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.

14. Lengthening Shadows of Enemy Standards

Chapter Thirteen

The Shadows of

Enemy Standards

"I have performed my duties flawlessly."

"I have taken my Liege's vision of conquest and through toil and skill, planning and direction I have translated that vision into unstoppable movements of machines and muscle razing all before it."

"I have given the boldest dream of ascension a dreadful, corporal form."

"-And yet, as meticulous as the translation of my Liege's vision to action has been, I feel increasingly that this victory is not the one that was desired."

"I wonder more frequently whether I am fighting the same war as my Liege."

"-And if I am not, is the victory she seeks truly a victory for the Te'Dak Tohl?"

"The thinking of these very thoughts is insubordinate and alien to me, and I find the necessity to think them- disturbing."

Sub-General Caldettas

Executive Officer,

7th Grand Army of The Te'Dak Tohl

RDF-AF Base Salamanca, Spain

The open space of the center, second floor of the classroom building that by its appointments had been intended as a study area now served a mixed congregation of flight school students and instructors, as well as general office staff and support personnel in their unified worship of a single, flat-screen television.

While the television was left perpetually on, and normally tuned to an RDF sanctioned news channel covering the alien invasion, students of the Salamanca Base flight school could be heard being scorned by instructing officers between scheduled classes with variations of the accusation that they should spend more time preparing to fight the War, and less time watching it.

This particular instance appeared to be an exception however as the company of observers had massed first around several instructors, joining in the real-time illumination of troubling events.

Others around him were drawn and held by the violence being conveyed in images on screen, Andy Johnson had come to notice in similar, previous gatherings. These same images had quickly worn thin on him, and he had found greater interest in observing those holding video vigil.

Andy had discovered that his fellow "nuggets" made considerable effort to put on whatever façade each individually deemed appropriate for the circumstance- betraying the end effect with the struggle of the effort.

There was the "muted horror face", as Johnson had come to call it within the private space of his mind. This mask worn by a healthy sampling of nuggets silently spoke of the recognition that unquantifiable violence and suffering was taking place, and boasted a sort of forced humanity in the wearer's display of empathy for those embroiled in the tempest being viewed safely from thousands of kilometers away.

There was also a good number of trainees wearing the "inspired vengeance-seeker" look. This, often appearing as forced as the "muted horror", was more of a clenched-jaw, simmering rage look that quietly vowed revenge in kind for every drop of human blood spilled and an oath of "victory, no matter how great the sacrifice".

This expression Andy had found was more prevalent with those nuggets of higher social standing- perhaps it being the visible element to an internal spurring toward action for self where others had acted for them in the past.

-Andy, who had been raised with forced exposure to the full knowledge of just how fortunate and privileged his life had been hoped quietly that he hadn't let this expression make an appearance on his face- even briefly.

He knew and had always known that he'd join the fight eventually- but his drive and motivation had never been fired by righteous indignation or anger. Quite the opposite, and disquietingly so- his "feelings" on the War he had found to be muted, as though buffered somehow from the part of the brain that governed the imperative of action. At first his need for involvement had been as simple as Service seeming to be the thing to do. Now, it was about being right and taking a stand for the right in the soul-penetrating eyes of one particular other.

It was not high moral justification to be part of a noble fight, but questions of selfless ideals to help carry the War had never been broached yet. The Robotech Defense Forces wanted bodies in uniforms.

Zealous, martyr-like belief was not a qualifying factor.

Cedric was a "scrapper".

Andy had seen this in his unlikely friend from a laborers' family background since grade school, and it was that image he'd been envious of as far back. Like a stick fighting to remain at the surface of the current of a churning, swollen river after a storm Cedric was quietly accepting of the certainty that struggle and misfortune were imminent and beyond his control. This could be mistaken for existentialism, or even fatalism if recognized casually- but for Cedric's kind, survival was never in doubt. Solid and steady as a smith's anvil, there was that determination to do what was needed to make it out standing on the other side of strife.

It had taken Andy a little time back at RTC-32 Falkirk to recognize it, but Cattermole too was of the same general "scrapper" breed- though a dingier, rougher subset to be sure. Whatever unspeakable existence and traumas had given him and other recruits less known to Andy the night terrors that had woken the barracks to shrieking on several memorable occasions had also given him and the others the drive to claw his way out of the gutter. That same hard-bitten resolve now manifested itself as a mask that could have been mistaken for apathy in the face of the horrific by those not sensitive to the subtle distinction.

No, neither Cedric nor Moggie were unfeeling about the realities of what was happening in the world- they knew better than others. They were just in the process of bracing for the beating they knew to be coming, and were already figuring on what would be needed to come out on top.

The instructors of Salamanca were a set unto themselves, but also clearly divided between two groups.

To qualify for an instructor's position, both officer and NCO were required to have served a certain amount of operational service. All operational service was not necessarily combat operations. –And while all of the instructional staff was highly experienced in their specialized fields of operations, there were a sizable portion who had not participated in front line roles.

These officers and NCOs, while definitely holding a superior position to the nuggets they instructed were also careful not to insinuate themselves amongst the ranks of those who had logged "trigger time". The seasoned staff who had not been baptized in combat still carried an earned air of confidence and authority in their areas of expertise, but displayed a deference to peers who had been on the bleeding edge of the proverbial sword.

Andy sensed this distinction was one less of institutional doctrine, and more of a natural, social hierarchy that afforded comfort to those on both sides of the dividing line. Having had knowledge of social castes all his life, Andy was certain that the line between the two sects of veterans existed- but the mechanics of the agreement between the two was unclear. He did however have the strong sense that while the line was one across which a measure of kinship could be enjoyed, the line itself was known not to be crossed illegitimately without significant social repercussions.

Within their lanes, or perhaps more accurately within their inner and outer concentric rings with dreadful business at the center though, those of the veteran category could be identified by the aura of understanding that surrounded them.

It was an intimacy with unfolding events as only one who had experienced a similar history could know.

Major Branch showed every indication, and justifiably so, of membership in that inner ring of veterans. Not alone in the greater company in the building's common area, he and other combat veteran officers and NCOs took in the events on the television through the same unblinking stare. Their gaze appeared to Andy to be more than penetrating, but rather connective. They were not observers so much as distant participants.

Andy was uncertain as to how this was possible, but at the same time felt it to be every bit as real as the air he was breathing.

He also wondered briefly if he too might achieve that transcendental state- and at the same time feared what that might cost.

The video image on screen while both captured and displayed in high definition lost a measure of value to the viewer due to the jerky motions of a camera being carried quickly over uneven ground by an unseen operator, and being shaken by the concussive force of explosions nearer than the imbedded reporter team would have liked. Unembodied voices, both of the reporting team and the broadcasting network's home desk jerked and jolted right along with the images in the kind of commentary common to moments like these- the struggle to fill dead audio air with the repetition of the meager facts available.

"-Again we're seeing truly puzzling events unfold in the wake of the Gemini Coalition's collapse in Durango, Mexico-.", came the regionally non-distinct voice of the middle aged, male anchor on duty, prefacing as promised a reworded repeat of the same information, "-Grant Cooke and the imbedded UENN team are witnessing what can only be described as some sort of- in-fighting- between invading Zentraedi forces. These images, sent to UENN only a few minutes ago are both bizarre and puzzling-."

In the true form of a reporter forced to provide context to the confusing without the benefit of a teleprompter-furnished monologue, the anchor's assessment was spot-on from where Andy stood.

The frame of the flat screen television was filled border to border with violence, as it had been many times in the near past. The distinction was that now it was violence devoid of any clear purpose.

It was also devoid of any RDF Army or Army of Southern Cross involvement, as best that it could be determined by viewing in a video loop this single event.

Andy was carried back not so far in his own life to being coerced by a girlfriend in a short-lived and antiseptically non-physical relationship into attending a regional chess match in which she was competing. Like the pieces on the board located on the table at the center of the large and surprisingly crowded room, Andy could make out on the flat screen shapes made less distinct by distance yet remaining unmistakably alien in form.

As the reporter had hinted at (repeatedly over the course of two minutes), the aliens now on a base that this very morning had been a human bastion had opened the violence valve fully. Also as accurately reported by the anchor, the melee that surged back and forth in patches and along unseen dividing lines did not divulge its cause to the observer.

-This also reminded Andy of that particular girlfriend in a catalogue of few- or at least how their time together had concluded….

Battle Pods in all of the known configurations rushed upon positions from opposing directions under waves of covering fire provided by themselves. Merge would give way to meeting, and with it all semblance of order sloughed off until only a small number of survivors remained standing to claim inconsequential victory for one side or the other.

Reinforcements from both sides would quickly arrive, resetting the board again for another match of equally unimportant slaughter.

Of the alien war machines seen on the television, the grudge match seemed particular to the earthbound units. While Fighter Pods could be seen to circle and swoop like gulls loitering for scraps over a town fair, they showed hesitation and engaged neither targets on the ground nor one another.

Andy assumed the only thing he could- that they too were caught off guard by the implausible battle unfolding beneath them.

"-They're blood-drunk.", Twig said for the benefit of those who had never had occasion to "mix it up" with the Zentraedi. His fellow caste members with callused trigger fingers and equally toughened psyches did not comment, having understood already.

"What's that now, Major?", Pamela Dunn asked, always one wanting to peel back the next layer of the onion even if she thought she was at the core.

Not perturbed, but not quite pleased at having to explain what was so clear to him and his cluster, Major Branch elaborated, "They're all wound-up to fight, but don't have any of us there to use it on. –Damn tube-grown, space apes are having a toddler tantrum on each other with lasers and missiles. As likely as not, their command'll end the whole thing by glassing the whole area with them in it. Just watch…"

As Pamela remained transfixed by the television screen, and now with promise of an additional incentive by Twig's word, another confirmed trigger-puller of Branch's breed joined with, "-Hell, if one side is willing, maybe we can contract this whole thing out?.."

A general chuckle from those who had paid their dues enough to understand the farcical whimsy of the suggestion told by their laughs the improbability of it.

Hearing the same statement that drew a laugh from those entitled to do so, Cedric muttered in reply for Andy's benefit alone, "-That there's the cock-up we're in for-."

The scrapper had spoken.

ASC Durango Base

"Who do we fire on, Sub-Lieutenant?!.."

With his Regult standing in the midst of the burning wrecks of other Combat Pods whose warriors he'd commanded, Tahlt was uncertain how to answer the question. Moreover, Tahlt was not certain whether he should be answering the question of a warrior whose unit affiliation was unfamiliar to him.

Things as they were on the field at this moment, Tahlt could not be certain whether any order he might give was anything but contributing to fratricidal slaughter.

Only a short time before, and well within the same hour Tahlt's light assault platoon of Regults with most still fully functional had been amongst the point units ordered by Action General Hesthira to probe the micronian military installation while it had still been small on the horizon and after its defenses had ceased their efforts.

Tahlt, having seen enough of the enemy in battle to have developed a well-founded suspicion of everything he did had been cautious in taking his unit across the base's perimeter and had been harsh in his advice to his subordinates to be vigilant in the unit's defense. Abandoned vehicles, both damaged and apparently intact looked to the sub-lieutenant like the ideal concealments for explosive traps as he'd seen left in the wake of other fleeing micronian forces.

Structures the performed unknown functions for the micronians were now to Tahlt assessed by the number of combatants they could be hiding, or for the larger structures the type and number of mecha that might be poised within to strike.

In each case, Tahlt had been proven wrong and the sub-lieutenant began to sense doubts in his warriors as to their faith in him as a leader. Truthfully, he had not known either the lieutenant or the ranking sub-lieutenant who had held command over the warriors whose names Tahlt did not even know. He had simply survived another in a series of skirmishes in the open land to the west, and had been used to plug a leadership hole in the unit now under him.

Up to this time, the rate at which operations were consuming units such as the light assault platoon Tahlt commanded it was unlikely that the sub-lieutenant or his unit was expected to survive long enough for a sound match to be required. As was prevalent with the Zentraedi command hierarchy, Tahlt was expected to receive orders from his superior and transform them into action down to the lowest level. Bonds of mutual respect and loyalty between Tahlt and his warriors was only of minor importance so long as the warriors obeyed until they were used up.

-And this also meant that the field commanders in the hierarchy were generally unconcerned if the warriors rejected and removed their new sub-lieutenant- so long as they performed their duty in the fight.

Tahlt had seen this before. Sub-lieutenants, and even lower grade officers shot down by their own warriors who had grown to believe that their leadership was lengthening their odds of survival. It was not a practice officially tolerated by the chain of command, and Tahlt had seen in the brief span of this campaign numerous units eradicated for the offense- but these were the warriors caught committing the act.

A great many others were not and without the certainty of consequence- it happened. –And if its happening did not affect the conduct of operations, the higher chain of command was not inclined to root it out.

Tahlt understood the circumstances and stresses that led warriors to kill their superiors in combat. He knew it from both sides.

He'd seen the wasteful decisions made by foolish or indifferent officers and sub-officers that ate units down to nothing, and in these moments the murderous thoughts had come to him also.

He had also been forced to make decisions and follow orders that had cost for little to no benefit the lives of more warriors than the offending action had been worth. He had felt the minds of warriors imagining the pleasure of slitting his throat for performing his duty.

It all led to the inevitable conclusion that no course of action or decision was certain to preserve one's life. One was a killer, or one was killed- and sometimes that involved killing or being killed by one's own comrades. The filth of it that could not be cleansed was the trade for continued life.

–And without even the dire circumstances of combat, Tahlt's hands were still wet with the blood of a warrior whose offense had been that of coincidental opportunity and the fact that Tahlt was in need of his Regult.

Necessity dictated.

Personal need fueled treachery, but what Tahlt had not been prepared for was the full force attack by Zentraedi units to the north whose transponders had identified them as members of Action General Bren's command.

Tahlt had not witnessed the first shot fired and could not hope to say correctly which side began the mess he and his disintegrating unit were now mired in. –It could have started quite accidentally as things often did on the field of combat- one side seeing movement and having a trigger finger that worked faster than the brain mastering it-.

At this point, it did not matter. Tahlt's unit had been making its sweep of its assigned portion of the micronian base when suddenly battle had risen around them like a nearly-smothered fire fed a blast of pure oxygen.

A Regult squad that Tahlt had put on point and ordered to move from one cluster of collapsing micronian structures to another across a broad stretch of paved surface had been cut down before the sub-lieutenant's eyes before they'd known they were in danger. So thick had the delivered volley of fire been that nothing recognizable had been left above the mecha's lower legs and what had been above was scattered in burning taters out over the ground, away from the direction of fire.

Tahlt had tried to demonstrate tactical thought to his warriors and concern for them as much as could be afforded when he'd taken his own Regult just far enough past one of the structures that had just been cleared to determine the unit strength and composition attacking him. In the moment's glimpse he was afforded before a second fusillade of particle beam bolts ravaged the corner of the building that Tahlt was smart enough to retreat beyond, he was shocked to find not micronian mecha, but other Regults out beyond the base perimeter and closing at assault speed.

By this time, only seconds after the loss of his three Regults, Tahlt saw all semblance of order collapse in the other member units of the probe force around him. The other platoon commanders clearly did not share Tahlt's initial inclination to defuse the situation as he could hear them on the shared command frequency ordering defensive counter-fire.

In moments, the abandoned micronian buildings that Tahlt had feared were concealing threats to his warriors became their flimsy defilade and best defense. –And as quickly they began to collapse under punishing fire that they were not designed to withstand.

-Which led to the anonymous warrior's question:

"Who do we fire on, Sub-Lieutenant?!.."

The hangar that had been providing concealment to Tahlt's shrinking platoon afforded the sub-lieutenant only a few moments more to consider his answer as one structural member too many was shot away and the roof rushed the concrete floor with a great exhalation of dust and debris from the open doors and seams that gaped wide in metal walls as they crumpled.

The correct response became clear as the particle beam bolts that had been punching holed blindly through the building looking for targets began to gain accuracy through the far more translucent screen of billowing dust and sand.

"Them!..", Tahlt replied as he demonstratively fired the first returning shots with questionable accuracy.

The identity of them was not immediately clear to Tahlt as his attention hung on a Light Artillery Regult whose twin, top-mounted short range missile launchers appeared to gape directly at him. If there were officers in the mixed unit across the expanse of baked ground from the sub-lieutenant, their identity was not given away by the presence of a Glaug or an officer's identification transponder signal- possibly turned off wisely.

Like Tahlt and his unit, on face value it appeared that the unknown unit engaging them was devoid of leadership in the officer grades, and lacking any justification to fire on Tahlt's unit save preventing being fired upon first.

But in this moment and on this ground, this had become sufficient cause to shoot. –How it had come to this point was not as clear.

Tahlt forced calm in his aim and smooth movement in the directing of his targeting reticule onto the Light Artillery Regult, keeping the indicator as much on center mass of the target as he could and as the pod bounced and wove on the advance. Tahlt's sense of the target's motion came to him quickly, intuitively, and in the span of four of the target's advancing steps, he was delivering direct hits on the Regult's body and not just superficial, glancing ones that made contact by chance.

In less actual time than it had taken Tahlt to give the vague order to his unit on where to direct their attack, Tahlt cut the Light Artillery Regult down with energy bolts that penetrated his adversary's meager frontal armor and killed him. The mecha went down hard on its perforated face, kicking a final, convulsive two or three times as it slid to a stop in a cloud of raised dust and never having fired a single missile at Tahlt as he had most feared in his exposed position.

The distinct and peculiar sensation of his Regult receiving a particle beam hit jolted Tahlt out of his target fixation that had spanned only seconds. The scraping, bang! in which the mind fooled itself into believing the ears could hear each individual charged particle scouring away terilium alloy gripped the fear centers of Tahlt's racing brain tightly and squeezed harder.

Thinking he heard the whiz of the bolts in the barrage that had missed, the sub-lieutenant dropped his mecha on the next advancing step into a squat and then before he'd lost the momentum of his advance jammed his legs into the control stirrups as hard as his muscles would allow. The Regult's legs swiftly extended with all of their mechanical might, heaving the war machine into a high, vaulting leap over the flat fields of fire being exchanged by the opposing units and Tahlt's in return.

A hundred reasons why the move was ill-advised swirled around inside the sub-lieutenant's skull as physics and Fate governed him for a blink in time, but the weight of battle pressing in on him from all sides fell away and he was only an observer of the fiery end of comrade-enemies to his front, and the violent jolt from the explosive deaths of comrade-subordinates around and below.

The whirling vortex of combat found Tahlt again, sucking him back down to earth with the crushing force of his Regult's landing, compressing his spine and feeling as though his flesh and muscle would pull free of his bones and rush into his boots.

–And things had turned decidedly worse against the sub-lieutenant's unit in the time he'd been in flight.

Tahlt's Regult swayed heavily onto the support of its left leg as the Combat Pod to his immediate right disintegrated with the explosion of a ruptured power system. Fragments of the mecha and the warrior pilot whose name Tahlt did not know rode the wave of the blast and pelted his Regult. A second pod that had been to the right of the first went in a similar fashion before Tahlt's mount had recovered fully from the destruction of the first.

In the moment that he realized his Regult would not topple from the double-blow of the two explosions, Tahlt's relief was dashed by the unbuffered awareness of the tactical doctrine he'd adhered to and order he'd given to press into the enemy assault was now showing consequences.

While a better option than remaining a stationary target or retreating, driving into the onslaught was only marginally better. In the company of fewer of his own warriors than he had been moments before, Tahlt could see without effort that the numerically superior enemy was in the process of reinforcement as mecha could be seen rushing up from the rear of their engaged units.

Far too many things happened in combat and too quickly for any one warrior to take in at once- sub-officers included. In countless melees like the one that had flared up around Tahlt, sometimes a bad tactical situation was only understood at the bleak moment of realization that there was no escaping it.

-And it came at that moment from another nameless warrior in his change, the vocalization of the common thought:

"We're being overrun!.."

That single exclamation cascaded into action- unsanctioned action- and broke any chance of salvaging defense of the unit's position as the squad to Tahlt's left that had edged slightly ahead of him lost two of its number to a reversal of direction and retreat as another was lost to concentrated fire from the reinforcing enemy.

-And then Tahlt realized that he was alone in a void at the center of his evaporating platoon, the single pin holding the remaining Regults of wavering loyalty to him together.

It was as good a way to die as any Fate might decide though.

The two retreating Regults to Sub-Lieutenant Tahlt's left were smashed by explosions just as they were reaching the edge of his mecha's field of view. –Not cut-down by the flat trajectory fire of particle beams from the enemy unit, but crushed from above by missile hits.

A dozen running strides forward of Tahlt's Regult which was not moving nearly at that pace, sight of the enemy was blocked by a single Nacht Rau Combat Suit coming heavily, but steadily to ground.

Enveloped in the energy blister of its shield system, the suit and its Serhot-Ran pilot immediately formed a lee of fire for Tahlt, absorbing numerous particle beam bolts- any one of which might have been the one that might have otherwise ended the sub-lieutenant.

The thrust from the boosters of the first combat suit had not even quit raising dust when three more came to ground as an advancing line that kept pace with Tahlt's movement. Similarly protected by their shields, they were unable to engage, but the drop in the volume of fire from the superior numbers Tahlt had been challenging moments before said that with the arrival of Serhot-Ran, they were reconsidering their advantage.

"-Sub-lieutenant, form a flank defense on our right- NOW!"

The shields of all four combat suits vanished in near-unison and a measured fire of outgoing missiles and bursts from Nador rifles began. In the gaps between the Nacht Rau, Tahlt glimpsed the leading edge of the "enemy" receiving merciless punishment that subsided only when the threshold of destruction required by the Serhot-Ran leader had been reached.

Burning debris was falling still as elements that had been following the now obliterated leading edge turned in full retreat. Missile and plasma round impacts into the ground at their heels following the withdrawing mecha deliberately as a flight of Gnerl Fighter Pods swept a line in the rear of their retreat and created a wall of plasma-napalm flame.

The unspoken warning was clear, as was the decision from some level of undetermined authority that the bulk of the price for the disturbance in operational order had been paid already by the slain.

Point Lieutenant Hyra followed by active sensors the retreat of Bren's units through the irregular wall of plasma flame that was now reaching its optimum burn and creating a spreading pool of molten glass from the sand within its radiance. She did not minimalize the psychological impact she and the reduced squad immediately attached to her had made in entering the rising skirmish as they had –but she knew that the additional Serhot Ran units of Action Commander Kevtok's company who were still arriving and coming to ground in tactically advantageous positons was far more motivating.

"Lord, the situation is stabilizing. -Bren's forces are withdrawing and collapsing back to their min line of advance.", Hyra reported. Around her, Action General Hesthira's forces milled about stunned and differing from Bren's retreating warriors only in that the swift slaughter that followed the Serhot Ran like a shadow hovered over them as a shield rather than a raised sword.

–Or so was their hope.

The pair of Regults under Hesthira who had fallen to the same blade as those under Bren were a brutal remainder of the cost of discipline abandoned. The lesson did not appear to be lost on the ravaged but surviving probe force that stayed its position awaiting orders.

"Excellent work, Hyra.", Kevtok said, expressing pleasure without sounding pleased as he was gifted at doing, "I have reported the break in contact with Bren's forces to Action General Hesthira. He will normalize and coordinate the movement of forces at his level. Hold your position using the micronian base's perimeter as yours. I will be on site shortly- I am organizing heavier elements from available units to move up that will act as a buffer. Can you maintain your position with the forces you have in hand?"

Hyra understood without Kevtok explicitly saying so that she had been handed command of Kevtok's company, most of whom had now arrived. It was an honor of trust and confidence on the action commander's part that was infrequently displayed.

"Lord, I will hold until you order otherwise, or the micronian star burns out-."

"That shouldn't be necessary, Hyra.", Kevtok replied, "I will inform you as I get these regulars moving. Notify your rear guards we will be approaching from their direction on a fast advance. –I would prefer not to start a second battle between our own forces today-."

"Understood, Lord. It will be done."

Hyra scanned the terrain out before her to the north once again. Regults of all the variants, a company's strength more or less in all continued their urgent retreat toward greater numbers of their own. Retreating against even an inferior number of Serhot-Ran was wise, though they could not have known that Kevtok's orders from Hesthira himself had been to apply only the force required to dislodge Bren's and his forces from one another's throats.

Hyra also felt a measure of sympathy for the warriors running from her and the other Serhot-Ran. They had to be improved warrior caste, and wet from the stasis tubes as well because they did not demonstrate the understanding that Bren was as intolerant of retreat as he was unsympathetic.

The warriors in retreat were likely only extending their lives by minutes- hours if Fate saw fit to grant favors. An oddly harsh level of discipline for those who Bren had positioned for a fight with no purpose and no operational benefit other than to slow Hesthira's progress toward more significant engagement with the common enemy.

Hyra did her best to purge the thoughts of command-grade officers' political grappling and what it cost in warriors' and field officer grades' lives from her mind. Her last thought on the absurdity of this incident before focusing on Kevtok's orders to her was the gratitude she felt to Fate that Bren had not committed Serhot-Ran units to the skirmish the way Hesthira had chosen to. That was blood too valuable to be spilled in a squabble not elevated far above two norghil coming to blows over a choice bunk in a ship's barracks.

Such confrontation between Serhot-Ran Warriors was unthinkable though-. Their first and direct loyalty was to Supreme General Krymina, making their taking sides in a feud between two action generals quite impossible.

-And related to the first preclusive condition, Bren had no place in his command whose allegiance wasn't first to him. Serhot-Ran would not be found in his corps' ranks.

But he had ample quantity of improved norghil and Te'Dak Tohl regular blood to spill, and he had no qualms about spilling it.

"Sub-lieutenant, report on the status of your sweep-.", Hyra demanded of the ranking Warrior she found in her presence. Too much thinking on things beyond her control was making her head ache.

Tahlt clung to his composure desperately in responding to the Serhot-Ran officer whose affiliation had only just been firmly established. The termination of his two subordinates in the process of fleeing the fight was within the realm of expectations of how Tahlt would have expected one of the elite shock troops of the enforcer caste to react. He was not as certain as to how she might respond to perceived ineffective leadership, or whether she would allow him to argue the circumstances by which he had little progress to report.

"Liege, we were initiating our sweep of the installation when we came under attack. We have had no contact with micronians, but I cannot say with confidence that no enemy elements are lying in wait."

"Then continue your sweep, Sub-Lieutenant-.", Hyra instructed benignly and not sensing the relief felt by Tahlt at her response, "Be thorough, but swift. –And be sure your Warriors are aware of the reinforcements Action Commander Kevtok is bringing in from the west. Accidents will be judged and dealt with harshly."

"Yes Liege."

Tahlt felt the thaw of relief spread slowly through him as the possibility of living into the night and on into morning became more likely. Fate had a way of asserting its presence sometimes for the sole purpose of the attention and with little enduring significance beyond.

Gathering his nerve and composure again to present an authoritative face to the scattering of warriors over whom he surmised he had been given authority, Tahlt found the Regults of fractured and fragmented units to already be assembling around him. –Clearly, they had followed Tahlt's exchange with the Serhot-Ran officer and did not wish to suggest a hint of reservation about performing their assigned task.

Brasilia

"-I was beginning to think you were all dead…", CPT Nguyen said in the general direction of his returning platoon lieutenants, Hall and Whilite, who still breathing heavily from the journey had edged their way to the center of the improvised CP on the unfinished 511 Sul subway station platform.

Whilite had shrugged off his carrying rig and upper-body armor components leaving him in his sweat-soaked BDU shirt that reeked an odor of cigarettes and "boonie funk" that he had not realized his body was capable of creating. –Fortunately for what traces of vanity the circumstances allowed to exist, his smell was no worse than anyone else in the crowded space.

Eyes were locked on one of the CP's field-ruggedized, large screen LCD displays that was streaming high-resolution video whose perspective indicated the transmitting camera to be UAV-mounted.

Technology-proficient as the Rangers of Echo Company were, their access to UAVs beside the decidedly short-ranged Tinkerbelle tactical drones was limited- the more sophisticated, expensive, and MOS-affiliated unmanned air vehicles being the guarded operating realm of the RDF Air Force.

What the RDF Army, Infantry as well as specialized units like the Rangers, had access to was a scrappy, little, carbon-fiber constructed drone that snapped together like a child's model kit from four pieces and stood on its tail as tall as an average man. It could only fly in good to fair weather conditions and was limited in its surveillance capabilities to high-quality daytime, night vision, and IR video- but it was intuitive to operate and could be mastered by most operators in about three hours' time.

Whilite had always meant to train-up on the drone, but other more pressing skill sets had always demanded his time for their learning. –Also, there was that slight hesitance that Whilite felt in picking up the radio controller module that came from the memory of his cousin's similarly operated, model P-51-D "Mustang" which he'd successfully begged to fly at age 13. The incident had shown that the skies of wartime Europe had been safer without Ed Whilite defending them, and was one that his cousin reminded him of without fail at most family gatherings ever since.

Echo Company's sniper team however was quite skilled at the martially repurposed toy's operation, and by virtue of their absence in the CP were certainly the ones at the controls atop the low-rise office building that stood above the 511 Sul subway station.

"Did you make contact with any ditto patrols or probes on your return movement?", CPT Nguyen asked, his eyes not leaving the LCD screen that showed roughly a company's strength of Regults, divided into three columns traveling roughly north along streets that looked more business/commercial than residential by the construction along their paths. As the UAV adjusted its course and zoom to maintain a good observational position, Whilite caught a quick glimpse of dismounted Zentraedi warriors in full "battle rattle" moving in parallel on the right flank of the advancing Regults.

It was an impressive "probe in force", for sure- a threatening compliment in dedicated resources to the Rangers and ASC troops for whom they were searching.

-But….

"They're groping in the dark."

SGM MacDonald, for a man of such impressive size was equally magnificent in Whilite's eyes for his thrift and choice in the use of words. Groping in the dark fit precisely as description of the enemy search in progress- a sweep being made pas by pass like the mowing of a home's front lawn that any troop of Boy Scouts could walk around unnoticed if they had been so inclined.

"They're improvising.", CPT Nguyen corrected, not discrediting MacDonald's valid observation- they were "groping in the dark"- but rather linking what was being witnessed to its greater significance.

"They're attempting something they've never really been called upon to do before: looking for a hard target instead of just smashing the whole area. They're learning."

For the benefit of the Rangers and ASC Mountain Recon troops who had just returned, MacDonald motioned for their attention and explained the situation using the detailed map of the city and immediate, outlying areas that had been used once already in planning the raid on the international airport made enemy encampment.

"-When we first spotted them, they were sweeping almost due north through the southwest areas of the city- about five kliks southwest of us-."

MacDonald's finger traced a path along city streets that was marked lightly with pencil already, showing how the enemy movement had been plotted by someone in real-time as it had been monitored.

"They got as far north as to reach the top limits of the Cruzeiro Niovo before they shifted east and began their return sweep. They got to the bottom of that leg and started north again just before you arrived."

Expertly skilled in reconnaissance and search operations as their unit name implied, SSG Alvarez of the 24th Mountain Recon commented with the weight of authority, "-They're patrolling more than searching… If they were searching in earnest for us, they'd be entering buildings, garages, looking for indications that we were around-."

SSG Byerly comfortably interrupted Alvarez to point out, "Ceiling height might be a limiting factor in the thoroughness of their search-."

Alvarez flashed that perfect, magazine model's smile that grated Whilite's already nicotine-starved and raw nerves as he conceded to Byerly's observation in answering, "-True, but they're looking for contact by chance, or by tripping an ambush that they think they've brought enough firepower to overwhelm-."

"-So, let's give them what they want."

All eyes shifted to CPT Nguyen, the only one present in the company of officers and NCOs with the authority to make that statement with an immediate implication of action.

With the focus now on him, Nguyen explained simply and surely as though laying out a plan to drop clothing off at the dry-cleaners' on the way to the grocery store.

"-If the ditto commander thinks he's going to stumble onto us marching the streets, let's help him believe it. –Not here though."

"-What?- Have `em trip over our lair where it's not?", Lieutenant Gifford surmised from Nguyen's minimal statements.

"Yeah.", SGM MacDonald said, confident that his thinking was in step with Nguyen's already, "-Get them to fight us where we aren't."

Whilite felt pleased with himself at recognizing the situationally appropriate modification of a classic, Tsung Tzu principle.

"Sir, I agree", Alvarez said to Nguyen as though it was a major factor in the decision-making process, "-But if we want them to obsess on an area of the city where we're not, we're gonna have to do a real convincing job and majorly bring the hurt."

Nguyen displayed enough uncharacteristic swagger in his response to provoke a healthy sense of competition with the ranking ASC NCO, "Well, I know my people are up to it, Staff Sergeant-. If the Southern Cross isn't feeling it today, you don't have to consider yourselves obliged."

Alvarez knew when he was being prodded, and replied with a laugh, "We're just fine sir, and'll try not to leave you behind."

Byerly shook her head, feeling something close to being back in high school as she interrupted, "-I like the game of who's is bigger?- as much as anyone here, but if we want to do this show anywhere but on our own doorstep, we need to figure out where- and quick."

As Byerly had posed the challenge, Whilite knew in his bones that Alvarez would be the quickest to the answer, and that bone-deep feeling would have been worth real money had anyone had the inclination to bet him on it.

"-I'll answer that one…", the ASC staff sergeant volunteered as Whilite had been certain he would.

3rd Platoon's lieutenant had bummed a smoke from Lieutenant Gifford and had it lit even as Alvarez leaned far over the map to search one particular area of the Asa Sul District for what he only knew. –The nicotine helped some.

"Annnnnnnnnd, here."

There were three pronounced thumps of Alvarez's index finger on the map, punctuating his statement saying he'd found what he was looking for.

Captain Nguyen leaned in over the map in a single movement with SGM MacDonald, his other officers and present NCOs crowding to get a glimpse. Whilite made an effort to be in as close to Alvarez as he could when he leaned in so that his exhaled stream of smoke "accidentally" enveloped the non-smoker's head and elicited a cough.

"-It's a Buddhist temple.", Nguyen shared with those around him who might not have been able to see or identify the map symbology next to Alvarez's fingertip.

"Taking the War to an ashram-.", Lieutenant Hill chuckled darkly, "My, oh my- the sick irony!"

"Pagoda.", Alvarez corrected, "Ashrams are usually monasteries of several different religions and common to India-. This is a pagoda, a temple style particular to the sect of Buddhism practiced by the order of monks-."

Whilite really wanted to hit him now, "Jesus-. Somebody really needs to try out for Jepaordy…"

Naib Subedar Singh of the Gurkha unit, towering over all of the other officers nodded his approval of Alvarez's facts, saying, "-He's not wrong…"

"I don't care if it's a damn Mohican sweat lodge…", Whilite stammered briefly, catching himself before he came across as raving, "My point I'm getting to is that a pagoda might not be the most durable structure we can find to base an attack. –Just saying….."

Alvarez surprised Whilite with agreement, "Your lieutenant is right, Captain- I wouldn't want to use it as any kind of a fortified position either. I was just using it as a point of reference."

"For what?", asked Nguyen, eager to get to the useful point of the conversation, but not quite ready to force the issue just yet.

"Well", explained Alvarez, "We did a turn or two holding that portion of the district from Malcontent incursion back when things first started to go to shit in Brasilia a few months back. The monks were decent enough guys, so we'd always check in on them when we were doing a sweep or running a patrol, so we got to know the immediate area real good. Anyway, the part that interest us now is the blocks surrounding the temple. It's a damn maze of buildings, short streets, and little plazas. –The kind of place that if you could lure mecha and full-size dittos into- it could be a real shooting gallery."

Whilite had to admit to himself that despite his general, mild dislike of the ASC staff sergeant, he was selling the site for the intended purpose.

As though Alvarez had read his mind, he traced his finger a few, three small blocks to what was clearly marked as a Brasilia Metro subway station.

"-And the best part is, we can get there without risk of accidentally crossing paths with that ditto probe force."

Sergeant Major MacDonald nodded with the slightest hint of a grin, saying, "Captain, I think the staff sergeant here has got a winner of a plan."

"-Or at least a very good idea on short notice.", Nguyen agreed, "But I want boots on that ground and eyes attached to them working for me so we don't hit it cold…."

MacDonald understood before Nguyen was done speaking and by the time he had already slipped on a radio headset to speak to the sniper team in the OP atop the building above the 511 Sul station.

"-Harris, Fuller-. Bring your toy home and get your butts down here. You're checkin' out a real estate deal for us."

Alvarez waited for the sniper/scout team to affirm the orders given to them by MacDonald before issuing orders of his own within his chain of command.

"Thant's you too, Carol. Take three of your pick and play tour guide."

SGT Carol nodded his compliance, "Roger that. –The little mixed use complex northeast of the temple?"

"You're reading minds again.", Alvarez replied, "You shouldn't have to pitch it hard, it sells itself."

"Roger that.", Carol repeated.

"Wanna maybe let us in on the inside story there?", Whilite asked, aware like the other Rangers around the makeshift OC that the Mountain Recon NCOs had a very specific location in mind and for equally specific reasons.

Unflustered by Whilite's sharpened impatience, Alvarez explained, shifting his eye contact between the senior Rangers around him.

"-It's one of those little, self-contained community set-ups that got built with residential and commercial space all rolled up into half a dozen or eight low and medium rise buildings around little parks and plazas. It was just built when the shit started to go down, and when the Malcontents set up camp there, neither of our infantries, ours or yours, could figure out why we were gettin' so fucked trying to secure a couple of blocks. So it turns out that the whole thing was built on top of three common, subterranean parking garages that were joined by pedestrian tunnels and lower utility tunnels."

"Underground-.", Whilite repeated, immediately grasping all of the nasty little possibilities that it presented in urban warfare, having had to deal with it elsewhere in Brasilia himself "after the shit started to go down", as Alvarez had said.

"Yes, sir - underground is what subterranean means-.", Alvarez poked back slyly with the affixed "sir" that let him off the hook for minor insubordination.

Others around the map laughed, including Byerly which stung Whilite more than the others combined. –But he let it go. There were more important uses for mental bandwidth right now than high school style verbal duels with Alvarez.

"Sir-.", SGT Nadeau of Whilite's 3rd Squad said, disrupting the verbal showdown, "-I'm looking at this and-."

Nadeau laid down an engineering detailed map of the relevant portion of the subway tunnel system on top of the unused area of the city map all had been poring over. CPL Barry of the same squad pointed to something on the engineering schematics that allowed his superior to continue.

"-To get there, the 174 Sul station from here, is a bit of a hike, but also a pretty straight shot. Just three junctions along the way, so there shouldn't be any navigational SNAFUs…"

"-And we can get the scouting detail there four times as fast.", Naib Subedar Singh stated, volunteering his Gurkhas and more importantly the swift transport of their Cyclones.

Sergeant Major MacDonald said directly to CPT Nguyen, "Sir, I think we've got the skeleton of a plan here-."

Nguyen replied to all of his officers and NCOs, "I want gear and ammo drawn for intense-contact, anti-mecha work. Let me be clear though- I don't want to play Saving Private Ryan with the dittos on this op. We hit them hard, and then we break contact."

"We're not going to win the war today. Our objective is to plant the idea that they've found us as far away from base camp as we can make them believe. We're going to confirm the wrong assumptions that we want them to have. –H'yup?.."

"H'yyyup!", was returned powerfully, and in unison.

"Good.", Nguyen approved, "Fall out, let's get our people briefed and geared up! -We've got Rangering to do…."

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

"Possible contact, Sierra Papa, passing from bearing zero-zero-zero to zero-zero-one mark four-five relative.", Sensorman First Class Thatcher reported, "That's Quad Green country, Opie-. Have at `em…."

Sensorman First Class Cobb did not even notice the archaic reference and prod at his vibrant, red hair. Thatch hadn't a mean cell in him- not for him anyway, Cobb knew. He was just being Thatch, and as such, Cobb had no issue with it.

What he did have issue with was related to the anomaly that may or may not have been a ship out at great range whose faint EM emissions had just drifted out of Thatch's quadrant of responsibility into his.

"-Way to take that bull by the horns, Thatch.", Cobb scorned mildly as he tracked in his analytical "window" onto the weak signal's position.

"-I mean, call it or don't. –Handing it off as a possible though? That's just sloppy analytical work."

Sounds of amusement came from the junior sensor trackers under each senior as they enjoyed the back-and-forth banter in parallel to the attention they were giving to monitoring the raw data being provided to them by the ship's passive sensors. It never elevated to a "distraction", and never happened when it might interfere with the ship's actual safety. –And it was a reliable way not to go nuts staring at a screen of light pixels for hours trying to recognize patterns the computers may have missed, so it was allowed.

"-Then school me on how it's done and call it there, Gingerbread-.", Thatch nudged back in the good-natured, verbal shoving match, "Show me how it's done and call it."

"Well, maybe I will-."

"Well, then call it-."

"Have you girls' cycles synced up yet?", asked the Senior Sensor Officer who supervised the sensor shack and liaised with the rest of the CIC.

It was now officially a group event.

"Declaring Contact Sierra Papa 1472.", Cobb announced ending the childish banter in exchange for the real work for which he'd been trained. –But it would shut Thatch the fuck up for a little while anyway.

"Get to typing him.", directed the SSO without need.

Cobb knew the particulars of his job, and was already performing it before the Senior Sensor Officer had given him the verbal nudge.

While the junior technician seated in the #3 Tracker chair, Sensorman 2nd Class Hauk, used the broadband aspects of Gordon P. Samuels' battery of passive sensor arrays to begin to work out exact position, speed, and course of "Contact/SP-1472" as it was now logged, Cobb worked at the finer art of determining what was being tracked through narrow-band analysis.

The same, powerful, passive EM receivers that Hauk used was using to determine the contact's "plot", Cobb used to determine the contact's identity by way of the clues of its emitted power signatures.

"Typing" was accomplished by identifying and recognizing patterns of energy that all vessels gave off in the process of operating- even in the process of being.

A vessel of the Stratford Class, identical in design, construction, and configuration to Gordon P. Samuels shared common EM signatures with all of her sisters. To achieve a particular speed, their subspace compression engines had to produce a given number of compression kilocycles per second to develop the necessary kinetic energy to reach the desired velocity. Two ships of the same external configuration would also generate very nearly the same "cross section", or the quantity of reflected energy off their hulls at given angles and aspects.

The same two ships also produced EM emission signatures that were unique to each as DNA or fingerprints were to their human designers and builders. Two Protoculture reactors (still more loosely referred to as "Reflex furnaces") coming off of the same manufacturing line and fueled with Protoculture cells from the same batch would still generate distinct and perceivably different emission signatures in the Bio-Ethereal Energy ("BEE") band which was widely believed to be the technological equivalent to the way that Invid perceived the world around them.

Similarly, the same two vessels' engines developing the same number of kilocycles could be distinguished from one another under narrow-band analysis by the compression waves they generated. It was unavoidable as were the specific emissions that escaped even the best-designed BEE and waste heat reclamation systems, and were the distinguishing markers that Cobb used to perform his "typing" of Contact/SP-1472.

Sensorman 1st Class Cobb was far from working alone though.

As he studied grainy, bands of light pixels within a scarcely different field of hash that represented the energy present in an area of space, his brain was working in parallel with banks of computers sifting and searching for the same identifying clues.

Normally human and computer came to an agreement. Sometimes there was a coldly professional agreement to disagree. –But together, and with the contribution of other sensor technicians and computers as needed- it was the job of the Sensor Division to tell the ship's commanding officer what exactly lay out and around her, beyond sight in the cold reaches of nothing.

Commander Devereaux had her second wind now. –Though, if she thought of the time that had elapsed since her last visit to the rack in her quarters, it might have more accurately been considered her third or fourth wind. The thrill of the hunt, along with quantities of caffeine and nicotine that would have been judged as "unhealthy" did wonders though.

Fatigue lurked however, close and ready to strike like a shark skulking about in the depths just beyond the ability of light to penetrate. It would have its time, but not just yet.

For the moment, the tactical display and the developing plots of the contacts SP-1470, SP-1471, and SP-1472 kept her edge fine and sharp. Instinct was telling her that there was something out there and all of the resources of her ship's passive sensors and the skills of the technicians operating them were slowly confirming it.

Now were the maddening minutes that easily turned into hours where patience and caution were required. Discipline had to govern action, because to act rashly or too soon could mean acting before the whole tactical picture was available. –And this was often the first step on the path to catastrophe.

Minutes before, there had been two probable contacts with just enough positive indicators that there was indeed a ship behind each to have them declared for the sensor logs. Now there was a third, and in its emergence from the haziness of ambient electro-magnetic energy common to the regions of space containing asteroid fields or belts it was contributing to a larger story.

Two probable contacts moving at great range with apparent coordination was a compelling indicator of unknown parties attempting to traverse a region of space undetected.

–Still, there was the possibility that it was a fluke.

Solar particles caught in parallel clouds of fine dust and gas, given the suggestion of movement by celestial mechanics could appear at first to a ship observing passively to be two Flying Dutchman of the cosmos traveling the same relative course.

Three probable contacts doing the same however-.

That was a more compelling argument for an adversary attempting to move by stealth.

Maddeningly, CDR Devereaux had only a suspicion that she trusted more and more each minute, but not enough to act upon it. She did have the option to be hasty and to light off a "pulse" of energy from the active portion of her sensor arrays. That would quickly differentiate the insubstantial from the corporal, but it would betray Gordon P. Samuels' presence and exact position as it would any phantom out in the void.

Tactically unsound. No dice.

If the contacts were indeed the enemy and totally unaware of Gordon P. Samuels, Devereaux knew she might have several seconds where the initiative to act and advantage in action was wholly hers.

–But if the enemy were more superior in numbers than the three probable contacts being tracked, this same course of action could quickly turn against her.

-And the indication at this point was that if these probable contacts were actually Zentraedi warships, they were at least aware of the possibility of contact with an adversary. If not, why run "dark"? -Why disperse as though sweeping space instead of holding station in a tighter formation that maximized a unit's firepower?

Devereaux was trained to and capable of playing the martial philosophy game ad infinitum, but at the end of the day, it was all just educated guessing and not worth rash action that jeopardized Gordon P. Samuels.

-No, it was to be the long game.

"D'you think maybe they're playing a hunch?", LCDR Petersen said tapping his fingers on his favorite, stainless steel, thermal mug that had been filled with coffee too many times in the past stretch of extended watch to count.

"It'd be one helluva lucky guess if they were.", Devereaux agreed by way of speculation.

"Maybe they should buy a lottery ticket while they're in town-.", Petersen suggested dryly, "That's how I'd use that kind of luck."

"Which is precisely why I don't think it's luck, or a hunch.", Devereaux replied with great certainty, "Odds are too long against it. –Maybe they're hoping for luck now that they're here, but I think that they got here by something a little more precise."

Petersen said to the former attack corvette commander, LCDR Kenner, "-Hear that?.. Your egress techniques need a little polish there…"

Kenner was silently skeptical that Zentraedi had the technical sophistication to arrive at the ultimate destination point determined for the corvettes during Operation Doolittle's final stages of planning by way of piecing together that conclusion from the numerous course legs that they were able to observe during the corvettes' break from contact. –And this was to say nothing of the patience and persistence required to reach that end.

It just wasn't their way.

"Well, if you folks promise to get me back home", bargained Kenner, "I'll promise to bring it up during the mission debriefing."

"Done", agreed Devereaux, "-But first, we need to deal with this and finish our sweep. I don't want to have to live with the thought that we might have left some of your friends out here, Commander."

Kenner nodded his appreciation, still too close to the inevitable jitters he had started to feel aboard Eager Beaver while awaiting rescue that the rescue might not come. Helplessness was a difficult sensation to grapple with when one was trained to be anything but helpless.

"-And I'll tell you another thing.", Devereaux added, her own thoughts having traveled a different course than Kenner's during the same span of time, "I would have preferred the dittos had sent a whole battle group to thrash this sector than this. –This is too close to a level of sophistication that I'm not comfortable with in dittos."

"Well", suggested Petersen, "I guess it's up to us to put an end to the run on this particular model."

"I'm thinking of nothing but…", Devereaux agreed as the CIC's tactical display refreshed per the regularity of the selected setting and the three contacts each shifted relative position ever so slightly, indicating a further refinement of their plot.

"Conn, Sensor-. Requesting aspect to target change of yaw, plus ten degrees."

Petersen and Devereaux exchanged a glance at the request. The SSO's request was not an uncommon one, to change the orientation of the ship in relation to a contact in order to open the target to the scanning arc of more of the sensor panels mounted over the long axis of the hull.

It meant brief use of the ship's maneuvering thrusters though, which to the naked eye were fleeting and insignificant but to sensor eyes that saw across the entire electromagnetic band it was an occurrence far harder to miss.

In their shared glance, Petersen's expression was questioning and Devereaux' answering.

"Sensor, Conn. Denied-.", Petersen said with authority that he held as OOD, "Sorry, better we maintain dark ship and play at being a hole in space a little longer. Do what you can on this track and orientation."

"Aye, XO.", replied the SSO.

Petersen was not concerned. The sensor team aboard Gordon P. Samuels was at least equal to the best in the Fleet, and certainly second to none. They'd build the tracks and profiles on the three contacts with time and the movement of the probable hostiles. It would just take more time that the CO was willing to invest.

Petersen was inclined to make a comment along the lines of what he was mulling over in his head, but the skipper was clearly deep in her own thought and one with the tactical display.

"-Thinking of nothing but…."

Durango, Mexico

Action General 1st Grade Hesthira understood why the micronians had been willing to so easily surrender the ground he now stood upon triumphant. Even in the waning hours of the day as shadows of the odd, scrubby desert plants stretched long, the heat was unrelenting and not even the breaths of wind that were rising lightened its heavy, oppressive effects.

Hesthira had requested Action General 1st Grade Bren's presence at this place some two hours before to discuss "operational execution matters", and had made his way to this otherwise unimportant patch of parched earth from a place a modest distance behind the spearhead of his forces with minutes to spare before the agreed time.

That had been over an hour ago.

Hesthira was certain that there had been no misunderstanding in the land coordinates for the meeting or of the agreed time. Bren simply enjoyed the thought of making Hesthira wait, knowing that he would wait to discuss a topic as critical as the one that drew them together.

Hesthira's patience was not without limit though, and he wondered how long Bren intended to strain it.

Hesthira's executive officer, Action General 2nd Grade Naku- whom Hesthira felt would be given his own command before this campaign had concluded was less accommodating. Masking his frustration with Bren, his superior in a single grade, Naku paced a short distance before kicking at the stone-hard dirt and returning back to his commander's side with legitimate complaints.

"Lord, the time we are wasting in waiting for Action General Bren is the same time the aliens are using to plan their next countermove against us. –If Bren were an officer under my charge-."

Though Hesthira had reason to believe that the supposed fate of Bren in the hypothetical situation that Naku was constructing would be both fiendish and entertaining, it also bumped the line of insubordination.

"-But he is not.", Hesthira said firmly, ending Naku's fantasy of power in his martial relationship with Bren and grounding him in reality.

Still, Naku's frustrations were not unwarranted- just best left unspoken. What the gifted junior officer sometimes lost his grasp of was that there was an elevated level of positioning and gamesmanship that grew proportionately with the upper echelons of command. Hesthira was not fond of it, however that did not negate its existence.

"-Nor is Bren under my charge.", Hesthira said after a measured pause of several seconds between his last statement and this, "He is under Jekketh's charge, the same as you and me. Jekketh is exerting exactly as much control on all of us as he sees necessary to prosecute this campaign against the aliens, Naku. –I assure you that it's in no one's interest at our level for him to wish greater direct control. –So, we wait for Bren and come to terms this way."

"Lord, I'm detecting a Re-Entry Transport Pod approaching from the north and on descent."

The report from Action Commander Kevtok was the first utterance from the Serhot-Ran officer since he'd reported to the action general over an hour before that the designated meeting site was secure. Hesthira had not forgotten that the junior officer and his hand-selected detachment of five of the elite warriors he commanded were guarding him and Naku, but the six imposing Nacht Rau combat suits they piloted could have as easily been natural features of the landscape for their lack of movement or pilots' comment in the time they'd shared their company.

Hesthira's Glaug Officer's Pod squatted in tireless wait for its occupant's return beside Naku's, and was no doubt reporting the transport's approach dutifully to an empty cockpit. –But it was a comfort to hear Kevtok make the announcement, showing that as ordered he was performing his protector's role, and also that the prolonged wait had not put him and his warriors to sleep.

Naku scanned the deepening blue northern sky of late afternoon for any indication of the transport's approach. The heat of this world was wearing on him atop the days of relentless advance and minimal sleep. He would of course serve Hesthira as his lord and commander until his body failed him, but he knew that this day and this event would not call for that. Naku simply found his superior in rank, Bren, to be overly self-important, and by that trait irritating. –But a superior nonetheless.

No, the sooner this meeting could be done with, the better it was for Naku.

"Action General Bren must have been very particular in the company he gathered to meet with us, Lord. You should be flattered that he wants to impress you."

Hesthira snorted at the absurdity of his executive officer's statement, only realizing as he did so that the statement was intended as humor by its absurdity. It had been long, continuous slog since making planetfall though, and Hesthira forgave himself a dulled wit.

"Bren only flatters himself and tries to impress those who can advance his interests. –If he had wanted to impress us, he would have waited another two hours before arriving in his command ship for our meeting.", Hesthira mused wearily, "We will let him shine in his own eyes and use that to light the way to where we want him to go-. –And there he is…"

Naku saw the dark fleck against the sky just above the horizon just as Hesthira was announcing it to him. The low rumble of a distant sonic boom rolled over the officers and their Serhot-Ran escorts like a gentle wave- assertive enough only to demonstrate its power.

The Re-Entry Transport had only just dropped to subsonic speed, telling Hesthira that Bren too was eager in his contained and self-interested way to have this meeting as well. That desire had not had the urgency to bring him to the meeting location on time, but something was said that his transport pilot had been instructed to maintain supersonic flight until the physics of descent and approach dictated otherwise.

Bren was likely on the cup of exhaustion also, but Hesthira suspected that there was more than fatigue motivating him. –He would be cautious in probing this curiosity.

The transport rapidly took its familiar form as it approached and continued to slow to a non-threatening and design appropriate speed for landing. Looking like a mountain of metal with its high-domed, disc-like and massive proportions there was still something intimidated about the craft's approach that was undoubtedly not lost on Bren.

Clearly under the control of a master pilot, the craft came to a hover just short of where Hesthira's party had been waiting for a small eternity and settled to gentle rest on the sun-hardened land with greater delicacy than anything of its size should have been capable.

The dust from the great displacement of air beneath the transport was still in vicious swirls all around the craft as the gangway hatch at the front opened and swiftly swung down to ground in its secondary function as a ramp.

As the ramp footpads contacted earth, a procession of the primarily earthbound Nousjadeul-Ger power armor suits used almost exclusively by male, heavy mechanized infantry units formed the lead, advancing edge of Bren's entourage as it disembarked from the transport's well-illuminated interior. Unblemished by soil or scuff, the fleet-footed yet heavily armed and armored combat suits looked as though they could have just been drawn from inventory aboard a Robotech Factory. Their shoulder-mounted, heavy auto-cannons were rotated into the "stowed" position, running parallel to the line of the suits' broad shoulders, and their heavy assault rifles carried non-threateningly with their muzzles pointed toward the ground- but there was still implied menace in their overall appearance and presentation to Hesthira and Naku.

Just as the parallel columns of male power armor seemed to threaten to stretch on without end, the "protection unit" gave way to a half dozen Glaug Officer's Pods identical in every respect to Hesthira and Naku's with the exception that like the Nousjadeul-Ger suits, they seemed untouched by the soiling of the battlefield.

Finally, when nearly the transport's whole weight capacity had emptied, the single figure of Action General 1st Grade Bren strode solitary down the gangway. Like Hesthira, more so than either would have comfortably admitted, he was smaller and slighter of build than most officers and warriors under his command. Physical size had little bearing on the impression that the officer gave as he strode with the presence of a warrior twice his size.

Walking the path that opened for him through the center of his subordinates, with his staff in their Glaugs falling in behind by order of rank, Bren strutted directly to his counterpart without acknowledgment of Naku.

"You brought Serhot-Ran, Hesthira-.", Bren observed noticing the six Nacht Rau Combat Suits, and making a point of sounding unimpressed, "Were you expecting a fight with me?"

"You brought nearly a company with you, Bren-.", Hesthira replied with an ever-so-slight edge of taunting, "Are you alarmed that you would not win it if you started one?"

Bren's face remained impenetrable for a few moments longer before he gave a loud, barking laugh that Hesthira was certain could have been heard by the warriors in mecha and power armor around them without benefit of external audio pick-ups.

"I always enjoy these meetings with you, Hesthira.", Bren said with genuine forced admiration, "You are the closest to being in the company of my equal."

"-And I see your self-esteem is intact, so I know you are well.", Hesthira replied, completing the customary period of verbal sparring.

"So, what brings us together, Hesthira- besides mutual adoration?", Bren asked, oddly allowing the duel to end with the last shot being fired by Hesthira, "You called this meeting."

"Kuhl-Nar Six.", Hesthira replied simply, seeing no need for elaboration.

Bren's face drained of patience and the expression replacing it grew to one of mixed tedium and frustration.

"One incident, in one campaign, years ago Hesthira, and you treat it like a wound that continues to bleed-."

Hesthira cut his counterpart short with, "No, Bren- it was the last and most blatant incident in a series of many that nearly got us both, and our warriors purged by Jekketh. You know that nothing makes Jekketh more intolerant and twitchy than having Supreme General Krymina show the slightest bit of concern or doubt in operations under his charge. –What happened this afternoon could have very easily escalated into just such an incident."

Hesthira was quiet and contemplative for a full moment which in Hesthira's experience was 75% more of a "moment" than he normally invested in any thought. –And per Hesthira's experience also, Bren latched onto the option of Hesthira's point that was not truly the point.

"Your edge is dulling, Hesthira. There is one small incident as two units merge unexpectedly, and you flinch. Perhaps you should continue to hold my right flank as I continue with the main work of the advance-."

"It was one incident in a campaign that is of far greater interest to Krymina than Kuhl-Nar Six that Action Commander Kevtok and his Serhot Ran arrested before it grew out of control.", Hesthira corrected, "Perhaps you should acknowledge that Jekketh will be more sensitive to deviations from operational norms given Krymina's investment in this campaign's success."

"-And perhaps you shouldn't use warriors close to Krymina's right hand to quash squabbles when it is likely that they return to her side to whisper in her ear.", Bren fired back, closer to a valid point than made Hesthira comfortable.

"Though here we are.", Hesthira said, keenly aware now that Kevtok and his five, elite shock troopers were more than capable of hearing every word said easily by benefit of their suits' audio pick-ups.

"Here we are.", Bren agreed, adding after, "-And since you never call to meet without an agenda or a plan, Hesthira- why don't you just get to it so we may invest our efforts where Duty demands?..."

"A simple arrangement, Bren- our usual.", Hesthira said, having had an agenda and a plan as Bren had correctly assumed- and the same plan they had used before on numerous occasions would suffice once again.

"We each play to our strengths. My units will advance in bounds ahead of yours, fixing and breaking what alien units remain for your forces to pulverize. We will avoid future incidents by establishing and maintaining lines of communication primarily between our executive officers and senior staffs. –And lastly, we strictly forbid and harshly punish incidents."

"Have you punished for this day's unfortunate event?", Bren asked, likely already knowing the answer.

"I have not.", Hesthira replied honestly, "My understanding is that my forces were attacked."

"It seems then that you are asking for two distinct sets of standards then, Hesthira.", Bren argued, "-Fortunately, I have already punished the offending units. I cannot remember whether it was for retreating from the fight or that other infraction you live in such fear of, but word of the discipline hast made its way back through the ranks by way of warriors' talk-. Though they were only improved norghil, it should serve the purpose."

Hesthira sensed the reaching of a tenuous accord.

"Then we are agreed?."

"Yes.", Bren replied, "Until the next thing offends you."

Yellowstone City

"-It's the Marriot-.", Commander Weitzel responded flatly to Major Pultz's great revelation, "-And it's seen better days."

The Marriot Hotel and Convention Center- Yellowstone had seen better days, and not in the distant past.

Intended to complement the United Earth's resurgent, new capital, the hotel and convention center was up to this time (and all things considered, likely for the foreseeable future) the largest and most expensive, purely commercial building project west of The Rocky Mountains boasting just shy of two thousand guest rooms that met pre-holocaust standards of luxury, as well as five-star restaurants and posh shopping boutiques.

Clad in mirror-like, silver-grey glass whose panes had enjoyed a daily cleaning courtesy of a system utilizing robot shuttles that ran along vertical tracks, the 30-story tower had been as recognizable a part of the city skyline as any government building and had added an element of beauty in reflecting the deep blues of sky or colors of sunrise and sunset off its polished edifice.

Its architects, understanding that the value of beauty was augmented in the post Robotech War world by utility, it was the cavernous convention and functional conference spaces that had made the Marriot a valued gem set in the heart of the city. Arguably as many neo-industrial and government program concepts had been socialized and political alliances formed within the business-oriented walls of this hotel's convention center as had been made in government council and committee chambers.

-But, as Weitzel had observed, The Marriot Hotel and Convention Center- Yellowstone had seen better days.

Almost without exception the reflective glass panes that had clad the hotel tower had been shattered by the concussive forces associated with the heavy, orbital gunfire the city had received and had fallen free of its framing that had warped with exterior, structural damage to the building. Guest accommodations that had provided both panoramic views of the city as well as climate-controlled comfort now stood agape with their interiors clearly visible and brutally tossed by an instant of violence.

Scarcely a right angle was left to be seen to remain in the tower's exterior framing, but a skeletal structure intended to bear the brunt of the most powerful earthquakes had done its job in a different circumstance. Ravaged as it was, the hotel's vertical elements gave no indication of impending collapse.

The Marriot complex's "pedestal", as it appeared to be, the convention center spaces had not fared as well against the external forces applied by the proximal blasts of particle beam impacts. Swept away from the direction of the beam impact points, the convention center's external and internal walls were laid flat like the aftermath of a house of cards collapse.

From the rear, passenger-side seat of the military land rover whose EMP-hardened qualities made it one of the few functioning terrestrial vehicles left in Yellowstone, Weitzel was not grasping the benefit of this sharing moment. It may have been the rising discomfort of the combined cold and bumpy ride on her freshly bandaged leg-stump that made her irritable, but not so much so that she thought that the Marine major would have brought her on such a risky trek without reason.

"I attended a conference on analysis techniques applied to irregular sources here about a year ago and had a helluva one-night fling with a Danish, RDF captain, Major-.", Weitzel said heavily, "-Other than heartbreak at the condition of the place, what am I supposed to be getting out of this?"

Pultz stifled a chuckle at the REF officer's intentional "overshare" and replied, "So, the place looks fucked, and for commercial purposes probably is fucked- but the lower levels of the convention center are still intact and almost cozy compared to the rest of the city. There's more than enough room for us to set up shop, Commander. –If you're onboard with the idea, of course."

"You've seen it?", Weitzel asked.

"Seen it… Been in it… -Kicked the wall studs a few times for good measure.", Pultz replied.

Surveying what could be seen of the formerly grand Marriot, Weitzel asked the question that was obvious to her, "How did you get in? The ground floor is leveled onto itself."

"Over there- the coffee shop.", Pultz replied pointing at a beaten and sagging structure that occupied a street-front portion of the complex's exterior, commercial spaces.

"On Common Grounds-.", Weitzel read aloud from the shop's marque that now hung gruesomely by a thread of metal from its original mounting, "-And that goes into the convention center itself?"

"It's two levels.", Pultz explained, "The lower one opens up into the lower convention center. There's also a service garage in the rear of the complex that's accessible and gets into the guts of the service and mechanical levels. –And to boot, the coffee shop also used to have an awesome Columbian medium-roast that may still be laying around."

"Well, I do like coffee.", Weitzel admitted approvingly, "-I think you've found our new home, Major. Now we just need to move in."

"Already in the planning and almost ready to pull the trigger, ma'am.", Pultz said, "A few days from now, you'll be sipping first rate joe in the swankiest hovel in town."

"Marines never cease to impress me, Major.", Weitzel said in earnest.

"Hoorah, ma'am."

Brasilia

"El-Tee-..", SSG Byerly announced herself as she neared Whilite at a half-jog that he doubted he had the energy to match at the moment.

"-Second Squad is settled in on the left."

Whilite nodded his understanding of his senior sergeant's report. He had meant to ask if Byerly had made it clear that like any ambush scenario, contact – and to be more specific, contact time – was uncertain. So long as one Ranger per position stayed awake and alert, others could sleep in brief, cat-nap shifts.

Strictly speaking, this wasn't sound operational practice but Whilite understood why Captain Nguyen had hinted at its necessity before the first elements had moved out.

Whilite had made the mistake of answering the siren call of a raised, concrete casement that elevated pruned and well-maintained decorative bushes and trees from its circular center- sitting on the smooth and sun-warmed edge that clearly had been made broad enough to function also as a bench. Once seated in this one of literally hundreds of small park areas that were situated throughout all parts of Brasilia, Whilite's energy had seeped out of him through his pores. Any period of time dedicated to sleep was now just a faint memory, and the grand luxury of an army cot seemed like the stuff of ancient lore. The body was taking what option it could to recharge.

There was no doubt that every other Ranger in the unit was suffering the same affliction of exhaustion. Nguyen knew it and rather than issue the order to muscle through it as others may have, he accepted the facts of human physiology and allowed for it wisely- hence the hint back at the CP.

Nguyen knew as Whilite did that even as the Rangers napped in shifts- it would be only the light sleep had with one eye left open. The common understanding that a clash was inevitable allowed no other kind.

Whilite offered Byerly the pack of cigarettes that had been full at the time he'd climbed onto the back of Naib Subedar Singh's Cyclone in the southbound tunnel of 511 Sul Station for the equal parts exhilarating and terrifying ride at suicidal speed to the OA-proximal 174 Sul Station. Lessened by two thirds now the staff sergeant's acceptance of a smoke knocked Whilite's on-hand cache of nicotine down to four coffin-nails. In a strange, ultra-exhausted way though it didn't seem to matter to the lieutenant. Neither nicotine, nor the bitter, gritty slush of MRE instant coffee, hot cocoa, and ambient temperature, filtered water he'd mixed in his mess kit cup seemed capable of offsetting collapse any longer. He just needed to nod off for a half hour to prevent his brain cells from imploding, and the sooner that the last of Echo Company and 21st Mountain Recon were positioned- the better chance there was of that happening.

Byerly placed the offered cigarette between her lips and began to search for her lighter in a visibly futile effort – fatigue clearly was getting to her also. Whilite remembered lighting his cigarette, or a cigarette at least with his use-beaten Zippo, but couldn't remember which pocket or pouch it had been returned to. Motioning to Byerly he inhaled on his smoke as she leaned in for what he'd heard referred to as the "cancer kiss". The staff sergeant's unlit cigarette tip touched the glowing, red end of his and was alight with a single puff.

"I'll give it to your boy, Alvarez.", Whilite admitted, too weary to be biased, "This is a good spot."

It was a good spot, though Whilite and Byerly were actually some 200 meters south of the intended "kill box", halfway between the ambush site and the subway station that was the arrival point of the last of newly combined unit. Singh and his Gurkhas had ferried enough of the Rangers and ASC Mountain Recon troops to the location to establish the position following a quick site survey and approval by Echo's sniper team. Everyone else, those who had enjoyed at least a modest amount of "downtime", had made the movement on foot and had arrived at intervals and carrying the "goodies" that would be needed to make the operation a spectacular episode of wanton brutality.

"-He's not my boy, El-Tee.", Byerly said benignly through a veil of smoke, "But yeah, it's a good spot."

"Bad choice of words-.", Whilite admitted, "Sorry –it's not my business… -I mean, it is, but it isn't… Y'know what I mean, anyway."

Byerly blinked wearily at him, "-No, I really don't."

"Well, I guess we'll drop it then.", Whilite said, not anxious or even able to continue that conversation at the moment.

Byerly let it go with the observation, "Though with double-speak skills like that, El-Tee, you could have a real career in politics."

"Now you're just being hurtful."

The peculiar, eerie, moaning sound of a light, evening breeze moving through the broken windows and interior spaces of abandoned buildings was suddenly joined by the distinct herald of multiple boots moving quickly over debris-strewn pavement.

Potential danger returned Whilite's energy to him as he snatched up his rifle from where it leaned against the concrete casement and flipped off the safety.

"Pitch!", Whilite called, using the challenge phrase chosen for the operation.

Byerly had set her cigarette down without extinguishing it on the same concrete surface on which Whilite had been seated as she unslung her rifle also, readying it as she took a knee behind the casement as cover.

The boots came to a literal, grinding halt on urban detritus.

"Strike!"

Having heard the correct counter-phrase/response, Whilite and Byerly both relaxed and safetied their weapons as they stepped into the open of the "green space" nestled in and amongst a complex of low-rise office buildings.

Knowing at this point to expect either Rangers or Recon, it wasn't until Whilite and Byerly laid eyes on the new arrivals that they recognized them as PFCs Munnsford, Reilly, and Kemp from LT Hall's 2nd Platoon.

Sweat from the exertion of the movement from base to the OA streamed down their faces, washing paths through the accumulated grime of the field. Their heavy but not labored breathing showed that they had probably traveled a good part of the distance on the double-time, despite full combat rigs and carrying gear laden with the equipment and munitions needed for the ambush. Whilite reassured himself that he could have done the same had Sri Singh not graciously offered the quicker conveyance of his Cyclone instead.

"Jesus, did you leave anything in the Goddamn armory?", SSG Byerly asked as she rose to a more authoritative standing position, slinging her rifle over her shoulder by its strap, but not going so far as to discard the cigarette she'd just begun to enjoy.

The NCO referred to the M-7C IMPMS, or Individually-operated Multi-Purpose Missile System that Reilly, the tallest of the three Rangers carried strapped to his back in addition to his standard combat rig.

More commonly and loosely referred to as the "Super Bazooka", the IMPMS bore some similarity to the venerable 90mm recoilless rifle that had first seen service and attained fame in the Second World War. Very general appearance and the fact that they both fired a rocket-propelled munition were where the similarities ended however.

The realities of "modern warfare" that had taken a quantum leap with the introduction of Robotechnology had left the most recognizable and consistent element of the martial disciplines, the infantryman, with a variation on the same question that had been voiced in demand of an answer since the first spearman met his first opponent clad in body armor:

How does the foot-soldier contend with an opponent with a clear advantage in protection?

As the original Bazooka was the Allied Forces' answer to contending with Axis armor, so the M-7C was the Gemini Coalition's answer to Zentraedi Infantry body armor, as well as light and even some medium armor mecha while also providing an element of anti-aircraft defense to RDF-Army and ASC squad-level units.

Operable by a single infantryman, though operated with a higher rate of fire by a two-man team, the M-7C had been characterized as being "so intuitive, it's unfair to the enemy". In a notorious, poorly-conceived "proof of concept" demonstration to the RDF and ASC material commands, the IMPMS development team had allowed the 11-year old daughter of junior designer to discover through play the operating ergonomics of the weapon. While the video clip lasting a scant bit under two minutes had caused a serious public outcry when it had been leaked by a disgruntled team member, the design group had shown that a child could understand the "basics" of the weapon's handling without instruction.

The official training regimen and qualification process was significantly more robust, but the M-7C had quickly gained friends in the infantry for its dual gold stars for ease of use and lethality, firing any standard mini-missile in the inventory.

-And it looked to Whilite and Byerly like between the three of them, Reilly, Kemp, and Munnsford were carrying every missile in the inventory.

Kemp and Munnsford more so than Reilly who was burdened with the launcher, bulged with the unmistakable, cylindrical shapes of mini-missiles, each the length of a man's arm from elbow to fingertip. Each Ranger carried their limit in every variation of rucking gear that could be affixed to a combat rig or slung.

Conspicuously absent to any of the three Rangers' battle fashion accessories was the ballistic-hardened carrying case worn like a backpack that was specifically designed to protect and transport the mini-missiles in combat environments.

While the backpack-like case, roughly the size of a small suitcase did offer the sophisticated and compact weapons protection from shrapnel fragments and even pistol rounds, it carried only five missiles snugly inserted into the tube-like voids in its plastic foam cushion interior. The three privates first class were demonstrating that they had discovered how to cram six into a large capacity ruck, which each Kemp and Munnsford were carrying in addition to leg and chest pouches bastardized into a new, operationally relevant function.

While technically a violation of ordinance-handling regulations, neither Whilite nor Byerly were quick in calling their subordinates to task. All of Brasilia was a safety violation at this point, and short of a direct hit by particle beam or laser bolt, or extreme proximity to ignited plasma napalm- any of the three being sufficient to vaporize the missile bearers anyway- the munitions were stable and rugged enough to handle the abuses of transit in this manner.

-Still….

"Don't trip, or you three'll end up on Mars.", Whilite warned seeing no way of any of the three going to ground without mini-missiles breaking their fall.

"Where do you want us, Sarge?", PFC Reilly asked, shifting the modest weight of the M-7C showing an eagerness to set it down, and to not revisit a thought that had probably been foremost in mind on the hump to the ambush site.

Byerly motioned to the low-rise apartment building that stood like a wall to the far end of the green space in which she and Whilite had found a moment's rest. Like many of Byerly's command gestures, they were exaggerated and emphatic- but also true to her skill as an NCO, they were effectively communicative.

"-The other side of this building, there's one running in parallel- Harpo. Groucho will be at your ten o'clock facing the plaza, and Zeppo at your two-."

"Who picks the names for these ops?", Kemp asked, clearly disturbed.

"Captain Nguyen", Whilite replied, "-I guess he likes The Marx Brothers-."

"-Didn't they invent communism or something?..", Munnsford asked, proud at making the association.

Whilite's heart sank perceivably, "-Dear, sweet Jesus…."

Byerly motioned the three new arrivals on, "Okay, Rhodes Scholars, hoof it. Get over to Zeppo, and Sergeant Beck will put you where he needs you. –And you'll get told again, but I'm tellin' ya now, don't go poking around inside these buildings. Van Dorn's sweeping for IEDs and booby-traps, and he's cleared four already. –Damn civvies think they're helpin' to win the damn war by leaving shit like that behind… If there ain't a green check on the door, don't go inside. –Savvy?"

"What was that first part again, Sarge?", Reilly asked.

Byerly slapped the Glock .45 pistol holstered on her hip, "-I'll use this, I swear. Move it on the double-quick."

Without an additional smart comment, all three PFCs moved out with the same thud, shuffle, and rattle that had alerted Whilite and Byerly to their approach.

"-And watch Duck Soup sometime for Christ's sake, you social degenerates!..", the lieutenant called after them, mandating with moral authority.

The world was truly in a sad state.

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

"Conn, Sensor-. Re-designating Sierra-Papa 1470 through 1473 as Master One through Four, respective.", Senior Sensor Officer Lowell announced over the speakers in CIC from his station in the sensor shack.

The senior grade lieutenant's voice carried the same perceivable tension as a dry stick being bent just to the verge of beginning to splinter and crack, and for good reason. The three "mystery" contacts had been joined five minutes before by a fourth, and creeping with the same intent of stealth.

Their mean course put Gordon P. Samuels well off to starboard of their track- not out of the arc of their guns regardless of their class, to be sure, but far enough off to make it clear that they were likely unaware of the frigate's presence. This naturally was some solace to CDR Devereaux's crew and gave them the broadest range of options in action, but the comfort came at a cost.

The Zentraedi were undoubtedly stalking something, and the something had been revealed shortly after the appearance of SP-1473, now "Master Four".

"Have you typed them yet, Sensor?", Devereaux yelled through the functionally cramped space of CIC and through the draped curtain that spanned the hatchway to the sensor shack, bypassing the technological frivolities of the ship's internal comms system.

"Not formally.", Lowell replied, "-But I'll bet my ass on my first instinct, Skipper- destroyers."

LCDR Petersen, in typical XO persona, grumbled, "He's betting all of our asses, Skipper. –But I trust his gut. Four ditto tin cans is a pretty big bite to be taking by our lonesome."

An interested party, but not one directly involved in shaping the developing situation was LCDR Kenner, who was also the only one at the CIC's central display station who was not a Samuels crew member. Invited to observe and advise, Kenner took it upon himself to self-extend the offer to question also.

"-Then what about them?.."

Them was understood by all gathered around the station's 3D hologram tactical display without referring to it as Contact SP-1474, or "Blue One" designating it formally as a probable "friendly".

Yes, all had been in agreement that the Zentraedi contacts were on the hunt before Blue One had materialized from behind the veil of fine dust whose reflective and refractive properties had merged with the ambient EM energy passing through the area to hide the contact with its minimal energy output and reflective cross-section.

This area having been designated as an alternate, operational rally point and the displayed characteristics of Blue One fitting the profile, all were comfortable accepting that Gordon P. Samuels had found a second Garfish Attack Corvette this day.

Normally, this would be a cause for governed celebration, except for the obvious ripple in the scenario: Masters One, Two, Three, and Four had found Blue One also. –And as Samuels' XO had pointed out appropriately, four Zentraedi destroyers was a very big bite for a single frigate to be taking.

"-With my sympathies, Commander", Petersen said, replying to Kenner's vague question about the fate of the nameless corvette, "that ship has a crew of under twenty, and this ship has a crew of over eleven hundred. Throw four tin cans into the equation, and you do the math."

Understanding that he was in a position to neither argue nor bargain with the executive officer, Kenner nonetheless looked in appeal to the CO for a faint glimmer of hope for the unidentified crew whom Kenner was absolutely certain he knew within the small community of which he was part.

Devereaux was feeling, but firm in her judgment.

"I'm all for a fight, Kenner, but I have to side with my XO on this one. There's no version of this that ends with us picking up that crew- here."

Devereaux's concluding word to her statement justifiably caught both Petersen's and Kenner's attention.

"What are you thinking, Skipper?", Petersen asked, knowing that the probability of imminent doom that was the final element of one course of action was about to be replaced by the possibility of it through another.

"From a powered-down drift, how long would it take you to get that pony into a full gallop?", Devereaux asked Kenner, throwing out the foundation hypothetical.

"Under a minute, depending on how many safety protocols and corners I was willing to cut.", Kenner replied.

Devereaux was quick to follow on with, "And how many safety protocols and corners would you be willing to cut to keep the teeth of four destroyers out of your ass?"

Kenner grinned, "With motivation like that- all of them."

Devereaux looked to her XO next, "What do you think, Pete? I think we can throw up enough of a distraction to buy a minute for that crew- don't you?"

Petersen, contrary to his obligations, grudgingly conceded, "Yes, ma'am- I think we could. It's going to be a mad minute though."

Devereaux nodded, her mind already into planning, "The madder the better."

"Call it then, Skipper.", Petersen said, relenting in his fiduciary caution.

Devereaux drew breath and then spoke loudly enough for all in CIC to hear and understand that her words were meant for them directly.

"My intent is to initiate action with a Pegasus missile attack on Masters One through Four. Much of what happens next will depend on the outcome of that attack. –Weps, we'll need to run out our long guns and pulse cannons and maintain the panic our initial attack creates. At the range we'll be engaging at, only our long guns will pack any punch- so we will need to maintain the shock effect as long as possible."

"Commander Kenner says that corvette should be able to get its ass into gear in under a minute, so we're going to give them every second of that minute that we can- however, the advantage is only ours as long as our enemy is stunned. Once we sense them shaking it off, we're out-. Navs, I'll need you to develop and maintain a jump design for us out into the Oort Cloud- I don't care specifically where, just not here."

Devereaux retrieved the intercom phone handset from its cradle at her station at the tactical display table and depressed the "1MC" button, opening the channels to all of the intercom speakers of the ship with a sharp, "attention" tone.

"All hands, this is the Captain. I'm taking us into harm's way. This action will be brief, but intense and we are all relying on one another for swift and sure performance of our duties. Get sharp. That is all."

Devereaux returned the phone to its cradle and returned her full attention to the tasks at hand.

"Weps, I want to triple-shoot on each Master. Our solution is rough, so set a medium spread with weapons set for a broad search cone. We'll keep four birds warm in the tubes forward for reserve, and the aft tubes loaded for contingencies. –Program a generous search box for the weapons, but well short of us and Blue One's estimated position. Weapons are to be enabled for a single return pass before auto-destructing. I don't want a face full of my own weapons. Savvy?"

"Aye, Skipper.", replied the TAO overseeing the Weapons Division.

"Have your guns run out as soon as the birds leave the tubes and refine your solutions based on any hits. –Who knows, we may even get a kill out of this."

"Aye, Skipper."

"Countermeasures and Barrier Control-.", Devereaux said next, shifting gears to the defensive concerns that would quickly become important factors once the shooting began, "We're going to need all of your tricks. Be ready."

Petersen chimed in through the intercom to the ship's quartermaster and helmsmen beneath him, "That's for you too, Helm. Fly this bucket like a Veritech."

Satisfied that attention and energy in the crew was primed, Devereaux felt the right moment for action settle around CIC.

"Let's get to work. Weps, assign bow tubes to Masters One through Four, load flight programs on your best firing solution and prepare for a single salvo launch."

"Aye, Skipper- uploading shooting solution and flight programs now."

"Countermeasures, we'll be needing you in about twenty seconds. Stand by.", Devereaux advised with the appropriate undertones of approaching peril.

"ECM, chaff, and decoy systems standing by, Skipper."

"Conn, Weps.", reported the senior TAO, "Pegasus missiles assigned and idling. Ready to shoot on your command."

"Conn, aye.", Devereaux replied, then yelling back to the sensor shack, "Sensor, report all contacts."

"Conn, Sensor. Tracking Masters One through Four on constant tracks and speed, IBDR. Blue One, drifting on constant track, IBDR. Sensor shows no other contacts."

"Conn, aye.", Devereaux replied with the satisfaction that the key indicators of steady course and increasing bearing position- IB, and decreasing range- DR, told of a friendly and four hostiles unaware of Samuel P. Gordon's presence.

"Weps, open muzzle doors. Final bearing match, and shoot when ready. Run out all guns and missile launchers- battery captains are weapons free."

"Conn, Weps- aye. Muzzle doors open. Shoot, shoot, shoot!"

If in war there could be said to be moments of icy stillness, this episode ended with the launching in unison of twelve, Pegasus Mk-4C missiles from the muzzle apertures distributed in groupings of four at bulges to the port and starboard sides of the frigate's blunt, sensor equipment dominated bow.

In CIC there was no question as missile tracks stretched smoothly and steadily away from Gordon P. Samuels in inceasingly diverging lines that the Zentraedi were now quite aware that they were not the only hunters on the prowl.

Known to be inferior in the passive mode to their Terran counterparts, the Zentraedi sensors were still more than sufficient to detect the launch and run of the sub-light ASMs.

The small bubble of the cosmos in which moments before Gordon P. Samuels' sensors strained to sift out the faintest energy emissions to make the tracking of her foes possible now swelled in EM chaos to where the same sensors labored to filter and sort the abundance of energy washing through the void. Trackers in the sensor shack worked at a frenzied pace in conjunction with their automated processing tools, finding themselves suddenly awash in sensor data.

Devereaux clutched the edge of the display station and felt her stomach float freely in her belly as the ship's inertial dampeners lagged a half pace behind maneuvering efforts of the quartermaster and helming team on the bridge. The mildly nauseating, dizzying effects of seemingly random motion all about the commander was multiplied by the effort of monitoring the fine symbolic representations and accompanying text information constantly moving and updating in the holographic tactical display.

At the closest "corner" to Samuels of what may have been the Zentraedi's effort to assemble a vertical box attack formation, a standard, simple yet effective small unit formation popular with Zentraedi commanders, "Master Three" was showing indications of panic at the proximity of the three Mk-4C missiles that the REF frigate had fired at her. Devereaux could see by the flicker of their representative icons in the tactical display that two of the three weapons had successfully acquired their target independently and were converging on the destroyer now with a near certainty of striking despite the target vessel's radical course change away from their approach and a building burst of speed.

By means of tactical search logic algorithms that preoccupied its electronic brain, the third weapon fired on Master Three and running slightly ahead of the others elected to pass and return on the target it had failed to acquire independently, but was now aware of because of the information sharing taking place between itself and the two other Mk-4Cs of its spread that would get first hack at the destroyer.

Like the sensor systems of her vessel, Devereaux's mind was taxed with the effort of filtering the abundance of operationally significant chatter that merged and swelled to a din around her in CIC. Some of the verbal reports and updates were immediately relevant and hovered around the forefront of the commander's mind, like the report (affirmed and shown in the tactical display) of broad, returned enemy fire. Other, less pressing reports passed through Devereaux's focus as quickly as sound of the voices reporting them passed through the air.

Gordon P. Samuels' electronic countermeasures- her false image projection system in particular- were meeting expectations and keeping the frigate's true, exact position, course, and speed ambiguous to the enemy as was seen by the broad pattern of fire passing through space at all points around her. Deveraux was guardedly pleased at this, knowing that the Zentraedi guns that were burning the battlespace all around could inflict serious damage upon her small vessel, even when rapid-firing in a lower power mode as they clearly were.

Technology was Devereaux's strongest ally, but luck was at this moment a close second, and a fickle close second at that. The chances of enemy gun captains scoring a hit randomly on Gordon P. Samuels was remote in the extreme, but still possible and a possibility that carried with it dire consequence if realized. Luck, Devereaux knew, was also a commodity that sublimated with increasing speed the longer it remained a critical factor.

"Conn, Sensor-. Dual high-order detonations detected on position of Master Three!"

Master Three's icon winked within a sphere of red in the still, analytically sterile modeled world of the tactical display for CDR Devereaux to see. Even had the target vessel qualified at one of the levels of "destroyed" that could be applied in a threat analysis, the bulk of its mass could be expected to persist and remain an observable, trackable object to a ship's sensors. It was the icon's change in course and controlled change in velocity that was the first indication to Devereaux that her weapons had wounded but not killed.

"Conn, Sensor-. High order detonations on Masters One, Four, and Two!", SSO Lowell reported, "Power levels from Master Three diminished and fluctuating, but within the operable range. –Analyzing effect on Masters One, Two, and Four."

"Conn, aye!", Devereaux replied seeing that outgoing fire was resuming from Masters Two, Three, and Four- telling her all that she needed to know for the moment.

The enemy fire that moments before had been scattered and without demonstrable coordination was evolving into a more systematic search of the void by way of particle beam bolt. The fire control systems of Zentraedi vessels were like that of the more advanced of Gordon P. Samuels- reliant on computers for calculation and fire direction, heavily dependent upon computers for fire adjustment, but ultimately able to be overridden or strongly influenced by the skill of the fire control team and gun captains. Devereaux was certain that this is what she was seeing in the rapid evolution of the enemy's firing solutions.

Space was getting smaller for Gordon P. Samuels, and Deveraux was approaching the limits of confinement she would accept.

"Sensor, Conn-. Report on Blue One!", Deveraux demanded, noticing as she opened the arc of her attention outside of the purely offensive that the "friendly" contact for whose benefit the whole surprise attack had been improvised and executed had not yet slipped the scale confines of the CIC's tactical display- a feat that the swift-footed attack corvette should have easily been capable.

LCDR Kenner, and Deveraux's XO, Petersen showed instantaneous interest despite the myriad of critical, overlapping activities of which the XO was partially responsible and to which Kenner was a highly interested party.

"Conn, Sensor- Blue One is heading one-zero-five mark seven-five at point two-five light. –She's drawing some fire and taking evasive action, but most of the hate's directed at us."

Devereaux looked to Kenner to explain the modest execution of escape being shown by the corvette. In truth, she already knew and had known from the moment that she had seen that the Garfish had not slipped the area.

She just needed to hear it from Kenner, and needed him to say it so it registered with him as well.

"They must have sustained damage to their sub-light drive systems, or maybe their reactor.", Kenner speculated grimly, "-She may be able to put some distance between her and the dittos and then decelerate and slip into the asteroid belt-."

Deveraux said curtly, "We'll do what we can for them, Kenner- but I'm approaching the end of that road. I'm sorry I can't do more."

Kenner nodded in sober understanding, "Aye, ma'am. You're doing what you can."

CIC was seeing that the predominance of fire directed at Blue One with increasing accuracy under a steady pulse of active sensors was coming from Master Four, tucked back beyond Masters One and Two and farthest from Gordon P. Samuels. The destroyer was not open to an ideal field of fire, but for the purpose the positioning of the two vessels was sufficient.

"Weps, adjust fire and direct our long guns onto Master Four. Keep pressure on One, Two, and Three with pulse cannon batteries while you set a single shot solution on each of those three with the remaining Pegasus missiles in the forward tubes."

"Conn, Weps- aye!.. Reassigning long gun batteries to-."

Senior Sensor Officer Lowell's voice roared out from behind the curtain isolating the sensor shack, and nearly drowned out all other ambient chatter in its warning-

"Conn- DEFOLD DETECTED PORT SIDE!.."

The clear indications of danger had materialized before Devereaux's eyes and the eyes of all at the CIC's central display station- two blips appearing at the center of shimmering orbs that represented the distinct energy anomalies associated with objects emerging from spacefold.

At the moment of their arrival there was no way to definitively type and identify the two new vessels- but there was no need for such formalities. That they were not broadcasting IFF squawk said that they were not elements of Doolittle One or Two. That they had arrived at this exact moment said that they were allied with the enemy and had been lying in wait for just such an opportunity as Gordon P. Samuels had apparently just provided.

Destroyer 2913

"Weapons Control, rapid fire systematically all batteries at low power at target options until we have landed a blow and then lock in on that target."

Action Commander Iyos contained the relief she now felt at the vindication of a pursuit plan that at its best had been challenged with long odds, and at the more realistic "worst" had been foolish.

Hours of detecting and tracking intermittent traces of ion trails left by the swift, tiny micronian vessels that had sewn such carnage throughout the Te'Dak Tohl fleet surrounding their homeworld had seen the effort go cold more times than could be counted on fingers and had required an uncomfortable level of dead reckoning to persist.

When at last the 5121st Destroyer Squadron had traced the dispersed, fractured evidence of passage of multiple vessels to the proximity of the great belt of rock and dust passing between the fourth and fifth planets of the star system, it was at least a suggestion that Iyos was not wrong. Further division of her squadron into elements, each tasked with pursuing the faintest of fading trails of the charged particles that all vessels left in their wake, allowed Iyos to cast her net wider as her command and Destroyer 4422 lingered in the rear, dead still in space, and waiting.

Relinquishing that level of control had been as maddening to Iyos as had been the hours of speculative inactivity- wondering if words of commitment to her plan from subordinates had more than the solidity of the breath that carried them?

Wait.

It was the most trying part of an improbable plan.

Until it had produced.

It was not to be a grand battle or victory, but the effort had produced.

Determining exactly what prey had been snared in their attempt to escape was unclear- the micronian vessel or vessels were choking space with deception. Iyos had recognized the loose clustering of ten vessels that had appeared in the tactical display over her bridge and before her in the command bubble at its rear as the same ploy that had confounded the precise targeting of enemy space stations and vessels during the initial assault of the campaign, and had again wrought havoc on the picket ships guarding The Fleet and the approaches to the micronian homeworld coming up on a day before now. Truly a brilliantly conceived tool of war, and skillfully developed- it was proving itself a challenge to Destroyer 2913's active and passive sensors to determine which contact was corporal and which a phantom- even at this significantly closer range.

All systems had a shortcoming, however.

All systems had a flaw.

The hypothesis that had been turning over and over in Iyos's head since her first encounter with the countermeasure, and which had solidified since the second was proving correct. The phantoms could mimic the surge in power emissions that were unavoidable during the discharge of an energy weapon, but it was a hollow display.

Only one of the many contacts the destroyer's sensors were reporting was displaying outgoing fire in conjunction with the signs of weapon discharge.

At a greater range, such as the range that her squadron element which had made contact and from which it was engaging- that fine, telling detail was more obscure.

Iyos, Destroyer 2913, and Commander Huhl's Destroyer 4422 were far less susceptible to that same, elaborate EM deception at less range. The returning signal strength of active sensor pulses added confirmation with a single contact yielding a stronger return than the mocked returns of the others.

The order to systematically test each contact with a barrage of particle beam fire was merely the final means of confirmation.

-And it too, quickly yielded results.

The contact icon not at, but near the center of the cluster of candidates and the one whose active sensor return spoke true to Action Commander Iyos flickered as a particle beam bolt struck an object of substance.

"Concentrate fire on that target!"

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

"Damage report!", Devereaux screamed over the wail of multiple alarms signifying a multitude of dire occurrences, the inevitable delayed cries of terror and the first of pain from crew tossed about CIC, and the groan of the ship's framing and structure as residual shudders ran through her hull.

As Devereaux loosened her grip on the edge of the display table, she realized that some of the motion she felt underfoot was her vessel in the execution of radical maneuvering- evasion to a second hit that was still too real a possibility.

At least the ship was maneuvering.

Petersen and Kenner were getting their feet beneath themselves again having been tossed free of the command station with the violence of the blow the ship had sustained. Deveraux was certain that she would have joined them had the force not come from before her, doubling her over where her waist had met the edge of the display console and slamming her face into its smooth, top surface.

The warm, flowing sensation she felt spreading down the left side of her face and from both nostrils was undoubtedly blood. –But these were minor concerns.

"Countermeasures-SHOVEL OUT EVERYTHING YOU'VE GOT! -AND RAISE THE FUCKING BARRIER!"

Petersen was first back to his station with Kenner just behind and nursing what was almost certainly a right arm broken below the elbow. The XO's mouth was moving in the desperate issuance of orders whose spoken form was not registering with Devereaux.

A second, bone-rattling blow struck Gordon P. Samuels, lacking the delicate touch of the first and seeming to bend the vessel around Devereaux. Where the first hit had felt merely like a sucker-punch, thrown by a professional boxer and landed squarely to her chest- this impact rivaled her experience as a teenage girl when she had convinced her brothers by annoyance to allow her to participate in a game of neighborhood football- and subsequently to come to understand the differences between flag football and full contact.

Oddly now, her teeth ached and hurt the most over all of the other parts of her body that promised profound bruising as she found herself on the deck, wedged against the Weapons TAO station.

Even more oddly, other than her awareness of the uniform pain she was experiencing, Devereaux's mind was unclouded.

"Barrier system is non-responsive!"

A second report from Damage Control followed immediately, "Port weapons grid and sensor network off-line. –Rerouting and rebooting through redundant channels!"

Devereaux was aware of being on her feet and bracing herself against the nearest equipment that she could hold on to.

"Is the fold system functioning?!
"Aye, Ma'am – it is!"

"Weps- return all guns and launchers from battery! Sensor Control, secure your masts!", Devereaux snarled in distaste at the clear and only option she realistically had left to her, "Fold-Ops, jump the ship while we have power!"

"Skipper, we're well off position of our last stellar fix for fold initiation point!- We could…"

Devereaux roared with the voice of all Hell's furies, the free-flowing blood from her nostrils flying in specks from her lips, "Damn the fix, you have a profile- NOW JUMP THE FUCKING SHIP!..."

Destroyer 2913

The ship's sensors detected the distinct indications of spacefold- and the micronian vessel was gone even as particle beam bolts from the ship's guns and the guns of Destroyer 4422 were in flight to target. Fractions of a second later they arrived in what should have been the determining fusillade of the engagement- but found nothing where the target had been with the exception of mildly disturbed and normalizing space.

The mood of the officers and specialists on the bridge soured perceivably, even to Iyos who stood removed with Sub-Commander Glankira above in the command bubble. The foundation of disgrace at being attacked at a Fleet level in securely held space, with the additional tedium and frustrations of the following, long-odds pursuit now festered like a poorly treated wound as the kill that might have evened the scales ever so slightly slipped away.

Action Commander Iyos was no less susceptible to the emotional deflations of near victory than her crew, but recognized her responsibility to lead the trudge through it and direct energies away from what might have been to what could be still.

"We are on the right track.", Iyos pronounced, allowing the slightest hint of praise and encouragement to the bridge crew who could hear her, "Communications, send to our other squadron elements that we have had contact with enemy units and expect that there are others somewhere in the region. Maintain search efforts- engage and destroy any micronian vessels encountered."

"Yes, Liege."

Iyos's efforts to ease the sting of stolen glory were difficult to gauge in their effect- her crew was Zentraedi and bred with war and all of its collateral complications in their genetic code. There would be no windfall from the disappointment, no operational impact. –But Iyos was satisfied that her gesture of affirmation would soothe raw nerves enough and show that the frustrations were shared.

Sub-Commander Glankira paused before executing the orders given to her.

"Liege, should we contact Battle Group Command to call in additional resources for the search?"

Iyos replied instantly and with a certainty that did not necessarily mean to serve the objective, "No- not yet. Shortly. We took the initiative to pursue, the first right to the kill is ours. We will call in reinforcements, but at our discretion."

"Yes, Liege. Understood."

Brasilia

There was something in the lengthening shadows and cooling air of late afternoon that reminded Naib Subedar Sri Rival Singh of Jaipur- of home.

Without dispute he and the 70th Gurkha Rifles had been stationed in Brasilia long enough for such a sentimental connection to have been made before. –But perhaps the fact that not long ago there had been many more Gurkhas, daily or at least frequent operations, the obligations of command, and always the general bustle of being imbedded in and active conflict zone the time allowed for such whimsical musing was minimal. Singh recognized now as he struggled with the urge to remove his helmet to breathe in the air of approaching evening that it was these distractions that had prevented him from feeling this before.

The differences between Jaipur and Brasilia were great- there was no argument there- the quantifiable differences being greater than the similarities. Brasilia was as "new" a city and Jaipur was a venerable one. Brasilia, though battered savagely, still had the aura of a city of glimmering glass and steel whereas Jaipur had the worn comfort of a city that had seen the birth, life, and death of many generations.

Because of these contrasts, Singh nearly dismissed the familiar sensation of home for that peculiar merging of nostalgia and homesickness that he was sure all warriors far from the community they were born into felt from time to time. –But it was more than that.

Singh realized that like Jaipur, Brasilia emanated a strong energy of life that could not be smashed, burned, or pulverized out of it. This was a place where people lived, and would live again. It was built with the intent of being someone's home, and would be again.

It was unfortunate though to say with certainty, it would have to see more days of violence before Brasilia resumed that function.

Across the small, community park in which Singh had positioned himself and his Riflemen with their Cyclones a medium-size dog had wandered in sometime before and made itself comfortable on a grassy patch near to a dense growth of bushes. A mutt in the truest sense of the word with no contributing breed in its make-up lending enough of itself for a dominant trait to label the dog as anything but a mutt- the animal was content to share company at a distance with the humans, alternately looking at them with mild curiosity and cleaning its genitals.

Singh found himself envious of the ease at which the dog had come to grips with present circumstances and tried to experience that peace vicariously.

Simple in cognition, the dog showed its superiority in senses and instinct without warning to the comparably oblivious humans. The animal's body went from relaxed to suddenly tense as it rolled to its feet in a single, fluid motion. Maybe understanding in some primal way that the humans it had shared company with briefly were not privileged to sensing what it sensed, the dog gave the Gurkhas several quick, nervous glances as it tucked its tail and fled the park with great haste.

"Golf Romeo Alpha, Vision.", SGT Harris, senior member and spotter of the Ranger sniper team called clearly over the radio to Singh, and identifying himself by the designated operational codename, "Wake up boys, company coming your way."

Singh consciously purged thoughts of Jaipur, life before, and the self-made bargains of life after from his mind. Another moment of the violence required to precede any good that might follow had arrived.

Snapping his helmet visor shut, the senior Gurkha called up the video feed available to him and his men, courtesy of the drone that Harris and Fuller were operating from their combined observation post and sniper's nest.

"Put `em at around five hundred meters north of you.", Harris estimated aloud with an accuracy that Singh felt comfortable to agree with based on the image he was taking in. Advancing with purpose, but no specific object of their efforts- a full two squads of Regults with a platoon of Zentraedi infantry was moving south in the direction of the Gurkhas.

Had it been different circumstances, Singh was confident that he and his Riflemen could have easily evaded the fragment element of the larger force that had begun sweeping the city streets earlier that day. –But that was not the point of the Gurkhas' presence here, north of where the Rangers and ASC Mountain Recon had dug in.

There was a chorus hum of electric drive motors as the Gurkhas powered-up their mounts to deploy, performing well-practiced, final checks of their armor, equipment, and weapons to leave nothing to chance when the approaching moment of action arrived.

Naib Subedar Singh looked calmly and directly into the eyes of his men as he issued his orders.

"Two pairs to hold the flanks-. Sharma, you take Baker and shadow the enemy's movement two blocks east of their column. Singh, you take Hughes and shift west the same distance for the same reason. I'll provoke the chase into the kill box. If the enemy breaks off of pursuit of me, the pair whose direction they move to will try to renew their interest. Commit to engagement only if cornered and forced. Our first responsibility is to bring them in. Understood?"

There were compliant nods from Singh's subordinates even as pulses began to rise and breathing began to deepen with nervous anticipation of what was surely minutes away.

"Jai Mahakali, Ayo Gorkhali!", bellowed Singh to have the heavens hear.

"Jai Mahakali, Ayo Gorkhali!", replied the four, Cyclone-mounted Riflemen in kind.

Naib Subedar Sri Rival Singh gave a slight kick to set his balance on his cycle's wheels and felt the rush of the drive motors' power as he quickly accelerated out of the park, into a sharp turn north on the city street that was his alone, and on toward the enemy.

Hail the goddess of war, the Gurkhas were coming.

1119