PROLOGUE

[The Invid] pose a clear and present danger to the Earth in particular and 
the galaxy as a whole.  The entire Hive may consider my statement as 
official as any formal declaration of war.  We will respond to the 
unwarranted and deceitful violation of treaty stipulations and remove their 
occupation forces with the most deadly force.  By making the collective 
decision to subjugate and then exterminate humanity, we are forced to 
respond in kind.  In a war where survival is at stake, mercy is a luxury we 
cannot afford.

-Vice Admiral Richard A. Hunter at a UEDC press conference on Tirol, 15 
June 2031 C.E.

*  *  *

CISLUNAR ORBIT, EARTH-LUNAR SYSTEM, 42,000 KILOMETERS OFF THE DARK SIDE OF 
THE MOON
11 MARCH 2034

"SO, WE SPOT SOMETHING LIKE FIVE OR...ER...NO--MAYBE SIX.  YEAH, THAT'S 
IT.  Something like six Karbie Tempests heading 
zero-something-or-other-yadda-yadda magnetic over Gestalt--just about 
thirty above the equator.  And this guy..." Reika shakily pointed her 
martini glass towards her unassuming wingman.  Her free hand mimicked 
perfect bipedal "egg" form of the Karbarran space mecha.

"Yeah, and this guy...he solves his vector right up behind 'em--y'know, 
same place as Reggie's Spot--and trails behind 'em for eight 
minutes.  Then, everybody here's fucking missile tone over the 
tac-net.  Those Karbie bastards fell right out of formation and damn near 
vectored into their Fleebag.  After that, I thought both they were our 
gonna beach, bust, and drum our asses right outta the Navy!"

Reika Yumashita grinned broadly and paused, taking in the attention before 
continuing to further harangue the crowd with more embarrassing tales of 
her spit-shine, coffee-colored, baby-faced operations officer--Marcus 
Keyes, Lieutenant Junior Grade.

The officer's mess was remarkably empty tonight, with probably less than 
half of its usual occupency around this fairly busy evening time.  For the 
most part, people were attending division and department parties in smaller 
facilities.  Expeditionary Aviation stuffed a leaner, skeleton Reserve 
Carrier Air Wing Fifteen onboard a one-hundred-fifty meter claptrap 
originally designed to support a ten-plane deployment.  Since then, the 
cramped and irate pilots of Strike Fighter Squadrons Four-Three-Seven and 
One-Two-Two had taken the mess hostage, much to the annoyance of their 
hosts.  Tonight, a dozen-and-a-half junior officers crowded the "Club," a 
small section of the mess that doubled as a bar afterhours.  About four of 
them listened and laughed as Reika gleefully ripped on her friend and 
wingmate.  Others simply smiled in amusement, and still more enjoyed 
Reika's wonderful figure through the skintight uniform and an intoxicated 
haze. It didn't matter that much to Marcus, whose sheepish half-grin 
disappeared and reappeared regularly during the course of the evening.  An 
embarassed expression swept over his face as Reika wrapped up the sixtieth 
or seventieth story directly involving him.

Shit, he mentally tossed around the horror story unfolding before 
him.  She's probably got the whole fuckin' fleet up in my business!

Reika blabbered on: "Yo, but get this shit.  The Man works the Board over 
so well they just slapped us with fifteen days of the Usual 
Flavor.  Fifteen days, damn it; no work, just sleepin and eatin for 
free!  We coulda licked nuts from here to Karbarra and still end up getting 
drummed outta the Navy.  But then 
Commander--er...Captain...er...whatever.  Bossman Riccardi really went to 
bat for us.  Hell, if it hadn't been for the SANDSTORM Fleet-Ex coming up, 
we'd've ended up ferrying Peryton rum-crates from Jirai to Haydon IV."

Whipping in her stool towards the viewport, Reika guessingly wagged an 
unsteady finger in the general direction she thought lay the Trianguli 
cluster--not that she could point it out amongst the diamond like pinpricks 
of the utterly alien celestrial scape.  Most of the officers here felt at 
least some urge to return to the protective berth of Tirol's gas giant 
host, Fantoma, or the more familiar worlds of the now-defunct empire of the 
Robotech Masters.  Even Marcus yearned a little for the warm summers and 
the moderate winters of Ashel 3 A.  The blue-white marble the fleet now was 
creeping up on meant next to nothing to Marcus.  He longingly remembered 
the bright, white manmade star, the Nord Space Station, hanging as a marvel 
of civilian engineering in the night sky.  Marcus missed his parents most 
of all, and he sometimes almost regretted volunteering.

Marcus's attention turned back to his squadron CO.  Reika chugged down yet 
another shot of explicitly illegal d'raa'vele, an A-ruthe'usal colony mix 
heavy in fermented juice.  Counting the vodka she had broken out of her 
private stash earlier that evening, that made...seven shots?  Marcus 
couldn't remember.

Reika was getting close to her carded limit, but Marcus could only watch 
with mild embarressment as his squadron commander barreled down 
Administrative Punishment Lane.  He talked to the bartender and hour ago 
and got him to cut her off.  Still, as long Reika insisted on telling 
several more stories, someone would always have a shot glass handy.

Reika didn't seem to mind when Marcus suddenly disappeared from the 
crowd.  Stepping out of the lounge, he proceeded to the intraship car, 
tossed his bookbag to the side and plopped on the cushion seat.  Leaning 
back, he took in a deep breath and thought about his unique experience 
tonight.  Frowning, Marcus seriously hoped that someone would walk Reika 
back to Officer Country and have the dignity not to try anything.  His 
squadron CO tended to get a bit friendly after only two or three shots of 
cheap vodka.  That sort of behavior had gotten her in trouble more than 
once.  Seven shots of d'raa'vele...he didn't want to think about it.

"Well, we're finally here," Marcus sighed as the cab raced pass a long 
transparency running along the ship's hull.  Normally, Jupiter's rotund 
magnificence dominated the view, but he could only see a small, white 
crescent--shrinking as the sun set over the brilliant curvature.  The car 
stopped momentarily, and a couple of bubbly female crewmen--probably just 
getting off from Echo shift--piled in.  Removing their grey combination 
covers as the car began to move, the three young girls gossipped amongst 
themselves for a minute or so; then, the tallest of them turned to see 
Marcus gazing aimlessly out the window.  Her eyes must wandered down to his 
collar and rank device.

"Sir!" Nearly dropping her cover, she vigorously tapped her friends' 
shoulders to get their attention.  They both turned around and gasped as 
all three of them stumbled to something akin to attention.  "I'm...well, 
we're just...sorry, Sir.  We just got off--"

Marcus turned to face the flustered docksman, raising his hand to 
interrupt.  Her long, flowing auburn hair remind him of another face he had 
left behind.  "Don't worry about it, Docksman...er..."

"Benjamin, Sir," she smiled.  "Docksman First Class Seylia Benjamin.  This 
is Boatswain Second Florida Peters and Able Astronaut Ruhma Mohta, Sir."

"Just got off?"

"Uh, yes, Sir.  We were heading to the crew party on Deck Five, Sir.  It's 
the last day before the Big One, and we were...well, I guess everybody's a 
little excited."

"Well, don't mind me," Marcus cocked his upper lip back into a weak 
grin.  "I hope you guys have fun."

The petty officer nodded respectfully and turned back to her 
girlfriends.  Marcus started to look back towards the transparency, but he 
for some reason he couldn't help but watch the three crewmembers out of the 
corner of his eye.  They weren't that much younger than he, still Marcus 
felt strangely old.  At twenty-four and with only two cruises under his 
belt, no one could call him a seasoned officer.  Docksman Benjamin and her 
companions probably weren't a day over twenty-two, and that gave Marcus a 
heft two year headstart.  The young pilot frowned as morbid thoughts filled 
his head.

His father had often commented on the age of today's military youth, 
remembering a time when children could live normal lives instead of rushing 
to fill in the perpetual vacancies in military service.  Commodore (ret.) 
Preston Keyes had seen a different world than his son, and probably would 
not live to see that world returned to humanity.  The Commodore had watched 
from space as his family was all but wiped out one fateful day a 
quarter-century ago.  He and his wife had done their best to keep the 
family alive, raising four children of whom all had chosen to serve.  The 
oldest had gone the route of his father; today, he commanded a 
battlecruiser squadron--at thirty, the youngest flag officer in the history 
of the United Earth Forces--and chased Invid from one end of the galaxy to 
the other.  Marcus's older brother was not here, however; and the young 
lieutenant felt alone and lost in a part of the galaxy was as alien to him 
as Tirol had been to his father.

The intraship car stopped at Deck Five, and the three crewmen filed out 
still excited and giggly.  Marcus muttered something under his breath as 
the doors closed again and the car continued--this time uninterrupted--to 
its final destination.  While he waited, Marcus studied the ship's 
schematic embedded on the viewscreen over by the sliding doors.  The 
display showed a ventral and dorsal view, as well as a side 
perspective.  UES JOHN S. MCCAIN glowed in brilliant white letters in the 
lower left-hand corner.  For a junior officer like Marcus, the McCain was a 
choice assignment.  Her destroyer hull differed little from the standard 
Flight 1 and 2 Arleigh Burke designs.  The vessel's guiding lines conformed 
to the shape of a flattened measuring plumb stretched along its 
length.  Smooth curves that eminated from the the bow point suddenly 
cut-off at the engine assembly.  The three powerful thrusters 
provided  Within the bowels of McCain Engineering lay two exotically shaped 
toroids.  Within the mysterious innards of these machines, field generators 
tapped into the universe's zero-point energy, manipulating space-time 
within proximity of the vessel..  The theoretical physics behind 
zero-point-energy catalyst engines and gravity drives it still confounded 
Marcus.  The lieutenant knew little of the high physics that governed the 
gravity fold drives' operation.  Besides, the only thing he needed to know 
was that the drive could accelerate this ship and his air wing across a 
solar system in five hours flat.

Marcus felt himself lean back into the cushion as the car rounded a bend in 
the track--he just hit midships.  Just a few meters from the canopy lay the 
destroyer's meson gun.  A powerful particle cannon, it could deliver 
firepower to ranges up to five hundred thousand kilometers.  Marcus peered 
at the distant bubbles lining the gun's contours, straining to see the 
small, black silohuettes working late in the engineering spaces.  No 
last-minutepartying for those boys, Marcus noted with pity.  Somebody had 
to stand watch at Weapons at all times, keeping the guns hot and 
ready.  Until the main force showed up, five measily destroyers and a 
stripped down air wing were the only things between the United Earth 
Forces' returning Expedition and total defeat.

He had been in-system for five months, yet tonight he felt as if time were 
about to stand still.  It was almost unbelievable--hell, it's fucking 
historic.  The flagships of the main task group, the Lee Teng-Hui and the 
Ronald Reagan, were making their Jupiter orbit exit burns.  Once clear and 
confident nobody was watching, they'd jump to hyperspace and meet the Scout 
Group in Earth orbit.  Marcus wondered how anyone could think about 
concealing a Churchill-class battlecruiser.  Both the Reagan and the Lee 
mounted four massive reaction-mass thrusters, ejecting cheaply-engineered 
diamond composites superheated by two massive Reflex fusion 
furnaces.  Unlike his new home, those collosal mainstays of the task 
force's line of battle used anti-gravity pods to accelerate the 
ejecta.  From what he could get from open sources, the Lee and the Reagan 
could easily outrun anything in the Fleet.  Of course, the Flag was patient 
enough to trudge along the slower, older destroyers, frigates and Horizont 
assault shuttles making up her thick, protective screen.  The main 
battlegroup would continue to maintain lightspeed contact with the McCain 
and the scout group, arriving only when the scout group's senior CO decided 
the coast was clear.  "The sooner the better" had become the McCain's 
unofficial mantra.

The car came to a halt at the observatory.  Marcus stood up, collected his 
bag and stoop up.  Squeezing through the flow of passengers into the 
shuttle, he finally stepped onto the receiving platform.  Just then, 
someone tapped him on the shoulder.

"Evenin', Keyes."

Cocking his head violently upward, Marcus quickly connected the voice with 
the squadron supply officer for SVFA-437.

"Monica?  Er...Lieutenant?"  he bumbled about.  "I thought you were still 
on duty?"

"Don't sweat it, Marc.  Echo shift ended ten minutes ago.  It's 0400, 
closing time.  How's your division?"

"Still trying to tune the targeting programs for the medium range 
munitions.  We started back over on the birds Saturday."

"That's nice.  It was just a lot of paperwork tonight, so Chief Donaghey 
and I were the only ones up.  I guess it's a slow week."

"Yeah."  Marcus shifted the bookbag up onto his left shoulder, glancing 
briefly over at the garden under the observatory.  "Say, whatcha up to?"

"Well, I was about ready to hit the rack.  You?"

"Going to the observatory."

"Sounds like a plan, Keyes.  Earth's in the sky tonight, right?"

"I think so, but I don't really care.  I just want to relax.  You wanna come?"

Monica nodded.  Three minutes later, the two aviators had taken over a 
comfortable couch close to the main transparency.  For a while, they kept 
quiet--just admiring the view.  At least Monica was.  Marcus sat quietly, 
his eyes closed in reflection.

"Say, Marcus," Monica broke the silence. "Whatcha thinking about?"

"I was just thinking I used to planet-watch back home all the time.  I 
don't really like it.  Nothing really interesting about it."

"Oh.  Why's that?"

"Well, don't you think it's boring as fuck?"

Sukuya sat down next to him, "Boring?."

"Yeah, boring."

"Well," Monica grinned broadly, "if you want really boring, try looking at 
a bulkhead for a few hours."

"Funny," Marcus smiled, meeting Monica's almond eyes.  "I mean its 
peaceful.  You know, they say Tirol looked dead quiet when we were fighting 
and dying to kick the Invid off that motherfucker.  Optera, too.  I didn't 
think they meant boring."

Marcus looked back out the window.  "Fuck it.  Earth won't look to peaceful 
come Thursday."

Monica sighed, leaning back and staring blankly into the void, and added: 
"If we win..."

  "Whaddya mean if we win?"

"I don't know," Monica said softly as she turned her head away.  "This just 
doesn't feel right.  It doesn't look like another slug hunt.  There's 
something really messed up about this one."

"Still believe in Santa Claus?" Marcus remarked.  Santa Claus was the Fleet 
nickname for the Regis.

"Funny, Keyes," Monica laughed.

Marcus chuckled weakly.  In all honesty, both felt uneasy about this 
mission, and probably expected thousands of others to feel the same 
way.  He leaned back in his chair and waited in silence for the calm, 
uninteresting face of his father's birthworld to float by.  It would look 
just as peaceful and quiet as it did in the pictures, of that he was 
sure.  Marcus didn't believe in God, ghosts, or Santa Claus.  He sure as 
hell didn't believe in any mythical Queen Slug.  Intel had good, solid 
information this time.  The Task Force was ready for anything.  Come 
Thursday, the Task Force would kick the Invid off this world, just as the 
Expeditionary Forces had done on countless others.  They would 
prevail.  They would win--of that Marcus was sure.

For Monica, it was a different story  Marcus could see that she did not 
share his confidence.  Not that it mattered to him; this operation left a 
lot of people with doubts.  The largest Invid occupation force since 
Peryton lay some five-hundred thousand kilometers away.  Naturally the 
pre-op jitters got to some people, even the normally unexcitable Monica Sukaya.

Earth's western horizon drifted into view.  The view thoroughly captured 
Marcus's attention and wiped the bantering thoughts from his mind.  It was 
a peaceful place.  Thursday, they would remove the Invid, and it would be 
an even better place.

Marcus had his doubts, but not about this.  It'd be over tomorrow.  No 
surprises.  Clockwork.

*  *  *

THE OHIO VALLEY, EARTH

Some time ago, too distant for the short memory of this day's generation, 
space shimmered as trillions of electromagnetic waves shot out from the 
surface of a small, trifling blue-white world somewhere in the interior 
swing of the Orion Arm.  For most of Earth's history, only cosmic rays 
bouncing off the atmosphere beams of solar radiation, reflected by the 
crust, and a few naturally occuring wavelengths inbetween littered the 
local vacuum.  Then, just over a century-and-a-half ago, am sudden 
explosion of radio activity suddenly filled the void with barely coherent 
noise.  After a few decades, millions on millions of radio waves, 
microwaves, light beams, and even a x-rays and some gamma radiation fled 
from the surface into deep space.  It wasn't too long before small, 
man-made satellites would contribute to the radiating energy that Earth had 
become.

Had man known the consequences of radiating his position to the galaxy at 
large, perhaps he would have been content to remain an isolated 
species.  However, hindsight was a luxury.  Many young species had taken 
that route, only to meet up with extermination or subjugation at the hands 
of some brutal expansion.  Others escaped total destruction, struggling to 
rebuild from the ashes.

In 2034, there was only silence.

Actually, trillions of radio waves still bounced around Earth's ionosphere, 
degrading into noise as the months grew into years.  The few that escaped 
the atmosphere were so severely corrupted and suppressed that no radio 
telescope could possibly pick it out against the background radiation.  The 
volume of RF traffic decreased appreciably over two years, and most orbital 
satellites had cycled through their power cells long ago.  Anyone looking 
down at the blue world, would see a serene calm absent for nearly two 
centuries.

Isolation--the Invid had learned that lesson of empire-building very 
well.  Despite their vast inexperience in occupying foreign worlds, the 
Invid Regis at least understood that star nations could not coordinate 
without elaborate communications.  Modern states depended heavily on clear 
lines of communication, and the Invid went a long way to deprive mankind of 
that necessity.  The enemy also survived on his ability to resupply, and 
the Invid worked tirelessly to interdict that crucial element of 
coordination.  Humanity, weakened and weary, suffered the consequences of 
their unpreparedness when the Second Invid War took a horribly ironic 
turn.  A race known for its guerilla war against the Fourth Quadrant's most 
powerful empire had now taken up imperialism.  Earth and her native 
children now amounted to a sick punch-line to disturbing, cosmic joke.

The irony continued.  Ten years had passed since the United Earth 
Government had dispatched a massive joint task force across the galaxy on a 
mission doomed to failure.  Poor military leadership and equally 
uninspiring civilian direction ended with the Robotech Expeditionary Force 
fighting a quagmire war against the up-and-coming, well-entrenched Invid 
Collective--known then only as the Slugs.  Beyond the reasonable political 
reach of the United Earth Government, with only the Plenipotentiary Council 
to grant its blessing to the policies to the Expeditionary commanders, the 
top officers spent another two years continuing their occasionally 
misguided and poorly redefined objectives--this time against Invid-occupied 
worlds on the coreward half of the Sagittarius Arm's inner rim.

And Earth paid an immense price for their complacency.

The United Earth Government depleted their Home Fleet in a massive effort 
to save Earth from a second Tirolian attack.  The spread of the Flower 
across the Great Lakes attracted an Invid Sensor Nebula that had hugged 
Robotech Master's trail all the way back to Earth.  Not long after, the 
Regis spun together the survivors of her race into a quilt she then tossed 
over Earth.  By the enemy attacked, the world government had no more 
strength or resolve to fight.  In two years, the firm hand of the Invid 
planetary empire stretched across North America and reached into the 
Eastern and Southern Hemispheres.  No longer were they the scrappy, 
would-be empire lunging after the remains of a dying Empire.  No longer 
where they a race on the verge of extinction risking pyrrhic victories for 
the substance of the Flower.  Now the Slugs had emerged from the shadow of 
the Robotech Masters as the chief threat to human existence.  In time, a 
new word--one which the Robotech Masters had guarded in their secretive 
tongue--permeated the attention of all of United Earth's servicepersons and 
the whole of humanity: Invid.

So, the news services on Earth in 2033 stopped printing and 
telecasting.  There was no warning, no coverage, no publicity.  No 
newspaper story or television update recorded the final hours of human 
freedom when the Invid knocked down that last institution of human 
self-determination--the free press.  Some escaped behind the Earth forces 
lines on planet and in space to deliver what intelligence they could, where 
the Expeditionary Forces watched helplessly through as their already 
inadequate intelligence and imagery collection system collapsed.  Five 
months later, the exiled United Earth Government finally got a hold of the 
clamorous panic that plagued the human settlements spread throughout the 
galaxy, and the next month the exiled government, the Plenipotentiary 
Commission and the Allies redoubled their naval construction efforts.  For 
all intensive purposes, the Expeditionary Forces leadership was all that 
remained of Earth's military experience with alien invaders.  The small 
human populations dotting the orbital and planetary colonies beyond 
Earthspace rallied around such familiar names as Hayes-Hunter and 
Reinhardt.  They forgot about the bungling of Justine Huxley and Niles 
Obstat, the Karbarran attempts to coerce their way back into galactic 
power, and the Edwards incident.  Instead, they stood behind their leaders 
as the Admiralty and the General Staff worked to turn the United Earth 
Forces into a self-contained operation overseeing a million astronauts, 
soldiers, marines, and airmen.  Weapons production soared, with dozens of 
heavy cruiser battlegroups roaming and securing the Fourth Quadrant from 
the Invid threat.  Young crews that gained valuable experience in the 
Mop-Up and Ugari Wars were recycled back and forth to teach their 
trades.  At one point, the shipyards at Karbarra only supported destroyer 
and cruiser construction.  Now, the Robotech Factory's slips would belt out 
new superdimensional fortresses, the largest of human design yet.  The 
vigilent resistance on Earth, supported by massive bases on planet and a 
somewhat secure pipeline up and down the well, worked tireless.  They 
provided the Expeditionary Forces's forward operating bases on the Moon and 
Mars with valuable intelligence and experienced people to prepare for the 
final assault for the better part of the Occupation.

In 2034, the Mars Division of the Robotech Expeditionary Forces left for 
home.  Now, a new threat to the Queen Mother of the Invid approached in 
deadly silence.  Deep in her Home Hive, she felt the disturbing presence of 
the Enemy--cast in the Shadow of the Masters--draw ever closer.  Such was 
her arrogance, for she had more often than not forsaken the subtle danger 
in favor of the obvious threat.  The humans had learned and accomplished 
much.

So had the Invid.

My children...


*  *  *

CHAPTER ONE
"ABOUT DAMN TIME..."

Over  interstellar distances, [intelligence] collection is typically 
problematic.  The United Earth intelligence  community operated under the 
assumption that information would always be readily available for 
analysis.  On many levels, this is true; the sheer volume of imagery from 
hyperstate telescopes and system reconaissance permitted the Expeditionary 
Forces to detail the arrangement of the Invid Regent's surviving force 
deployments in the Fourth Quadrant.  In fact, analysis consumed the bulk of 
the intelligence cycle's time and resources.  Additionally, the emphasis on 
analysis naturally spawned problems with dissemination; the weight of 
information led many analysts--military and civilian personnel--to take it 
on themselves to decide the ultimate relevence and value of a piece of 
information, often without any guidance from Planning.  So, while 
intelligence at the operational level and occasionally at the strategic 
level actually improved the REF's overall performance in specific, 
Invid-held star systems, the poor final quality of most operational and 
nearly all tactical information left the naval component of the REF often 
discovering a nest of unwanted surprises.  The misguided principles upon 
the relegation of collection resources in favor of analysis, along with the 
enormou lee-way granted to analysis in the dissemination process, would 
return to haunt the Expeditionary operations  after the Regis' invasion of 
Earth.  Exmination the intelligence provided to Rear Admiral Guineve in 
order to plan Operation SPARTA reveals optomistic, yet unjustified 
conclusions regarding Invid strength planet-side and their ASAT 
capacity.  Even more central to this discussion, historians have recently 
disocvered intelligence directly contradicting analyses popularly 
disseminated to UEF decisionmakers.  These analyses were suppressed by the 
Expedition's intelligence for the duration of the Third Robotech War, 
raising suspicions that Intelligence only chose specifically data that 
appealed to the offensive optomism of the policymakers and casting into 
serious doubt the credibility of the United Earth Forces' post-engagement 
assessments.

-introduction to "Intelligence and the Fourth Battle for Earth," Annotated 
Military History of Earth and Interstellar Warfare, Vol. 12.  2105 C.E.


*  *  *

PORTLAND, OREGON
12 MARCH 2036, ONE DAY BEFORE OPERATION SPARTA

"HOLY MOTHER OF--PAINT!" THE EXCITED PORTLAND NATIVE LEAPED VIOLENTLY from 
his seat.  Half a dozen 'what the hell!' glares bore down on him at once, 
and the gawky young upstart quieted down as quickly as he had piped 
up.  The senior man present, a Southern Cross naval officer, did not follow 
suit and stomped angrily over to the unbridled young buck's station.

"Jeezus, MacDonald!" the Lieutenant growled in irritation.  "What's your 
fucking problem anyway?!"

The officer's gruff bark masked the pleasantry of his Polynesian heritage 
buried under his dark complexion and smooth black hair.  If it wasn't for 
the Southern Cross Navy cap, he'd look more at home bumming around on a 
beach than playing the old seadog for his subordinates.  Even so, the 
ex-SCN lieutenant commander had seen only two sea tours in his entire 
life.  His expertise in electronic and information warfare made him 
valuable in other areas.

"Sir, I gotta whole lotta shit on my scope.  Fuckin' bigger than anything 
I've ever seen--that's for damn sure."

"Shit.  Slugs?"

"Not likely," replied another boyish looking runt, this time sporting a 
mane of flaming red hair and wrap-around goggles.  "They'd have to get 
through AluCE and the minefield."

"Maybe it's the Masters again coming back for another round," the kid 
technician proposed.  The others cast him a look that said try again.

The man with the goggles turned back to the screen.  Magnifying the image, 
he suddenly noticed an interesting pattern.  Tracing his finger in between 
the five blips along the outside.  "Look at that formation.  Commander?"

"Now that you mention it, Doc, it does look like a five-quarter escort," 
The lieutenant commander smiled.  "MacDonald?"

"Er, yeah.  That's right  I've got four small signatures forming a circle 
around the leader," the tech picked up quick.  "Group velocity is ten 
kay-pee-ess on standard orbital approach; looks like they're slowing to 
attain high orbit."

"Do you think we can contact them, Doc?" the commander asked.

"And draw the Slugs' attention?  I'd like to, but until we get the 
hyperstate communicator up again, I don't think it's gonna happen.  Can we 
get a TV camera on them for a visual?"

"I've got one long-range infrared range-finder with some TV equipment in 
position," the commander pointed towards another set of monitors across the 
room.  "But she's been up there for a long, long time.  Almost as long as 
Betsy Grey here."

The commander tapped on console that MacDonald used to monitor the old 
orbital sensor platform currently tracking the inbounds.

"Well, Mister Ha," Nichols smiled.  "I think you're about to get your 
chance.  In the meantime, I'd get on the horn to the Old Man.  Somebody's 
gotta get Point K in on this."

What he didn't--and maybe didn't have to--say was that if they could track 
the bogies' approach, so could the Invid.

*  *  *

CISLUNAR ORBIT, EARTH-LUNAR SYSTEM

The McCain completed her last burn as she approached the outer limits of 
the Terran planetary system, pacing her predetermined route at a cautious 
two meters per second.  Her two companions, Burke and Ernst King, took 
position to the aft--one to the port and the other to the starboard--in 
order to cover the group's slow, arduous approach through lunar orbit.

On the bridge of group leader, Commander Kathey reclined in the conn 
chair.  He had kept the watch for the past twelve hours, neglecting both 
rest and hygeine.  The unpkempt muss of red hair and a grainy shadow of 
scruff across his jaw betrayed the long hours and grueling anxiety.  Kathey 
had relaxed his posture somewhat as he attempted to muster up some 
nefariously hard-to-find comfort in the poorly padded seat.  Unfortunately, 
the comfortable command chair belonged to Captain Junior Grade Hans 
Galen--CO of the McCain and also the Group Commodore.  Both officers were 
very young for their ranks and junior for their responsibilities, but the 
United Earth's extra-solar space-borne shipyards churned out more ships 
than it could find experienced officers and crews to maintain them.

All around him, a variety technicians, flight ratings and ship defense 
controllers coordinated activity between the McCain and the rest of the 
Scout Group.  Right now, the main viewscreen displayed only the darkness of 
space, marked conveniently with astrogation data and tiny blue triangles 
representing the the Task Force.  It wouldn't be long before the planet 
itself dominated the forward perspective.

"Sir," The duty defense controller turned to the executive officer.  "We're 
at...hold on.  Got it.  Plot it at eight zero two three kilometers into 
cislunar orbit.  Bull and Boomer recon flights just trapped."

"News from the Flag, Hesh?"

"Yes, Sir.  They're relaying recon data to our computers."  The defense 
controller passed out the briefs dispatched with the signature of Admiral 
Guineve, flying her flag the mission from flagship Lee--still crossing the 
asteroid belt and awaiting the McCain's all-clear signal.  "They estimate 
passage into the Earth-lunar system in eighteen hours."

"Excellent," the XO sighed.  His eyes turned to his left armrest, where he 
had called up navigational data on their approach vector.  "Let's get a 
look at her.  Put Earth on screen."

"Aye, aye, Sir," an operations officer responded.  A view of Earth over her 
moon's horizon came on screen, the latter celestial body moving within the 
McCain's line of sight.  "Full magnification."

Commander Kathey craned forward, stretching the knots in his back as his 
weight shifted onto his elbows and knees.  The blue-white crystal marble 
his parents had called home glistened in the darkness.  He straightened his 
United Earth Forces' vest, a sleaveless affair colored a dulled-silver 
studded with an Expeditionary Force pin on the lapel, in near reverence at 
the sight of his homeworld.  It looks...so different, he said to himself, 
noting he hadn't seen his own sun rise since he was only twelve years old.

"All right, then.  Go to alert status.  The last time we met these 
bastards, they did have a battle-line.  We're not going to give 'em a 
chance to pull that one again.  Deca.  Get on the horn to the Group, radio 
communication only.  Tell them they're clear to arrive anytime they want."

The communications technician acknowledge again as his eyes and fingers 
focused back on his console.  "Radio, high 
encryption...waiting.  Sent!  Call Task Force signal intercept time 
zero-nine-three-two--eighteen minutes, Sir."

"Very good.  We'll hang back at this point.  Max antigravs.  Signal 
Group.  All stop."

The McCain engines sputtered and kicked as the antigravs came 
online.  Defying the centripedal forces of gravity, the computers 
calculated the canceling vectors and sent the appropiate formulas to the 
gravity generators.  The antigravs warped space around it, constructing a 
steady state nullspace about it with respect to the normal space about 
it.  From there, the math was basic.  Any vector in the surrounding gravity 
field, when "dotted" with any corresponding vector in normal space, would 
yield zero.  Within minutes, the McCain surrendered the last of its 
translational momentum and came to a halt.

"Very good, people," Kathey remarked .  "Comm, call the Captain to the bridge."

*  *  *

JOVIAN SPACE , EARTH INTERCEPT ORBIT, SOL SYSTEM

Five hundred million kilometers away, a small yet imposing task force 
cruised along an elliptical intercept, changing their revolution vector 
about the sun with consistent, period acceleration changes.  The entire 
procedure demanded incredible coordination, with navigation officers and 
their crews working tirelessly to keep the group moving together.  Some of 
the group's docksmen peered into the darkness with their magnificent 
instruments, trying to find a pinprick against the black background that 
was the homeworld of humanity.  Others, however, looked for smaller 
signatures in the emptiness, points of light that if ignored could pose 
mortal danger to the entire task force.  So many people, fixated on 
disparate specifics, needed a strong hand to guide and coordinate their 
efforts.  If anything, the most tedious, time-consuming and unenviable 
responsibilities in any fleet are assumed by the flag commanders and their 
staffs.  Nevertheless, the UEF suffered from no shortage of officers and 
crew willing to sit in the hot seat.  The glory, privilege, and experience 
that came with staff duty could offset any cost.

On the Battlecruiser Lee Teng-hui's Flag Bridge, there were no exceptions.

"Good morning, Admiral," Captain Junior Grade Dana Li, Chief of Staff to 
the Mars Division Commander, greeted cheerfully as she poured an extra cup 
of coffee and set it on the armrest of the Admiral's command chair.  Rear 
Admiral Bella Abragano Guineve, replied with a typical grunt and a curt 
glance at the chronometer before entering the Flag Bridge.  Of course, she 
was gracious enough to accept the coffee her chief of staff had 
prepared.  "Quiet night."

"It always is," Guineve observed to no one in particular.  She seemed 
particularly detached today, but Captain Li had grown accustomed to her 
admiral's mood swings.  After all, Li was only thirty-two years old 
herself, and Guineve had graduated from the Monument City Officer Candidate 
School only three years before her.  The decimation of the Earth officer 
corps during the First Robotech War left the armed forces starved for 
leadership.  While the age of the average senior officer had increased over 
the past decade, the United Earth Forces' senior positions were still 
populated by very young, very impressionable folk still shy of forty.  To 
compensate for the lack of experienced hands, the Earth Forces selected for 
headstrong and tenacious youths with raw leadership ability.  Many, like 
Li--a senior-grade Captain with less than twelve years in the 
uniform--learned to understand and respect their limits, growing into their 
responsibilities admirably.  They were bound to make more mistakes than 
somebody with maybe six or eight more years on them, but they knew that 
success in the service meant learning how to do your job--often, learning 
on the fly and in the thick of combat.  Some were either incredibly bullish 
or shy of responsibility, making their way through the ranks through the 
UEF's sheer necessity for manpower.  They often exceeded their limits and 
did great damage before the system could shift them out of harm's way.  For 
the time being, the UEF looked like the Continental Army and Navy during 
War of American Revolution, a hodgepodge collection of ambitious young 
officers, tired old salts, and childish astronauts, marines and 
soldiers--all out of their element and passing by only on a shoestring.

Jeezus! Li forced her mind back to her present duties.  Talk about getting 
reflective in your old age!

"Report," Admiral Guineve muttered, almost under her breath.  With a barely 
visible sigh of resignation, Li took her cue as the Old Lady helped herself 
to the coffee mug.  The call from the scout group had come in only thirty 
minutes ago.  The timing could not have been any better.  Bravo Shift was 
in full swing at 1120 Task Force time and everyone was in their prime 
working condition.  The Admiral herself had just come up to the Flag Bridge 
after a good six hours of sleep and a hot breakfast.  All in all, not a bad 
way to start the day.

"All ships are standing by for LOLLIPOP rendezvous at Lunar Coordinates 
Alpha Zulu Three Nine Zero.  Last report from AluCE: they're standing by to 
support and will await burst signal to commence operations.  Signal from 
the Reagan flag.  The Mason had an engine casualty at 0330, but expects to 
be back underway in twenty minutes.  Other than that, the group is ready to 
move at a moments notice.  We completed morning fire control tests.  The 
fire control datalink is operational, and the computers are operating the 
laser points at peak effeciency.

"General Morgan's office messaged the Flag at 0510.  The transports will 
hold back at Point GOLD TWO and move to GOLD ONE upon receipt of our 
signal.  The McCain and the King detached at 0600 with their escorts.  We 
can break out the tachyon transmission protocols when the operation starts, 
so we can call them up to LOLLIPOP almost immediately."

"And General Gamboa?" Guineve asked between sips of her coffee, with a 
touch of invective in her tone.  It was almost as if she suspected that Li 
was going to cut that little detail out.

"The Sixth Wing has its forward deployments loaded on our racks.  We're 
still waiting for the Thirty-First Tactical Fighter Wing to transfer to the 
Reagan, but General Gamboa says he can launch off the Marchant if we have 
to bring her forward."

"That's not acceptable," Guineve mumbled put down her coffee, her eyes 
turning up towards Li.  "That transport's integral to the plan."

Captain Li swallowed softly.  The order to liberate Earth from her Invid 
occupiers came directly from the Plenipotentiary Commission through 
CINCREF, but the planning effort proceeded under Rear Admiral 
Guineve.  Now, she led the task force charged with liberating 
Earth.  Captain Li suspected she was the likely choice for Admiral 
Guineve's chief of staff.  First, Li had extense experience of flag staffs, 
serving in every section except intelligence and supply.  She served her 
last tour as the XO onboard the Battlecruiser Winston Churchill; working 
under Admiral--then Captain Senior Grade--Bella Guineve for the first 
time.  When Guineve made her first star, she pulled some strings and got 
Captain Li promoted.  Not long after that, Li was packing her bags and 
headed pack for Tirol, to serve on Guineve's staff as a planner for the 
Earth operation.

Li suspected one other reason she got the privilege of serving her mentor 
once again.  She had working experience with flag officers that spanned her 
entire career.  She knew their strengths and weaknesses.  In a day and age 
where the average age of an O-8 was under just shy of thirty-five, UEF 
Command looked for innovative ways to compensate for the shortfall of 
experienced leadership.  Flag and general officers frequently suffered from 
pride issues, especially in planning scenarios.  Many grew very attached to 
their work, now that they had the power and position to claim all the 
credit for their brainchilds.  Guineve, a fresh, young member of the brass, 
had fallen into that very trap.  Now, on the day of reckoning, Captain Li's 
superior had an acute case of grumpiness, and it seemed to react to any 
mishap--no matter how inconsequential.  The Marchant fiasco provided a real 
outlet for Guineve to vent some of that frustration.  Li would never think 
to say anything to discredit the Admiral, but she couldn't help thinking 
about it.  Hell, the United Earth Space Navy paid her to think about it.

Of course, Li admitted, dragging the aircraft transport Marchant along with 
the rest of the Task Force would be a major headache.  Not only would Tac 
Air throw fits once the news broke out, but Brigadier General Rico Gamboa 
would have to rewrite Guineve's deployment orders and draw on naval mecha 
support until he could unload his planes during the reentry assault.  Li 
didn't like the figures herself.  Guineve, who was never really good at 
math, at least understood that General Gamboa's delay would result in extra 
work for the Navy,

"I'll talk to General Gamboa personally," Admiral Guineve decided. "And 
Wing Ten?"

"Captain Houston's working with Colonel Hsar very closely to coordinate the 
initial air deployments," Li answered promptly, but then thoughtlessly 
added a point she probably should have left unvoiced.  "It's moving pretty 
well, considering how hard it is to coordinate an operation as plane-heavy 
as this one."

Admiral Guineve eyed her chief of staff contemptuously. "Do you have a 
criticism you'd like to share with me?"

"No, Ma'am," Li whispered with genuine deference.  She had not intended her 
comment to be a passing knock at the Admiral's strategy--after all, she 
wasn't the operations officer--but Guineve had a tendency to get defensive 
right before an operation.  Hopefully, the Admiral would wind down after 
they had kicked some Invid ass.

"Very well, then!" Admiral Guineve clapped her hands together as her 
expression turned to one of mock delight.  "Let's get to work, people."

*  *  *

CISLUNAR ORBIT, EARTH-LUNAR SYSTEM

"It's briefing time, folks.  Shut up and listen."

The room fell silent as the cantankerous, olive-skinned Colonel at the head 
of the table took his seat.  "We've got a lot of ground to cover, kids, so 
I expect you to take good notes and keep your people informed."

  Marcus hadn't met the Colonel before today, but Rusford Hsar had a 
fleet-wide reputation.  Rumored to have mastered English from old Charles 
Bronson flicks, Hsar was a rough'n'tumble 'first-generation' Zentraedi who 
went as far back as the Bad Ol'Days.  Once junior aviator with the Jiaabo 
Seventh Mechanized Army, he ended up stranded on Earth with many of his 
brethren, leaderless and deprived of the cause they once proudly served.  A 
calm, collective individual rumored to hunger only for the strong direction 
of authority, he quickly rediscovered his passion in life working in a 
United Nations Forces uniform: suppressing human and Zentraedi malcontents 
around the world.  After two years of dispassionately killing both Earthers 
and his own people, Hsar earned the trust of the Earth military 
leadership.  Command decided he and nearly eighty thousand other Zentraedi 
were reliable enough to serve side by side with humans.  For a while, that 
meant serving with the all-Zentraedi Twenty-Third Tactical Fighter Squadron 
under a human CO.  Eventually, somebody in Monument City figured he was 
keen, loyal and 'Miriya-like' enough to not only join a previously 
all-human fighter squadron, but take command of it as well.  His time with 
the Fifty-Eighth Wild Weasels made him famous.  During that time, he'd 
developed electronic warfare doctrine for transatmospheric 
operations.  Marcus knew of at least one tactic--the Ruford Bait--that had 
stormed the EW world by surprise, proved during the Mop-Up and the Ugari 
Conflic and now bedrock study material for Wild Weasel enablers and operators.

It took nearly ten years for the Tactical Aerospace Force to fully 
integrate.  A quarter century after he and his kind had nearly wiped 
humanity out of existence, Hsar now worked effortlessly with Marcus and 
many other humans to liberate Earth from a new enemy.  As commanding 
officer of the Three Thirty First Tactical Fighter Group, Colonel Hsar was 
also the senior aviator on the Task Force's flight roster.

Marcus' eyes surveyed the room.  He briefly glanced over at 
Reika--Lieutenant Commander Yumagashita in this setting, Marcus reminded 
himself.  Unlike Hsar--and like Marcus and most of the other officers 
here--she wore the uniform of the Tactical Space Corps.  That made her a 
naval aviator under the complicated nomenclature enforced by the United 
Earth Militaries.  Officers and enlisted alike made life easier on 
themselves--they simply called it 'the Navy.'  In any case, Reika commanded 
the SVFA-437--the 'Bulls.'  Marcus remembered how she'd suckered him into 
tagging along as her adjutant.  He didn't like playing pet puppy, but Reika 
had a way of bringing the most stubborn leading chief aviation mechanics to 
her way of thinking.  Not bad for a junior officer.

Several squadron commanders and their operations officers occupied the 
other seats at the table.    All were O-4 or above, none were over 
thirty-two.  Marcus fiddled with his pen, his eyes on the only other Black 
man seated.  He recognized Daniel Houston--Commander, CVW-10.  Captain 
Junior Grade Houston headed delegation from the Reagan battlegroup.  The 
CVW-10's CAG caught Marcus' sideways glance, nodding in return.  Marcus 
recalled the few times the older man had come to visit the Keyes family.

Lieutenant Keyes knew the other officers only by reputation.  Strike 
Fighter Squadron 21's CO, Scott Bernard, was spending an awful lot of time 
onboard Muskrat--the Horizont shuttle forging ahead of the McCain's 
path.  Since Bernard had spent the most time with the Flag prepping the 
naval air cover plans, his command would head up the McCain fighter screen 
during the approach.  Not the most attractive position for a naval aviator 
looking to live long enough for the post-action drinks, but safety's a rare 
commodity for any combat flier.

One question rested on Marcus' mind and probably those of everyone in the 
Scout Group.  What the hell did the Admiral intend to do with only one 
Tactical Air Group forward and ready?  The op plan called for most of the 
Third Tactical Air Force to hold back until Task Force naval air had 
cleared the orbitals thoroughly.  Not the quickest way to liberate a planet 
from the Invid--most operations during the last war saw very focused, rapid 
strikes using overwhelming firepower against Invid planetary 
installations.  That meant delivering your transatmospheric attack assets 
as quickly and directly as possible on the main target.  However, Admiral 
Guineve wanted just one TFG forward at this time.   Moving on, 
CVW-15--spread out between the Cole and the Ramage--sent three spooks 
forward to refresh the Group on operational intelligence.  CVW-21--split 
between the King and the Burke--didn't send anybody; neither did anybody 
from the Lee battlegroup.  Overall, leadership was pretty heavy in rear and 
sparse at the front. It didn't really worry Marcus that he was right at the 
tip of the sword.  Like most of the Bulls aviators and crew, he had never 
seen combat on the scale they'd face today.

Most were too young to have fought in the Sentinels War.

The operations briefing went quickly--less than fifteen minutes.  CVW-15's 
intelligence team handled the deep background before Colonel Hsar began his 
review of the operational points.  Marcus tried to absorb as much 
information as possible, but the plan was intensely complex.  First, the 
Admiral wanted the Scout Group to advance beyond the cover of the Churchill 
BCs.  Without that support, they'd be attractive bait for the heaviest 
carrier platforms the Invid could throw up, or at least that's what Command 
wanted Marcus to believe.

"...after which, we will close with the Lee battlegroup..." Marcus caught, 
only after it was clear that he and his squadron were expected to remain 
engaged with the enemy (or, hopefully, drifting quietly and peacefully 
through space--assuming the Invid decided not to show up).

Colonel Hsar wrapped the talk up and opened the floor to 
discussion.  Almost immediately, someone cleared their throat to beg 
recognition.

"Ruford, what's really holding up the rest of the group?" Captain Galen, CO 
of the McCain, asked. Yet another lesson in the intricacies of Navy custom, 
Marcus reflected.  The command of a warship mitigated even familiarity 
across two whole grades of rank. "I don't like the idea of moving in 
without the full composite wing on our asses.  Our operational light-craft 
forces are way to thin."

"It won't be a problem, Hans," Colonel Hsar answered.  "We will not 
commence until the Task Force is in place.  As for the hold up, well...you 
know how we Air Force types need to pretty up before sticking it to the Slugs."

Hsar turned to the rest of the assembly: "Just to be perfectly clear, 
Command wants us to run this by the Book.    No assumptions, no rumors, no 
raised hopes.  No one wants to get taken off guard, not on this run.  Think 
of it as another slug-hunt, people."

"With all due respect, Sir," SVFA-12's commanding officer spoke up, his 
voice flat yet deferential.  "then that cloud of debris at Archie Golf 
Sierra isn't Liberty?"  Archie Golf Sierra was short for Archimedes 
Geostationary, an orbital point thirty-thousand miles straight up from the 
Norristown, capital of the Republic of Tocantins-Goias.  It was also the 
final resting place of Space Station Liberty.  As far as the returning 
United Earth Navy group could discern, the orbital facility had been 
destroyed some time ago.

"Fair enough," Hsar nodded in gruff agreement.  "In any case, the results 
of the Flag's assessment should be with us before we cross into lunar 
orbit.  After we check to see if the coast is clear, they'll fold in and 
then...well, that's when fireworks start."

"Oh great," SVFA-12's CO sighed.  "So will we be heading up a recon to 
check out Apollo and ALuCE?"

"The Flag doesn't think that's necessary," Hague replied.  "Admiral Guineve 
expressed her utmost concerns on disturbing any Invid presence that might 
be there, or engaging in suspicious broadcasts so close to the home 
hive.  If we still have superiority, then ALuCE and Apollo can see its 
us--they'll jump in accordingly.  If not, I'm sure the cover squadrons and 
ships can handle any flank attack.  We'll drift at idle speed once we cross 
the terminator, then make a short engine burst to coast into 
geosynch--intially over the Pacific.  Any Invid craft should be easily 
detectable from such an observational position."

"Surface to orbit missiles?" Scott Bernard thought to ask.  His point was 
obvious.  The First Fleet, attached to the Expeditionary Force since the 
beginning of the Sentinels War, had taken a savage beating over Optera 
when--all of a sudden--the Invid unveiled a rudimentary, yet brutally 
effective trans-atmospheric missile system.

"The latest from Flag," CVW-15's senior spook answered for the Colonl, 
"says few or no ASATs.  Since Optera's the only hive anybody's ever 
encountered with any serious ASAT capability, Intel thinks it's unlikely 
we'll encounter anything like that here.  As for their capacity to put 
firepower vacuum-side, Intel estimates are no more than forty-two percent 
to fifty percent higher than the suspected number."

"That's a pretty wide margin of error, Captain," Scott noted.  "And what 
about the landing operation?  Four million Invid combatants to begin with 
is something like one half more or twice the Sig Drack hive." The mop-up 
operation uncovered an Invid hive on a moon in the 28 Sigma Draconis 
System.  Like always, there were no Invid non-combatants.  The whole hive 
died and the few that survived wasted away soon afterwards.

"Expect saturation fire from the battlegroup by then, and the destroyers 
will move to low earth orbit to complete the central home-hive 
bombardment.  That should give us more than enough edge.  With our advanced 
base on Point K, we should have more than enough firepower to deal with the 
slugs."

"Probably so," CVW-10's CAG, Houston, responded, "but Command isn't willing 
to risk the heavy collatoral, particularly in the Northlands.  This is a 
hostage planet, not another slash-and-burn mop-up operation.  Surgical 
operatives are in place and under jurisdictional enforcement."
Marcus knew as well as anybody that most of the commanders and top pilots 
present were too young to remember when liberation, and not displacement, 
had been the REF's primary task, back when they fought a horrifying war 
with the Invid Regent.

"Skipper," Lieutenant Commander Reika Yumagashita spoke up.  Marcus 
fidgeted in his chair as he went over the T&OE for the upcoming 
recons.  "Should we count on surprise?"

"The Flag says surprise is almost certain," Hsar pointed out, but his 
qualification was clear. "I wouldn't count on it though.  Personally, I 
don't know what to make of it.  There's a good chance they could have 
picked us up on the move to GOLD ONE, but if I were them I would have 
responded already.  It's just a good idea to keep alert while you're out 
there.  Expect them to be well organized and prepared."

Gawd, Marcus thought.  Talk about razor thin intelligence.  He didn't 
understand how the Flag could be so confident.  Mars Base Gloval didn't 
have a whole lot to say about the Invid presence after 2035.  Beyond that, 
the Mars Base Gloval records only scant intelligence regarding the Invid 
occupation; more or less speculation gathered from radio snippets 
intercepted from beyond lunar orbit.  The Invid managed to completely take 
out Earth's interstellar and interplanetary communication networks soon 
after the invasion.  The cursory recons did little more than confirm the 
Invid's presence.

"Sir, have we heard anything from Point K?" Houston brought up the 
stickiest issue facing the Mars Division.

"Flag reports indicate they're ready," Colonel Hsar tried to clarify, "but 
Intel dates that last report to three weeks ago.  A lot might have happened 
since then.  I don't think the Invid could've run them over this 
fast.  Either way, we're either coming to help them or they're coming to 
help us."

"Sir," SVFA-12's CO picked at the point, "Let's say Point K was 
neutralized.  I mean, Sir--they're the crux of our mission profile in the 
Southern Hemisphere.  What does Flag want to do if they're just not there 
anymore?"

"Word from the Lee suggests we'll link up with what resistance is still 
down in South America.  Still, don't expect a lot of help.  This is gonna 
be a tough, stand up fight.  Either way, we have the advantage.  We've got 
the firepower and experience with this enemy before.  Hell, we handled 
Optera with less force than we're bringing to Earth now.  Keep your heads 
up, though.  Just because we're on another slug-hunt doesn't mean you go 
off half-cocked as soon as you clear the bay."

Marcus felt strangely reassured.  The Colonel was right, it was just 
another slug-hunt.

*  *  *

VALHALLA, STATE OF PARA, BRAZIL
0640H EST, 13 MARCH 2034, OPERATION SPARTA TIME: -07:50

How long does it take to move a single man three thousand kilometers 
through the most dangerous territory in the world?

Twenty four hours.

Just last night, Dr. Louie Nichols had been holed up in Portland, watching 
the telemetry data fed down to Earth by the Resistance's pathetic satellite 
network.  Immediately after identifying the new contacts, Portland put 
itself on the communications blackout list.  They couldn't risk the Invid 
getting a hold of this information--or so went the conventional wisdom.

Still, Carpenter needed to get this information out as quickly as 
possible.  After pulling a few dangerous stunts, he managed to sneak 
Nichols to Panama onboard a Learjet confiscated shortly after the 
Invasion.  A submarine--an ancient Dutch diesel--carried the scientist from 
the Canal to the coast of Colombia and Peru.  Surfacing at small town port 
near Cuzco, he bumbled around the downtown area long enough to remember the 
signals necessary to hitch a ride to Valhalla.  By the thirteenth hour of 
his trip, he was onboard a British Harrier flying out of an abandoned 
airfield on the border of Peru and Brazil. Their convoluted flight path 
that took him over the thick rain forest growth before turning northeast 
along with the Amazon.

After close to two hours of bouncing around in Northern Brazil's airspace, 
the Harrier touched down at another evactuated strip two-hundred and forty 
kilometers south-west of Valhalla.  From there, an Armored Personnel 
Carrier shuttled him on a six-hour trip through the back-roads of the 
northern Amazonas.  The sun was creeping over the horizon as APC dipped 
into the canyon leading up to Valhalla's vehicle entrance.

"Afternoon, Sir," the sentry guarding the entryway remarked as he inspected 
Nichols' credentials, "The General's been expecting you."

"Thank you, Corporal," Louie Nichols adjusted his sunglasses, a slight 
change from the ultra-tech goggles he donned on most occasions.  Instead of 
the tight-fitting cloths he wore in the more moderate north, he had donned 
khaki shorts and a light green tee-shirt.  He dismounted the APC and 
followed the guard into the fortress city.  An elevator to the street level 
deposited them well within the four armored walls surrounding the 
fortress.  An old two-and-a-half ton truck awaited them as Nichols and the 
corporal stepped out of the lift.  Wiping the sweat from his brow, Nichols 
tossed his duffle bag in the back and hopped into the cab.  When the 
corporal turned the key, Dr. Nichols was shocked to hear the rumble of a 
fifty year old internal combustion engine trying to turn over.  After a 
minute, some curt language and a few smacks on the dash, the vehicle 
finally started.

"Sorry about the ride, Sir," The corporal shook his head in genuine 
embarrassment.  "We tried req'ing a hover, but y'know how these things work 
out sometimes."

"It's no big deal," Nichols sighed as he rolled down his window.  No air 
conditioning? What a raw deal!

"Well, good thing the General's office isn't too far.  I'll get you there 
quick as I can."

"Thanks, Corporal," Nichols hung his arm over the side of the door.  He had 
little luck catching the breeze.  The fortress passed by slowly as civilian 
traffic picked up on the main artery of highways.  The crater was only ten 
kilometers across, but that only meant it was as long as Manhattan down the 
diameter.  Ever since Vahalla started accepting civilian refugees, the 
fortress had grown into a full blown city.  And since the Invid had never 
bothered to move far beyond those tracts of lands suitable for their 
harvest, Vahalla had grown virtually uninterrupted.

"So tell me," Louie struck up conversation.  "How've things been around 
here since I left?"

"A lot've things going on, Sir..." the guard explained.  Nichols looked 
around and noted that a good number of the buildings here resembled those 
in pre-2030 Monument City.

Interesting.  The corporal continued:  "We haven't hit a hive in something 
like eight months.  We're doing something out on their supply routes 
through Brazil, but that's about it.  I don't know much about that.  I've 
been on sentry duty ever since I signed up."

"How's the General holding up?" Nichols thought to ask.  He hadn't seen the 
General since the last abortive raid on Reflex Point.  Neither had John 
Carpenter, the scientist knew.  Both men had a hard time forgiving Wolff 
for his conspicuous absence from humanity's last major counter-offensive 
against the Invid.  From the look on his escort's expression, the corporal 
clearly didn't know anything about the bad blood between the Splinters and 
the Vahalla resistance.  His response certainly didn't betray any ill will 
towards Wolff from anybody in this outfit.

"Real great guy, Sir." The escort smiled, his eyes on the traffic building 
up around them.  "He goes out on as many ops as he can.  The General has a 
reputation for bringing home the big wins, y'know."

I bet, Nichols narrowed his eyes.

"Anyway, after a lot of the Americans bugged out, we've kept the resistance 
down here alive.  The General's kept things running nice and smooth 'round 
here.  Real great guy, Sir."

Nichols didn't respond.

The truck finally came to a stop at the fortress headquarters.  Sending the 
corporal on his way, he stepped into the building lobby.  Another sentry 
stood ready to take him to the General's third-floor office.  Within 
moments, he was standing before the South American Resistance Theater 
Commander.

"Dr. Nichols," Wolff's hair had turned to steel-brown from the strikingly 
pitch-black from fifteen years earlier.  Nichols had first met him aboard 
the Moscow, the flagship of the Relief Group.  He and Wolff worked together 
to ready the vessel for its return trip to Tirol, along with over a hundred 
thousand surviving clones gathered up from wrecked Tirolian 
motherships.  Wolff went on to work for the Special Operations Command, 
bringing the Cosmic Units and the Global Military Police up to speed on 
special warfare strategy and tactics.  He had been the first to argue that 
the UEM, weakened after the war with the Masters, needed to sacrifice 
strategic depth and wage guerilla war against the Invid.  When Southern 
Cross Command changed their plans at the last minute, launching their 
counterattack within minutes of the Invid invasion, Colonel Wolff's 
objections and recommendations were finally validated.  The enemy wiped out 
the first wave from Earth's surface, as well as completed destruction of 
all military installations in orbit.  Within a few hours, space fell under 
complete Invid control.  In less than a day, Earth's forces were expended 
and unable to hold ground.  Within a week, the Invid destroyed the last 
major hold of resistence, an Tactical Armored squadron, with a nuclear 
blast that took a large portion of downtown London with it.

That last strike resulted in a growing stigma surrounding soldiers amongst 
the general populace.  Nichols knew this most adamantly--there had been a 
time in Tokyo where any freedom-fighting dogma was punishable by 
long-imprisonment.  Intimidated, Japan's last group of 
ultra-preservationists left to link up with other resistance groups.  Over 
a year of planning, preparing, and waiting, the resistances had bided their 
time.  Finally, in late 2035, with a new communication link with ALuCE-1, 
the combined forces of several hundred resistance battalions launched 
themselves against the Invid main hive in the Ohio Valley.

Most were killed, and the few survivors were sent running home in bitter 
defeat.

Only a year later, Nichols thought, and we think we're ready for another go?

"Good evening, Sir," the final rays of the sun set over the horizon.  "It's 
been sometime."

"Not since Trenchtown, Dr. Nichols," Wolff retained his trademark debonair 
smile.  At that meeting, Wolff had informed his comrades he would absent 
himself from the Reflex Point attack.  Part of it was tactical motivation, 
he had always upheld that their forces had not dealt with the periheral 
problem of other Invid hives and still needed to work up a chain of hive 
priorities.  Instead, they were launching a mad attack at the most 
fortified enemy installation onplanet.  This carried merit for most of his 
group, which moved against the Dallas hive instead.  Although the Reflex 
Point attack of 2035 was close, it had ultimately failed, much like Wolff's 
jaunt on Dallas had.  In that attack, one-hundred and fifty of his troops 
had been killed, including one of Professor Nichol's good friends.  "We've 
been busy since then.  Are you still keeping the link-up with Portland?"

"Yes, sir," the professor nodded.  "We've also managed to lay some 
underwater cable with Tokyo.  They'll only deal with me, and only on 
certain subjects will they cooperate.  However, it'll have to do until I 
ease Eiten into a more comfortable position."  Since the aging Kan Shimada 
retired, Eiten Shimada ran the newly legitimized yakuza organization up to 
standards; influencing the new Prime Minister in the same way his old man 
had manipulated Etchi Misui.  "Dr. Ling also reports success in developing 
new control software for satcoms.  If he's done by November, he'll try 
sending getting it to us.  Our systems are a bit fluttered with this old 
design."

"I understand.  And John?  How is he?"

"They're hanging on, if that's what you mean," Nichols replied coldly, 
knowing full well he was dodging the question.  "There are some hives 
isolated enough from the main hive that we can attack, but we're too close 
to Reflex Point to do anything other than risk what we have out 
west.  Portland's pretty quiet."

"I mean, how is John," the General cleared his throat and clarified.

"Honestly, General," Nichols adjusted his glasses, not giving the awkward 
moment a chance to grow any further. "He's gotten over it."

Wolff seemed to look away for a minute, and the confidence he projected 
nearly faltered.  Dr. Nichols saw immediately the General saw through his 
lie.  Carpenter was a man who didn't forgive and forget easily, and 
everybody knew that.

"I commend you for making your way here so quickly, Dr. Nichols." Wolff 
walked over to the bookcase on the southwall.  Removing a bottle of brandy, 
he poured himself half a wineglass.  Nichols declined when offered.  "You 
have to tell me how you did it."

"I came alone, Sir." Nichols explained.  "The Invid hasn't shut down all 
civilian air traffic on the West Coast, and they tolerate anything that 
doesn't get into the immediate airspace of their Sierra Hives.  In any 
case, once I got to Colombia the rest was easy."

"Great, Doctor." Wolff remarked as he bottomed-up the glass.  "I should 
have you get together with my logistics and communications people.  As you 
know, civ-air's been off limits across the Amazon for eight months."

"Back to business, General.  You asked me how my work in Portland was 
coming along, with the satellite link."

"Yes, I did."

"I'd like to show this to you as quickly as possible.  Is there any place 
we can assemble your staff and sixes?  A command center?"

"Eh?" Wolff raised an eyebrow.  His staff and armored battalion 
commanders--"Sixes" in tanker talk--would've busted out laughing at that 
kind of talk. "Portland must be making Carpenter soft in his old age.  I'm 
afraid the best we've got is a pull down and a rusty projector."

"Good enough," the young technician replied.  "If you could gather your 
senior officers, Sir--we've got a lot to chew on tonight."

*  *  *

CISLUNAR ORBIT, EARTH-LUNAR SYSTEM
OPERATION SPARTA TIME: -05:50

The forcefields that hummed against the impressive emptiness alone shielded 
the open hangar bays from the deadliness of the vacuum.  Marcus, during his 
first outer space training sessions, once approached these hangar bays with 
fear; if the fields would collapse, he would be blown out into the 
darkness--either burned to a crisp by unabashed stellar radiation or 
deep-freezed in the deathly cold of space's eternally dark 
shadows.  However, a year and a half of training and preparation had 
partially overcome that fear.  In the event that the fields did collapse, 
he would have enough time to secure himself in his Alpha fighter, assuming 
he was close to it, and close the canopy.   His mecha would protect until 
such time as the bay doors were closed or the subspace fields re-established.

All the group's destroyers kept their bay doors open, the inflated 
belly-like extension a deadly profusion ready to ejaculate tens of VTs in 
defensive or offensive manuevers.

As he finished waxing the coat of his Alpha's nose, the klaxons in the bay 
suddenly went off, sounding a long awaited alert.  The Fleet had arrived.

*  *  *

"Skipper!  Heavy gravitational activity around reference vector Three Zero 
Nine," someone reported from the rear.  "IFF clears, it's the Lee and her 
battlegroup."

Commander William Kathey followed the voice to see Docksman Seylia Benjamin 
holding her own over the Tracking console.  His attention shifted to the 
Captain, who was already out of his seat and making for Benjamin's station.

"Secure from general quarters," Captain Galen ordered before turning to his 
XO.  "Check the profile, Bill?"

"What's the count, Docksman?"  Commander Kathey turned the query over to 
Benjamin.

"They've just cleared the gravity wake," Docksman Benjamin replied 
earnestly.  Kathey appreciated the effort Benjamin--the whole bridge crew, 
in fact--were putting up to keep their anxiety in check.

"Profile confirmed," Benjamin followed up. "It's the whole group.  Two 
battlecruisers, three destroyers, four heavy cruisers, six destroyers, and 
fourteen assault shuttles.  Yep, that's everybody.  The Task Force is 
crossing the lunar face right now Ma'am; signature's bearing 
three-fiver-zero alpha.  I'm also picking up additional flucuations at 
reference vector Four Two Zero.  Looks like the Reagan."

"Very good," Kathey remarked, noting that Danny Houston and his people 
would probably want to get the hell back home as soon as possible.  In the 
meantime, he ran through the basic vector calculus in his head.  Right now, 
the McCain and the Scouts held the Mars Division's vantage point over 
Earth.  After all, they had finish their run around the dark side of the 
moon twenty minutes ago.  Now, the converted escort carrier's antigravs ran 
at max as it fought against the tidal forces struggling to draw it into 
Earth's gravitational maw.  They ran the risk of being detected by the 
Invid, but the enemy would find nothing more than what General Morgan and 
Admiral Guineve wanted them to see.  Personally, Kathey did not enjoy 
playing a worm on a fishhook.  From the look on the Captain's face, neither 
did he.

"On screen, chief," Commander Kathey ordered.  The McCain had flown over to 
the daylight side of the lunar surface less than ten minutes ago.  Four 
Horizont assault shuttles had taken the point, heading towards a geosynch 
orbit.  By 0230h, in just under six hours, the entire Mars Division would 
be in position to launch their attack.

The tech replied without hesitation.  Magnifying only four times, warships 
of three basic designs were highlighted in red hue against the black back 
drop.  The computer identified the Churchill-class battlecruiser as none 
other than the Lee.

"Incoming traffic from the Flag, Sir," the duty communications petty 
officer piped up.  "They're taking flank behind our battlegroup.  The Burke 
and the Pinfish are moving past us towards the flank."

"Very good.  How is the Muskrat doing?" The point escort carried the 
extensive communication equipment which would fire several hyperwave bursts 
towards expected key cities, hoping to establish contact and link up with 
any resistances planetside.

"She's already taken the lead of our Horizont group, about five-thousand 
kilometers dead ahead."

All right.  "Thank you, gentlemen," Kathey complimented sincerely.  "Get 
the Lee on radio.  Let's find out what the hell we're supposed to be doing 
anyway."

*  *  *

"Jesus, Skipper!" the plane captain complained as his CO flipped open the 
canopy.  He climbed out, his eyes quickly inspecting the cockpit airlock 
latchings--they'd hooked onto the docking collar pretty hard.  His skipper, 
a young naval aviator who looked way too young for his rank and 
responsibility, shrugged apologetically as the chief climbed out of the 
cockpit  "Do you want your plane for gametime or not?"

"Sorry, Chief," Lieutenant Commander Scott Bernard tossed his helmet out of 
the cockpit, where Senior Chief Aviation Mechanic Danny Barnes caught it 
easily.  Both had just shuttled over in their Alpha-Beta Legios from the 
McCain.  Barnes' plane crew went to work.  The oldest of the six junior 
mechanics had just turned eighteen, but Barnes had molded them into an 
efficient pit crew Commander Bernard could trust to keep his Legios space 
fighter in top condition.  Pretty soon, the Boss would be back in 
space--this time not for a pleasant visit to the Group commodore.  The 
ordnance jockies were already guiding anti-grav beds loaded with long 
range, anti-fighter missiles as Barnes and Bernard strolled over to the 
locker room.

"Well, it's a good thing I work for you, Sir." Danny Barnes stripped out of 
the CVR-3 flight suit and exchanged it for an orange flight deck 
jacket.  "She'll be ready by the time your squared away with Commander 
Gardner.  You gonna get any sack-time before take off?"

"Probably not," Bernard answered non-chalantly, stowing his flight gear 
before keying open the locker room's access hatch to the Engineering 
Deck.  His thoughts were clearly elsewhere as he packed.  "Say, can you 
look over the tac-net trimmer as soon as possible?  I'm getting static on 
the tower channel."

"No prob, Skipper," Barnes clicked his tongue disapprovingly as they 
stepped out of the locker room and into the Muskrat's center-line corridor. 
"The way you park the thing, you probably knocked your radio out of 
alignment.  I'll get Murray on it right away, Sir."

"Scott!" Barnes turned to see a young brunette running towards 
them.  Lieutenant Marlene Rush threw herself in Commander Bernard's arms.

The plane captain stepped away.  Let the kids enjoy the calm while it lasted.

*  *  *

VALHALLA, STATE OF PARA, BRAZIL

Louie Nichols watched disinterestedly as Wolff's senior adjutants clashed 
over the most irrelevent aspects of the tape recording.  He was an engineer 
by trade, a scientist by fashion, and a straight up tanker by 
misfortune.  The former assistant professor of computer science at the 
University of Chicago couldn't think of anything more dull than watching a 
bunch of navy types playing 'Guess that Ship.'

"It's too damn small to be anything more than a task group." One of the 
intelligence officers thought aloud.  "Those two bigs ones look like 
Churchills.  The ones in the rear look to small--money they're Burkes, 
also?  Say, what are these really small ones?"

"Assault shuttles," Lieutenant Commander Ahmed Rashoma, Wolff's 
intelligence chief, answered.  Based on a design that had produced the such 
exotic vessels as the Moscow and the Archangel, they were swan-like and 
graceful.  However, the break from the traditional battlewagon design made 
most COs nervous about the avian-like warships' battleworthiness.  To 
Rashoma and likeminded officers, the Archangel prototypes were ugly as 
sin.  The Horizont, therefore, wasn't a great improvement in his mind. 
"They were still prototypes when we left.  Looks like Space Systems finally 
got the go-ahead.  Just when you thought we'd gotten over our flirtation 
with those damned bat-crazy contraptions."

"That damned bat-crazy contraption save our asses more than once," General 
Wolff commented.  "I want definite types on these before nine, 
Rashoma.  Now...where the hell are we.  Oh, yes.  Doc?"

"Its six forty five right now.  I'd get on the horn with Portland and see 
if we can set something to coordinate space intel down here.  Also..."

Nichols produced a small CD.  Having already shown the footage of the 
returning Expeditionary mission's orbital approach, he now enjoyed the full 
attention of the General's staff.  With Wolff's approval, Nichols inserted 
the disc.

"...mander Gardner...piditonary Force....clear it up?" .

"If you'll please be patient," Nichols beseeched his audience, "The 
recording cleans up in just a little bit.  The guy speaking is Commander 
Gardner--some of you may know him personally or by reputation.  Either way, 
he introduces himself and the Expedition as the Reclamation Mission 
Force.  Just another thirty seconds and it'll clear up."

"I say six to ten hours before they attack," guessed the Marine major 
filling in for Wolff's operations officers as they waited for the audio to 
clear up.  "but hell if I know how they're going to pull this one off."

"If they are forcing Churchill on Reflex Point--say, what's the range of 
the maingun on the Churchill?" Rashoma thought to ask one of her intel people

"About two-hundred thousand klicks," The civilian behind her filled 
in.  "Hey, you think they might try achieving medium earth orbit and point 
blanking--"

The static suddenly gave way to the gentle hum of a crystal clear carrier 
and well reproduced audio, interrupting all ancillary discussion between 
Wolff's officers.

"Ah, here we are," the professor replied.  "Video kicks in right about now."

The blank screen was replaced by the image of an old man, probably his late 
fifties and dressed in the cross-service UEF uniform.  Commanding an 
assault shuttle? Wolff thought, recalling Gardner and his exemplary record 
during the Sentinels War.  Well, the old curmudgeon had beaten off every 
attempt by Command to frock him out of field grade; even retiring to the 
Reserves just before Wolff left for Earth.

"...Commander Gardner, DTTS Muskrat, Alpha Penetration Task Element, Main 
Naval Battlegroup, Mars Division.  We're using Class Three-India-Niner 
burst transmission band.  Intercept satellite India-Bravo-Three-Three 
MILCOMSAT at thirty thousand, over forty-four degrees north by 
seventy-eight degrees west.    Any viable forces with the means to answer 
this communication please remain silent.  You need only hear us.  We have 
great news for you.  We have successfully defeated the Invid forces on 
Optera, their homeworld.  As we speak, naval forces are approaching 
Earth.   This is a burst transmission--it will not be 
repeated.  Unfortunately, we cannot relay our attack coordinates.  Colonel 
Wolff, if you are listening still operational, we will relay instructions 
for launching Operation SICILY as soon as the attack commences. Anyone 
receiving this transmission, maintain radio silence and bide your time. 
This message will not be repeated.  Do not to attempt to 
acknowledge...repeat...maintain radio silence.

"We're on our way..."

The room suddenly reverberated as nearly twenty cantakerous cheers rang 
out.  Then, Nichols' beaming eyes picked up on a stone-faced Brigadier 
General Wolff--whom Gardner had erraneously referred to as Colonel--and his 
smile suddenly flat-lined.  The Colonel, his hand's clasped to the back of 
his chair, rose from his seat.

The color had drained completely from his face.

"Oh my God.  They don't know.  They don't--"  His voice drowned in the 
joyous uproar.

*  *  *

PORTLAND, OREGON
OPERATION SPARTA TIME: -05:10

The moutain-side log cabin doubled as command center for the Splinters--the 
Pacific Northwest's ad hoc resistance group.  Beneath his wooden porch was 
a two-feet thick plate of ceramisteel; one of the strongest ceramic alloys 
ever developed on Earth.  Below that, nearly seventy people worked day and 
night monitoring, dispatching and directing the tendrils of his command.

Brigadier General John Carpenter, commander of the "Splinters" resistance 
group, had received a communique from Valhalla four hours after learning of 
Louie Nichols safe arrival.  Meanwhile, he was already preparing his own 
forces for the attack.  The survivors of the Ninety Third and Eighty Fifth 
Fighter Squadrons from ALuCE, devastated two years ago during the ill-fated 
Reflex Point attack, were regrouping forty-eight miles to the South, on an 
abandoned airstrip near what was once Secena, an Oregon town that had 
sustained a direct burst from a Zentraedi cannon a quarter century 
earlier.  The crater had evolved into Edwin Air Force Base by the time the 
UEF was formed in 2022, and since the Invid Occupation, it had served as 
the Northern answer to Valhalla; a truly modern facility that had managed 
to escape Invid attention--at least for the time being.

The Splinters outwardly resembled a hodgepodge of professional warfighters, 
mercenaries and indy volunteers, but they were as close to a functional 
military outfit anyone could find in North America.  Most of it centered 
around the Ninety Third and Eighty Fifth Pursuit Squadrons, but the 
Splinter's organization stretched all the way to Southern California--all 
the way to San Fransisco where a small naval contingent, composed of a 
handful of retasked diesel attack boats, lay waiting in its enclosed 
port.  These were assets that only the highest levels of the Splinter's and 
Wolff's contingent knew of, for they were the only links between the 
resistance and the rumored "ghost ships"--the submersible landing ship 
Achilles and Prometheus-class carrier Phoebe--waging a guerilla war in the 
Pacific.  It had been three months since he had heard from Rear Admiral 
Haglin and his Pacific forces, and he feared that another leg of the 
resistance's infrastructure had been cruelly knocked out from underneath them.

Lieutenant General Aldershot and Colonel Nova Satori--their forces depleted 
to the point where they were compelled to opt out of the upcoming 
operation--recamped in Portland only seven hours ago.  Not wanting to be 
left out, Aldershot was acting as a strategic reserve for Carpenter's 
forward strike forces.  Nevertheless, the Spinters' preparations were 
extremely hasty, and he had no way of coordinating with the Southlands 
resistance.

His mind milled about grim possibilities as he stared out into evening, 
rocking back and forth in his chair.  His entire career had been mired by 
the gruesome events that accompanied warfare; from his first stint as a 
detached Aerospace Force pilot to the Togo's ARMD air wing during the First 
Robotech War to his fifteen years on and off the Carthage.  His last 
assignment had been onboard that ship five paygrades ago, directing TAF 
fighters into battle as the Carthage's Senior Aerospace Controller.  He 
sometimes asked himself how a carrier ops specialist like himself ever 
ended up as the jumped-up commander of a ragged team of freedom 
fighters.  Maybe, he thought, it was because he was the senior surviving 
officer that escaped the Hannibal, or maybe it was because Supreme 
Commander Leonard and the United Earth Forces Joint Staff thought he was 
valuable enough to place on the Strategy Planning and Review Board.  Maybe 
it was because Wolff--damn the man!--discovered something in John's broken 
shell that cried out for another opportunity to serve.  Was that why he had 
never retired, after more than twenty years of continuous fighting?  No 
matter how much he wanted to rest, his heart simply wouldn't let him walk 
away from it all.  God knows he tried: when Wolff absented himself from the 
Reflex Point attack two years ago, when Marshal Vincinz took the 
Sudetenland, when the Regis' Invid utterly destroyed Seattle.  Each time he 
felt as if he could simply step back and get away from it all.

But he couldn't.  Not now, and not ever.  Even as he sat relaxed in his 
rocking chair, he felt a pang of guilt for not being down in the dungeons 
with his comrades--for even providing his body with the necessary rest it 
needed to survive.  Never in his life did he ever expect to shoulder this 
much responsibility, but very few things in recent memory occurred as per 
mankind's expectations.  For humanity, the twenty-first century had been a 
most ironic host.

Just as he watched  the stars blink out of existance as dawn spread into 
the valley below, the cabin's front door suddenly swung open.  The man who 
darted out donned civilian clothing, but the jolted Carpenter instantly 
recognized him as his staff operations officer.

"Er, what is it, Henry?" he said cloudily, his mind still nebulous from 
fatigue.

"Sir, we just a communique in from Brazil--land-line," Land lines were 
highly insecure, and if it was a routine, low-risk communication, Henry 
Dobson would have never interrupted the commander's time for rest and 
reflection.  No, anything coming across a land-line that attracted Dobson's 
attention--ergo, Carptenter's attention--came Priority One.  With an 
advance fleet from the REF bearing down on Earth, he could damn well guess 
the contents.

"All right then," Carpenter got to his feet.  "Let's go."

*  *  *

VALHALLA, STATE OF PARA, BRAZIL

Wolff looked frantically at his assembled staff, including Louie 
Nichols.  It hadn't taken long for the grim reality to set in, and now they 
were left at an impasse.

It had been four months since the Preble had escaped Earth, breaking past 
the Invid and the REF's cislunar blockade to deliver an intelligence update 
to exiled United Earth Forces commanders.  The spacefold would have taken 
two months to complete, and that left six months for the Expeditionary 
Force to update the fleet en-route for Earth.

Colonel Wolff, is what Gardner had said.  They don't even know if I'm alive 
or dead.

He'd been promoted shortly before the Preble punched through the Slugs' 
planet-side blackout, but the periodic communication lapses between 
Soldiertown, Point K and AluCE that ultimately led to a complete blackout 
January meant the Resistance had to hold onto their intelligence 'take' for 
weeks at a time.  After the black out, the Preble was a desparate gamble to 
get information space-side to the Expedition--one the Resistance thought 
they'd pulled off.  Somehow, they were wrong--dead wrong.

Does Expedition know about the Hive Sensors? All the assembled officers 
asked themselves the same question.  The Invid Collective's new theater 
protoculture sensors had taken the Resistance by surprise--that, and a 
number of other things--when they tried to run interferance against Reflex 
Point's efforts to cut off communications.  Their ECM had been spectacular, 
and their orbital approach had been a highly-coordinated effort to spread 
out the Resistance's space-borne assets until it was absolutely necessary 
to coalesce them for the final attack run.

Still, the Invid had seen them.  They should have at least suspected as 
much.  The Invid were eagerly picking through the wreckages of Tirolian 
technology leftover from the Second Robotech War, and the Masters had been 
in possession of such devices.  If the Expedition's task force didn't know 
about those damned sensors, they'd have no idea the Invid could catch them 
passively all the way out by the moon.  If the Invid had any inkling that 
the Expedition was on its way, then they cycle their scopes to active and 
burn through any and all human countermeasures.

"Well, I've recommended Point K stand by until they receive our signal," 
Wolff informed his staff.  "We've planned for this moment for years, 
people.  Unfortunately, it looks like a crucial element of our plan will 
fail even before the shooting starts.  We're short on time, 
gentlemen.  Options?"

"We can break radio contact and tell them straight up, Sir," the operations 
officers pointed out.  "If they don't know we don't have space supremacy 
anymore, they're gonna walk right into an Invid trap."

"If we do that," Intelligence objected, "we risk alerting the Invid--we 
have no evidence that the Invid know the Expedition's returned.  If they 
did, why haven't they launched their carriers yet?"

"Maybe they're waiting for something," Wolff proposed.  "We all know 
they've been up to something lately.  They were getting a whole lot better 
at knocking our satellites out of the sky and for months we ignored 
it.  Next thing we know, they've sweeped up all our assets below High Earth 
Orbit.  Besides, communicating with them is a no-starter.  We still can't 
burn through their exo-atmospheric jamming net."

"Sir, we haven't even tried," Planning spoke up.  "I mean, we have a whole 
damned Destroyer Squadron on the Macapa tarmac!"

"Farber won't want to risk them until we have the go ahead from whoever's 
in command of the reclamation force," Wolff grimly pointed out.  "Besides, 
we really need to focus on how we're going to accomplish SpecFor's 
mission.  Personally, I don't see how we can.  We haven't had much success 
getting people in place to strike Rondonia Hive.

Louie shook his head in noticable disbelief, earning an angry glare from 
Wolff.  The professor didn't care.  He recalled a cardinal rule of command 
from his days as a tanker during the Second Robotech War.  A commanding 
officer was a source of hope and confidence for his men.  Wolff, on the 
other hand, was obviously tired, anxious and openly punching holes in his 
subordinate's options and advice.  Why isn't he ready to go after the Porto 
Vello Slugs?  Wasn't he responsible for getting those Indians--Louie's 
briefs said they were of the Uru and Jabuti ethnologue--to help 
out?  What'd gone wrong?  Leadership, probably.  How far had Wolff walked 
down this path of self-destruction.  Louie shivered at the thought, but his 
face gave the weary general no hint of his failing confidence.

Fifteen minutes later, Wolff had convinced his senior operators that there 
was little they could do but wait and see.  As they filed out of the room, 
Louie remembered the last time he'd heard this sort of defeatism from 
Wolff.  Once they were alone, the professor found he could no longer 
contain his exasperation.

"I can't believe you actually going to sit this out.  I mean--Jesus, 
General!  Point K's counting on you!"

"Louie, we can't get involved in this.  If General Farber can't move 
against the Invid on our northern frontier--worse, if he's overrun--we'll 
be encircled so fast they'll be sweeping up our body parts for years to 
come.  Now we know the Invid won't move against us unless they perceive us 
as an open threat."

"But, Sir--"

"Son, I know you're a brilliant scientist," General Wolff cut him off, "but 
please leave the warfighting to pros."

Louie shut up and even managed to fight off a hurtful glance at the Hero of 
Garuda.  In a way, he knew Wolff made a lot of sense.  The Invid were up to 
something, and if they had anticipated this stage in the war and had 
prepared properly for it...well, he didn't want to think about the 
consequences just yet.  He stood up to leave without being dismissed.  He 
had to get word to Carpenter about this.

"One more thing, Professor," Wolff said just as Louie reached the door.  "I 
want you packed in three hours.  I've arranged to have you transferred to 
Tokyo."

Louie didn't turn around.

"With all due respect, General," he intoned in quiet anger.  "I didn't sign 
up to run away."

"No, you didn't," Wolff observed with a snort, "but you're too valuable an 
asset to throw away in the Southlands.  My liaisons have already arranged 
this with General Carpenter.  We want you in Tokyo as soon as 
possible.  The Japanese have managed to keep off the Invid radar for some 
time, now.  There are some very interesting developments in Tokyo you 
really need to see for yourself.  If things go bad this time around, we're 
going to need you there to make sure the Japanese stay onboard.  Can you do 
it?"

Louie hesitated before answering.  It'd been two years since he'd fled 
Yokohama for Pearl Harbor under the cover of night--not necessarily just to 
avoid the Invid, either.  Two years since he'd had any contact with the 
Shimada kireitsu that controlled the Japanese government from behind the 
scenes.  His curiousity, fears and outright disgust with being asked of 
this mission by General Wolff--a man he'd once respected and now saw as a 
coward bordering on treason--wrestled with each other before the strongest 
finally won out.

"I'll go, Sir."

*  *  *

EAST OF MACAPA, NORTHEASTERN BRAZIL
OPERATION SPARTA TIME: -00:55

Nearly two hundred miles to north of Valhalla lay Point K, a space port and 
the rally point for all Expeditionary Forces in Latin America awaiting the 
arrival of reinforcements from space.  Lieutenant General Michael William 
Farber, United Earth Marines, had stared down the Invid and brought some 
semblance of security and order to the Southlands with what was once over 
five wings of Veritech strikefighters and a full division of Marine 
Raiders.  However, last winter's campaign had whittled his force to two 
thirds its strength.  Farber doubted he still had capacity for conducting 
offensive operations, and as of late the Point K had taken on the role of a 
covering force for Brigadier General Wolff's special operations units.  Not 
the most respectable job in the universe, but it gave him Farber to lick 
his wounds and reorganize his force.

 From the desk-side window of his three story office building in the valley 
village three miles to the northeast, he could see the outlines of 
Destroyer Squadron 36 against the mountains.  The warships were grounded 
shortly after the Invid started knocking the Earth Forces' space-borne 
installations four months ago.  General Farber had just gotten out of a 
teleconference with his liaisons in Valhalla.  If Wolff was right, those 
ships would be lifting off soon enough.  Hopefully they'd come back with 
reinforcements for his under-strength combined arms task force.

As he mulled these thoughts, he thumbed a Cuban cigar with his left 
hand.  Fortune had it that a shipment had come in through a smuggling 
operation ostensibly based in Brazil.  It amazed him that even while his 
homeworld was largely occupied by an utterly alien species, trade--even if 
it was the new black market--still persisted between the occupied and the 
free landmasses of Earth.  Life really does march on, that little voice in 
the back of his head reminded the forty-two year old general.  If so, then 
is the soldier a part of life's natural progression or some aberration 
hindering it?  Farber shook his head, flushing these questions from his 
mind.  His degree was in history, not philosophy.

"General?" General Farber's personal intercom sounded.  He turned around 
and keyed on the speaker.

"Go ahead, Liz."

"Mayor Estevez is here to see you."

"Thanks, Liz.  Come right in." The general straightened his uniform.  He'd 
expected this meeting since his civil-relations officer informed the 
village council four hours ago.  The door swung open, revealing a supple 
teenage clerk followed by a short, stocky man no younger than fifty.
Mayor Juan Estevez had won his first election shortly after the 
Expeditionary Forces put down.  The small suburb survived the destruction 
of Amap's capital city, Macapa, in the early days of the Occupation.  Since 
then, a small alliance of Western towns and small cities either worked with 
the Invid to guard the treacherous passes through the northern mountains or 
openly sympathized with the collaborators.  Estevez was lucky--or unlucky, 
if the Invid ever gained a foothold here--to enter the political arena in 
"free territory."  Since then, he'd worked tiredlessly to ensure relations 
between his constituents and General Farber's ever alert forces.  Today, 
Farber sadly noted, would change everything.

"What the hell do you people think you're doing?!" the Mayor didn't waste a 
second before dressing down the Southland's senior military 
commander.  "We've been nothing but good neighbors ever since you show up 
and now you want us to abandon everything?  When exactly were you going to 
tell us?"

"I'm sorry, Mayor," Farber replied evenly.  He'd known the man for three 
years, and he wouldn't insult him by letting his famous temper flare.  "We 
just confirmed it a few hours ago ourselves.  If we're right...well, we 
both know the risks to the civilians."

"Do we really have such little time?"

"Mayor, I can't say." General Farber conceded.  "If this information is 
accurate, we can expect hostilities anytime now.  If I had to guess, I 
would start packing right now."

"But how am I supposed to move that many--"

"Sir, our resources are at your disposal.  I've ordered the evac task force 
to commence operations.  We've drilled this for years now, Sir.  You know 
we'll do our best."

"And you?"

Farber hesitated.  After halting the Invid southward advance three years 
ago, he would have once thought his force to be the first to roll the Slugs 
all the way back to Reflex Point.  Now--

"Like I said, Sir.  We'll do our best."

*  *  *

A single Pincer flew two hundred kilometers north of the human base of 
resistance.  Its sensors peered beyond the Collective's frontal positions 
and at the Enemy's space port.  Airspace just forward of friendly lines 
buzzed with activity as several squadrons of Veritechs took to flight, 
searching the skies for Invid strikecraft not unlike the solitary recon 
mecha.  They would discover nothing, until it was too late.

Not too far away, a Hive Mind retrieved and quickly assessed the 
reconaissance data.  The Regis herself would apply much of her mental 
energies in directing the Southern campaign.  If all went to plan, within 
days the human resistance in the South would be nothing more than a memory.

Across the globe, the minds of every Invid--from hive worker to the elite 
commanders of the Invid ground and air forces,swelled in anticipation.

*  *  *



*  *  *

"Yo arms' too short to box with God"       - Tekitha and Killah Sin>

<REMIX and Platinum Playaz>---------------------------------------->
<Rev Prez aka Scriptchya the Seventh Disciple aka Deez Nutz>------->
<"...number one gunna run for cova                     - Killah Sin>
< Keep em steppin with more Lethal Weapons than Danny Glova"       >

<Personal>-----------------------<"It's The Militia" - Freddie Foxx>
<revprez@mit.edu>--------<http://web.mit.edu/revprez/www/resume.pdf>
<"I mobb deep, in cherry Cherokees I forever be           - Shyheim>
 > on some thug shit, runnin wild through New York City"            >
<410 Memorial Drive, Cambridge, MA 02139>-----------<(617) 225 8420>

<ThE fLoW>---------------------------------------------------------->
Platinum Playa Productions-------------------<Site Comin Soon, dunnz>
"TGR v.3"-----<http://web.mit.edu/revprez/www/mp3/revprez-trg-v3.mp3>
"TGR v.4"-----<http://web.mit.edu/revprez/www/mp3/revprez-trg-v4.mp3>
"Tight"--------<http://web.mit.edu/revprez/www/mp3/revprez-tight.mp3>
<-----------REMIX and the Central Region Freestylin Alliance-------->


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