MSG: In Vain Doth Valour Bleed

Chapter 13 (part 1)

Taunus Mountains, Hessen, Central Europe
November 10, 0087

The first sound that woke Commander Karl Weissdrake from his very comfortable slumber was a yowl. His eyes snapped open as the horrendous squalling continued, and his heart raced from the shock of going from REM sleep to full wakefulness in the space of a breath. The soldier in him blinked once then shifted his eyes to his watch, checking the time. It took a second for him to register the chronometric reading: 1030 hours. He sat bolt upright in bed, then threw the field blanket off himself and scrambled into his uniform at light speed, cursing himself.

He and his fellow 555th Airborne members had not found the 10th Panzerkaempfer's staging area until about 0500 hours, after being delayed en route by circumstances beyond their control. Now he had overslept, as had probably the Foxe twins, and he was sure to catch hell for that. The watch duty person at the time the three Gelgoogs had lumbered into the camp, Gary van Allen, had duly informed him that Major General von Mellenthin and Colonel von Seydlitz had bedded down for the night three hours before his arrival, and would speak with him in the morning at promptly 0730. Weissdrake was three hours late, and even Commander's tabs would not protect him from getting a boot stuffed somewhere uncomfortable in his anatomy.

He finished the last fastenings on the outer jacket, pulled the last glove over his burned left hand, and flung himself out of the officer's tent, breath steaming in the chill air of winter. His eyes found the source of the unearthly screeching that had woken him in the first place, and he almost spat his teeth out in scorn. Antares de la Somme was outside, in the snow-covered woods, stripped to the waist and wiping himself down with a rag. The water in the bowl on the camping table in front of him did not look the least bit warm, but the little wretch didn't seem to mind. In fact, the ace was singing, like he took cold-water baths all the time. To make matters even more bizarre, he was the only person outside their tent, and no one else was to be seen. Weissdrake winced as the tenor voice hit a pitch in the song and cracked badly, and he resisted the urge to moan in misery.

"'Mon-EY!!'" squawked the smaller pilot, dipping the rag into the bowl and spreading it out with both hands. "'It's a crime!! Share it fair-ly but don't take a slice of my~y PIE! MON~EY!! Bum-bum-bum! So they sa~ay!'" The next piece of the song was thankfully muffled and garbled as de la Somme buried his face in the dripping rag and scrubbed harshly. "'Eh the oot o aw e~ul uu~ay! Ut ih oo as ur uh aiz iz oh urpraz aht ehr---'" he took the rag away from his face and continued, "'giving none away! Away! Aw~ayyy!!'"

"SHUT THE F*** UP, ANTARES, YOU F***ING LOONY!!" That was Margul, bellowing as loud as he could from the inside of one of the other tents.

De la Somme huffed. "Up yours, turnip dick!" he called back, managing to say it sing-songishly and scathing at the same time. Then he turned and saw Weissdrake. "Mornin', Karl. I hope you can appreciate a little Floyd this fine German day." He tossed the rag back into the bowl, shivering as the cold water oozed down his chest and back, dripping from the silver chain around his neck.

"I'd appreciate it more if it were fine Floyd on this fine German day. Please tell me there's coffee." De la Somme pointed at a steaming black cast-iron pot on a propane burner. "You're my god."

"Don't let God hear you say that, mein Freund. He might get jealous and strike me down with cruddy looks and a bad singing voice," the ace pilot wriggled into his shirt, but not before Weissdrake noticed some red marks and darkening bruises on de la Somme's torso and back.

"Well, we can't have that, now can we?" Weissdrake cupped the metal mug in both hands, mindful of his bad left hand, sipping gratefully as he sat down on a wooden stool/seat. "You the only one up yet?"

"Yeah, so far. The bums haven't had the nuts to stick anything but their tongues out in the temperature today. 'Sides, I lost the coin toss, so I had to get up early." He turned his head. "Up and at 'em, hosers!! Nappy time be over, you hear!?" Groans and curses trickled out at de la Somme, and he smiled widely. "They love me. If Vlady didn't get 'em up, I just did."

"What happened to the 0730 meeting?"

De la Somme blinked. "Uhhh, what 0730 meeting? Deet and Reinhardt aren't even awake yet. Well, they are now, but you get the drift."

"But I was told---" the muffled sounds of laughter were coming from one of the enlisted men's tents, and Weissdrake leaned back in the seat to yell, "I hope your mother is sucking a Side 6 cock right now, van Allen!"

The laughter intensified. "Your mother has a cock, Commander, sir!" called back van Allen from the confines of the tent.

"If she does, your mother's sucked it!" retorted Weissdrake, grinning in spite of having been had by the Marine.

"Nice comeback, Karl," said de la Somme dryly. "But Marines don't have mothers that weren't issued to them with their toiletries in Basic!"

"Bite it, de la Somme!" called out Lucien McKenna. "At least we know what toiletries are!"

De la Somme clapped his hands together and rubbed them. "Ooo, I think I hit a nerve on yon Lieutenant," then louder, "Yeah, that's real good coming from a guy who the Corps taught to confuse standard-issue toothpaste with Preparation H!"

"F***ing Army queers can't even spell 'standard'!" Van Allen again.

"Can too!" barked de la Somme. "'Ess'-'tee'-'andard'! How's that?"

"Yeah, that was a big word, Commander. Sorry to make you work on that one."

"Well, damn! I guess I'm just not fit to be Marine material without a plaque-free, cavity-free, minty-smelling ass, now am I?"

Marine Captain Roberts clambered out of his tent and stretched, not looking particularly happy with the whole situation. "I'd like to speak for the rest of the company in thanking the walking Hostess Twinkie commercial known as Commander de la Somme for rousing us with his caterwauling, witty banter, and knowledge of what the human rectum should smell like on a real man. You are officially the 10th Panzerkaempfer's 'Asshole with Arms'." Then Roberts threw a wet stick at him before stomping off to go do Marine things.

Van Allen couldn't respond, he was too busy laughing, along with everyone else. Weissdrake took a sip of coffee to keep from falling out laughing himself.

"Well, the next time Professor Sneer or the Mad Deserter cuts off the Hostess supply to his colony, he can just call Captain Marvel or someone else to throw Fruit Pies at them to stop their dastardly plan, cause I won't pick up the phone for his ass." De la Somme plucked the stick from his shoulderblade and tossed it away before he poured himself a mug, which would only add to his hyperactivity.

"So," he said, after securing the hot mug in his cold fingers, "what happened to you guys last night? I heard you thump on in about 0500 or so, way late."

"Ran into a column of mechanized infantry reservists before we reached the Koblenz crossing. Had to stop and skoosh a few."

"'Skoosh'?" de la Somme's grin got bigger. "I like that!"

"Keep it, then. What happened to you?"

De la Somme looked a bit confused, before Weissdrake clarified the question with: "The marks."

"Oh! I got snooty with Deet and Reinhardt, and they grabbed me and tickle-tortured me until I was squealing like a pig. Most of the marks're from me trying to get away. Talk about futile struggling."

"You must have deserved it. You always do."

"Yeah, but they're both scuzzballs anyway," smirked de la Somme. "What were those reservists doing there, anyway?"

"Looked like they were coming back from a maneuvers exercise. They didn't have anything heavier than a few antitank missiles and machine cannons on their APCs. It was easy, but it took a little time."

"Twins okay?"

"Yes. They scratched our paint, but nothing more than that. We probably could have simply sped past them, but after the ease that Lammersdorf was, why not have a little fun in the meantime?"

"Because," came a voice from behind them as von Seydlitz stepped out of the command tent, "it was not part of the plan, Kommandant."

Weissdrake stood and saluted. "No, sir, it wasn't. But no plan survives contact with the enemy, sir."

Von Seydlitz waved a hand. "Do not quote von Moltke to me, Karl, and please be at ease. In fact, pour me a mug of that coffee. Thank you for fixing it, Antares. I trust there is not anything untoward in its contents."

De la Somme snorted. "Naw, ran out of LSD before I could slip some in, sorry."

"Pity," For von Seydlitz, it was almost humor. "Generalmajor von Mellenthin will be out in a moment. We decided to let everyone sleep in. This is not the War, after all," he took the mug from Weissdrake's hand in his own ungloved one, as if the heat did not matter.

As if anticipating the next question, de la Somme piped up, "The kids are all still here, Colonel. I checked on them myself. Should I get breakfast going now?"

"NO!" yelled Margul, staggering out of his tent, eyes swollen from sleep. "I'll do it! Please, sir, don't let HIM cook!"

"I am inclined to agree, Kommandant Margul. Antares, let Margul cook. You could find a way to burn water."

"Underappreciated! That's ALL I am around here!" huffed de la Somme haughtily.

Weissdrake grinned. "At least we pay attention to you." Weissdrake was paying attention to von Seydlitz. He looked a bit battered, with the remains of bruises and contusions scattered on his face, but they were fading, almost visibly, and now looked like they were week-old. He mused over what those were about, but decided not to ask.

"Oberst!" called von Mellenthin from the command tent. "Send Weissdrake in here please!"

Von Seydlitz tilted his head towards the command tent. "Get moving, Kommandant."

Weissdrake finished the mug of coffee and walked to the command tent, rapping on the wooden sign as a means of announcement. "Enter," spoke von Mellenthin.

The General was just finishing pulling the last of his boots on and lacing them when Weissdrake saw him. Faster than he could remember, he dropped to a knee and bowed low. "My lord!" Weissdrake, too, was from New Koenigsberg, though not one of the ruling class.

"Rise and speak, Karl Weissdrake. Let me look at you." The last time von Mellenthin had seen Weissdrake, the man was a mummy of burn wrappings. He stepped closer to inspect the scarring that had destroyed half of Weissdrake's head. Weissdrake inspected the remains of a fight that were on von Mellenthin, and he put two and two together, managing not to smile. He wasn't one to voice an opinion about the actions of his rulers.

The Commander saw pity in von Mellenthin's blue eyes, and he almost fainted. Everyone else had grown so accustomed to his grotesqueness that they had become blind to it, but von Mellenthin had not. Under the crushing weight of his scrutiny, Weissdrake felt his world begin to collapse.

"P-please, my lord---!" No! Don't leave me behind! Don't hate me! His own mind began to plead with God, the universe, anything to keep his fate from being ruined now. But he did not weep under the piercing sight of his Emperor, even when that Emperor placed a calloused hand on the burns on the left side of Weissdrake's head.

"It's not so bad, Karl. I think you can still get a date." Von Mellenthin clapped a hand on Weissdrake's shoulder, knowing that the burned man had feared this encounter for eight years. "In fact, anyone who can endure what you have and still want to pilot a mobile suit into combat should be able to find suitable companionship anywhere he damn well wishes!"

Weissdrake exhaled a breath he did not even know he was holding. "Th-thank you, sir!"

"Rumor has it you can't count past eight without removing your shoes. Is that true?" asked von Mellenthin quietly.

"I still think in tens, sir." Weissdrake clenched his maimed left hand. "My abilities aren't hampered by my . . . condition, and I believe Lammersdorf proved that, sir."

Von Mellenthin smiled at him. "That's all I wanted to know. Have a seat. Tell me about these reservists you blundered into."

Weissdrake did sit, but did not relax. "Just bad luck, for them. Nothing vehicular survived, so anything that got away had to be on foot."

"And you're certain they were reserves and not Federal regulars?"

"Yes, sir. But I didn't stop to check bodies or anything. The beam weaponry of these Gelgoogs doesn't leave much behind for evidence for study, sir."

"Fine, fine. How have the twins been holding up? Are they still speaking in synchronized sentences?"

Weissdrake nodded. Von Mellenthin smiled. "Good. The fewer things that change for the worse, the happier I am. I prefer to change things myself, rather than have them changed for me. I've made some alterations to Nemesis, Karl."

The Commander grinned as best he could. "This going to be a BB, sir?" "BB" was the initials for "Breakfast Briefing", a habit that had formed during the War, where everything happened at breakfast instead of later in the day. Von Mellenthin preferred a well-fed audience.

"More like a Brunch Briefing, Kommandant. It's a little late in the day to call it 'breakfast'. I'll tell everyone at the same time what evil design I have thus far fashioned for our enemies, but I wanted to see you in person, just you and I. I'm glad you've survived, Karl."

"You as well, sir." Noticing von Mellenthin beginning to rise, he quickly stood to his feet, saluting. Von Mellenthin returned it, then gestured towards the door.


Field rations. Everyone hated them, especially after having spent eight years without having to touch one. Most didn't eat more than a few bites, or just killed the accessories instead of the main entree, and stuck to general conversation and the coffee. Just like during the War, the enlisted men ate with the officers. Von Mellenthin was a big proponent of the "cafeteria communism" ethic that most Germans abided by, and from the lowest private to the biggest general, everyone in the unit ate together whenever possible. There was no rank differentiation when it came to mealtime in the 10th Panzerkaempfer.

"Goddammit!" raged Margul around biscuit. "That pretty boy La Vesta would have the only person able to make this **** edible with him, wouldn't the f***er?" He had done his best to get these things fixed in a fashion at least remotely pleasant, but his own kitchen skills were about as gentle as his manners, even if he couldn't actually manage to burn water.

"Language, please, Commander," spoke Roberts quietly, table manners perfect as always.

"For once, Magilla, I've gotta agree," muttered de la Somme, dropping his fork and grimacing in disgust. "I say we kidnap Hemphill before we go to Berlin." He could kill for a doughnut or something at this stage. Thus far, the only people who seemed to be enjoying this horrid little field breakfast were von Mellenthin (who'd dealt with prison food), von Seydlitz (who would eat anything in front of him without an opinion), and the eight kids (who were a little freaky and didn't seem to care). He slid the rest of his re-hydrated eggs towards Erik, who had devoured his with the speed of a piranha. The boy grinned and tore into the offering, and de la Somme reached over and ruffled his hair affectionately.

Von Mellenthin cleared his throat as he wiped his lips with a napkin. "We're not going to Berlin."

The whole group went silent, stunned. "We're not, sir?" asked Weissdrake, eyebrow (the only one) quirking.

"No. Berlin is a front. Imagine trying to hold that location with just our suits, especially with a supply reserve as deep as my pinkie finger dipped into Herren-Chiemsee. I might be a felon, but I'm not insane, nor am I looking for another Metz. No, I have something else in mind, one the Feds aren't expecting. Clear the table."

A surface was rendered litterless, and von Mellenthin spread a glossy dry-erase map of Europe over it. "Now," he said once he'd gotten everyone's attention, "Oberst von Seydlitz has done an admirable job making his own variation on the symphony I've composed, but I've found yet another twist to use. The way things have been laid out in Nemesis will not be enough to achieve the purpose for this Operation. Phases Three and Four have a gap in them that must be closed, and Phase Three will not get the reaction we desire from Herschel Cramer and his 103rd Company. Thus, I have added another chord to the stanza."

And his finger pointed to a place on the map.

"Mother of Zeon," breathed Captain Roberts quietly. "That's brilliant."

"I think that kick to the hive will stir our hornets sufficiently into rage," beamed von Mellenthin. "Phase Three goes into effect in a few hours. Phase Three-A will commence in forty hours. We should arrive on site for Phase Four and only have to wait a day for the victim to arrive just in time for his own murder."

"Not going to be an easy road, sir," mentioned Roberts, whose expertise at ground warfare was better than most people at this table. "The logistics situation reeks about this whole thing anyway. So if we aren't going to Berlin, where are we going, if I may ask?"

And von Mellenthin shifted his finger over the map, stopping at a precise location. "This will achieve Nemesis for us. Oberst von Seydlitz, would you do the honor of informing Hauptfeldwebel La Vesta and his two associates about the change in plan?"

"Certainly, sir," There was a lot of "ooh"-ing and "ahh"-ing, and quiet murmurs, both worried and in admiration, as von Mellenthin detailed the rest of his idea of Phase Three-A. Von Seydlitz remained silent throughout it. He already knew what the plan was, since he and von Mellenthin had been up very late discussing exactly that. He had no objections. In fact, he was so glad to have the burden of overall command removed from him that von Mellenthin could have told him to go take Berlin himself and he would have had faith that it was all part of a larger scheme.

This scheme was larger than most, despite its small strategic objective.

The General continued. "In the meantime, let's get packed up and moving. One hour, people. I want to be marching in one hour. The children will be divided amongst the enlisted men, one in each suit. If there aren't enough enlisted men, give the rest to officers from the bottom-up. If they interfere in the operation of your mobile suit, shoot them. Motivate your asses, kids, and let's fight a motherf***ing war!!"

De la Somme raised his hand as the others were clearing out and beginning to break down camp. "Uhh, excuse me, General, sir. Did you really mean shoot them?"

Von Mellenthin sighed. "No, Kommandant. Just make certain they behave themselves," and he turned his eyes on them, bringing the full force of his will to bear, "and understand."


One hour later, the camp was gone. From the cargo surface of the heavy-lift vehicle, two MS-07B3 Gouf Customs arose, actuators whining as they awoke in the chillness of the air. One of them stepped off the vehicle, then snapped out with a kick, moving into motions that resembled stretching.

"Oooo, I'm soooo sore!" complained de la Somme over the unit "push", voice intentionally gravelly as though simulating the sounds. His Gouf Custom bent over to touch its toes. Deliberately, de la Somme pointed the Gouf Custom's ass at Margul's Kaempfer. Then, as it straightened, he made the massive mobile suit wiggle. "But damn, I'm still sexy."

"Rough night, Commander?" asked Ogun from his Dom Tropen, which looked a bit like the hunchback of Notre Dame with the torso of an old Zaku F-type strapped to its back, awkward over the thruster pack and the 880mm bazooka and heat saber. Kerr's Dom Tropen and McKenna's Dom also had Zaku torsos attached to their suits. This would slow them immensely, but left them the fastest moving ground suits despite the added tonnage and inefficient thruster configurations. Taking the old Zakus had been von Seydlitz's idea, in a "waste-not, want-not" sort of way.

"Yeah, your mom's getting so violent towards me these days," he laughed aloud. Erik, sitting behind him in the narrow confines of the cockpit, smiled. De la Somme had insisted on Erik riding with him.

With that, the ace's Gouf Custom walked towards its spot, passing the shorter Kaempfer and flashing the star-and-sword symbol across its mono-eye, which flared red as if angered. The Kaempfer's fingers tapped the butt of one of its assault shotguns.

The second Gouf Custom, black eagle of Prussia emblazoned on its breast, stood aside and watched the third suit rise from the carrier. No grandstanding necessary with that one to proclaim its lethality. Like its pilot, it thought austentation to be tantamount to compensation for a lack of self-esteem.

Command antenna jutting proudly above its head, camouflaged like the others of the 10th Panzerkaempfer, the MS-06-R1A Zaku II High-Mobility stood to its full height. The lion rampant of Hessen was stenciled on its breastplate, the first suit to bear it since Metz. Forsaking the 120mm autocannon that had been the hallmark of the Zaku, this one carried the MMP-80 90mm, like the other suits did. In fact, it had two of them. A 280mm bazooka and a heat hawk were stored on its waist armor. Grenades dangled from the skirting. Thrusters jutted from its lower legs, which would grant it great speed and maneuverability. The backpack was also upgraded from the original Zaku. With all the alterations, it resembled nothing less than a riced-up Zaku with an attitude. While not as advanced as some of the other suits in the 10th's contingent, Shin 'White Wolf of Solomon' Matsunaga had piloted a Zaku Hi-Mo with great success during the War, as had Side 3 Air Defense ace Eric Mansfield and even Anavel 'Nightmare of Solomon' Gato; and no one here in the mountains of Germania dared entertain the thought that Dietrich 'Hessian Lion' von Mellenthin was getting the short shaft in his mobile suit. His record spoke for itself.

"This," said von Mellenthin proudly, "is just too cool." The suit moved forward a few steps, then spun around much faster than any normal Zaku could hope to manage, and the MMP-80 barked once, destroying the heavy-lift carrier in a fireball that vaporized the snow around it and flash-melted the ice from the trees.

"Let's march. Single file formation, rough terrain pattern," said von Mellenthin, eminently satisfied. If he could have leapt with glee inside the Zaku Hi-Mo, he would have. "Kaempfers on point, Gelgoogs at six. Radio discipline from this point on. Let's go tell the Feds just what we think of their lack of vision."

It began to rain as the sixteen Zeon mobile suits began their journey northward.

Bonn, Nordrhein-Westfalen, Central Europe
November 10, 0087

Lucas Edgrove was in a room he thought he would never have to use. He kicked himself for not making use of it sooner, but not for its intended purpose. It was remarkably peaceful, dark, and quiet, unlike nearly every other room at Federation Headquarters, Bonn. Here there was the gentle tapping of keys, dim lights from the screens that covered three of the four walls of the room, and the near-whispers of voices of the five people who spent most of their waking moments down here. This was the SatInt room, and it was like a sanctuary from the madness outside to Edgrove.

It was from this location that satellite imagery and telemetry was fed from nodes across Earth to European Command, where it was collated for use in area-strategic planning. It was the eyes in the sky room, where far from any danger to HumInt, or human intelligence assets, one could keep watch over one's territory and devise means with which to harm one's foes. Unfortunately, this was Europe, the land of the least danger, and the amount of imaging data and SatInt RealTime capability was poor. In fact, the Federation (and the Titans), only ever had but one satellite positioned over the entirety of the European continent, and it was an old one with only the most basic of capabilities.

Edgrove was frustrated to discover that he would know precisely what was happening in Ulan Bator, Mongolia, but not be able to see what was happening across the Rhine river, right outside the window and down the road a few blocks from European HQ. The screen that had been designated for European affairs was a mess, a jumble of writhing colors and blackness, or swaths of dark gray and white.

"Is this the best you can do?" he asked the Tech Sergeant at the screen, tugging one of the headphones away from the ear to speak into.

The Tech Sergeant looked miserable. "Yes, sir, I'm afraid so. This ancient bird hasn't got eyeballs good enough to penetrate the cloud cover for visuals. We never have visual over Europe in winter."

Which is exactly when the Zeeks hit us, damn them. "What about IR?"

"Useless, sir. Europe's too densely populated. I can't even distinguish Captain Cramer's suits from the rest of the heat sources in Magdeburg, much less anywhere else. With IR, it's almost too sensitive. This thing picks up automobiles, fireplaces, central heating environmentals, the works, and they all bleed together into masses of heat as opposed to single sources. Hell, it would pick up fireworks, but not be able to tell me if it was a firework or a brush fire."

Edgrove leaned forward. "What about Minovsky radiation?"

The Tech Sergeant shook his head. "This thing couldn't tell through it. Besides, they'd have to be giving off incredible density to be spotted by this old satellite."

"No, Sergeant, I meant track them by the lack of data."

"Like using IR to find cold spots instead of hot? Doubtful, sir. There's a lot of Europe, and plenty of things use Minovsky particles these days. I'll keep trying for you, sir, but I can't guarantee a thing with the rains and snows and cloud coverage."

"Then keep at it. Tell me if anything comes up." He patted the Sergeant on the shoulder and replaced the headphone, leaving quietly.

Rather than return to his office, he decided to spend a little time on the balcony of the second floor of the building. Usually, it was where the smokers went, but Camael Balke had changed all that. Edgrove simmered about what he had been forced to grant to Balke in return for his assistance. Even after all of that, Edgrove could not stand the man. Certainly, he was an excellent asset, and a capable officer, but was he really worth the cost? Only time would tell. Besides, despite his hideous sense of manners and etiquette, he made a wonderful foil against Sajer, and anything that tripped Sajer up was okay in Edgrove's book.

Still, the man's utter disregard for protocol was not only vexing, it was downright pissing Edgrove off. The Quartermaster had finally dug up a Captain's uniform with the appropriate dimensions and shoved Balke into it. Balke had complained that the newness made it too tight and that it needed to be "broken in". So the awful creature took his brand new uniform, and himself, found the nearest appreciable hill with a lot of snow and water on the grass, walked to the top of it, lay himself flat on the sodden ground, and then rolled himself down the hill. After three runs, he had declared the uniform officially "broken in" and quite comfortable, despite it looking like he'd been in a trench for a month. Edgrove almost strangled him.

At least the place was quieter now that Balke was gone. He and his aide Dorff had commandeered a fast scout car with extended range fuel tanks earlier in the day, to check on a report from Koblenz about an infantry battalion running afoul of three Gelgoog-type mobile suits . Edgrove almost slapped himself, thinking that it was crude to consider the loss of perfectly good troops as an excuse to get Balke out of his hair. At any rate, despite Search and Rescue arriving on the scene first, Balke had left several hours ago, and had not been heard from since. And no one had seen Sajer all day. Edgrove figured he'd taken the shuttle to Lyons to confer what Balke had told them with Tizard.

It disturbed Edgrove greatly that the Titans seemed to care more about Nemesis than the Federation did. Earlier this morning, he'd been forced into an odious conversation with his superiors in Lhasa, or Dakar, or whatever new pesthole the Federation Assembly had found to hide from the AEUG in. They had informed him that Dietrich von Mellenthin and the 10th Panzerkaempfer Division was a European problem, therefore Edgrove's problem, and therefore not their problem. Edgrove had done his best not to screech like a bat at the old bastards, explaining to them just how explosive the situation truly was. The Assembly hadn't even blinked when Edgrove clued them in on the loss of the eight NewType experiments. They told him to deal with it as best he could, but there would be no assets or reinforcements arriving forthwith. Europe, for all intents and purposes, was on its own.

Except for the Titans.

He stared out across the few blocks to the river. A large boat was slowly passing by, and he stared at it, mind elsewhere. He hoped fervently that Cramer could do the impossible like he advertised and take the Zeeks down. The only good news he'd had thus far was that with the exception of the Koblenz Gelgoogs, there had been no further incidents or injuries, and the people he had sent out to hunt for the delivery devices for Nemesis had reported finding nothing thus far. Balke's theory that there was no Nemesis was looking a bit true, but if so, why the deception except to cause fear? What was the true purpose of the 10th Panzerkaempfer?

His phone buzzed, tearing his thoughts away from their course. With the main nexus at Lammersdorf down, everyone had taken to using cell phones with their monopole programming instead of the faster and more reliable satellite lines. He reached into his trouser pocket for it.