MSG: In Vain Doth Valour Bleed

Chapter 4

Berchtesgaden, Bayern, Central Europe
August 18, 0087

The world came to a jarring crash for Reinhardt von Seydlitz as his black-and-gold MS-07B3 Gouf Custom slammed shoulder-first into the ground, exacting a grimace from its pilot's face and a snarl from his lips. The stream of high-velocity tracer ammunition that forced the maneuver lashed its way across the space where the Gouf Custom had been, chewing apart the terrain instead of his armor. Maintaining his equilibrium, he brought the left arm of the downed mobile suit up and cut loose a torrent from his own 75mm Gatling cannon, filling the treeline where the offender lay concealed with an illuminated stream of armor-piercing lead.

As he brought the struggling Gouf Custom back to its feet, a burst from his left flank caressed his shield, the smack of the rounds impacting the Luna Titanium like hail on a tin roof; except that this hail was far more adept at ablating the surface of the only protection he had against incoming fire. On the other hand, the staccato made for an excellent spur in motivating him to get his mobile suit upright and moving again.

Verdammt! Another one! Haskell must have failed!

He wheeled the Gouf Custom about and dove behind a bluff that offered a suitable defilade from three sides, even for something the size of his suit. That would buy him a little time to regroup.

A burst on the surface of the defilade, too hard for machine gun rounds, told him otherwise. Debris from the impact rained down on his suit's armored back and shoulders, and the dust cloud was quite extensive. It was a big hit; he'd felt the vibrations through the stick he was grasping.

880mm bazooka. One of the Dom Tropens. Which one, Ogun or Kerr? And where the hell is Dalyev? Things were not looking so grand for the 358th 'Unsullied' today.

Von Seydlitz toggled his transmit switch to the unit 'push'. "Oberleutnant Dalyev, acknowledge." Static hissed as his answer. The sweat under his arms and on his face began to itch intolerably as the stress began to sensitize him to other discomforts. The air conditioner was already working overtime.

Another 880mm round smashed into the defilade, which was beginning to crumble from the punishment. Quickly, he stuck the head of the Gouf Custom above the ridge of the bluff, letting the main camera get a good look, and then shrank back down again. He found what he had been looking for, the mammoth red-and-white mobile suit sporting the angry-eyed wind funnel sigil on its left leg, opposite the golden standard of the 10th Panzerkaempfer on the right leg.

That is Kerr's Dom Tropen. He is keeping me pinned down. Why? What are they waiting for? His Gouf Custom had taken some superficial damage thus far, but was otherwise a sitting duck for the three opposing mobile suits. They could finish him at their leisure, at the cost of perhaps one of their number. Were they being commanded by him, they would have rushed his position.

Unless it is ONLY Kerr. . .and de la Somme.

As if from nowhere, a red-and-white twin to his own Gouf Custom rocketed up from the other side of the defilade, arcing into the sky, heat saber raised for a killing blow. Von Seydlitz kicked his own thrusters on, blasting his own Gouf Custom back and away from the strike area of the other mobile suit, but keeping the wall of the bluff between himself and the Dom Tropen. The aggressor Gouf Custom's heat saber slashed air, and then reversed itself into a guard stance behind the wielder's shield, the white star-and-sword on the right breast a garish reminder of who this pilot was, as only aces rated three insignia on their suits in the 10th; Division, Battalion, and personal.

As his mobile suit wheeled backwards, stumbling a bit from the speed of its reverse, von Seydlitz lashed out with his arm-mounted e-whip at the red-and-white Gouf Custom, who sidestepped it with an ease that made von Seydlitz want to vomit.

"You're getting too old for this ****, Reinhardt, baby," taunted de la Somme from his Gouf Custom, his voice ringing out on the loudspeaker instead of the radio. "Maybe you oughtta consider taking up knitting, before you hurt yourself out here and end up like Dalyev and Haskell."

"Maybe you should consider surrendering, Kommandant," replied von Seydlitz, thankful his face could not be seen by the other pilot. He did not know if he could keep the tension off of it, and he could feel his lips pulling back from his teeth despite his best efforts.

His bones were aching from the strain of combat, and his skull was pounding as his mind tried desperately to keep up with everything around it. He did not fail to notice that the Dom Tropen was moving, kicking up a lot of dust from its ground effect thrusters as it glided at tremendous speed around the bluff to join into the fight. For ground speed, few things could match the MS-09 series, and von Seydlitz took the opportunity to lament the 10th Panzerkaempfer's inability to acquire Doms during the War yet again.

De la Somme's laugh was almost derisive, especially with the almost robotic quality the speaker gave it. "Surrender? I can't spell such a long word, Oberst! I like 'victor' better. Rolls off the tongue so smoothly, especially when it applies to someone as neat as me."

"So does 'bastard'."

A tsk, tsk sound came across the speaker. "Bad Colonel, setting such an example for your men. Harsh language won't get you the swift death you want, you know. You might want to try being nicer to the guy who's gonna inherit all your stuff now that you're about to be a smoking hole on Terra."

"I cut you out of the will a long time ago, whelp," he quipped as he brought the Gouf Custom's arm came up and loosed another barrage of 75mm rounds. De la Somme's suit dove to the right, returning fire as it moved.

Private Nolan Kerr's MS-09F Dom Tropen slid into position, staying on von Seydlitz's left as it brought the 880mm bazooka to bear. It was apparent that it had been in a fight, judging by the fact that the larger suit was missing its left arm below the elbow, and there were pits in its armor that suggested 90mm machine gun fire, so von Seydlitz knew that Haskell and Dalyev went down fighting. Von Seydlitz opened up the thrusters and launched his Gouf Custom into a powered jump that took him away a hair's breadth before Kerr could get a solid bead on him with the RB-T27 bazooka. He paid the price as 35mm shells from de la Somme started chewing away at the shoulder armor of his right arm, snipping off the prominent spike in their barrage.

Antares is out of 75mm shells! Sure enough, de la Somme's Gouf Custom was missing the Gatling cannon from its shield, apparently jettisoned sometime earlier. He landed as deftly as he could and slewed around to the left again, opening fire on the Dom Tropen with the remainder of his own 75mm ammunition. Kerr was so intent on getting the bazooka on target that the rounds hit the stationary suit before the pilot could react. The high-velocity tracers tore holes in the torso and upper arms of the big red-and-white 'Tyrant Tornadoes' suit. The Dom Tropen folded and crumpled to the ground, out of the fight. Its glaring green mono-eye went dark.

But there was no time to celebrate. De la Somme cut on the speed and closed the distance between their suits faster than he could bring the 75mm Gatling around to engage him. In desperation, the right hand of the Gouf Custom snagged the heat saber and drew it, barely managing to parry de la Somme's. The crashing ring as the two heated swords met and separated shook both the suits, and set von Seydlitz's teeth on edge. It was a high-pitched keening sound that you could feel in your guts.

Clumsy fool! he berated himself angrily. Do not block with the damned EDGE! It was only dumb luck that the two blades did not shatter from the impacts. As it was, he knew his own blade now had a sizeable notch in its edge.

Swinging the heat saber in three successive overhead chops to keep de la Somme occupied, he ejected the now-empty 75mm Gatling from his shield, enabling him to bring his left hand into the fight. A spray of 35mm warshots bought him a little distance, but de la Somme was relentless. The sabers clanged against each other again and again, each pilot acting and reacting with only milliseconds to spare between actions.

De la Somme struck first blood, with a sudden reversal of an overhead slash into an upward stab that cut deeply into von Seydlitz's suit's right side. He felt the impact as the suit shuddered like a wounded man who'd just been laid open with a blade.

And then he began to get angry. The little Range just STABBED me!

Balling the left fist of his Gouf Custom, von Seydlitz's mobile suit followed its pilot's command, reared back, and punched its opponent in the head. De la Somme's suit reeled from the blow, staggering to maintain its balance.

This was his last chance: to goad de la Somme into doing something rash. It was dirty manipulation, but von Seydlitz had just about run out of options, and he had to even the playing field somehow. Despite a fatigue that had his soul crying out for relief, he grinned. Slugging a mobile suit was not standard field procedure when in suit-to-suit combat, except with the 10th Panzerkaempfer.

The metallic tenor rang out from de la Somme's suit. "Ohhhh, we're getting serious now, are we? Let's dance, Reinhardt!"

Got you. "My kind of dancing is a contact sport, Kommandant."

And von Seydlitz went on the offensive, driving on the other Gouf Custom with all the fury he could muster. He managed to sever de la Somme's right arm assembly at about the wrist, removing the hand from the arm, but not enough to disable his e-whip.

"Slick, Oberst, but not good enough to catch this Gingerbread Man!" sang de la Somme's voice into von Seydlitz's head.

BAM! BAM! BAM! went the 35mm staccato across his torso, jarring him enough that he tasted blood on his lips. The onboard computer began screaming at him that the reactor was damaged, and there were multiple points of serious internal damage to the suit. He thumbed the manual override and pressed onward, each attack pushing de la Somme further towards the treeline. He flicked the right hand open, tossing the heat saber into his left hand and catching it with ease, and then shifted the movement into an underhand slash that cut across the red-and-white surface of de la Somme's suit, scarring its torso and carving a diagonal across the star-and-sword symbol.

At about ten meters to the treeline, de la Somme began to get nimble. He began rocking the Gouf Custom from its left foot to its right, like a boxer, concentrating on defending from von Seydlitz's attacks rather than counterattacking himself. His shield absorbed the brunt of the remaining 35mm ammo from von Seydlitz, which reduced this fight to nothing more than a melee. De la Somme reminded him of this by kicking his suit in the gut with a foot.

The two Gouf Customs danced back and forth for what seemed an eternity, each pilot bringing to bear every skill they had developed during the One-Year War for the purpose of overcoming the other. The audacious de la Somme's style was easily an even match for the mechanically-precise von Seydlitz's, and for a time it was apparent that something was going to have to give before an edge could be found. Shields in tatters, heat sabers notching, and with no ammunition in either suit, it appeared that the only clear winner of this was whoever did not simply die in their cockpit from the strain.

Then it seemed the end was finally there. De la Somme swept his right arm backwards for a power slash; so far back it shifted the aspect of his entire suit, and exposed his left side behind his shield. Von Seydlitz brought both hands onto the heat saber and chopped downward, slapping the blade from the hand of de la Somme's suit, then stabbing the tip right through the mono-eye of the 'Tyrant Tornadoes' Gouf Custom.

"Ouch!! Nice tag, Reinhardt, baby."

"Concede defeat and I will let you live to call it a draw."

De la Somme laughed, ever cheerful. "You're such the nobleman, Colonel. But I don't think so."

Von Seydlitz's eyebrows rose. "And why is that, exactly?"

Rather than respond by word, de la Somme responded with action. The e-whip he'd lashed out when his right arm swung backwards had managed to attach itself by its grappler to a tree trunk, previously damaged by stray fire. With a tug, the e-whip and its cargo pulled free and came around like a horseman's flail. The hardwood smashed into von Seydlitz's Gouf Custom at great velocity, shattering into splinters and knocking the 73-ton mobile suit to the ground. It landed with a thump that shook the leaves from some of the nearby trees.

Before the black-and-gold 'Unsullied' suit completed its landing, de la Somme had pulled the heat saber from the head of his own suit and had it impaled through the grounded von Seydlitz's right shoulder, pinning the other suit to the earth.

"I'd extend your offer to me to yourself, Reinhardt, but I'd rather just see you dead."

I bet you would. With a jerk on the sticks, von Seydlitz's Gouf Custom scissored its legs and swept de la Somme's suit off its feet. The resounding crash it made when it hit spurred him on, reaching out with the left hand to pull the heat saber from his suit and release the machine back into the fight. He had just managed to pull it free when de la Somme rolled his suit, kippupped it to its feet, and was preparing to extend the e-whip to finish von Seydlitz off. Von Seyditz knew he would not be able to get the mobile suit to its feet before the e-whip tagged him and he was finished.

True to form, de la Somme almost casually flicked the magnetic lash towards his torso, a massive taser with which to put the 'Unsullied' suit out of this fight for good.

Von Seydlitz, in a movement so fast it was a blur, caught the tip of the e-whip on the flat of the heat saber, then released it as de la Somme's Gouf Custom began dumping electricity across the e-whip's length.

He maintained enough awareness to hear de la Somme's incredulous voice spit out "What the f***??", and then his head was filled with sound as he power-tackled the other Gouf Custom, bringing both suits to the ground again, but this time the tables had been turned in his favor.

With his Gouf Custom sitting astride de la Somme's, knees pinning the arms of the other suit to the ground, von Seydlitz reached down with his own hands and grabbed de la Somme's head, then began to methodically smash it into the ground.

"Do not" SLAM "presume" SLAM "that an enemy" SLAM "is helpless" SLAM "until you" SLAM "make them so," SLAM "Kommandant," he barked through the loudspeaker, enjoying the feel of having the other mobile suit's head flattening under the power of his fists.

This was why it was such a surprise when the point of a heat saber burst through the left side of his torso, causing every light in the cockpit to go red and every warning sound to scream that this suit was a dead machine. He cursed under his breath, stunned, as he stared through the main camera at the several decimeters' worth of heat saber jutting from the left side of his Gouf Custom.

That is MY heat saber! The realization hit him as the entire world went dark before his eyes, his suit shutting itself down as the reactor coughed up its last bit of power and then ceased operating.

De la Somme's e-whip had managed to maintain its grip on the saber even as it began to melt from the residual heat. Then, as von Seydlitz had been punishing his suit so violently, he'd simply slipped the saber closer and closer to their position, before giving it a hard tug and driving the point through the thinner rear armor of von Seydlitz's suit.

The hiss and pop as the simulator door opened, and the rush of cooler, moist air was almost a baptism after the awful stink of the interior and the heat the combat had built up in its pilot. The sound of cheers and whistles assailed his ears, and he realized that probably every member of the 10th Panzerkaempfer had watched this fight. Von Seydlitz began unbuckling himself from the apparatus, feeling the hands of others on his shoulders and arms to help pull him out of the rear entry hatch to the simulator capsule. He did not protest. He felt as weak as a kitten, after this one. Fighting de la Somme was worse than fighting any three other pilots, and that included the notoriously aggressive Margul.

Instinctively, he glanced at the chronometer inside the capsule, and was horrified by the time. FOUR hours!! We were in there for four HOURS! No surprise I feel so wretched now, is it?

As he was bodily lifted from the confines of the simulator and back into the world outside, it was indeed apparent that the men had stopped what they were doing to watch the titans clash. Damn. And we still have suits to finish putting together. I need an example. . .

Managing to clear his throat without it being conspicuous, he spoke aloud, "Hauptfeldwebel la Vesta. I will hope for your sake that you completed the mission I assigned to you before taking yourself away from it."

Master Sergeant Wolfram la Vesta, commander of the 186th 'Deep Dwellers' Amphibious Platoon (formerly Battalion), ran a hand through his black, curly hair. "Hemphill's finishing the last batch of mixing now, Colonel. Mom didn't raise anyone in the family stupid enough to leave white phosphorus lying around by itself."

Judging by la Vesta's heritage, von Seydlitz did not doubt that. La Vesta's mother was an Italian, and his father a Dane, thus producing a being with Mediterranean coloring, VERY blue eyes, and an attention to detail that had made the 'Deep Dwellers' a very efficient and effective amphibious assault team. Von Seydlitz aimed his eyes at the subterranean lake further down the sublevel, where the ten short tons of white phosphorus were being prepared for their intended purpose. Sure enough, the bulbous head of Private Nestor Hemphill's MSM-07E Z'Gok E was sloshing around in the water, its claw-like manipulators underneath the surface where the floodlights illuminated the dark brine water.

Hemphill had been immediately the one to ask for about this portion of Nemesis. He was the unit cook, almost good enough to be a master chef if he was not already a soldier. La Vesta had handed him the recipe for what they needed and he took to it like Mario Batali on an alfredo sauce.

"Excellent," he said, turning his attention back to his men. There were a few missing. "Break time is over, meinen Rebell. Get back to your tasks and out of the tactical area."

With a few more backslaps and laughs, the men began to disperse. Von Seydlitz wiped a hand across his face, suddenly feeling dizzy from the endorphins flooding his system. He was beginning to wonder if he was going to collapse before reaching his office when the animate fireball that was Antares de la Somme slammed into him and wrapped him in a bear hug.

"Woo-HOOO!! That was the COOLEST thing ever, Reinhardt! I haven't had that much fun in YEARS! We've gotta do that again! Can we? How about tomorrow after dinner? C'mon, you know you wanna! You had fun, I can tell, and maybe we can even get six more in there and make it a REAL challenge! Yeah, in fact, I think we should do just that, since that's the next stage in the training schedule coming up anyway once the platoon trials are done! You might even win this time, too, but you need to bludgeon Haskell for tripping his Zaku Cannon in that ditch line, and Dalyev needs to learn that the Zaku Kai is NOT a baseline Zaku II even if it feels like one. I think you should hit them with pipes. NO, sticks. NO, cinderblocks, even better!! But that was SOOO great anyway! You've gotten AWESOME in there, too! Packard must've been a GOD out there with that modded-up Gouf, don'tcha think?"

"Let go of me, Kommandant," was the choked reply. Von Seydlitz was having difficulty breathing even before de la Somme attached himself to him and began to constrict. Thankfully, the younger Commander complied with his request, and he maintained his own balance in the process. Besides, de la Somme reeked of sweat, salt, and adrenalin, a tripartite combination that von Seydlitz's olfactory senses were not willing to tolerate for lengthy amounts of time at this moment.

"Hey, I've gotta get back in there and run Weissdrake's boys through the bitchslap. Thanks for chatting, mein Bruder, and I'll catch you later, 'kay?"

With a slap on the back and a wave, de la Somme was off heading for the simulators again, laughing and joking with whomever he came into contact with. Von Seydlitz shook his head wearily and began his trek towards his chair, amazed as always by just how much enjoyment someone could get out of simulator training. This would be de la Somme's third time in the sims today. While the capsules and their programs approximated the best and worst of mobile suit combat, complete with knocking a pilot around in his own cockpit when called for, not to mention spitting sparks, smoke, and all the accompaniments of sustaining damage, it was only a simulator, and Antares de la Somme had always loved video games.

Enjoy it while it lasts, Antares. Once Weissdrake gets those ships to Regensburg, Nemesis becomes the only life we have for a very long time.

Simulators notwithstanding, everything was proceeding on schedule. No one seemed to mind that weeks were passing, as long as something got accomplished each day. All but three of the mobile suits were already constructed, tested, and deemed fit for combat; the other three would be before the end of the month. After that, it was train, train, and train some more until Commander Karl Weissdrake delivered the cargo ships to their destination. The rest of the logistics were being dealt with already. The deliveries had been on time, with no unexpected delays. In fact, with the exception of the ships, everything was perfect.

"Seven MONTHS??"

"That's what Leiger said. That is how long it will take to get all three ships rigged for IMO regulation, then gather a crew, then ship them to Regensburg from Duisberg."

"WE have the crews already. Did you inform him of that, Karl?"

"Ja, Oberst, but it makes little difference. These are three one-thousand ton transports, and unless you want to use external tanks to stash the 'cargo', what we require is going to take an overhaul of the interior compartments of all three ships. It's impossible to bend the laws of physics and time to suit our needs in this matter."

"You try telling that to Generalmajor von Mellenthin, Kommandant. He would have you strung up by your entrails for the pleasure of hearing you scream."

"I would tell him exactly what I told you, and you know it, Oberst von Seydlitz. But I can't tell him, so I'm telling you. You're going to have to push Nemesis back a few more weeks. We have waited years, von Seydlitz, what is a few weeks compared to that? An inconvenience, that's all."

An 'inconvenience', he said to me. Von Seydlitz slumped down into his chair, resting his head in his hands. So tired. And so anxious to get Nemesis on the road already. The further we delay, the more time there is for something to go wrong. He could have throttled Weissdrake if he could have only reached through the telephone. That conversation had been over two months ago, and it never failed to make his world go red just recollecting it.

The odds are against us with each passing moment. The Titans grow more powerful every day, and the world is changing as we sit under this mountain and dream the dreams of conquerors. Jaburo has been destroyed. Abowaku has been relocated. Titans are attacking Granada and Von Braun with everything from mobile suits to colonies, and Axis gets that much closer. If we don't move soon-

A sudden thought snapped him back into focus. "Dalyev! Haskell! Kommen Sie hier, jetzt!" he roared out the office door, certain the two would hear him, and be absolutely in a hurry to receive the cussing out he was going to give them.

Steinbaum, Nordrhein-Westfalen, Central Europe
August 20, 0087

"-all I'm saying is that Commander Weissdrake's probably getting fat and comfy while stuck in Duisberg. I mean, he could be out here in the f***ing boonies with-" was about as far as Private Gary van Allen got when the motor noise of the Ditch Witch went abruptly silent. He put the hand hoe he'd been using aside, closed his eyes, turned around, and opened them. . .

. . .to find Marine Captain John Roberts looking up at him with a bemused expression on his face and a hurtlock in his eyes. "Private, I believe you were saying something a moment ago. Repeat it."

Van Allen cleared his throat and stood at attention. "Sir, I was just pointing out that-"

"No, Private, you were f***ing pointing out that Commander Karl Weissdrake of the 555th Airborne was fat and comfortable in Duisberg instead of being here in the 'boonies' with us. Is that not the case, Private?"

"Yes, sir," replied van Allen, his voice on the edge of something resembling shame.

The third member of their team, Lieutenant Lucian McKenna, winced a little bit as he continued uncoiling the long, copper-colored wire being laid in this particular 20 cm. deep ditch. The three Marines of the 22nd 'Onslaught' had been out here for several weeks now, digging and placing and testing and generally getting tired of the bright orange Bundespublikwerk uniforms they were wearing and the rustic Westphalian charms of Steinbaum, nestled at the southeastern edge of the foreboding woodlands known as the Teutobergerwald. Van Allen, being the lowest-ranked, was having the hardest time of it, since he could simply not remember to keep his mouth shut around Captain Roberts.

Opinions'll get you buried like these Hall probes, kiddo, he thought, angling this strand of probe so it would cross perfectly with the previous strand, which would run perpendicular to the new arrival, forming a very precise grid coordinate. The time this was taking, already several days behind schedule due to weather and social gatherings in the area, was almost worth seeing his latest idea come to life. God, he thought desperately, please let this work, for the sake of us all, and please don't let Captain Roberts gut Gary like a fish.

"The last time I noticed, Private," continued Roberts, his own voice calm and his eyes unwavering from the face two inches away from them, "you wore the insignia of the Zeon Marines on your uniform. You know the one I'm referring to, don't you, Private?"

"Yes, sir!"

"It's the one with the anchor and the bird and the semper fidelis, correct, Private?"

"Yes, sir!"

"Is the bird f***ing the anchor, Private?"

"No, sir!" Van Allen was beginning to sweat a bit.

Roberts was not. "Then I want you to explain to me, Private," as his voice began to increase in volume, "why it is that you wear this insignia, and all the pride and heritage that comes with it, and yet you cannot refrain. . ."

If it were physically possible for Roberts's face to get any closer to van Allen's without kissing him, it was a matter of microns only. ". . .from using f***ing profanity while idly discussing matters pertaining to other Zeon officers and having the gall to judge their merit based on their mission! Do you f***ing hear me, Private!?!"

"Yes, sir!"

"Now if I ever hear you slander another officer in this Division, from any unit, using language of that manner and verdicts of that nature, even if said officer is, in fact, sitting on his ass in a hotel in Duisberg because that officer is NOT a Marine and NOT assigned to getting Colonel von Seydlitz's plan to its successful readiness, all of which amounts to you spouting horse piss from your mouth onto that insignia that you f***ing wear on your uniform instead of doing YOUR JOB. . .!!"

Roberts's teeth were snapping so close to van Allen's face it was a wonder that they weren't chewing apart his skin. ". . .then I will RUN you around this entire goddamn forest so F***ING far and so F***ING fast that your ASS CHEEKS will FALL OFF your worthless, enlisted HIDE, Marine!! And when you reach down to put your ASS CHEEKS back on so that you can KEEP RUNNING, I will commence to truly KICK your ASS that much harder, because Marines' ASS CHEEKS do NOT FALL OFF, DO THEY, Private!?!"

"N-NO, SIR!"

"Good f***ing answer, troop! Now get back to work and cease that behavior from this point onward, or I will show you the pain a tongue can cause its wielder. I don't give a care on Terra how long we're out here doing this, because the longer it takes because YOU want to voice an opinion, the longer your penance for playing patty-cake on MY time will endure once we return to Berchtesgaden. Move it!"

With a salute and a tremble in his frame he did not have earlier, van Allen picked up his hoe and recommenced working on the trench. Roberts glared at the taller Marine for a long moment, then turned and went back to the Ditch Witch. He was angry, and he could not remember the last time he'd used so much profanity on anything.

But the fact remained that there were still two kilometers of this stuff that had to be set, and that was going to take forever as the weather began to turn from summer to autumn, and the cold began to settle throughout Europe. Then it would snow, and there was where misery lay.

Piss on you, van Allen. I want out of here, too. He cranked up the Ditch Witch again and started moving, aiming in a straight line for about 300 meters on this run, as displayed on the laminated chart in front of him. If this worked, not even God could help the Federation from the punishment they would receive from the 10th Panzerkaempfer Division this time.

All they had to do was survive long enough to see it. Roberts gritted his teeth and set himself to work, the churning of the black earth below him no less turbulent than the churning of impatience in his soul.

Kehlsteinberge, Bayern, Central Europe
August 22, 0087

It all started with a walk in the mountains and a phone call, but that path could not be seen to its end by anyone except God perhaps. Thusly, it all started with just a walk in the mountains.

They were a fairly typical German family, from Ligeretalm, out for a picnic and a walk near the site of long-dead Adolf Hitler's Eagle's Nest hideaway (a place he only visited once in his lifetime, for he was severely acrophobic, and the trip up Kehlsteinberge was not one to his liking). Despite the shady history of the mountain, it was still a tourist attraction, mostly for historians and scholars but for the occasional Wanderlust victim as well. It was also an awe-inspiring area, as most of Upper Bavaria was, a place of peace and quiet, shattered occasionally by tragedy that would be remembered, but not fawned over. Even the space freighter which crashed on the side of the mountain could only mar its surface for a time. Several months later, those who had lived here all their lives could look at the mountain and hardly notice the change to its face caused by the impact.

It was a tragedy, but only one in a long line of them. Here, life went on.

This particular family, long accustomed to sudden spontaneity (as most Bavarians were), were simply doing their normal routine. There was nothing suspect about them being up here, and little to endanger them. The occasional wolf would not disturb them, choosing flight over fight in the presence of humankind. Bears were almost nonexistent, and the deer, elk, and other forms of fauna would follow the wolf's lead rather than risk the displeasure of the bipedal lifeforms who walked these trails and forests like gods, dispensing treats with one hand, or death with the other. These days it was usually treats, as hunting was outlawed and had been for several decades. The animals, however, remembered in their bones the time when this place was the favored hunting grounds for the Swabian Dukes, and such things are best left as good practice.

While the freighter crash was noticed, commented upon for a while, and then written off as a closed case, it too had become part of this place. So much so that it had almost slipped the minds of everyone here; almost.

The husband, going a little gray in his age but still as fit as he had been in his younger days, had a nagging sensation tugging at him even as he strolled with his wife down the trail, the kids racing ahead of them. It was a familiar tugging, one he had not felt for almost a decade, and it was because of that lapse in time that he could not readily identify it. His conscious mind wrote it off as a lark, a bit of whimsy for no real, tangible reason, just an odd feeling in the back of his mind. His unconscious mind, not in charge of the situation, harkened his memories back to the War, the time he'd served as a Federal Forces Ranger, 32nd Pioniere Company, defending Earth, and Germania, from the Zeon who had come to bring their iron rule to all humanity. He had survived the War with enough horrible memories to last ten lifetimes, and the last thing he wanted to do was dwell on those. He had the scars to remind him every day he saw them marring his form.

But the nagging sensation would not abate. Even as they crossed from the woods into a sizeable clearing (a place where he'd first met his wife, so many exceedingly joyous and painfully mournful years ago) where the entirety of Kehlsteinberge could be viewed when the weather was clear, it would not leave him be. Something was wrong, something big, and he frowned as he tried desperately to either ignore the whole thing or figure out the cause, whichever came first. He was here to spend time with his wife and three children, not dwell on a past only the fanatics would choose to dwell upon.

Fanatics like that fool Delaz, bringing his hell-borne Stardust to Earth and rending the face of Terra with his hatred. The Federation had tried to cover that up, even to the extent of enforcing a media blackout, but the veterans knew. No amount of cover story or lies could close that wound from the ones who knew what it was to bleed for a cause.

With the Titans here, though, the Zeon had never risen again, except in the service of the AEUG and for a different reason than revenge. As long as the Titans stood, there would be no more Stardusts. He was confident of that, so why was his mind trying to drive him insane? He pursed his lips and stared at the ground as he walked, his wife's hand in his own giving him scant comfort.

It was on the ground before him. His mind focused to a clarity he had not needed to since the end of the War, and his body ceased its forward motion, jarring his wife to a stop as well, as he realized that he was standing on the tread marks of a heavy lift transport. In fact, as his eyes scanned the area around them, there were the tracks of multiple heavy load-bearing vehicles. Turning back around the way they came, ignoring his wife's question as to the sudden halt, he could see them winding their way into the woods they had departed, continuing deep into the forest.

It would not have been such a large concern of these had been the tire marks from motorbikes or small recreational vehicles, for these areas were popular to camp in, but these could not be mistaken for anything else. He had seen these kinds of vehicles during the War, and while most had been converted for other functions, their purpose was essentially the same as the role they had filled back then: hauling big heavy cargoes, like armored vehicles, ammunition, artillery pieces, and mobile suit components.

Tracks like these had no business in this place. He knew he had found a big piece to what was puzzling him, but there was more. He spun on a heel, following the treads back to the clearing, then broke out in a run, leaving his wife behind, sprinting ahead of his children, eyes seeing nothing but these marks before him, ears not hearing the calls of his family. The tracks ended several hundred meters into the clearing, and he gasped at what he found.

Even with several weeks' worth of overgrowth, it was very apparent that there was a "footprint" in the topsoil. A depression several centimeters deep, at the end of the path carved by the tracks of all those vehicles, as though something extremely large and heavy had landed in this very spot and was then taken away. He could hear his family coming towards him, and he stretched his arm backwards towards them, fingers splayed out from each other as though he were signaling to his old Ranger company members to hold position, though he knew that his wife and children could not possibly understand the sign language.

His eyes were riveted on the footprint in the earth, even as his head began to turn towards the east, drawn as if by an invisible strand towards the face of the mountain itself. His head reached the point where his eyes could no longer stare at the ground, and they instead shifted to the surface of Kehlsteinberge, and he blinked. There was a black patch on the mountain face, undeniably where the space freighter had crashed, in a perfect line from the footprint.

The touch of his wife's hand on his shoulder snapped him back to reality, and he forced a smile on his lips despite the misgivings these pieces of evidence were eliciting in his imagination. The news had said that nothing had survived the crash, not even the cargo. If that were the case, then what the hell was he looking at here?

He meant to have that question answered if he had any say in it. He had a phone number back at home he could call, the one in the desk drawer he thought he would never have to use. It would be a late solution, but better that than any of the alternatives he could think of. Impulsively, he pulled his wife into an embrace, almost out of desperation, and clung to her as though she were the only point of sanity in a sea of madness threatening to drown him in the waters of his own fear. He hoped, and he prayed, that this was just a misunderstanding, a piece of information he had not heard on the news, and it was just the old fears of a tired man who had wrapped himself in a cloak of intuition to survive the darkest time of his life. He hoped his intuition was leading him astray now.

Deep inside, he knew it was a false hope.