-- Attached file included as plaintext by Listar --
Fox Squadron
Chapter 1 - Retirement
by G.L. Sandborn
It was still dark outside. Not a depressing bottom-of-the-
well gloominess of late night but a gray semi-darkness of early
morning. A hint of color tinted the eastern sky, promising another
clear Spring day at Yellowstone RDF Base.
Colonel Jeffrey Stuart stood at the open window of his
apartment staring out at the dimly lit airfield that functioned as the
heart of the base. The brisk pre-dawn breeze bore the familiar
distant whine of engines being warmed up, reminding him that this was
still a functioning RDF base and pilots still flew on a regular basis.
This morning was no exception. Ever since the sudden attack five
years ago by Khyron and his remaining rebel Zentraedi, the Robotech
Defense Forces flew regular patrols South of the base, usually
escorting a lumbering Cats Eye Recon craft that electronically pierced
the darkness looking for signs of trouble. No one really expected
trouble anymore. The back of the Zentraedi forces had broken with
their suicide attack on the venerable SDF-1 and its sister ship, the
SDF-2. Still, the patrols continued, more out of habit than
necessity.
Jeff shivered as a cool breeze pushed its way through the open
window, caressing his exposed skin. Wearing only his pajama bottoms,
he tried to ignore the cool breeze and tell himself he wasn't as young
as he used to be, back when the cold didn't bother him so much.
At forty-six, he was one of the oldest active members of the
RDF. Former ace-pilot in the Global Civil War, former Veritech test
pilot, former RDF Academy instructor, and finally a squadron
commander, he was considered too old to fly. Despite keeping himself
in tip-top shape and spending as much time as possible in the cockpit,
he was restricted to the number of hours he could fly and limited to a
dual VF-1D trainer with his much younger executive officer in the back
seat. It was a safety factor, he was told. Just in case, they said.
He knew better. RDF Command preferred younger pilots. They claimed
it was because younger men had better reactions and could control the
complex symbiotic relationship between man and Veritech better. But
they never proved that to Colonel Stuart's satisfaction. He could
still out fly most of the young pups they sent up to test him in mock
dogfights. No, they wanted pilots who followed orders better.
Veteran pilots like him were a mixed blessing; unquestionably more
experienced and better prepared than their younger counterparts but
cursed because they had crossed the line between compartmentalizing
the horrors of Robotech combat and thinking about it too much.
Colonel Stuart had become one of those who thought too much.
Like many his age, he remembered countless sorties into harms way,
battles with cunning enemies that often outnumbered his own forces.
>From the early battles with the Zentraedi when RDF pilots faced
overwhelming odds with every flight to the later skirmishes with
determined rebels and bandits, losses were always a part of the
equation. There were times he could close his eyes and still see the
faces of those who fell in battles famous and obscure, warriors
remembered only by their comrades and family. Many who died went
unrecovered, robbing their family and friends of even the most basic
of dignities: a decent burial. Yes, there were times he felt his age.
Now, as the last of the original Veritech pilots, he stood
alone, a battered old combat veteran whose time had long since passed.
Virtually everyone he knew had either died or departed with Rick
Hunter and Lisa Hayes in their great crusade to the home of the
Robotech Masters. The few that remained, like Jeffrey Stuart, tried
to bridge the gap between the RDF of old and the developing Army of
the Southern Cross with their modern, more efficient mecha and
weapons.
It was never easy. Stretched almost to the breaking point,
the RDF shifted its meager and aging assets from one hot spot to
another, always just one step behind the worst of the offenders but
just enough to prevent total anarchy.
A change in pitch of the Veritech engines drew his attention
back to the field. Through the darkness, he could just make out the
running lights of a pair of Veritech fighters taxiing into position
for takeoff. He wondered about the pilots. Were they young kids who
weren't good enough to get into the ASC's new Robotech Military
Academy but just good enough to qualify under the relaxed RDF
standards? Or were they some veterans serving out their last days
till retirement? That would be novel, he thought. Few veterans flew
anymore. Like him, they were all considered too old.
The sound of Veritech engines spooling up to full power
accompanied twin cones of brilliant protoculture fueled exhaust as the
tiny craft rolled a short distance and seemed to leap into the air,
quickly followed by its companion. Even in the darkness, Jeff could
see the twin fighters banking into their steep climbing turn. It
brought back even more memories, this time of his last, depressing
assignment.
For two tours, he commanded a squadron along the border with
the Barony of York, a particularly nasty little xenophobic fiefdom
that lived on their hatred for everything Zentraedi. There were
plenty of Zentraedi around to hate. Most had chosen to be micronized
in order to mix with the indigenous population. The Yorkies, however,
were masters at rooting them out, hunting them down, and dispatching
them with all speed.
There were times when Zentraedi refugees or raiding parties clashed
near the border. Too often, he and his squadron found themselves
between insanely murderous York Security Forces and equally hostile
Zentraedi, both micronized and not. Sometimes there was shooting,
sometimes folks got hurt. Most of the time, he tried to keep the
casualties to a minimum, but that wasn't always possible. He hated
the work, comparing it to being a hockey referee in an armed arena
where the opponents truly hated each other. There were even times
when he ordered his teams to sit back and let the two groups fight it
out, preferring to step in afterwards when everyone was too exhausted
to protest. It probably didn't save many lives, except those of his
squadron, but the occasional bloodletting among combatants seemed to
retard their desire to engage in further unpleasantness until they'd
had time to lick their wounds.
The sound of his wife stirring in their bed reminded him of
the reason he was currently at Yellowstone. He glanced her way and
saw her yawn. He knew she'd become accustomed to his early dawn
vigils at the window. She, more than anyone else, knew what he was
going through. Being the wife of a squadron commander without a
squadron was a harder job than one would imagine.
"I'm sorry," he said in a hushed voice. "I didn't mean to
wake you."
She said nothing. Her people often said nothing. Only the
sound of her soft feet padding lightly across the carpeted floor and
her firm body pressing itself against his back, her arms locking
around his chest said everything he needed to hear. He felt her head
nuzzling for a comfortable position between his shoulder blades.
"I know. I couldn't sleep either," she said softly. "I guess
today is kind of different."
Different, he thought? Yes, he supposed it was. After thirty
years of service, Jeff was submitting his resignation to General
Emerson. He was going to retire and follow his Lakota Sioux wife back
to her native Black Hills not far from Yellowstone. There they would
build a modest retirement home along a tributary of the Little Fox
River and spend the rest of their lives in peace among her people.
He reached back with one hand and cupped a cheek of her still
trim buttock and felt the warmth of her bare skin. She'd remained
loyal and unwavering in her support over the years, a dutiful wife of
a warrior. She endured his absences with stoic resolve, certain only
of their reuniting in the spirit world should anything go wrong.
Things were as they were, she always said. You endure that which is
bad and celebrate the good but dwell on neither, for life is too short
and happiness too fleeting.
His hand slid lower over her bare skin and she responded by
molding herself to his backside. One of her slim hands slid down
across his hard stomach, paused a moment, then ventured lower.
"Come back to bed," she whispered. "I'm cold."
Cold? He knew better. Many times he'd watched her from a
distance, standing naked in the snow at the Winter solstice to 'sing
back the sun.' Her father, a medicine man of the Oglala Tribe, had
grown too old and infirm to do the job. So it fell to his only child
to annually stand before the Great Spirit and through the strong magic
of her song to convince him to return the sun to the Lakota lands.
Jeff smiled again and thought of how if he was the Great Spirit and
saw something like his wife standing naked in the snow, he'd return
anything she asked for.
Playfully, he slid around and scooped her into his arms.
Without a sound, she relented and wrapped her arms around his neck,
snuggling comfortably against his chest. She liked when he did that.
He was the conquering white soldier and she the submissive Indian
maiden subject to his every whim. Her body trembled in his arms.
He said nothing but carried her back to the bed, cradling her
like she was the most valuable item in the world. Gently laying her
on the white sheets, she refused to release him. Instead, she pulled
him down, their arms and legs intertwining as their warm bodies
encountered the cold sheets. The sounds of more Veritechs launching
their dawn patrol flooded the room.
*****
At 0800, Colonel Jeffrey Edward Blake Stuart, in his best
dress uniform reported to RDF Command. He carried his paperwork in a
folder tucked safely under his arm. Despite the modernization of the
RDF, they still demanded their paperwork, neatly typed, signed and in
triplicate. Over the last week, the contents of his folder had been
checked and double-checked. No detail escaped his attention.
His mustering-out pay would go directly into building a little
home on a section of land the Lakota Tribal Council had granted. His
military surplus Land Rover would suffice for basic transportation
until he could locate a real, pre-war pickup truck. There were
sufficient credits in his personal account to buy a couple of saddle-
broke horses for shorter trips and getting around the reservation.
They'd farm what they could and hunt for the rest. Everything had
been confirmed. Everything was perfect.
"General Emerson will see you now," a young female clerk said
from her desk as she indicated a glass door behind her.
Jeff sighed heavily before pushing open the door and stepping
in. Across the room, facing a wall of windows, was General Rolf
Emerson.
"Come in, Jeff," the General said in a business-like voice.
There was no hint of their long friendship in his greeting.
Jeff approached the General's desk and stopped the prescribed
distance in front of it, saluted and announced his business.
"So, you want to leave us." General Emerson's statement
sounded more like an accusation. Jeff wasn't sure he liked the tone
of his long-time associate's voice.
"Thirty years is enough, General," he said, dropping the
salute but remaining at attention.
"Ordinarily I'd agree with you," General Emerson said before
turning to look directly at Jeff. "Heck, under normal conditions, I'd
be tempted to join you."
"When was the last time you remember conditions that could be
called 'normal'?" Jeff adjusted the folder under his arm.
"It's been awhile, I'll admit." General Emerson sighed and
slid his hands into the pockets of his uniform. "Of course, I haven't
been on the front lines like you. I'll bet you've seen far more
abnormal conditions in the last four years than I have."
Jeff shifted uncomfortably. He knew whom the General was
talking about. "The Yorkies aren't bad people, they just have a blind
spot when it comes to Zentraedi. If you keep them and the Zentraedi
apart, there's no problem."
General Emerson turned to look at Jeff. His eyes were puffy
from the lack of sleep, his tunic uncharacteristically undone, dangled
as he moved. He was obviously under some stress. "And how long do
you think that would last?"
"Indefinitely, it the Zentraedi learn to avoid Yorkie
territory."
"What if the Barony decides to expand?"
"Expand? Where?"
"West."
Jeff shrugged. "Moot point. They don't have the resources to
do that. One squadron of Veritechs are a match for their entire
military."
"What if I don't have a squadron of Veritechs?" Emerson
leaned over the desk and looked deeply into Jeff's eyes.
"Then I'd say you have a problem."
"Yes, I'd have a problem." General Emerson paused, still
looking purposefully into Jeff's eyes. There was more at work here
than an exercise in the hypothetical. "I know you guys in the field
rarely have a chance to see the big picture." He worked his way over
to the far wall where a map of the North American Sector hung. "So,
I'm going to give you a little briefing."
This wasn't at all what Jeff expected. All he was supposed to
do was deliver his retirement papers, sign a few other forms, and bid
the General goodbye. Nobody said anything about a briefing. There
was something afoot.
The General must have read his mind. "I know you're in a
hurry but I think you'll find this interesting." His finger tapped a
spot almost in the middle of the map. "We're here, Yellowstone RDF
Base, the home of the Robotech Defense Force. North of us, about a
hundred miles is Monument City. That's where the new Army of the
Southern Cross is making themselves at home. Some day, they will
assume their duties as guardians of the United World Government or the
Earth Government or whatever they're calling it this month. Until
that time, our ASC heroes are little more than ceremonial guards at
the tomb of the SDF-1." He glanced at Jeff like he was surprised to
see him still standing in front of the desk. "You can sit down if you
like, Colonel."
Figuring he had nothing to lose, Jeff collapsed into a chair,
crossed his legs and casually hung an arm over its back. The folder
now lay uselessly in his lap. He got the feeling it was going to be
totally forgotten before the General was through.
"Now then, you know all about the Barony of York, a nasty
little nest of xenophobes, and you know about the Arkansas
Protectorate, that paradox of semi-loyal Zentraedi and humans who
don't seem to care too much what kind of company they keep." Emerson
paused again like he was conscious of the words he was choosing and
self-editing for someone other than Jeff. "What you don't know is all
the other little surprises that have been popping up around us like
poison mushrooms." His hand patted the Northeast area of Canada.
"The Quebec Quadrant, while officially pacifist, have amassed an
impressive Zentraedi force under Commander Khytai. Only a thin strip
of wasteland separates them from our 'friends' the Yorkies."
"I wouldn't shed too many tears if Khytai decided to clean out
the entire Ohio Valley," Jeff said, taking renewed interest in the
General's briefing.
"Maybe, but that could bring them in contact with the Arkansas
Protectorate, folks who hate Khytai and his forces, and possibly a new
group to the Southeast."
"The Confederate Alliance of States?" Jeff congratulated
himself on keeping up with the latest intelligence reports on that
region. He had a special interest in doing so. His former executive
officer was commanding a squadron down in sunny Florida, the very
heart of the new alliance.
"Very good," General Emerson said before picking up a folder
with 'SECRET' stamped across its cover. "Now take a look at this."
He tossed the folder onto his desk where Jeff could reach. "This
morning there was a rather nasty mutiny among the squadrons. Several
officers were killed and the entire base declared itself part of the
alliance. The CAS now has a viable military force to be reckoned
with."
Jeff sat stunned. He'd heard for years about elements of the
old American Confederacy reforming into their own government again but
always dismissed it because they had no industrial base, no real army
and little in the way of things to trade. They were an agrarian
society who always appeared to be nothing more than a peaceful group
of farmers. What passed for their alliance government consisted of a
single body composed of ten little political entities, each demanding
their own independence, while trying to work with the other nine to
secure the blessings of liberty - or whatever it was they were after.
As for the RDF base, he knew more than a few of the personnel
stationed there, including his former exec. He remembered how the
young man often spoke lovingly about his former home in the region and
how he sometimes felt like he belonged there more than anywhere else.
At the time, Jeff had dismissed such talk as the usual homesickness
everyone suffered from at one time or another. He had no idea the
officer might actually act on his feelings and be disloyal to the RDF.
"How did it happen?" Jeff asked while thumbing through the
folder.
"Intelligence isn't sure. The only bits we can piece together
point to the Southern Cross being involved but their not sure how. We
know some ass of an ASC officer went down there on Friday. After
that, who knows?" Emerson shrugged. "The man wasn't a diplomat. In
fact, I'd classify him as suffering from a bad case of foot-in-mouth
disease. He has a history of saying some pretty outrageous things.
He probably said something or made some threat about the base or the
personnel. I know there's been talk of trying to force the region
back under the command of the New World government. All he'd have to
do is make a few unfortunate demands, insult just the right people
and... well, you can see how things could go from there."
"Casualties?"
"We don't know. But it looks like they got away with all the
Veritechs, about two dozen destroids, and a flight of new ASC Logans."
General Emerson snarled the last. The Logan was a second-generation
Veritech air combat system being built for the ASC. It was the latest
in transformable mecha that packed a punch equal to, and some would
even claim superior to, the current crop of RDF fighters. No question
about it, the CAS was now a major player in sector politics.
"What about the submersibles?" Jeff asked, referring to the
massive RDF CVS Submersible Aircraft Carrier task force stationed off
the coast of Florida.
"Safe for now. They at least had the good sense to bundle
their visiting ASC officer back onto his transport and give him a one-
way escort to the mainland. You got to hand it to Admiral Butler. He
takes crap from no one." Emerson chuckled at the thought of the
crusty old associate of Captain Gloval informing the ASC commander in
no uncertain terms how unwelcome he was.
"As I recall, Travis has a way with words," Jeff agreed.
"Probably stripped two layers of paint off the poor guy's transport."
The General wasn't laughing quite as hard as Jeff expected.
There was still something the General wasn't telling him.
Emerson's hand swept over the map. "I haven't even addressed
all the hi-tech bandits, low-tech road warriors, and pretty much
everything else in between that we're encountering all over the
sector." The General paused like he wanted to add something but shook
his head and moved on.
"Internationally we're not doing much better. The Eastern Bloc Soviet
Independent State pretty much rules old Europe and most of Asia.
They're working on mecha of their own, you know. Not very
sophisticated designs but the ones we've encountered have proven to be
damn deadly. Africa's a lost cause, they've got more hostile per
square mile than anywhere else, Arabia is a wasteland, and Asia is
only a spark away from the Manchurians are only a theft or two away
from Robotechnology. About the only places we control without
question are the Japan Sector with its Robotech Research Center, South
American Sector and the Australia Quadrant."
Jeff leaned back in his chair and linked his fingers on top of
his head. "Well, it certainly sounds like you're in for some
interesting times, General. I'm just glad I'm not going to be here to
share it with you."
"Why do you think that?"
Jeff rocked forward and frowned at the General. He just
figured out why this meeting made him so uncomfortable. "By the time
it all breaks loose, I intend to be in my new home along the Little
Fox River waiting for the annual buffalo migration." He added
emphasis to his declaration by slapping his folder of retirement
papers on the General's desk.
"I don't think you understand what I'm saying here," Emerson
said with a cock of his head.
"If it has anything to do with my retirement, all I understand
is that you're going to sign my papers and wish me a happy life after
the RDF." Jeff's eyes burned into the General's. He'd always planned
for the worst and hoped for the best in his endeavors. He got the
feeling there was a little surprise here that could exceed whatever
plans he might have made. "I've done my time. I've served for thirty
years. I'm entitled to retire. Besides, I've done everything you
asked."
"Yes, and done it extremely well. That's why I can't let you
go just yet." Emerson moved around his desk and plopped into his
aging office chair before issuing the 'magic words'. "I've got one
more assignment for you."
The walls of RDF Command shook as Colonel Stuart used his best
drill field command voice to damn everything from the RDF to General
Emerson personally. The frustration he felt at not being considered
important enough to command an SDF-3 squadron mixed with years of
agony watching friend after friend die in pointless, unappreciated
brush wars of every description, exploded into a verbal fury the likes
rarely seen in polite society. He was so loud and emphatic that a
pair of RDF Security men burst into the office, certain the General's
life was in danger.
Emerson, however, calmly pulled a cigar from the humidor on
his desk and waved the guards away. "It's okay," he said while
lighting the cigar. "Colonel Stuart and I were just discussing his
next assignment."
The guards looked at each other, certain the whole world had
gone mad, before backing out of the room and closing the door behind
them.
Jeff continued to hover just out of arms reach, gasping for
breath and gripping the edge of Emerson's desk so hard you could hear
the wood scream. "Damnit, Hot Rocks!" he yelled at the General using
the nickname given him back when he flew in the Global Civil War.
"You said four years ago that all I had to do was keep the Yorkies on
their side of the line until I had thirty years of service and I'd be
done. I did what you asked. I'm NOT going to go back on the line!"
he warned.
"I'm not asking you to go back on the line. I just need you
for a little while longer." Emerson took Jeff's paperwork and touched
the lit end of his cigar to a corner. As the papers began to burn, he
dropped them into his metal wastebasket and puffed happily on the
cigar. "I still need you, Jeffrey. I need one more squadron to fill
a gap. I don't have anyone with your experience, especially in the
kind of fighting that's involved. I'm out of pilots, out of
experienced squadron commanders, and running out of time."
Jeff's face grew another shade of red. "What part of 'NO'
don't you understand?"
"It's just a short assignment. All I want you to do is put
together a new squadron and get them settled into one of our
reactivated bases down in the Ozarks. By then I'll have found someone
to command it and you can retire to your 'happy hunting ground' with
your lovely squaw and your migrating buffalo."
Jeff screamed in frustration. Grabbing the General's
nameplate off the desk he took aim at the map on the wall.
"Uhuhuh," Emerson said calmly as he grabbed Jeff's arm. "That
was a gift from my wife." He eased the carved wooden desk plate out
of Jeff's hand and substituted a metal bookend.
Jeff snarled and launched the bookend directly at the map.
"I see your aim is as good as ever," Emerson said as the
projectile embedded itself in the plastiform wall, a good two feet to
the left of the map.
Jeff slumped back into chair, holding his head in his hands.
"I don't believe this is happening. I'm too old for this crap."
Emerson pulled out two glass tumblers and a bottle of Scotch
Whiskey from the bottom drawer of his desk. Pouring some in both
glasses, he placed one in front of Jeff. "Drink this. You'll feel
better."
Jeff lazily yanked the glass from the table and gulped the
contents down.
"I don't care how you do it," Emerson said. "Just work your
usual magic and get me that squadron."
"Why is this so important?" Jeff asked as the General refilled
his glass.
"One of the squadrons that defected was scheduled to rotate
back to take up a position down in the Ozarks at a small base that is
between the Arkansas Protectorate and the Barony of York. When they
went over to the CAS, I came up one squadron short."
"What about the reserves?" Jeff asked after a deep swallow.
"What reserves? I'm out of reserves," the General said
bitterly. "We've been cannibalizing the reserve Veritechs to keep the
active squadrons flying."
General Emerson emptied the bottle into Jeff's glass.
"In thirty days, I have to send two squadrons to the Japan
Sector to protect our Research Center. Our intelligence folks believe
that the EBSIS and the Chinese will team up to try and take the place
intact. Jeff, if we lose that. . ." He made an exasperated gesture
and slumped into his chair. It was easy to see now why he looked like
a man who'd gone without sleep. He was alone in trying to hold the
world together until the Southern Cross was ready to take over.
"What about the ASC? Can't they help somewhere?"
"They probably could but General Leonard refuses to move until
he's ready and I suspect he won't be ready until we've collapsed
completely. Then he can ride in on a white horse and restore order.
We'll get the blame for the collapse and he'll get the glory for
cleaning it up." General Emerson gulped down his drink and slammed
the glass down on his desk.
So that was it. Leonard could see where the world was going
but chooses to do nothing until it would be most advantageous for him
personally. Jeff hated opportunists almost as much as politicians and
he hated politicians only slightly more than traitors.
"All I have to do is form one more squadron, train them up,
and deposit them in some hell-hole of a base down in the Ozarks?" Jeff
asked through the fingers that were covering his face.
"Yeah, that's it. I won't ask any more from you. I know you
deserve to get out of this in one piece. You at least have somewhere
to go." Emerson forced a smile. "Some of us don't even have that."
"You have Max and Miriya's daughter to raise."
Emerson snorted. "I also have Claudia Grant's nephew, Bowie. I'm
going to try to keep them out of the military."
"Think you can?" Jeff started working out how much space two kids
would take in their retirement home. The kids would be safe out on
the reservation, far away from wars and fighting.
Emerson shook his head. "I doubt it. Leonard has already
started making inquiries. My wife says she's seen GMP people hanging
around the neighborhood. They know were the kids are. They're just
waiting for the time to take them." Emerson sighed and rolled his
head back. "The kids would be better off with their parents on the
SDF-3."
"You don't really believe that," Jeff said with a frown.
Emerson laughed. "I don't know what to believe anymore. I do
know I need that squadron and I need it in thirty days."
"Then can I retire?"
"By spring, the ASC will be running things and we'll all be in
retirement."
"If there's a world left to run."
*****
Jeff drove around for a couple of hours. He knew what General
Emerson asked of him was impossible. There weren't twenty-four
qualified Veritech pilots available anywhere in the RDF.
Before he left headquarters, he stopped by the Admin office
and checked. They didn't have anyone immediately available that fit
his requirements but would look through the records and see if anyone
would be willing to transfer.
Transfer? Sure, leave an already secure position within an
existing squadron to join an entirely new squadron that has no
permanent commander, no Veritechs, and will be posted to one of the
hottest spots in the North American Sector. Yeah, they're probably
lining up right now to join, he thought bitterly.
It was mid-afternoon when Jeff pulled up to the front of a
small white building next to a dilapidated hanger. He checked the
directions Emerson had given him and crosschecked it with his map of
the base. Stuck out on the very fringes of Yellowstone Base, the
facility looked like something awaiting demolition. It didn't look
like much, a one story, weather-beaten structure made of metal, wood,
and plastiform. It had been patched several times but at least the
doors and windows looked okay. In any case, it would have to do.
He mounted the steps and slipped the key General Emerson had
given him into the lock. Half hoping it wouldn't open, his efforts
were rewarded by a sharp 'click' as the electronic bolt snapped open.
Well, so much for being locked out.
He pushed open the door and stepped into a large common room
with a half dozen desks and boxes stacked everywhere. There was a
thin layer of dust over everything but the boxes. Checking in one, he
was not really surprised to find office supplies. It looked like
General Emerson had pulled out all stops for this new squadron. Jeff
hoped that would also extend to the Veritechs as well.
He moved silently through the other four rooms, mostly small
offices suitable for the commanding officer, his executive officer,
and a couple of other administrative types. Everything, while old and
obviously well used, appeared clean and in working condition.
"Well, I suppose I better start getting things set up," he
said to no one in particular. Stripping off his tunic, he began by
clearing off the desks and organizing the boxes.
To his surprise, a couple of the boxes contained almost new
computer equipment. He anxiously pawed through the boxes like he was
at a rummage sale, sorting the relevant items as he went. It appeared
he had enough parts for three computers. They weren't state of the
art computers but at least they'd be connected to headquarters by the
common local area nano-link.
Running cables along the floor, he easily found the nano-ports
and checked them with a tester. To his surprise, they were hot and
ready to go.
He was still under one of the desks trying to figure out how
to make an old-technology splitter work with a new-technology fiber
optic cable when he heard someone come in.
"Hey, pops!" a man's voice came from the door. Jeff stopped
what he was doing and made a face. Pops?
"You under the desk. Where can I find the CO?"
Jeff growled at the floor: "Who wants to know?"
"I got orders to deliver something."
Jeff poked his head above the desk. Maybe it was his
Veritechs. "Orders? From whom?" He eyed the man standing just
inside the door to his headquarters. The guy couldn't have been much
over eighteen yet wore the insignia of a full sergeant, which might
explain his attitude. In any case, the guy was obviously a security
man. Since they don't deliver Veritechs, his curiosity grew.
"The Old Man wanted me to deliver a few things and return to
RDF Headquarters."
Jeff figured the 'old man' had to be Emerson but he was
curious about the 'things' in question. "Go fetch your 'things'," he
said crawling out from under the desk. "I'll have the CO here by the
time you get back."
The sergeant hesitated, like he was deciding whether or not to
give Jeff a 'tongue lashing' for being so insolent, before
disappearing through the door outside. Jeff pulled his tunic from the
chair he'd draped it over earlier and was just securing the last of
the closures when the sergeant returned.
The younger man froze when he caught sight of the RDF Colonel
standing where only a moment before was an old office techie. His
whole demeanor changed.
"Sir," he said stiffly, snapping to attention.
"I'm kind of pressed for time, Sergeant. Where's the...
'things'," Jeff asked crossing his arms and leveling the sergeant one
of his best 'command stares'.
"Coming sir," the sergeant said casting a nervous look towards
the door.
He was soon answered by the sound of a struggle on the stairs
followed by the door swinging open revealing two other security men
manhandling a tall female RDF officer in handcuffs. One look at her
confirmed why the restraints. She was easily six feet tall, her blue
hair pulled back in a makeshift ponytail, and built like a natural
fighter. Her uniform looked like it had been slept in. Her face bore
a couple of bruises as if she'd recently been in a fight.
A second, more sedate pair, consisting of a mousy-looking
little blonde female and her burly escort followed at a respectable
distance. The blonde awkwardly pushed her oversized glasses back onto
the bridge of her nose, her handcuffs making such a simple act
difficult, and looked around like a prisoner on her way to the
gallows.
As the group settled down and lined up before him, Jeff found
it hard to hide his dismay. "How many guesses do I get?"
"General Emerson said you needed officers for some special
assignment," the sergeant said while unlocking the handcuffs of the
tall, blue-haired female. The way she glared at him made it clear she
was looking for any excuse to rip his head off.
"You've got to be kidding," Jeff growled through clenched
teeth. "I don't take prisoners."
"Sorry, sir." The sergeant handed two large envelopes to
Jeff. "Orders, sir."
Jeff snatched the envelopes from the sergeant and looked at
the small blonde. She was rubbing her wrists and looking around the
room like a trapped animal. The taller female just glared straight
ahead, obviously resigned to her fate.
"You want us to wait outside?" the sergeant asked.
"For what?"
The sergeant glanced at the blue-haired female. "Just in
case."
Jeff sighed and shook his head. "No, thank you. Tell General
Emerson I appreciate his efforts but I don't need any help putting
together a squadron."
"Whatever you say, sir." The sergeant saluted and quickly
herded his men back out through the door.
The three spent several long minutes examining each other.
Jeff cleared his throat as the sound of the security vehicle faded
into the distance.
"Well, I must say I've never had two squadron members report
in quite this way," he said. Shoving a pair of wheeled office chairs
towards his new 'recruits', he leaned back against the desk and opened
the envelopes. "You might as well sit down."
He was relieved when they actually did. He got the feeling
their cooperation for the time being was not as willing as he would
like. Pulling out their service records, he quickly flipped the pages
over until he came to the qualifications section. To his surprise,
the blue-haired female was listed as a first-rate Veritech pilot,
highly trained and combat experienced. There was nothing in the record
that would suggest handcuffs.
"So, let's get to know one another," he said like a
kindergarten teacher. "You go first." He looked at the still
scowling girl with the blue hair. She intrigued him.
"Ona Parino, Captain, service number 168--"
"Parino?" Jeff broke in. "Are you any relation to Miriya
Parino who married Max Sterling?"
The blue-haired female sighed. "I am from Clone Pool 19942B.
All from that pool are named 'Parino'."
"What was your last assignment?" Jeff noticed things about
her he hadn't before, like how much she resembled the famous hero of
the First Robotech War.
"Argentine Quadrant. The 42nd Squadron."
"Near the Zentraedi Control Zone. Yes, I've heard of that.
Wasn't the 42nd teamed with Skull Squadron for awhile?"
Ona Parino's expression became a bit embarrassed. "For
awhile."
Something about the mention of the 42nd left him
uncomfortable. He tortured his memory for every scrap of information
he had on the squadron. "I understand there were a lot of micronized
Zentraedi in your squadron; all females."
"There... were..." Her voice faded as her hard expression
returned. Her reaction cued a sudden rush of memories in Jeff about
the squadron, none of them good.
"The squadron was disbanded two months ago. I think you and I
both know the reason why. It had something to do with an officer
loosing her life." Jeff stared intently at the attractive Zentraedi
sitting rigidly in the steel office chair. "You want to tell me about
it?"
"I.. I.. No, sir," she finally said.
"I think you can do better than that." Jeff crossed his arms
and folded away the girl's official record. He already knew all he
needed to know.
"It wasn't supposed to happen," she said in a whisper. "I
told them it wasn't supposed to happen."
"What? What wasn't supposed to happen?"
"We were never prepared for..." She choked but
maintained her outward look of control.
"For micronians and our... emotions," Jeff said softly. He'd
heard how difficult it was for most Zentraedi who mixed with humans to
comprehend and live with the many complex emotions the race had to
offer. Hate, fear, and revenge they understood just fine.
Compassion, friendship, and worst of all, love they reacted to in
different ways. The most successful among them simply ignored such
emotions and locked themselves away in self-imposed cocoons, emerging
only to do their official duties before retreating back to the
sanctuary of their emotionless states.
There were, however, tragic exceptions. Love sometimes broke
out within squadrons when the human commander was less than diligent.
Every squadron commander in the RDF had heard about what happened to
the 42nd. Numerous love triangles developed. Jealousy quickly cut
into the squadron's effectiveness. It culminated in one explosive
battle between two rivals resulting in the death of one.
There had been the usual investigations clearing the human
commander and placing all the blame on the system that failed to
prepare the female Zentraedi for such psychological disruptions. The
surviving squadron members were reassigned to different parts of the
world. The usual way military organizations dealt with such things.
"Were you involved?" Jeff asked, leaning towards the
Zentraedi.
Her lip trembled. She blinked a couple of times to prevent a
natural reaction that Zentraedi considered the most embarrassing of
all. "I... I loved them both," she finally said in a soft voice. Her
eyes slowly closed. Her jaw set itself. Her hands squeezed the
chair's armrests. "I couldn't stop them. It wasn't supposed to
happen."
"So how did you wind up in our brig?"
"I needed time to think. I had to be alone." Her eyes fixed
themselves on his. Her voice changed to reflect her resolve. "I
didn't run away. I just needed to think. I can still serve. I know
what I did wrong. It won't happen again. It WON'T."
Jeff knew that if she'd gone AWOL, the RDF would consider her
useless for further assignments. Even with the official policy of
integration of Zentraedi in the RDF, there was still a strong
prejudice about them as soldiers. It was usually one mistake and out
for them. Emerson probably did her a favor sending her here. This
squadron was her last chance in the RDF. If she failed here, she'd be
out, a reject, lost forever in civilian life - a fate worse than death
for a warrior Zentraedi.
Jeff eyed the still vibrating young lady. The final decision
was his. He didn't have to take her or her problems. Normally,
putting together a squadron that was soon going in harms way was no
place for people with personal problems. But, he needed good pilots,
lots of them and he needed them in a hurry.
"Go clean yourself up," he said, jerking a thumb towards the
restroom. He couldn't stand watching a strong warrior like a
Zentraedi give in to her emotions.
Ona Parino retreated to the indicated room and closed the
door. She might be a Zentraedi but what happened to her in South
America awoke something in her that damaged her ability to function.
Thanks a lot, General, he thought bitterly.
He turned towards the little blonde. She couldn't have been
much over sixteen or seventeen. She certainly didn't look like a
pilot or someone who belonged in handcuffs. "So, what's *your*
story?"
The girl shifted in the chair, her hands clenched tightly
together. "I'm Cindy Wallace, Lieutenant, Administrative Assistant,"
she said in a tiny voice. "My last assignment was with the Condor
Squadron."
"North of the New Albuquerque RDF Base. Yes, I know of it.
Your squadron was based up in the mountains." Jeff tried to sound
sympathetic but increasingly got the feeling that he was wasting his
time with this girl. She was not a pilot and he really didn't have
time to go around looking for paper shufflers.
"So why the handcuffs?"
"It's a mistake," she said.
"It always is," Jeff answered in a tired voice.
"About a year ago, near our base, a small number of refugees
set up camp. Most were people who lost everything in the war and
couldn't move to one of the big cities because of young children or
elderly family members." The girl sniffed and rubbed her nose.
"There was one group, I think the man leading them was a religious
person of some sort. He also was a collector of children."
Jeff frowned at the title she gave. "A collector of children?
Sounds ghastly."
"Oh no, he *found* children who'd lost their parents and took
care of them," she protested. "He had a couple of women with him. I
think they were his sisters. Anyway, that's what he called them;
sisters."
"Okay, so how does all this involve you?" Jeff was becoming
even more impatient. He still had to check on the arrival of his
Veritechs.
"At first, I gave them little things we were going to throw
away, like old blankets, used clothes, stuff like that. I had to
sneak the stuff off base because of the guards. Nobody missed the
stuff so nothing was said. Well, winter was coming and the man and
his sisters moved the children to live under what was left of a
building near the base. They needed so much. I started sneaking out
more things; a case of canned food, bottles of clean water, whatever
medical supplies I could find. In the spring, I got caught ordering
stuff from RDF Logistics and smuggling it off base." Her voice rose
and she looked panic stricken. "They accused me of selling the stuff
on the black market. But I wasn't! Really!"
"You got caught giving things to orphans? Why didn't you just
talk to the base CO and tell him you were going to do some charity
thing?"
"He *hated* squatters," she said with a scowl. "He would have
had a security squad drive them off. He didn't want anyone around his
base. Security zones, he called them."
Jeff leaned back and stared at the ceiling. Well, this really
stunk. A messed up Zentraedi coming off a bad love affair and a girl
who bootlegged a charity. As squadron building goes, this was not
much of a start.
The sound of Ona returning from the restroom ended his time to
think. He had to make a decision. He could keep them and try to work
around their problems while letting them help him build a competent
peacekeeping force or he could send them back and start over - with
one day less available to him.
Experience is a great asset when dealing with people. In the
end, he decided to do the same as he always did; count on his people.
"I believe there are times to follow regulations to the
letter," he said frowning between the girls. "A military force cannot
exist without order." He paused to make sure his words were having
the right effect. They were. "There are also times when regulations
can be a pain in the ass." He picked up the two personal records and
slowly tore them in half in front of Ona and Cindy. Their eyes
followed him as he dropped the torn pages in a nearby trash can. "As
of now, you have no past. This is a fresh start for both of you. I
expect you will give me your best effort, then I'll demand more.
That's the way I work. My squadrons are the best in the RDF. I've
never had a failure. Squadron 13-Foxtrot will be the best squadron in
the North American Sector. You understand me?"
"Yes, sir!" the girls answered together. Cindy was grinning
like she'd just won the lottery. Ona's expression remained hard yet
he could see in her eyes the kind of burning resolve Zentraedi were
known for. He hoped it meant she intended to follow through.
"Do you girls have somewhere to stay?" he asked reaching for
the phone. He already knew the answer. Those just released from the
brig were usually on their own.
"Not yet. We don't have any credits," Cindy said glancing
between her new squadron mate and Jeff.
"I'll arrange for you to stay at Grant Barracks. It's not
fancy but you'll at least have a comfortable bed and hot food." He
started dialing the phone. "You're part of the squadron now so the
RDF will pick up your bills."
Grant Barracks was a series of modular-constructed dormitories
for unmarried officers and enlisted RDF personnel. As living
arrangements went, it was probably more comfortable than any of the
privately available quarters in town. Individual rooms that housed up
to four people, a common bath at the end of the hall, a small
recreation center, and a large mess hall spread over four wings that
rose two floors above the ground. It was modern, being the last
construction job done before all resources shifted to building
facilities for the ASC. The Billeting Officer confirmed there was a
vacancy and scheduled the room.
"If you two don't mind sharing a room, they can take you right
away," he said hanging up the phone.
"Do you snore?" Ona asked the diminutive Cindy.
"No. Do you talk in your sleep?"
"No."
"Fine. I now pronounce you roommates," Jeff said hanging up
the phone. "You two better get over there before they change their
minds. Report back here tomorrow morning at 0700. We've got a lot of
work to do."
Ona and Cindy stood and snapped sharp salutes before turning
to leave. Ona, however, paused at the door.
"Thank you for giving me a chance," she said, her expression
softer than usual.
"I need pilots, Captain Parino." Jeff dropped into one of the
vacated chairs. "I need twenty four pilots in thirty days."
"Now you need twenty three," she answered with a hopeful
smile.
"No, I still need twenty four," Jeff corrected. "You're going
to be my executive officer. You won't normally fly."
Ona hesitated, her eyes wandering over the blank bulletin
board next to the door. "About that. I'd rather you find someone
else. I'm a pilot. I'm no good at paperwork."
"We don't get to do what we want in the RDF, Captain." Jeff
sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "Even Colonels have to obey
orders."
"I know, sir. But if there's any way..."
Jeff looked at her expression and figured she was being as
honest with him as possible. That was usually all he asked. "Very
well, I'll see what I can do. In the mean time, you will be the
*acting* exec. You *will* learn paperwork and you *will* do a good
job."
"Yes, sir."
Jeff swiveled his chair to face the other direction. He heard
the door close and Captain Parino's footsteps as she joined Lieutenant
Wallace. They'd be okay for tonight, he thought.
He pulled a small cooler out from under the desk and fished
out a bottle. It was against regulations to drink alcohol in squadron
facilities. Of course, he figured the things he would have to do to
get his squadron ready will probably violate more serious rules than a
little beer in his squadron headquarters.
Snapping off the top, he offered a silent toast to all those
he knew on the SDF-3, somewhere deep in space. At least they were far
away from a collapsing world government and increasing numbers of
hostile city-states with their dangerous military forces. All they
had to face were the Robotech Masters and their advanced weaponry ? if
they ever found them.
He took a long drink and sighed. His wife was not going to
like this. She was all ready to retire. She was looking forward to
spending her summer back on the reservation with her remaining
relatives. They were an unusually close-knit group, the Sioux. It
took a long time for him to gain their acceptance. Even after he
married his wife, the Sioux still treated him like an outsider.
Family members still looked upon him as someone who didn't belong.
However, since the Robotech War destroyed much of their
beloved Black Hills, leaving only a section of the land untouched,
most of the Sioux reverted to living as their ancestors did, in
shelters made of animal hides and hunting or fishing for food. They
were few now. Many of their children answered the call and joined the
RDF, the excitement and honor of being a warrior in the cause of
protecting their families still strong. Few returned to their homes,
leaving only their spirits to occupy the wind-swept hills that
surrounded their family dwellings.
Yeah, he was going to miss the quiet evenings along the Little
Fox. He knew Emerson couldn't promise a quick retirement, even if the
Army of the Southern Cross could take over current RDF duties. Taming
the world was going to take the combined efforts of both groups.
What happened in Florida also still bothered him. The very
idea that whole squadrons of supposedly loyal RDF humans had switched
sides and joined the new Confederate Alliance of States went against
everything the RDF stood for. The protoculture powered mecha and
Veritechs they surrendered were a prize countless other city-states
and rebel forces salivated over. To have so many just drop into the
hands of a new anti-Unification government had seriously destabilized
the whole sector.
Jeff sighed again and chalked the whole thing up to the
dangerous policy the RDF imposed a couple of years ago that allowed
personnel to be stationed nearer to their homes. It was supposed to
give them reason to perform better. Instead, it allowed them to
become part of the political environment in which they were stationed.
He could see now how young officers, living amongst dissident family
and friends could create a situation where such a mutiny was possible.
He finished the first bottle and reached for another. He got
the feeling he'd better enjoy this moment of solitude. It was
probably going to be the last one he got for some time.
-- Attached file included as plaintext by Listar --
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Greg Sandborn
Home sandborn@microlink.net
Work sandborn@burnsmcd.com
Homepage www.microlink.net/~sandborn
Pushing the envelope of fanfiction until my stamp gets cancelled.
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