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.

13. Null

Chapter Twelve

Null

"The military is an interesting beast- it does truly horrific things by necessity to a person if you think about it. It's a processing plant of humanity, really. You take a Mk-1 human being –always young, reasonably healthy both mentally and physically, more or less smart and you feed `em into the processing chute. By necessity the military takes that Mk-1 human being and turns it into something it was not naturally intended to be. It teaches a person to harness and focus aggression and to overcome the natural tendency to be averse to killing. It teaches a person to push past physical pain and exhaustion. It even attempts to prepare one for the death of comrades, friends, and even one's self. –Jury's still out on the effectiveness of that one though. –And that's what rolls off the production line, more or less."

"–But they don't concede for a moment the possibility of defeat, they only ingrain in you how repugnant it is. Maybe it's considered too demoralizing a topic, I don't know-."

"-But then, there it is despite all that the military processing plant did to make you a warrior:"

"-A lifetime spent training to fight- nada."

"Superior equipment- zilch."

"Cutting edge command an weapon systems- a double-helping of roast dick."

"–You run all the right plays and still the scoreboard shows you down by twenty-four."

"And never a word said to you about what to do with that."

"Left to your own devices the Mk-1 human being comes back and you start going to your own places about that thing you wish you could have done just one more time. –One more anniversary with your wife. Seeing your kids turn one more year older. –But, oh shit don't even start thinking about your family when your mind is on this path because it's dark- way, way too dark…"

"Every son of a bitch who ever put on a uniform of one kind or another has probably had that moment where he entertains and romanticizes that possible, gallant last stand."

"it's something different when you're staring it in the face. It's horseshit, and suddenly you're neck deep in it."

"–And everything you give a damn about is sinking in it with you."

Lt Col Fred "Buster" Dalton

Executive Officer, 623rd "Knight Hawk" Squadron

ASC Durango Base, Mexico

The general din and commotion of the crowded tarmac was penetrated cleanly yet again by the air threat warning siren that rose quickly from a throaty growl to a piercing shriek before dropping away and repeating its tonal ascent again.

–And like the ten or twelve previous warnings of approaching danger from the air, it scarcely drew attention.

Winters was with the majority and barely took notice of the signal intended to save lives by providing personnel on the ground and in the open warning enough to find shelter or at least offer the ability to flatten themselves against the deck in the most minimal forms of cover possible. He, like the hundreds around him spanning the ranks and MOS disciplines widely hadn't the time for this particular drill again and instead gambled under the assumption that the same countermeasures that saved them previously would perform their miracles once again.

To the northern extreme of the airfield, beyond the paved and maintained lengths of runway, a smartly positioned, ASC mobile AA-gun acquired, tracked, and fired a dense barrage stream of laser bolts at the threat of which the alarm had warned. A Zentraedi missile, the specific type and its target uncertain was diced into burning fragments two kilometers out and far short of posing danger to anything but scrubby, desert vegetation in its demise.

The inner-most ring of ground-based air defense had served its purpose, the gun system and crew manning it alike.

Relieving as this was to all on the tarmac around Winters, and affirming of their collective decision not to heed the warning to cover- it spoke its own warning that the inner defensive ring of guns around the airfield were getting steadily increasing trade over the course of minutes.

As though any of the rapidly dwindling company of Durango Base needed explanation, the horizon farther north beyond where the AA-gun batteries stood sentry told the ominous and unfolding tale.

Parched desert landscape no longer stretched to a vanishing point in the horizon, but terminated much closer in the tapestry of deep greys and blacks that was the drifting smoke of intense battle. Battle that was approaching like wildfire on a rampage.

The combatting forces were not visible yet by the naked eye, and scarcely more than recognizable shapes of a non-natural form when observed through field glasses as Winters had foolishly done after pulling his fighter in for rearmament- but there was no ignoring the visible windfalls of their endeavors. –And, as this last, thwarted, symbolic missile attack had reminded all- they were within arm's reach of the battle grinding unstoppably in their direction.

Durango Base was not to be The Alamo however-.

Winters, Knight Hawk Squadron- in fact all of Colonel Mumuni's command with volunteer ASC AF elements to include Mathias's Crimson Cavaliers were still at Durango only because they had a role to play in covering the escape of the remaining personnel and whatever material could be saved in the process.

Winters hated Mathias in his stubborn, immediate, and automatic willingness to volunteer his now patchwork squadron to the rear guard effort. With his unit shot to pieces a bit at a time over the past days, Mathias at each point had shrugged it off with Yank resolve and plugged the holes as needed to stay in the fight.

Winters, still showing holes in his own command where friends had been a week earlier, was forced to spread the battle burden over fewer shoulders and now hated Mathias for making it difficult to hate him. The ASC-AF squadron commander's sins of the past now seemed hazy and indistinct, and even irrelevant in the world that now was.

Justice, it seemed, gave way to necessity- Winters needed Mathias now, as much as Mathias needed him- making them bedfellows whose coexistence let alone cooperation would have been unimaginable at the onset of this all.

It was strange how desperation worked.

Rushed spot-repairs coincided with the arming of what Valkyries, Logans, and Spectors remained- safety regulations to the contrary be damned. When completed, the ground crews would hurry to find transport on one in the shrinking pool of aircraft, choppers, or the least desirable option of land vehicles to make their escape from this base that days before had been undergoing a build-up to make it a desert Gibraltar.

Some of the endless variety of equipment, material, and supplies that had been rushed in to make that possible had already been moved on.

Much of it was either burning already- put to the torch by evacuating personnel- or waiting to be set alight so that no enemy could benefit or learn from its capture.

-Not that pausing to learn from captured material seemed to be the enemy's likely intent.

Lyle's indoctrinated Zentraedi subordinates, Ghurdyt, Aptur, and Kakim whom Winters now felt a mild degree of shame for once having threatened with his sidearm for the offense of their species affiliation were perhaps the most disquieting cue for their human counterparts surrounding them. Common to their kind, the three airmen specialists worked diligently at the tasks assigned to them even as every draping of the apocalypse was bearing down upon them- but not obliviously. As they manually bore and affixed missiles to the hard-point mounted rail systems of the squadron's Valkyries to speed the process of rearmament with the shortage of ordinance lift carts (a task accomplished that would have easily taken six human MOS-equivalents) they could be seen glancing briefly but frequently at the approach of battle from the north.

Their expressions were martially stoic, and their observance of their duty disciplined- they having been baptized and mired in battles far more perilous than what was known to most living humans. –But their eyes showed something that Winters had seldom seen in Zentraedi and that by extension made him feel more unsettled – fear.

It was not an unbridled or abject terror possessing the toiling aliens, but an ingrained, well-justified fear whose warning the wise were apt to heed.

There was no saving the day, that much was undeniable- but for his own part, Winters knew he would feel better when strapped in once again to a fully armed Valkyrie. –There were other considerations beside to be attended to first though.

Winters tossed his half-burned cigarette away violating his religious adherence to never wasting good nicotine as he clapped his hand onto Lyle's shoulder, pulling the plane captain out of his well-balanced direction of four separate activities. The senior NCO's face spoke of exhaustion and fatigue beyond the breaking point of most mortals kept barely in check only by the miracles of coffee and cigarettes, and stirred Winters to wondering whether he looked the same.

Like everyone else though, Lyle was saved by the constant edge of danger, and by being too busy to realize just how tired he was.

"-Yeah?..", Lyle asked, protocol for addressing an officer (already lax) having fallen completely by the wayside.

"-Are you ever going to pull your finger out and get my planes armed?"

Lyle, fortunately, was not too far gone to sense the nature of the prodding he was receiving- saying quite insubordinately, "Y're funny-. Ah been doin' my job, what `bout you?.."

Winters saw the tension loosen marginally in the senior NCO and changed direction-.

"We're going to be burning the sky in twenty minutes, I want you and your crew to be no more than five minutes behind us.", Winters yelled over cacophony of the tarmac into Lyle's ear, "I've got my foot in the door for that crate of yours, the tower'll wedge you into the queue as soon as your engines are lit. I've already talked to your pilots-."

Lyle looked alternately between the diminished squadron of Valkyries now drawing close to the end of servicing and the VC-33 cargo plane that Winters had not so affectionately referred to as a "crate", but that was critical for ferrying DeVeo's team, the bulk of small tools, and small component equipment on unit-level movements.

"-Naw, ain' gonna work, pard'-.", Lyle resolved motioning by way of explanation to a dozen or more Valkyries including two of Knight Hawk Squadron's first line birds that had been pushed off the valuable real estate of tarmac and into the scrub and sun-hardened earth beyond. All were still functional to one degree or another, but had incurred damage making them unfit to join in the fight that was now almost upon Durango's doorstep.

"-We gotta strip `em, `cause we're gonna need every workin' part we can squirrel off, `n…"

In the moment that he realized that Lyle was either too exhausted, or had been too head-down into performing his duties that had been coming at his team non-stop, or probably good parts of both Winters found a patience that would have surprised him under normal operating conditions.

"Forget them, Lyle-.", Winters said, shocking himself even as he spoke, "There will be plenty of Valkyries on the heap to scrounge from- wherever we're going-. I need the chaps who can do the scrounging and patching of what we've got left..."

Lyle broke eye contact like a boy told his ailing dog would have to be put down, his jaw tightened and the creases in his working man's face deepening in the effort of coping. Winters recognized the struggle consuming Lyle. With a mule's single-mindedness to their jobs, Lyle's team had doubled-down on their efforts, after having doubled-down already, after throwing all that they had into it. It was the Herculean effort of those who knew that with just a little more sweat and toil that the tide could be turned.

Winters felt a hint of that same stabbing pain to the heart- having to admit that everything up to this moment was for shit.

"There's a chap-.", the squadron leader said as he saw Lyle regain mastery of himself, "Pack up shop and get your people and what kit you can onto that crate. You know what to do with the lame birds."

"Yeah", Lyle resigned, "Ah'll geyt on that… `N in a hurry too."

The plane captain's gaze had shifted from his world immediately around them both on the tarmac, and to out over the reaching expanse of the airfield.

Winters looked out again on the sight that no pilot, that no one, wanted to see. A half dozen cargo and transport planes burned still in the heaps they had formed at points beyond the ends of the four principal runways. They had not been taken down all at once, or even in close succession- but they had all been downed by enemy fire that the inner perimeter AA-gun defenses had not intercepted successfully.

All powerful airframes, they had been left to burn as emergency response ground crews had been evacuated already. Their pilots had all known the dangers but had had little choice but to take their chances.

Winters found himself hoping bleakly that their crews had met a quick end and had not survived their crashes to perish in the flames that had followed.

"Hey, y're `bout set there, pard-.", Lyle said, following the great male tradition of burying emotion and changing the subject when it became too uncomfortable, "Best geyt in the saddle `n scoot."

Winters noticed that a dozen paces off, Mumuni, Dugan, Dalton, Mathias and a handful of other squadron leaders whose names he'd gotten in passing over the preceding twenty minutes gathered over a paper map spread across the hood of an idle and now empty motorized caisson. A major, younger than most of the squadron COs was at the gathering's center and clearly parceling out intel and mission details.

Winters mused darkly that Flight Ops had been reduced to this in a little over thirty-six hours. –But the operational situation did not warrant the cutting-edge technologies RDF pilots had become spoiled for and accustomed to. No high-resolution satellite imagery was needed to identify the enemy, nor 3D holographic renderings to convey the topography of where they were to be found- one only had to look north.

A traditional, paper map was appropriate, Winters decided as he went to join his peers.

Paper maps spared the briefing recipients the gory details of just how bad the operational situation truly was.

"-We're not sure what to make out of that except it's taking a little of the pressure off of us.", the Flight Ops major continued without pausing as he saw Winters wading into the cluster of officers.

Winters wedged himself into the group like a runt piglet fighting for a tit, in the process moving Dalton a little more forcefully than courtesy would have normally allowed for. He reasoned the imposition to be okay though because he was prominently sporting some impressive bruises from the little spat that he and Dalton had had between them.

"-Are we winning the war yet?", Winters asked, receiving a scowl in response from Mumuni and a generally unamused reaction from the group as a whole.

A change to tact was needed if gallows humor did not appeal to his company.

"What's easing pressure off of us and when do we get to feel it?", the late arrival asked noticing the cigarette hanging loosely from the corner of Dalton's mouth which he extracted long enough for two drags before putting it back into its place. The contents of a polystyrene coffee cup that may or may not have been Dalton's washed the pilfered smoke down nicely.

"This is the benefit of getting to meetings on time.", Colonel Mumuni chided with an appropriately scathing look cast over her sunglasses at Winters.

"Freddy's here.", Winters pointed out, pardoning himself in the process, "- He's the responsible one. I just look better in the uniform."

Dalton snorted, "Yeah, you wish-."

The major from Flight Ops, probably more eager to be done with his duty and be on his way than interested in sharing information already covered interceded for his own benefit making vague motions over the map to support his words.

"-I was saying, Colonel, that the enemy is bleeding frontal density from its northern spearhead. As far back as eighty, to a hundred kilometers they're detaching units whose only objective we can tell is to raze nearby towns and cities. –Nothing tactically or strategically significant- just violence for the sake of violence."

"Violence against civilians-.", Winters said distantly as though probing the depths of memory. Looking to Mathias across the map, he solicited, "-Any thoughts?"

Mathias raised the middle finger of his right hand in replay as he chewed the juicy, pulverized end of the short, stubby cigar he had found time to smoke in the brief stretch he'd had on ground.

"Yeah, well- aliens. Who knows what they're thinking?"

The major inserted himself again between two superiors for the hope of concluding his briefing, saying, "Speculation is that they're kicking us back for the embarrassment of last night. Fleet must have spanked `em sore and they're taking it out on us. –Or on the civilians, at least."

"What about west?", Winters asked, nodding at the same time his agreement in general to the major's statement, "The bastards spilled a river of their own blood trying to work in from the west. What are those buggers up to?"

The major gave a non-committal shrug, expounding, "Hard to say, sir. Per unit volume, they're splintering off fewer forces to go after civilians- but they still are showing the same diversion from strictly engaging us. –It's cutting their forward movement too, but we think that's because they don't wand to get into the path of the main force moving south."

"Of course not", Mathias agreed, explaining, "The fuckers have no qualms with running their own down if they get in the way. –Those boys to the west aren't afraid of goin' down in a fight, they just don't want it to be as fratricide casualties."

The major picked up his briefing again, "Whatever the reason, that's good, I suppose, because it's slowing them down."

Dalton's look at the major was hateful, but probably misdirected and reflecting his ire for the enemy, "Depends on whether you're a civilian or not, right?"

"-Not what I meant, sir.", the major defended, "No argument, it's horrific- but it's also giving us time to move our units into fallback positions where we might have otherwise lost them. We've gotta have an army and air force if we're going to fight another day."

Duggan of the 1017th Werewolves, abnormally quiet for his personality suddenly interjected, "Yeah, well war's hell, ain't it? I've got a good chunk of a squadron sittin' on the tarmac fully armed now, and a bunch'a mates with real itchy trigger fingers. Where d'ya need us, Major?.."

The major swept his hand over the lands west of Durango, saying, "The situation north is eroding at a measured, constant pace so we have an eye on that but Cavalry is more concerned with the potential from the dittoes to the west-."

"Cavalry?", Col Mumuni asked.

"The C2 JSTARS, ma'am, sorry- I was getting to that.", the major explained.

"Solid name- Cavalry.", Mumuni observed, "-Seems like they give the strong names where they have the least confidence."

"Probably short for 7th Cavalry…", Dalton muttered eliciting a confused expression from the West African colonel.

"I'll explain later.", Winters volunteered, really not wanting to delve into the possibilities at that moment, "Your briefing again, Major."

"Ground support, air intercept, and top cover coordinated through the AWACS, Monarch.", the major concluded, "Cut and dry in principle- tougher in execution."

"You're telling us?", Mumuni mused morbidly.

"Monarch- now that's a favorable talisman, eh Dingo?", Winters suggested.

"Yeah, God save the King- we're saved, Jack-O…"

The Flight Ops major seized control of his briefing again, anxious to conclude it.

"There's no illusion about holding ground, because we can't. What we can do, what we hope to do is to open ground between our retreating forces and the enemy's advance enough to break contact. For that purpose, fire bases are being set up a hundred kliks south along this line they're calling The Zacatecas Line-. Long range rocket batteries, heavy artillery, surface-to-surface missile batteries, autonomous UCAVs, -guys with slingshots-. Command is dumping everything into this area to turn the open ground into one big kill box in hopes of giving us the time to figure out what's next-."

"-Damn REF needs to get their asses back here and start getting into this fight or we don't have a lotta what's nexts left…", Mathias grumbled and in realizing that his cigar had extinguished itself on saliva saturated tobacco, tossed it aside.

"I don't care about what's next-.", Mumuni said, reasserting herself as senior officer and tactical commander in the group, "- I care about what's now. Let Command worry about what's next and we worry about doing our jobs now. We get through the next sortie, we get through today. I want all of my pilots present and accounted for when we're ready to start thinking about tomorrow."

His shock blunted by knowing that Mumuni was speaking to him only circumstantially, the major simply ended with, "That's what I have for you, ma'am. –Good luck to you all."

Colonel Mumuni released the Flight Ops officer with a returned salute to his that was perfect in form but had more of the feeling of a plea for clemency than as an obligation of protocol. He was gone quickly and with every bit of urgency that one would have expected from a man seeking a place aboard the last lifeboat on a sinking ship.

Just as well- the quicker that Durango Base emptied, the less time that viable combat units (of which the represented squadrons still qualified) would be required to engage in a battle that was becoming difficult to describe as anything but futile.

"On me!", Mumuni called to her subordinates before they had the chance to be distracted. Her expression was stern and sober, letting the company of officers know that what she was to say should be chiseled deeply into memory.

"-Okay, now the off the record part, everyone. We have to survive for the next fight, and the one after that, and the one after that- because there's going to be a lot of them before we can expect any kind of assistance from outside. No heroics- just by-the-book operations. –Is that clear enough for you, Jack?.."

Winters, unprepared to be singled out for reasons that escaped him, simply replied, "Heroics aren't in my job description, ma'am."

"Good answer.", Mumuni said, "Stick with that, all of you."

"-Question though…", Winters interjected to Mumuni's mild irritation.

"Yes?", came Mumuni's reply charged with the unspoken warning not to test her patience with "foxhole humor".

"-Going back to that scrap we saw in orbit this morning- what is the word on that?", Winters asked.

Mumuni shrugged unapologetically, "There is no official word-. Which means, that for you, me, and everyone here- it might as well have happened on Mars. We're it until we hear differently."

Duggan motioned with his hand for attention, not unlike a schoolboy hesitantly seeking permission to speak in class, "There wasn't mention of where we're going after this. I assume we're landing at some point-?..."

"We'll get word on that when the time comes.", Mumuni answered, "Meaning- no, no one is certain at this time."

"So don't get shot down-.", Dalton mused coldly, "It's a long walk to not sure where."

"Pretty much. –And Buster is right- don't get shot down. SAR units will technically be in operation, but you all know as well as I do the kind of odds they're running when they go into a deteriorating zone.", Mumuni warned, "So, now that we're all bloated with confidence, saddle up and strap in. Wheels up in fifteen. Good hunting to you all."

Mumuni had withdrawn quickly from the company of other officers to speak with another colonel of RDF affiliation whom Winters had not seen before. It was not unusual and he made nothing more of it than business that resided above his pay grade.

Dalton had stayed by him as the other pilots of Knight Hawk Squadron gathered with the meandering enthusiasm of those wanting to know their fate and expecting at best something unfavorable.

Vought, still tender and touchy about his ejection over the Sea of Cortez but who had re-entered the fight quickly nonetheless broke the silence that was beginning to border on enduring.

"What's the word, boss?"

Suddenly feeling the need for a cigarette, Winters went to gesture meaningfully to Dalton for the traditional and seldom repaid favor only to find his XO already had the pack out for him. A quick fag extraction from the pack and two strikes of Dalton's Zippo wheel and the squadron leader was in business.

"The word's buggerfest, Piglet.", Winters said, having concluded quietly to himself that "cluster-fuck" was probably in danger of being overused these past days.

"-And we're catching…", Vincenz surmised aloud.

"It comes with the glory and the chubby paycheck.", Cohen noted drolly as he waved a pack of cigarettes at Rechtberg who was particular to the same European brands of cancer that the Israeli pilot had developed a taste for.

"Gute gesundheit-.", Rechtberg mused to those around him, reverting to his native tongue.

Never one to be patient for bad news, Capt. Bruce from winters' own 2nd Section asked, "-No shit, Jack-. What's the deal?"

"Mixed bag stuff, Cisco-.", Winters shared without adornment, "Air cover, ground support, and.. –Speaking of shit, where's Scooter?"

"Deuce deployment.", Reaper, Phillips' element lead said, explaining it all.

"-Good Christ, what are you feeding him?..", Winters muttered under the distraction of sincere amazement, "-While we're waiting for our oracle's prophecy, Here's what I've got from Flight Ops. We're last out the door and shutting off the lights as we leave here. We're split between ground support for the JSTARS, Cavalry, and the AWACS for the OA, Monarch."

"Where're we heading next?", Pinball asked, showing signs of shaking off the immediate effects of Skinny's loss the day before.

"Haven't a clue.", Winters replied.

Sensing sagging morale, Dalton took the reins of the trickle-down briefing in progress, saying, "Somewhere south of a place called Zacatecas, about a hundred kliks south of here. Sounds like Command is building a shit-storm to rain on the dittos when they get there."

"-We're getting' a pretty steady drizzle here too-.", Cruz noted from the middle of the gathering, showing more interest in a bend he was seeing in his cigarette for the first time than in the information being conveyed.

Maj. Wayne said hopefully, "You just need to put your faith-"

Vice cut him short, "-Preacher, I swear that if you say- put your faith in The Lord- I'm gonna send you to meet Him-."

Wayne, unflustered, said simply, "There are worse places to end up."

"Yeah", Piglet joined in, "Like, Zesty Tacos – or whatever the shitty, little, scorpion-infested place we're headed to is called."

"Tacos don't sound bad right now-.", Rechtberg with his notoriously ironclad stomach said sincerely.

"-Actually, they don't- that's weird.", Cohen agreed with the German who was finishing off the cigarette he'd spotted him, "-But if we keep running south like this, we're gonna be cuddling with penguins for warmth by this time next week."

"-Shit…", Vice grumbled, "-My pop's black and from South Carolina, and my ma's Puerto Rican- I don't do cold."

"Amen, hombre-.", Cruz concurred.

"-Freddy, I think we're losing control here.", Winters observed as the squadron fractured into small group conversations and debate.

"-It's always like herding cats-.", Dalton griped to no one in particular before saying over the general murmur of conversations, "-And so, here's the story with the beer.."

Conversations stopped.

"-Yours again, Jack.", Dalton said relinquishing the governed attention of others.

"Thanks-.", Winters said, "-So, Mumuni made a point of saying that SAR was to be sketchy at best, so-."

Vice interjected, "-Jack?.."

Irritated, Winters acknowledged his wingman, "Yes, Vice?"

"-Roll back to the part about the beer again…"

"There is no beer."

"-Well, that was just cruel… You're a horrible person."

Winters noticed Scooter making his way back into the company of his squadronmates looking more knowing than those who had been present to disrupt the conveyance of information.

"-Short version, all: Kill dittos. Don't get shot down. –And we'll find out where we're having tea and bedding down later-. Scooter- what's the verdict?"

Major Phillips bore the expression of confusion as he replied, "-Mixed signals, Jack… Sorry."

Winters shook it off, "Well, even prize foxhounds have their days, don't they?.."

All activity on the tarmac paused, and all sounds were pierced by the sudden, dual reports of both the air threat siren and the scramble klaxon.

Seldom heard together, it was not difficult for any on the tarmac this day to imagine the connotations or the validity of sounding both warning calls at once.

From numerous points around Durango Base, mobile SAM batteries began to launch their weapons at seemingly all points of the sky in an arc spanning northwest to northeast. The threats triggering this response were too distant to be seen, but the outgoing volume of fire told all that those on the ground needed to know.

All about the tarmac the priority of activities changed like the switching of gears and the pace ramped up to just within the controlled side of the line between urgent and frenzied. Equipment and other obstacles surrounding aircraft was almost immediately in motion to clear a path to the runway apron so the fighters and attack aircraft might have a chance to get aloft.

The notion to order his pilots to their Valkyries struck Winters as he was presented with the last of their backsides as they rushed to the comply with the order not given. Winters found himself actually in trail to his subordinates, plunging through a swirling sea of bodies whose varied directions of flight tugged and pushed at him like a swimmer in a churning tide. Only the cluster of twin rudders standing above the human riptide bearing the 623rd's insignia served as a fixed reference point to fight toward.

As Winters reached Marilyn, there was only focused activity remaining around the small variety of warplanes on the tarmac. Weapons crews, short in number had enlisted anyone in passing who could follow simple directions and had impressed them into the sole task of removing the arming pins from missiles affixed to aircraft. Normally only done when the minute danger of an accidental firing was further reduced by the aircraft being away from others and structures- caution was understandably going by the wayside.

The mass of personnel was thinning as Winters made direct line-of-sight with his fighter- all had somewhere to be, and certainly most somewhere were better than in the midst of ordinance-laden fighters high on the enemy's target priority list. Lyle, however, was obliged for the moment to expose himself to that danger so long as the aircraft were on the ground.

As Winters saw Lyle, and Lyle, Winters on his sprinting approach to Marilyn- it was clear that Lyle had no desire to linger a second longer than needed. The plane captain tossed the pilot his helmet like a basketball player passing the ball to a teammate- which Winters caught and pulled clumsily on without breaking his stride.

"-Ah thought you said we had twenty minutes?!..", Lyle joked mercilessly as Winters took the extended crew ladder to the cockpit like a startled monkey going up a tree. A hand in the seat of his flight suit, normally a grotesque violation of "man-law", helped the pilot through the last reaching step over the rim of the cockpit and into the place he needed to be.

"You know how impatient I am.", Winters replied- Lyle's jab and attempt at untimely humor seeming to have come eons before..

Lyle's hands were a flurry of activity complementary to Winters' own as he leaned over the cockpit rim to connect the air line to the pilot's G-suit and then the fiber cables to the Neuro-Pilot interface system. Winters had his 5-point harnesses secure just as Lyle was ready to pull the straps snugly taut.

"Don't you have a bus to catch, or something?", Winters asked he attached his air mask to his helmet and checked the flow.

"Tryin' ta geyt there, but Ah'm havin' ta dress you-.", Lyle replied, snatching the safety pin out of the ejection seat's handle before tumbling down the crew ladder ungracefully, "Catchya on tha other side!.."

The plane captain was gone in his awkward, stubby-legged run through the sound of rising engine turbines before Winters could admonish him for a situationally poor choice of words.

The overwhelming noise of the tarmac spinning up was replaced as Winters' canopy securely sealed by the comms traffic on the tower frequency. Voices were jumbled over one another as pilots urgently sought their place in take-off order. All the while, the multiple voices of the base's air control tower could be heard granting permission to take-off upon request.

Officially, the order was a carte-blanch, "first come, first served" directive shifting burden of regulation safety practices to the pilots' shoulders.

Unofficially it was admission that a rush by many into the sky was safer than the danger of many aircraft caught on the ground by the yet unseen, but approaching enemy.

Winters was seeing the enemy though, and understood the tower's desperation to clear the field.

InfoLink was an insidious, double-edged sword sharing a comprehensive view of the battlespace both when the information consumer wanted the view, and also when they really did not. Winters was on the latter edge of the sword as his Valkyrie its powered-up, fully functional state to include his central, tactical MFD showing the breadth and depth of enemy activity all around as it was captured by the OA JSTARS and AWACS.

-And at a quick glimpse, correct or not, all activity seemed to be collapsing in on Durango Base.

It would be overrun, that much was certain. Perhaps not in the next hour, or even two- but by nightfall there would be Zentraedi Warriors standing exactly where he had been.

-But before that happened…

Ahead and to port on the tarmac, a pair of Vigilante Valkyries bounced on a cushion of their own redirected thrust, rising high enough to allow a zero-altitude, zero-airspeed conversion into Guardian configuration. The two, hybrid aircraft/robot vehicles were stationary for only moments before they rose unsteadily on the vectored thrust from their dually functional feet/thrusters. Laboring at first, they gained altitude and momentum steadily until they cleared the footprint of the tarmac.

Winters was certain it was Mumuni and her wingman- her patience to get into the fight equally lacking his own, and her willingness to do the rash to reach that end only slightly less pointed.

Others of the wing leader's immediate command followed her example quickly, converting into the odd-looking but VTOL-capable mode of the Valkyrie, and then lifting away by two ship element in a tenuous balance of masterful piloting and haste.

From the western portion of the tarmac, Dingo's Werewolves were taking to the sky in the same form- their prevailing style remaining true and showing them to be a notch or two more in the "rash" direction of the scale. –Yet in the chaos, there was an unpolished order to the evolving sortie.

Winters felt a healthy and vital buck from Marilyn as she rose enough to allow her multi-functional components to reconfigure into the quasi-anthropomorphic Guardian form. By chance, he caught a glimpse of where the horizon was obscured by the sooty smudge of battle smoke and in the more proximal sky above, the pale zip of friendly AA-gun batteries were blotting incoming enemy missiles from the air.

The squadron's assigned tactical frequency was comparatively quiet to the tower frequency, and Winters was grateful for that relative peace. It was going to be a long, grueling day before he would enjoy it again, he knew.

"Knight Hawks, vertical take-off by element. Regroup on me, west at angels six."

"-We're pretty heavy for this to be smart, Jack-.", Dalton warned dutifully, and he was right.

The question of thrust-to-weight was not so much the issue, Winters knew as he throttled up with Vice as the first element in the take-off sequence he had ordered. The weight of the fully-armed Guardians was not the solitary concern. It was the weight combined with the high center of gravity inherent to the Guardian, and the considerable addition of weight from ordinance added to that high center of gravity. A triple-redundant, fly-by-wire control system would make sure that the thrust output of the Guardian's main leg-thrusters was perfectly directed to maintain stability and control in stationary and sub-stall speed flight- but there was no arguing that the microprocessors were performing a feat no less impressive than balancing a billiard ball on the tip of a cue stick while dancing an Irish jig.

-And this, Winters knew as he got some airflow over Marilyn's wings and the control surfaces started to take hold, was to be the safest portion of his day.

As Durango Base shrank away, Winters view snuffed out any thought that he was cleanly escaping anything.

Conventional attack aircraft, Spectors on the tarmac that Knight Hawk Squadron had just left, and several squadrons of A-9C Adventurer IIs scattered between three separate hangar clusters were rolling toward the runway aprons and taxiways of the airfield.

While technically VTOL-capable, the Adventurer IIs did not benefit from the same thrust-to-weight ratio of the Valkyrie. With their sturdy wings' hard points loaded to capacity for ground support, the hearty, lumbering brutes were either at, or more likely just above the recommended maximum take-off weight. To join the fight, they needed runways and every meter of them to claw their way into the air.

The Spectors- more of them than Winters thought should have been possible given the ferocity of the fighting of the past few days- were no less perilously overweight and were already demonstrating a voracious appetite for runway as they conducted scramble take-offs by squadron section.

These were the appointed defenders though.

Many cargo aircraft of varying type and mostly aged vintage- also more than Winters had allowed himself to realize- were spread out across every other open span of concrete that would take their weight. Altitude was robbing Winters of detail, but he could still easily make out the general movement of ground vehicles and personnel on foot toward them looking now much like swarms of ants angrily assaulting the unattended leftovers of a picnic.

Lyle's team was somewhere in the mix down there still, along with other support crews from Edwards familiar to Winters, if only by face. The squadron commander could clearly pick out the ugly, ruggedly over-engineered, "flying boxcar" shape of the VC-33cargo plane that was ferry, workshop, and mobile barracks in many cases to Lyle's team. It would leave the tarmac in the same fashion the squadron's Valkyries had, unhindered by the Adventurer II's shortcomings of diminished VTOL abilities when contesting with heavy weight- that beast could do it.

What the forward-operating cargo aircraft could not do was outrun a Gnerl Fighter Pod, or outmaneuver it, fight it, or defend itself from it by any means more sophisticated than flares, foil chaff packets, and the wit and skill of its pilot.

This was true of all of the trusty, old pack mules assigned to haul out the last material and passengers from Durango- and who were wholly dependent on friendly fighter support, the "angels on their shoulders", for survival.

Winters had enough airspeed now to safely transform Marilyn back to Fighter configuration, and was grateful for the feeling of a fighter plane's embrace versus that of a robotic chicken designed for giant, sudden-death cockfighting. Technology was a splendid thing, but in some areas the traditional prevailed.

Below and starboard as Winters banked right to orbit in wait for his squadron as he had told them, he saw another section of four Spectors reach the north end of Runway 18 – Left, and turn their asses to the fight before beginning the full-throttle, afterburning charge down the runway a wing abreast.

A dark fleck caught the pilot's eye, traveling rapidly in a straight line almost due north to south. Not of the natural color pallet of the region, and by default almost certainly alien and hostile in origin, Winters recognized the object as a missile that had penetrated the AA-gun screen in the batteries' abundance of activity- and it was in chase of the still earthbound flight of Spectors.

The single weapon stood out clearly as it crossed from passing over earth, rock, and scrub to the uniform off-white of concrete. There was a moment where Winters was sure he knew the particular, accelerating Spector that the weapon had acquired as a target just before the missile went corkscrewing into a sharp right. It veered away and nosed in a quick drop to the earth- igniting both flammable and conventionally incombustible matter in a crudely uneven triangle across the deck, superheated to sun-hot temperatures by the plasma-napalm contents of the missile's warhead.

"Goshdarnit, they're trying to take out the runways so the last planes can't escape.", Preacher voiced the obvious in his nominal aversion to blasphemy, "Mobile ECM unit got it though-."

"Yeah, but next time the missile might not go wide-.", Dalton observed.

"Well, let's get them thinking defensively then-.", Winters suggested in a tone that said it was anything but suggestion.

Below, a mixed swarm of Aztecs and a lesser number of the new, ASC addition to the family- AJACS attack choppers raced over Durango like agitated dragonflies, heading north in search of a fight.

For his part, Winters thought they had their heads in the right place….

The sun was growing high and the passing of choppers overhead created distorted shadows of themselves that chased one another across the emptying tarmac through the hot wind of rotor-wash before vanishing as quickly as they had come.

Similarly, the Valkyries that had filled the sky above only moments before, shaking the heavens with the deep, roaring song of their engines were now gone too- off doing what terrible things were asked of them by officers with their eyes and minds on the goings-on in this part of the conflict afflicted world.

Lyle felt a keen separation pain from his babies now out on the job, and an emptiness at being able to do nothing more for them or their pilots.

He was left with only a single, solemn task before evacuating the folding ASC installation. –And for this duty, he was grateful to have less sentimentally attached assistants for whom he'd feign indifference to the work.

"One apiece-.", Lyle said to Ghurdyt, Aptur, and Kakim who had gathered around him to receive thermite demolition charges in preparation for the closest assignment they had seen to combat since they had worn the same uniform as the enemy now bearing down upon them.

Thinking of the complexity of the English language, especially when spoken with an Oklahoma flair added to the mix, Lyle clarified lest a potentially hazardous task become an extremely hazardous one, "-That's one'a these `n each cockpit. –Aptur, y're on the far end- them two. Kakim, y're the next… Ghurdyt, you then me on the last four. Ya got a sixty second fuze- Don't geyt distracted `n be `round when these things pop."

There were nods of understanding from the three Zentraedi specialists affirming their understanding of what was to be done, and what not to do. Lyle knew his subordinates to be ones acquainted with danger, and like so many of their kind they showed a sober respect for it- even if it was coincidental danger. It was a quality that the senior NCO wished the younger, human counterparts to these three could come ingrained with.

No matter now. He'd help save the world today, and worry about fixing it tomorrow.

Having given himself the two closest, inoperable Valkyries (rank and age having its privileges), Lyle reached Pinball's fighter that he could have saved with just a little more time sadly, and one that had come into theater with one of Dingo's boys at the controls. Dumbly they sat on the uneven ground off to the side of the tarmac – oblivious to the fate determined for them.

There was a sound of exploding ordinance- much closer to this portion of the base than Lyle had previously heard, and it was stating clearly that the job needed to be done quickly and that he and his team needed to be on their way. Others were risking their lives to guard their escape.

As Aptur, Ghurdyt, and Kakim reached points between the aircraft they'd been assigned to destroy, Lyle called out, "Okay, crack `em!.."

Pulling the short, lanyard trigger on the first charge, Lyle tossed it easily into the open cockpit of the Werewolves' Valkyrie. Turning, it was just another few steps, a pull, and a toss to place the charge in Ott's aircraft.

"Sorry sweetie-.", Lyle said backing away from both onto the tarmac, "Ah done the beat Ah could fer ya…."

Lyle's Zentraedi subordinates were thundering toward him at a full run, and for a moment the mechanic's periodic daydreams of a life as a professional football quarterback seemed about to be realized in the most unfortunate way. –But they passed him, heeding his warning better than he was demonstrating caution himself, and Lyle was immediately following them- but just not quite as fast…

Before them, the VC-33 was spinning up its engines, the pilot taking the retreat of the four from the Valkyries as a signal that they were through what needed doing.

A small flatbed utility truck bounced through the scrub brush between two hangars to Lyle's left and crossed the tarmac as though meaning to cut his team off from their means of escape. Lyle's throat tightened at the possibility, but it did not materialize as the truck stopped short of the cargo plane's tail and a pair of medics tumbled out of the cab.

"This your bird, Sergeant?", the senior of the two, a corporal, asked.

Lyle shrugged, seeing that the truck bed had six prone forms laying side to side on it along its length, "Not mine, pard'- Belongs to the taxpayers, `r so they tell me…"

"Works for me.", the corporal said, almost smiling at the humor, "The chopper we were gonna ride out on developed a problem-. Can we hitch a ride?"

Kakim, Ghurdyt, and Aptur had stopped to listen to the exchange and awaited direction from their superior.

"Yeah, sure.", Lyle agreed, "-Boys, let's give `em a hand-."

As the Zentraedi enlisted promptly began to gingerly see to the movement of the wounded from the truck to the plane, Lyle heard the ripple of sequential explosions behind him and the crackling of metal, and more importantly classified electronics systems.

He didn't feel the need to turn to look- he had more important things to see to right now….

Pánuco de Coronado

Berserker Company's Gen-1, Mk II Gladiators were every bit appropriately representative of the unit itself, as it was. Not one of the fifteen Berserkers that were still operational did not have at least one sensor component, motor, or actuator somewhere in their frame that did not come from another Gladiator no longer able to join the fight.

Frankenstein's Monsters had been Major Gerald Gunston III's first and lingering thought at seeing what dwindling support crews had been able to salvage of his company following their first true battle of this war. All of the company's functioning Gladiators showed too many "scars" of spot-welding to be counted where minor damage to their terilium/steel alloy hides had been repaired, and the majority had undergone life-extending mecha-limb transplants from Gladiators too far gone to be restored to combat readiness.

"Stitched together" as they appeared to be, Frankenstein's Monsters was a perfect descriptor for any of these hulking, metal juggernauts in Gunston's mind.

He only hoped that ugly bought him additional ruggedness, or at the least, no less.

Berserker Company was going to be counting on it.

Gunston's plan had come to him in what some Native American Tribes of The Great Plains might have called a "vision"- a true flash of inspiration, and frightfully complete in detail.

It had come to him as he had dozed while a maintenance team at ASC Durango had swapped out the battle-savaged left arm of his Gladiator for a nearly unscratched one from another Berserker Destroid- a three hour job that the crew had managed to trim down to sixty-seven minutes. The heat, the waning adrenaline, and of course the stress and fatigue of battle had made it that fitful, one-eye-open sort of sleep from which one was apt to jerk suddenly awake, and where the waking and the dream world wove themselves into one another.

All had been told that the dittos, likely as reciprocity for a REF Fleet counterattack of undetermined scale the night before, had elected to strike at militarily insignificant, civilian targets that fell in their path. This had been sold to the appalled officers and NCOs receiving the briefing as a fortuitous tactical error that was to be used at every opportunity in the field to break major contact with and distance Gemini forces from the enemy.

Perceptive in the disgust that the order had generated amongst the briefed, the colonel who had delivered the briefing and conveyed the standing order to not stand and fight had abrasively taken the following three minutes of the assembly delivering every threat under the sun for those who did not adhere to the edict of Command.

Gunston had not decided to abandon his "vision", but instead wait for the opportunity he was eerily certain would present itself to sell a plan (minus the details of its quasi-mystical origins) back to the higher links in his command chain.

Pánuco de Coronado was that opportunity.

Nestled in the concave space of the fishhook-like hills that rose sharply south and curved around east of the town into a ridgeline running more or less north, Pánuco de Coronado was ironically the perfect "bait" lying directly in the path of an alien force already inclined to nibble at such morsels. The town, by the topographical qualities of the landscape immediately around it was also ideal for the irregular patchwork force that Gunston had been provided to perform rear guard operations for the "strategically withdrawing", regional elements of The Gemini Coalition.

Gunston had sold the plan easier than he had dared to hope to the colonel who had expressly forbidden "heroic, sacrificial bastions" as they were futile invitations to an enemy literally made for just that sort of battle.

The fact that the colonel was also awaiting his place on one of the last transports leaving Durango, and the mixed success of other rear guard units providing "collapsing resistance" to the Zentraedi onslaught probably bore some influence on the decision.

Dismounted from his Gladiator, Major Gunston surveyed the enemy movement through field glasses at several kilometers distance northwest of Pánuco de Coronado from the highest point of the fishhook's curve to its southeast. A point unit had happened across this speck of civilian population in the arid region some twenty minutes before and from a safe distance had made their report to their superiors. Gunston had known of their approach well in advance, warned by the regional JSTARS- "Cavalry"- and had been positioned to observe the probe when the single Regult Scout with its excessively large, enhanced sensor eye and powerful, top-mounted radar array had arrived with its guarding squad of standard Regult Combat Pods.

What the Regult Scout had not detected with all of its additional gear, as evident now by the approach of combat units in force, was that the town of Pánuco de Coronado was vacant of civilian, human life and any animals that the townspeople had valued. This had not been of Gunston's doing fortunately, as even the hastiest of evacuations would have skewed his preparation timetable enough to have forfeited the town's eligibility for realization of his "vision".

Gunston had deployed his point unit to enter the town and warn its occupants of the approaching Zentraedi threat to the north. They had found the town abandoned, the people already wise to the danger from the channels of information from which civilians drew information on enemy threats when their own military was doing little to provide it besides the generic and pointless advisory to "shelter out of harm's way"- and doing less to offset the danger.

Arriving shortly after his first unit, Gunston had discovered the truth of the townspeople's mass vanishing. The town's mayor and the municipality's sheriff had witnessed the arrival of Gunston's probe and had come down from the ridgeline to the northeast of town to meet them. Through a sergeant under his command and what he gleaned through his own rusty, Spanish-language skills- Gunston came quickly to understand that the town of Pánuco de Coronado had begun preparing for the worst since the first day of the War, and for such a contingency. Not knowing what direction the War would sweep, but confident and prophetic that it would pass through rather than linger- the residents had quickly moved supplies, the makings of rudimentary shelter, and items of personal value to an encampment in the craggy hills near a natural spring adequate to sustain them.

Gunston had explained personally as much as he could, but mostly through his translating sergeant, the wise foresight of the town to its mayor, and of the very real danger they had likely saved themselves from. The mayor's pleasure at receiving this affirmation of a difficult decision reached by his town was blunted understandably by Gunston's statement of intent to use the evacuated town as he was planning.

Gunston had left the mayor and sheriff not in a state of agreement with his plan, but rather forced acceptance when he and the squad of Berserkers he was attached to had withdrawn to see to martial preparations.

-And now, Gunston's "vision" meshing with timing, circumstantial, and geographic opportunity like a key fitting into its intended lock- it was almost time to pick a fight.

Through his field glasses Gunston could see the texture of the dust-saturated air as it carried nearly due east on breath-like gusts of desert wind. The rise and fall of wind gave the rapidly approaching Regult units the appearance of bobbing in earth-tone fluid as the came at a pace that was neither overly hasty nor cautious. It was precisely what Gunston wanted to see- the smart execution of a routine action by a force expecting nothing but the routine.

"Scorpion One, Berserker One-.", Gunston called via handheld radio to the commanding lieutenant of an augmented, Cyclone "path finder" unit that had been attached to his company, "-Call it four minutes before all hell breaks loose-. Get any of your people who aren't southeast of the town's center already back and covering. My spotters will try to keep Arty outside of town's limits- but you know how it goes. Over."

"Copy Berserker One-.", came Lieutenant Niles' reply, her voice still striking Gunston as it had upon meeting her at a nameless FOB sixty kilometers southeast- her voice being one he would expect to hear on the other end of a customer service call rather than belonging to a CO of a unit with a particularly demanding MOS. Still, the sturdily built, fair-skinned black officer whose voice suggested roots somewhere on the Gulf Coast and her unit had done their job admirably.

JSTARS provided the "God's Eye" view of the world through InfoLink that allowed astute ground commanders to maneuver their units through moderately, to even heavily enemy-occupied spans of battlefield without making undesired contact in most cases. Pathfinder units, such as Niles' still had a place though- filling in the "blanks" that were not of an immediately tactical nature, but still of concern to a Destroid unit commander. JSTARS did not always apply the sensor-analytical effort to determining the quality of terrain to a unit on the move- especially when the airborne C2 and surveillance platform was charged with monitoring and coordinating the movement of hundreds of units. Pathfinders traversed an intended route first- providing the unit commander with that insight. The difference between packed, heat-backed dessert earth and softer sand was measured in the kilometers a Destroid unit like the Berserkers could travel in an hour over it. Moderately rocky ground appeared the same to a JSTARS as did broken ground, though the two terrain types were completely different to a Gladiator Mk II.

Pathfinders also provided the benefit of "Mk-1 eyeballs" forward, with trained and thinking brains attached. Intangible things that did not communicate through a display on a JSTARS had a better chance of not being missed by Cyclone-mounted troops. A keen eye could see signs of enemy passage or concealment that synthetic aperture radar with all of its abilities often missed in the same way that a sharp mind often perceived threats and tactical opportunities that a controller hundreds of kilometers away could not.

Niles' addition to Gunston's force was a sharp tactical edge he was grateful to have on a day when advantages for the home team were few and far between.

Lieutenant Niles enjoyed the luxury of complete, personal climate control clad in the CVR-3 exoskeletal armor suit that was standard gear to a Cyclone rider the way a rifle was to an infantryman. With the visor of her helmet swung up, she could feel the hot breath of the same light wind obscuring a clear view of the enemy's ranks as they closed and could tell that it would not have been any kind of relief for the heat.

The bell tower of the Parroquia de San Fermin Catholic Church in the northwestern quadrant of town was a choice observation position that Niles had been occupying for just over an hour- but one she was anxious to surrender before the shooting started. While it provided ideal cover from which to survey the field, the enemy would see in one of the town's highest points what any trained soldier would when shells began to rain down upon them- the best and likely position of a forward artillery spotter.

So long as the steel rain did not begin to fall in the next ninety seconds, Niles was confident she'd be well clear of the tower when the dittos decided its tactical significance. –But, she had already done from this perch all that she needed to in support of the Berserker CO's plan.

"-Your spotters have confirmed my range markers? Over."

"Marked and relayed back to supporting fire bases, Scorpion.", Berserker One assured the lieutenant, "-And unless you want eyeball proof, I'd seriously consider displacing from your OP, now. Over."

"Copy your last, Berserker One. Scorpion One, Oscar Tango Mike-. Over."

Niles was down two flights of narrow, steel stairs that felt hardly more substantial beneath shock-absorbing tread of her armor's sabatons than the original, rickety wood construction that there was still evidence of them replacing.

A narrow door allowed the Cyclone rider out into the church's vestibule where her lighter but still very combat-capable VR-038 cycle variant stood leaning to its kickstand beside her already mounted and waiting sergeant, Kim.

First Sergeant Kim Sung elicited a whine of potential energy from her own ride, gunning the throttle to the dual electric drive motors of her cycle as her officer mounted her own Cyclone. Speaking directly with her helmet visor raised, Kim's dulled, Southern California accent conflicted in Niles' mind with the NCO's near-stereotypical Korean features.

"We're heads-down and spread out, twelve blocks west, ma'am. Think that's good enough?"

"Sure", Niles grinned, "-Until we wade into them, of course."

Kim shook her head with cool enthusiasm of the element of the overall battle plan that LT Niles had offered up to the ranking officer Gunston, and which he'd agreed to with the willingness of one who would not be participating.

"-I would have been fine without you reminding me of that detail, Lieutenant, ma'am."

"Me too.", Niles agreed, slapping her helmet visor into place and sped her Cyclone out of the propped-open front doors of the church and down the front steps with enough speed and disregard that she could hear her grandmother, eight years deceased, chastising her for disrespecting a House of God.

A quick turn onto one of the main avenues gave the platoon leader and her senior NCO a direct shot into the town's center and beyond. Niles allowed Kim to assume the lead, realizing as her Cyclone ate up the street of cracked and poorly maintained concrete (still typical of many smaller population centers) that she was not certain of precisely where the first sergeant had positioned her unit. Even with limited InfoLink available through the JSTARS, her riders' IFF and position transponders were intentionally off- no one wanting to risk revealing the hastily laid trap before it could be effectively sprung.

As Kim braked slightly to make a sharp left into an older area of mixed residential and commercial construction whose narrower streets and alleyways promised concealment and movement for Cyclones that would be virtually unperceivable to the enemy until they were standing almost directly above, Niles caught a glimpse of the town's eastern reaches that they had left behind. She had lost direct line of sight on the enemy now from her lower vantage point, and in some ways that was worse. Over rooves of corrugated metal and tile, dirtying the lowest fringes of blue sky, the haze of rising dust could be seen announcing the enemy's approach.

Niles chose not to be intimidated though, despite the path of very real danger that she and her unit were in.

Let them come.

There was an unpleasant surprise in store for them.

Sub-Commander Nyrvad felt it again as he ordered the three detached companies of his light assault division whom he had elected to lead personally to slow to a standard assault speed of advance. It was the same unsettling sense of uselessly expended effort that he had felt on an attack on a similar, "prioritized target of opportunity" earlier this very day.

There too, his division had broken an excellent pace across open ground and toward a legitimate target worthy of Warriors' effort for an ill-defined and puzzling choice of targets whose value destroyed was at best questionable.

-Yet, the order had come through channels directly from Supreme General Krymina.

The exact phrasing of the order, though presumably Krymina's own words was no less perplexing with its unconventional tone:

Lay waste to all micronian population centers within reach of main target objectives.

Institute immediate and uniform decimation of all non-combatant micronians and allied norghil encountered.

Failure to comply with the mandate of this general order will carry the full weight and penalty of dereliction of Duty.

Reaction to the new general order had been common through its evolution since the directive's issuance:

First, a vengeful elation – more so from Te'Dak Tohl than the "improved" norghil who in Nyrvad's unsolicited opinion still tainted the purity of the Warriors' ranks. The order had opened the release valve on the pressure of shameful dishonor felt when word had spread rapidly through Warriors' talk of the lashing the orbiting Fleet had suffered at the hands of a miniscule micronian raiding force.

Officers, sub-officers, and down to the lowest Warrior grades had executed the new general order with zealous enthusiasm before the local alien star had risen fully clear of the horizon- and they had carried it out to excess.

Fate had decided against mercy for a population center whose designation Nyrvad neither knew nor cared to know and whose details of exact size and layout he had not bothered to commit to memory before carrying out Supreme General Krymina's will.

It had not been combat so much as a methodical driving of micronians from flimsy structures to serve as easy fodder for the assaulting Regults' particle beam cannons and fragmentation missiles.

The whole slaughter had been measured in minutes and had concluded without a single Warrior lost or injured. The micronian army had failed to materialize as Nyrvad had hoped and predicted they would to defend the non-combatants. –But this was a single engagement, and had been concluded so quickly as to prevent any reasonable expectation of interference by the micronian military.

It was after a second, and then a third such compliance with Supreme General Krymina's order that Nyrvad felt the opinion of his Warriors begin to shift. It was also when his opinion of the order began to shift also.

There was no gratification or glory in combat operations conducted against an enemy that could not fight back. By comparison, the endless, massive exercises that had preceded this campaign and that by their end had begun to feel mundane seemed invigorating.

Moreover though, it was the knowledge that the real enemy, the worthy opponent was within grasp had their hands not been preoccupied with mass execution that began to frustrate. They were within reach, but were slipping away.

These were the battles Nyrvad's Warriors were hungering for and being denied for their obligation to gun down hordes of scurrying beasts….

-Yet Duty demanded obedience to Supreme General Krymina through execution of her orders.

Even the ones that failed to sum up to practical sense.

This population center would be no different.

It would be several minutes of fury that would quicken the pulse of those Warriors participating, and then it would be on to the main purpose for being on this expanse of arid and unhospitable land. –With Fate's favor, Nyrvad and his warriors would perform this Duty and then be able to close and fix on enemies of substance to perform their true, honorable Duty.

The wind and the raised dust it carried caught the leading squads of Regults as they reached an earth-toned pool of water at the western boundary of the micronian population center that was both too large to pass for a pond and too small to qualify as a respectable lake.

As dust swirled into Nyrvad's field of view, clouding but not obscuring the population center beyond the great mud puddle, the sub-commander felt the great urge to halt. There was no mystery to this, as Nyrvad was able to identify instantly what gave him pause.

On the approach to the population center, there had been no indications of the micronian inhabitants the way there had been in the previous lop-sided assaults against the non-combatants. There had been no sudden turmoil and confusion spilling out into the streets, nor had there been the great wave of the panic sweeping back and away from Nyrvad's warriors like a receding tide.

There was no movement here at all, yet the streets of the population center still gave indications that the inhabitants had not fled. Fragile, non-combatant vehicles of numerous and inconsistent configurations that traveled on wheels still crouched on roadsides and within slots beside dwellings and the various other structures common to micronian daily life. –And with their vehicles here, if followed that the micronians were here as well.

Indicators spoke strongly to Nyrvad of an ambush lying in wait to be sprung at a moment of some authority's decision.

It had happened before, even in the brief timespan of this war. Micronians eager to shed their non-combatant social status in favor of a martial one had by report plotted and tricked their way into insignificant victories over small units of Warriors along the peripheries of major combat actions.

-But the triumphs had without exception come at the cost to the ambitious micronians. The boastful, "warrior's tales" speaking of these minor achievements were passed after their doing by Zentraedi Warriors- and more as cautionary tales to comrades than tribute to foolishly-brave, fallen adversaries.

Nyrvad knew that between the six Light Artillery Pods standard to the company he now commanded directly and the load carried by his fully-armed Glaug Officer's Pod, that they could stand off and level this unremarkable huddle of shelters and structures- but there was the thought of the fight still ahead where that same ordinance could be more appropriately expended.

Particle beam bolts were limitless, and the additional time to achieve the same effect as saturation missile fire would be negligible.

"Second Company, halt and form a firing line on me as center.", Nyrvad instructed calmly as he brought his Glaug to a gradual and easy stop with its feet just short of the unimpressive, muddied water body.

"Third and Fifth Companies, assume covering positions at the flanks."

Subordinate lieutenants and sub-lieutenants being clearly of the same mind, Nyrvad's order began to take corporal form rapidly as Regults fanned out into an irregular but serviceable line of mecha with space allowed between Regults for customary combat safety practice. Antenna-like particle beam cannons mounted to the anterior curve of each Regult's domed, main body lowered and tracked in unison to the commands of their pilot operators.

Nyrvad monitored the dispersal of his unit about him on his commander's display, chiding himself quietly at having approached the micronian settlement without significant thought as to his plan for attack. Even as the moment approached where a follow-on order would be expected, Nyrvad found himself noncommittal. He could easily flatten the population center without advancing another step- but verification that he had carried out his orders to cull the micronian population itself would be difficult to confirm. –He suspected strongly that with their vehicles present and no indications of panic within the town, that the micronians were likely somewhere in the hills surrounding their homes watching with interest.

The sub-commander resolved to simply sweep the town once and be done with it.

It was unlikely that anyone in the chain of command was following up on these actions with interest in verifying compliance with the new general order.

Nyrvad's Glaug's threat warning system sang out the warning it had made frequently in the short life of this campaign. It was the shrill warning of incoming projectile rounds whose trajectory promised a fall within dangerous proximity.

Nyrvad had scarcely recognized the warning for what it was when the ground thumped beneath the feet of his Glaug. As the first impact subsided, others rose- mingling and overlapping until the attack took on the feeling of an earthquake or some other destructive, natural event.

Unnecessary cries of warning followed, clogging the unit's tactical channel with interlacing, panicked shouts and the first screams that were cut short as the steel rain began to claim its first victims.

There were no surprises to Nyrvad as a half-turn of his Glaug brought into the 180̊ field of view afforded by the mecha's optics and wrap-around holographic viewscreen the unraveling of order and control in his unit around him. Standing columns of brown earth collapsed into themselves and onto the craters from the artillery shell explosions that had created them amidst the gruesome shower of limbs and components- some mechanical and others organic.

Survival assumed the commanding role and Regult units dissolved in the dash of individual mecha seeking to escape the storm of plunging micronian projectiles. Usurped in his billet and duties, the sub-commander found himself part of the flight from the center of the tempest whose phantom killers identified themselves in their diversity with their arrival.

Some shells went straight to ground at all points around now, heaving out the great pillars of earth like what Nyrvad had seen to his rear moments before. The sheer force of each explosion was enough to lift and tumble a Regult whose running path of escape it cut off. –While almost at the same moment Nyrvad saw to his extreme left another standard Combat Pod cleaved in half by a shell that then blew out the very ground giving the halved mecha footing.

Other shells split high above and rained showers of dreaded bomblets over entire areas. The sub-munitions ravaged broad spans of ground with their smaller blasts that were still effective in felling Regults with a single hit despite their diminutive size. –And far more Regults were caught in these cascades than downed by the larger shell types.

As a void opened in Nyrvad's once-cohesive unit, driving the leading companies into the population center and the trailing ones back out far beyond its recognizable outskirts- Nyrvad got a final parting glimpse behind. Regults seemed to be drowning in a churning boil of dust and smoke with some being thrown by the fall of artillery rounds and others vanishing into the murk after the flash-touch of sub-munitions.

The sub-commander formerly in command of the scattering of mecha found himself regretting his recent personal desire that his mandated attack on the population center be anything but an asymmetric match against non-combatants.

"Second Company advance and reconstitute in the population center!", Nyrvad ordered as he demonstrated the movement himself, the powerful legs of his Glaug carrying the mecha and its officer pilot through the outlying neighborhoods of the pueblo, crushing and splintering poorly constructed homes and structures in its path.

The order was a formality at this point though. Many Regults were in fact ahead of Nyrvad already, laying down a blaze of particle beam fire before them with great dramatic effect but little done in the way of countering the artillery attack.

Nyrvad knew the next minutes would be turmoil, but his voice had to be heard and heard as an authority of command.

"-Rear companies, withdraw west!-"

Sub-Commander Nyrvad firmly grasped the likelihood that with each running step of his Glaug he was moving deeper into the trap that his unseen enemy lad laid for him- but it was still preferable to the hail of indirect projectile fire behind that now seemed to roam with malevolent intelligence with the movement of his 3rd and 5th Companies. Even as Nyrvad kept the weapon arms of his combat pod leveled and clearing all that stood before him as he advanced, he was aware that the primary threat- the one posing real danger- was somewhere nearby directing the massacre of his Warriors.

He was in the hills- Nyrvad was certain of it as surely as he was certain that his enemy had been there biding his time and observing until the moment was optimal to order the commencement of fire.

Feeling the shock-blunted prods of disgrace that came with having been drawn into what he had even suspected to be an ambush, Nyrvad was still in possession of his senses enough to take stock of his immediate strengths and assets in order to strike back at his sly adversary.

In the scatter of his Regults, a handful of Light Artillery Pods had advanced with him into the population center to escape the immediate focus of the attack. Fate showed itself wiser than the Warriors it sometimes graced once again by revealing the purpose for which Nyrvad had catered to the whim of moving such overwhelming firepower forward against what at the time had been a target of little substance.

It had been for this moment, and if the enemy directing fire could not be provoked into showing himself, then Nyrvad was able to bring down the hills themselves.

Major Gunston watched through the orbiting UAV's "God's Eye" view the tidy formations of Zentraedi units that had marched flush up to the fringes of Pánuco de Coronado scatter as the first artillery salvo reached the end of its arc among and upon them. Along lines drawn by fall of shell, roughly half of the alien mecha that had moved forward moments before collapsed back toward the units that had been left lingering in the rear. The other crude half pressed forward into the limits of the town- advancing quickly and easily over dirt roads and shoddy, insubstantial dwellings that formed the bulk of the western fringes.

High-definition black and white video imagery captured the coarse texture of smoke and dust hurled upward in gnarled columns from the impact and explosion of shells. A Battle Pod, of no particular distinction from any of the others around it, was into the upper left corner of the UAV's transmitted field of view when a shell struck earth in its immediate wake. Already on the advance as fast as its mechanical legs could ambulate, the added force of the artillery shell's blast below its center of gravity sent it vaulting out of control with legs still kicking at ground that was no longer there to meet them.

Gunston found himself perversely amused by the plight of the tossed Regult, but full gratification only came as the major remembered the purpose was not his entertainment. As he remembered that the Regult was a real threat and not an ant under a magnifying glass to be toyed with, a descending cluster of anti-mecha sub-munitions rained down upon it. A quick succession of flashes followed as shaped charges did their work and put both mecha and pilot down.

The savaged wreck struck ground at the same moment as other sub-munitions from the same cluster that had killed the Regult and its pilot in flight- shrouding the tumbling mess in the dust of its own landing and of bomblet detonations.

Clone copies of the smashed Battle Pod with comrades of its slain pilot at their controls did not even give the indication of flinching in the face of the loss but rather continued in their individual, mad scrambles for footing on ground whose sky above was not raining sudden death. No consideration was shown for their own dead whom they treaded upon in their flight.

Major Erin Foxx, 17th Armored Cavalry Regiment, (ironically) F "Fox" Troop, stood half-exposed above the rim of her Cavalier main battle tank's commander's hatch studying the savagely serrated ridgeline just west of true north. Dust and smoke was beginning to climb skyward over the rim of the fishhook-shaped stretch of enclosing, rugged hills at the southern end of Pánuco de Coronado. It was visible testimony to the effects of the ongoing artillery attack that could still be felt through the motions and vibrations of the tank.

Foxx could have taken in the sight as clearly and easily through the electronic eyes of her commander's viewer, or even the video feed from the orbiting UAV above – but surveying the land was only part of the purpose for exposing herself to the remote but real possibility of harm.

Heat radiated off of the top deck of the Cavalier's gun turret as it did from all of the steel surfaces that had been awash in the intense Mexican sun all day, and Foxx wanted to feel the free movement of air for just a short time longer before buttoning-up inside of the rolling, cannon-wielding, armored Tandoori oven.

While the Cavalier's HEPA filtered, positive internal air pressure system that prevented the intrusion of NBC contaminants also provided cooled air to the environmental vests of the crew- it was still stifling within the iron beast in hot climates. Foxx, drenched in sweat, had often marveled at the constitution of "the old guys" who had first driven tanks into battle without any defense against a slow roast. For all of the advances in technology that had been applied to tank warfare, comfort still had lagged the others' significant, progressive curve.

Such was certainly not the case for the crews of MBP-2s, like those that trailed in near company's strength off of Foxx's left flank. These "modified" Battle Pods were completely environmentally controlled for their crew of three- though it was the armament they carried that Foxx knew would be their important attribute soon.

Boasting a top-mounted 140mm rail accelerated cannon, identical to the Cavalier's in every respect with the exception of being a more mechanically complex "auto-loader", and a secondary, coaxial 55mm gun system that was merely the GU-11 gun system in another skin- the MBP-2 had essentially taken up the mantle filled by "mobile guns" in the not-so-distant past. With its weapons load-out including either rocket or mini-missile pods and any of the tactical missiles in the arsenal carried externally on weapons sponsons, the MBP-2 had the ability to send great quantities of hurt downrange from the swift and stable platform of the venerable Regult.

The MBP-2, unlike Foxx's Cavalier, could not take as well as it could give though and the ACR major had seen evidence of that in half a dozen battles thus far in this very, very young war. Concentrated and coordinated particle beam fire that was the somewhat dated yet effective doctrine of Zentraedi light mecha squads and that was likely to only add "character" to a Cavalier's composite armored hide was still lethal to the MBP-2. Foxx had withdrawn her unit from contact with the enemy and returned to staging areas for spot field repairs to damage suffered from the same enemy forces that had chewed by weight of numbers through dozens of the MBP-2s and lighter MBP-1s.

No, the day of the main battle tank was not over- but it was still far from the most comfortable ride on the battlefield.

Foxx, as she dropped her butt into the commander's seat pulling her hatch closed as she went down, hoped better fortune for the MBP-2 crews in her company- many of them "replacements". The odds against Gunston's makeshift force were not so long as other battles that had been fought successfully in the past 48 hours, and they'd be hitting the dittos with the second surprise of direct contact before the first in the form of artillery had thawed.

It had the promise of working, and probably would.

There was nothing but the doing of it left to tell for sure.

"Berserker Actual, Fox One Actual.", Foxx said over secure channel as she noted her unit's position on her commander's display, "We'll be in the open in about ninety seconds. Start your push and we'll catch `em with the hook. Over."

"Fox, Berserker. Roger that. Oscar Tango Mike. Do not cross my forward line of fire. Over."

"Roger, Berserker. Over.", Foxx affirmed, having no intention of poking her nose into the crossfire that would be ensuing in minutes, "Hector One, Foxx One Actual- move those MBP-2s forward left of my line and stand by for my word for the right wheel turn. Let's make believers of these bastards-."

Sub-Commander Nyrvad felt the dull ache of indignity rise as the cusp of the artillery firestorm fell further behind his divided unit's advance. The indignation was partially because obedience to orders had set him at odds with instinct and experience that were now evidently correct in what they had vaguely warned.

He had been lulled into a trap.

Nyrvad was not going to allow his adversary, whomever that might be, to build upon the initial insult and injury inflicted though. He was done with foolishness for the day and would not be so gullible as to think that his enemy had finished springing his trap.

With the break in artillery fire that had ceased following the sub-commander's splinter force into the population center, Nyrvad had begun to change his mind on the likely position of the enemy. A spotter, directing the indirect fire may have been somewhere above in the hills- but the Zentraedi officer felt now that skirmishing elements of his force were somewhere with his mixed unit of Combat Pods amongst these flimsy examples of micronian construction. Why else would he not just drive Nyrvad's Warriors deeper into the pocket formed by the steep hills and grind them to nothing?

It was simply a matter of finding the enemy now, which Nyrvad looked forward to doing with far less delicacy than what his opponent had treated him to.

"Open fire on all structures.", Nyrvad ordered to the Regult-mounted warriors still in his immediate company, "Raze everything to ground- level it twice! -And prepare for close quarters action, this is like stumbling over an Invid tunnel complex. The enemy is in here…."

Nyrvad became aware in the act of issuing his order that his subordinates had already come to the same conclusion and had chosen the same course of action. By the time the sub-commander had begun a methodical sweep of impact cannon fire from the gun clusters at the ends of his Glaug's weapon arms, the Regults around him had already initiated similar action.

Homes, stores, social halls, cafes and cantinas- some very new and modern in their construction, and others old as the town itself were swept by energy fire designed to defeat objects of much greater substance. Combustible materials ignited as they were torn apart by particle beam bolts, creating a combined hail and rain storm of fire that fell back to earth lighting what else could be lit.

Looking like mechanical demons from Hell, the Zentraedi mecha waded forward through the rising flame that pooled about them and lapped with blazing tongues at their legs.

As Nyrvad had expected when the order of the day had been the slaughter of non-combatants, so was it now that the gratification of action was short-lived. While an awesome spectacle, the obliteration of vacant structures was as flimsy a reward as the buildings were themselves.

The sub-commander felt the first kicks of frustration as no concealed enemy emerged from the sweep of fire his Warriors were laying down before them to answer the challenge of battle. There was not even the clamor of a handful of foolish-brave micronians who might have lingered as the non-combatants fled to direct the artillery fire to its best effect.

Nyrvad was beginning to suspect he might have been tricked into a surprise attack whose countering was beyond his ability.

The explosion of the Regult to Nyrvad's left changed that.

The death of the sub-commander's ranking sub-lieutenant was as instantaneous as it had been certain. The main body mass of the mecha having been obliterated utterly into shards and fragments that scattered at lethal velocity and dinged horridly but harmlessly off of Nyrvad's own Glaug hull. The heavier blow of a dismembered, mechanical leg striking the Officer's Pod was the stimulus that caused Nyrvad to raise his mecha's additional measure of protection not enjoyed by Regults- the Glaug's energy shield.

Nyrvad's mecha staggered under the concussion of a mighty warhead's blast that surely would have ended the officer had the protective blister of energy not absorbed the brunt of the blast. The first missile of a salvo had found the officer with the clear intent of smashing the order of command at the top. The following missiles were less discriminating.

Regults around Nyrvad scattered under the initial assault, seeking what protection their sudden bursts of movement in random directions could provide them. For some Warriors it was a sign of Fate's favor as the ground that their mecha had vacated was ravaged by a hail of kinetic energy gun rounds. Others, not so favored met the same end as the first Regult destroyed and by the same means as self-guided Saber missiles adjusted for their movement and found them regardless of their attempts to evade.

Fate was making its selections outside of the population center turned kill zone as well. Sub-Commander Nyrvad, in the search for his present attackers, was aware of the abruptly ended cries of terror coming over open channels from Warriors not in his immediate company. Even in the waning intensity of the artillery barrage in the open, barren land beyond the shadows of the hills that overlooked the population center the damage being on Nyrvad's unit was constant. Icons marking Regults well below the sub-commander, but still under his charge winked out with each broad salvo that shook all.

A second Saber struck Nyrvad's Glaug's energy dome, absorbing much of the force of the shaped charge warhead in its weakening state. The sub-commander, warned by a systems-alert tone, knew the shield would provide little protection from a third such missile strike.

He had no intention of requiring the shield's protection.

The surviving Regults within Pánuco de Coronado, the Warriors at their controls no strangers to sudden and intense contact with an enemy, had shaken off the shock of surprise attack that even the most seasoned combatants were heir to and had already begun to respond appropriately. Forming improvised, loose assault squads by proximity to other surviving mecha, the Regults were already massing their fire in the direction in which Nyrvad had now reasoned his unknown opponent to be concealed- east and elevated on the jagged hillsides.

A Regult in the assault squad that Nyrvad was moving to join and command was struck by a storm of gunfire whose path was shown by the zip of incrementally spaced tracer rounds in the ammunition load-out. From their high firing trajectory, the gun shells sheered away the upper dome of the Regult's rounded body, gouging away the hull bit by bit and punching cleanly through the rear structures until all but the frontal assembly of the mecha and portions of its sides remained. As the ravaged machine began to topple into Nyrvad's path, his battle-heightened senses forced him to see into what little remained of the opened pilot's compartment where a Warrior's lower body was still harnessed at the gnawed waist into the seat, its legs and feet still shoed into the control pedals and a left arm severed above the elbow still gripping tightly the weapons control handle at the main console's side.

There was a particularly gruesome "give" as the remnants of the Regult collapsed structurally under the weight of Nyrvad's Glaug's right foot that shocked the sub-commander by causing him to cringe slightly at the sensation.

It was behind him though and as quickly forgotten as any step taken by his mecha.

Nyrvad's attention quickly found a new focus. At a glance, he now saw the enemy where his last guess had put them- high on the ridgeline and looking natural with their massive forms atop the steep ridgeline of sparsely vegetated stone.

The lumbering, anthropomorphic forms of Gladiators under the additional weight and bulk of their heavy combat rigs seemed to cling impossibly to the hillside with each descending footfall as their gun pods continued to blaze murderously and the periodic flash of missile or rocket launch lit the pods riding atop their shoulders.

Nyrvad dropped his now practically-useless shield that was preventing him from joining in the counterattack and began to direct measured bursts from his gun clusters back at the enemy with the additional, kinetic punch of shells fired from his Glaug's top-mounted autocannon.

Starburst showers of sparks erupted brilliantly from where energy bolts struck armor, piercing the veil of dust and dirt disturbed where other bolts struck natural form. Nyrvad was forced to wonder as the enemy waded into the fusillade whether he was foolishly confident in his mecha's ability to withstand sustained punishment, or if he was just foolish.

The sub-commander had come to learn over the past days that even the Te'Dak Tohl did not enjoy the diversity of specialized ordinance that the micronians enjoyed, but what they had was effective. Nyrvad chose to provide a reminder of this as he locked his missile targeting system, yet unused this day onto a random micronian mecha and firing a pair of weapons.

Nyrvad repeated his attack with unshaken, methodical execution before the burn of the first pair of missiles had left his field of view.

Major Gunston's heart was above the back of his throat now- it seeming certain that his back molars might bite into it if he were to clench his teeth. Each step downhill seemed to promise the ground would collapse beneath him as his Gladiator auto-stabilized, leaning back with each descending footfall to maximum angle. Even as the fusillade of particle beams from below gained accuracy and gouged repeatedly at the applique armor plates mounted to his already heavily armored Destroid, there was something about the thought of tumbling down this hillside incased in tons of steel that gave the officer the cold sweats.

It was fortunate that the engagement was keeping his brain too preoccupied for dire imagination to gain a foothold against the prevailing dire reality.

Earlier Gunston had easily spotted with field glasses the distinct form of a Glaug Officer's Pod that had elected to direct the incursion into the town below personally. A natural "priority target", Gunston had sent two Saber missiles into its tough energy shield himself before the alien had grown tired of being a passive target and had dropped the shield to return fire.

Now, with the lighter fire of the Regults around it supporting the Glaug as it led them in a practiced "fire and maneuver" attack, the wisdom of selecting the officer for prejudicial termination was clear.

–So was the consequence of failing to achieve it.

A heavy ion bolt struck the Gladiator thirty meters to Gunston's right about the mecha's heavily armored torso, but also in the externally mounted rocket pods- lighting one off. Feeling his own Gladiator sway slightly from the power of the explosion, he could not help but glance over in time to see a pair of missiles streak in and envelope the mecha in a wash of plasma napalm.

A scream-like squeal of faltering comms equipment being burned away by the ultra-hot gel (..that's what it was, Gunston assured himself, not a real scream..) filled the ears of all on the channel as the dissolving form of the Gladiator began to tumble downhill, disintegrating at the weakening joints as it went.

"What the fuck?!.."

Gunston recognized the voice that had blurted the common question over the same channel as the waning electronic wail as familiar, but could not place it as one of his Destroid Drivers.

What the fuck?-indeed though-.

The Mk-II Gladiator, despite some of its arguable obsolescence was still equipped with a top-mounted, automatic point-defense gun system and focused energy defense system within the mecha's "head" that should have easily dealt with a mere two-missile volley directed at it. The systems had all been checked and verified as functional before Berserker Company had trudged out of the FOB- as a matter of standard procedure before deploying on a combat op.

As Gunston's Gladiator's left foot found purchase on sun-hardened, rocky hillside and a second pair of missiles struck the Gladiator to the right of the one just felled- the cause of the defense systems' failure revealed itself to the major.

As the second Gladiator struck by missiles (standard, armor piercing warheads this time) lost its footing with the force of the blow and began the slide and tumble toward Pánuco de Coronado below, Gunston understood that the approach of the missiles was beneath the arc of the gun and focused energy defense systems. It was simply a physically-imposed shortcoming of otherwise reliable systems that the designers had not realized, or had deemed remote enough in probability as to be an acceptable risk.

While Gunston couldn't fault the designers as he in choosing this risky path of advance had missed the danger himself, the risk of the defense systems' shortcoming felt anything but acceptable.

Beyond the exclusion zone of "no man's land" created by the opening attack of artillery fire, Gunston could see that the Cavaliers and fleet-footed MBP-2s were actively engaging the main force of Zentraedi severed from their presumed commander in the town below. As the landscape grew cloudy with smoke and dust, and the exchange of fire built in intensity, it was clear that true advantage was up for either side to claim for their own.

The grappling for dominance on the field not decided, Gunston still did not have even a moment of thinking that he had bitten off more than his composite force could chew.

He had more cards to play.

"Cavalry, Berserker One-. Where the hell are my gunships?! Over!"

"Berserker, Cavalry-.", came the calm voice of the unseen JSTARS whose owner would have been inviting a jab to the chops had he been before Gunston, "Gunship flight is inbound from your east. ETA is three minutes. Over."

Gunston sensed a sudden shift in the attack he and the other Gladiators of his company were under. –Not a shift in intent, but rather the direction of their fire.

As Gunston witnessed two additional Gladiators go "down" – literally having the slopes beneath their feet shot away- he realized that his opponent had picked up keenly on the fundamental flaw in the Berserkers' advance.

"Cavalry, Berserker. Enemy strength is greater than anticipated. Requesting additional close air support! Over!"

"Berserker, Cavalry. Negative on that request. No additional air support is available at this time. Will prioritize you in the queue. Over."

Gunston's mind crafted something particularly profane and perverse to say about Cavalry and his mother, though returning fire on the Regults and single Glaug below asserted its precedence.

Streams of energy fire intense enough that it seemed possible to surf upon them streaked up at Gunston, buffeting his Gladiator's sturdy frame with multiple hits and-.

Gunston felt the firm footing of his Gladiator slip slightly, and then give out completely in a collapse of hillside.

His spine went icy and he found himself incapable of crying out as his heart now filled his mouth like a bite of the enemy too large to chew.

His inner voice was working fine and said all that needed to be said for him-.

Oh shit…..

There were certain satisfactions in combat that rose above the mire of terror and suffering that Sub-Commander Nyrvad had happened upon during his life of Service. The greatest being that of utter victory over an enemy- Invid, norghil, and as he was finding more recently- micronians. Ranking a close second on the list was seeing an enemy's cleverly devised plan fall apart around him; or, in this case to drop out from beneath his feet.

The ground was actually dropping (or more accurately being shot) out from under the enemy's feet resulting in the great wave of rock, earth, and flailing mecha cascading down the hillside toward the rear of the micronian population center- and moving too rapidly for the joy of the spectacle to last.

-And the battle was not won until it was surely won.

If the enemy felt his life to be nearing an inevitable end, there was no preventing him from calling down a storm of artillery fire upon himself, Nyrvad, and Nyrvad's Warriors.

"Full charge attack!.."

Regults of the front-line configurations, poised for the only sensible order that could be given exploded into the charge so swiftly as to leave the issuer and his Glaug momentarily behind. Civilian structures of both new and old construction exploded into a spray of timber, masonry, and metal and plastic forms before the reaching step of galloping, alien war machines at full charge.

Incredibly from the billowing clouds of cascaded dust and earth that were spreading like a sand-colored fog into the rear of the town there were signs of movement from great, hulking shapes. –The Destroids of Berserker Company, too stunned by their fall to realize they should be stunned were rising to meet the threat now plowing out its own path toward them.

What the residents of Pánuco de Coronado had expressed to Major Gunston as fearing the most; the reduction of a centuries-old home to generations being reduced to rubble was materializing. Before the advancing metal beasts and gun muzzles of feuding cousins in Robotechnology, there was no concern for the preservation of a proud heritage. Hand-cut paving stone plazas were pulverized beneath mass-manufactured feet of super-alloy while energy bolts and the kinetic movement of metal juggernauts leveled structures that had survived the worst that nature had thrown at them.

In the steady flow of aggression and fear coursing through him, Major Gunston felt genuine remorse as a building with the air of governmental use whose construction clearly preceded the advent of electricity folded easily in a merging storm of GU-11 and particle beam gunfire between his Gladiator and the Zentraedi Light Artillery Battle Pod circumstances had him squaring off against.

A single Saber missile could have ended the contest with the Regult, and without the collateral loss of historic architecture- but the brutal tumble from the top of the ridgeline had taken its toll on the Destroid's supplemental weapons systems. The shoulder mounted launchers whose tubes were near fully loaded would not respond to Gunston's commands.

The Regult bounding over the settling heap of ancient adobe that had been a building only moments ago was not as hindered. Flashes accompanied by small puffs of smoke from the alien mecha's top-mounted, side-to-side launcher pods announced missiles in flight.

The missiles- four in total- fanned out on diverging paths as the traveled toward Gunston rather than converging upon him. Stull functioning, his mecha's ECM system had begun to jam the missiles' seeker heads as soon as they had gone active, sending two of their number astray. The Gladiator's point-defense guns took down the remaining pair that its computer still deemed a possible threat.

Not as well equipped as his human adversary with defensive countermeasures, but seasoned enough to recognize them and their implications, the warrior at the controls of the Light Artillery Regult pressed the attack he hoped would secure victory for him. The alien pressed on toward the Gladiator under dual pulse-streams of particle beam bolts while firing his missiles "line of sight" and without use of the guidance systems that had proved to be easily defeated.

Gunston in turn resorted to technology that was nothing more than a series of improvements on Richard Gatling's initial concept over a century before, proving its enduring worth in its latest form of the GU-11 gun pod.

Still charging from behind a hail of his own energy weapons fire, the Regult's pilot must have falsely sensed impending triumph over the Gladiator whose dense applique and frontal armor showered a profusion of sparks from the punishment they were absorbing. –But visually impressive as it was, the damage did not prevent the Destroid from returning fire.

Now out in the open with no more buildings to cover behind, the Regult received a concentrated burst of 55mm shells that bored out much of the frontal armor leaving a gaping wound that was matched by several jagged exit points in the rear of the mecha'sbody.

As the Combat Pod went over heavily, the "wounds" on either side seemed to bleed as the mutilated organic mass that had been the alien pilot began to spill out with fluid ease

Numb and apathetic in the moment to the butchery he'd committed, Gunston found himself grateful that he would not be around later as the blistering heat brought on rot at an accelerated pace.

Sweat was now running steadily down Major Foxx's forehead and into her eyes, blurring her vision slightly in the accompaniment of a steady burning sensation that felt in keeping with the furnace-like interior temperature of her Cavalier. Raising the visor of her tactically integrated helmet, she wiped away the considerable accumulation directly above her eyebrows with an already saturated glove before snapping the visor back into place.

Seeing via the image projected into the visor's interior through the battle tank's commander's multi-optics system, it did not take much effort to find a target in the "tango-rich" environment. A Light Artillery Regult to the northwest was at just under 2,000 meters. Somehow the operational Area's JSTARS, "Cavalry", had failed to notice that the enemy force that had wandered into Berserker One's trap was only a fragment of a larger force just at the horizon. Perhaps it was an oversight on Cavalry's part to communicate the larger Zentraedi force nearby, or perhaps with multiple engagements under their supervision Cavalry had just missed the threat altogether.

It made no difference because in either case the results were the same and unfolding now. The enemy was moving up reinforcements in number, and not being so careless as to rush in to potential traps that Foxx knew were not actually there. They feared, Foxx suspected, presenting a dense movement that would be an appealing target for conventional or rocket artillery.

Shrewdly, the enemy had chosen to make their approach loosely and in small unit groupings- engaging selectively on their approach at what they considered "safe range".

A dozen or more Light Artillery Battle Pods had moved to within 4 kilometers initially to shower Fox Troop and MAJ Foxx's supporting MBP-2s with an assortment of short-range missiles causing some damage but much chaos. Beyond sight and further back within the enemy lines, "heavy artillery" units had joined shortly after their forward cousins, lobbing plasma napalm missiles into the thick of the melee with similar effect, but done with absolute impunity.

Thumbing the designator switch on her commander's joystick to identify the Light Artillery Battle Pod as her gunner's next target, Foxx continued to focus on the enemy she could reach.

The dittos were smart in wanting to stay just out of reach- but the problem for them in this was that they hadn't quite figured out the range to where a Cavalier's reach extended.

"Engage!"

Like the deadly, older cousin of the carnival teacup ride that Foxx remembered so fondly from childhood when there were still such things as carnivals common- the turret of her Cavalier whirled to bring the gun tube to bear on the target she had identified for the gunner. An additional moment for the enlisted specialist to refine his aim that a sniper would have admired, and the gun recoiled powerfully into the turret with the familiar, electric tingle to the skin and the percussive crack! of air molecules splitting before the path of a hypersonically accelerated HEAP round.

Foxx was witness to the hit- an unquestionable "kill" that burst the body of the Battle Pod at its seams grotesquely, and threw the twin, barrel-like missile launchers upwards from their articulated top-mount like a juggler's fumble.

The major had already been in enough battles in this War to have lost the sense of elation felt by novices at the felling of an opponent. The thinly worn reaction was further muted by the sight of three Regults whose comrade's fall had made them clearly visible to the armored cavalry troop commander.

-And behind these, within reach of her tank but of lesser priority by virtue of proximity were others. Many others.

Things were getting ready to start going bad, and unfortunately the troop commander knew it.

Foxx was in a live-fire shooting gallery whose abundance of targets exceeded without question the number of shots her quarter would buy. Her commander's display showed her MBP-2 Regult variants moving by sound, tactical maneuver with the purpose of guarding her tank unit's left flank- but tactical movement was ineffective when the guarding force exhausted its ordinance.

Their vastly superior Saber anti-mecha missiles would go first, followed by the less sophisticated but equally lethal Hydra rockets and rail gun ammunition. At that point, the MBP-2s would be on equal offensive footing with their standard Regult cousins, having only their inherited twin particle beam cannons to fall back upon. -And at this point they would also be significantly outnumbered by an enemy that still had the ability to strike from stand-off distance with their Light and Heavy Artillery Regults.

Whichever of a hundred ways it played out, it was a massacre in the making if contact was not broken with the enemy while the RDF-Army force still held the upper hand.

Major Foxx felt that most central urge common to humans, felt as strongly by the brave and cowardly alike- the urge to survive. Training and commitment to the mission would keep her, her troop, and her supporting MBP-2s fighting to the end if they were forced to –but this did not feel like the battle worth dying for.

"Berserker One, Fox One-. Conditions are growing toward unstable-."

Major Gunston was hearing his counterpart Major Foxx quite clearly despite the circumstances, and understanding what she meant to convey with greater clarity than she understood. The Glaug Officer's Pod that Gunston had intentionally positioned himself to confront was proving to be more cunning and resilient at close the close-range shootout than the major had anticipated.

Clearly there was an experienced warrior at the controls and not just one of a higher rank. The town, in the short span of the battle, had long since lost any buildings with height and substance enough for a Glaug to use as effective cover. –But the alien was clearly studying the topography of ruin and rubble and was using it to his best advantage, and he was not alone.

Two standard Regult Combat Pods shadowed their commander in the lee of fire created by the Glaug's shield that had reconstituted somewhat with the short reprieve it had been given from punishment. Moving almost as one, the three Zentraedi mecha moved from point to point over the battlefield of ruin, choosing the best positions for attack.

When one or the other standard Regult would step out to press the attack on Gunston's increasingly savaged Gladiator, eliciting a response from the Destroid Driver, the Glaug would drop its shield long enough to fire a short burst of kinetic rounds from its top-mounted autocannon.

Gunston had fallen for the tag-team, "bait and switch" only twice, as evident by the sparking arm nub where the Glaug's left impact cannon cluster used to join the limb- but his Destroid's thick, armored hide was developing thin patches too. -And the short burst from the Gladiator's GU-11 that had taken the Glaug's left gun cluster had been a "trade" in wounds. Gunston's gun pod had suffered damage in the exchange and had been reduced to functioning in single-fire mode only.

While the aliens were sly and had destroyed another Berserker Gladiator with the same tricks, there had been four Regults in the Glaug's company then and Gunston's quick study of the game had brought the odds down to their current level.

There was no outsmarting of what was happening on the open field outside of town though. If Major Gunston had not been aware of it from the tactical situation being shown on his commander's display, then Major Foxx's warning would have provided him with the proper perspective.

It had been a good plan, Gunston reminded himself.

-In concept anyway.

However the situation had evolved in a way that could not have been predicted, and there was only one responsible course of action to be taken.

"Fox Actual, Berserker Actual-. I'm calling it. Break contact with what forces you can, and get your people the hell out!.. This whole damn thing is going south, quick…."

Gunston was scarcely done issuing his order to retreat before he received the reply he expected from his armored cavalry counterpart, MAJ Foxx.

"-Berserker Actual, negative. We'll withdraw once we've opened a path for your people too. We'll wheel right and roll right up to you if we have to. Over."

Gunston, not wholly invested in the idea of martyrdom and willing to entertain survival met Foxx half way, "Fox Actual- do what you can as you pass!.. Don't trade your hides for ous! Over."

"Roger that, Berserker. –Just get ready to move on the void we open!"

Gunston's unequally divided attention was drawn entirely again into the sphere of combat immediately around him as a third Regult charged up from the rear lines through the thickening smoke and rising flame that was the battlespace. The major's instinctual reaction of drawing down and firing upon the newcomer, shot by single shot was made before he could think better of it. Gunston fired off three 55mm rounds, one panicked but the other two controlled, grouped, and penetrating through the center mass of the late arrival to the fight before the proximal trio of enemies grasped at their opportunity.

The two standard Regults sidestepped swiftly out to either side and from behind the Glaug's protection as the officer's mecha dropped its shield and joined with its subordinates in firing on the single Gladiator.

Gunston felt the jolt of his mecha's GU-11 taking a direct hit distinctly over the numerous others that pelted the Gladiator. The gun pod disintegrated midway through the length of the barrels leaving a gnawed, mangled mess of twisted and smoldering metal whose offensive value had been reduced to its appearance.

Sub-Commander Nyrvad felt the rush of the deciding moment upon him. The battered, ugly, micronian mecha whose continuing function defied belief was out of tricks, refuge, and with its kinetic weapon now smoking scrap- out of a means to continue the fight.

Patience, courage, and superior tactics had won this utterly insignificant skirmish for Nyrvad, and with the most significant loss for the Te'Dak Tohl being that of time.

There was a larger battle to command waiting, and more of the same enemy to grind and crush into the field.

Nyrvad trained in his Glaug's single remaining gun cluster and top-mounted autocannon together to assure a kill swift and decisive.

He barely noticed the twin puffs of thin burn vapor emitted by the dual launch of mini-missiles from a small gap in the crest of a rubble heap behind and slightly left of the Gladiator.

Gunston flinched, mistaking the flash and glow of two plasma-napalm mini-missiles striking the Glaug over the forward slope of its angular, armored cockpit as the shot the alien had intended for him.

Super-alloy softened in the unnatural heat with no more resistance than butter under a blowtorch's flame. The Glaug lost distinctive form to its upper structures and crumpled into itself under its own weight that liquefying metal form and framing could no longer support.

Unnerved by an attack whose originator they had not seen, the two Regults that had borrowed the protection of the Glaug's force field now initiated their retreat under a broadly sweeping spray of covering fire from their own particle beam cannons.

Energy bolts stitched rubble and diminished it further for lack of a legitimate target for the panicked fire.

In the failing moments of his Gladiator's failing multi-optics video system, Gunston saw the unmistakable shape of a Cyclone Battloid rise up through a shallow covering of debris in the heap of a building just behind and to the left of the two retreating Regults and engage.

PFC Thelusa had reported himself and PFC Hubbard "alright" a short eternity ago to First Sergeant Kim who from her concealed position with LT Niles had seen the cinderblock and plywood home whose cellar they had selected to cover in fold in on itself from the concussion of a randomly falling Zentraedi missile in the opening moments of the enemy probe's incursion into the desert town. Had they been infantry in standard-issue body armor, the collapse of the single story structure would certainly have caused serious injury from the crushing weight and jagged edges of demolished domicile- or worse.

Suited as they were in the exoskeletal protection of Cyclone Battloids, the trauma had been only the psychological one of being entombed. This too had passed quickly with the realization by both young men that they had regularly inflicted more harm on themselves shaving than the collapse of the home had done.

The claustrophobia had returned some in the following minutes as the two Cyclone riders held their position by Kim's command and endured a limited range of motion in the inky darkness while hearing all of the jarring sounds of battle sometimes only meters away.

Kim's justification for keeping the two men in uncomfortable concealment was understood without it being spoken. In the match of a Regult versus a Cyclone Battloid in the open was a match whose favor went to the party quicker on the trigger. –Though a Cyclone Battloid concealed until an unsuspecting Regult strayed to within knife-fighting range….

That was an advantage that Cyclone riders could not decline.

Two squads of LT Niles' Cyclone riders had taken concealed position and lain in wait as the town had been shot or fallen down around and upon them- monitoring with an assassin's interest via InfoLink as the enemy's lines pressed steadily toward them.

This was not actively participating as the balance of Niles' riders were, two squads who had begun a flanking hook by way of the town's north as the exchange between the Zentraedi and the RDF-Army Destroids intensified –but the static units knew that they were part of the same snare being laid.

-And sure enough, the wait had delivered on its promise of work for all.

At the point where the snare could be sprung, Thelusa and Hubbard no longer needed InfoLink to tell them the battle's location, or video feeds from UAVs or Destroids to reveal the fury of the melee. –It could be heard and felt directly around them.

The heavy thud of mechanical footfalls was joined by the distinctive crunching variants of masonry, wood, and glass. The two privates in their burrow were even able to feel the mass of debris around them shift by the movement of something massive and almost immediately above.

It was still LT Niles' call on springing the ambush though, and dependent upon multiple concealed positions not unlike Thelusa's and Hubbard's and their ability to reach out and touch the enemy as well. –But when word came, it was as well-timed as it was welcome.

As Thelusa rose up with Hubbard covering him, he had only to point and shoot.

The armor-piercing mini-missile left the launcher on Thelusa's left vambrace with a sharp and distinct hiss of burning rocket fuel. It flew straight and true, slamming into the yet unblemished grey skin of the Regult just above and left of the rear-mounted booster that gave the mecha its spaceflight capabilities. There was a flash as the shaped charge warhead punched easily and cleanly through the mecha's hull, popping the cockpit hatch's seal with a tremendous surge in internal cabin pressure.

Frozen in mechanical rigor mortis from the instantaneous death of both pilot and control systems, the Regult continued its backward momentum, only without its left foot positioned to catch its shift in weight.

The alien meccha went over heavily, sending a ripple through the ground that caused small landslides of rubble in the heap around Thelusa and Hubbard.

"Got `im!", Thelusa exclaimed triumphantly, crouching now behind a mound of rubble he'd sunk to for fear of retribution from an unseen comrade of the Zentraedi he'd slain.

The Cyclone rider was both electrified and revolted in studying his "kill" as the crew hatch swung open with the force of the fall and a giant arm flopped out heavily through the opening, scorched and smoldering still in its body armor, and presumably still attached to a proportionate corpse inside.

Hubbard gave his squad-mate a congratulatory shove as though he'd sunk the winning basket in a varsity basketball game.

Thelusa was already wanting more as three mini-missiles struck the last retreating Regult from two directions and sent it burning to the ground with plasma fire.

"-What, you want a goddamn cookie?!", Kim hollered through comms both hoarsely and shrilly, "Join up with your squad and keep kicking the bastards!"

-The Sarge sometimes had an eloquence to her….

When Gunston had lost his video systems, there had been two Regults retreating from his wrecked Destroid's position. Now, as he hurried through the top hatch to escape the possibility of further attack against it, there was only the carnage of their demise.

The specific details of this small victory in an otherwise deteriorating battle were unclear, but the facilitators were apparent. The pathfinder force of Cyclones that had first scouted the now ruined town were suddenly all around in small units and pairs, moving quickly in Battloid form to join the half dozen skirmishes still fuming within town limits.

As Gunston reached the lowest rung in the crew ladder built into the armored body and left leg of his Gladiator for mounting and dismounting the mecha in the field, the platoon's lieutenant, Niles, rolled up to him in cycle form as her first sergeant directed squad movements from a heap of cinderblock and warped, corrugated metal roofing not ten paces away.

"Need a ride there, Major?", Niles asked, flipping back the visor to her riding armor's helmet, "I got room, if you don't mind riding bitch."

Gunston quickly threw his leg over the cycle, planting himself on what little seat cushion was left by the driver and found the minimal passenger's foot posts to either side of the rear wheel.

"-Bitch is better than walking.", Gunston said, balancing himself with a hand on either of Niles' hips, "I won't complain."

The thunderous battle noises echoing off the rocky hillsides that enclosed three sides of the town and that Gunston had been shielded from within his Gladiator were joined at once by the thrashing roar of helicopter rotor blades as a flight of A.J.A.C.S gunships soared over the ridgeline to the east.

As a four ship element split off from the flight's left flank to turn south in a baking, corkscrew turn that quickly brought them back toward the fighting in Pánuco de Coronado, the bulk of the flight continued west to support Major Foxx's units- filling the air before them with Jaguar anti-armor missiles.

Bitch was not a bad thing to be today, Gunston admitted to himself, not bad at all.

Chief Warrant Officer Santiago watched the section Las Chupacabras' B-Flight bank sharply away into a pivoting, conical turn noses down and weapons presented as only a helicopter gunship could- and as an AJACS could most lethally.

The blaze from direct weapons' fire and collateral explosive damage were continuing to rise all over Pánuco de Coronado- a town that looked to Santiago as though it would have been happy to have remained isolated at the base of its hills and straddling the chasm between technological eras. By nightfall though, with no resources to fight the flames that would spread easily in the arid climate, the town would be a total loss.

Still, having survived The Zentraedi Holocaust in a similarly impoverished and resource-neglected town that had by the will and sweat of its population come back, Santiago was not certain that the last chapter had been written in Pánuco de Coronado's history. He just had a feeling.

Santiago's B-Flight was in fact completely inconsequential to the outcome of this skirmish it had been ordered in to support. At best, he could hope to prevent more losses to the "home team". The challenge of turning the direction of the battle to one that could be won- that was now firmly in God's jurisdiction.

At just over half its pre-war strength, several days before, Las Chupacabras was sadly one of the more combat effective units of the exsanguinating 4th Air Assault Regiment of The Army of The Southern Cross. It had taken only constant engagement over the course of days with modest losses in each to reach their current state.

In light of this, preventing the routing of other human units was close enough to a checkmark in the "win" column for the exhausted gunship pilots.

Santiago had himself felt the war's demeanor already- an early sortie in a place whose name was lost to the pilot in a jumble of names and battles in which he'd squared off with one of the formerly unknown Zentraedi power armor suits. It had left him with deep tissue bruising and two fractured ribs despite the "protection" of his own AJACS Battloid. –But he'd come out alive, and in his condition, and his Chupacabras' he recognized something distantly emblematic of the Earth now. -Battered, still suffering an ongoing beating, but stubbornly not rolling over under the punishment. Not today at least.

Tomorrow would be a matter decided tomorrow.

As Santiago's focus doubled itself on battle and the adrenaline valves opened into his bloodstream, the throbbing ache of mending injuries faded to the competing demands on his brain.

Battle Pods within the fishhook hills partially encircling Pánuco de Coronado who had pressed their attack on a significantly smaller force of RDF-Army Gen-1 Gladiators were now equally intent on hasty withdrawal as measured bursts from 40mm gun pods and small salvos of Hydra rockets reduced their numbers from above.

Santiago smiled with worn satisfaction and amusement as his earthbound cousins, the rugged and uncelebrated Destroid Drivers who lacked the flash of the RDF's iconic Veritech pilots slugged on at their retreating adversaries with what little firepower they had left. Some of the Gladiators so savaged in the fighting as to be barely recognizable even went so far as to limp in pursuit of the enemy that was swiftly being reduced rapidly from above, and also by the Gladiators' diminutive Cyclone Battloid cousins below.

–It was an affirming, human statement of principle.

Northwest, in the open land where the fight was spread across several kilometers and not defined by the natural arena of hills, it was clear that no active translation of principle was going to be sufficient to staunch the blue flow over the landscape.

With a near company's strength of Cavalier main battle tanks in smaller, distinct battle formations at its core- the RDF-Army force was losing the struggle to maintain "lines". Swifter support elements of MBP-2 mecha with their clear Regult lineage visible even under the addition of armament and armor were coming into slugging range of their Zentraedi relatives. The "line" of battle from Santiago's vantage point was clearly bowing at the RDF forces extreme left and right flanks. A salient had not formed yet around the RDF, but the deadly envelopment that would allow the Zentraedi to press its attack from three sides was not far from becoming a reality.

Survival of every human on that open field required breaking contact – now.

"Cavalry, Chupacabra One-.", Santiago called to the new but already tarnished resource of a JSTARS aircraft loitering some hundreds of kilometers back, "Requesting artillery support, saturation fire of grid-."

The voice of the JSTARS that had calmly and surely guided the semi-squadron of AJACS to the combat area cut the chief warrant officer short, sounding far less collected.

"Negative, Chupacabra One. Artillery is being held in reserve. That's why you're on-station. Over."

Thoughts of professional sanction or discipline were so much less threatening to Santiago than they had been just days before….

"Reality check, cabron!..", Santiago snarled, surprising himself with the venom in his tone, "Throwing everything I've got at the dittos will buy minutes! -If you don't want to scratch your tanks, mecha, and one half-squadron of AJACS –you'd better get it raining steel!"

There was a pause- a long one.

Clearly, Santiago's subtext that he was preparing to reach through the radio and wring the neck of the man on the other side had conveyed clearly.

"Chupacabra One- transmit center point coordinates for saturation. Over."

Still too livid to reply with any kind of appreciation, Santiago set the targeting reticule projected within his helmet's visor deep out into the land beyond the deteriorating battle line. Like most of the desert land, it was amply populated by a steadily advancing enemy. Occupied as the region was showing itself to be with Zentraedi, it was as good a place to make "bull's eye" as any.

Depressing a switch on his control stick, the AJACS transmitted the position through its newly acquired, limited InfoLink capabilities.

"Grid coordinates received, Chupacabra-.", the voice of Cavalry reported, "Rounds out."

Santiago, not wanting to lose his negotiating momentum did not acknowledge the promise of artillery shells in flight, but rather added, "-And air support too!..."

Santiago preempted Cavalry's ability to argue the additional demand by switching to his squadron's mission-unique tactical frequency. The jagged spine of the hills bracketing Pánuco de Coronado were falling behind quickly, and his attention was needed ahead.

"Somebody's newly torn asshole is bleeding into their comfy chair on a plane somewhere, jefe….", Warrant Officer Perez, one of Santiago's surviving pilots whose company the squadron leader was grateful for said with mucho gusto.

Santiago mentally patted himself on the back for the impressive show of will- he had no doubt that air support in some form was coming.

"Let's get to it Chupacabras.", Santiago said, "We'll make an even split to support their flanks- they're going to have to hold the center themselves."

No sooner had this been said than the first flash of bursting artillery shells caught Santiago's eye over the field far beyond. Sub-munitions began to rain and ripple the earth and enemy, intermingling with the random column of dirt thrown skyward by traditional shells reaching the ground. At once, the air above ground across a wide swath could be seen to tremble as it filled with the dust and smoke of artillery's fury.

Impressive as it was, Santiago still found himself hoping unrealistically that it was going to be enough.

U.E.S.S. Gordon P. Samuels

A holographic model of the Stratford Class frigate hung weightlessly in a soft blue suspension of light over the CIC's central tactical display station. The "cut-away" view of the vessel shared the area of the display field with the standard, tactical view whose sensor and navigational overlays allowed those around the station to maintain situational awareness of their surroundings.

For now though, the immediate sphere of space in a region of the asteroid belt running its course between Mars and Jupiter, and identifiable only by the navigational coordinates it resided in was clear of Zentraedi activity- as best as Gordon P. Samuels' passive sensors could tell.

The focus of the senior officers and staff was for the moment on restoring ship's full integrity and functions.

"-Minor pressure hull breaches and leaks above Deck Five have all been plugged and sealed.", reported the division captain of the "M&Ms" (Maintenance & Maneuvering). A thin, spotty lieutenant named Gould, he often looked to CDR Devereaux as though he should have been rushing between junior classes and chess club at university rather than seeing to the structural maintenance and repair of a combat ship. He was organized thorough, and unrelenting in his duties- so Devereaux embraced him despite her minor age prejudices- spots and all.

"-We're repressurizing section by section and overpressure testing up to one point five atmospheres for good measure. Should be ready to turn those sections over to the boatswain's mates and Engineering within the hour for touch-up and systemic restoration where they find the need."

Looking over the "anatomical model" of the ship, her skin stripped away and her bones and guts exposed in ghoulish technical detail for those charged with her maintenance and operation to see, LCDR Petersen was keenly aware that Gould had not yet made mention of the damage to the lower decks. Identified as compromised by a "fill" color of translucent red and outlined at the borders by broken hash-line in clockwise rotation, Deck 12 was showing still the ventral damage sustained from Frame 47 through Frame 72.

"Your people are goin' to kick the keel plates back into place, Gould, or do I have to ask nicely?", Petersen said, balancing the requisite "XO edge" with acknowledgment that by any standard, the M&Ms had done admirable work already with the time available.

Gould exhaled in that way that communicated doubt, "We're still sounding her out down there, XO-. The damage is more extensive than hull penetration, sir. A lot of the frames in that area are penetrated, warped, partially shot away- you name it, and we've got it in that area- it's a battle damage buffet. I'm leaning toward saying that we can't recover that area to reg-specs without time in dry-dock."

Devereaux, her celebratory cigar still tucked into the breast pocket of her duty coveralls- but satiating the nicotine demon with a third cigarette made a point of blowing a stream of smoke through the compromised compartments of the hologram.

"-Well, then what about skipping the foreplay and getting to the action, Gould? Is she sound enough that we can get Engineering in there with EVA suits and restore Ventral Battery Two? -I can live with two dozen compartments sealed off if you can get me those long guns back."

Gould nodded as though he had expected the question- which indeed he had. Deveraux had reasons for always picturing him in a rush to chess club.

"Yes, ma'am. I think we can get the area safe enough to work in with EVA suits-. We'll just keep the repair-access airlock unit in place at the hatch to Frame Seventy-Three as an extra measure of integrity. If Engineering is game to get in there, we can have them inside within the hour."

"Good man.", Devereaux praised, "Engineering, I want my guns back before the shooting starts again."

The Chief Engineer, who with his normal, quiet reserve had been standing in the midst of the other officers without a word was now compelled to ask compliantly, "-Any idea of when that will be, Skipper?"

Tapping the ashes of her cigarette into an ashtray on the edge of the tactical display station, Devereaux picked up her coffee cup and replied over its rim before sipping, "Sometime between now and then."

The engineer shrugged, "Good enough for me. We're on it."

Petersen closed the status display, restoring the full domain of the tactical functions.

Dismissing the division heads in a comfortably informal way, he jerked his head toward the CIC's rear hatch, saying, "Off with you. I want a progress report at the start of next watch- that's forty-five minutes for you, Gould."

The younger officer accepted the mild, paternal abuse, replying, "Yes sir, when Mickey's long arm is pointed at the twelve."

Devereaux waited until the other officers were out of earshot before asking her XO, "What's the word from sick bay, Pete?"

Petersen replied quietly, "In addition to the seven dead, we've got six in critical condition- but stable. Ten more in fair condition, and two dozen in good condition- just under observation. Most of them should be able to return to duty soon."

"Not horrible –considering.", Devereaux said.

"We could transfer the dead to SDF-3 with our critically wounded when we rendezvous, Skipper-.", Petersen began to suggest.

"No.", Devereaux said flatly, "We'll bury our own dead. We can't shy away from the fact that it's part of the business, Pete. We can't let the crew forget that and get soft to it. We don't have to like it- but that's our detail. See to the transfer of the critically wounded and any of the other wounded who can't carry the full weight of their duties though. We'll hand them off to SDF-3 when we UNREP."

"Aye, Skipper.", Petersen affirmed.

The intercom speakers in CIC buzzed, followed by the Sensorman's voice, "Conn, Sensor. Passive sensor contact bearing two-nine-eight mark one-two-one. DBDR, at somewhere around one-forty thousand K. Emissions are low, but within profile norms to be one of our corvettes. Recommend closing range to firm up IFF."

Devereaux reached up to the intercom box and depressed the button to speak back, "Sensor, Actual. Report all other contacts in the sphere."

"Actual, Sensor. No other contacts. The sphere is clear."

Petersen watched the tactical display as an icon appeared in the region of space described by Sensor Control. It was proximal to the stream of material in the asteroid belt, drifting with the flow perhaps five thousand kilometers off of a dense patch of floating rock and to the interior side of the belt.

If it was a ship, and Petersen was confident that the sensor captain would not have plotted it and brought it to the senior officers' attention if there was any great doubt- it had placed itself in a drift where it was concealed from all but informed search, and able to hide itself quickly should the need arise. –Much the way a small vessel afraid of being hunted would in awaiting rendezvous.

"Well, what do you think, Skipper?", Petersen asked, anticipating orders to follow.

Devereaux whistled at the senior TAO in the fire control section of CIC, followed by, "Spin up tubes one through six- give me a broad spread solution- in case."

"Aye, ma'am-. Computing solution now."

"Sparks-.", Devereaux called to the communications division, "Make IFF challenge via microburst on the designated frequency."

"Aye, ma'am. Making challenge."

Still at Condition 1, fully stood up to battle stations, the prevailing mood in CIC instantly grew more tenses as the results of breaking communications blackout were awaited. All hands around the compartment knew that the likelihood of a single, scout class Zentraedi vessel being precisely in the recovery zone without heavier units within sensor range was low. Yet nerves were still aroused from the earlier battle whose windfall was still a source of much activity around the ship.

"Conn, Communications.", came the senior comms officer's report- one that relaxed all around him by the relief in his voice, "We've got good IFF response. She's one of ours, Skipper."

"Conn, aye.", Devereaux said, happy not to have to use the Pegasus missiles she'd ordered to the ready in the forward tubes so soon, "Plot, give us a course for intercept and pass it off to the helm. Weps, stand your tubes down. Sparks, hail our friend by laser lamp and tell them to stay steady on course and speed –we'll come to them."

"Aye, ma'am.", came back to the CO in triplicate from the divisions to whom she'd issued orders.

"Our first recovery of the day.", Petersen said in a lightened tone, "Hopefully not the last."

"It shouldn't be.", Devereaux speculated, "We're down two corvette carriers, and indications are good that most of their boats escaped the OA after completing their runs. We should be doing a fair trade in recovery ops."

Petersen was fully aware that Gordon P. Samuels was only one of four frigates from Doolittle Two that were now assuming the role of recovering the crews of the two lost corvette carriers. This could happen at any of two primary, and two alternate pre-determined recovery zones that the attack corvette commanders would have made haste to following completion of their mission. –And it was early also. Unlike the frigates who were able to move by fold-jump, the corvettes were relegated to standard, sub-light propulsion- and swift as they were with their ample sub-light drive systems, the distance that they were forced to traverse was great.

They would be along.

Petersen only hoped that in the zig-zag maneuvering that the corvette crews were trained to perform in egress of a battlespace, that the enemy had been unable to surmise their ultimate destination. Of course, the fact that this primary recovery zone had not been found by Gordon P. Samuels to be crawling with Zentraedi destroyers bolstered the hope that for now this position was secure.

-But things in war did have a tendency to change.

"Pete", Devereaux said, calling her XO back from the speculative, "Give the boatswain's mates a kick and have them in position at the amidships ventral docking collar. I want our coupled time down to minutes in case any dittos are nearby."

"I'll get `em moving, Skipper."

Earth / Mars Interplanetary Space, 2 AUs from Earth

Action General Mercta'le sat with his chair turned slightly away from the small viewing port afforded to him through the hull of his personal shuttlecraft. He had seen all he had needed to see of the breathtaking damage done to the supply force from the command center of Gohr'Dhet after secondary sensor systems had been restored.

The micronians had not achieved any great victory in their attack, not by any measure. They had damaged one landing ship in five, and destroyed perhaps one in ten- no true achievement of attrition.

-But a stunning counterblow had been struck by the greatly inferior alien force, and far sooner than what had seemed possible, and Mercta'le had seen the results briefly with his own eyes.

Great masses of debris, wreckage, and lost stores adrift and smudging with thin clouds of smoke the otherwise pristine blackness of space in the region where the supply force had been at rest at the time of the attack.

Mercta'le had seen it despite his best efforts as he had taken in the damage done to his Queado-Magdomilla Class Command Ship whose broad, gracefully sloping lines had been savaged with the deep gouges of impact points all along its dorsal and flank regions. He had seen the bodies too, of anonymous Warriors who would be forever adrift with the other indicators of battle.

These dead were beyond caring now about what had taken their lives, and beyond judging those at fault.

Mercta'le was still very much alive though, and keenly aware that he was not beyond judgment and certain reprimand.

Gnerl Fighter Pods, dispatched from Supreme General Krymina's Flagship, Artoc, had joined up with Mercta'le's shuttle shortly after it had departed Gohr'Dhet with orders from the supreme general herself to escort battle group commander.

As Mercta'le had seen the escort approach in two full squadrons' strength, he had considered for a moment that the fighters would destroy his shuttle with a swift stroke by Krymina's orders and then as quickly return to their base ship- their true mission accomplished.

It had not happened though. The fighters had simply formed up around Mercta'le's transport in defensive, screening positions and had held station since through the duration of the flight. Had Mercta'le retained any interest in looking out the viewport at the aftermath of the battle, he would have seen the same Gnerl still off his right wing that had been there since rendezvous.

But again, Mercta'le had no stomach to look out the view port. His nerves were weakened by what he suspected awaited him.

The thought of standing before Supreme General Krymina whose demeanor was well known to be detached and icy under normal conditions was clearly making Mercta'le appear as bleak as he was feeling.

Action Commander Traf, Mercta'le's executive officer and removed in guilt by one command-chain step of separation, who had not shied away from viewing the scope of the damage done had also noticed his superior's state. With arrival aboard Artoc only minutes away now, Traf was compelled to speak.

"Lord, we mounted the best defense that could be provided.", Traf assured the action general, "By definition, a surprise attack is difficult to defend immediately against- and it was Supreme General Krymina's order to strip us of many of our squadrons and re-deploy them in the search for Breetai that thinned our ranks making a proper defense even more difficult."

Mercta'le interrupted his subordinate, saying grimly, "-Are you volunteering to remind Krymina of that?"

Uncomfortable silence followed as Traf imagined that scenario and found it unappealing.

"I thought not.", Mercta'le said, not at all encouraged that fact and truth were his allies.

"-Still, Lord", Traf persisted, "Every action that could have been taken was taken. It was the enemy that chose to flee rather than stand and fight. Our response was swift and aggressive, and we bear the scars in evidence."

"-But Supreme General Krymina's assessment of events is normally more result oriented.", Mercta'le asserted to his junior, "Keep that in mind. I fully expect to be calling you, lord before the day is over."

Dutifully obliged to bolster his superior's outlook, Traf replied with as much unfounded certainty as he could fabricate in saying, "I don't expect that at all, Lord. Supreme General Krymina is known by reputation to be harsh in her treatment of loss due to carelessness- but those were not the circumstances. She is also known to be shrewd, and will doubtlessly recognize your continued value to her command. You will be given the opportunity to redeem yourself in her eyes. I am certain of that."

As Mercta'le swiveled his chair to be able to see out the viewport again, and found Artoc to be growing large and imposing high on the shuttle's forward right quarter, he feigned as much comfort as his lieutenant had confidence.

"I hold some hope that you are right, Traf."

Garfish Class Attack Corvette, Eager Beaver

CPO Jane stood at the highest rung of the ladder he could ascend to leading to the corvette's dorsal emergency airlock. A status display panel of the escape trunk beyond the hatch was lit and functioning nominally as best as Jane could tell, and reported with three shrill chirps an audible answer to the only query relevant.

"Pressure steady, Skipper. We're good.", the chief petty officer relayed down to the officers and crew packed into the companionway below.

Double-checking to confirm the presence of the ship's critical, removable solid-state computer drives in the pockets of his flight suit while clutching two binders of operationally sensitive hardcopy in his armpit- LCDR Kenner replied, "Very well. Open the hatch."

As though taken from a scene in a World War II submarine movie, and modified for spacefaring technology and appearance, Jane spun the hatch wheel several rotations until it could turn no more, and pushed it up into an opened and locked position in the escape trunk..

Before the chief petty officer had even entered the small compartment fully, there was heard the sound of deliberate tapping by a metal object on the outer hatch that was at the top of a second ladder within the airlock.

After securing their duty stations and setting scuttling charges on classified components that could not be extracted with the crew abandoning ship, the handful of officers, petty officers, and enlisted had heard their rescuers couple with their smaller vessel. Now though, and with the tapping- the promise of surviving their first combat mission seemed that much more real.

LCDR Kenner was ready to go, not feeling the guilty pangs he thought he might at leaving his slightly battle-damaged but fully functional command behind. Eager Beaver was a ship, and Kenner would have liked to have gotten to know her better- but it just had not been in the cards. Her loss was a small price paid for the damage caused to enemy morale and material in a single mission.

There would be another ship to carry on in her name and to build on to the proud tradition she had established.

"Well, open the damn hatch, Jane-.", Kenner said curtly as he realized he'd been drifting in his own thoughts, "-Or do you wanna stay here awhile?"

"Hell no, sir!", Jane replied spinning the outer hatch handle as quickly as the neck of the hatchway would allow.

All ascending into the escape trunk and in the corvette's tight access passage below started inadvertently as the outer hatch's seal was broken and there was a sharp hiss common to pressure equalizing between two joined vessels.

From above, two pairs of hands and their unseen owners helped swing the outer hatch open fully until faces of the rescuers could be seen staring down at the rescued.

"Lieutenant Commander Petersen, XO, Gordon P. Samuels-. Have you got any wounded to bring up?"

Kenner, now at the base of the outer hatch ladder in the escape trunk replied, "Kenner, CO, Eager Beaver. No sir, just a bunch of guys ready to get on down the road here."

Petersen motioned for Jane first to ascend, and the orderly transfer followed naturally man by man after.

"Well, I think we can oblige you, Commander. We were wondering if you were ever gonna open up-. Figured you thought we were Jehovah's Witnesses come knocking or something."

Over the course of the exchange, Kenner had counted and verified by sight each of his crew entering the trunk and transferring up the last ladder into their new, temporary home. When at last his pilot and 1st Officer, LT Boyle had scrambled up the ladder, it was Kenner's turn.

Nodding simply to the escape trunk around him, Kenner acknowledged his short-lived but trusty craft with, "-Go easy, girl. Go easy."

Then handing the two binders of classified hardcopy up to the frigate's XO above, Kenner too was aboard Gordon P. Samuels in moments with the ship's boatswain's mates closing the outer hatch to the attack corvette behind him.

"Welcome aboard, Kenner.", Petersen said offering the other officer the lead through the outer airlock of the amidships docking collar, "The skipper, Commander Devereaux is anxious to meet you after we have the sawbones check you and your crew out –maybe even get some hot chow and joe into your bellies- if you're up to it, of course."

Kenner, understanding that the physical check by the ship's surgeon was non-negotiable, and finding that a meal from a legitimate galley was especially appealing since it had been nearly ten hours since his last still felt compelled to reply, "-My ship?"

Petersen gave a hesitant and nervous laugh as a boatswain's mate closed the inner airlock hatch of the docking collar behind Kenner and himself.

"You know what we've gotta do, Kenner. I would have just as soon glazed over that part, but-."

Kenner shook his head understandingly, "No, I know. As much as a cup of coffee and a hit on your Mid-Rats sounds, I ought to be there for that."

Petersen made no attempt to argue, but asked with only the mildest resistance, "You sure?"

Kenner nodded, "Yeah, I'm sure. –It's like putting down your dog, or your horse, or something. It ain't something you want to do, but you're obliged to be there."

"Guess so.", Petersen agreed leading Kenner forward through the ship's companionways until they reached the ladder that would take them to the decks above.

"Conn, Sensor-. Range opened to fifteen kilometers from the corvette.", the senior sensorman reported with the aid of microwave radar whose active emissions would diminish to nothing and be lost in the ambient EM clutter of space within a relatively short distance, preserving the ship's concealment from unwanted sensors.

"Conn, aye.", CDR Deveraux acknowledged from the tactical station at CIC's center, "Helm, hold here. All thrusters to station-keeping."

"Helm, aye. Thrusters to station-keeping."

Devereaux turned her attention to the Fire Control stations, ordering as though mundane, "Weps, warm up a spread of ten Reflex Griffins in the launchers. That should do `er. Sing out when ready."

"Aye, Skipper. Cycling the ordinance now."

Devereaux was starting to feel the length of the day as the ship stood down to Condition 2, and in a way that coffee and cigarettes could not offset. She had enough left in the tanks for another watch searching the recovery area for other wayward corvettes, but would then have to relinquish her place to a junior officer for some rack time and a quick meal. The ship's divisions were already beginning to rotate out personnel who would have normally been off-watch in anticipation of needing them back fresher for the normal duty cycle. While the threat of sudden action was ever-present, a schedule that included "downtime" for the crew had to be maintained in the interest of operational efficiency- and this included the CO as well.

Barring contact with the enemy, Devereaux would finish out the watch and arrange for a turkey club sandwich to meet her in her quarters for a one-on-one "chat" and a nap.

A solid, appealing plan.

The CO did not miss the entry of her executive officer and another O-4 whom she assumed to be her counterpart in billet from the corvette that was counting down the final minutes of its life.

"Commander Devereaux, Lieutenant Commander Kenner- our guest.", Petersen said, supplementing the verbal introduction with associated hand gestures- just in case either officer should forget who she or he was.

"Welcome aboard the Samuels, Kenner-.", Devereaux said with weariness-worn hospitality, "Is Pete taking care of you?"

"Chief Wilson is seeing them through sick bay and the mess, and'll find a place for them to rack during their stay, Skipper.", Petersen said, speaking for himself.

"-And you're here", Devereaux forwarded her guess to Kenner, "-to see us do what the dittos couldn't?"

"Pretty much, ma'am.", Kenner affirmed, "I thought it would put the cherry on my day."

Devereaux jerked her head in the direction of the tactical display whose scale had been brought down to an appropriate level to show the space between Gordon P. Samuels and Eager Beaver.

"We were just about to light her up. –A shame that is, she seemed like a good, little ship."

Kenner shrugged, "I was only getting to know her- but, yeah. A good ship."

"Conn, Fire Control. Ten Griffin load spun up in Launcher Turret Three. Ready to paint, lock, and shoot on your command."

Devereaux looked to Kenner, "Do you want to do the deed?"

Kenner shook his head, "Thanks, ma'am- no. I've had my fun for the day. I'm just here out of respect."

"Fair enough.", Devereaux replied, "Sensor- report all contacts in the sphere."

"Conn, Sensor- no contacts on passive sensors. The sphere is clear."

"Weps, illuminate the target and shoot when locked.", the CO said, comfortable that there were no contacts within range to detect the more powerful radar system that would paint the drifting corvette as a target, or the detonation of ProtEx warheads that would destroy it.

"Target lit and locked. Shoot, shoot, shoot."

From the center icon in the Tactical Display that was the frigate, two four-missile clusters followed by a pair began their track at two second intervals toward the inert corvette. Transit time in the vacuum of space and with the Reflex Griffins' engines burning at full output was only seconds before the weapons met their target.

"Conn, Sensor. High order detonations and secondaries detected on target's bearing. Sensor Mike-Alpha detecting target break-up and debris."

The icon representing Eager Beaver vanished.

"That's it.", Devereaux said, "You're welcome to hang around CIC while we look for others if you like. –You'll need to see the doc first, of course."

"I might do that, if you don't mind.", Kenner replied, "So I take it that means that there's no doubt about the Bristol?"

"None.", Devereaux said without doubt, "We lost two corvette carriers, and know of at least two corvettes. We're here to search until we find the rest, or find good reason to believe that they're not coming. Don't worry, Commander- we won't leave any of your friends behind."

Kenner gave a single, forced laugh, "No worries about that at all, Commander, I didn't think you would. –You sort of have that air about you."

Devereaux agreed, with, "-Yeah, I'm told it makes me a great bridge partner. -And speaking of which, Helm, resume search pattern in this area. Ahead one-third."

"Helm, aye. Resuming search pattern. All answering ahead one-third."

Devereaux leaned against the Tactical Display console as though striking up a conversation at the scuttlebutt.

"So, what'd you tally at the turkey shoot?"

Kenner gave another short laugh, feeling uncomfortable this time. It occurred to him that he hadn't given the subject thought since slipping the battlespace. It hadn't seemed that important until just now when asked- and now, even though they were speaking of an enemy who would have killed any of them without reservation, the discussion felt just a hair to the side of morbid.

"I couldn't say, ma'am.", Kenner replied, patting one of the solid-state drives that held the tactical and sensor logs from the mission on it, "-But I figure I've got the proof to back me when I write out my AAR."

"First dance, eh?", Petersen said, recognizing the malaise of coming off of one's first engagement from personal experience.

"Yeah. I guess it's good that it went as well as it did, or I might be a worse wreck."

Devereaux dismissed Kenner's self-belittlement, assuring him, "Don't be so rough on yourself. Combat's a helluva thing. I wouldn't trust anyone who wasn't sweating and shaking a little coming out of it for the first time. You get iron in your guts and learn though."

After an additional moment's thought, the CO added, "-And most importantly, all of your people came home- or got out at least in one piece. You did fine, Commander- notch your belt later. Were you part of the satellite package deployment?"

Kenner recalled as though it had been a thousand years before, "Yeah, yeah we were. Dropped our buoys by the numbers."

Devereaux pointed to the ship's chronometer at the head of the compartment, "Well, in about another eight hours we'll see if that joyride through hell you made paid off."

Kenner decided he had let enough of the jitters he was feeling inside rise to the surface, and put on his best game face, saying, "Yeah, I'm curious about that myself."

Devereaux tapped the edge of the tactical console with her fingers, emphasizing its presence and said, "That's how we're gonna beat these bastards you know-. We're going to have to outsmart them. Today was Day One, but-."

"Conn, Sensor-.", came the senior sensorman's voice over the intercom sounding uncertain but urgent, "-Possible contact at great range bearing zero-seven-eight mark one-zero-nine."

Devereaux's expression soured noticeably, the promise of a few hours rest at the end of this watch having evaporated with the sensor officer's reporting.

"Helm- all stop, let her drift!", Devereaux ordered knowing that inertia would carry the Gordon P. Samuels on the same vector indefinitely with the well-known stipulations set forth by Newton, and would do so without divulging the frigate's presence and position with the EM emissions and subspace displacement of her engines.

"Damnit Sensor- you gave me a clean sweep sixty seconds ago!..", the CO growled, the fatigue of the long and harrowing day cracking through.

"Yes ma'am, sorry about that-.", the sensorman replied sounding distracted by certain, sudden rise of activity around him in the "sensor shack" just off of the main compartment of CIC, "Our turn reoriented the passive arrays just in time to catch a quick, subspace tremble in the low KC range. If I had to guess, I'd say probably a ship slowing or altering its drift…"

"Sensor, do you think he spotted us?", Devereaux asked, confident that Gordon P. Samuels was as close to a "hole in space", in terms of detectable power output, as the ship could be made- but there was no undoing the detonation of ten Reflex Griffin missiles, the destruction of their target, the corvette, and the power burst of the ship's engines to put the frigate back on the move and on course.

"Negative, ma'am- or he's not showing his hand.", the sensorman replied with greater confidence, "No follow-on emissions suggesting a change in offensive posture. –And assuming the contact's Zentraedi, at this range he'd have a hard time making us using passive sensors alone."

"Very well, Sensor.", Devereaux replied, her tone a little more relaxed, "Keep your eyes peeled. Tag, type, and track him as best you can. If he's not just passing through, I want to know it."

"Aye, ma'am. Designate contact, Sierra-Papa eight four two."

Petersen had joined Devereaux at the tactical station before she had finished cursing her sensorman. There was little information to support speculation, but certainly reason for concern at the appearance of this phantom.

"Assuming that contact was closing and that we didn't just skirt a patrol passing through, that region that Sensor called out. –It could be random chance, or maybe a corvette limping in."

Kenner, who had not been invited to join at the tactical display station but who had edged closer with vested interest added his unsolicited input, "Any corvette coming off the attack should have been in this recovery area a long time ago- not taking into account of course ones who might have experienced drive system problems along the way. –But a pursuing force…"

Devereaux nodded her understanding of where Kenner was going with his train of thought, "-Yeah, a pursuit force might come right through that area, and around now would be feasible lag. And if they're running sprint-and-drift, that makes them smart too. –I hate it when they're smart."

Petersen examined the projected track of the Gordon P. Samuels relative to the region of space that had shown the flicker of potential danger before saying, "Well, Sensor should have a pretty good angle on him to observe- whoever he is. Assuming he's Zentraedi, and unless he lights off his active sensors, we should know a hell of a lot more about him before he even suspects we're here. –Maybe we can even skirt by him."

"Yeah.", Devereaux said, clearly thinking another course of action already, "-Or maybe get the drop on him."

"-Or that too.", Petersen agreed not sounding at all surprised by his CO's suggested alternative.

LCDR Kenner felt a sudden unease that he had no ability to alieve. His mind conjured an image that fit so perfectly, he could not help but embrace it.

He was in the company of a professional kindred spirit, and found himself a flea on a Chihuahua that was looking to pick a fight with a Pitt Bull.

Artoc

"Remain silent and stoic, but apologetic in your expression.", Action General Mercta'le said to Traf before taking the first step down the gangway ramp of his shuttle that had just reached the flight deck below, "-I will address any accusations of negligence against my command. –If you speak out of turn, we will appear disjointed in our flow of command, and it will worsen both our positions. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Lord.", Traf replied, not eager to even share guilt by association but obligated to do so.

Action General Mercta'le felt his throat tighten as the broad portion of the hangar deck visible from his shuttle's gangway opened before him and the severity of his situation became clear.

He had expected an escort of stern-faced officers, and perhaps even armed warriors to be waiting to usher him to his reprimand.

-But to find Supreme General Krymina herself standing twenty paces from the base of the ramp, with Sub-General Caldettas at her side, a half dozen senior officers who Mercta'le recognized and twice as many who he did not nearby made the moment indescribably worse.

Without the slightest change in her reserved expression, Krymina's cloak slipped off of her right shoulder as her arm raised with a standard blaster pistol, and fired.

The action general was not conscious of hearing the energy weapon's report, though it did echo sharply off the bulkheads and metal surfaces of the hangar. Mercta'le was very aware however, of the heavy, scalding spray of Traf's bursting head that coated his right side as the executive officer's twitching corpse went down hard on the ramp and made its sliding roll down to the flagship's deck.

The shock was numbing to Mercta'le, though not so much as to prevent him from feeling the immense burning sensation within his chest as three ion blasts entered it in quick succession.

Sub-General Caldettas caught the first whiff of burned flesh mingling with the distinct, ozone odor of an ion blaster's discharge as Krymina strode swiftly across the span of deck to fire a single, last shot from her pistol into the face of the action general's corpse rendering it as headless as his executive officer.

In the moment that followed, only the mechanical breath of the ship's air circulation system and the distasteful sizzle of burning organic tissue and bone could be heard.

Finding the lower third of her cloak speckled with steaming bits of slaughter, Krymina unclasped the garment and threw it aside with a palpable indignation for the dead officer whose ion-burned tissue had caused the offense.

As the cloak settled into a crumpled heap by her feet, Krymina stooped to snatch the perforated and singed sash off of Mercta'le's smoking corpse while holstering the sidearm that had killed him.

Standing erect once again, and indifferent to the small episode of carnage she had just turned her back to- Krymina walked directly to the gathering of officers she had ordered to assemble and thrust the abused sash into the hand of an action general whose qualifications had been provided by a computer search of service records.

"You will return to your new command", Krymina said, conspicuously avoiding the use of the action general's name causing Caldettas to suspect that she, like he had lost it from short term memory.

"-And you will tell your subordinates that Mercta'le's death has afforded them leniency for woeful apathy in conduct of their Duty, and shameful ineffectiveness in action. –Let them know that any future failings will be shared equally through the ranks and across the battle group."

"I will, Liege.", the action general selectee replied with a hollow sound to his voice- perhaps stemming from a sudden understanding of the burden he had just assumed.

"-Then go.", Krymina said, unaffected by the preceding moments, "You will take into your charge all ships requiring repair from the micronian surprise attack. They will rendezvous with your command at this position and you will see them back to the Trendok 145 Robotech Factory for repair and refit."

"Yes, Liege.", the action general acknowledged, indicating clearly his understanding of the orders that had been given to him.

Without additional ceremony, Krymina turned and swept by her senior officers speaking only to Caldettas.

"Have the Tirolians arrived yet?"

"Yes, Supreme General- as we were assembling here, they were arriving in another bay, forward.", Caldettas replied, finding himself at the end speaking to Krymina's back as she continued toward one of the hatchways leading to the ship's interior.

"Then we will reconvene in ten minutes my briefing room, Caldettas.", Krymina instructed, "-And I wish no company getting there."

"As you wish, Liege.", Caldettas said as Krymina reached the edge of earshot for normal speaking volume.

Caldettas's nostrils were filled with the repugnant stench of slaughter that seemed to now fill the massive space of the hangar bay. Apparently affected the same way, the deck officer already had four warriors waiting for Krymina's departure to clear away the remains of the executed. They would be quickly put into the nearest airlock, Caldettas suspected, and flushed out into space to forever drift aimlessly with the wreckage of the battle for which they had been held responsible for losing.

Sub-General Jekketh joined his superior by billet as soon as it was clear that Krymina would not return to speak. His demeanor, normally a constant challenge to Caldettas's superior position, and his tone usually a fraction inside of the line of insubordinate was now strangely agreeable.

"-In the name of Zor…", Jekketh began, watching the two headless corpses get carried away.

Caldettas understood Jekketh's flabbergasted state utterly, and was even beyond any desire to exploit the other officer's astonishment for his personal amusement.
"Indeed-.", Caldettas said, his simple response being all-encompassing, "I will address it with her later when distance from the moment aides me."

Jekketh persisted, demonstrating far more sensitivity to a mere two deaths than Caldettas had judged him capable of, "-Caldettas, this will have an impact on Warrior morale when word of this spreads…"

"I will address it.", Caldettas growled in a severe tone that compensated for volume that he dared not let other officers hear. This incident alone was detrimental –there was no need to give even the suggestion of descent. –Or to invite the possible repercussions.

The atmosphere in the senior officer's briefing room was nominal and governed on the surface –a fragile order not removed enough nearly from the harsh judgment meted out upon the recently deceased Action General Mercta'le and his executive officer.

Most disquieting were the elements that Supreme General Krymina brought to the gathering herself. She sat at the head of the table, composed –as though oblivious to any reason that those around her should feel apprehension. She carried herself as though some darker doppelganger had slain two command officers without her knowledge before retreating into deep shadow somewhere remote aboard her flagship.

-But it was not the place of anyone at the table to question, and none felt the courage to speak what all felt and were thinking.

Had the assembled company been only Te'Dak Tohl officers, Caldettas may have been more at ease –but there was of course a random element of anarchy at the table. The Tirolians, Darius and Philisto shared a place at the table that would otherwise have been occupied by a single Zentraedi, and sat in size-appropriate chairs upon it.

Philisto, the gaunt and frail shadow of Darius in both physical being and personality could easily have been an extension of the plush and luxurious cushioning that his chair was appointed with for all of the presence he exuded. Had he the option, Caldettas knew that this creature, diminutive in stature and personality could be counted upon to sit in unobtrusive silence unless called upon for input or opinion at least.

Caldettas dreaded though the certainty that Philisto's fleshier, and more irascible counterpart was not to be so meek, and additionally appeared to already have confrontational urges building within him.

Darius was the burning fuze of chaos devouring the distance to a charge whose size he likely did not comprehend.

Supreme General Krymina balanced her hands against one another at breast-level, fingertip to fingertip -flexing the digits of both hands meditatively as she began to speak.

"Rarely in the history of The Zentraedi and never in the living memory of any warrior at this table has an operation been so well defined and planned as this one that we are currently executing. Never has a force of warriors been so well groomed and prepared for a specific task, and never has an operation been so well equipped and provisioned. –And yet, we fall short of the mark."

"As commanding officer, I assume the bulk of the responsibility for these shortcomings, however there is blame enough to be shared."

"Before we leave this chamber, we will have established actionable steps to get this operation back in line with the timeline and progress markers that was provided to me for approval."

For the reasons that would only have eluded Darius and Philisto, there was silence from the descending ranks of officers lining the table's sides- leaving only one officer present with the position and obligation to speak.

Caldettas filled his lungs and pressed on into the moment he'd been wary of since his exchange with the now-mute Jekketh who sat across the table from him.

"Liege, the clearing of the micronian defenses around their homeworld was accomplished as swiftly as we dared hope to accomplish, which led to landing operations that were well within the threshold deemed acceptable for losses. Jekketh's forces across all of the major continents have met or exceeded objectives, and most importantly only minimal damage has been incurred to The Flower of Life managed and cultivated by the micronians."

Though Krymina's dissatisfaction was beginning to bubble visibly to the surface, Caldettas proceeded with his argument speaking only quantifiable fact in hopes that even a weak defense was better than none at all.

"-The only aspect of this operation that has failed to meet our expectations-."

Krymina exploded, slamming the palms of both hands down atop the table with sufficient force to displace the Tirolian, Philisto from his seat as she raged-

"- IS THE ONLY ONE THAT MATTERS!.."

Wisely, Caldettas fell silent and braced for the inevitable barrage to follow.

"Perhaps this falls into the realm of my failings, but possibly I overestimated others at this table.", Krymina chastised icily, "Yes, you identified and prioritized targets for attack and elimination. Yes, you determined the tactics and order of battle to quickly subdue the enemy left in defense of this world."

Krymina emphasized each word of her next statement with a thump of her balled fist on the table- each more percussive than the last.

"-But you have failed miserably in understanding the core source of all other dangers is Breetai!"

Krymina smoldered in silence for a moment before resuming with greater governance of her frustration and composure.

"Breetai has always been the unknown variable in this operation- the micronians and their feeble grasp of Robotechnology being only his tools. Since the moment of his escape at the onset of this campaign, I assure you he has done nothing but plot to sabotage our operations- and this embarrassment we have just suffered is only the first step. –And yet, I am the only one who has acted to quell his abilities!"

Recalling many planning sessions in which Krymina had been actively involved, Caldettas carefully protested, "Liege, as you remember there were as many operational models and simulations that had Breetai withdrawing from immediate engagement as there were those that had him standing to fight. Our present response is in accordance with the relevant models. We have deployed probing forces according to the most likely regions of space where Breetai could be hiding –but even the most likely number in the thousands. To apply more forces in the search-."

Darius, who had been content to this point to allow Krymina to inflame her own passions interjected, no longer able to resist.

"-Would be to spread yourself so thin as to make a larger force, such as yours, vulnerable to attack by an inferior force, such as his. I'm a scientist by profession and not well trained in tactical thought, but I'm certain that I read that in one historical account or another. –I'm sure there must be thousands of such examples."

Caldettas was equally impressed by both Krymina's demonstration of restraint at not treating the Tirolians to the same end as Mercta'le for the offense of speaking a truth as he was by his disappointment that she did not.

The Tirolian was an insolent pest whose certainty in his own superiority Caldettas could not wait to see disproven and ended. –But Fate had touched the fat, little creature with knowledge and applicable skill that was needed for now. Caldettas recognized this, as Krymina did- and as a result, Darius would live for now, sharp tongue and all.

"If you have suggestions", Krymina fumed, the thought of additional murders this day clearly not off the table, "-my senior staff has already demonstrated their ability to benefit from anything you might offer, Tirolian."

"I wouldn't presume...", Darius replied smugly, "I could not hope to fail as impressively as trained professionals. Though, I will go so far as to say that the general order issued to decimate the indigenous population is folly."

"Their distress will hasten Breetai's return.", Krymina rationalized without need, "If sufficient pressure is applied, we may force his hand before he is ready. He answers now to the very creatures whose population we are culling."

"Childish optimism.", Darius countered, "Would you act rashly against him without adequate preparation?"

Darius allowed the silence to stand for a moment before applying salt to the wound, "-Though I suppose the answer to that is evident. –But, my point is that Breetai will not. Do not think that you can force his move against you, because you cannot. He is too experienced to mistake a difficult decision for having no option at all."

"You in fact, Supreme General Krymina, are doing more to thwart your own efforts than he. He's tweaking your nose in hopes that you'll chase him, while you're slaughtering the population that you will require to serve you if you ever wish to gain an upper hand over The Masters and The Invid."

"–But please, dismiss the rantings of an old man, and volumes of history -and do what you like… Breetai will string you out as far as he can across the cosmos until he's ready to act, and then you will find him in your lap, on his terms."

Krymina motioned to her subordinates around the table, flushed with disbelief, "Have none of you anything to say? -Or, should I take my counsel from a Tirolian citizen?"

"We should complete our immediate sweep of likely locations for Breetai.", Caldettas affirmed, "-But if that search does not fix him, we should begin to return our forces to this operational area. If we cannot flush him out, then we harden our position against Breetai and his micronian forces."

Jekketh, much to Caldettas's surprise, affirmed and added, "Liege, I do not always agree with Caldettas, but in this matter his recommendation is sound. Here is where the fight must be eventually. We can bleed out our own strength deploying our limited resources into the infinite in hopes of a chance engagement, or we can ensure that a confrontation here is decided in our favor. -Or at least we ensure that any victory in Breetai's favor destroys what he labors to save."

"These are considerations I have already thought on.", Krymina said bitterly, "If I cannot take Breetai on the offensive, I can still make this world a rock that he will smash himself upon in trying to retake it. –Though I do loathe the thought of defensive operations."

"We should consider transferring the Trendok 145 to this system also, Liege.", Caldettas suggested, "This space is secure enough. Our source of resupply would at least be no less susceptible to attack here under the guard of the bulk of our forces than it would be minimally garrisoned elsewhere."

"No.", Krymina said flatly, "-Not yet, at least. We are very well provisioned yet, and that is a lure that we still might use to draw Breetai out. It is too tempting a target to ignore for long."

"-And you should repeal your general order on population decimation.", Darius suggested, "It makes-."

Krymina cut him short, not totally out of spite but the impulse clearly had its influence, "No, that I will not do. I will modify the order to exempt certain members of the population with the skills you deem critical, but I will not ease my hold on the pressure point I have access to. Breetai may have the stomach to allow mass-slaughter, but those he answers to may not. My order stands."

"You're creating an internal threat faster than what might otherwise take some time.", Darius warned, "Despair at being abandoned by their military will render their population impotent for a long while, with some inspired exceptions- naturally. Desperation that they will be systematically massacred- that will embolden them to action quickly. –I know something of despair, remember."

"Internal resistance is inevitable.", Krymina said dismissively, "We react appropriately and accelerate the decimation as required. If Breetai will not provide an occupation for my Warriors, then I will task them with this one. It's simply an acceleration to an end that was to be reached regardless."

Durango, Mexico

Captain Mitchell "Cisco" Bruce had laughed before with the other pilots of Knight Hawk Squadron at the old, soldier's adage that- when you find yourself short of everything except the enemy, you're in combat. –Though it seemed much funnier when just laughing at it, in contrast to experiencing it.

Everyone was experiencing it today.

Several defensive intercepts of Gnerl Fighter Pods, guarding what seemed to be only a section of the sky and for no better reason than to deny it to the Zentraedi had slowly sapped the combined strength of the Knight Hawks and Duggan's 1017th Werewolves.

Even the judicious and sparing use of missiles had quickly seen the availability of air-to-air guided ordinance steadily evaporate until now, in the present skirmish there had been nothing to do but charge the enemy through a haze of projected ECM noise and agitate them into a fight close enough to the deck to fry the rattlesnakes under their rocks with the heat of jet exhaust.

-At this altitude, at least the Valkyries still had the speed and maneuverability advantage.

The Zentraedi, or at least one or two of them with the rank to call the shots for the others were proving themselves to be poker players though- or whatever the ditto equivalent of poker was…

They had sensed at some point in this battle a bluff, and they were now calling.

-Which indirectly had brought Cisco to where he now found himself.

Monarch had vectored the paired Valkyrie squadrons to intercept a roughly equal number of Gnerls that had broken away from their "top-cover" duty guarding waves of Regults to the northeast, apparently in search of a fight. All too happy to oblige, the Valkyries had quickly dragged the Gnerls down from the broad maneuvering space available at 14,000 meters to a mean altitude of under 1,200.

The thicker, deck-level air that threatened the Gnerls with structural failure should they push up their throttles enough to make their control surfaces effective enough for actual dogfighting had claimed five Fighter Pods inside of the first three minutes of the low-level melee and was delivering splendidly on its agreement with the Valkyries' broader performance envelope. With considerably smaller turning radii and significantly higher rates of turn, the Veritech pilots enjoyed for a time the coveted luxury of a "turkey shoot".

-But it had only been for a few minutes.

Alien equivalents of poker players as they might have been, the bastards also happened to be the cheating variety with an ace tucked slyly up their sleeve in wait for the right moment. The Knight Hawks and Werewolves had provided just that, and the Zentraedi commander of an unseen vessel passing in orbit had dropped what seemed to be his entire air wing upon a battle that had been progressing satisfactorily from the RDF perspective.

The transit from orbit to lower atmosphere had not been instantaneous of course, and retreating RDF and ASC mobile SAM batteries had collaborated with Monarch to knock many Gnerls down on their descent- but they had muscled through the losses to form a 20 kilometer ring with the formerly RDF dominated battle at the center.

Like his fellow pilots, Cisco had suddenly found himself at the center of an improvised, Zentraedi "killing sphere"- and it was working hard to live up to its name.

Aware of their performance limitations at low altitude even if they were not familiar with the Valkyrie's vastly superior attributes, the reinforcing Gnerls had not "joined" the dogfight so much as made an opportunity of it. Loitering like sharks hungry for prey in a multi-ship approximation of the classic "wagon wheel", the fresh force of Gnerls orbited in vigilant watch.

Triggered by a Valkyrie showing the vulnerability inherent in pressing an attack on one of their comrades, or simply by random chance of course and position- a Gnerl would rush the center of the ring on a slashing-run attack.

Sometimes the Valkyrie pilot or his wingman would spot the predatory Gnerl.

Sometimes in the midst of deteriorating chaos, they would not.

Cisco had seen the two Valkyries lost to Gnerls in this manner, both from Duggan's Werewolves. –And despite his personal vow to self to not be so careless, here he was.

Clearing the second of a pair of Gnerls so Maj. Tomas "Maverick" Cruz, his element lead could engage theirs- Cisco had exposed his own ass for mere seconds. Unaware of the keen eyes watching, it became clear quickly that those mere seconds were seconds too long.

Whether by acquired experience, fortune, or luck Cisco just happened to glance high and aft to starboard in time to avoid lining up perfectly in the gunsights of an alien pilot.

Not perfectly-.

Cisco's Valkyrie shuddered and bucked randomly like a bicycle ridden too fast over an uneven, gravelly road- and felt "loose" in the stick and rudders to the pilot. A particle beam bolt had rendered his starboard engine useless along with causing numerous other internal failures and complications, but the fighter's handling was making Cisco suspect critical, structural damage as well.

-For this day, it figured….

Dalton had just finished covering Preacher as his wingman had finished the second of a pair of Gnerls who had been with the "visiting team" in the original dogfight that had suddenly grown larger. He had seen the Gnerl closing on Cisco but had not had the time to either warn the other pilot or counter the attack before the energy bolts had started flying.

He had seen the billow of dirty flame roll out of the Valkyrie's starboard thruster nozzle and thin to a ribbon of first fire and then smoke as the engine went dead before he crossed under Cisco's trail.

Dalton had not been able to stop the attack, but he had found himself in a position from which he could reply to it. An uncomfortably tight, banking turn to port and a far more relaxed barrel roll brought Dalton up high on the Gnerl's aft, port quarter and into position for a medium-deflection gun shot with Preacher watching his tail for any other threats.

The Gnerl pilot, having seen the potential danger he had missed in Dalton and Wayne only after exposing himself to them fought to recover from the error. It was too late however to wrest the advantage from an experienced pilot such as Dalton who had barely returned to level flight before he opened fire.

Dalton watched the pulse of his laser cannons repay the favor upon the Gnerl visited on Cisco, stitching its tail extensively and shredding its port, aft quarter until the thin, swept wing snapped free and sent the Fighter Pod corkscrewing toward the baked, desert floor below. He had taken some care to not kill the Zentraedi pilot outright, and Buster hoped that he would enjoy the ride down.

"Cisco, bank left and Preacher and I can cover for you.", Dalton said as he scanned the skies and the horizon to ensure that he was not falling into the same trap as the Zentraedi pilot he had just defeated.

"Buster, is that you?", Cisco replied, sounding breathy with what must have been a surging heartrate.

"No, it's your guardian angel.", Dalton replied as Cisco complied with his direction.

"-And Buster.", Preacher added, taking the more sanctified option as his.

"Maverick, Buster.", Dalton called, adding Cruz's fighter to what he was searching the skies for, "-Where the hell are you? I'm babysitting your wingman who just got his ass drilled."

"Is it Friday already?", Cruz asked from somewhere out in the sky where Dalton had could not or had not searched yet, "I'm level on your five and coming around at about four klicks. I'll form up in about thirty seconds."

"We'll get him out and then you can take over.", Dalton replied, "Somebody's gotta work tody…"

"Hang in there, Cisco.", Dalton assured the other pilot whom he was sure was in need of reassurance, "Monarch is vectoring in a flight of ASC Phantoms to bust a hole for us to slip out of. Mav'll get you to fallback position. –No dropping out short of the finish line, okay?"

Cisco laughed nervously, "Talk to my plane! -I've got more broken than what's working, and the damn status display is lit like Vegas with caution and warnings… -That and it feels like the damn wings are going to shake off…."

At a quick glance, Dalton had seen nothing wrong with the control surfaces of the wings of Cisco's Valkyrie- save the carbon scoring from a particle beam bolt that had likely grazed it. Dropping his nose slightly, Dalton stayed several wingspans to starboard of the wounded fighter but descended far enough to get perspective on the damage it had suffered beyond the wrecked starboard thruster module.

The root cause of the buffeting quickly became clear.

"Cisco, your gun pod is hanging on by a thread it looks like, and bouncing all over the place.", Dalton advised, "Pickle that off and you should regain a little stability I'm guessing-."

A mangled GU-11 gun pod separated from its mounting points on the centerline of Cisco's fighter's belly and fell away into the open landscape below leaving the Valkyrie visibly steadier at the moment of shedding the burden.

"Thanks!", Cisco said, the relief clear in his voice.

Cisco's Valkyrie shattered from a searing white explosion just aft of the cockpit that Dalton got a glimpse of in the split second before instinct took over and had him snap-roll his fighter away to starboard.

Dalton's vision through- his left eye was nulled and hazy as though he had been caught off guard by a photographer's flash popping at close range. –But he had control of his fighter that seemed to have slipped any damage.

Looking back, there was only an oily smudge in the air marking where Cisco's Valkyrie had been at its last moment of being whole.

"Dear Lord…", Preacher muttered. Clearly as shocked as Dalton was as he pulled up cautiously on Dalton's starboard wing.

Dalton wasn't certain whether Wayne's utterance qualified as blasphemy, but he knew it was much closer than Wayne normally allowed himself to stray.

"-Was that Cisco?!", Cruz called frantically, "Damnit! Did anyone see a chute?.. Did anyone see a fucking chute?!.."

Dalton realized that more than his eye was stunned and that Cruz could not hear him shaking his head.

"No, Mav'- he didn't get the chance. Nothin' bigger than a pack of smokes came out of that blast. He's gone, and there's no Goddamned SAR anyway-. Form up on me and fly on."

A voice that had become familiar over the course of the day's operations was heard next over the radio.

"Valkyrie flight, be advised, ASC Phantoms are thirty seconds out and will engage from south your position. Over."

Brasilia

"Holy shit- is that Soap?"

Whilite wasn't certain whether it was the lack of sleep, the recent rebuke of his staff sergeant that still had him stinging on a few different levels, the long and indirect hump back to this ground, a building "nicotine fit", or a combination of all- but PFC Diaz's question uttered like an eight-year old seeing roadkill for the first time somehow got under his skin.

-But Diaz's fiendish, rhetorical inquiry was not beyond understanding.

The inertial navigation system built as standard gear into each suit of Stalker body armor had easily led the Rangers of the recovery party back to the waypoint set by SGT Emmerson the night before in proximity to where Corporal Ivory of his squad had been killed.

–And it was good that in the chaos of the fight that Emmerson had thought to do it, because the land had looked vastly different then from how it looked now.

A generous treatment of plasma-napalm had turned a small span of temperate forest woodland into a rolling carpet of fused glass and ash that had crunched grotesquely under the boots of the Rangers and stank like a long-abandoned and overflowing ashtray.

"-Yeah..", Corporal "Doc" Lancing replied to Diaz, "-That's Soap."

There wasn't much to the formerly handsome and proudly, well-muscled corporal anymore- certainly not enough to warrant the body bag that Lancing had brought in addition to her standard medic's kit. Chips and bits of the denser bones of the body, and a half dozen teeth that were still recognizable as such marked what used to be a man.

Looking away with governed disgust, Whilite couldn't believe that this was all that remained of the corporal who had just a little more than a week back had given his athletically thin lieutenant some tips in the gym for "blowing out" his abs.

"-It wasn't a direct hit that burned him up like this.", Lancing said with forensic certainty as she filled a plastic bag that NBC mask filters were shipped in with charred bone and teeth, "-If he'd gotten hit directly, there wouldn'ta been anything left at all."

Whilite felt his patience growing short. To the east, fires that the previous night's mission had started were still smoldering and could be smelled with changes of the wind direction- a sweet, sickly, burned plastic and chemical smell that made one dizzy and nauseous when inhaled too deeply.

More than the smell and the macabre detail he was overseeing that grated on Whilite's patience was the fact that he could see with the naked eye the Zentraedi at work to restore their camp to regulation standards. –And if he could see them, Whilite reasoned soundly….

Being out in the open during daylight hours so close to the enemy was just a bad idea no matter how obligated the Rangers were to bring Soap home, or how necessary the light was to finding him.

Whilite wisely wanted the detail concluded and to slip the area ASAP.

"Just hurry up, will you Doc?", Whilite urged, not quite making it an order, "I'd rather not have someone else have to come out here to bring us back too-."

"Another minute, El-Tee.", Lancing assured her superior as she poked with a gloved hand through ash to make sure that some recoverable bit of human remains was not being left behind, "-Then we might help Lieutenant Hall's people look for-."

"El-Tee!", came the shouted whisper from Staff Sergeant Byerly who had positioned herself with her new "friend" Staff Sergeant Alvarez on the leeward slope of a small hill nearby to watch the activities of the Zentraedi camp on the grounds of the international airport.

Rather than shout back, Whilite hurried over in a crouch under the notion of covering his movement with the local topography. He took a knee and balanced himself further against the support of his rifle whose stock made a nerve-grating, crunching sound of pulverized glass under the weight on its stock.

"What's up?"

Byerly nodded urgently in the direction that SSG Alvarez was still peering intently.

Whilite's heart rose into his throat which tightened around it as he lifted himself ever-so-slightly to see. He feared he would see the whole Zentraedi garrison marching in the direction of the small Ranger detachment.

What he saw was worse.

A number of Regults, a company perhaps, were on the move at a standard, advancing pace.

They did not move deliberately as they would have had they fixed on a target, but rather moved with the determination of looking for something. –And as they were moving into Brasilia, there were few, reasonable possibilities of what they were looking for.

"Oh hell."

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