FOX Squadron
                                
                  Episode 1 - Retirement Blues
                        by G.L. Sandborn


     Dawn.  
     Twenty-one year old Lieutenant Jeffrey Stuart scanned the
overcast sky and tried to will his hangover headache away.  He
would need a clear head this morning to patrol a sector two
hundred miles northwest of his Hawaiian base.  He hoped it would
be a quiet patrol.
     There was little reason for him expect otherwise.  The
Western Alliance anticipated no trouble this Sunday morning. 
Intelligence reports said the NE Asia Co-Prosperity Sphere was
showing diminished signs of activity in the Central Pacific. 
They had their hands full with the re-energized Eastern Bloc
Soviet Independent State somewhere in Manchuria.  The fighting
there had intensified in the last few weeks.  So far, all parties
concerned had refrained from using nuclear or biological weapons. 
How long that would last was anybody's guess.
     His flight was almost an hour behind schedule due to
mechanical trouble with his wingman's fighter.  Good thing, too. 
Jeff had been up too late the night before celebrating his
twenty-first birthday.  Down at the nearest off-base watering
hole, he had indulged in a little too much of the local mind-
bending beverage.  Getting up this morning wasn't easy.  Getting
to the airfield on time was damn near impossible.
     Naturally, the squadron commander wasn't pleased with his
tardiness.  He almost replaced Jeff on the duty roster.  That
would have meant disciplinary action, probably grounding, maybe
even time in the brig.  Only the lack of an immediate replacement
in this war zone and Jeff's promise to never let it happen again
gained him any reprieve.  Still, the matter would be noted in his
service record and he'd have to pull extra duty for two weeks. 
All things considered, not a bad trade for being late.
     "Think we'll see any action today?"
     Jeff regarded his enthusiastic wingman with a blank
expression.  The kid couldn't be a day over sixteen; a sad
example of the desperate measures taken by the Western Alliance
in this, the fifth year of the war.  Like many his age, the lad
was too young, too brash, and too eager to participate in the
great adventure of war.  Fresh out of flight school, he
demonstrated few skills necessary for a fighter pilot.  That
wasn't a good sign.  If the kid was lucky, he'd survive long
enough to understand there's no romance in killing, no glory in
war.  Survival was its own reward and peace was the only victory.
     Jeff, however, was a veteran of three years and an
acknowledged master of his Boswell/Grumman-made War-Falcon
fighter.  Armed with 4,000 pounds of external ordinance and two
internal 32mm gatling cannons, it was materially equal to the
Vultures and Hawks he faced over the years - but just barely. 
His exceptional flying and fighting skills usually made the
difference.
     "This is your first patrol," he said to the young man. 
"Stay close.  Follow me wherever I go.  If we're jumped and get
separated, don't spend time looking for me.  Dive for the deck,
go to full after-burners, and scoot for home."
     The young man's face screwed into a look of dismay.  "But
what about--"
     "You'll get your chances another time," Jeff scolded.  "You
can't learn if you're dead.  That's exactly what will happen when
you fly alone in a combat zone."
     He was about to add something else when the crackle of small
AA guns from the harbor interrupted him.  Jeff, like the rest of
the base, froze and stared skyward.  Eyes searched and ears
strained to catch even the faintest sound of trouble.  Why were
the guns firing?  Mistaken identity?  Nervous rookie gunners?  It
couldn't be an attack.  Why would anyone try to attack here? 
This is Hawaii, bastian of the Pacific, headquarters of the
mighty Western Alliance.  This base is impregnable.
     The answer came in the form of two small explosions followed
by a massive conflagration marking the destruction of a warship
anchored near Ford Island.  Another explosion, closer this time,
and the naval fuel dump went up in a ball of flame.  
     The base suddenly came alive.  People began running every
which way as air-raid sirens sounded their mournful wail.
     "Stealth attack!" the squadron commander yelled, running for
his Falcon fighter.  Everyone knew what that meant; an Asian
sneak attack launched from carriers somewhere out in the Pacific
using stealth fighter-bombers; the only craft that could have
dared such a raid.
     Jeff grabbed his stunned wingman and shoved him towards his
fighter.  "Take off!  NOW!"
     Another warship in the harbor exploded with such force, Jeff
and all those around him were jolted from their feet.  The ground
heaved and rolled like its formerly solid surface had liquefied. 
He stumbled to his feet on the still moving surface and staggered
towards his own fighter.  The Falcon was only a few yards away
yet seemed like miles on ground that wouldn't hold still.
     He'd taken only a couple of rubbery steps when a massive
explosion behind him hurled his body forward.  He rolled
painfully across the concrete until coming to rest against a bomb
cart loaded with air-to-air missiles.  When he looked back, his
wingman's fighter was a smoking hole in the ground.  There was no
sign of the young man who only moments before eagerly awaited his
first combat mission.
     A dark shadow swept over his body.  He looked up through the
smoke and dust to catch a fleeting glimpse of his attacker. 
Triangular in shape, the Asian stealth fighter-bomber slid past
the airfield spitting well-timed bursts of death and destruction. 
Their radar-absorbing skin gave them a flat, ominous appearance
that combined with a chameleon-like ability to alter their color
to match any background was what made them so dangerous.  They
weren't fast or especially nimble but they were perfect for the
type of ambush attack they were flying today.
     Two Falcons nearer the main runway exploded as they taxied
for takeoff, their flaming carcasses grinding to a halt just
yards short of their goal.
     Other pilots frantically tried to get to their aircraft
while brave ground crew worked under fire to get them launched. 
All their efforts were futile.  The invaders seemed to be
everywhere.
     Jeff stumbled to his feet.  The helmet he carried only
moments ago was now nowhere to be seen.  He looked up to see
cannon shells the size of pop bottles walking a deadly path
across the tarmac; ripping up chunks of concrete and hurtling
them in all directions.  Diving out of the way, he heard the
shells tear into his fighter.  He froze, waiting for it to
explode.  Nothing happened.  Despite massive punishment, his
mount remained upright and steadfastly ready for its master.
     He was just reaching for the boarding ladder when more
cannon shells exploded all around him.  He felt the sting of
thrown concrete and smelled the unmistakable odor of burned flesh
mixed with burning rubber and aviation fuel.  
     His craft shuddered before seven tons of aircraft began to
roll his way, creaking and groaning its apologies.  Fearful of
being trapped beneath the massive fighter, Jeff jumped free and
rolled on the hard, broken surface.  Another explosion, a shower
of concrete and a blast of heat singed his hair, chunks of
flaming debris clanged off the metal hide of his mortally wounded
Falcon.  Something struck him in the head, causing what was like
a flash-bulb going off in front of his eyes, blurring his vision
and prompting a wave of nausea.
     Laying on his side, his eyes focused enough to see a lone
fighter, fifty yards away, standing defiantly amongst the
devastation, its gleaming white surface contrasting with the
billowing black smoke that rose from the ruined naval yard in the
distance.  He had to get off the ground and that fighter was his
only chance.
     Unsteadily regaining his feet, he staggered towards the
promising aircraft.  It was his only chance to get away from the
helplessness he felt being unable to strike back.  There was no
safety on the ground, he thought.  Only in the air did he stand a
chance.  He had to get off the ground.
     A pair of rapid explosions blew a couple of ground crewmen
across his path; their twisted, dismembered forms twitching in
the warm Hawaiian morning sun, their blood pooling on the
concrete.  Ignoring them, he stumbled onward, his whole world
concentrated on that one remaining fighter.  The blood from his
head wound took a detour and ran into his left eye, forcing him
to close it tightly against the irritation.  He choked on the
acrid smoke that blanketed the field.  It didn't matter.  He had
to get to that last Falcon.  Better to die in the sky than
hugging the ground.
     Off to his right, a van careened wildly across the airfield,
desperately trying to avoid the attacking bombers.  In a blinding
flash, a missile tore the ground from beneath it.  The attacker
screamed overhead, only partially drowning out the screeching of
the van sliding along the concrete on its side heading directly
towards Jeff.  
     Tripping over another body, he scrambled across the hard
concrete, desperately trying to escape.  His hands shredded by
broken glass, his knees scraped on the concrete tarmac.  One
final lunge and he curled into a ball, arms over his head and
awaited the impact.  
     A groan of metal announced the vehicle's halt only a few
feet away.  More shells raked the dying vehicle sending chunks of
metal flying.  Something hot struck him in the shoulder, rolling
him over and driving the air from his lungs.  
     Fighting the pain in his back and gasping for air, he again
struggled to his feet.  He was more determined than ever to get
off the ground.  This time, parts of him simply didn't want to
work.  His legs felt numb and his head was spinning as he
staggered two awkward steps and collapsed against the roof of the
overturned van.
     As abruptly as the attack had begun, it was over.  Only the
fading sound of the departing bombers and the rhythmic popping of
a few remaining AA guns vied with the still wailing air raid
siren.  Jeff rolled against the van, wincing at the sting as his
shoulder came in contact with the warm metal.
     Like the very life of the base itself, the siren finally
died away.  Everything was either burning, destroyed, or dead. 
The buildings were rubble, the aircraft were smoldering wrecks. 
The sudden silence was deafening, broken only by the occasional
sounds of ammunition cooking off in the burning hulks that were
once the most feared fighters in the Pacific.
     His body slowly slid down the roof, leaving a thin smear of
blood on its white surface, until he came to rest slumped against
the van.
     He couldn't believe this happened.  This morning his
squadron consisted of twenty-four combat-ready Falcon fighters
and the same number of trained pilots.  Ten minutes was all it
took to reduce them to scrap.  Only one remained now.  A better
look revealed it wouldn't have been his ticket off the ground
anyway.  Holed in a hundred places, what was left of its
unfortunate pilot dripped from its smashed canopy.
     Rolling his head back against the van roof, Jeff gave in to
the pain of his shoulder and a dozen other spots.  Everyone was
gone.  He was the only one left.  Choking back the shame of
surviving, he fought the urge to cry in frustration. 
     Dizziness, nausea and fatigue ganged up on him, leaving his
eyes heavy and his breath coming in short gasps.  Rolling his
head back against the warm metal roof, he succumbed to the
welcoming embrace of darkness that slowly enveloped him.

     Jeff's eyes sprang open and he gasped in the darkness. 
Blinking, he inhaled deeply, allowing fresh cold air to rush into
his lungs.  He tried to focus on the ceiling in front of him but
all he got was a gray blur.  His sweat-coated body moved
painfully under the covers.  
     A bed... a warm, comfortable, peaceful bed in a dark room. 
His mind sifted between realities, desperately seeking something
to focus on, something to tie him to the current reality.
     That came in the form of the comforting sound of aircraft
engines warming up in the pre-dawn darkness.  He recognized the
sound of those engines.  They were Veritechs.  This was
Yellowstone Base - RDF.  
     He sighed, his body sagging into the soft mattress.  His
wife of ten years stirred next to him and settled into a
different position, the sound of her breathing slow and deep.
     Just another nightmare, he thought taking a long, cleansing
breath.  It was only the latest in a string of images that
haunted his sleep; only a memory from long ago.  Twenty-three
years of military service had given him more than enough such
memories to last the rest of his life.
     He carefully rolled out of bed, his feet caressing the soft
carpeted floor.  The clock showed it was a little past four.  Too
late to go back to sleep.  Only thing left to do was what he'd
done every night since his last assignment; stare out the window
and fight the memories.
     He opened the window a little further and looked out at the
dimly lit airfield that functioned as the heart of Yellowstone
base.  The brisk pre-dawn breeze bore the familiar distant whine
of engines being warmed up, reminding him that it was still a
functioning RDF field and pilots still flew on a regular basis.
     This morning was no exception.  Ever since the sudden attack
five years ago by Khyron and his remaining rebel Zentraedi, the
Robotech Defense Forces flew regular patrols south of the base,
usually escorting a lumbering Cats Eye Recon craft that
electronically pierced the darkness looking for signs of trouble. 
No one really expected another attack.  The back of the Zentraedi
forces had broken with their suicide attack on the venerable SDF-1 
and its sister ship, the SDF-2.  Still, the patrols continued,
more out of habit than necessity.
     Jeff shivered as a cool breeze pushed its way through the
open window, caressing his exposed skin.  Wearing only his pajama
bottoms, he tried to ignore the chill and tell himself he wasn't
as young as he used to be, back when the cold didn't bother him
so much.
     At forty-one, he was among the oldest active members of the
RDF.  Former ace-pilot in the Global Civil War, former Veritech
test pilot, former RDF Academy instructor, and most recently a
squadron commander, he was now considered too old to fly. 
Despite keeping himself in top physical condition and spending as
much time as possible in the cockpit, he was restricted to the
number of hours he could fly and limited to a dual VF-1D trainer
with a younger co-pilot in the back seat.  It was a safety
factor, he was told.  Just in case, they said.  He knew better.
     RDF Command preferred younger pilots.  They claimed it was
because younger men had better reactions and superior control of
the complex symbiotic relationship between man and Veritech.  But
they never proved that to Colonel Stuart's satisfaction.  He
could still out-fly most of the young pups they sent up to test
him in mock dogfights.  No, the real reason was they wanted
pilots who followed orders better.  Veteran pilots like him were
a mixed blessing; unquestionably more experienced and better
prepared than their younger counterparts for the savagery the job
called for but cursed because they had crossed the line between
compartmentalizing the horrors of combat and thinking about it
too much.
     Colonel Stuart had become one of those who thought too much.
Like many his age, he remembered countless sorties into harms
way, battles with cunning enemies that often outnumbered his own
forces.  From the early battles with the alien Zentraedi when RDF
pilots faced overwhelming odds with every flight to the later
skirmishes with determined rebels and bandits, losses were always
a part of the equation.  To others, they were just numbers.  To
Jeff, they all had faces, names and families.  There were times
he could close his eyes and still see the faces of those who fell
in battles famous and obscure, warriors who now lived only in the
hearts of their comrades and family.  Many who died went
unrecovered, robbing their family and friends of even the most
basic of dignities: a decent burial.  Yes, there were times he
felt his age.
     Now, as the last of the original Veritech pilots, he stood
alone, a battered old combat veteran whose time had long since
passed.  Virtually everyone he knew had either died or departed
with Rick Hunter and Lisa Hayes on their great crusade to the
home of the mysterious Masters, who'd directed the first
Zentraedi invaders.  The few that remained, like himself, tried
to bridge the gap between the RDF of old and the developing Army
of the Southern Cross with their modern, more efficient mecha and
weapons.
     It was never easy.  Stretched almost to the breaking point,
the RDF shifted its meager and aging assets from one hot spot to
another, always just one step behind the worst of the offenders
but always enough to prevent total anarchy.
     A change in pitch of the Veritech engines drew his attention
back to the field.  Through the darkness, he could just make out
the running lights of a pair of fighters taxiing into position
for takeoff.  He wondered about the pilots.  Were they young kids
who weren't good enough to get into the ASC's new Robotech
Military Academy but just good enough to qualify under the
relaxed RDF standards?  Or were they some veterans serving out
their last days till retirement?  That would be novel, he
thought.  Few veterans flew anymore.  Like him, they were all
considered too old.
     The sound of Veritech engines spooling up to full power
accompanied twin cones of brilliant protoculture-fueled exhaust
as the first tiny craft rolled a short distance and seemed to
leap into the air, quickly followed by its companion.  Even in
the dimly lit pre-dawn sky, Jeff could see the twin fighters
banking into their steep climbing turn.  It brought back even
more memories, this time of his last, depressing assignment.
     For two tours, he commanded a squadron along the border with
the Barony of York, a particularly nasty little xenophobic
fiefdom in the Ohio Valley that lived on their hatred for
everything Zentraedi.  Since Breetai and his forces joined with
the RDF to defeat Dolza and the main invasion force, there were
plenty of Zentraedi survivors around to hate.  Most had chosen to
be micronized to human size in order to mix with the indigenous
population.  The Yorkies, however, were masters at rooting them
out, hunting them down, and dispatching them with ruthless
efficiency.
     There were times when Zentraedi refugees or raiding parties
clashed with York Security Forces near the border.  Too often, he
and his squadron found themselves between the insanely murderous
Yorkies and equally hostile warrior Zentraedi, both micronized
and not.  Usually there was shooting, sometimes folks got hurt. 
Most of the time, he tried to keep the casualties to a minimum,
but that wasn't always possible.  He hated the work, comparing it
to being a hockey referee in an armed arena where the opponents
truly despised each other.  There were even times when he ordered
his teams to sit back and let the two groups fight it out,
preferring to step in afterwards when everyone was too exhausted
to protest.  It probably didn't save many lives, except those of
his squadron, but the occasional bloodletting among combatants
seemed to retard their desire to engage in further unpleasantness
until they'd had time to lick their wounds.
     
     The sound of his wife stirring reminded him of the reason
for his presence at Yellowstone.  He glanced her way and saw her
yawn.  He knew she'd become accustomed to his early dawn vigils
at the window.  She, more than anyone else, knew what he was
going through.
     "I'm sorry," he said in a hushed voice.  "I didn't mean to
wake you."
     She said nothing.  Her people often said nothing.  Only the
sounds of her soft feet padding lightly across the carpeted floor
and the feeling of her firm body pressing itself against his
back, said everything he needed to hear.  He felt her head
nuzzling for a comfortable position between his shoulder blades.  
     "I know.  I couldn't sleep either," she said softly.  "I
guess today is kind of special."
     Special, he thought?  Yes, he supposed it was.  After
twenty-three years of service, he was submitting his resignation
to General Emerson.  He was going to retire and follow his Lakota
Sioux wife back to her native Black Hills.  There they would
build a modest retirement home along a tributary of the Wounded
Knee and spend the rest of their lives in peace among what was
left of her people.
     He reached back with one hand and cupped a cheek of her
still trim buttock and felt the warmth of her bare skin.  She'd
remained loyal and unwavering in her support over the years, a
dutiful wife of a warrior.  She endured his absences with stoic
resolve and lavishly celebrated his return.  Things were as they
were, she always said.  You endure that which is bad and
celebrate the good but dwell on neither, for life is too short
and happiness too fleeting.
     She responded to his caress by molding herself to him.  One
of her slim hands slid down across his hard stomach, paused a
moment, then ventured lower.
     "Come back to bed," she whispered.  "I'm cold."
     Cold?  He knew better.  Many times he'd watched her from a
distance, standing naked in the snow at the Winter solstice to
'sing back the sun.'  Her father, a medicine man of the Oglala
Tribe, had grown too old and infirm to do the job.  So it fell to
his eldest daughter to annually stand before the Great Spirit and
through the strong magic of her song to convince him to return
the sun to the Lakota lands.  Jeff smiled again and thought of
how if he was the Great Spirit and saw something like his wife
standing naked in the snow, he'd return anything she asked for.
     Playfully, he slid around and scooped her into his arms. 
Without a sound, she relented and wrapped her arms around his
neck, snuggling comfortably against his chest.  He liked when she
did that.  He felt her body tremble.
     He slowly carried her back to the bed, cradling her like she
was the most valuable item in the world.  When he gently placed
her on the white sheets, she refused to release him.  Instead,
pulling him down, their arms and legs intertwining as their warm
bodies slid together.  
     The rumble of more Veritechs launching their dawn patrol
flooded the room.
*****
     At 0800, Colonel Jeffrey Edward Blake Stuart, in his best
dress uniform reported to RDF Headquarters.  He carried his
paperwork in a folder tucked safely under his arm.  Despite the
modernization of the RDF, they still demanded their paperwork,
neatly typed, signed and in triplicate.  Over the last week, the
contents of his folder had been checked and double-checked.  No
detail escaped attention.
     His mustering-out pay would go directly into building a
little home on a section of land the Oglala Lakota Tribal Council
had granted.  His military surplus Land Rover would suffice for
basic transportation until he could locate a real, pre-war pickup
truck.  There were sufficient credits in his personal account to
buy a couple of saddle-broke horses for shorter trips and getting
around the reservation.  They'd farm what they could and hunt for
the rest.  Everything had been confirmed.  Everything was
perfect.
     "General Emerson will see you now," the secretary said from
her desk, indicating a glass door behind her with the wave of a
lazy hand.  Despite her young age, she looked tired.  There were
serious personnel shortages in the RDF.  Many had to work
overtime to make up for it.
     Jeff took a deep breath, like he was plunging into a raging
river, before pushing open the door and stepping into the
General's office.  Across the room, facing a wall of windows, was
his old friend, General Rolf Emerson.  Flying a desk for the last
ten years hadn't hurt him a bit.  Still fit-looking, if a little
thicker through the middle, he continued to exude a bearing that
reminded others of his former fighter pilot status.  The addition
of a slumping posture, though, gave him the appearance of having
the weight of the world on his shoulders.
     "Come in, Colonel," the General said in a business-like
voice.  There was no hint of their long friendship in his
greeting.
     Jeff approached the General's desk and stopped the
prescribed distance in front of it, saluted and announced his
business.
     "So, you want to leave us."  General Emerson's statement
sounded more like an accusation.  Jeff wasn't sure he liked the
tone of his long-time associate's voice.  It was obvious the man
wasn't going to make this easy.
     "Twenty-three years is enough, General," he said, dropping
the salute but remaining at attention.
     "Ordinarily, I'd agree with you," General Emerson said
before turning to look directly at Jeff.  A flicker of a smile
crossed his face before returning to its previous state of
seriousness.  "Heck, under normal conditions, I'd be tempted to
join you."
     "When was the last time you remember conditions that could
be called 'normal'?"  Jeff adjusted the folder under his arm.
     "It's been awhile, I'll admit."  General Emerson sighed,
slid his hands into the pockets of his uniform and looked out the
window again.  "Of course, I haven't been on the front lines. 
You've seen far more abnormal conditions in the last four years
than I have."
     Jeff shifted uncomfortably.  He knew who the General what
talking about.  "The Yorkies aren't bad people, sir.  They just
have a blind spot when it comes to alien Zentraedi.  If you keep
them and the Zentraedi apart, there's no problem."
     General Emerson turned again to look at Jeff.  His eyes were
puffy from the lack of sleep and his tunic, uncharacteristically
undone, dangled as he moved.  Even his hair, streaked with gray,
looked less than neat and orderly.  He was obviously under some
stress.  "And how long do you think that would last?"
     "Indefinitely, if the Zentraedi learn to avoid Yorkie
territory."
     "What if the Barony decides to expand?"
     "Expand?  Where?"
     "West."
     Jeff shrugged.  "Moot point.  That puts them up against us
and they don't have the resources to do that.  One squadron of
Veritechs are a match for their entire military."
     "What if I don't have that squadron of Veritechs?"  Emerson
leaned over the desk and looked deeply into Jeff's eyes.
     "Then I'd say you have a problem."
     "Yes, I'd have a problem."  General Emerson paused, still
looking purposefully into Jeff's eyes.  There was more at work
here than an exercise in the hypothetical.  "I know you guys in
the field rarely have a chance to see the big picture."  Emerson
broke eye contact to work his way over to the far wall and a map
of the North American Sector.  "So, I'm going to give you a
little briefing."
     This wasn't what Jeff expected.  All he was supposed to do
this morning was deliver his retirement papers, sign a few other
forms, and bid the General goodbye.  Nobody said anything about a
briefing.  Why would he need a briefing if he was leaving the
service?
     The General must have read his mind.  "I know you're in a
hurry but I think you'll find this interesting."  His finger
tapped a spot almost in the middle of the map.  "We're here,
Yellowstone RDF Base, the home of the Robotech Defense Force. 
North of us, about a hundred miles, is Monument City.  That's
where the new Army of the Southern Cross under Supreme Commander
Leonard is making themselves at home.  Some day, they'll assume
their duties as guardians of the United World Government or the
Earth Government or whatever they're calling it this month. 
Until that time, our ASC heroes are little more than ceremonial
guards at the tomb of the SDF-1." He glanced at Jeff like he was
surprised to see him still standing in front of the desk.  "You
can sit down if you like, Colonel."
     Figuring he had nothing to lose, Jeff collapsed into a
convenient chair, crossed his legs and casually hung an arm over
its back.  The folder now lay uselessly in his lap.  He got the
feeling it was going to be totally forgotten before the General
was through.
     "Now then, you know all about the Barony of York, a nasty
little nest of xenophobes along the Ohio River, and you know
about the Arkansas Protectorate, that paradox of semi-loyal
Zentraedi and humans who don't seem to care too much what kind of
company they keep."  Emerson paused again like he was conscious
of the words he was choosing and self-editing for someone other
than Jeff.  "What you don't know is all the other little
surprises that have been popping up around us like poison
mushrooms."  His hand patted the Northeast area of Canada.  "The
Quebec Quadrant, while officially pacifist, have amassed an
impressive Zentraedi force under Commander Khytai.  They claim
its strictly for defense but a force of that size is clearly more
than a simple deterrent - especially, considering where they are.
Only a thin strip of wasteland separates them from the Yorkies."
     "I wouldn't shed too many tears if Khytai decided to clean
out the entire Ohio Valley," Jeff said, taking renewed interest
in the General's briefing.
     "Maybe, but that could bring them in contact with the
Arkansas Protectorate, folks who hate Khytai and his forces, and
possibly a new group to the Southeast."
     "The Confederate Alliance of States?"  Jeff congratulated
himself on keeping up with the latest intelligence reports on
that region.  He had a special interest in doing so.  His former
Executive Officer was commanding a squadron down in sunny
Florida; the very heart of the new alliance.
     "Very good," General Emerson said before picking up a folder
with 'SECRET' stamped across its cover.  "Now take a look at
this."  He tossed the folder onto his desk where Jeff could
reach.  "Yesterday, there was a rather nasty mutiny at Miami Base
involving 99 Squadron.  When the shooting stopped, the entire
base declared itself part of the alliance.  Most of the Veritech
pilots switched sides.  That makes the CAS a viable military
force."
     Jeff sat stunned.  He'd heard for years stories about
elements of the old American Confederacy reforming into their own
government once again but always dismissed them because the
alliance had no industrial base, no real army and little in the
way of things to trade.  They were an agrarian society who
appeared to be nothing more than a peaceful group of farmers. 
What passed for their alliance government consisted of ten little
political entities, each demanding their own independence, while
trying to work with the other nine to secure the blessings of
liberty - or whatever it was they were after.
     As for the Miami RDF base, he knew more than a few of the
personnel stationed there, including his former Exec.  He
remembered how the young man often spoke lovingly about his home
in the region and how he sometimes felt like he belonged there
more than anywhere else.  At the time, Jeff dismissed such talk
as the usual homesickness everyone suffered with at one time or
another.  He had no idea the officer might actually act on his
feelings and be disloyal to the RDF.  
     "How did it happen?" Jeff asked while thumbing through the
folder.
     "Intelligence isn't sure.  The only bits we can piece
together point to the Southern Cross being involved but they're
not sure how.  We do know some ass of an ASC officer went down
there on Friday.  After that, who knows?"  Emerson shrugged.  "I
do know the man wasn't a diplomat.  In fact, he had a history of
saying some pretty outrageous things.  The way I figure it, he
probably said something or made some threat about the base or its
personnel.  I know there's been talk of trying to force the
region back under the command of the new world government and
preparing for the ASC to take over the base.  All he'd have to do
is make a few unfortunate demands, insult just the right people
and... well, you can see how things could go from there."
     "Casualties?"
     "We don't know that either.  But it looks like the mutineers
got away with all the Veritechs, about two dozen Destroids, and a
flight of new ASC Logans."  General Emerson snarled at the
mention of the ASC fighters.  The Logan was a second-generation
Veritech air combat system being built for the ASC.  It was the
latest in transformable mecha that packed a punch equal to, and
some would even claim superior to, the current crop of RDF
fighters.  No question about it, the Confederate Alliance of
States was now a major player in sector politics.
     Emerson's hand swept over the map.  "I haven't even begun to
address all the hi-tech bandits, low-tech road warriors, and
pretty much everything else in between that we're encountering in
every corner of the sector."  The General paused like he wanted
to add something but shook his head and moved on.  "Anyway, the
whole world is going to hell in a hand basket.  I don't see why
we should be any different."
     Jeff leaned back in the chair and linked his fingers on top
of his head.  "Well, it certainly sounds like you're in for some
interesting times, General.  Too bad I'm not going to be here to
share it with you."
     "Why do you say that?"
     Jeff rocked forward and frowned at the General.  He just
figured out why this meeting made him so uncomfortable.  "By the
time it all breaks loose, I intend to be in my new home along the
Little Big Horn, waiting for the annual buffalo migration."  He
added emphasis to his declaration by slapping his folder of
retirement papers on the General's desk.
     "I don't think you understand what I'm saying here," Emerson
said with a cock of his head.
     "If it has anything to do with my retirement, all I
understand is that you're going to sign my papers and wish me a
happy life after the RDF."  Jeff's eyes burned into the
General's.  He'd always planned for the worst and hoped for the
best in his dealings with the service.  He got the feeling there
was a little surprise here that could overwhelm whatever plans he
might have made.  "I've done my time.  I've served for twenty-three 
years.  Regulations say I'm entitled to retirement."
     "Yes, and you've done everything we've asked extremely well. 
That's why I can't let you go just yet."  Emerson moved around
his desk and plopped into his aging office chair before issuing
the 'magic words'.  "I've got one more assignment for you."

     The walls of RDF Command shook as Colonel Stuart used his
best drill field command voice to damn everything from the RDF in
general to Rolf Emerson personally.  The frustration he felt at
enduring years of watching friend after friend die in pointless,
unappreciated brush wars of every description, exploded into a
verbal fury the likes rarely seen even in military society.  He
was so loud and emphatic that a pair of RDF Security men burst
into the office, certain the General's life was in danger.
     Emerson, however, calmly pulled a cigar from the humidor on
his desk and waved the guards away.  "It's okay," he said while
lighting the cigar.  "Colonel Stuart and I were just discussing
his next assignment."
     The guards looked at each other, like they were dealing with
crazy people, before backing out of the room and closing the door
behind them.
     Jeff continued to hover just out of arms reach, gasping for
breath and gripping the edge of Emerson's desk so hard you could
hear the wood scream.  "You said four years ago that all I had to
do was keep the Yorkies on their side of the line until I had
twenty years of service and I'd be done.  I did three years
better than that.  I'm NOT going back!" he warned.
     "I'm not asking you to command a combat squadron.  I just
need you to do one simple task."  Emerson took Jeff's paperwork,
opened a drawer and dropped them inside.  Slamming shut the
drawer, he puffed contentedly on the cigar.  "I need one more
squadron to fill a gap.  I don't have anyone with your
experience, especially in the kind of fighting that they're going
to be involved in.  I'm out of pilots, out of experienced
squadron commanders, and running out of time."
     Jeff's face grew another shade of red.  "What part of 'NO'
don't you understand?"
     "It's just a short assignment.  All I want you to do is put
together a new squadron and get them settled into one of our
reactivated bases down in the Ozarks.  By then I'll have found
someone to command it and you can retire to your 'happy hunting
ground' with your lovely squaw and your migrating buffalo."
     Jeff screamed in frustration when Emerson acted like he
wasn't listening.  Grabbing the General's nameplate off the desk
he took aim at the map on the wall.
     "Uhuhuh," Emerson said bolting to his feet and grabbing
Jeff's arm.  "That was a gift from my wife."  He eased the carved
wooden desk plate out of Jeff's hand and substituted a metal
bookend.
     With fresh ammunition, Jeff snarled and launched the bookend
directly at the map.
     "I see your aim is as good as ever," Emerson said as the
projectile embedded itself in the plastiform wall, a good two
feet to the left of the map.
     Jeff slumped back into chair, holding his head in his hands. 
"I don't believe this is happening."
     "Yup, life's like that."  Emerson pulled out two glass
tumblers and a bottle of artificially reproduced Scotch from the
bottom drawer of his desk.  Pouring some in both glasses, he
placed one in front of Jeff.  "Drink this.  You'll feel better."
     Jeff lazily slid the glass from the table and gulped its
contents down.  The ersatz alcohol burned as it slid down his
throat.  Reformulated, imitation crap, he thought.
      "I don't care how you do it," Emerson said.  "Just work
your usual magic and get me that squadron."
     "Why is this so important?" Jeff asked as the General
refilled his glass.  "The Yorkies aren't on the move.  Why don't
you just use one of your other squadrons?"
     "I would if I had another squadron.  The one I was counting
on changed sides yesterday.  When 99 Squadron went over to the
CAS, it blew a giant hole in my plans."
     "Then what about the reserves?" Jeff asked after draining
his glass.  It burned less this time.  Instead, it attacked his
stomach like a hundred piranhas.
     "What reserves?  I'm out of reserves," the General said with
a snort.  "We've been cannibalizing the reserve Veritechs to keep
the active squadrons flying."  He emptied the bottle into Jeff's
glass.  "Worse yet, in thirty days, I have to send two squadrons
to the Japan Sector to protect our Research Center there.  Our
intelligence folks believe that the Eastern Bloc Soviet
Independent State and the Chinese will team up to try and take
the place intact.  Jeff, if we lose that . . ."  He made an
exasperated gesture and slumped into his chair.  It was easy to
see now why he looked like a man who'd gone without sleep.  Loss
of the Research Center would allow all the secrets of
robotechnology to fall into EBSIS and Chinese hands.  With that,
they could easily build superior mecha.  It didn't take much
imagination to figure out where it would all end.
     "What about the Army of the Southern Cross?  Can't they
help?"  Jeff was beginning to get that familiar buzz that went
with high-powered firewater and pending action.
     "They probably could but Supreme Commander Leonard refuses
to move until he's ready.  He's got the full backing of the new
government.  They believe him when he says he's not ready.  I
suspect he'll be ready about the time we collapse completely. 
Then he can ride in on a white horse and restore order.  We'll
get the blame for the collapse and he'll get the glory for
cleaning it up."  General Emerson gulped down his drink and
slammed the glass down on his desk.
     So that was it.  Leonard knew that if he just waited long
enough, things would spin out of control and his rivals, the RDF,
would be overwhelmed.  That smacked of opportunism.  Jeff hated
opportunists almost as much as politicians and he hated
politicians only slightly less than traitors.  Emerson's proposal
began to sound rational.
     "All I have to do is form one more squadron, train them up,
and deposit them in some base in the Ozarks?" Jeff asked stroking
his chin.
     "Yeah, that's it.  Shouldn't take more than thirty days.  I
know you deserve to get out of this in one piece.  At least, you
have somewhere to go."  Emerson forced a smile.  "Some of us
don't even have that."
     Jeff began to respond but the look on Rolf's face stopped
him cold.  Emerson was from a place that was now under several
hundred feet of water.  The Zentraedi 'Rain of Death' bombardment
from the Zentraedi War triggered massive earthquakes that caused
much of old California to slip into the ocean.  Everything Rolf
had went with it.  Only his wife survived and that was due to her
visiting rural relatives in the mountains.
     "You can quit too.  Why not get out of this mess before it
all blows up in your face," Jeff said.

     Emerson snorted.  "I can't do that."
     "Why not?"
     "Who would replace me?"
     "Who cares?  Let the ASC take over.  Counter Leonard.  Make
him end up holding the bag when the world goes mad."
     "Is that what you'd do?"
     Jeff hesitated before answering: "Yeah, why not?"
     The General cocked his head.  "That's not the man I knew
along the Red River.  That Colonel Stuart never gave an inch."
     "That Colonel Stuart died along with half his command," Jeff
said bitterly.  "You know how I feel about that."
     Emerson just shrugged.  "Okay but you have to see how I'm
trapped."
     "I suppose," Jeff finally admitted.  "You really believe one
more squadron is going to solve everything?"
     Emerson laughed.  "I don't know what to believe anymore. 
The only thing I do know for sure is I need that squadron and I
need it in thirty days."
     "Then can I retire?"
     "By spring, the ASC will be running things and we'll all be
in retirement."
     "If there's a world left to run."

*****

     Jeff drove around for a couple of hours.  He needed time to
think.  Forming a new squadron five years ago would have been
simple.  All he had to do was send out requests to Personnel,
Logistics, and Systems and in less than a week he'd have
everything he needed.  Now, he wasn't certain those organizations
would even talk to him.  He was certain that there weren't even
twenty-four qualified Veritech pilots available anywhere in the
RDF.
     Before leaving headquarters, he checked with the Personnel
office.  As expected, they didn't have anyone immediately
available but promised to look through their records and see if
anyone would be willing to transfer.
     Transfer?  Sure, leave an already secure position with an
existing squadron to join an entirely new squadron that has no
permanent commander, no Veritechs, and will be posted to one of
the hottest spots in the North American Sector.  Yeah, they're
probably lining up right now to join, he thought bitterly.

     It was mid-afternoon when he finally pulled up to the front
of a small white building tucked into the shadow of a giant
deteriorating hanger.  He checked the directions Emerson had
given him and cross checked with his map of the base.  This was
the right place all right.
     Stuck out on the very fringes of Yellowstone Base, the
facility looked like something awaiting demolition.  The building
meant to be his squadron headquarters squatted in the hot sun
like a beached weather-beaten wood and plastiform white whale. 
Its sides had been patched several times and the roof needed
replacing.  It wasn't much to look at.  In any case, it would
have to do.
     He mounted the steps and slipped the key General Emerson had
given him into the lock.  Half hoping it wouldn't open, his
efforts were rewarded by a sharp 'click' as the electronic bolt
snapped open.  Well, so much for being locked out.
     Pushing open the door, he stepped into a large common room
with a half dozen desks and boxes stacked everywhere.  A thin
layer of dust covered everything but the boxes indicating a long
period of disuse.  Checking in one of the boxes, he was surprised
to find office supplies.  Considering the current RDF logistics
situation, it was more along the lines of a minor miracle.  In
any case, he hoped he would be as lucky with Veritechs and crews
as well.
     Moving silently through the other four rooms, mostly small
offices suitable for the commanding officer, his executive
officer, and a couple of other administrative types, he couldn't
help but notice how everything appeared so old and well used. 
There just wasn't any new stuff available anymore.
     "Well, I suppose I better start getting things set up," he
said to no one in particular.  Stripping off his tunic, he began
by clearing off the desks and organizing the boxes.
     To his surprise, a couple them contained almost new computer
equipment.  Reinvigored by the find, he anxiously pawed through
the boxes like he was at a rummage sale, sorting the relevant
items as he went.  Not only were they relatively new, but there
appeared to be enough parts for three computers.  They weren't
state of the art systems but at least they'd be connected to
headquarters by the common local area network.  All he had to do
was hook them up - if he remembered how.

     He was still under one of the desks trying to figure out how
to make an old-technology splitter work with a new-technology
fiber optic cable when he heard someone come in.
     "Hey, you!" a man's voice came from the door.  Jeff stopped
what he was doing and made a face.  'Hey, you?'
     "You under the desk.  Where can I find the CO?"
     Jeff growled at the floor: "What do ya want him for?"
     "I got orders to deliver something."
     Jeff poked his head above the desk.  Maybe it was his
Veritechs.  "Orders?  From whom?"  He eyed the man standing just
inside the door to his headquarters.  The guy couldn't have been
much over eighteen yet wore the insignia of a full sergeant -
which might explain his attitude.  In any case, the guy was
obviously an RDF security man.  Since they don't deliver
Veritechs, Jeff's curiosity grew.
     "The Old Man ordered me to deliver something."
     Jeff figured the 'old man' had to be Emerson but he was
curious about the 'things' in question.  "Go fetch 'em," he said
crawling out from under the desk.  "I'll have the C.O. here by
the time you get back."
     The sergeant hesitated, like he was deciding whether or not
to give Jeff a 'tongue lashing' for being so insolent, before
disappearing through the door outside.  
     Pulling his tunic from the chair he'd draped it over
earlier, Jeff was just securing the last of the closures when the
sergeant returned.
     The younger man froze when he caught sight of the RDF
Colonel standing where only a moment before was an old office
flunky.  His whole demeanor changed.
     "Sir," he said stiffly, snapping to attention.
     "I'm kind of pressed for time, Sergeant.  Where's the...
'things'," Jeff asked crossing his arms and leveling the sergeant
one of his best 'command stares'.
     "Coming sir," the sergeant said casting a nervous look
towards the door.
     He was answered by the sound of a struggle on the stairs
followed by the door swinging open revealing two other security
men manhandling a tall female RDF officer in handcuffs linked to
her belt with another set of handcuffs.  One look at her
confirmed why the restraints.  
     She had to be six feet tall and built like a natural
fighter.  Her blue hair pulled back in a makeshift ponytail, gave
her emerald green eyes an unencumbered view of her antagonists. 
Her uniform looked like it had been slept in and her face bore a
couple of bruises as if she'd recently been in a fight.  
     A second, more sedate pair, consisting of a mousy-looking
little blonde and her burly escort followed at a respectable
distance.  The blonde awkwardly pushed her oversized glasses back
onto the bridge of her nose, her handcuffs making such a simple
act a struggle.  If first impressions were valid in any way, Jeff
couldn't figure out just why such a inoffensive person would be
restrained.
     As the group settled down and lined up before him, Jeff
found it hard to hide his dismay.  "How many guesses do I get?"
     "General Emerson said you needed officers for a special
assignment," the sergeant said while unlocking the handcuffs of
the tall, blue-haired female.  The way she glared at him made it
clear she was looking for any excuse to rip his head off.
     "You've got to be kidding," Jeff said, his disgust obvious. 
"I do not recruit prisoners for my squadrons."
     "Sorry, sir."  The sergeant handed him two large envelopes. 
"Orders, sir."
     Jeff snatched the envelopes from the sergeant and frowned at
the two women.  The little blonde was rubbing her wrists and
looking around the room like a trapped animal.  The taller woman
just glared straight ahead, obviously resigned to her fate.
     "You want us to wait outside?" the sergeant asked.
     Jeff looked up from the envelopes.  "What for?"
     The sergeant glanced at the blue-haired female.  "Just in
case."
     Jeff sighed and shook his head.  This kind of help he didn't
need.  "No, thank you.  Tell General Emerson I will be calling."
     "Whatever you say, sir."  The sergeant saluted and quickly
herded his men back out the door.
     The three spent several long minutes eyeing each other until
the sound of the security vehicle faded into the distance.
     "Well, I must say I've never had two people report in quite
this way."  Shoving a pair of wheeled office chairs towards his
new 'recruits', he leaned back against the desk and opened the
envelopes.  "You might as well sit down."
     He was relieved when they actually did but got the feeling
their cooperation for the time being was not as willing as he
would like.  Pulling out their service records, he quickly
flipped the pages over until he came to the qualifications
section.  To his surprise, the blue-haired female was listed as a
first-rate Veritech pilot, highly trained and combat experienced.
However, there was nothing in the record that would suggest
handcuffs.
     "So, let's get to know one another," he said like a
kindergarten teacher.  "You go first."  He looked at the still
scowling girl with the blue hair.  She intrigued him.
     "Ona Parino, Captain, service number 168--"
     "Parino?" Jeff broke in.  "Are you any relation to Miriya
Parino who married Max Sterling?"
     The blue-haired female sighed like she'd heard this question
countless times before.  "I am from Clone Pool 1986-P.  All from
that pool are named 'Parino'."
     "What was your last assignment?"  Jeff noticed things about
her he hadn't before, like how much she resembled the famous hero
of the First Robotech War, right down to the way her eyes were
constantly moving, taking in every aspect of her environment.
     "Argentine Quadrant.  The 42nd Squadron."
     "Near the Zentraedi Control Zone.  Yes, I've heard of them. 
Wasn't the 42nd teamed with Skull Squadron for awhile?"
     Ona Parino's expression hardened.  "For awhile."
     Something about the mention of the 42nd left him
uncomfortable.  He tortured his memory for every scrap of
information he had on the squadron.  "Wasn't your squadron
composed of micronized Zentraedi females?"
     "There... were..."  Her voice faded as her hard expression
dissolved into fear.  Her reaction cued a sudden rush of memories
in Jeff about the squadron, none of them good.
     "The squadron was disbanded two months ago.  I think it had
something to do with an officer loosing her life."  Jeff stared
intently at the attractive Zentraedi sitting ram-rod stiff in the
steel office chair.  "You want to tell me about it?"
     "I...  No, sir," she finally said.
     "I think you can do better than that."  Jeff crossed his
arms and folded away the girl's official record.  He already knew
all he needed to know from it.
     "There's nothing to tell," she said softly.
     "Did you know the officer who died?"
     The girl started several times to answer but all she was
able to get out was a hushed: "Yes, sir."
     "Very well?"
     A shudder ran through the big Zentraedi's body.  Her hands
gripped the chair's arms until her knuckles turned white.  "It
wasn't supposed to happen," she said in a whisper, her eyes
unfocused, staring straight ahead.  "I tried to stop them."
     "Stop them from what?  What wasn't supposed to happen?"
     "We trained for months.  We anticipated every contingency.
But we were not prepared for..."  She choked but maintained her
outward look of control.
     "For us 'micronians' and our... emotions," Jeff said softly,
referencing the term for humans the Zentraedi used back when they
were forty foot giants.  He'd heard how difficult it was for most
Zentraedi who underwent micronization and tried to mix with the
local population.  Physically, they looked little different from
their human counterparts.  
     Inside though, they struggled to comprehend and cope with
the many complex emotions the human race had to offer.  Hate,
fear, and revenge they understood just fine.  Compassion,
friendship, and worst of all, love, they reacted to in different
ways.  The most successful among them simply denied such emotions
and locked themselves away in self-imposed cocoons, emerging only
to do their official duties before retreating back to the
sanctuary of their emotionless states.
     There were, however, tragic exceptions.  Some who explored
deeper their new-found emotions and had to face situations they
were unprepared to handle.  When that happened, they often
reverted to known reactions.  
     Everyone in the RDF had heard about what happened to the
42nd.  It was the most infamous and juicy story on post-war
Earth.  Numerous love triangles developed among the female
Zentraedi as more and more of them discovered all the more
pleasurable aspects of being human.  Jealousies soon developed
among the more volatile members and quickly cut into the
squadron's effectiveness.  It culminated in one explosive battle
between two rivals resulting in the death of one.
     There had been the usual investigations clearing the human
commander and placing all the blame on the system that failed to
prepare the female Zentraedi for such psychological disruptions.
The surviving squadron members were reassigned to different parts
of the world, as far apart as possible.  It was the usual way
military organizations dealt with such things.  
     "Were you involved?" Jeff asked, leaning towards the
Zentraedi.
     At first, the only outward sign his question had any effect
was a slight tremble of her lower lip.  She blinked a couple of
times to prevent a natural reaction that Zentraedi considered the
most embarrassing of all.  "I... I loved them both," she finally
said in a soft voice.  Her eyes squeezed shut and her jaw set
itself.  Her hands squeezed the chair's armrests with renewed
vigor.  Her voice became little more than a whisper.  "I couldn't
stop them.  It wasn't supposed to happen."
     He gave her a few moments to regain control before pressing
the issue.  "So how did you wind up in our brig?"
     Ona swallowed hard.  "After I was reassigned, I found I
couldn't sleep or eat.  I needed time to think."  Her eyes opened
and fixed themselves on his.  Her voice changed to reflect her
resolve.  "I didn't run away.  I just needed to think.  I can
still serve.  I know what I did wrong.  It won't happen again. 
It WON'T."
     Jeff knew that if she was classified as AWOL, the RDF would
consider her useless for further assignments.  Even with the
official policy of integration of Zentraedi in the RDF, there was
still a strong prejudice about them as soldiers.  Tolerance of
mistakes was low.  Usually, all it took was one for RDF Command
to act.  Emerson probably did her a favor sending her here.  This
squadron was her last chance in the RDF.  If she failed here,
she'd be out; a reject, lost forever in civilian life.  A fate
worse than death for a warrior Zentraedi.
     Jeff eyed the still vibrating young lady.  The final
decision was his.  He didn't have to take her or her problems. 
Normally, putting together a squadron that was soon going in
harms way was no place for people with personal problems.  
     But this wasn't normal times and he was in no position to be
choosy.
     "Go clean yourself up," he said, jerking a thumb towards the
restroom.  He couldn't stand watching a strong warrior like a
Zentraedi fight emotions considered normal in humans.
     Ona Parino retreated to the indicated room and closed the
door.  She might be a Zentraedi warrior but what happened to her
in South America awoke something that damaged her ability to
function.  She was going to need a lot of work before she'd be an
asset to the squadron.
     Thanks a lot, General, he thought bitterly.
     He turned his attention to the little blonde.  She couldn't
have been much over sixteen or seventeen.  She certainly didn't
look like a pilot or someone who belonged in handcuffs, for that
matter.  "So, what's *your* story?"
     The girl shifted in the chair, her hands clenched tightly
together.  "I'm Cindy Wallace, Lieutenant, Administrative
Assistant, sir" she said in a tiny voice.  "My last assignment
was with the Condor Squadron."
     "Stationed at the New Albuquerque RDF Base.  Yes, I know of
it."  Jeff tried to sound sympathetic but increasingly got the
feeling that he was wasting his time with this girl.  She was not
a pilot and he really didn't have time to go around looking for
paper shufflers.  "So why the handcuffs?"
     "It was a mistake," she said.
     "It always is," Jeff answered in a tired voice.
     "I mean, the reason why I was arrested.  You see, about a
year ago, near our base, a small number of refugees set up camp. 
Most were people who lost everything in the war and couldn't move
to one of the big cities because they had young children or
elderly family members that couldn't make the long journey."  The
girl sniffed and rubbed her nose.  "There was one group, I think
the man leading them was a religious person of some sort.  He was
a collector of children."
     Jeff frowned at the title she gave.  "A collector of
children?  Sounds ghastly."
     "Oh no, he *found* children who'd lost their parents and
took care of them," she protested.  "He had a couple of women
with him.  I think they were his sisters.  Anyway, that's what he
called them: sisters."
     "Okay, so how does all this involve you?"  Jeff was becoming
even more impatient.  He still had to check on the arrival of his
Veritechs.
     "At first, I gave them little things we were going to throw
away, like old blankets, used clothes, stuff like that.  I had to
sneak the stuff off base because of the guards.  Nobody missed
it, so nothing was said.  
     "Well, that winter the man and his sisters moved the
children to live under what was left of a building near the base. 
They needed so much.  I started sneaking out more things; a case
of canned food, bottles of clean water, whatever medical supplies
I could find.  In the spring, I got caught ordering stuff from
RDF Logistics and smuggling it off base."  Her voice rose and
panic showed in her eyes.  "They accused me of selling the stuff
on the black market.  I wasn't!  Really!  They were just a bunch
of children, sir.  We had so much and they had..."  Her voice
finally evaporated in a sigh of resignation.  She'd obviously
already had her story discounted by RDF officials.  There was no
reason for her to think Jeffrey was going to be any different.
     "You got caught giving things to orphans?  Why didn't you
just talk to the base CO and tell him you were going to do some
charity thing?"
     "He hated 'squatters'," she said with a scowl.  "That's what
he called them.  He would have had a security squad drive them
off.  He didn't want anyone around his base.  Security zones, he
said."
     Jeff leaned back and stared at the ceiling.  Well, this
really stunk.  A messed up Zentraedi coming off a bad love affair
and a girl who bootlegged a charity.  As squadron building goes,
this was not much of a start.
     The sound of Ona returning from the restroom ended his time
to think.  He had to make a decision.  He could keep them and try
to work around their problems while letting them help him build a
competent peacekeeping force or he could send them back and start
over - with one less day available.
     Experience is a great asset when dealing with people.  It
allows one to profit from mistakes and the mistakes of others. 
In the end, he decided to do the same as he always did; count on
his people.
     "I believe there are times to follow regulations to the
letter," he said frowning between the girls.  "A military force
cannot exist without order.  Regulations are there to assure
order."  He paused to make certain his words were having the
right effect.  They were.  "There are also times when regulations
can be a pain in the ass."  He picked up the two personal records
and slowly tore them in half in front of Ona and Cindy.  Their
eyes followed him as he dropped the torn pages in a nearby trash
can.  "As of now, you have no past.  This is a fresh start for
both of you.  I expect you will give me your best effort, then
I'll demand more.  That's the way I work.  My squadrons are
always the best in the RDF.  I've *never* had a failure. 
Squadron 13-Foxtrot will be the best squadron in the North
American Sector.  You understand me?"
     "Yes, sir!" the girls answered together.  Cindy was grinning
like she'd just been sprung from jail.  Ona's expression remained
hard yet he could see in her eyes the kind of burning resolve
Zentraedi were known for.  He hoped it meant she intended to
follow through.
     "Do you girls have somewhere to stay?" he asked reaching for
the phone.  He already knew the answer.  Those just released from
the brig were usually on their own.
     "Not yet.  We don't have any credits," Cindy said glancing
between her new squadron mate and Jeff. 
     "I'll arrange for you to stay at Grant Barracks.  It's not
fancy but you'll at least have a comfortable bed and hot food." 
He started dialing the phone.  "You're part of the squadron now
so the RDF will pick up your bills."
     Grant Barracks was a series of modular-constructed
dormitories for unmarried officers and enlisted RDF personnel. 
As living arrangements went, it was probably more comfortable
than any of the privately available quarters in town.  With
individual rooms that housed up to four people, a small
recreation center, and a large mess hall spread over four wings
that rose two floors above the ground, it represented the last
construction job done at Yellowstone before all resources shifted
to building facilities for the ASC.  
     Jeff quickly got through to the front desk.  The Billeting
Officer confirmed there were vacancies and scheduled the room.
     "If you two don't mind sharing, they can take you right
away," he said hanging up the phone.
     "Do you snore?" Ona asked the diminutive Cindy.
     "No.  You do anything crazy like pick fights in your sleep?"
     "Of course not."
     "Fine.  I now pronounce you roommates," Jeff said standing
up.  "You two better get over there before they change their
minds.  Report back here tomorrow morning at 0700.  We've got a
lot of work to do."
     Ona and Cindy stood and snapped sharp salutes before turning
to leave.  Ona, however, paused at the door.
     "Sir?" she said, her expression softer than usual.  "I won't
disappoint you."
     "I need pilots, Captain Parino."  Jeff dropped into one of
the vacated chairs.  "I need twenty-four pilots in thirty days."
     "Now you need twenty-three," she answered.
     "No, I still need twenty-four," Jeff corrected.  "You're
going to be my executive officer.  You won't normally fly."
     Ona hesitated, her eyes wandering over the blank bulletin
board next to the door.  "About that.  I'd rather you find
someone else.  I'm a pilot.  I'm no good at paperwork."
     "We don't get to do what we want in the RDF, Captain."  Jeff
sighed and ran a hand through his hair.  "Even Colonels have to
obey orders."
     "I know, sir.  But if there's any way..."
     Jeff looked at her expression and figured she was being as
honest with him as possible.  That was usually all he asked of
those who served under him.  "Very well, I'll see what I can do. 
In the mean time, you will be the *acting* exec.  You *will*
learn paperwork and you *will* do a good job."
     "Yes, sir."  Her voice sounded less than enthusiastic but
she at least agreed.
     Jeff turned so he faced away from the Captain, indicating
she was dismissed.  He heard the door close and Captain Parino's
footsteps as she joined Lieutenant Wallace.  They'd be okay for
tonight, he thought.
     Pulling out a small cooler from under the desk, he fished
out a bottle.  It was against regulations to drink alcohol in
squadron facilities.  Of course, he figured all the things he
would have to do to get his squadron ready in the first place
will probably violate more serious rules than a little beer in
his squadron headquarters.
     Snapping off the top, he offered a silent toast to all those
he knew on the SDF-3, somewhere deep in space.  At least they
were far away from a collapsing world government and increasing
numbers of hostile city-states with their dangerous military
forces.  All they had to face were the Masters and their advanced
weaponry - if they ever found them.
     He took a long drink and sighed.  His wife was not going to
like this.  She was all ready for him to retire.  She was looking
forward to spending her summer back on the reservation caring for
her aging father and learning more of the duties of a shaman-medicine man.  
     They were an unusually close-knit group, the Lakota.  It
took a long time for him to gain their acceptance.  Marrying the
daughter of the tribe's medicine man helped a little.  The old
man was much respected among his people.  So when he accepted the
strange white man as family, the rest of his people quickly
followed.
     Their lives were little changed by the war.  True, the
Zentraedi global bombardment destroyed much of their sacred Black
Hills, leaving only a section of the land untouched, most of the
Lakota reverted to living as their ancestors did, in shelters
made of animal hides and hunting or foraging for food.  
     They were few now.  Many had died in the Zentraedi War. 
Most of their children answered the call early and joined the
RDF, the excitement and honor of being a warrior in the cause of
protecting their families still strong.  Few returned to their
homes.
     Yeah, he was going to miss the quiet evenings along the
Little Fox.  He knew Emerson couldn't promise a quick retirement,
even if the Army of the Southern Cross could take over
immediately.  Taming the world was going to take the combined
efforts of both groups.  
     What happened in Florida also still bothered him.  The very
idea of supposedly loyal RDF humans switching sides went against
everything the RDF stood for.  Turning over their Protoculture
powered mecha and Veritechs only made it worse.  The new
Confederate Alliance of States was now a major player in sector
politics with new muscle to back up their demands. 
     Jeff sighed again and chalked the whole thing up to the
dangerous policy the RDF imposed a couple of years ago that
allowed personnel to be stationed nearer to their homes.  It was
supposed to give them reason to perform better.  Instead, they
found themselves living amongst dissident family and friends who
easily converted them in the local political environment. 
Defections were inevitable.
     He finished the first bottle and reached for another.  He
got the feeling he'd better enjoy this moment of solitude.  It
was probably going to be the last one he got for some time.