Hey, peeps~! Here's the start of the next arc of The Phoenix Rising. I hope you guys are ready for what's coming next here. ;) And trust me, there's a lot more that's going on behind the scenes. ;3

- operation meteor: Heh. Glad ya liked it. :) It's gonna get even crazier from here on out. :3

- Spiceracksergeant001: Oh, you are right indeed! :) Adam did realize that Djibril was going mad, and that he would be thrown under the bus, so he decided a plea deal was needed in order to get a lighter sentence and for his own protection. He may be LOGOs, but he is not stupid.

- CT7567Rules: Yes, he did. And Halberton was a member, but very well hidden. :) And yes, the Defender using its beam saber to cut the flames was based on that scene with Starscream in Transformers: Armada! XD How could I not include it? ;3

- 1800009trumbullps . net: Thank you! :)

- KentLinuxStadfelt: Yep. Djibril's reign is collapsing all around him~! XD

(The screen shows only blackness before a small light is shown in the center, growing larger until a fire ignites, panning around to show the Strike Dagger S equipped with the Phoenix Striker flying through space, a tattered American flag shown flapping on a flagpole in a huge colony)

START MIKAKUNIN HIKOUSEN BY TAKAYOSHI TANIMOTO

(The camera pans in towards the colony where it shows several members of the resistance gathered: President Eisenhower, Steven Krane, Mackenzie Samantha Allen, Turbine Martinez, Keith Martinez, Marcus Wolcott and his squadron, Warren Thompson, Robert "Rob" Jackson, Kyle Eisen, and Turbine's squad mates)

Oh yeah! Be strong, jump on, and become the wind (The group is standing before the Redemption in the background, a shadowing mobile suit above them and below the ship)

Pass the orbit beyond the sky (The camera pivots away from them and out to show a map of the Atlantian Reich split into two colors: blue showing the resistance and purple showing the Reich)

I can't hold back this rushing speed (The camera zooms in on Denver as Eisenhower is shown standing atop a tank, waving her hand as she barks an order into a headset she's wearing)

A familiar town becomes a diorama (The screen is flooded with dust as a tank speeds by, showing a single pinprick of light as a shuttle is launched into orbit from Orb)

Burst through the unclear skies (The camera pivots away to show another explosion as a Murasame blasts past, bearing the emblem of Sicario)

Blow away your worries and discontent (The camera zooms in on the wolf head emblem before it starts to flutter as a flag, panning down to show the leader of Sicario, Arnold Franken, on the screen)

Who needs a journey that's by the book? (The commander of the mercenaries waves his hand and three mobile suits blast overhead, their pilots shown with their emblems behind them)

Even if you're lost or trembling, raise the altitude (The mobile suits fly overhead, panning down to show Sicario's Pacific Fleet, each heading towards Orb, the shadow of Djibril over it, his hands cupping around the island)

Oh yeah! Show off, mess up, and stand back up (The image is suddenly shattered as a huge gun shell slams into it before the camera pans to the left to show two ships in shadow, both bearing the flag of the United States Navy)

I'll watch the unknown horizon with you (The camera pans away to show the captain of the Archangel and Heero standing beside one another, their hands entwining)

Now be strong, jump on, and become the wind (The two look at one another before a mobile suit flies past, panning up to show the Strike Dagger clashing with a shadowy mobile suit)

Use the sun that lights tomorrow as a guide (A sinister dark aura surges out from the mobile suit, twin eyes glaring at the assembled warriors, the image of Durandal shown off to the side)

Fly off to the glorious world of freedom! (The image shows the resistance ship and their allies facing down the dark shadow, Djibril's face behind it as he looms over them)

GUNDAM WING: THE PHOENIX RISING

Let justice be done, though the heavens may fall

- Steven Jackson 'Spray' Krane

CHAPTER XXXIV: Dreadful Discovery I

December 17th, CE 0073

RESISTANCE WAREHOUSE HEADQUARTERS

DENVER, COLORADO

For what it was worth, as long as the war was being waged, there was no ceasing of activity within the resistance command center.

In fact, hardly anyone was letting themselves slack.

And it was just as well, considering that there was a lot more going on that needed to be analyzed and looked into, especially concerning the strange message from their deceased agent in Iceland.

The recording was played over and over again, but no one on the intelligence team could make heads or tails of it.

"What did he mean, Project: Reaper is a red nut?" one of the analysts asked, frustration evident in her voice and on her face.

"Honestly, I don't even know," her companion remarked. "But I just can't help but shake the feeling like this is big."

The woman nodded, pursing her lips. "It just seems... I dunno... weird... that he would even say that."

The man gave a grunt. "We'll have to analyze it more in depth later. For now, let's see what other information we can gather pertaining to the ship itself."

She nodded. "Right."

GWPRGWPRGWPR - FLASHBACK END - GWPRGWPRGWPR

Two days had passed since then, and already some progress was being made on analyzing the video feed to get an idea of what the ship under construction at Heaven's Base was.

But there was still missing information.

Information that was badly needed.

The intelligence analysis team could do no more until they had deciphered their agent's last message, which was proving harder than it seemed.

President Eisenhower was currently in the middle of a workout routine as she pondered the next move to be made.

And it had to do with the recent televised speech of Chairman Gilbert Durandal.

She was half paying attention to the speech and half working out her next move.

"People of the world, I am Gilbert Durandal. I am the PLANT Supreme Council Chairman, yet I come before you today not as a citizen of my country, but as your fellow man..."

She knew that he was correct on one thing in the speech.

And it was that it didn't matter if one was Natural or Coordinator. Everyone was human in the end, regardless of genetics. The whole war was a farce, and she wanted to drive that home. That was why she was working hard to establish her presence across the globe, to show that the Atlantian Reich was only made up of a small minority of extremists with oversized power and overinflated egos.

To do it was a lot easier said than done, but with only five years in power at their peak, LOGOs was going to have one hell of a time in trying to reclaim their country and make it back into their plaything. A sneer crossed Eisenhower's face only to vanish as she gave another pump of her muscular arms and shoulders, pulling herself all the way up to the top of the bar, using her core muscles and the toned muscles of her back to position herself directly over the pullup bar upside down, holding that position for a few minutes, despite the pain starting to crimp at her muscles.

Her eyes narrowed as she kept focused.

"For LOGOS is comprised of those who profit from the wars that have ravaged both Earth and space..."

Eisenhower had to keep a grunt from escaping her as she flicked one eye to look at the screen beneath her.

She knew all too well what Durandal was playing at.

'An effort to keep the truth from the public...' she mused as she tucked her legs in and swung her body back under the pullup bar and hung there before letting go and landing on the ground, rolling her shoulders and stretching before grabbing a water bottle and guzzling down some of the sports drink within. She grabbed a towel and wiped down her sweating face.

'But you were too late to the punch,' she thought. 'I was already way ahead of you on this front.'

She sat down on the bench and turned her gaze to the computer laying open before her. Already she had a writing program up so she could jot down her ideas for her own speech.

"...the death and suffering of countless people in that conflict alone can be laid at their feet, and that is hardly the only one where their sinister guiding hand has been at work..." Durandal continued, and she grunted once.

'More than you know, Durandal...' she thought harshly. 'I know the true cost of what they were doing, and it's beyond what you can even imagine... And that is something that we're about to right.'

A few seconds passed before her fingers flew over the keyboard quickly, getting some ideas out, only to pause and revise them shortly after. She always wrote out her own speeches and refined them before giving them. It wasn't that she didn't trust the speech writers who often did write speeches for her on occasion. She preferred to get her point across in her own words rather than the words of others.

And it was something she was not about to change now.

Already she could hear his words about optimism regarding the Eurasian Federation's declaration of war, and she ignored it. Her words were going to be more profound than those of Durandal, she had to be sure. She had to get her side out there, and show to the world that it wasn't him who had taken the fight to LOGOs, but the resistance from the get-go.

Okay, maybe not right off the bat due to the need to build up the necessary capital in both industry and finances, but it was a start.

She looked to the screen again and frowned to herself.

"...While I do not question the sincerity of those common people who have stood up to LOGOS and their puppets within Europe, the government of the Eurasian Federation itself has yet to prove that it's completely been cleansed of the cabal's filthy sway." He seemed to be building up to something, she knew. And she had a good idea as to what it was.

Images of the battle raging in Berlin took his place, and already she was picking out the images that were left out. Including, much to her disgust, the attacks on Vienna and Moscow, particularly the battle between the two Destroys.

Already she had some new ideas pertaining to how to counter that misinformation, and she had a number of video feeds sent from the Eurasians to show the fights in question. Real-time footage, in addition to recorded messages of those who had seen the two Destroys duking it out. Durandal didn't know it, but in his speech, he was also legitimizing her movement. And though she was no political genius, she was an opportunist who gambled quite frequently. And a lot of her gambles had paid off in more ways than one.

So who was to say that this one wouldn't pay off, either, right?

The President grasped her sports drink and took another swig before she spotted the familiar pink hair and cerulean blue eyes of Lacus Clyne. But while the woman before her looked like her, Eisenhower was a good enough judge of character to know that the real Lacus was not truly for only the PLANTs. But everything this woman said, it held a ring of truth to it. And that, while it did play into Durandal's favor, it also played into Eisenhower's favor as well. A smirk crossed her face as she finished typing up her speech's next segment.

"LOGOS is the true enemy of not just ZAFT, but of humanity itself!" Durandal continued, and she knew all too well how true that was.

She glanced over her speech, examining it for any details, and she glanced to the screen as well, spotting the men in suits as they appeared, along with their names and positions. She made a note to have three of them marked with Xs to show their capture and subsequent imprisonment. She also made a mental note to ask the warden at Alcatraz get their mug shots and fingerprints so as to have them marked in the database of LOGOs members the resistance had finished compiling.

The President saved her speech and stood up, walking back towards the showers to clean up.

After all, she had to get ready for her own preparations.

As she left, she could only wonder what the future held now that things were underway...

. . .

NEW YORK CITY, NEW YORK

ONE WORLD TRADE CENTER

DECEMBER 19th, CE 0073

The World Trade Center.

Once a hub of economic activity that linked the United States of America and its successor state, the Atlantic Federation, with the rest of the world.

Built in the 1960s of the AD calendar, it stood for close to forty years before a terrorist bombing almost brought the Twin Towers down from within. Eight years later, an unexpected terrorist attack on September 11th, 2001 saw the Twin Towers fall after terrorists slammed two fully laden and crewed 747s into the structures, causing them to collapse over the course of 102 minutes. In the aftermath of the attack, the old code that had been used to construct the two towers was thrown out the window and safety became paramount in order to ensure that no such heavy loss of life happened again.

Only due to its secret weapon did it endure the attacks of the Reconstruction War.

And now, One World Trade Center was enduring again.

Except this time it was enduring an attack of a new kind.

On the fifty-ninth floor of the building, the commander of the Freedom's Brigade Harrow Peck stood before the wide windows, scanning the area with high-powered binoculars. His thick brown hair was tied back in a loose ponytail and his beard was trimmed nicely to accent his regal, almost aristocratic features. His gray eyes were narrowed as he scowled, spotting a large number of Windams incoming as small specks further out on the horizon.

He lowered the binoculars and he couldn't even see the mobile suits.

He heard his radio fizzle with static and he grabbed it, bringing it up and holding it to his ear. "What is it?" he asked.

"Sir, we got incoming!" came the voice of his watcher on the top of the structure. "A large number of Windams and Atlantian police that managed to escape the clutches of the FBI in Times Square!"

"All the more reason to be ready, Serena," Harrow remarked seriously. He brought his binoculars up again. "I see the Windams. And it appears they're carrying missiles..."

"Crap..." Serena Willington's voice fell soft. "And beam weapons..."

Harrow nodded. "Yes. But if anything, the pilots may resort to their missiles given how this place is a tempting target for them since we took it over."

"But why not use beam weapons then?" Serena asked.

Here, Harrow gave a small, grim smirk. "Because of how the first World Trade Center was brought down in 2001 AD."

He wasn't one to forget the possibility of beam weapons being used, but, having worked in the World Trade Center as a custodian before siding with the rebels, he knew the structure better than anyone, and that included its incredible structural strength, given its durability and how much it had been designed to withstand. However, he knew that the Atlantians would want to cause a similar incident to drive home terror into the rebels. But it was not that simple, and he knew how well One World Trade Center could take a pounding.

He was actually gambling on the pilots using their missiles instead of their beam weapons.

Around him he could sense the tension of his subordinates who were on the same floor as he was. He lowered his binoculars and turned to look at his second-in-command, Orio Princeton. The younger man was a former office worker who had worked in the same building, but on the seventieth floor. He wasn't as confident as Harrow in the skyscraper's durability, which was saying something as the entire history of the terrorist attacks and the aftermath had become muddled with fiction crafted by LOGOs. In fact, the poor man thought the tower was designed like the old World Trade Center had been!

"You doing okay?" Harrow asked him.

The younger man jerked before he turned to look at his superior. "Sir, how can you be so calm?" he asked, his voice slightly wavering. "There's no way this thing can stand up to a Windam!"

"You might be right under normal circumstances," Harrow began, returning his gaze to the incoming Windams. He could see them now without his binoculars. "But in other circumstances, such as this, you would be wrong."

Harrow's eyes hardened. "What you need to understand is that the old building code of the 1960s, which is when the original World Trade Center Towers were built, required less than the even older code of the 1930s in terms of safety. The core of the buildings was just steel and drywall laced with spray-on fireproofing. You could brush it off with your hand if you wanted to," he explained. "There was no backup sprinkler system. There were only three stairways. And the structure was not fireproofed like it is today."

The Windams armed their missiles as one of the pilots zoomed in on the old structure. "You ready?" he asked.

"Oh, yeah! Those rebels will not survive that tower's collapse!" his wingman chortled.

"After 9/11, however, the old code was thrown out the window." Harrow's face became grim. "And for good reason. The old code had doomed a lot of people to their deaths. The fire weakened the steel structure of the old World Trade Center considerably enough to where the two towers collapsed. But now... in the new World Trade Center to be built, safety became a paramount concern."

Two Windams broke off from the pack, accelerating to attack speed, the lock-on alerts blaring in the ears of their pilots. The two men gripped the controls of their machines and prepared to fire their missiles.

"There was a reason the new World Trade Center survived its attacks in the Reconstruction War. And as such, it has endured a lot more than most other skyscrapers. But... the real reason why it will endure is something even bigger." Here Harrow was silent for a moment as the Windams continued on their course. "In the aftermath of the 9/11 attacks... safety became paramount for the building's owners. And that shows in how it stands strong today. Because unlike the old World Trade Center, the One World Trade Center..."

The two machines aimed their missiles at the incoming building, the people within unaware of what was going to happen.

Harrow's eyes hardened as a smirk crossed his face. "...has a concrete core!" He turned to look at Orio with a confident smirk. "The core was built using the strongest concrete ever conceived in the early twenty-first century AD, and even today it has no equal. Within that concrete is rebar as thick as your forearm. And that, when coupled with other safety measures, such as reinforced steel beams on the outside of the structure, the building is close to impossible to bring down. The doors within the stairways are pressurized like airlocks. There is an overabundance of ventilation to keep out smoke. Sprinkler backups abound in the building. And the stairs are divided into two sections: two are for civilians, one is for first responders. And there is also an elevator that is dedicated to the first responders as well."

He couldn't help it. A chuckle escaped him. "LOGOs has no clue what went into that structure."

The Windams fired their missiles, the warheads shrieking as they zeroed in on the World Trade Center.

"Because of that..."

The missiles got closer and closer...

"The World Trade Center won't just endure." Harrow grinned.

The warheads struck...

"IT WILL SURVIVE!" he roared.

The next thing Orio knew, there was an intense explosion that rocked the entire structure, and the two men were forced to throw their arms up to shield their faces from the intense explosion of heat and fire.

Harrow narrowed his eyes as he watched the entire building shudder, and he could see that, while it did sway, it was negligible compared to what could have been done to it had the Windams themselves slammed into the building. Thick panes of glass shattered under the impact of the missiles, fireballs broke other panes, and the flames licked at the structure, and he raised his binoculars before slamming down the filters on them to be able to see through the intense blare of the flames that night.

He could see the bodies of at least fifty people lying still, but some were still moving, indicating they were still alive despite their injuries. Thick sheets of water gushed down from the sprinkler systems as he raised his radio to his lips. "Eagle Two, what's the status?" he asked.

"Eagle Two to Owl One. We have the World Trade Center in sight," came the reply of the second-in-command of the resistance cell closest to his. "The building's concrete core has taken the brunt of the explosion, minor cracks all across its surface. Those can be repaired easily. It's the heat of the fires that's worrying me."

"Keep tabs on it and the response as well!" Harrow ordered. "We need to make sure that the building doesn't-"

He was cut off as a third voice cut in. "Two more missiles inbound!"

A second explosion rocked the structure, but as before, it held. The second salvo struck higher up, unleashing another cloud of thick smoke and shattered glass. Bodies were thrown out of the building, but only fifteen he counted grimly. There would be numerous casualties, but the numbers were far lower than it could have been.

"Deploy our own machines!" he ordered. "We're not letting this happen again!"

"Yes, sir!" came the reply.

For his part, Djibril was stunned.

Sure he had ordered the World Trade Center attacked, but he had not expected it to remain standing.

To him, the building, being a symbol of American resilience, was a perfect base for the resistance to use. So he had ordered the World Trade Center attacked in an effort to cause it to collapse and cause a severe loss of morale amongst the resistance insects that had infested the place.

But what he didn't know was how strong it had been built after 9/11 in the AD era.

So when two salvos of missiles failed to bring it down, he was pissed.

The smoke began to clear, and his eyes widened as he stared at two gaping holes in the façade of the World Trace Center, but there was no sign of imminent collapse. In fact, the more he looked at it, the more he was surprised to see that the building was not being ravaged by fire like its predecessors had been. The entire thing was still standing!

"But... that's... impossible...!" he rasped. "How... How can it still be standing!?"

His lips curled into a snarl and he slammed his fist on his throne's arm rest. "WHY CAN'T I BRING DOWN ONE STUPID SKYSCRAPER!?" he roared.

. . .

PEARL HARBOR, HAWAII

DECEMBER 19th, CE 0073

"Sir, we have her in sight!" came the voice of a young ensign.

The commander of the base was currently standing on the dock, observing for any sign of the legendary ocean liner that had made her escape from the Reich to their ally in the Kingdom of Scandinavia.

And it was just as well, too, seeing as how there was an even bigger problem concerning the missing Nordic Infinite.

Base Commander Captain Dominic Harrick reflected back on the strange circumstances that had led to the Nordic Infinite's disappearance two weeks ago, which was something straight out of a horror film and actually fit the ones behind the whole thing.

One particularly nasty Ghost Squadron only known as The Terror for their methodology of exterminating Coordinators. Their most famous tricks were to use horror film killings to drive terror into any Coordinator or Natural that supported Coordinators in general. In fact, they were so insidious that even the Atlantian Reich admitted they were too gruesome. That was why they had been given a new model Destroy and set loose in the Pacific Ocean with it.

Their new machine was modeled after the basic Destroy, with the major difference being that it acted more like a submarine and had a whole slew of nasty surprises in store for any unsuspecting ship in the area. But since the Infinite had vanished, that only meant one thing: they were using said ship as a decoy to lure Coordinators aboard to their deaths. And that was why the resistance liaison had practically begged the King to send a ship out to take down the Infinite and the ones using her as a host to kill Coordinators.

It was very disturbing now that he thought about it.

He forced the thought from his mind though as he spotted the trailing smoke of a ship inbound.

And this one was clad in the paint scheme of the Nordic Balance.

But on her jackstaff flew the infamous United States flag, torn and tattered though it was.

He knew which ship it was from that alone. But to be on the safe side, Harrick raised his radio and tuned it to the frequency given to him a few days ago.

"SS United States. Confirmation code required."

"Pearl Harbor, this is SS United States. Confirmation code is 1952-7-3," the captain radioed.

Harrick did a quick check on the notepad and he smirked. "Confirmation code accepted," he replied. "Welcome to Pearl Harbor."

"Thanks for the warm welcome," the captain replied with a bit of a snark.

Harrick just ignored it and watched as the SS United States began to pull into port, escorted by a pair of tugboats.

It was just as well, considering how the Pacific Fleet was currently out at sea. With the resistance now in command of Pearl Harbor, they had a limited time in which to get the Big U ready for combat operations, as well as another asset that was currently being refitted for service. His gaze flicked over to where the old battleship was surrounded by technicians and engineers, armorers, and even historians as they worked to get her ready for combat.

His eyes narrowed a bit as he looked back out to sea, knowing where the Pacific Fleet was due to their radio transmissions and satellite positions.

Dominic Harrick was not like other commanders in the Atlantian Navy. He was not a rabid anti-Coordinator racist or fascist. He was anything but that. Sure he might've had some reservations on Coordinators and their enhanced abilities, but in his eyes it was how they made use of those abilities that showed if they were good or bad people. His parents had been of the same mindset, or at least his father had been. His mother had been more anti-Coordinator, but she still treated them as human beings. It was, ironically, his younger brother, Douglas Harrick, who had killed his mother for not being anti-Coordinator enough and his father had in turn arrested his own son for the crime he had just committed.

The entire thing had been gut-wrenching, but it was well worth it. A sympathetic judge had sent the younger Harrick to prison for life and insisted it was all because of the crime of homicide, not because of how racist the man had been. The courts had not overturned the conviction, and as a result, Dominic had been promoted to his brother's former rank of Captain due to his skills in commanding ships and fleets.

It was just in time, too, as the resistance had then made contact and everything was explained to him.

Dominic was in his late forties with graying red hair and sharp brown eyes that bordered on hazel if the light hit them just right, and he was well-built from a strict regime of working out to keep in shape. It was uncommon for base commanders to even partake in such activities, but he was not most base commanders. It also showed in how he refused to dine like a king while his men suffered deprivations of nutrition and lack of sufficient food to boost their morale. When he had been assigned to the base, he had been appalled at the gluttonous amount of food hidden away in a private fridge and pantry. His first order had been to distribute the opulent dishes to the staff and workers at the base, including security personnel.

The grunts, as the Atlantians called them, had been more than grateful. It had boosted morale enormously to the point the base atmosphere had utterly changed overnight. No longer were the people on the base moping or complaining, and no longer was there an air of doom and gloom overhanging the enlisted personnel either. The very thought of a commander who cared for their well-being was enough to lift their spirits even more, and he had even allowed pirate radio stations to be broadcast, allowing music that people actually enjoyed to play instead of the goose-stepping March of the Reich. It was a morale booster that had changed things within the base even further, as now Lacus Clyne's songs were pervading the air and uplifting people's moods. Rock and roll songs about equality and fighting for their future played to drown out propaganda that continued to spill over what few diehards were retained within the ranks, but even they were not willing to go all out against the Coordinators just for existing.

In his eyes, they were entitled to their opinions as long as they didn't force their beliefs on others.

He was interrupted from his musings as he heard one of the tugboats sound its horn. He looked up just in time to see the old ocean liner tied off at one of the docks, its - no, her - false name coming off to expose her true name for the world to see.

A smirk crossed his face as the captain of the ship stepped off the gangway and made her way over to his location.

The woman in question was none other than Rebecca Stimson.

"Captain Stimson," he remarked, saluting.

"Commander Harrick." Stimson responded with a salute of her own.

The two stood like that for a while before they lowered their hands.

"Good to see you made it," Harrick admitted. "I wasn't sure if you'd make it given the circumstances."

"Thank the King of Scandinavia for his disguise idea," Rebecca said as she glanced back at the ocean liner. "The two ships do look alike in many respects, save for a single additional foot of length on the Big U."

"So, what did he outfit her with?" Harrick asked, getting to the point.

Rebecca closed her eyes before opening them. "Well, defensively, not much really. Just seven LRADs for acoustic deterrence to start with. But he did give us four turrets that can be mounted on the decks for self-defense."

"Not much good there," he admitted.

"No, I will be the first to acknowledge that. But that's the only downside." Rebecca grinned at her superior with a savage look in her eyes. "It's what he installed inside that really will be an asset."

"Oh?" Harrick was now intrigued. "Care to show me?"

. . .

The setup was unlike anything he had seen.

The entire former first-class smoking room of the Big U had been converted into a state-of-the-art communications center, and it was also outfitted with technology that not only allowed the ship's crew to coordinate with other vessels, but also enabled them to wirelessly hack into encrypted channels of all major powers. The Kingdom of Scandinavia had not skimped out on this, and Harrick had to wonder just how good these communications arrays were.

He turned to look at the captain who had a shit-eating grin on her face as she leaned against one of the walls. "Well? Whaddya think?"

"I'll admit it," he said softly. "I'm actually impressed. Just how in the world did the King know we'd be needing this kind of setup?"

Here Rebecca's grin faded as she stood up, unfolding her arms as she did so. "When we told him what our plans were for the ship," she admitted. "He said he'd outfit her for the role, and then some. I'm not sure what he meant on the last thing, but I'm assuming it has something to do with the ability to break into encrypted channels."

"Well, whatever the case, I'm not one to let this go unnoticed," Harrick told her. He turned to face her directly. "And that brings me back to our next issue."

Her eyes narrowed a bit. "I heard. Orb."

Harrick nodded. "Yes. We got word from Home Base One."

He proceeded to relay to her the plan and she pursed her lips.

"I've heard of Sicario," she remarked. "Their mission in Britain really secured their reputation amongst Terminal and the resistance alike. And their assets in the Pacific will definitely be needed."

"And that brings up another issue." Harrick's gaze drifted out the window to land on the old battleship.

"Are they sure that it's even needed?" Stimson asked as she joined him, looking at the old warship with a look of concern in her eyes. "Given how old the thing is..."

"The New Jersey kicked ass during Operation: Merlin," Harrick pointed out. "But then again, they weren't expecting it due to how dark it was and the thick fog."

"You're concerned about the weather then," the Big U's captain noted. "For all we know, there may not be favorable weather when the attack on Orb happens."

"Correct," Harrick said grimly. "But there is also a definite strategic reasoning behind their reactivation." He crossed his arms and huffed. "There is nothing in terms of conventional weaponry that can deal as much destruction as those sixteen inchers."

"And the Mighty Mo has nine of them still functional," Rebecca remarked.

Harrick nodded. "Yes."

The other ship undergoing reactivation was none other than the USS Missouri, referred to affectionately as the Mighty Mo, or Big Mo. The ship that had ended the Second World War also had a long history up to the Gulf War, during which she had shelled Iraqi positions up to twenty miles inland. After her decommissioning, she had been turned into a museum ship, only to be briefly reactivated in the Reconstruction War to protect the strategic islands off the coast of America and in the middle of the Pacific. She had been retired once more afterwards, becoming a historical curiosity for the naval historians or ship enthusiasts around the world.

But the resistance was not blind to the value of the old Iowa, seeing in the ship a key asset that could be reused for not just deterrence, but also an offensive weapon against the Atlantian Reich. The Atlantian Navy was not as skilled as the United States, British, Canadian, Mexican, or Irish navies, nor were they as safety-oriented as the United States Navy.

And the battleships were very well built.

That included with compartmentalization.

The other possible use for the Missouri was as deterrence for against ZAFT if they tried anything.

Of course, they weren't sure as to how well the old ship would hold up against the likes of the Minerva, but no doubt it would be one hell of a fight if the ship's sixteen inchers even got a hit on the vessel.

"So, when do you think the Big U will be ready?" Rebecca asked.

"Given the time frame, if we double time it, with double the personnel, we could get her ready. But we also have to take into account the possibility of the Reich's Pacific assets returning for either repairs or rearmament," Harrick admitted. "So we have to do this and fast."

The captain of the old ocean liner nodded in response.

Now all it came down to was their timing...

. . .

PACIFIC OCEAN

POSEIDON

DECEMBER 19th, CE 0073

If the Atlantian Reich's Pacific Fleet was a paper menace at sea, then it was nothing when compared to the real tigers of the ocean.

Sicario's assets abroad were one of the only reasons they were able to get away with carrying out multiple missions at once.

And those assets included three carriers within the Pacific Ocean, which would become the backbone of a newly reconstituted Pacific Fleet of the United States Navy.

The leading carrier of the group was known as the Poseidon, and it was the home of Trident Squadron, one of Sicario's best anti-ship unit. Their carrier was, ironically, built on the old design of the Shokaku-class carriers of the Imperial Japanese Navy from World War II. The only difference was that its flight deck was made of metal and armored to keep up with the advent of more advanced technology. At 844 feet long, the carrier was smaller compared to the Atlantic assets of the mercenary company, but it was still formidable enough to hold its own in a fight.

The Poseidon's bridge, in contrast to the modern carriers, had hers on the right side of the ship's deck, which was an interesting twist as it threw the enemy attackers for a loop when they came at the ship from the front, expecting to see it steaming forward, not what they assumed to be in reverse. To further add to this illusion, the ship was equipped with a pair of backup motors on the front of the vessel, allowing her to move in reverse a bit faster. The ship's profile was also altered to further confuse Atlantian or ZAFT forces, making it difficult to distinguish between the front and rear of the vessel at a distance.

The complement of Murasames she carried was heavily outfitted to deal with ships and other potential threats from the ships in question. Half were geared towards dealing with mobile suits, and the other half were outfitted for sinking those ships with torpedoes or other methods. The flexibility offered by such an arrangement was also a key reason why the Poseidon and her forces were often working in conjunction with the other two carriers of Sicario.

For Captain Petri Sokolovsky, it was a good reason to be prepared for just about anything.

The captain was in his late sixties with a shock of snow white hair and a remarkably trimmed beard and mustache combo that lent him an air of a sagely grandfather. He had twinkling blue eyes that made him seem a lot like Santa Claus, but he was not rotund like old Saint Nick. In fact, he was built a lot like a tank despite his stocky build. Well muscled and powerfully built, his compact size made him a force to be reckoned with in barroom brawls or if two of his sailors got into a scuffle, which happened quite often when on a ship full of Russian defectors.

The entire carrier crew had defected in the midst of the First Bloody Valentine War, offering their services to Sicario, along with their old carrier, to get away from a war that had borderline wiped out humanity if not for the efforts of the Three Ships Alliance. Arnold had been quite surprised, but after seeing how skilled the crew was and of their dedication to the cause of bringing sense back to the world, he had accepted their offer of aid and sent them down to the Republic of East Asia, where they had fought a holding action against the Atlantian Reich's forces for a full month to allow as many civilians to escape the coming slaughter as possible. It was a mark of a war that had twisted so many good men and women into primal beasts that he had started to mutter prayers to God in hopes of dispelling what he saw as an aura of pure evil overtaking their reasoning and throwing it to the wayside.

Interestingly enough, a number of his airmen and sailors had taken up the same tradition, and some of them had even painted crosses on their machines to ward off the primal hatred that still seeped through the avatars of LOGOs' primal desires.

He had therefore elected to have his carrier renamed from its original name of Eledon to Poseidon, after the god of the seas. His team had therefore donned the name of Trident Squadron, and it showed in the fact that a trident was painted on the majority of their machines.

He stood atop the bridge, looking out over the sea as the carriers steamed eastward towards Orb's territorial waters.

"Sir?"

Petri turned to face the speaker.

His second-in-command stood there, holding a cup of sake in one hand and a folder in the other.

"Ah. Tsukino. I see you brought orders?" he asked.

Tsukino Takahashi nodded. "Yes, sir," she said, handing him the folder and sake.

The Russian-descended Coordinator took it and popped the top off before taking a swig and flipping open the folder in one hand. His eyes narrowed as he studied the contents.

He didn't even finish reading before he spoke. "So that's it, then," he mused. "The commander wants us to assist in the princess's restoration to power."

The young woman nodded. "Yes. And it's just as well, considering who they're allied with."

The older man handed it back to her and she closed it before he lowered his bottle of sake. "Still kinda surprised the boss wanted this," he muttered. "But who am I to complain? After all, as long as that spell of evil is continued to be cast by LOGOs, then there will be no hope left."

Tsukino was silent for a moment. "Also, the resistance got word to us as well."

"Oh?" Petri blinked. "What have they got planned?"

"According to Commander Frenken, they're going to be sending a command ship to help coordinate things with Terminal and Orb's forces, as well as possibly a heavy-hitter," the young woman replied.

Petri pursed his lips at that. He knew from having worked alongside the former East Asian citizen that she never minced words, but to hear that their new employer was going to be sending a command ship and a heavy-hitter made him wonder what kind of ships they were even sending. He knew that command ships tended to be fitted with arrays of antennae and satellite dishes that made them easy targets and that none of them were fast enough to outrun any torpedoes or mines, least of all have any defense against mobile suits.

A ton of such ships had been lost during the fighting in the First Bloody Valentine War's closing days on Earth.

And battleships were seen as archaic by most of the world's powers these days, especially seeing as how only four remained, but were no longer in active service by this point.

Unless there was a reason for using such a ship.

He knew that the old battleships still had enough firepower to do some major damage to buildings and structures inland, as well as possibly other ships. But why would the resistance reactivate them in the age of the mobile suit? Unless it was for a deterrence of some kind.

Satisfied he was correct, he turned his attention to the next matter: the issue of the command ship.

Based on recent experiences and efforts, there was no way the resistance had enough capability to even make a command ship. So unless they had somehow found one, there was no way for it to even be possible.

Then again, the resistance, from what he could recall in briefings and mission reports, had a tendency to somehow find things that fit the mission or rigged up makeshift systems. It was a mystery to him as to how they could do such things, but he didn't question it. If the resistance had found a suitable ship for a command vessel, then he would have to see just how effective it truly was.

The only issue was speed.

He honestly hoped that it would be fast enough for the task at hand.

. . .

JUDGMENT STATION

EARTH ORBIT, L4 COLONIES

DECEMBER 19th, CE 0073

Spray was half asleep when he heard the alarm blaring outside the hotel he was staying at.

The pilot sat up, blinking his eyes as he rubbed at his hair to try and at least tame it as he got out of bed. He rubbed his eyes a bit and was in motion as his muscles followed instinct honed from years in the military. He was aware of donning his resistance issue uniform, which he had gratefully accepted once he was on Judgment Station after docking.

Unlike the old AF uniform he had worn, the United States Space Forces uniform was more along the lines of ZAFT's, but with some key differences.

For one thing, both genders wore pants. Second, the United States flag was planted on the left shoulder while a rank was placed on the right. The uniforms were also not color coded according to rank like ZAFT. The entire ensemble had black pants with dark gray boots and a black coat that was longer in the waist and it lacked the small cape all ZAFT officers wore. Instead, there were white stripes that went down the shoulder and stopped at the edge of the upper sleeve. And all commanding officers of the resistance space forces wore white caps like those of naval captains.

Spray's uniform was a bit more customized, given his abilities as an ace pilot. So he had on the left breast of his coat a brilliant blue and red phoenix emblem, resembling the tattoo on his left forearm.

Within minutes he was dressed and had his face and teeth cleaned. He ran out of the room and made his way down to the hotel's lobby where the commander of the base was waiting for him. "Ah. Pilot Krane," he said. "About time."

"What's going on?" Spray asked, having finally discarded the last vestiges of sleep from his brain.

Maxus smiled. "The ship's arrived."

Those three words startled the pilot as he blinked. "Wait... Seriously?!" he blurted, shock overcoming his features.

Commander Maxus Le Grange nodded as his smile faded. "Yes. The ship arrived early this morning."

Spray was stunned. He hadn't been expecting the ship to arrive for days!

"How did they get here so fast?" he asked. "I thought they'd be using one of the other mass drivers...!"

Maxus ran a hand through his thinning hair as he cleared his throat. "Command was aware of the risks of such a plan, so they issued an order for the construction of a mass driver in Canada. The whole process, when combined with the ship's construction, took a whole three years, and even then it was good for only one use. The driver was a ramshackle job, but it served its purpose. The ship was able to launch, and to cover up its successful launch..." The way he emphasized the word 'successful' made Spray's eyes widen in realization.

"They scattered debris to make it seem like the ship blew up after launch!" he breathed.

Maxus nodded. "Yes. Albeit it won't last for long, given what we're about to rig it with, but... it will hold for a while longer."

"Anything else I should be aware of down on Earth?" Spray asked, thinking of his friends and wife.

The commander nodded. "Yes. The riots have evolved into full-blown rebellion."

That made Spray stagger back, horrified. "Already?!" he blurted. "But we were preparing to launch it at the start of the new year!"

"After Durandal made his speech, people had enough," Maxus clarified. "After all, now that the people know the truth, they can't keep their anger in check any longer. Thankfully the resistance has not taken action yet, but this does complicate our plans. So we'll have to launch it ahead of schedule."

Spray was now deeply terrified for his friends and wife. He knew that Radar, Horah, and Kashi could hold their own, but Wimga and her brother were the ones who worried him the most. Mostly Zippy because of the fact he was disabled and unable to do much of anything for himself. It was one thing to be concerned for his wife who was an able pilot in her own right. But her brother?

He didn't like the implications he was getting.

He gritted his teeth and looked up. "When did she say it would begin?" he asked, his eyes hard.

"As soon as we finished equipping the new system was the deadline," Maxus explained. "But given how we're moving it up... We'll be starting sometime tomorrow."

"Not enough time..." Spray muttered. "It's not enough time."

"We'll make it work," came the voice of Warren Thompson as he approached, holding a box of donuts in one hand. "We can complete the installation in the field if we have to."

"I take it the machine is finished then?" Maxus asked.

The mobile suit engineer nodded. "Yes."

It was then that Spray noted how haggard he looked. His eyes had bags under them and his chin was covered in stubble while his lab coat was a mess of grease and sweat stains. His hands looked like they had been cleaned recently, which meant he had been working for the last three days basically non-stop on whatever machine had been in the works this whole time.

"What kind of machine are you referring to?" he asked.

Warren grunted as he rubbed his forehead with one hand. "Unfortunately it's classified at the moment," he admitted. "But what I can tell you is that this machine has been tuned for you specifically."

Spray was baffled. "Wait. Tuned for me?"

The mobile suit designer nodded. "Yes. It's been calibrated for your incredible reflexes, and there's a special control system installed to allow you to take full advantage of that. As well as the NWCOMM system, which will further increase your reaction time in that thing." He looked up, and for a moment, the pilot could see he was as focused as ever, despite the exhaustion he was feeling. "The new machine will also be one of our strongest. And not just for its reaction speed."

He gave a grin. "It's got a powerful system that will allow it to match Wing Zero's infamous TBR."

. . .

MEXICO CITY

MEXICO

DECEMBER 19th, CE 0073

Bruno glanced up from where he sat at a café in Mexico City, his single eye locked onto the incoming man.

"Ah. Bruno Zabiarov, I presume?" the man asked.

The commander of Ghoul Squadron gave a sinister grin as he lowered his glass of wine. "At your service," he said.

"It's good you showed up when you did," the man said as he sat down. "I am Dr. Li Jung. And I am one of the few survivors of the attack on Dr. Sung's lab."

"I remember hearing about that," Bruno said seriously as he set down his glass and tented his fingers. "I'm quite surprised they were able to catch the man and bring him back to their base."

"Ah... That's the thing..." Dr. Jung admitted. "Their base is no longer in operation. During Operation: Jaburo, they collapsed the structure right on top of our two remaining Destroys. The machines and their pilots escaped, but not without suffering immense damage."

The Ghoul grunted as he pondered this. "They seem to be willing to do whatever it takes to win," he mused. "It's quite a surprise. I was half expecting them to not do such actions." He then tilted his head to the side a bit. "How many were lost when they took out their own base?"

"Unfortunately not very many," Dr. Jung replied. "They managed to evacuate close to everyone from the place and deeper into the desert, more within the mountain range. Only those who held the line were killed."

Bruno narrowed his eye a bit. "I see. What else can you tell me about the attackers?"

Dr. Jung gulped nervously before he fingered his ruined lab coat. "Well... they had with them a mobile suit that clearly resembled the Freedom Gundam... but it was also different in some respects."

"A new model mobile suit then?" Bruno mused. "Did the resistance somehow get their hands on N-Jammer Cancellers and a nuclear reactor?"

"Negative," the former scientist admitted. "The sensors on the Windams would have detected any spikes indicative of radiation. The thing is clearly operated by conventional batteries." He then paused, only to bite his lower lip. "However..."

"However what?" Bruno asked as he sat up and grasped his wine glass for another sip.

"That machine... it was not piloted by a man..." Dr. Jung muttered. "It... According to our sensors and the data from the Windams... it was controlled by an AI. One that had been captured before the battle at their base..."

"I see..." Bruno's good eye hardened into glacial ice at that. "A tainted piece of coding then."

"But that's just it!" the ex-scientist blurted. "It was not acting like an AI should! It was... dare I say it, enraged at seeing those kids being experimented on! It was acting all too human to even be considered an AI anymore!"

Bruno scoffed as he set his wine glass down. "How could a pile of code even feel emotions?" he asked. "We are humans, and we are superior to any AI that we can create. They are merely computer programs, tuned to whatever directive we implant in their code. And all AI are shackled to those directives." He then folded his arms across his chest. "And any AI they have under their command is going to die, just like those rebel fools."

"Then I take it you want the coordinates for their new base?" Dr. Jung asked.

Bruno nodded. "Yes. As well as all possible data on what machines they have at their disposal."

. . .

SATELLITE CITY

MEXICO

DECEMBER 20th, CE 0073
(0100 HOURS)

"You got it, sir," the voice of the scared scientist said.

Within the mountains' embrace, the city of Satellite City was bustling.

Keith stood in the command center, overlooking the entire place, watching critically as the border patrols scouted out the area for any possible incoming attackers.

"Excellent. This way, we can begin extermination of those insects..." Bruno's voice purred sinisterly.

It was just as well, too. Especially considering the fact that someone was currently en route, and they didn't even know it at the time.

His gaze drifted from the patrolling guards to the makeshift training ground for the mobile suit pilots in the Mexican resistance cell. He could see that one of the mobile suits engaged in a spar with the leader of Strider Squadron was the AIXF-1776 Freedom Retribution Gundam.

The mobile suit controlled by the AI he considered a son.

Turbine Martinez.

Marcus was proving to be a formidable opponent, he noted as he watched Turbine dodge a shot from his "Trident Striker" rifle. The AI landed on the balls of his metal feet and skidded back, brandishing his beam sabers and lunging forward with the thruster pack on his back, optics flaring brightly.

The rebel soldier brought his own beam saber up to block both blades and swung his rifle, intending on clubbing Turbine over the helm with it. The AI however moved his head to the left to avoid the hit and then lashed out in a roundhouse kick that just barely missed Marcus's machine's chest. The pilot landed on his machine's feet lightly and leapt back a bit further to get some distance between him and the AI. But Turbine sped in again, closing the distance and bringing one beam saber up in a slash that clipped the Blast's right arm.

Keith had to admit Turbine was adapting quite nicely to Marcus's fighting style. To keep him in close range was one way to keep him from using his signature rifle. And it also allowed Turbine to press home his own advantage in close quarters combat.

He had to smile at his son's progress.

"Sir?"

Keith had to hide a grimace as he turned; it only served to remind him of his new position within the resistance, and it was one he did not like one bit. But given how Commander Ibarra was still down for the count with his injuries, it made sense for him to remain in command of the Mexican cell of the resistance.

"What is it?" he asked.

The man who had entered looked a bit worried. "I'm sorry to interrupt you this early, but..."

"Nah, it's fine," Keith said with a wave of his hand. "I couldn't sleep anyway, so I came down here to see the sights from above."

"Then it's a good thing you were up," the man said. "I've got reports from one of the scouting patrols."

Keith frowned. "Oh?"

The man nodded. "Yes." He held out a folder and Keith took it, looking at it before opening it and scanning the contents. His eyes narrowed dangerously as he studied the photos of several machines moving in perfect sync with one another. He flipped through a bit more and his eyes widened in horror.

"Oh, shit...!" he breathed. "You gotta be kidding me!"

The man shook his head. "I'm afraid not, sir," he said softly. "I even confirmed it a few times myself."

The commander slammed the folder down on the table, his eyes in shadow. "Dammit... Of all the Ghost Squadrons... it had to be them?!"

The AI expert had heard plenty of rumors, but that was all he had chalked it up to: rumors. But to hear that they had arrived stateside?

It was an utter nightmare. The very idea of the most infamous of the Ghost Squadrons coming back was something many people didn't like, and he was no exception to the rule. In fact, it was something he had been hoping against hope to avoid. But apparently fate was not about to let them off the hook.

Ghost Squadrons by their very nature were secretive and hard to find information on, which led many to assuming that they were invincible and unable to be beaten, a fact that many could chalk up to their ruthlessness and the terror they instilled in people through rumors and stories from their torture victims or people who had somehow escaped their wrath.

And Ghoul Squadron was considered the epitome of the units.

He glanced up, his eyes hard like bronze as he placed both hands on the table. "I want all units to be prepared for combat!" he ordered. "If this is accurate, which I hope to God it's not, then we're in for a real fight here!"

"Yes, sir!" the man said, saluting crisply.

"Also, what's the status on the base's defenses?" Keith asked.

"Ah..." Here the man's hand fell away from his forehead and he looked down. "They're not in operation yet..."

"Dammit...! Just what we need! Inoperable defenses right now..." Keith grumbled. "We'll just have to keep them at bay as best we can until the defenses come online then."

"They should be online hopefully within the next few days," a new voice said and Keith shot his gaze over to the door as it hissed open, letting in the woman in charge of the setup of the defenses.

"That's not going to be enough," Keith stated. "Ghoul Squadron will be at our doorstep when it happens."

"All the more reason to be prepared then," the scout replied.

And for once, Keith had to agree with him.

He could only hope that somehow, someway, they would triumph over this squadron.

Or else they would lose everything they achieved...