots on snow and rubble.

"What was that, ma'am?"

"Ephraim-."

"What?"

"Ephraim is just ahead of me in the hall-."

Hauck nodded, noting that the commander's speech was beginning to slur- indicating shock.

"We'll get him next, Commander. We're going to get you out first though."

Looking up, Hauck found that the civilian foreman of the construction contractor volunteers- a bear of a Nordic man named Swensen- had made his way to the center of activity with a worker with whom he'd been issuing directions through all morning.

Independent of Hauck, the two men were clearly in a strategy session for what needed to be done to free the survivor who had just been found.

With a final exchange, the junior contractor nodded his understanding and began a quick ascent to the surface where he could begin to carry out his direction.

"What's the plan?", Hauck asked, a concession implied that he was out of his scope to dictate action at this point.

"We've got some steel bracing frames we might be able to wedge under that beam-.", Swensen speculated with an air of confidence derived from years of improvising solutions in his professional field, "-It's not what they're designed for, but I think they'll hold long enough. We'll wedge them in as levers and then rig something with the shovel on the hoe to lift. I figure we need maybe twenty centimeters to pull her free?.."

"About that.", Hauck concurred.

The thought of- what if it doesn't work?- crossed the major's mind, but the only other apparent alternative was to clear the mountain of debris that covered the beam that would still have to be moved. That required time that the REF officer did not have.

Hauck decided to not ask the question and rather just nodded his agreement with Swensen's plan.

Edwards RDF-Air Force Base

Flight operations, and by extension the potential for combat flight operations had no natural schedule, nor did they adhere to the cycle of day and night. For this reason as much as any other, the Flight Operations Center was made impervious to indicators of time beyond the clocks on the wall that kept accurately the hour, minute, and second in time zones of importance.

No windows allowed visual indication of dawn, day, dusk, or night- only a constant twilight level of illumination that facilitated the most ideal viewing conditions for high-resolution plasma screens and holographic displays prevailed.

Lieutenant Colonel Nigel Winters felt completely in his place at the moment with these chronologically ambivalent surroundings.

At the last glance at his wristwatch, he was pushing thirty hours since he had lest slept, but was feeling the natural weariness only under a substantial veneer of adrenaline, caffeine, nicotine, and RDF-sanctioned amphetamines.

Freddy "Buster" Dalton had pronounced it a "fighter pilot's fortified breakfast" quite unexpectedly as cook's assistants from the base's mess had arrived at the FOC door to hand off polystyrene boxes containing hastily assembled, easy-to-handle meals for personnel whose last thoughts were food. Not authorized to enter the classified FOC themselves the mess personnel had left the final act of delivery to enlisted within the suite – and with that duty the possibility of absorbing words of discontent.

Winters hadn't minded what he had found in the box. He had not noticed particularly either, but with all that was going on around him a halved pita stuffed with sausage crumbles (possibly real), egg (also standing a chance of having come from a chicken), cheese (cows likely involved), and fried potatoes was enough to quell the distant indications of impending hunger.

Swallowing the hand-held buffet of cholesterol in eight bites as operational discussions went on around him, Winters still found his mind had the latitude to be concerned that "Isn't" Cohen from his command- an Israeli Air Force "legacy" contribution to the RDF- might inadvertently stray from the kosher path in the general rush and chaos of the morning.

It was a fleeting thought that Winters did not dwell on. Cohen was consistent with keeping his diet in line with God's edicts as seen by his faith- and was likely very aware of wanting to keep in His good favor today like everyone else.

Two cups of black coffee, a "Go Pill" best taken with something in the stomach, and a third cigarette that Winters was now finishing and preparing to discard into the ashcan that some thoughtful individual had made the effort to provide below the large "Smoking Prohibited" sign had rounded out the nourishment the pilot had taken in since finger foods and generous amounts of alcohol the night before at Roxanne's establishment.

Winters was confident in the supposition that a good many of his meals in the near future were to be taken in the way of this morning's breakfast and with similar offerings- as they pertained to the "pharmaceutical course" at least. "Go Pills" were not a permanent substitute for sleep, but any pilot who had served in a fast-tempo operation could attest that they could be counted on to stand in admirably for a while.

Winters was far from that point though, and if there was anything that threatened to cause him to feel fatigue- it was the ongoing debate with Edwards' senior J-2, an Air Force lieutenant colonel who had rotated into the "Joint" Intelligence billet at roughly the same time that Winters had been enjoying his hiatus from active flight status following what was commonly and benignly referred to around post as "The Salvador Thing".

"You're certain then that it was a male?", Frick, the most immediate cause of Winters' irritation asked- again. A quick debriefing on the engagement and chain of events hours before that had terminated on a downtown street in Edwards City had stuck on this particular point.

"Did I check the plumbing?-.", Winters baited, "-No. But it was a male Zentraedi Warrior that crawled out of that power armor, and that I shot. I can distinguish between male and female at a glance- it's a constant ability that's served me well over the years even through brushes with debilitating inebriation-."

Dalton who stood outside of the soft light of the central holographic display around which most of the air wing and base's senior staff were gathered and whose continued presence was confirmed by the occasional red glow of his cigarette joined in on his friend and commanding officer's behalf.

"You've got gun footage from three squadrons showing those suits in the mix with us. You've got our footage from running the bastards down. And you've got Jack's footage of him airing the goddamn ditto out. What more do you want- and in light of current events, why is it so important?"

Lt Col Frick, roughly the same age as Dalton but probably engaged currently with the two pilots in the most active fight of his life was unflinching in defense of his line of continued inquiry.

"-Because, Colonel, male Zentraedi do not operate female Zentraedi mecha. Even if males had access to Queadlunn-Rau power armor, which they wouldn't for a dozen reasons that go into the Zentraedi automated supply and provisioning systems- they wouldn't have the subconscious imbedded programming to be able to operate them. Even if males somehow gained possession of a number of these suits- to develop the skills and doctrine to effectively operate them in combat within the span of five years-. It just strains belief- I'm sorry."

Dalton laughed mirthlessly and stepped into the muted blue light of the holographic projectors through a cloud of his own cigarette smoke, "So, let me get this straight-. We've just been attacked for a second time by fifty-foot blue giants who were genetically engineered by other aliens, who flew a half-billion light-years in ships that travel by bending space- and you find that this strains belief?"

Winters observed in Dalton's support, "You know, when you put it like that- Freddy does have bit of a point there, Frick."

The tag-team effort was on, and Dalton followed with, "Is Frick short for Frickin' Obtuse by any chance? Christ, I miss Wang!.."

The name of the former Intelligence staff officer lost in "The Salvador Thing" having been invoked and with Major General Butler clearly teetering on the verge of intervening himself in the rising argument - Colonel Mumuni stepped in.

"Jack, Buster- save it for the Zentraedi, would you please?"

Dalton raised his hands in a display of argumentative surrender as he retreated back into the shadows.

Lt Col "Dingo" Duggan of the 1404th Werewolves motioned to Winters and Dalton with the same coffee cup he had filled four times in the period in which Winters had downed two. Duggan had a presence that had that quality of calling people's attention to hear him speak even before he was clearly wanting to speak- and that trait did not dessert him now.

"Look- Jack-O and Buster are assholes, but they're spot-on when it comes to business in the cockpit-."

"Thanks for the glowing endorsement, Dingo-.", Winters wedged into Duggan's testimonial.

"-But I'm not done yet, am I?", Duggan replied, affronted mildly at being cut off in his prattling.

"No-. Carry on then."

"Thank you.", Duggan said before continuing, "Like I said, they're assholes but rock-solid in a brawl. I'll tell ya what you need to be lookin' to besides whether you've got ditto blokes wearin' the ladies' gear- and it's this-. Those armor suits ain't standard battle braziers. I emptied half my gun pod on one through a six thousand meter dive- had my pipper on his pucker the whole way down-. It took that to crack the armor on him. A standard Queadlunn-Rau would'a come apart four times over under that kind of fire."

Dalton returned to the fray from the shadows, contributing to Duggan's account of the power armor variant by adding, "-And that energy bazooka- or whatever it is-. That's something new in their bag of tricks."

Mumuni, not wanting to contribute to the gang-assault on the J-2, said directly to her immediate commander, Lt Gen Butler, "I agree-. The Gnerls we fought seemed pretty standard- maybe slightly better pilots in the one-on-one area- but the power armor was definitely- modified. Maybe they learned something from the beating they took in small-scale engagements and regeared?"

Frick, happy to join conversation with a pilot other than Winters, Dalton, and Duggan shook his head dismissively, "It doesn't work that way- not for Zentraedi. They've fought Invid for generations and the mecha and weapons that were used by Warriors in the first battle are fundamentally the same as the ones rolling off of automated production lines as we speak. Allied Zentraedi have confirmed this. The Robotech Masters control Zentraedi material production and The Robotech Masters see no need to improve the survival odds of a single Zentraedi Warrior when their ends are reached by simple attrition warfare with The Invid."

"Then where'd these bastards get the new toys?", Duggan asked, "That's the only question that has relevancy here- and not much relevancy at that. They're here now- my only question is what other nasty little surprises have they got tucked away?"

A moment's silence hung over the group of officers and was only broken by the muffled rumble of Valkyrie engines heard and felt through the sound-insulated walls of the FOC.

Duggan rolled his head and shoulders, eliciting a series of sharp pops from his neck and joints. Like a professional athlete readying himself to re-enter the game, his face began a steady change to a serious, focused expression.

"Well, that's me then-. Steaks and beer when we get back. G'day-."

Without any additional ceremony, Duggan set his coffee cup down on a classified materials safe that had received other empty cups for clearing and removed himself from the FOC for the flight line.

The distinctive sounds of Veritechs returning from CAP would normally have been unusual with the squadron commanders of the base's fighter squadrons present- but Edwards had made new acquisitions in the past six hours.

Orphans of RDF Base Nellis- roughly half of the composite wing stationed there- had found themselves in need of a new home after multiple, accurate orbital particle beam strikes from Zentraedi warships had rendered the base operationally useless and had simultaneously setting most of Las Vegas ablaze. RDF Base China Lake had fared slightly better in that just under 70% of its fighter and attack aircraft assets had wandered in to Edwards as a safe harbor. As the facility itself was concerned, it was a loss for supporting air operations.

The "air triad" of NORAMWEST had had its two most critical installations rendered useless inside of a quarter of an hour, leaving only Edwards ominously undamaged. Unexpectedly, as critical events often were in times of conflict, the air base in the Antelope Valley had suddenly found itself burdened by almost three times the number of forces it was intended to support.

Major General Butler, flexible yet unbreaking under pressure as Winters had known him to be over two-and-a-half decades of friendship was nonetheless showing the strain he had suddenly been left to shoulder- as facilities had not been the only assets lost in the attack on the triad.

"Alright- mental regroup and redirect here-.", Maj Gen Butler said, looking somewhat out of place in MOPP gear within the FOC. By example to his subordinates, and driven by the possibility of necessity, he had donned the NBC protective suit and left it on even as hours had passed without an orbital strike on the base to which his command was attached.

"Speculation on who exactly the bad guys are and how they're sporting new gear is all interesting, but not immediately relevant. Let's stay focused on what is the danger-close issue to us."

By "us", even though the word was used in the broad and true sense, Winters knew that Butler recognized that "us" now mostly meant him.

Beside what was sure to be a grievous loss of life in the assigned personnel at Nellis, the Combatant Commander- NORAMWEST himself- Lieutenant General Hume could not be accounted for. Major General Westfield, commanding the wing out of China Lake and slightly senior to Butler was also unaccounted for and had to be assumed as dead as only a fused-glass lined crater was to be found now where his command building had stood the day before.

By order of succession in the chain of command, Major General Arnold "Arnie" Butler had become commander of the battle-scarred yet functional elements of the NORAMWEST Command.

All of the regions of Butler's new command sprawled across the holographic display table in scaled, three-dimensional detail. The additional elements of map gridlines and iconography was in place as selectable layering, as was the real-time position of "blue" and "red" force units. The latter, since the recent destruction of the Earth's inward-looking intelligence satellite constellations was provided by a handful of JSTARS aircraft flying select circuits in the NOrAMWEST AOR under the heavies fighter cover that could be afforded- which was minimal in comparison to the threat they guarded against.

Either the Zentraedi had not recognized the function and importance of the long-range, battlefield mapping and C2 aircraft, or they were simply unconcerned by their monitoring as with literally thousands of Gnerls and flight-capable power armor in the region- not a single squadron had been diverted to blind the remaining eye of the indigenous defenders.

"So-.", Butler began in the vague manner of one having to define his own critical actions with scarce resources on incomplete information, "-We have landings all over The Outlands-. No particular rhyme or reason, just the BBGs getting boots to the ground-. Would you say that's an accurate statement, Frick?"

The intelligence officer, eager to distance himself from further interaction with Winters and Dalton was quick to respond to the succeeding COCOM.

"Yes sir, I concur. It appears that the initial attack was a stunning and force-reducing blow to Earth's defenses- ground installations included. The intent was merely to clear a path for what we're seeing and what you've described. The Zentraedi are trying to move forces to ground as quickly as possible to exploit the chaos in the AOR. That's not to say that there won't be further following actions against RDF installations- it just doesn't seem to be the enemy focus at this time."

"Is this consistent with reports from other Global COCOMs?", Butler asked, never taking his eyes from the display before him.

"Yes sir.", Frick replied, hesitated, and then added, "-From what information we're getting from elsewhere. Communications, as you know, are spotty at best at this time. What we can say is that the bulk of landings have taken place in the tropical and sub-tropical latitudes, and the general movement is toward equatorial regions. The driving motivation of this invasion seems readily apparent-."

Butler nodded, grasping the enemy's clear objective without having to have it explained to him, "-Yes, the BBGs want the regions of Earth where the Invid Flower of Life grow most abundantly. We're the bull's eye in a literal grab for power. –God help us if it's a race against The Invid."

Winters, without notice of those around him shook his head nostalgically at Butler's repeated use of BBG- a throwback to The Robotech War- or perhaps more appropriately now, The First Robotech War, and one he had not heard Butler use since. Big Blue Guys had sprung up from who-knew-where following the shattering of Dolza's Imperial Fleet and the planetfall of a billion and a half displaced aliens. Every planetary region had a variant of the handle in whatever local tongue was most predominant, but for English-speaking parts of the human world- it had been BBGs- which preceded the more common and appropriate yet racist "ditto", or "CC" ("carbon copy").

Uprisings of allegedly "indoctrinated" and micronized Zentraedi in the Post-War years had naturally spawned the colloquial child of BBG, the "LBG", or "Little Blue Guy"- ironic in that even a "micronized" Zentraedi was as physically large or larger than most people at the top end of the human scale.

But for Winters, hearing Butler use the term was just a strange return to a time he had thought had gone by like so many before.

"-I think that's an accurate assessment based on what little we know.", Frick conceded, "It would account for why orbital bombardment was not more heavily employed-. They want the planet intact and can't afford to darken the skies. No sun, no Flower of Life."

"So they want to do this old school-.", Dalton said from where he had joined Winters at the tableside, "We can go old school."

"-At around two hundred to one odds.", Frick pointed out, "And climbing-."

Dalton snorted dismissively, "I didn't say it was going to be easy."

Butler exhaled heavily, accepting the situation.

"Well, we're not winning the war today. Today, we work on stabilization. Nellis and China Lake are a loss, so all NORAMWEST air operations for now are going to be run out of Edwards and possibly San Diego NAS- once we've established their operational worthiness. Once we've organized that and begun meaningful operations though, we're going to have to expect ditto retaliation on some scale. That's going to mean moving as much of the civilian population as we can to a safe location-."

"What's a safe location today?", Mumuni asked, sounding darkly amused by Butler's choice of words.

"Good question.", Butler agreed, "A safer location. Civilian roads and infrastructure are pretty intact in this region- but we don't have a place to safely shelter our civies if sustained fighting breaks out- which it will."

Butler surveyed the map, studying nearby population centers that he was familiar with in a way he had not had to before this day.

"Bakersfield may be the first move-. Hand the civilians off to Civil Defense there. Sacramento has been built up over the past three years to sustain a substantial refugee population- just in case. This qualifies, I think."

"We need to begin efforts to move the civilians out of the AOR, and there are about a thousand details associated with organizing and executing an evacuation on this scale-. We're on about step two-. Among other concerns, we can't be sure that we can scrounge enough civilian vehicles to move a population the size of ours north. We definitely don't have enough military ones for that kind of move. And if we do scrape together enough vehicles to move our civilians north, we don't have sufficient forces to both protect the ground we still hold, and a refugee migration."

"We will start to organize the movement, but until we can arrange for adequate protection for the civilians en route, I think talk of actual evacuation is premature."

"No man wants to be accused of premature evacuation-.", Winters quipped, the sophomoric humor likely driven by the Go Pill and caffeine.

Mumuni jabbed him with an elbow in the ribs.

Despite himself, Butler allowed the hints of a laugh to escape.

"Thank you, Jack-. Completely inappropriate, but strangely accurate. So, back to stabilization and guarded relocation of the civilians-. -Anything, Jack?"

"No sir."

Butler continued, "General Weschler from RDF Fort Irwin has consolidated the 17th Combined Assault Division with the OpFor units under his command at the Training Center, giving us our own boots on the ground. Right now they're forming a buffer along this line east and south of Barstow through the exercise grounds of the Training Center in case our BBG friends decide to begin moving our way instead of south."

"Once we've figured out the logistics of moving the civilians, we can detach the ground forces from the 17th we need to support the movement, and provide the top cover ourselves."

Mumuni's eyes scanned over the map, darting with calculation behind them between the southward movement of the Zentraedi, the multiple active Zentraedi LZs in The Outlands, the open topography between Edwards City and Bakersfield, and the greatly disproportionate ratio of "red" forces to "blue".

"Any way we slice it, General- we're going to be stretched very thin."

Butler made no attempt to argue, rather conceding, "We're already stretched thin, Ganyet-. We'll just have to manage and hope that we can move the civilians north before the dittos decide to exploit it. Once we're free of our immediate obligations to the civilians, we can become more creative with applying the forces we do have."

"-And if the Zentraedi decide to exploit their advantage before we can move the civilians?", Dalton asked, the consideration having a greater immediate relevance for him than it did for others in the room.

Butler's face tightened into an uncompromising, resolute expression, "We make sure that we don't let that happen, Freddy- because if it does, we may be forced to make some very uncomfortable decisions."

It was a perfect desert morning; Winters had found himself thinking repeatedly on the short ride from the FOC to the hangar complex off of the flight line as he and Dalton had made it- standing and clinging to the roll bar in the rear bed of a land rover. So clean and sweet had the air been, so mild the sun as it was rising toward its apex that the pilots had even indulged in unfastening much of their flight gear and unzipping their flight suits to bathe in the artificial breeze of movement.

It might have been the amphetamines, or it may have just been the elation of life that came after repeated close brushes with death- but in either case, both pilots basked in the sheer and brief joy of the experience without a word between them.

Winters did not allow Butler's obscure warnings of "uncomfortable decisions" in the event of the worst case scenario to penetrate- or at least he was working hard in the attempt. In glances to his right, he could see that Dalton was struggling with the same- and for understandable reasons, with less success.

It was simply a situation that could not be allowed to materialize- and that was the end of it.

As they arrived, the land rover's driver was forced to slow into a broad, sweeping left turn to drop his ranking passengers off as the tarmac was choked with vehicles and activity that would not allow entry far beyond the gate of the security fence.

As the rover rumbled away and Winters was smoothing his wind-rustled hair for the best fitting of his wheel cap, he realized that the PA speakers mounted on the hangars and posts around the flight line were playing music at their highest volume to be heard over the din of machines and the thunder of aircraft engines as they came and went.

Dalton offered Winters a cigarette silently, met no resistance from the squadron CO, and lingered to light it before the two men continued on foot toward the maintenance hangar that stood only a short walk away.

As Winters sullied the pristine morning air with smoke, the simple, acoustic guitar chords he was hearing from the PA system drew and held his attention for a reason he could not explain. Maybe it was because it was a distantly-familiar tune, but one not heard in some time and he was possessed by that internal contest with self to give the song its name before the first lyric words betrayed it.

Winters lost this time though as Jerry Garcia, the immortal voice of The Grateful Dead led the band with:

"Well, the first days are the hardest days,"

"- Don't you worry anymore."

"`Cause, when life looks like easy street,"

"There is danger at your door…"

Winters shook his head wondering if the selection of music was random or if an airman somewhere was intentionally choosing selections with resonance.

Yeah, no shit, Jerry-.

"What?"

Winters came back to his surroundings with Dalton's words.

"What, what?"

"I thought you said something.", Dalton said as the two pilots tucked under the tail of an Adventurer II whose nose gear was still coupled by tow bar to a utility tractor as it waited a turn in the repair facility.

"Oh", Winters said, fabricating the excuse, "-I just said that this is a little light for the day's work. We need something more upbeat-."

"Metalica-?", Dalton suggested.

"The Stones-.", Winters countered, "Desperate times call for the classics."

Dalton, somehow never convinced as Winters was of the godhood of The Rolling Stones made a non-committal sound.

"Meet you half-way-. Zeppelin?"

"Close enough to settle on.", Winters agreed, not having time to engage in another four hour debate as he had once had with Dalton on the topic- aided of course by a substantial bar tab.

Entering the maintenance hangar, Winters was able to quickly find Marilyn at the rear right of the expansive structure despite the four aircraft of various configuration standing between he and his fighter. A high hoist stood nearby and had probably been involved in the needed repair work.

Unfortunately, Winters knew, there were likely others who would be vocal about the repair work required- especially since they were extensive enough to require the hoist to make them.

..Just take your beating like a man and get it over with…

"Hey, Jack!- Winters, Ah wanna talk ta ya!"

Lyle appeared from behind a supply cart and wove his way through the obstacle course of rolling tool chests and electrical power cords toward Winters, still wearing like all the other technicians and specialists around him his MOPP-4 – but in an open, and more relaxed fashion. The plane captain's face was stern, but hinted strongly of his relief at seeing the squadron CO and XO.

Approaching Winters and Dalton to within speaking distance at a low yell over the sound of power tools, he thumbed at the port rudder of the commander's Valkyrie which was now noteworthy only in the uniform grey of its factory paint application.

"Hey, see that?- One of these fins ain't like the other-.", Lyle fumed much in the way that a partially deflated balloon gave up its last gasp of pressure, "Ah thought Ah told'ya ta watch yer ass?!"

Winters waved his hands defensively, "I did-. –And technically speaking, that isn't my ass."

"Whell it may be next time-.", Lyle countered.

"Next time it very well may be-.", Winters conceded, "-But it comes with the job, I suppose. We get to fly fast planes and wear dashing uniforms- but you run the risk of getting shot at from time to time. …Part of the business. Tell me about your business though-."

Lyle cocked his Osaka Pistons cap back to scratch at the sparse comb-over that passed as the hair atop his head as he collated his morning's activities internally before responding.

"Whell, we gave `em all a once over `n they all came out sound `cept fer we had ta swap out a number four panel on Pinball's starboard thruster. Yer rudder was the biggest piece'a body work we done-."

Winters listened patiently to the plane captain's drawling, rambling report.

"What about Vice's kite?"

"Finishin' `er up now.", Lyle replied, "We just changed out the electronics modules in the dorsal bay t'be sure- we can refurb the ones we pulled later-."

Winters interrupted, "Do that-. We'd better start thinking on how to stretch everything as far as it will stretch. I don't get the feeling that we're going to be getting a lot of resupply anytime soon."

Lyle nodded in agreement, showing that his mind had already traveled the same route as Winters'.

"Will do. –Anyway, we're doin' the final post-install verifications now on Vice's IFF…. –Hey, you got time ta take yers up `n wring `er out a bit? -Rudder's aligned `n `calibrated right, butchya never know `til ya take `er out of `er pen-."

Winters shook his head, "-No, I'll have to take your word for it. As soon as you drop the bonnet I need you to get them into the hands of the weapons crews and arm them. The Outlands are taking on a distinctly blue tint, and we have to be Alert Five Scramble capable- or less."

Lyle nodded his understanding as Winters led Dalton in edging away toward the open hangar doors through which they had entered.

"Hey-.", Lyle called after the two pilots, "-Merry Christmas, by the way-!"

The cheap, vinyl blinds in the common room of the Knight Hawk Squadron pre-flight building were closed allowing the brilliant desert sun in only around the fringes and producing a deep twilight quality.

Still in flight suits that were opened and loosened under unfastened survival gear rigs, a half dozen pilots were sprawled over the ancient, worn recliners and couches that furnished the room.

Having stood stand-by watch many times with pilots of both flights of the squadron, Wintters and Dalton were able to identify in general the occupants of the room by the depth and tone of their snoring as they took advantage of down-time that would be in short supply in the days and weeks to come. As they had just come in from the full light of the Mojave mid-morning though, associating the snores to the forms was not as easy for the squadron's two senior officers.

Only "Blitz" Rechtberg was readily identifiable by his large, right boot that jutted off of the arm of the couch across which he had stretched himself. –The prize, no doubt, of being the first pilot to reach the lounge after de-brief.

"-You'd think they didn't know that a war was on.", Dalton said quietly as he followed Winters the long way around the arrangement of furniture at the center of the lounge toward the locker room.

"Or that they do-.", Winters countered.

At the door to the locker room, the sound of showers running could be heard and the air was thicker and sultry as an effect of the hot, running water.

Winters had toyed with the idea of a quick shower himself. Not that he had given it a lot of thought, but he was aware that he smelled of alcohol, cigarettes, and the profusion of sweat that had carried the other two prominent odors to the surface. The need to get clean though was more than a strictly hygienic process, Winters recognized. There was a psychological element to it now as well.

Some funk couldn't be washed away with soap and hot water though.

Winters was reminded of this before he was ready to deal with it as he and Dalton found Jon "Rebound" Clifton sitting on the bench that ran down the center of the aisle between rows of lockers, across from the one that contained the late Alan "Gecko" Home's effects. An empty cardboard box was on the bench beside Rebound, but the locker door was still closed before him.

These things, Winters knew from experience, had to be done in small, paced steps.

"-I really need to be speaking to Catherine, you know-.", Clifton said to the CO and XO- that being his acknowledgment that they were there, "I'm just not sure what the right thing to do is-. I mean- do you bring a box of his stuff?-.. Sorry about your husband, here's his wallet, comb, and a bad picture of you with your kid-."

"Don't do this to yourself, Jon.", Dalton said sympathetically but all the while maintaining a distance as though Clifton's state was contagious, "I'm gonna talk to her-."

"My element lead, my responsibility.", Clifton countered.

"My squadron.", Winters interjected with a decisive tone to his voice, "I'll do the talking- when the time is right. That time isn't right now. Leave Gecko's locker as it is- we'll deal with it later."

Rebound swept his hands over his face as though fatigue could be wiped away like a cold sweat, but it remained.

"Part of me, y'know, is clinging to the hope that I'll start to clear his stuff out and that someone'll kick open the door and tell me that SAR just pulled Home out of the drink. –Have they even found wreckage from his fighter yet?"

Dalton sat heavily on the bench at the end of the aisle, and replied with equal weight, "No- not yet. And they're not going to either- we both know that. You saw his ship go down, and so did I. Just as well, I suppose. Anything they pulled out of that mess-. Well, I wouldn't want to have to fight Catherine off from wanting to see it anyway-."

"Gecko talked about burial at sea once-.", Rebound recalled darkly, "-Be careful what you wish for-. –Right?"

"That's it!", Winters snapped, suddenly and harshly enough to cause both of the other pilots in the locker area to start.

"We are not doing this right now. It was going to happen- sooner or later, it was going to happen to someone. Better that we got it out of the way early, because we need to get our heads around this now and carry on, because it will happen again."

Winters realized that both of the other men in his company were wearing the exact same expression of horror at his sudden and unprovoked display of apparent heartlessness- but their faces also quickly softened with understanding.

This was not the time for debilitating grief or regrets of actions taken or not taken.

That road led only to more flag-draped coffins.

Winters consciously took the edge off of his voice.

"We'll all regroup on this later and have a good communal weep- but today, right now we set this down, or push it down, or tuck it away- and we get our heads back into the fight because that will be happening again- today. So shower up, have a smoke, walk it off, and get your game face back on. This squadron still has fifteen pilots to it, and keeping all fifteen sharp on the mission is the only way to keep our count at fifteen."

Whether inspired, motivated, or just driven by Winters' directive- Clifton rose from the bench and brushed past both senior officers on his way out of the locker room.

"I'm going to get some fresh air."

"You do that.", Winters said, without approval or disapproval.

The locker room was left to Winters and Dalton, who waited just a moment longer before speaking.

"You weren't exactly captain of the pep-squad in high school, were you, Jack?"

"Kicked out, I'm afraid. Something about a sullen disposition if I recall."

"Can't see where they got that-."

"Look, Freddy-.", Winters said, "-We're not even a day into this thing-. We can't have the chaps getting into a tailspin- we just can't afford that. If they have to hate me a little because I'm reminding them of that, then it's a small price to pay."

"I didn't say you were wrong, Jack."

"You didn't say I was right either."

"What's wrong and what's right today?"

Winters paused and then replied, "Wrong is what gets us killed unnecessarily. Right is what keeps us killing the enemy as efficiently as possible. Everything else we'll deal with later, and I need you to keep that in their heads. I need your help on this and for you to get behind me, Freddy."

"You know I've got your back.", Dalton assured him, shouldering the weight he needed to carry, "Whatever you need."

"How about a drink?"

"That probably falls under everything else- but the first opportunity that presents itself, I'm buying the first round."

RDF Training Center 32,

Falkirk, Scotland

Dusk had resolved and night was now blanketing the installation with the accompaniment of a steady and saturating icy drizzle.

It was in these conditions that Collins, Johnson, and Cattermole had walked the last four kilometers to the gates of the Falkirk RTC- joining and joined along the way by half a dozen other graduates of their same training class- all equally soaked, worn, and glowing with the pallor of fear and uncertainty. Like a formation in their own untidy forced march though, they had merged and pressed on together through the outer post and on to the marshalling grounds with little more than brief words of acknowledgment said between them.

Andy Johnson could not gauge what others around him were thinking as training sergeants familiar to him from the months of regimented indoctrination he and the others had endured now directed the graduates toward the trainees' mess. His own mind was dull with the damp cold and with exhaustion, and whirling from one thought to another. Seeing the lines, four abreast, forming at evenly spaced tables at the head of the large room where many a meal had been taken though, Andy was certain that he shared a realization with those around him.

A moment of decision had arrived.

Almost as to confirm Andy's suspicion, Cedric without warning said broadly to all those within earshot, "So what's it gonna be then? Choose your poison."

A training sergeant who all had learned to dread when negotiating the various obstacle courses that ranged over Falkirk's exercise grounds now moved through the graduated enlisted who were now milling in a bunch inside of the mess room doors. His booming voice coming from his stocky frame was as stern and commanding as ever, but now sounded more of assistance than instruction.

"Processing tables are lef' to righ', One frough Four! All Green to Gold candidates go to One!.. All ov'ers, A to E, to Two. F frough L, to Three!.. The rest o'you lot, to Four!"

Where the tables for the sorting and processing of those training center graduates who had been locked into the enlisted ranks averaged eighty individuals, more or less at a glance, there were no more than thirty in the line for the table toward which Collins, Johnson, and Cattermole had been directed to by the training sergeant. Without being known to one another, it was felt by all three to be a blessing and cruse simultaneously- more choices and less time in which to make the decision.

"I'll write you from the Air Force-.", Cattermole said without warning or invitation of what he was thinking from the others, "This place gave me my fill of the rain and the mud. Fighter planes will be a welcome change, thank you-."

"You can idolize me and try to live up to my example then-.", Collins scoffed, "Remember to think of me for covering your bum from a Veritech when you're flying a cargo plane."

As the three joined the line, Andy Johnson reminded himself that he hadn't actually expected either his friend since boyhood or his friend since somewhere in the first two weeks of training to announce a burning desire for the quartermaster's corps- but hours spent in thought since earning a ride north from a supply depot that morning kept telling the youngest of the Johnson family that it was a good fit for him and logical path for contributing to the war effort. While not a spot-on match, the marshalling yard earlier that day had been the first facet of military existence that had felt familiar.

War, after all, was not all about glory.

Some had to form the solid foundation of the mundane and unglamorous to allow a base on which the spectacular could be achieved- and there was no shame in it.

"Andy-!"

Weariness, soreness of muscle, joint, and bones, and the misery of cold and wet melted and rolled off of Andy Johnson with the calling of his name.

It was accurate to say though that it was more of the caller than the calling.

Mid-turn he found Pamela Dunn's femininely toned arms wrapped firmly about his ribs, pulling him close into an embrace that under any other circumstances Andy was certain would have involved a kiss- a pleasure that had to be averted given their surroundings. Still, the soft warmth of her cheek brushed his and his nostrils filled with something delicately floral that matched the way she had smelled to him in recent and vivid dreams.

"-Is there enough of that to go around?"

Cattermole's words may as well have been a bucket of ice water for its effect. Pamela's pressing of the marvelous contours of her body into Andy's chest ended abruptly just as his hand was finding the hollow at the base of her spine.

"No", Pamela said as the tender warmth she had radiated a moment before was instantaneously doused, "-But feel free to take in the view and wank it all you like…"

"Too late to give him permission for that.", Cedric snickered and was in quick receipt of a caustic glare from Cattermole.

"So miserly-. Honestly, Andy- I just don't see her appeal to you."

Seizing the opportunity for a verbal, cross-jab combo, Pamela was quick to retort, "-And you never will see what appeals to him either, Aunt Moggie."

Collins' face contorted with sympathetic pain as he patted Cattermole on the shoulder and said to Dunn, "Easy now, love- leave something for the Zentraedi to have a go at."

Cattermole shrugged the hand off his shoulder, and said with mustered dignity, "Unhand me, sir-. If you're looking for someone to defend, that French chap who always smelled of onions is looking lost by the entrance. I can resign without assistance-."

"Easily done when you're in check."

"I'm so not liking you right now."

Johnson thumbed at his day's companions and asked Dunn with genuine concern, "Is this an effect you have on most men? I mean, is there something I should know?"

"Only that I usually do worse.", Dunn replied unapologetically.

"I wouldn't want to see that."

"No, you wouldn't."

"Still, that's admirable in a way. Have you considered the psychological warfare MOS?"

"No, too removed for me. I'm a hands-on sort of girl."

Andy had thought the same thing, only in another context.

"What are you thinking then?', Andy asked, nodding to the table at the head of the line that was growing nearer quickly.

Pamela's expression became suddenly focused, bordering on meditative as she recounted, "From the moment we were graduated, I was torn in a dozen directions. Part of me knew, but it just seemed such a reach. Then, this morning- when I heard-. I had to step outside to catch my breath, and just at that moment this formation of Valkyries flew overhead and I just knew-. I probably will get cut before I ever see a Veritech, but I knew that's what I wanted to try for. What about you then?"

The unglamorous but reasonable calling of the quartermaster corps was suddenly that much less appealing to Andy Johnson.

The GS-95 Robotech Factory

The Situation Room in by-gone days might have been labeled with the narrower title of "War Room" as its facilities lent themselves best to an executive level monitoring and conduct of military campaigns. With access to all of the information and applications required to direct military activity, it differed from the GS-95's Combat Operations Direction Center only in that the personnel supporting the flow of information and executing directions given were absent.

The Situation Room had been so named aboard the massive, self-sustaining base of operations for the reason rooms in the Executive Mansion and RDF Headquarters carried the same name. The Situation Room was intended to allow the President to monitor and direct United Earth activities of all varieties from a single location with the military option readily available.

Unfortunately, as events had evolved- the present circumstances warranted the older label, "War Room".

Much as similar rooms had been depicted in countless films, The Situation Room consisted of a circular table with suspended overhead lighting and sufficient seating and personal workstations for the President, select Ministry heads, Military Chiefs, and aides of all sorts as required by the specifics of an event. The compartment was sound isolated, impervious to the clamor of activities going on only meters away in the GS-95's various operations centers, and equally secure from external monitoring or eavesdropping.

Walls forming the circumference of the room towered and bowed to provide the acoustic characteristics to facilitate conversation between all parties at the table without straining the ear or the voice, and a central holographic display could produce commonly viewable images without blocking dialogue between conversational participants.

The Situation Room was a controlled, focused, and civil arena for both discussing the most mundane events as well as directing the most unspeakable activities.

Chief of Naval Operations, Admiral Coolidge was well versed in briefing to senior staff and to The President, though no briefing he had given in his three and a half years at his post bore the weight and significance of the one he was in the opening of giving now. Despite this, his trademark, relaxed demeanor carried through as he stood behind his seat at the table rather than sitting in it and gestured at the central display to which all eyes were turned as he spoke.

"There is no question that the events of the past twenty hours have been dire, and that Earth is at only the very beginning of this perilous chapter in its history-. However, as dark as this moment is, and as difficult as the days ahead will be, our strategic position is as strong as we could have possibly hoped for. Our primary manufacturing facility for both military and civilian necessities is intact, as is the vast majority of our standing Fleet. This means that as the situation and our understanding of the enemy clarifies, we will be in a more immediate position to act rather than having to dedicate time to recovery of our forces to status quo anti."

"Our first and paramount concern therefore should be preservation of these assets until the military staff can recommend, and you, Mr. President, can decide upon how they are to be applied."

"Our challenge then, as it follows, is finding sanctuary in which to conceal Walhalla and The Fleet from the enemy whom we can be certain is at this very moment forming their own plans to locate and neutralize us."

"Under conditions of symmetrical space warfare, I would say that we were engaged in a game of chess- but we are not at that point yet."

"If we are to equate our present situation to a board game, I would have to make the analogy of Battleship- only with the enemy making all of the moves at this point. Their objective being to find us, ours being to remain hidden."

"Given the vastness of space, we do hold certain advantages at this point- but these advantages can be compromised if not guarded. To fix on us and destroy us, the enemy will need to locate us first. If it were merely a matter of finding a quiet pocket of space and remaining there inert, we could accomplish this within our own solar system. Even with the most advanced sensor systems, the enemy would have to almost literally trip over us to discover us in a dark, or low-emission mode of operation."

"Unfortunately, we are forced even by minimal operational levels to generate electro-magnetic and subspace emissions through communications and through our propulsion systems. Standard radio communications may be relatively localized in the range at which they can be detected, but subspace displacement caused by our vessels traveling by fold or use of subspace compression drive will be detectable at much greater ranges and with less chance of being missed or misidentified."

"The enemy will be establishing a search pattern of great reach in an effort to pick up on these signals to establish our location. Like ripples in a pond when a rock is tossed in, it is not difficult to isolate the origin when one of these signals is detected. -And in addition to their own unit resources, we have to assume that they are linked into the sensory, information, and communication network formed by The Robotech Factories that are still deployed to support Zentraedi operations throughout the galaxies. While the chance is remote at best- to be discovered by one of these Factories is to be discovered by the force that has moved against Earth."

"We need to remove ourselves to a position where detection is not only remote, but is highly unlikely."

At the center point of the void within the table ring where the hologram projector had been displaying images and data for all to see, a star chart appeared showing a solar system with two suns, multiple planets, and a flickering blip that represented Earth's only assets that were not directly under siege.

"We have secured Walhalla and The Fleet here- just inside of three AUs and to the leeward side from Sol and Earth of the binary-star cluster PSR B1259-63 and LS 2883- just over three kiloparsecs from home. The interference generated by the cluster will effectively shield us from monitoring and all but the long-odds possibility of accidental discovery. My recommendation is to rally here until we are prepared to move to a more permanent location."

President Valterven, sitting behind an ashtray of extinguished cigarette butts and mostly-empty pot of tea, made a point of stating as an informal declaration of intent, "Admiral, our permanent location will be Earth again, and well within the foreseeable future. Our collective task is to determine how best to get there. –Please proceed."

Understanding the stress and fatigue of the past twenty hours, and feeling it himself, Coolidge took a nod from Breetai as indication that the remark was not directed at him specifically.

"Poor choice of words on my part, Mr. President-.", Coolidge conceded, " –Until we are prepared to move to a more suitable staging area for upcoming operations, this location is adequate."

"While an extensive survey for a location to establish a long-term base of operations is ongoing, preliminary thinking leans toward V4611-Sgr. It is a black hole in the Sagittarian Arm of our galaxy and-."

Valterven's brow crinkled with thought, "Admiral, are you suggesting that we hide in a black hole?.. My grandchildren could point out the folly of that. If our current position is adequate to protect us, than why not remain here?"

Coolidge nodded following and having anticipated the President's path of logic.

"While ideal as a temporary refuge, Mr. President, the PSR B1259-63 / LS 2883 cluster presents certain dangers for long-term operations. First, the pulsar star PSR B1259-63 by its nature is unstable. Its irregular EM emissions effectively mask our communication traffic, but the star can also produce Gama-ray bursts or solar flashes without warning. Even at three AUs- three times the distance of the Earth from Sol- Walhalla and the Fleet could easily be ravaged by such an event and with little to no warning."

"Additionally- at only three kiloparsecs from Earth, with the volume of hyperspace traffic that will be coming and going on operations, the subspace displacement could conceivably be detected by a random enemy patrol. This star cluster is distant from Earth, but computer simulations based on known, historical Zentraedi operations predict that it is still within a plausible sphere of search."

Coolidge motioned to an aide who was working the hologram projector controls for him and who changed the view to Coolidge's next topic of exposition.

"By contrast, V4611-Sgr provides concealment and defensive characteristics that are ideal for our prolonged use-."

The image zoomed to an appropriate scale around an orb representing the event horizon of the black hole. A flashing blip then appeared at a measured distance giving the Admiral a visual reference with which to continue his briefing.

"By placing V4611-Sgr between ourselves and our home arm of the galaxy, we not only screen ourselves from long range discovery by our EM emissions, but also by the inevitable subspace displacement we will generate."

"The mass of the black hole will simply swallow it up."

"By use of this location and proximity to V4611-Sgr, we also build in the additional defensive advantage of preventing direct approach- even through fold-warp."

Valterven's expression which had shown a consistent registering and assimilation of the information being briefed suddenly changed.

"You will have to explain that statement, Admiral-. Spacefold travel is essentially the connection of two points in space by bringing them together- folding space. Linear thinking doesn't apply as I understand it."

Coolidge nodded, "Under most circumstances, yes- that's true, Mr. President. You must remember though, that the folding of space is accomplished by artificially generating great gravitational forces. Awesome as our abilities have become in this technology, the power of our fold systems are still finite in comparison to the gravitational forces of a black hole. We- no one- can simply skirt around something of that mass. To approach the position I am proposing, a ship- any ship- coming from our region of the galaxy would have to make multiple jumps to first move around the mass of the black hole and then approach it. The relative point of origin of the enemy being known, we can set up defensive monitoring positions using nets of deep-space sensor buoys and a small number of picket ships that would alert us to enemy activity well before they could detect us."

Valterven, remembering Coolidge's words of only a minute or so before replied, "That would conceal us from the Zentraedi who have renewed hostility against Earth- but what of the other elements you alluded to who might tip the enemy off coincidentally? What is the prospect of another Zentraedi operation crossing through this area of space?"

Coolidge considered the question carefully but quickly, "Remote in the extreme, Mr. President. All known areas of conflict between Zentraedi and the Invid are not only not in our galaxy- but not even on the same side of The Milky Way as the Sagittarian Arm."

"And how would this position affect our offensive options?", Valterven asked.

"Comparably to the way it hinders the enemy, Mr. President.", Coolidge said bluntly, "But from the defensive standpoint, as we're guarding from attack and preparing for our response- this location, even with its shortcomings, is desirable."

Valterven nodded in such a way as to suggest that he was not fully satisfied by the CNO's proposal, but accepted it as a legitimate and viable option barring revelation of a better one.

He added verbally though, "The time I am willing to allow our posture to be defensive will be limited. We have a smaller force than our enemy, true- but we also have the option to either hide or fight. The Earth does not have that luxury. Conflict is upon them, and whether it is today or tomorrow- every man, woman, and child that was left behind will have to contend with that conflict in one form or another. We have to begin thinking offensively so they are not carrying the fight alone."

"That's the intent, Mr. President.", Coolidge assured him.

"That intent must start to translate into action for it to have any meaning, Admiral- a topic we will discuss shortly- but first, we have another subject of some importance. We need to know who we are fighting- and I believe that General Breetai might have some insight into the answer to that question."

Valterven's words were by no means an accusation of the Military Chief of Staff who only a decade before had been the Zentraedi's most formidable warlord, but there was the distinct inference that he had knowledge that was not yet common.

Unaffected by the implied and clearly still in a mild state of fading shock, Breetai responded as his duty commanded.

"Mr. President", Breetai said steadily but cautiously, "I have no clues to who this Supreme General Krymina is-. I can only tell you what she is claiming to be, and by doing so explain the Zentraedi lore and superstitions she is hoping to capitalize upon."

"She claimed to be Te'Dak Tohl, which translated as best as it can be into English means, vengeful omnipotence. It is a parable- a Zentraedi urban legend, if you will- whispered back and forth between bunks in Warrior barracks for generations much like the way human children tell stories of ghosts or the boogeyman."

"The central and common theme of these stories always being that Warriors, units- fleets and armies as it is told- who do not perform their duty for The Robotech Masters or who hint of disobedience are at risk of incurring the wrath of the Te'Dak Tohl."

"I have myself long since dismissed these stories as nonsense fabricated to make the real threat and dangers of The Invid pale by comparison to those of an imaginary menace-. I still do. I believe that this Krymina is simply donning the garb of a phantasm to give her forces a psychological edge over us."

Valterven, in step with Breetai's reasoning but still confronted with the irrefutable facts of Earth's present circumstances was clearly not yet swayed.

"Yet here we are, General. With the passage of enough human generations, Nazis may eventually occupy the same place in the human psyche as the boogeyman, but this will make the reality of their having been no less real. Did not even the remotest possibility of these Te'Dak Tohl being real warrant at least the most minimal framework of a planned response?"

Breetai replied flatly but with respect, "We have no draft plans for responding to the attack of the boogeyman, or the resurrection of Hitler either, Mr. President. There is no preparing for every possible threat- there is only preparing as best as one can for the most likely. –He who attempts to defend everything, defends nothing."

"Point taken, General-.", Valterven conceded, "But you understand mine as well."

"I do.", Breetai said.

Breetai's expression became distant- removed from the moment- deeply thoughtful as he continued after a moment's pause.

"Who Krymina and her army claim to be is irrelevant. From our first engagement with them, we have already learned much. They are skilled and organized, but they are limited by the same shortcomings and capability gaps that affect all Zentraedi forces. In many ways, once the smoke of the image they wish to project clears, we are still dealing with Zentraedi."

"Begging your pardon, if I may, General-.", said Major General Charyece Clarke, the acting Commander of Military Intelligence who had assumed that role when her military escort detail had been successful in delivering her to the Tier 1 pick-up zone in Yellowstone City now almost a day before, and the detail assigned to her superior had not.

"But after-action reports that we're receiving from units that made the jump out, and from those that we're beginning to receive from units on Earth- all are reporting some shocking variations in this enemy from what we would call standard Zentraedi forces."

Breetai nodded, "Yes, I've read your initial reports and reviewed some of the base AARs they were founded upon. Intriguing, and certainly worthy of note- but hardly a cause to alter our grand strategy."

Valterven, picking up on this topic of interest that had made it to the level of the MCS but not yet to him, asked bluntly, "What variations is she speaking of, Breetai?"

Untroubled by elaborating, Breetai responded with an accounting of what was known, "We have numerous accounts of modified Zentraedi equipment- particularly of the Queadlunn-Rau combat suits-."

"Female power armor, that is, isn't it Breetai?", Valterven, being at least generally knowledgeable about things xeno-military.

"Correct, Mr. President- only these it seem are not piloted strictly by female warriors.", said Breetai, "Inspection of enemy casualties by trained battlefield assessment units in a half dozen regions report the same discoveries- mixed-gender units acting as highly effective shock and special operations units. Quadranos have always acted for female Zentraedi armies as shock troops, but the elements of mixed-gender units and the innovation of special operations units is a departure from traditional Zentraedi doctrine. This makes these details interesting and worthy of investigation, but not necessarily game-changing."

"But it could lend itself toward this General Krymina's claim of leading some Zentraedi super force though, could it not?", countered Valterven.

Breetai, clearly ready to leave the topic but obligated to remain so long as the civilian head of Government desired, responded patiently, "Mr. President, these details could mean any number of things. At this point, we have many more questions than we have answers. My recommendation is to focus on our capabilities, our strategy, and our response to our enemy's opening moves. As we've discovered these variations by examination of their battlefield dead- we can say with certainty that they are quite mortal and therefore governed by the same basic biological rules as we are, and therefore by extension are governed by the same rules of war."

Valterven removed a cigarette from the silver carrying case he had before him on the table and lit it- settling in for a discussion that he hoped would produce some direction for his approval.

"What rules of war are those in particular, General?"

"The most basic ones, Mr. President.", Breetai said confidently, "Supreme General Krymina, so we shall call her, has chosen a strategy of occupation. Even an outside force occupying the most successfully pacified region is still an outside force that must consider the area it has occupied and the indigenous population as hostile. This is especially true of Zentraedi forces, who because of the obvious physical size differences from the resident population of Earth cannot even make use of captured infrastructure or consumable resources. Everything that army will need to conduct a successful occupation campaign will have to be provided through their own logistics system. This is every piece of equipment and every bite of food for a massive force…"

CNO Admiral Coolidge volunteered, "War games and simulations pitting REF Fleet against even substantially larger Zentraedi forces consistently show a tendency for the Zentraedi commanders to neglect critical assets for long-term operations when presented with the temptation of a quick victory- even an insignificant one. If that philosophy applies with these Zentraedi, we may be able to lure them away from their supply vessels long enough to inflict some real damage on their logistics base. Assuming that we are able to find their supply vessels. The principles of hiding a large number of vessels in space I briefed earlier work equally for both sides of course."

Breetai gave a disapproving grunt of the kind that came with admission of one's own flaws.

"That philosophy, while widespread among Zentraedi commanders was by no means universal. I never subscribed to it myself except in rare and desperate circumstances. It is the product- a child, if you will- of two parents.- The enduring conflict with The Invid, and the almost limitless supply of resources provided to the Zentraedi by The Robotech Masters through the production capabilities of The Robotech Factories. Unfortunately the ability of the Factories to successfully perform their function has given legitimacy to the philosophy you spoke of, Admiral Coolidge."

"Why, after all, should you be concerned about personnel or material if they can be replaced almost as easily and as quickly as they are lost?", the MCS pontificated cynically, and as by way of demonstrating the costs of such thinking tapped the metal prosthetic that covered the right side of his face and head.

Breetai's disapproval of a paradigm that had irrefutably impacted his life showed more clearly as he continued with the hint and promise of his point.

"While I can promise that your raiding strategy will be a component of our larger plans, I think you would find it to be increasingly ineffective if it were to stand alone. The Robotech Factories would quickly replenish any supplies and personnel that we would destroy, and unless Supreme General Krymina is a great fool- which we must assume she is not- her forces would quickly come to more vigilantly guard those assets…"

"No, we must be shrewd in when in the sequence of dominos to fall we set that one."

"You sound as though you already have a plan formed, General Breetai.", President Valterven speculated hopefully.

If true, it would be the first "good" news he had heard in what felt now like an eternity.

"Exodus was never intended to be a final act, but only an opening one. We have several operational plans that can be modified quickly and augmented to quickly get ourselves moving in the right direction, Mr. President.", Breetai asserted, indeed having a handful of generic plans in mind that were worth exploring.

"But first, we have a critical operation to plan and execute- an imperative, if I may be so bold as to suggest something that must be done."

"You were appointed to your post and have held it for the insight you have in these matters, General Breetai.", Valterven said with sincerity and respect, "It would be foolish for me not to seek that advice or to argue military imparatives at a moment like this."

Breetai leaned forward and passed his earnest gaze over all who sat at the table for emphasis.

"We need to strike back- quickly. Not seeking a strategic or even a tactical victory mind you- but a moral one. We have to demonstrate to our people on Earth that they have not and will not be abandoned."

"We also have to demonstrate to Supreme General Krymina that she has not driven us from our home, and that she will have to fight to hold it. –After her challenge to me personally, I will be very interested to see her response."

"You're proposing we launch a Doolittle Raid-." Admiral Coolidge observed, adding enthusiastically, "I was hoping that might be where you were going with that, General."

"Bear-baiting?..", Valterven suggested, "A brutal and dangerous sport at its best, General. I agree with the notion of sending a defiant message to this enemy commander, but should we be making this a personal matter?"

Breetai became thoughtful again, replying, "Though I could not tell you why- I suspect strongly that this matter is already personal for her, Mr. President. What I wish to see is what portion of this attack is personal and what portion is pragmatic and calculated for a measurable gain."

"If the battle with me caries enough significance with Krymina, perhaps then it is something that we can us to our benefit…"

14 Km North of Brasilia

"One day's rations, fresh batteries in your electronics gear, and all of the ammo and water you can carry-.", Staff Sergeant Byerly reminded her Rangers as she stripped down her own combat rig of all that did not fall into those categories and began to fill the gaps with those that did.

"I want night vision systems and coms checked before we pull up stakes here. Silencers on your weapons, war paint on, and tape down your gear- I don't want to hear anything but the breeze through the grass while we're on the hump. We're on a creep `n peep and you can bet we're going to get close with the dittos headed back to Brasilia. Stealth is your friend."

Lieutenant Whilite was in the process of patting himself down to check for possible snag points on his armor or his gear harness- small details that could have dire consequences if a twig should be snapped at the wrong moment.

Byerly was simply passing on the orders he had given her to the Rangers of his platoon who would be joining the reconnaissance probe of Brasilia and Homestead- but her direction served as reminders to Whilite as well.

Whilite hoped that it wasn't evident how much of a reminder Byerly's words were.

This wasn't being green- Whilite had long since parted ways with practical inexperience. The Control Zone was an effective and mostly unforgiving schoolmaster in the applied lessons of war.

Whilite's mind was returning to the broader strokes of the mission that Captain Nguyen had set- a mission that he had announced he would be leading himself, which had elicited only the obligatory protests from his subordinates.

On the one hand, this was an incursion into enemy territory that had been friendly the day before for the purpose of identifying, gathering, and caching anything that Echo Company could make use of to sustain themselves while issues of resupply and relief were worked out.

It was also a mission to establish Echo Company's standing in the AOR.

Were there other RDF Army survivors?

If so, who were they and what was their condition?

Was Captain Nguyen still just a captain low on the totem pole of officers in the AOR or was he significantly closer to the top?

This mission was as much about getting Echo Company's bearings again as it was about securing supplies.

Whether Nguyen found himself still a subordinate or at the top of the chain of command, there were questions about applying Echo Company in the fluid AOR that needed addressing. Harass the enemy and disrupt his operations- certainly a valid, generic objective. Rangers, after all, were not idle creatures by nature.

It was the how of doing this in a measurable way that was yet to be seen and that gave Whilite pause.

First things first though.

As an instructor at Ranger school had put it many times- drilling it into the heads of his class- you had to first see where you stood in order to decide where you needed to go.

"El-Tee", Byerly said quietly, putting herself close enough to Whilite to speak at a whisper, "Doc Lancing asked to hitch on again- I told her no, though."

"Not enough work here?", Whilite laughed dryly.

"Just wants to be where she's the most useful, El-Tee- just like everybody else."

There was an abundance of volunteers for everything, Whilite had found- especially those wanting to join the probe mission back into Brasilia. No one wanted to sit by passively and wait to see what the fortunes of war brought.

Whilite had been forced to decline many such requests, but did so knowing that he would still have ample volunteers when they were needed.

"There are wounded here too.", Whilite reminded Byerly as though speaking to Lancing directly.

Byerly nodded, "Yeah, I told her that too. Cochran and Preston seem to be on the mend though- they're both able to see light and shadow now, says Doc."

"That's the best news I've heard all day.", Whilite said.

It was good news and a relief to Whilite. The two privates in question had lost their sight to the particle beam strike that had severed contact with Homestead, and had done God-only-knew what else.

While the two men had not ever been in any danger of being abandoned- Rangers never left a comrade behind- the prospects of having two sightless men to care for had promised to add additional challenges to an already difficult situation.

"Give her a firm and final no from me, Staff Sergeant.", Whilite instructed, stopping just short of making it an order, "Captain Nguyen already picked Craig from First Platoon to tie on as our medic. Besides- tell her that if this goes to pot, we might be in need of her services when we come tumbling back."

Byerly agreed with a simple bob of her head, choosing not to speak what she and Whilite were both thinking and what Lancing, given her significant training in the medic's MOS had to know as well.

Other than the possibility of wounds sustained by the members of the probe unit- there was not likely to be many in Brasilia who could benefit from a medic's ability to aide. Captain Nguyen had realistically set expectations for the probe- the likelihood of finding many survivors was low. The attempt still had to be made to find them.

Sadly, this mission was mostly about self-preservation.

Like survivors of a sunken ship in a lifeboat, Echo Company needed to inventory what was available to them to sustain themselves. That as much as anything would dictate to what level they could operate and for how long.

And they might not be the only ones looking.

The malcontents who had fled Brasilia the day before were on the move, returning now- and they had several hours head start. There was some question as to what exactly they intended to do with the now uncontested city, but it was reasonable to assume if not certain that some bright thinker in their ranks would have the thought of seizing whatever supplies could be salvaged from Homestead Base.

–Or maybe they wouldn't.

Byerly had astutely observed that the order of business for the malcontents might simply be to ensure that nothing remained at Homestead that could be used against them or the invading Zentraedi force. After all, the malcontents were no longer relegated to scavenging for sustenance- they had the whole Zentraedi war machine supporting them now.

This led to another disturbing observation Byerly had made-. The malcontents had not abandoned Brasilia, but rather had displaced before the attack.

Down to the warrior, they had known.

Still, whether the malcontents might go to Homestead to scavenge, or to mop-up it was crucial that the patchwork recon force from all platoons of Echo Company get there first and remain undetected. It would not take much of a skirmish to use up what little ammunition they carried, which also represented the bulk of what remained to Echo Company as a whole. They had just not set off into the field loaded to conduct prolonged battle without the possibility of resupply or extraction.

What a difference a single day made.

Whilite checked his watch and as he closed the nylon flap that prevented unwanted glint off the face, he said to Byerly, "It's about that time. Let's get our squad moving and get over to the CP. You know how I hate to be late to a shin-dig."

"Roger that, El-Tee.", Byerly said, shifting the weight on her rifle's strap on her shoulder.

The sun was still high, not far past its zenith, but a long, forced march still lay ahead that would put the Rangers at the outskirts of Brasilia after dark had fallen. Then the real work would begin and a clearer assessment of what at best was a bad situation could be made.

ASC Salvador Base

Gnerl Fighter Pods in easily a wing's strength broke away from a flight of six Re-Entry Transports and roared away to the east adding altitude as they went.

The transports lumbered in from the north, moving as they did in a slow, labored fashion over the captured micronian airfield to settle in the spaces that only minutes before had been occupied by six predecessors of the same type.

Once they had dropped their ramps and achieved the rapid deployment of the ground forces they carried, they too would depart to make room for the succeeding flight.

And then the process would repeat again-.

This exact repetitive exercise had been ongoing at the same tempo since before dawn, it showed no signs of dwindling, and gave every indication that it would continue until well after nightfall which was still hours away.

Action Commander Kevtok did not share the interest in this activity as was still clearly visible in his rank-counterpart, Action Commander Suvhlo whose barely contained grin marked him as a warrior at the initiation of an assignment, and not as Kevtok was- at its end.

The relief, borderline elation, of being surrounded again by Zentraedi in viable and combat-ready units and at not having to estimate the threat of aircraft as they passed over had not lasted as long as Kevtok had thought it might. Watching the steady deployment of mecha from the captured landing zone into the dense jungle that swallowed the endless stream of mecha and infantry voraciously had quickly left Kevtok feeling inert and restless.

The fact had not escaped the Serhot-Ran officer that his contribution to this moment was colossal- that his skill at improvisation and organization had enabled scenes similar to the one now boring him to take place all across vital points over two continents. He understood the magnitude of the achievement in facilitating the establishment of multiple- scores if not hundreds- of tactically advantageous footholds to be taken with only minimal struggle.

But the fact remained that those efforts were now relegated to the past, and Kevtok was already wanting the assignment of a new mission.

A popular Serhot-Ran axiom warned, Kevtok remembered: Stowed armor rusts.

With the approach of one of Suvhlo's lieutenants, his expression very intent, Kevtok felt a moment's hope that he carried news that would mean a call to action. Even before the sub-commander spoke though, it was clear that his business was not that dire and the ember that Kevtok had felt went dark and cold in the noticeably rising heat of the tropical day.

"Lord", the sub-commander said, dutifully making a clenched fist salute to his breast as he addressed his superior, "-There is an urgent communication from the flagship-."

Suvhlo nearly stumbled standing in place, "Supreme General Krymina's vessel?.. I will take the message in my Glaug-."

The sub-commander looked pensive as he quickly corrected, "Lord, my apologies- the communication link is not for you- it is for Action Commander Kevtok."

Suvhlo's expression was still soured as he looked to the Serhot-Ran officer, the inescapable bitterness of nearly grasping the pinnacle of honors while already in the midst of a monumental personal moment, only to have it snatched away in the same instant.

Kevtok took some pleasure in that, and at seeing that repulsive smirk Suvhlo had worn a moment earlier vanish from his face.

In honesty to his self though, Kevtok would have gladly traded both the com-link and what he was fairly certain would follow with Suvhlo to have command of the force that was continuing to deploy into the dense rain forest.

"I will take it in my combat suit.", Kevtok said much as a warrior might acknowledge a rebuke for a disciplinary infraction.

Some acts in operations had a direct and measurable outcome- an effect on the course of things.

Some acts' effects were less tangible, but at the same time no less real.

Lieutenant Moyrt, speaking for his part, preferred the direct route- a specific action with a specific, quantifiable outcome.

And while he had learned through experience to never speak for Lieutenant Hyra, he knew that she too preferred this means of achieving an end.

This world though- and perhaps only because they had remained so long- was a deviously subtle but effective instructor in the intricacies of war to pupils, such as Serhot-Ran who might otherwise have considered themselves masters.

It seemed that on this world, the immediately intangible results of an action carried with them a more powerful effect when measuring over a longer span of time.

The average norghil warrior- how many of his or her own kind had one seen fall in battle in their time out of the tube?

But the death of just one had been enough to incite a unified norghil uprising against the alien bonds that had held them.

Action Commander Kevtok had seen that potential and calculated the effect of the death of that norghil leader.

He had placed himself masterfully to direct the uprising that followed as well- but there was something more to the success of the long-odds strategy than even Kevtok could claim credit for.

It was something that had to be credited, absurd as it was, to the norghil themselves.

The uprising and its contributions to the invasion had been the sudden revitalization of the Warrior identity in the norghil.

It had been a revolt

As Te'Dak Tohl, it had been contrary, paradoxical to Moyrt's existence to fuel such insurrection in the expendable caste- because insurrection, as history had shown clearly in Supreme General Krymina's actions, had a way of taking a path of its own.

If the norghil could revolt against the micronian inhabitants of this world, they could- they would- eventually turn such a spirit of insubordination on those who they now saw as liberators.

But it could be counted upon that it would take the lesser caste some time to realize this for themselves.

Yes, this world was an instructor- even to the Te'Dak Tohl.

What Moyrt had learned was that the role of the Te'Dak Tohl was more than a manifestation of discipline for the norghil ranks. The Te'Dak Tohl were there to offset a genuine threat..

The norghil were a vital tool of convenience for now, but as they were proving their usefulness they were also demonstrating the threat inherent that they were.

The Te'Dak Tohl had uncaged a beast that for now was an ally, but was certain to not answer to their command forever.

"You're drifting-."

"What?"

Moyrt blinked, and realized instantly that Lieutenant Hyra had been dead-center on target. He had been drifting- but how could he not?

The mission had been executed down to the last implication of the lowest priority objective. And not just the mission that Action Commander Kevtok had devised for the previous night.

The mission had been successfully achieved. –The mission defined by Supreme General Krymina seasons ago now. Not the same mission that had been outlined, briefed, and studied aboard the Trendok 145 Robotech Factory to the point of detailed memorization, but the mission that had been modified and improvised since the surviving Serhot-Ran of the downed transport that had been built as base of operations for a surveillance and reconnaissance operation had discovered the quality of this world that made it desirable beyond being the location from which Zor's Battle Fortress would be retrieved.

After the preparation, the focus, the frustration, and the imaginative energy required to adapt and execute the mission- how could he not drift, if only for a moment.

"Me too.", Hyra admitted, knowing that they were out of earshot of the details of micronized norghil who were carting the bodies of slain micronians to the edge of a fresh blast crater to dump them in for disposal. The heat had not slackened overnight, and was rising again with the movement of the local star across the sky. The corpses were already starting to rot and their stench was saturating and fouling the stagnant air.

The norghil had taken it upon themselves to lay the bodies of their comrades in a separate crater without direction or seeking permission from either Moyrt or Hyra. Technically, this could have been seen as an infraction of conduct, but it was one that could be allowed to go without reprimand- a reward of sorts.

The norghil had after all performed with distinction in battle.

Their dead did not deserve the dishonor of having their ashes mixed with those of the micronians.

"When I get back, I am going to put this uniform into the first disposal tube I come across and then I'm going to go through the nearest cleansing station ten times. –And I'll probably still reek of this wretched jungle."

"And then what?", Moyrt asked, only understanding the words truly himself as they escaped his lips.

"Maybe a meal that won't cause intestinal distress?..", Hyra speculated, "Though, I do have to admit honestly between you and I, I will miss some of the fruits of the plants and trees here and some of the micronian food packets."

"Not what I meant.", Moyrt said, realizing that he too would find it hard to part with some of the simple and unexpected pleasures that had come with their time marooned on this world, "I mean, what do we do then? Training and exercises while the improved norghil grind the micronian population into ruin? In five days' time, there won't be a mission worthy of Serhot-Ran assignment left on this mud ball."

"Rumor has it that Breetai ran from the fight-.", Hyra suggested, "Maybe-."

"You've already dipped into the rumor stream?"

With a note of pride, Hyra replied, "I'm talented that way. There's your mission worthy of Serhot-Ran- and Krymina will go out after him… -And Zor's vessel of course."

Moyrt was clearly taking some solace in Hyra's words as he conceded, "She would have to, wouldn't she? Otherwise all of this would be for nothing."

"Nothing beyond principle.", Hyra agreed, "Don't exhaust yourself with worry, Moyrt- I'm sure there will be more assignments for the Serhot-Ran."

"-Maybe sooner than we think. This does not look good-.", Moyrt said.

Hyra did not initially understand Moyrt's comment but in following the direction of his gaze, found Action Commander Kevtok approaching them on foot. Any question or instruction he might have had for them could have as easily been conveyed over the convenience of a coms-channel, but he'd chosen to walk through the heat which had now become stifling.

Furthermore, his expression was dark- far darker than one that should have been worn by a commander whose unorthodox operational plan, using at best, questionable resources had just shown itself to be an overwhelming success should have been displaying.

This did not look good.

Moyrt and Hyra stiffened to attention, thumping their chests with a salute that was both obligatory and sincerely felt as the senior officer neared them.

"Lord-."

Unceremoniously, Kevtok said in a somber tone, "We've been recalled to Artoc for debriefing and to meet with Supreme General Krymina. The transport's coordinates have been sent already, and a shuttle from the ship that will ferry us will rally with us there. We will retrieve all reconnaissance and observation materiel that we've accumulated and then secure and sanitize the site before exfiltrating the area."

"Be ready to move out in five minutes."

"Yes, Lord.", both lieutenants said as one as a singular response of affirmation.

Kevtok turned to return to his Nacht Rau suit that he would use to make the short return trip to the non-flight-worthy Re-Entry Transport that despite the damage it had received had still served admirably as a base of operations.

Hyra, speaking out of turn with the familiarity that was often a by-product of time spent in the field where the strata of rank tended to dissolve, asked after Kevtok-.

"Lord- have we done something wrong?"

"No.", Kevtok replied, neither slowing his return pace to his combat suit nor even turning his head to speak back to his subordinates.

His voice was even darker, "No, we've done well."

UESS Gordon P. Samuels

"Attention all hands, attention all hands-.", said the voice over the ship's PA system, a hint of the woman's Dutch accent still coming through despite the low-fidelity qualities of the speakers, "Pressurization testing of sections 1-25-Port through 1-29-Port have been completed. Detailed fitters and electrical teams report to the Section Chief for work assignment. That is all."

Commander Lauren Devereaux peered ahead through the port forward viewport of the captain's bridge to the charred stretch of outer hull between frames 25 and 29 where a breech in the pressure hull had just been reported as repaired.

Somewhere below decks there were teams of ship fitters and electrician's mates navigating the corridors and companionways, moving toward the interior spaces of these sections. Several hours could be expected to be required to assess the damage done to ducts, wiring, fixtures, and equipment in the re-pressurized sections before work to make them functional began. With hard work and a little luck though, these spaces could be expected to be back in use within ten to fifteen hours.

Even if the Gordon P. Samuels was going nowhere, keeping the crew engaged fully kept their minds on readying the ship for when she would be sent again into harm's way, and prevented their minds from wandering to and lingering with thoughts of home and what was happening there.

-And the Gordon P. Samuels was going nowhere apparently.

For that matter, neither were the visible units and elements of The Fleet.

Ahead, on all points off the Samuels' bow, and out beyond the jetty slip to which she was moored stood the ships of the Fleet, representing most of the classes and configurations.

Idle.

Aboard every one of the vessels, Commander Devereaux knew there was a counterpart feeling the precise sense of confinement she was feeling, and asking the exact same questions that she asked herself.

When were mission orders coming?

Of all the vessels in view and of all their commanding officers, Devereaux felt a greater sympathy for SDF-3, and her Flag- Vice Admiral Hayes-Hunter.

The great ship, the most consciously dedicated merging of Terran design and Robotechnology had skulked in to spacedock some four hours before after the briefest set of trial runs and exercises in the short history of the Robotech Expeditionary Force.

Devereaux of course had been attending to the sewing-up of her own command's wounds, and was understandably preoccupied- but had heard that the flagship had fired her main battery for the first time. Initially SDF-3 had fired each of her two Reflex cannons independently, before stress-testing the supporting systems by firing both in salvo.

There were other ships of the Fleet that had comparable or greater size and armament- any of the refitted Zentraedi vessels that made up the bulk of the REF units being prime examples- but to know that SDF-3 was testing herself- limbering up for the fight, as it were- was an event of unspoken significance.

More even than the salvage of SDF-1 from a dead hulk less than a decade before, it was humankind's tossing of its hat into the galactic ring.

Commander Devereaux suspected she knew the frustration that Vice Admiral Hayes-Hunter was feeling now. She had met her on several occasions- a younger woman by several years- but with a tempered drive and intensity that Devereaux knew all too well.

Hayes-Hunter had probably been placated temporarily by the validation of her ship's systems and abilities, but it was a relief that was not unlike a single cigarette after a long, commercial flight subjected to "non-smoking" policy-.

When the craving for something more returned, it returned with a vengeance at having been patronized.

The "attention" tone sounded over the ship's PA system followed by the voice of a speaker that was different from that of a minute or so before.

"Captain, please contact the radio shack immediately-. Captain, please contact the radio shack immediately…"

Devereaux was within arm's length of the watch officer's chair at the forward end of the compartment, port side. As one of a dozen "default" call options, the commander found easily and selected the ship's communication center, buzzing the duty officer.

"Radio shack-."

"CO here.", Devereaux said, "What's the deal?"

"Com for you, Skipper-.", the ensign on watch whose voice Devereaux recognized said, professionally- yet somewhat puzzled, "Priority channel and encoded, squadron commander sending. –I didn't know they sent coded , priority messages in spacedock, Captain-."

Devereaux was silent for a moment; uncertain as to what she would find when she took the communication. She was eager to learn though.

"It's a new one on me. Squawk for the XO and have him meet me the CO's briefing room."

"Aye, Captain."

Lieutenant Commander Mitch Petersen was entering the modest-sized briefing room just under two minutes after he had been paged over the ship's PA. This was an impressive feat as he had been down four decks and forward eighteen frames of the conning tower at the time he had received the call.

Apparently he was either eager to discover what was worthy of communicating coded in dock, or the inspection of repair work was not holding with him an interest equal to the work's importance.

"-Any idea what this is about?", Petersen asked as the door slid shut behind him sealing the two senior officers and the conversation that they were about to have off from the rest of the ship.

"Not a clue.", Devereaux said, toggling on the multifunctional holographic viewscreen which appeared at the center of the briefing table, "-But knowing the way things work in Fleet, it's probably an advisory Intelligence that there's a possibility of heightened hostile Zentraedi activity."

"Their timing is improving.", Petersen pointed out.

The crest of the 91st Frigate Squadron flashed on the screen and was replaced by an orange field with the bolded words, "TOP SECRET", at the center.

This lasted for just a moment before it was replaced by an image of the squadron commander, Captain Fenton. A slender, balding man whose last traces of hair kept wreath-like at temple level was not known for mincing words and was not any less blunt on this occasion.

"Laure, Pete- how's the Samuels?"

Knowing Fenton to be one who respected brevity, Devereaux replied, "On the mend, sir. Sam won't win any beauty contests in the short run, but she'll rate fives across the board inside of ten hours."

"No bull?", Fenton asked.

"Like a dairy barn at milking time.", Devereaux affirmed.

Fenton swept his fingers over his angular jaw-line, a contemplative habit that both Devereaux and Petersen were familiar with. It often preceded revelation of something of importance or at least carefully guarded. As his fingers made two runs along the length of his jawbone, this promised to be both.

"I don't have details to give you yet, but I've just been briefed on a straw man for an operation that will be taking shape in the next thirty-six to forty-eight hours. Naval Operations is looking at staging a series of lightening, hit-and-run attacks on the Zentraedi elements occupying the Sol system."

"It carries the promise of intense action beyond the reach of support or aide. I was told to select three units from the squadron best qualified for such an assignment and put them up for nomination. Your name was at the top of my list, Lauren. Are you game?"

Devereaux replied without hesitation, "Naturally, sir. The Samuels will be ready."

"Ready in ten hours.", Fenton stipulated, "I'll be honest, Lauren- your tenacity is why you're getting this call- but Fleet's going to look at Samuels' condition as a liability. There are a lot of qualified skippers with ships that don't have a scratch on them."

Devereaux nodded her understanding but felt obliged to respond, "I like a pretty ship as much as the next CO, sir- but she's a fighting ship, and I can't see any excuse for not fighting her."

The slightest of grins appeared on Fenton's face, "And that's why you're on top of my list. Keep that attitude and have your ship on the top peg in ten hours, and I'll do my best to get you into the party."

"Much obliged, sir.", Devereaux said with genuine gratitude.

"Thank me after the magic has happened.", Fenton said, and then added, "And from this moment until you hear otherwise from me, your ship is on strict lockdown. No crew going aboard Walhalla, no personal communications between crew aboard your vessel and personnel aboard the station."

Petersen's face showed his shock, "Are we concerned about spies, sir?"

"Fenton out.", the squadron commander said before the image flickered to the classification screen and then the blue screen indicating a closed channel.

"This is promising.", Devereaux said as she shut down the viewscreen.

"I'm leaning more toward ominous, but our brains work differently and that's why we're a good team.", Petersen countered, "The paranoia about locking the ship down by quarantine protocols is an especially nice touch. We can't have the concept of an operation walking off the ship- even though you and I are the only ones who know about it right now."

"And we're going to keep it that way for right now, Pete.", Devereaux said in the way that let Petersen know he had received an order even though it had not been phrased as such from her, "At the risk of hubris, you know we're good in a fight. We're skilled, disciplined, and click when the pressure is on- we can contribute to this-. Whatever this is."

Petersen took the weight off of the bulkhead against which he'd been leaning, "I guess I'd better start putting the DCTs under the lash. We've got a deadline to meet now. I really wish you hadn't said ten hours."

Devereaux sighed, "I'm starting to wish I'd said eight. Oh well, unreasonable expectations are what COs are there for."

"And making it happen are what XOs are there for.", Petersen said, knowing his responsibilities in the arrangement, "- I was getting to popular with the crew anyway."

"You help them to shine, Pete- they love you for it deep down."

"We'll go with that answer."

The Panama Canal Joint Military Zone

Eyes instinctively turned skyward at the sound of artillery shells splitting the air high overhead, but for no practical reason. By the time that the sound had reached the swelling mass of personnel along the southern embankment of the Miraflores Locks, the salvo of 155mm shells had passed and at such great velocity and altitude that had an observer been looking overhead at exactly the right moment- they still would not have seen the relatively small shells in transit against the backdrop of the hazy, mid-morning sky.

Just prior to dawn, and before the batteries of 155s had begun engaging from fire bases south of The Panama Canal, those who had looked skyward had been treated to numerous salvos of rockets fired from the Multiple Launch Guided Rocket System batteries also south of the canal. With far greater reach than the 155mm artillery pieces, and five times the range of even the savage 16-inch rifles of the M.A.C. II "Monsters" that had joined the outgoing fusillade shortly after dawn- the MLGRS batteries had hurled unspeakable violence at a distant enemy with no more evidence of this activity to the observers below than the terribly dazzling sight of rocket burn-trails passing far above.

The enemy had been so far to the north from the southwestern lock of the canal that there had been no indication of the rockets even reaching the target area. Only faith in a well developed and tested weapon system gave the observers along the canal confidence that the rockets would rain their sub-munitions on the enemy with the intended and withering effect for which they had been designed.

The first real "sounds" of battle had come just after sunrise as the deep thunder of distant M.A.C. II long rifles rolled over the hills, followed seemingly as a response almost a minute after the gun reports by the reciprocal boom falling shot.

It had been after the passage of the first salvos of 16-inch projectiles that the first flights of ground attack aircraft- mostly the attack variants of the Adventurer II- had been seen moving hastily north, accompanied by Southern Cross fighters flying escort and protection duty.

Through the morning, repeated waves of attack aircraft had flown north- assumed by Nguyen to be the same aircraft after quick turn-around for fuel at their bases to the south. Each time though, almost unperceivable on the second overflight of the morning but irrefutable by the last- there had been fewer Adventurer IIs.

And later when ASC squadrons of Specters and their newest additions to the winged inventory, the Logans, had joined in running the circuit north- they too began to show signs of diminishing with each sortie.

There was no question as to the cause.

Aerial duels- or perhaps more appropriately, brawls- had ranged across the sky to the north and the south of the canal all morning. Too distant to make out the details, but leaving perfect visual records even after the melees had ended in the embodiment of well-formed, white contrails that twisted and wove through one another's paths like fraying white yarn unwound from its ball into unkempt heaps.

It was the same lingering evidence of dramatic flight that under other circumstances could have followed the exhilarated cheers of a crowd at an air show. Only now, along with the visual record of piloting skill, there were the intermingled signs of violence.

Oily smudges could also be seen in the tangle of vapor trails where an anonymous combatant had lost their particular fight. Often these blemishes on the otherwise pale blue sky had a twisting tendril of smoke spiraling down toward the horizon- sometimes there were many marking the fall of multiple pieces from a single, catastrophic end.

And while from the vantage point of the Miraflors Locks, it was impossible to tally the number of "friendly" vanquished versus the number of bandits- the contrails headed away in the direction from which the enemy could be expected to be found in numbers was always greater at the end of these air battles.

The ground beneath Second Lieutenant Khoa Nguyen's feet rippled in the way that he had come to know this morning and had been expecting. The interval between the passage of the shells overhead and the resulting tremors underfoot was shorter.

The distinct tremble pulsing through the earth rattled its way through the boot soles, entered the body through the bones in the feet, and migrated like palsy tremors through the ankles and knees with a dual destination and focal point of the lower spine and bladder.

Some of the terminal sensations may have been psychological though.

"That's damn close.", Lieutenant Colonel Morales said, stepping briefly out of the shade provided by one of his anti-aircraft unit's older, but still operationally formidable Mk-X "Raidar-X" Destroid.

Morales' unit, a mobile, composite anti-aircraft unit suited ideally for countering the non-existent Zentraedi air threat of twenty-four hours before had arrived at Miraflores Lock- South over two hours before and had set up shop. The topography and layout of the lock complex had quickly been surveyed by Morales and his officers, and the medium-to-short range anti-aircraft assets had been quickly emplaced.

The fact that Morales' self-propelled SAM launchers had expended their allotment of missiles before they had been ordered to displace from their position sixty kilometers to the south was not spoken of. The establishment of positions at the Miraflores Lock was still of some benefit as from a distance, enemy fighters would not know that the launch tubes atop the light-armored tracked chassis were empty and might therefore keep a wary distance- for a time.

Also, it gave the bulk of Morales' "duck hunters" something to do while others tasked with going to nearby posts in search of suitable munitions pursued their futile task.

Normally, a simple query in one of the logistician's applications supported by InfoLink would have provided Morales with the answer as to where he could find missiles for his launchers.

This was not a "normal" time though, and InfoLink was no longer fulfilling its promise of concise, accurate, and timely information at the War-Fighter's fingertips.

Lt Nguyen had experienced the gut-wrenching "disconnection" from InfoLink at about the same time as he had seen the first passing salvo of MLGRS rockets overhead.

After it had been confirmed that the wailing, "general alarm" sirens all along the Miraflores Lock Complex were not an exercise, and not sounding in error.

After the mad dash to the armory to draw body armor and a weapon.

-And after Nguyen had accounted for his subordinates and subsequently run out of things he immediately could think of to prepare- he had used his PICS interface to get a larger view of what was happening in the area.

He had quickly come to wish that he had not.

Through brief lapses in Infolink, when he later learned the supporting satellite constellation was faltering under attack, Nguyen had gotten glimpses of the developing situation in the region of The Panama Canal JMZ.

Indications of a large Zentraedi landing force making planetfall were immediately evident, distributed across half a dozen LZs roughly eighty kilometers south of the canal.

A smaller force was simultaneously putting boots and mecha on the ground a comparable distance to the north of the JMZ.

It did not take Tzung Tzu to infer their common objective as the southern group began to show indications of moving north, while the northern Zentraedi force began to press south.

Nguyen whose academic and MOS training had been that of an engineer and not a combatant like his father who commanded a Ranger company was able to see the reality of the moment and its implications in seconds.

The Panama Canal JMZ was being placed in the jaws of a massive, Zentraedi vice- and those jaws were slowly beginning to close.

The JMZ was far from defenseless, of course- The Panama Canal having been recognized as a "natural barrier" from almost the moment that millions of hostile aliens had become marooned on the continent to the south of it. Layered defenses of military bases, air fields, and fixed fire bases had been established in depth below the canal- but these all anticipated a possible surge from the south.

And with the Zentraedi pacification and domestication programs that had followed The Robotech War which had either destroyed or confiscated the vast bulk of alien war material- these defenses had not taken into account the possibility of substantial hostile air and mechanized forces moving against them

The thought of any substantial threat moving against The Panama Canal JMZ from the north was even more remote.

The sky at the horizon over the hill and treetops- not at all points, but predominantly- was showing a sootier, darker hue of the tropical blue of sky now.

In lulls of the noise of people and machines coming and going, Nguyen was also sure he could hear the distance-softened tenor of explosions and did his best to convince himself that it was his imagination.

The enemy was drawing nearer from both the northern and southern approaches.

Perhaps this was why InfoLink was dark in the JMZ. Not because of the failure of the satellite constellation supporting it- no, InfoLink had may levels of redundancy built into its "backbone". AWACS, JSTARS, and any number of EC4 bird variants could assume the burden of supporting InfoLink at a regional and even an AOR level. The fact that the attack aircraft headed north were flying at a low level- indicating external vectoring- versus flying higher in a "search and destroy" mode suggested that InfoLink was functioning at some level.

Just not for eyes whose "need to know" did not pass muster of whoever was now in command.

They didn't want all to be able to see and assess for themselves what was happening-. They didn't want the forces "holding" the JMZ to see and realize that they were cut off from both the north and south, and that as the RDF and ASC lines collapsed toward the center, the narrowing of land between Atlantic and Pacific that had been envisioned as a perfect "choke point" by planners in the event that a malcontent surge from the south would have to be repulsed was now forming a "kill box"- and not for the aliens.

Perhaps they were only restricting InfoLink access in the JMZ to those whom they knew could not, or would not be saved.

Nguyen tried to shrug off the sneaking suspicion that only festered in the absence of other information and of orders. Captain Stanton had made a point of appearing every thirty minutes or so to "check in", but had not issued new direction since roughly 0900 when he had ordered the hasty off-loading of construction equipment from the Tortuga Gorda- the contractor barge still moored to the southeastern pier just outside of the Miraflores Lock.

Great effort and skill had been required to load the barge with the "essential" equipment- a task that had taken the 433rd Engineers a touch over three hours, pre-dawn.

Off-loading had taken less than half that time, and would have required even less had mobile field hospital units not been trying to establish themselves aboard the barge even as it was being offloaded of construction equipment.

The flow of personnel, military, civilian contractors, and a large number of civilians unaffiliated in any way with the JMZ had begun at roughly the same time. A trickle at first, then a stream, and now a torrent that continued despite the fact that approaches to the canal had been closed off and were guarded now by heavily armed MP units.

There was not a panic- not yet. There was that penetrating, indefinable tension though that always could be felt in situations just before they plunged into chaos.

A vehicle horn sounded, warning those standing idly in the way of the land rover to move or suffer the consequences of inertia. It was a shrill, squeaky note belted out by the horn- incompatible it seemed to Nguyen with the robust construction and appearance of the six-wheeled vehicle it belonged to.

The rover seemed to turn directly toward the second lieutenant as it passed through a parted crowd of engineers from several units, but stopped several meters shy. As a captain threw himself out of the passenger seat into a jog, Nguyen realized that the occupants had been seeking out the AA unit commander, Morales.

"No dice, Colonel!", the captain reported with almost reproachable informality, "Not a missile to be had in thirty kliks, more or less- but something big is going down to the south of us."

Clearly frustrated by his subordinate's failure to procure the implements that would have made his unit relevant in the fight, Morales replied curtly, "I don't need you to tell me that something is going on to our south, Foster-."

"No, sir- begging your pardon-.", the captain interjected, "Light armor is moving east on the Autopista del Sur, sir- our light armor. MBPs and supporting mobile gun units, at least two regiments in strength and they're movin' like the devil's on their asses."

Nguyen saw- felt- the shift in the lieutenant colonel's mood as distinctly as one might feel the sweep of chilled air when entering a climate controlled room on a sweltering summer day.

Nguyen also knew why.

The Autopista del Sur had been a Corps of Engineers project also, built to allow a volume of vehicles and equipment to move parallel to the canal. It branched north near the meeting of the canal and the Atlantic at the Puente de las Americas where a bridge connected the southern bank to the northern.

It was entirely possible that these regiments of the RDF-modified Regults, the Military Battle Pods, and their supporting mobile gun units were rushing to the bridge to cross north in order to augment the more rapidly faltering northern defense.

There were many points along the canal though, just southeast of the Miraflores Lock even, where the MBPs could have easily waded to the northern shore to continue on to the fight without investing the time in needlessly seeking a bridge crossing.

The other possibility, Nguyen knew, was that the armored regiments were not headed for the bridge at all- but rather for the southern ports of the Puente de las Americas where LSTs could rapidly recover mecha of their size either from the wharves or even from the beaches.

LTC Morales had clearly understood both possibilities himself, and based on his sudden palor and general reaction had decided which he felt to be the more likely.

"-Where's Major Fulton?"

"Battery Six, sir- he was doing the rounds- inspecting.", the captain replied.

"Take your ride over to find him and tell him I want the word spread that we're raising dust in thirty."

"Yes sir-.", the captain said, puzzled somewhat by the mode of the communication, "Couldn't we just call him on the tac-band? He's got ears on, I'm sure."

Morales shook his head, "No-. I don't want any more of a tail than what's absolutely necessary. If some file clerk in the post HQ or a machinist in the motor pool gets wind that we're pulling up stakes, he'll tell four of his compadres, and they tell four of theirs, and then it gets out into the civilian population-. And before you can say Moses, we're leading an exodus."

The captain seemed hesitant for multiple reasons, Nguyen imagined, "Begging your pardon though, Colonel- isn't this abandoning our post without proper relief?"

Morales' expression soured indignantly at the question, "We were ordered to relocate to the Miraflores Lock, Captain. My orders said nothing about remaining here. If the war effort is best served by my death, they can shoot me later. I won't see my regiment slaughtered because we were left in place at a position that command saw fit to give up to the enemy while units that should be holding the line withdraw by sea-. You may feel free to stay if you like though, Captain."

"No, sir- I'll find the Major-."

Nguyen watched as the captain returned to his rover with greater haste than he had left it. A few words that could not be heard from the distance that separated Nguyen from the rover widened the driver's eyes and had him putting the vehicle into gear and departing for some other area of the lock complex with perceivable haste.

Now it was starting- the sequence of events by which things began to fall apart.

The AA unit commander, Morales turned suddenly- as though reversing himself might remove from sight the growing multitudes he had just elected to abandon for the chance of saving his unit.

Nguyen had forgotten with all that he had just heard how close he had been to the lieutenant colonel, and was reminded now only as Morales nearly stepped through him as he retreated from his decision. Nguyen could not tell whether it was sweat, of which all in the intense Panamanian sun were perspiring a profusion- or if possibly he was seeing signs of tears.

In either case, Morales' eyes fixed on Nguyen and without a word between them, he understood immediately what the junior officer had overheard.

The senior made no attempt to excuse himself, saying only, "If you have a means of mobility, you had better exercise it now Lieutenant-. Order will fail here soon, and then it will be too late to leave. Unless you intend to stay, go now."

With that, the lieutenant colonel named Morales pushed past Nguyen and vanished into the mix of milling uniforms calling for someone named Corning.

"Sergeant Gabe-!", Nguyen called, looking around for his senior NCO among the engineers who had collected- waiting for something for them to do.

Gabe, a powerfully built, but stubby man with a handy and useful air about him appeared as Nguyen was preparing to call a second time.

"Sir?", Gabe said motioning to the sun standing high in its path overhead, "-Sorry, I was trying to stay in the shade until we got word to- whatever."

Nguyen nodded his understanding, "Well, we just got it, Sergeant- sort of. I want you to take as many of our people as you need and go down to the rovers and 8/4s where we left them. Dump all the gear and make sure the fuel is topped off. Make it happen quickly, Sergeant. –And if anyone asks, you're preparing a detail to go south to help with the transport of wounded. Understood?"

Gabe, caught off guard, managed only, "Are we?"

"No. And where's Captain Stanton?..."

5 Km North of Brasilia

A bass, almost constant murmur like the sound of distant thunder washed in a constant flow over the open fields and former micronian dwelling areas as Re-Entry Transports deployed the units they were ferrying from orbiting landing ships and then departed.

The distinct shapes of Regults in all their forms, Nacht-Rau combat suits, the periodic Glaug Officer's Pod, and an increasing number of infantry in full combat gear would form up into units and move out. Most moved off into one cardinal direction or another and would quickly disappear into the rolling landscape despite their size which seemed exaggerated in comparison to the native micronian structures. Other traveled a shorter distance south toward Brasilia where they would join the garrison being assembled there.

The feet of thousands of infantry and mecha alike formed the prevailing thunder- a very real thunder of an origin that the micronians were fated to come to know and fear.

Sub-Lieutenant First Grade Athal had a different reaction to the sight of Zentraedi forces in movement- an emotional response he had not had since he had first breathed the smothering, sultry and rank air of this world.

He felt hope.

This was not the façade of hope that he had been obligated to wear and project for the benefit of the Warriors under his charge even as the micronians had rounded them up, starving, and robbed them of their natural size. It was not the blend of optimism and endurance that had promised the uncertain hope of "one day", when they would be warriors again as Fate had intended.

This was real hope.

Perhaps not today or tomorrow, but sometime within the foreseeable future- Athal and his Warriors would return to a ship of their saviors' fleet and would be restored to their true form. Familiar food, safe water, air that did not swarm with insects- and most importantly order would soon return.

Beyond those yearnings whose satisfaction he knew would be transitory, Athal desired to know the feel again of a proper weapon in his hands- not the crude approximations that the micronians seemed to settle for. He wanted to feel the controls of a Regult again, and the bounce of its step as it carried him into battle.

More than this though, he wanted to see the overconfidence and self-righteousness of the micronians dissolve as they cowered before the advance of thousands of similarly armed Zentraedi Warriors in swift-moving, assault formation.

Soon- but not today.

Today Athal and the four Warriors he had been charged with would patrol a specific area on the outskirts of Brasilia to monitor for the movement of micronians. Of specific concern were the micronian warriors whose positions had been battered indirectly by the orbital gunfire of the Fleet. While most of their garrisons were known by the report of probing operations to be either dead or dying from their minimal resistance to radiation, there was always the chance- even the probability- that some had survived and would attempt escape.

And while a handful of trained micronian combatants were hardly a source of concern when an entire Zentraedi action army would be landed by nightfall- a handful retreating in shambles was more easily dispatched than if they were allowed to rejoin their forces and rearm.

It was not as satisfying a form of victory as one won over an opponent who was suited for the fight, but Athal was willing to work his way gradually back to that sense of fulfillment.

-Assuming of course that he found himself in a combat unit in time to engage the micronians on equal footing.

So far, and for the better part of the day, there had been no contact with living micronians- with living anything for that matter. Athal and his warriors had come across a multitude of dead, indigenous creatures killed by the radiation of the particle beam attack and dead just long enough to begin to give off a rotting odor- but no micronians.

Athal suspected that the bodies- mostly of the scavenger type- would be found curled-up in the shelters that they thought afforded them protection once the population center of Brasilia had been reclaimed. There might even be an effort to collect the corpses for disposal- to offset the chances of allowing disease an opportunity to manifest itself in the ranks of the assembling Zentraedi garrison. This chance was a low order of probability though, and as far as Athal was concerned the micronians could and should be left to rot as an example.

Immediately though, the lack of content meant another few days of tedious sentry duty before a chance at escape.

Athal did not take his assignment lightly, however, and understood what a valuable asset micronian warriors could be to their forces if they were allowed to rejoin. For this reason, he attended to the execution of his mission with a Warrior's dedication, and was dedicated to assuring that the warriors in his squad did so as well.

The land Athal had been assigned to patrol until his relief arrived after nightfall was for the most part open and without significant cover- natural or artificial. As a result, he had determined a fixed observation position – something elevated- would allow he and his squad to be the most effective. He had already selected an abandoned structure just west of the ground that he and his warriors were now traversing as being that observation position.

First though, Athal was familiar enough with this area outside of Brasilia to be aware of an artificial ravine that had been created by the micronians to draw rainwater away from the city. If there were surviving micronian warriors attempting to flee Brasilia from this general area, this feature to the landscape would offer them the best chance of movement without risk of detection.

It was the cover that Athal would have sought had he been in their position and with their intent.

The ravine traveled through the depression between low-rolling hills just ahead and meandered north another hour's walk more or less where it terminated into an engineered collection pond.

Confident that his squad was farther north than a fleeing micronian could have possibly walked since the attack, Athal was comfortable in working south along the edge of the ravine that lay just ahead beyond a flanking stand of high grass to where the constructed gulley vanished underground into concrete pipe that spanned the rest of the distance into the city. The exercise would take another hour to an hour and a half perhaps, and it would be advisable to leave a pair of warriors at the pipe outlet to guard once the sweep was completed- but Athal felt he could be nestled into his observation post by the time that the afternoon shadows began to lengthen.

There was a soft hiss, like the quick, raspy exhale of breath that could have as easily been mistaken for a wisp of wind through dry grass- had Warrior Coscil's back not exploded at the spine between the shoulder blades.

With a noise that was the merging of a grunt and a gurgling wheeze, the warrior went over heavily with no more life in his body than the ground he plunged to face-long, and with a fist-sized entry wound where the fatal round had struck.

The squad was frozen for an interminable split-second as the blue-green spray of blowout blood, flesh pulp, and pulverized bone settled completely from the air.

A second round, this one announcing itself in passing with an equally subdued but shrill whistling struck Warrior Garron in the half turn he had begun to make to see what had happened to Coscil. The round struck him in the back, just beneath the shoulder, and tore a gaping wound that splintered the ribs nearly to where they joined the backbone.

There was no question in Athal's mind that he and his warriors were being hunted from afar by a micronian precision marksman, whose concealed position lay somewhere behind them. He had known dozens, scores of warriors who had fallen to these unseen cowards who refused to do battle face to face.

But also, Athal knew that in each instance the killer had made a clean escape, from retribution seeming to justify cowardice with practicality.

There was the drainage culvert though- half a dozen paces away at most, and even the best marksman could not take down Athal and all of his warriors in the time it would take them to reach it.

This was primarily why Athal had no confidence he would make it to this promise of cover alive.

The high grass running along the culvert parted just broadly enough to allow Athal to see the muzzle of a rifle emerge, and catch a glimpse of the blackened micronian face behind the raised sight panel.

Staff Sergeant Byerly's rifle whispered its single declaration of execution, making less noise than the SCAP round that struck the alien squarely in the center body mass and opened it with the explosive force of its shaped charge tip.

In the span of a second, four malcontents dropped to the ground lifeless and without a single shot fired in return.

"Four Tangos down.", Byerly whispered into her helmet mike as she confirmed that the only movement from the downed Zentraedi was the common, macabre death twitching.

"Harris, what's your SitRep?"

"Confirmed, four down plus two. Area is secure."

Byerly motioned to her Rangers who had melted into the grass at the warning from Sergeant Harris- Echo Company's sniper team spotter- at his warning from a rise 500 meters to the north that a malcontent patrol was approaching. From the moment he had seen them, his shooter, Corporal Fuller had been tracking their movements through the scope of his militarized Remington .350 Magnum rifle.

While the probe unit under Captain Nguyen's command had covered in the culvert, Harris had fed them constant updates on the position and movements of the malcontents- assuming tactical command of the situation and responsibility for the Rangers overall.

While Fuller could have easily neutralized the threat at any point, the preferable course of action had been to allow the Zentraedi to go about their business and hope that contact could be avoided. When the patrol had changed direction and had begun to head for the culvert by which the probe had been moving toward Brasilia- moving directly as chance would have it toward the probe itself- Harris had had little choice but to order the first and second shot.

The action from both the overwatch position and from Byerly's squad's position had been clean and without a single shot fired in return- but the optimal execution of the movement into Brasilia- stealthy with no sesidual evidence of passage- had been lost.

The best that could be hoped for now was to conceal the action and be gone before another patrol found the evidence of the probe's passage.

"Check them-.", Byerly instructed as the last body was dragged into the high grass. Normally, in open country like this Byerly would have worried that vultures ould find the bodies quickly and mark the location with their circling for all to see for kilometers around.

The fact that the probe had passed so many animals dead from radiation poisoning left her hopeful that any of the filthy winged scavengers who normally called the area home were amongst nature's casualty list- or that at least they would have such a buffet to choose from that they would be distracted from this area until the Rangers were long since departed.

"Clean.", came the report repeatedly as the bodies were checked for anything with intelligence or tactical value.

Byerly nodded before half-turning in her squatted posture to look down into the culvert and find Captain Nguyen and Lt Whilite staring back up at her.

"Nothing of value, sirs.", Byerly reported, "Just a patrol it looks like-. They just decided to walk the wrong way at the wrong time. Chances are good though that they'll be missed at some point. Figure though that this is still the best path to the city until we get more cover topside."

"Continue the movement then, Sergeant.", Captain Nguyen ordered, "I want to be within the city limits by sunset."

265