"Attention all Zeon officers and soldiers. I am Prime Minister Darcia Bakharov. Supreme Commander Gihren Zabi, along with Rear Admiral Kycilia Zabi, have lost there lives in battle. Therefore, A Baoa Qu has surrendered. At present, the Principality of Zeon and the Earth Federation government have agreed to a ceasefire. Our battle has come to an end. I beseech you, officers and soldiers; as the national sovereign, I have proper authority to give the order. All forces: immediately suspend hostilities, and lay down your weapons. I repeat: immediately suspend hostilities, and lay down your weapons. The war is over."



It is the year 0080 of the Universal Century (UC).
Exactly a year has passed since the beginning of an apocalyptic conflict which will become known to history as the One Year War. The war, which was fought between the Principality of Zeon, an independent nation composed of a large number of space colonies orbiting just beyond the Moon, and the Earth Federation, the unified government of the Earth and most of the nearby orbital colonies. The war, which began on January 1st, UC 0079, claimed the lives of over half the total human population, and was instigated by the Principality of Zeon.
Their motivation was twofold: one, to reinforce their independence from the Earth Federation, which still regarded them as little more than a rogue territory, and two, to further the cause of Contolism, an ideology developed by the spacenoid philosopher Zeon Zum Deikun which posited that it was duty of humanity to preserve the Earth and its natural wonders, and also that the space colonies should be considered independent states. To this end, Zeon wished to force all of human kind to leave the Earth and emigrate into outer space, which would be the catalyst for the species to develop into its next evolutionary stage, as predicted by Deikun: the Newtype.
This plan failed.
Though Zeon's advanced technology and tactical expertise ensured early victories, the tide of the war shifted when the Federation, bolstered by its own efforts to replicate Zeon technology, rendered these advantages moot and used its own far greater numbers to drive the invaders back into space. After a climactic final battle in space, Zeon capitulated, and the war officially came to an end on January 1st, UC 0080, exactly one year after it began.
Throughout the Earth Sphere, the forces of the former Principality gave up their arms and returned to their defeated homeland, or were marched off into prisoner of war camps. It seemed that the dream of Zeon had died...
But this was not quite so.

In Universal Century 0079, countless military units on both sides fought it out on the surface of the Earth, but of them all, a few in particular stand out for various reasons.
One of these was the 261st Mobile Supply Corps.
A Zeon unit with the Earth Attack Force, the 261st MSC was originally a "high mobility" supply unit, meant to keep up with the rapidly advancing front as Zeon forces pushed across Europe, the Middle East, Southeast Asia and North America. Coming to Earth during the first Earth Drop Operation, the unit saw action in Central Europe after the Odessa landings, and quickly gained a reputation as being as formidable a fighting force in a pinch as any front line battalion.
As the war progressed and ground to a stalemate, the role of the 261st changed from a normal supply unit to a "blockade runner" force, specializing in getting supplies and even reinforcements to besieged Zeon units and garrisons. As the tide began to turn against Zeon, the 261st became instrumental in several successful break-out operations, at one time evacuating an entire fortress out from under the nose of besieging Federation troops. As the situation worsened, however, the unit, now considered an effective fighting force in addition to its supply role, was moved to Northern Africa, reinforcing units stationed to defend against an expected Federation invasion of the Middle East across the Suez Canal.
Instead, the Federation invaded through Eastern Europe in Operation Odessa, taking the major regional Zeon command post and forcing the general evacuation of Zeon forces from the region. While most units returned to space from H.L.V. facilities near Odessa, a not inconsiderable number were stranded on Earth, retreating to Africa, Northern Europe or Southeast Asia and going into hiding, establishing remnant cells destined to conduct guerrilla operations against the Earth Federation for decades after the war's official end.
The 261st, stationed along the Suez Canal when the word came that Odessa had fallen, was one such unit.
Assisting other units to evacuate in the face of Federation mop-up operations, the 261st led an exodus of Canal Zone troops into the deserts of Egypt and the Northern Sahara. From there, they waged a guerrilla campaign against the Federation forces sent to chase them, holding out for three whole months with only minimal support from the main Zeon forces now fighting in space.
On January 1st, 0080, however, word came of the ceasefire.
Having been loyal this long, the officers and soldiers of the 261st endeavored to carry out their last official orders. Setting out across the desert in search of a Federation garrison or unit they could surrender to, they prepared themselves to accept defeat...

Meanwhile, nearby, their counterparts awaited just such an eventuality.
The 12th MS Team is one of the Earth Federation's numerous Earth-based Mobile Suit squads, an elite branch of the Earth Federation Ground Forces formed to counter the deadly threat of Zeon's own Mobile Suit teams.
Composed of three MS and a support vehicle, the 12th was formed early in the One Year War as the 12th Independent Armored Team, equipped with the Type 61 main battle tank and tasked with hunting the Principality's formidable MS-06J Zaku II "ground type". The 12th IAT survived long enough in combat - a rarity due to the high attrition rates of Federation armored units against Zeon Mobile Suits - to graduate to the first Federation Mobile Suits, the RX-79[G] Gundam Ground Type and RGM-79[G] GM Ground Type, at which time their designation changed accordingly.
The 12th MS Team served on the European front, and gained a reputation as a superb guerrilla unit, operating deep inside Zeon-held territory with minimal support. They were part of a vanguard force which scouted and softened up targets for Operation Odessa, and participated in mop-up operations afterward, pursuing Zeon remnant troops from the Suez Canal into Northern Africa.
In late 0079, the 12th MS Team was assigned to the Renfield Battalion, under Colonel Dennet Renfield. Colonel Renfield, known to many as "the Butcher of Heidelberg", was charged with rooting out remnant Zeon troops and partisans in the Sahara Desert, and pursued his mission with a zeal and blood-lust which greatly intimidated and even frightened those who served under him.
Nobody knew how the Colonel would react when, on 01/01/0080, news came of a ceasefire...

The 12th and the 261st. Little did these two former enemies know, soon they would both be forced to fight side by side against an enemy far more evil and vicious than either they had yet encountered...





UNDER CONSTRUCTION.

UC 01/03/0080.
Near the Jaghbub Oasis, former Libya.
Appropriate music.

"Hold up! No.5's got another flat!"
Lieutenant Milo Tyranne lurched slightly in his seat as, for the third time that day, the convoy came to a halt, the snarl of diesel turbines, clatter of tracks and whine of hover fans ceasing.
Sighing deeply, the young pilot let himself lean forward until his forehead "thunked" against the broad dashboard of the Samson-class heavy transport truck he rode in.
"I'm beginning to see why we lost the war."
Beside him, the truck's driver cast a sardonic grin over at his morose CO, reclining in his seat and lacing his fingers behind his head. A fellow veteran of the Supply Corps, Sergeant Delfin Rogers dwarfed Milo at 6' 8", a rare example of above-average stature among the spacenoid population. Being exceptionally tall was a rarity in space; the early colonists had nearly all been at or below average height, due to the limitations of early space travel, and thus their descendants were typically likewise.
"I'll admit, sir, that our tire technology leaves something to be desired." The mammoth driver said. "But you have to admit, we're luckier than most; we have spares at least!"
At the other end of the height scale, Milo stood only 5' 2", unusually short even for a spacenoid, with a slender, almost gaunt build, messy dark brown hair and thick, and green eyes behind thick, wide glasses which gave them an owlish quality. Strictly speaking, he had failed the enlistment physical exams, but had originally applied for what was essentially a desk job in the pre-war period, and thus his inadequacies were waived. To his credit, he had not let his posting to Earth slow him down much; the Principality had needed everyone they could get, and Milo had stepped up.
He looked over at Delfin, head still resting against the dashboard, and gave another sigh before straightening back up and popping his neck.
"Yeah, I guess that's true."
There was one advantage to being in a supply unit, Milo mused to himself; they usually had what they needed. This, Milo knew, was not the experience of most units; especially late in the war, there had been shortages of damn near everything, and the young pilot had observed the often desperate supply situations of many front-line combat units first hand.
The Zeon invasion of Earth had been expected to go quickly; once Europe and North America were seized, it was expected that the Feddies would capitulate quickly. The war had dragged on, however, and as it did, the inadequacies of certain Zeon equipment had been made clear.
To be sure, things like Mobile Suits worked wonderfully, as they should given how much care and attention had been put into their adaptation for ground-side operations. Other items, though, mundane things less obvious but no less indispensable, proved less so. Zeon aircraft, for example, had almost always proved inferior to their Federation counterparts. The case-less ammunition of early-war Zeon assault rifles had proved sensitive to humidity and temperature. Constantly, Zeon engineers underestimated the challenges of keeping moisture and dirt out of sensitive machinery.
And, most poignant at the moment, Zeon pneumatic tire technology - especially for large and heavy vehicles like the Samson - had always been far behind that of the Federation.
Milo un-clipped his seat-belt, opening the door of the massive truck and letting a blast of hot, dry air into the cool, air-conditioned cabin. Life in a space colony, with its rigidly controlled weather patterns and planned landscapes, had not prepared him for the rugged conditions on Earth, but he liked to think he had adapted well.
"I'm going to go stretch my legs for a few minutes." He said to Delfin as he left the cab. "Any idea where we are?"
Delfin, wincing slightly at the heat from outside, glanced down at a map readout on the dashboard. Frowning, he tapped the screen, and shook his head.
"I know we crossed into Libya earlier today, but the satellite navigation is dark; looks like we've entered another Minovsky Particle field."
Milo frowned.
During the war, Minovsky Radiation had been used heavily by both sides to blank out the electromagnetic spectrum, rendering useless all related technologies for communication and remote detection. Radar, radio and microwave communication did not work except at short range, and Minovsky Particle fields even created a distortion effect in space, similar to atmospheric effects, reducing engagements to visual range detection and combat and rendering most weapons dependent on on-board electronic guidance ineffective. Even infrared heat-seeking missiles were no longer worth it, as their relatively delicate circuitry required thick shielding to function in a Minovsky Particle environment, increasing the cost and labor involved in such devices prohibitively.
In space, Minovsky Radiation could linger for up to a month, though on Earth, shifting air currents usually dissipated such clouds within a few days. It had been three days since the end of the war, and Milo figured that given the often strong winds of the desert, there had been more than enough time to erase the invisible aftermath of any eleventh hour conflict from the last days of fighting.
"That's weird..."
The young supply officer stepped out of the cab onto the truck's gigantic fender, shading his eyes as he looked out across the rocky, sandy expanse of the desert. A few minutes before, the convoy had entered a downward slope into a deep depression, which Milo suspected might have a sub-sea level oasis at its bottom where they could make camp and consult their charts.
For three days, the group had been trying to find a Federation garrison - or even patrol - that they could surrender to. It left a bad taste in his mouth, but Milo knew that orders were orders; to fight on now was to do so without the support of their government back at Side 3, and possibly to make things harder for their comrades who simply wanted to go home.
Home.
Tugging on gloves to insulate his hands against the burning metal rungs of the ladder on the side of the truck, Milo descended to the sand, not yet sweating in the dry heat. His mind swam with nostalgia; it had been just over a year since he had been back to the Principality of Zeon; now the Republic of Zeon, once again, if Federation broadcasts were to be believed. It would be good to go back there; even if he were returning defeated, he would see his family again, a privilege millions of his countrymen would never receive.
He looked out at the dunes, and shuddered. For all he knew, the dead of three world wars lay buried just beneath his feet, comrades in arms to the countless Zeon and Federation troops who had joined them over the past 12 months.
His gaze turned back to look at the convoy.
I wonder how the other pilots are doing?

Lieutenant Laytn Aarom lurched forward as the transport truck came to a sudden halt. Without the benefit of a warning, Laytn’s head collided with a dull thud against the metal casing of his mobile suit’s beam sniper rifle. Spitting a curse as he brought a hand to rub at his head, Laytn stood and yelled towards the front of the truck.

“Care to ease into the brakes, eh corporal?”

With the loud rumble of the Samson’s mechanical systems filling the desert air, Laytn knew the young soldier in the driver seat had no chance of hearing him. This fact somehow made the pain in his skull all the more sharp, as his rebuke drifted heedlessly into the cacophony of noise. Damn kids, he thought, wearily inspecting the hand he had held to his head for blood. Only grimy dirt and grease caked upon his fingers met his gaze.

Satisfied his wound was nothing more than a bump, Laytn stood beneath the tarp in the rear of the transport, and looked to the mobile suit that accompanied him. Sporadic pools of sunlight danced and shifted through the torn and hole-riven fabric that covered the aging MS-05L Zaku I Sniper Type, affectionately christened “Old Crow.” The scratched, pocked, and dented coyote-tan armor plating that covered the mobile suit was specious, even in the relatively low light. On Old Crow’s right shoulder, the once dark silhouette of a cackling raven with a large roman numeral ‘III’ in its beak, looked back at Laytn with a dim, dusty luster.

She’s seen better days, He thought with a wry smirk. And so have I.

The thirty-year old lieutenant glanced down to his uniform, and decided he and his mobile suit made quite the pair. His brown boots were scuffed, and caked with sand. The fabric of his uniform was worn, and slightly lighter in color and threadbare at the knees, elbows, and shoulders. Irregular stains of layered sweat marked his shirt beneath his armpits, and around his collar. His rank insignias were no longer crisp, and stray threads poked out irregularly. That coupled with the lengthening crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes, and the stubble of a beard at his chin, made Laytn for quite the opposite image of a dashing spacenoid military officer. That was the reality of war, however. Spit and polish were appropriate for control rooms and state dinners, not the front lines. Laytn had learned long ago that it was more important to clean your rifle than it was to clean your shirt.

Grumbling at the sweltering heat, and the ache in his head, Laytn closed the access panel to the electronic scope on Old Crow’s beam rifle. Recently the calibrations within the digital zoom had been glitching sporadically, and that was the hallmark of sand finding its way into the circuitry. The damnable sand got everywhere. It was worse than water in Laytn’s mind, and he, along with the rest of the Zeon military, had been fighting that natural plague since landing on Earth. It had become so commonplace an issue for Old Crow that Laytn had to take to cleaning various systems on the mobile suit during transport. Today had been no exception. Satisfied, if not necessarily pleased with his progress on the scope, Laytn decided to check on the disposition of the convoy and his comrades.

Sliding beneath the edge of the tarp, Laytn jumped down to the hard sand. The wind and sun immediately began to berate him with heat and grit, and he squinted against it as he looked down the direction of the convoy’s front. Up ahead, he could see the engineers and mechanics clustered around a listing Samson. They were working quickly to repair an apparently blown tire on the massive truck, and seeing this, Laytn found himself adding a scowl to his already squinted eyes. At least it’s not a turbine.

Laytn pressed a desert camouflaged boonie-hat upon his head, and began stalking his way towards where he knew Lieutenant Tyranne’s truck to be located. As he walked, he passed his fellow soldiers of the 261st dutifully, if somewhat exasperatingly, using the opportunity of the unplanned stoppage to check over their equipment and loads. This sight gave Laytn a twinge of pride, and his mood buoyed slightly as he found his way to where Milo stood beside the cab of his truck.

“Damned trucks,” Laytn called to his fellow lieutenant. “Whoever’s brilliant idea it was to use pneumatic tires in a place like this should be thrust out an airlock.”

Moving to stand his 5’-10” frame beside his shorter companion, Laytn clapped a hand on Milo’s shoulder. “How are you holding up?”

Joshua felt the truck lurch underneath him, his arms shooting out to keep his seated form from toppling over. His back was pressed by the deceleration onto the smooth metal of the Suit behind him, the cool steel a comfort in the sweltering desert heat. He mentally thanked fortune for his seat under the tarp for the thousandth time, overjoyed to be out from the burning hot sun. As his back pushed into the metal, the computer on his lap pushed into his stomach, its glowing green-tinted screen the only light under the shadow of the tarp.

His fingers didn't stop their dance across the keys, despite the uncomfortable stop. He trusted the technicians, sure, but being stuck on this long trek to a surrender that still galled him, he needed to find something to occupy himself with, and ensuring the erasure of pertinent data had seemed like a good investment of his time. He may be surrendering to the Feds, but that didn't mean he had to like it, and it certainly didn't mean he had to make life easy for them.

Unfortunately for Joshua, one can only make sure the same data is deleted for so long, and by now he had long since exhausted his modest computational knowledge and was just making work for himself. With one last wipe of the navigational computer, he extricated himself from the truck bed and exposed himself to the outside for the first time in hours.

It was not a pleasant experience. Earth was magnificent, and needed to be preserved at all costs, but Joshua found it hard to feel connected to this blasted, forsaken wasteland. He was still not quite used to the heat, for one, and though he had learned early that sunscreen was a soldier's best friend, he had not gotten used to the burning on his arms and neck. His olive sleeves were rolled up, his booted feet sank ever so slightly into the blistering sands, impeding his walk towards the gaggle of soldiers gathered around the front of the transport.

He approached the group, hungry for some sort of interaction and eager to take his unoccupied mind off surrender, he made his way towards the short frame of Lieutenant Tyranne, stopping just behind the man before he spoke, his voice raspy from disuse and dust accumulation.

"Enjoying the trip, Tyranne?"

Underneath the tarp of the Samson-Class heavy transport truck 3, a collective groan could be heard as the truck stopped for what must've been the upteenth time that day. Greg McKnight was stirred into a wakeful state as he slid off the armor plate that he had been lounging on. Catching himself as he slid off his machine, Greg casually dusted himself off. Despite the tarp that covered the truck's trailer, an ungodly amount of sand never failed to find its way into the truck; Greg was half convinced he'd find half the desert in his pants by the end of their trek.

Collecting himself and his thoughts, he watched as a pair of techs lounged by the head of his mobile suit, one lazily typing on a laptop as the other made lax comments here and there. The techs had little to do since the order to surrender had come in- there was no more need to keep McKnight's Zaku II F2 in peak fighting condition, because there was no more fighting to be had. The machine was ready to jump into combat, Greg would be a poor soldier if he allowed his machine to deteriorate to an unusable state, but since it wasn't being used, there was very little need to do more than a quick diagnostic followed by a wipe down with a rag. His Zaku, once a devastating machine of war, was now little more than an oversized piece of luggage for the convoy to carry around until they found a Federation base to surrender to.

Greg scowled, the idea of surrendering to the enemy still disgusted him. Not that he had any particular hatred of the Federation, but more because his pride refused to allow him to accept the idea of giving up. His gloved fingers brushed against the dove painted on his mobile suit's shoulder shield, the black paint cracked and peeling from the unforgiving dry heat of the desert. One of the technicians noticed that Greg had awakened, and got up off the bed of the truck to approach him.

"Hey Commander, its truck no. 5. Again. It blew a tire." The tech shot a look back at the tech on the laptop. "Again." the two technicians said in unison.

Greg nodded and tugged at his uniform, the sleeves had been rolled up to his elbows, and the black dove of his unit was still shown prominently on his shoulder. The entire uniform reeked of sweat and was covered in a thin dusting of sand. Slipping out from under the tarp and into the harsh sunlight, Greg squinted as he shielded his eyes with a hand. He looked up and down the convoy, and nothing but radiating heat, sand, and trucks as far as the eye could see.

Taking his legs for a stretch Greg took a walk down the convoy, nodding to a couple of the other pilots doing the same thing as he did. It was hard to find something to do, surprisingly enough, and now that they were out of combat, more than a few of the pilots were getting a little stir crazy. One such group of pilots had gathered ahead of him. He recognized the pilots ahead of him, none were of his combat unit, but regognizable nonetheless. There was Gordon, an aggressive, but loyal mobile suit pilot, Aarom, one of the 261st's marksmen, and Tyranne, a supply officer with a surprising amount of talent for mobile suit piloting.

Noticing the two taller pilots towering over the short supply officer, Greg approached, allowing his mass to shadow them as he interjected with some small amount of irony.

"Aarom, Gordan, give the man some space. He can barely think with the two of you towering over him."

Milo was shaken from his contemplation of the rolling dunes by a familiar voice. Happy to have his rather bleak train of thought derailed, he smiled over at Lieutenant Aarom, staggering slightly when the bigger man clapped him on the shoulder, but chuckling.
"I suppose I could be worse." He replied to Laytn, straitening his large glasses. "Just trying to focus on the idea that we'll all be going back into space soon, I hope." He spread his arms to indicate his anemic frame. "Gravity never agreed with me all that much, know what I mean?"
Hearing an ill-used voice behind him, the young supply officer turned around to see Lieutenant Joshua Gordon and, a little ways behind him, Lt. Cmdr. Greg McKnight coming toward him. He smiled at them, shrugging at Joshua's question.
"Bigger they are, the more shade they cast, and in this heat I'll take what I can get!" Milo called, saluting his superior before thrusting his hands in his pockets. "And this has been a blast, yeah! I mean look at this exciting, varied landscape!"
The Lieutenant gestured out at the rocky expanse of the depression slope, stretching off into the distance to where the hazy, golden shapes of sand dunes could be seen rolling along the horizon. He supposed it was majestic, but after three months of seeing pretty much the same terrain day in and day out, Milo was fairly desensitized to it.
He glanced toward where a pack of mechanics were clustered around the disabled No.5 Samson, moving aside to allow one of the convoy's Zaku Tanks to lift the heavy truck off the sand, expediting the removal of the tire, which had been gashed open by something sharp in the road which no-one had yet been able to find. Hanging off the back of the truck was a similarly punctured tire, and on No.4 ahead of it hung another; Zeon forces were very conscientious about collecting their trash on Earth.
But this would make the third blown tire today. Even if Zeon tires weren't as good as the Federation's, this had to be some kind of record on sandy terrain.
Maybe there's a lot of jagged flint around here. He mused.
Milo shook his head and turned away from the repairs.
"I gotta say, though." He continued, turning back to his friends. "I almost have to think the Earth itself wants us to stop and look at the scenery! What's this, the third flat today?"

Joshua immediately recognized the voice behind him, but turned to confirm. A particularly disheveled view of his tall superior officer, looming above him. He was tempted to crack a joke, or make some sort of lighthearted remark, but thought better of it. He knew that anyone in this convoy would be a mess of emotions, and one jocular remark to a superior officer could be taken as insubordination in the tumult. He simply smiled slightly, saluted normally, and responded in a friendly tone.

"Didn't mean anything by it, Commander. Just curious is all."

Joshua took a small step to the side, wiping the already-forming perspiration from his brow as he waited for a response. He wondered if the rest of the soldiers were as anxious as him. Maybe he was the only one frustrated, bored, and desperately looking for distraction. He wondered if the rest of them were going stir crazy. He hadn't spent this long out of potential combat zones in months, and it was bizarre. There were no patrols to make, not watches to be kept, no units to be kept scramble-ready, nothing. There was just sand, a popped tire, and yet more sand. It was almost surreal, and the surreality only heightened his anger at the situation.

Regardless, there was nothing to be done, so he would make the best of it. No sense being anything less than friendly to his fellow soldiers, so he waited patiently and politely in the short break in conversation.

Laytn nodded empathetically to Milo, and the man’s mention of returning to space.

“Glad to hear it. It could always be worse, I suppose.” Opening his hands to include Lt. Gordon, he continued with a wry grin, “At this rate, though, I think I’ll be returning half of Earth’s sand to Side 3 in the pockets of my uniform.”

Looking down the row of Samson’s, Laytn could see Commander McKnight approaching. From amidst his fellow lieutenants, he tossed the man a perfunctory salute and a smirk.

“Milo’s right, sir,” Laytn said to the ranking officer, “Josh and I are really nothing more than walking pergolas at this point. It’s an honorary title.”

Laytn adjusted the boonie hat on his head, wiping away the drips of sweat that were already gathering at his brow, and the tip of his nose. The heat was oppressive, even if it was a “dry heat.” That description, a common phrase among Feds as he understood it, was a nonsensical expression to Laytn—the heat was uncomfortable, regardless of the relative humidity.

Following Milo’s gaze, Laytn looked to the Zaku tank that was now assisting the mechanics with the tire change. As the hulking half-mobile suit, half-tank lifted the Samnson off of the sand, Laytn was surprised to realize that this was the day’s third flat tire. Tire trouble had been a part of the entire Zeon operation on Earth, but today did seem unique in its confluence of bad luck. Laytn let out a thoughtful “hmmm” in reply to Milo’s notion of the Earth itself conspiring against them. Coincidence did not sit well with him.

Turning back to face his three companions, Laytn placed his hands upon his hips. “Three in a day is out of the ordinary. It’s probably nothing, but it might not hurt to take a more thorough look around.”

Looking to Commander McKnight, Laytn lifted an inquisitive brow, though his words were for all his comrades. “It might not be a bad idea to fire up Old Crow, and give the area a quick scan. Set up an overwatch even?”

McKnight shrugged. "You could do just as well with a Wappa and a pair of binocs." He said to Laytn, though he understood the sentiment. "We're supposed to be surrendering, lets not give them a reason to open fire on us."

While the others expressed their discomfort regarding the tire trouble, McKnight found it highly unlikely that it was little more than an unlucky coincidence. If the Fed's were trying to sabotage them by ruining their tires, they'd have to have noticed by now that none of the convoy's mobile suits were deployed. As they were, they were an easy target right now. Any enterprising field commander would take a look at their convoy's formation and realize that the brunt of the 261st's fighting capacity was limited to little more than half a dozen tanks and jeeps to protect a massive line of supply vehicles, and would've likely struck.

Still, looking at Aarom, it was clear that the man was itching for something to do. It was a fair assumption, they all were. Glancing at the Samson, McKnight could see the gashes in the tire- similar to the other tires that had been destroyed earlier that day. While McKnight was reluctant to believe that the Feds were trying to sabotage them, there was too much of a similarity between the damaged tires for McKnight to feel comfortable.

"Of course, a bit of forward recon wouldn't necessarily be a bad idea. Clear out whatever keeps wrecking our tires." McKnight admitted. "Not- with mobile suits." Greg hastily added before Aarom could get too excited.

Patting the sidearm at his hip with a grimy glove, McKnight realized that he was going a bit stir crazy too, from the lack of anything happening of late. Maybe some fresh air would do them some good, even if the fresh air was parchingly dry and made of 50% sand.

Milo shaded his eyes once more, and after a moment of listening and nodding to McKnight's suggestion, fished a small pair of binoculars out of an inside pocket of his uniform. He scanned the horizon, looking at the terrain.
"Three flat tires in one day is enough to give me a healthy paranoia, sir." The young supply officer replied. "I'm inclined to think it's just coincidence myself; unless some Feddie partisans are out there who didn't get the message that the war is over. Either way, it would be a good idea to go looking ahead, even if just along the main road, to see if anything specific is causing it."
He turned to Aarom, putting away his field glasses.
"Wouldn't make much sense to take Mobile Suits; not only would it be a hassle to get them raised off the trailers, most of ours can't cover ground nearly as fast as a few Wappas scouting ahead. They're useful little machines; I heard about an infantry unit once that almost took down the White Devil with a few well planned passes and some magnetic charges!"
He looked back at the where the convoy's Wappas - having been flown as escorts during transit - were parked.
"Something you guys should know; we entered into a Minovsky zone a few miles back, so our long-range radio and sat-nav aren't working. We don't really know where we are, but I suspect there might be an oasis and even a village at the bottom of this depression we've been descending into. Even if we don't find anything related to the tires, I think it would be a good idea to scout ahead and spot for places we could make camp."
He turned back to McKnight.
"Sound good to you, sir?"

The mention of starting the Mobile Suit filled Joshua with excitement. He knew it was a bad idea, but as everyone was discussing he found himself hoping everyone else would not realize. Of course they did: the 261st was not staffed by idiots, but he could dream. There was nothing he wanted more than to pilot the suit one more time: with the demilitarization that would no doubt follow the surrender it was not likely he would get to pilot again his lifetime, if he even made it back to Side 3. Even the knowledge that piloting it would do nothing but hurt Zeon was barely enough to stop him from supporting the idea vocally.

Now, the idea with the bikes was more sensible. He had never liked the bikes much, in his early days in the service finding any time spent out of a mobile suit wasted, but it would at least abate his chagrin at their inactivity, and it would be useful to everyone. He could use a good campground, somewhere with water or even shade, at least protection from the buffeting winds. He stepped out of the group and saluted the commander smartly: surrender was no time to stop being respectful.

"Sir! Volunteering for the bike scouting operation, sir!"

Hopefully a little eagerness would encourage an affirmative reaction from the older man.

Laytn’s eyes narrowed, and his lips became a thin line. He knew where his fellow officers were coming from, and the forward reconnaissance with the Wappas would be fast and efficient. Yet, in Laytn’s mind, it was never a bad thing to have someone sitting quietly on some hilltop with their eyes watching your back through a giant scoped beam rifle. He hadn’t meant for the 261st’s entire contingent of mobile suits to form up, and start combing the desert for Feddie saboteurs.

In reality though, Laytn acknowledged the Commander and Milo had fair points. The issue with the shredded tires was probably nothing more than bad luck, and getting Old Crow out of bed would be overkill in such a situation. The chance to get out of the convoy for a bit, even if it wasn’t in the pilot’s couch of his beloved mobile suit, was still an opportunity Laytn wasn’t going to pass up.

“Very well, sir,” Laytn nodded to Commander McKnight. “Binos and Wappas it is.”

Casting a sidelong glance to Milo, he smirked. “I did hear about that—the unit that almost took down the White Devil with the Wappas. Thought it was bullshit at the time, but…” Laytn shrugged, “…after the things I’ve seen in this war, anything is possible.”

Laytn heard Joshua’s fervent offer to join the recon mission, and he chuckled lightly at the younger man’s almost boyish eagerness. He liked Joshua, and he knew the man to be a good soldier, and a good pilot. It was amazing how much Laytn had grown accustomed to being with these men, fighting and toiling alongside them for months. Their cause had failed, but there wasn’t a single spacenoid in the 261st he wouldn’t be proud to serve with again.

“Doing recon on Wappas is a little below our paygrade, don’t you think fellas?” Laytn said to the other men. “I get we’re all going stir crazy, but, in the unlikely event that shit does hit the fan, we wouldn’t want the lion’s share of the 261st’s officers going down in a blaze of glory would we?”

Laytn pushed his boonie hat back on his head so he could scratch at the sunburn that lingered on his brow. “I mean, that’s just something to chew on. I’m up for whatever, Commander. But it is something to consider, especially since Milo just said we’re going to be without long range comms due to that Minovsky zone.”

The young supply officer confirmed McKnight's suspicions, and seemed to support the idea of using Wappas to recon, as opposed to using the larger mobile suits, though McKnight didn't doubt that the other officers were itching for something to do. Aarom's eyes narrowed, McKnight could tell the man was really itching for his mobile suit. McKnight sympathized with him, Aarom had been one of the 261st's best sharpshooters, and to be stuck on the ground with flimsy hoverbikes was likely the last thing a trained sniper was comfortable with.

Gordon on the other hand was all too excited at the opportunity to get moving and out of this forsaken convoy, eagerly volunteering for recon duty. The man was as ever, a fervent example of the ideal Zeon soldier- enthusiastic, competent, with the ability to take initiative. McKnight had expected a pilot of Gordon's age and veterancy to have picked up the cynical, pessimistically dark demeanor that most of them eventually did, but to be free of those traits wasn't necessarily a bad thing.

Laytn brought up the concern of how vulnerable the convoy would be missing up to four of its officers and mobile suit pilots. To which McKnight shrugged, almost lackadaisically. "The 261st still has the rest of the Black Saints with them, not to mention the other mobile suit pilots."

"If we run into Feddies, technically, that's fulfilling our objective: To find a Patrol or base to surrender to. Besides, its not as if we're allowed to fire on them, even if we get attacked. That would break the terms of our surrender."

"Suspend all hostilities and lay down your weapons." McKnight quoted with a flippantly derisive wave.

Milo smiled, nodding to McKnight. He sympathized with Joshua, and he also saw Laytn's point; he would have loved to bring out his own Mobile Suit again for the occasion, and indeed, it belatedly struck him as risky to put so many high-ranking officers on one recon mission. Be that as it may, he was genuinely curious to see what might be causing the string of flats, and indeed, he was going a bit stir-crazy himself. Hover bikes made sense, and they were certainly better than nothing.
He gestured over toward the Wappas.
"I'll go get us a field sonar pack and some water." He told the rest of the group. "We can do a recce of the road ahead for a few clicks, and see if we can't spot what's causing all this. I'll also pick up a few laser line relays; we'll plant them to keep us in contact with the convoy."
Sonar detection and optical communication were the only two such technologies which could be counted on to work reliably in Minovsky Particle saturation zones; one of Zeon's early advantages over the Federation, besides the use of Mobile Suits, was the full recognition of that fact. Though the Feddies early in the war - hell, even at this late date - tended to try and bull through Minovsky interference with super-powerful transmitters and ultra-sensitive receivers, Zeon communication specialists had become wizards in the use of low-frequency sonic transmissions and laser-based communications and detection; though these methods didn't have the same range or versatility as radio waves, they were more reliable than the former under modern combat conditions.
Milo set off toward one of the supply trucks, excited. It would be good to do something - anything - other than sitting around.
And if they made contact with their former adversaries, so much the better.

Meanwhile, just east of the Jaghbub Oasis:

Corporal Flint Hobten manipulated his GM's controls, causing the plodding Mobile Suit to stop and hold up its hand, indicating for the other units in the team to come to a stop.
Behind him, another set of heavy, plodding footsteps came to a stop, as did the clatter of tracks and the whine of hover fans. Glancing up at the screen for his rear-view camera, the young pilot watched with gratification as an RGC-80 "GM Cannon" and an RX-75 production-model Guntank halted behind him. Behind them, a Type 74 hover truck settled on its engines.
"Alright, team, this is as good a spot as any. Dennis, why don't you get the sonar set up, the rest of us will form an over-watch. Don't bother with the camo netting or anything; if the... well, what used to be the enemy is out there, we sort of want them to see us."
The last order felt odd to Flint; after months of trying to avoid notice of Zeke units, he felt naked without some form of concealment. He tried to remind himself that the war was over; theoretically, all Zeon forces had been instructed to surrender. Flint himself remembered one occasion, two days before, when he had run across an entire Zeon armored platoon while out on patrol. Rather than overwhelming the far smaller Mobile Suit force, a dozen Magella Attack tanks had pointed their gun barrels at the sand, their crews poking themselves out of hatches with their hands up.
Flint recalled that, when he had brought the unit back to camp, Colonel Renfield had not seemed very happy about it.
The old Butcher can't stand the fact that he didn't have the right to shoot them all...
"All set, sir! If anything passes within 20 clicks, we'll know."
"Private Felsh here; optical sweep is set up."
Flint glanced back at the Type 74; it had deployed a sonar spike, and Superior Private Dennis Wells was poking out of a hatch, one hand on his headset while the other was raised to give Flint a thumbs up. Flint manipulated his controls to have the GM flash back the same gesture. He also nodded his Suit's head to Private Felsh, the commander of the unit's Guntank, from the backpack of which was raised a telescoping mast with a suite of cameras and laser detection systems at the top.
Ground-penetrating sonar was one of the early concessions the Federation had made to the age of Minovsky warfare. Initially used in support of tank battalions and infantry units, command trucks equipped with sensitive audio detection systems had become an indispensable part of ground-side Mobile Suit operations. Able to track the movements of ground vehicles from far beyond reliable visual range, they worked under Minovsky conditions, which was more than could be said for similar radar systems.
Besides that, the Guntank's enhanced visual pickup systems covered a wide area around the team. Such equipment packages were still not common, but Private Felsh's machine had been outfitted with it after some wrangling on Flint's part with the supply officers. He was glad to have it; though the sonar could pick up most vehicles, flying and some lighter hovering machines, such as the Dopp atmospheric fighter or the Wappa hover bike, were beyond it. That was where visual scanning came in.
"Well, gentlemen, get yourselves comfortable I guess."
The team had set up on an overlook near a road which wound down into the bowl of the depression, toward the Jaghbub Oasis. At one point, Flint knew, a modern highway had run near their location, but the firestorm of regional conflicts in the pre-Federation period during the 1990s had reduced much of the region's infrastructure to ruins. From his position, he could see part of a sky-way poking out of a sand-dune.
It was a lonely place.
Ever since the end of the war, Flint's CO, Colonel Renfield, had been sending the 12th out on "advanced sentry" duty for hours at a time. It was, he felt, almost as if the famously ruthless Federation officer resented their presence. Maybe he did, for all Flint knew; despite words to the contrary, Flint could tell he had not been happy when he had brought in the Zeon armored unit, and this might be petty revenge for making the officer face in person the reality that he no longer had a war to fight.
I keep feeling like a lot is being hidden from me. He thought to himself...

Laytn had to hide his irritation with Commander McKnight’s seemingly flippant disregard for the disposition of the 261st’s officer corp. It seemed uncharacteristic of the man to be so cavalier, and the manner in which he insinuated that the Black Saints, and the remaining Mobile Suit pilots, could simply take the place of the three lieutenants should tragedy strike, galled Laytn. The fact that the whole Zeon military was in the process of surrendering to the Feddies only worked to intensify Laytn’s feelings on the matter. It was only with the interjection of Milo’s reasonable tone and suggestion that Laytn was able to fully bite his tongue.

“Fair enough,” Laytn said with a single nod as Milo finished. “I’ll go make sure our rides are fit.”

Without a departing glance to either Joshua or the commander, Laytn turned on his heels and marched his way in the direction of the parked Wappas. The desert wind gusted hard, and Laytn had to keep his hand upon his boonie hat to keep it from blowing from his head. Squinting against the sun and shifting sand, he looked up to the group of soldiers that were sitting in the small pools of shade provided by the Wappas’ hover-fan nacelles. The men saw Laytn approaching, and they stood from their places as he drew near.

One soldier, a corporal named Enders, stepped forward and saluted smartly. “Good afternoon, Lieutenant. Something we can help you with?”

Laytn returned the salute and nodded. “As a matter of fact, Corporal, we’ll need your Wappas. Commander McKnight, Lieutenant Tyranne, Lieutenant Gordon, and I will be doing a forward recon. They ready to roll out?”

“Yes sir,” replied Enders, “they’re all yours, sir. The MG’s are fully loaded, fuel levels are full, and the fan motors have been running cool, despite the heat.”

The corporal waved at his fellow Wappa pilots to get up, and clear off. Immediately the men began hurriedly picking their personal gear off the hovercraft. They were careful to leave the flight helmets that housed the communications systems for the machines.

“Very good, Corporal. The four of you that still have your Wappas will still be assigned to the convoy’s immediate vicinity. The rest can go take a break from the heat in the cabs of the Samson’s.”

As the four displaced Wappa pilots moved off towards the trucks, Laytn began walking around to the hovercraft. With each machine, he set the throttles to idle, started the engines, and ensured that each machine gun was set to ‘SAFE’ and securely locked into its pintle mount. By the time he had completed the pre-flight check on each Wappa, the immediate air was filled with the low whine of the hover-fans, and the gurgle of the engines.

Satisfied, Laytn jumped into the command chair of the last Wappa, and adjusted himself comfortably into the seat. Placing his feet on the rudder pedals and his hand on the collective stick, Laytn went about checking the operation of the control surfaces that directed the thrust of the hover-fans. Each of his movements was instantaneously followed by the articulation of the applicable flap. A smile came to Laytn’s face as he awaited his comrades.

As McKnight watched the group disperse to grab necessary equipment before they went scouting, he noticed another man jogging towards them. The soldier was a clean shaven man, despite the heat and current conditions, and gave Greg a sharpish salute. The black dove on his shoulder marked him as a member of McKnight's Black Saints. The name tape on his breast read 'Loch', and the rank patch on his chest identified him as a lieutenant. The officer was young and fresh faced, but the Ace's pin on his chest marked him as a veteran. McKnight returned the salute and gestured for the man to follow as he walked away from the truck and towards where the Wappas were being stored.

"Commander, you look like you're up to no good." Loch said with a mischievous grin as he followed his commanding officer.

"On the contrary," McKnight replied, "We're deploying on a recon mission. With the purpose being to acquire intel regarding the road ahead and possible resupply."

Loch cracked his knuckles and gave him a toothy smirk. "Should I get the rest of the Saints to sortie as well?" he asked, a noticeable degree of excitement crawling into his voice.

"That won't be necessary Loch." McKnight replied, watching Loch's shoulders sink. "I know you're stir crazy. Everyone here is. Keep the Saints in line 'til I get back."

"You got it boss." Loch replied with a sigh and a salute as McKnight made his way to one of the waiting Wappas and mounted it. Settling down in his seat, he began looking over the machine's status and getting himself used to the vehicle's controls.

Milo found one of the Zebu 8x8 supply trucks parked nearby, smiling when the truck's commander and his co-driver saluted him. He saluted back, proud of the men still for the moment under his command. They had weathered a lot, but at least for him, they seemed to keep their spirits high.
"What can we do for you, boss?"
The lightly built supply officer hopped up into the bed of the vehicle, grateful for the shade provided by a canvas cap overhead.
"Hello! Here to pick up a few things. Me and some of the pilots are taking four Wappas to scout ahead; I'll need water, some high-powered binos, a pack of laser relays and a field sonar system. Oh, and maybe a metal detector or two, just a hunch."
The truck crew saluted, and set to work getting together the requested items. They were piled onto an electric runabout which the 261st had somehow acquired during the war; a small vehicle seating 2 people and a small amount of cargo, it had a range of perhaps 80 kilometers, and a top speed of about 60, ideal for use in space colonies and large lunar cities, though woefully inadequate for the speeds and distances required for travel on Earth. Though a civilian model, it was light and compact, and was thus also carried aboard Zeon warships for use by crew-members going "ashore". How it had ended up on Earth was anyone's guess; Milo suspected it was some big-shot officer's staff car which had either been discarded as impractical or "borrowed". Whatever its origins, the 261st had used it as a "hack" for ferrying around cargo and personnel, carrying it aboard a supply truck when not in use, as it took up little space. At some point, someone had even seen fit to paint it in splinter pattern desert camouflage rather than its original lime green, and give it thick, knobby off-road tires and suspension.
The little vehicle sagged slightly under the weight of the supplies heaped onto it, and Milo waved to the truck crew as he drove it back toward the Wappas. On his way, he stopped by the Samson he had been riding in earlier, seeing Sergeant Delfin out on the fender, a little tan ball of fluff circling around his feet, squeaking in happiness.
Milo pulled to a stop, grinning.
"I take it she woke up?"
The little fluff-ball stopped, pausing to scratch one of its broad ears with a hind foot and nearly falling over in doing so. Hearing Milo's voice, it perked up, and quickly padded over to the edge of the fender, squeaking.
It leaped, and Milo caught it in his outstretched hands.
Delfin grinned down from the truck.
"Damnedest little pet you have there, sir." The huge Sergeant said with a grin. "When she's not asleep, or falling asleep, she just runs around! Figured I'd let her outside for some exercise before we had to start rolling again; plus I'd rather her not make a mess in the cab when we can't stop!"
Milo chuckled, tickling at the little creature, which shrieked and nibbled at his fingers playfully.
Zel, Milo's pet, was a baby fennec fox, part of a litter the 261st had taken on as mascots when their mother had given birth to them in a den under the feet of Milo's Zaku. Sadly, only a few of the curious, noisy and terminally adorable little creatures had survived, but Zel had bonded to Milo nearly as strongly as she had her own mother, and the young supply officer had enjoyed the company of the little fluff-ball, a much needed distraction from the reality of his present situation.
"At least she's easy to clean up after." Milo replied, smiling down at his pet, who was now curling up in his lap, head up and ears swiveling as she surveyed her new surroundings. "Anyway, me and some of the pilots are going to scout ahead on Wappas; say, can you toss me the harness?"
Delfin gave a thumbs up, retreating into the cab and returning with something that looked like a baby's chest sling, tossing it down to Milo. Catching it, the supply officer whistled to Zel, who perked and chirped as she was picked up and loaded into the sling and strapped onto Milo. She nosed up at his chin and then peered out, tail wagging excitedly.
Milo grinned.
"I figure she might like it. See you around!"
Delfin waved as he took off in the runabout, shaking his head.

Milo returned to the Wappas, hopping out of the little vehicle he had arrived in and loading supplies and equipment onto the hover bikes. Everyone had a cantine, but Milo made sure each bike had adequate water and provisions for a full two days; it would not do to have a pilot's vehicle break down and have them stranded without supplies for however long it took for rescue to arrive. They would not be going far, but better to have and not need, as the saying went.
Onto his own bike, Milo strapped a bulky piece of electronic equipment, mounting a rotating parabolic dish to the top of the machine's pintle mount, connected to a backpack-sized metal box by a thick cable. He tested the device and nodded at the image which flashed up on the bike's dashboard-mounted video screen.
The field sonar pack worked something like radar, though it had a much shorter range. It wasn't much, but it could provide an early warning that the mark 1 eyeball might miss.
Also on his bike, Milo mounted another equipment pack, this one looking similar to the backpack-mounted space mine dispensers used by some Mobile Suits. Instead of explosives, however, the dispenser deployed small helicopter-like hovering robots, programmed to keep an altitude above the terrain and hold position against the wind. Equipped with laser detectors and reflectors, they would be deployed every few kilometers behind the Wappas, ensuring a direct laser communication line between the patrol and the convoy.
As he worked, Milo waved to Laytn and McKnight, hopping onto his machine and performing a quick pre-flight check. Everything looked good; slipping on the flight helmet, he clicked on the radio in order to be heard over the whining turbines.
All this done, he fished a tiny pair of motorcycle-rider's goggle out of his pocket, securing them on Zel, who shook her head and looked around, blinking through the lenses.
"Everyone ready to go?"

Laytn greeted McKnight and Milo with a salute and a nod respectively, as there was little chance they could hear any spoken greeting above the pitched whine of the hover-fans. The two men mounted the waiting Wappas, and as they did so, Laytn pulled his helmet over his head. He grumbled to himself as the lingering sweat from the helmet’s previous wearer dripped from inside the enclosed device, and down the back of his neck.

“Comms check,” Laytn said into the helmet’s built in microphone. “I’m good to go, Milo. Since you’ve got all the electronic goodies with you, Commander McKnight and I can scout along your flanks while you take point. You okay with that setup, Commander?”

As the crackling replies of the two men came through the helmet, Laytn lowered the protective face piece. Nodding to his two companions, Laytn gave an exaggerated thumbs up to each, letting them know he would be taking off first. With one hand on the control stick, and his feet firmly against the rudder pedals, Laytn used his other hand to flick the comm selector over to the convoy-wide channel.

“2-6-1, 2-6-1,” he said, denoting all listening units within the 261st’s convoy, “be advised, three friendlies lifting off.”

Saying this, Laytn pulled back on the control stick as he simultaneously fed throttle to the hover-fans. The whine from the motors grew in pitch, and sand whipped out from beneath the body of the Wappa. Soldiers standing nearby covered their faces, and placed hands upon their caps to keep them from being blown off. In short order, the fans began to produce enough thrust to get Laytn’s vehicle airborne.

Hovering several meters above the ground, Laytn executed a turn to point the nose of his Wappa towards the convoy’s front. Using the control stick, he redirected thrust from the fans, and instantly the Wappa began to propel itself forward. As the vehicles and soldiers of the 261st moved beneath him, Laytn increased his speed and altitude. His Wappa raced over the desert now, and soon Laytn was out in front of the leading edge of the convoy.

Banking to the left, Laytn swung this Wappa in an arc that would take him back towards where he had lifted off just moments before. The feeling of the hot wind whipping against him brought an exhilarated smile to Laytn, and he called out to his fellow officers.

“Ready to form up on you, Milo.”

"Lets get it going!" McKnight replied in a casually confident manner as the other two started up their Wappas. Sand billowed beneath them as the combination of the three vehicles fans in close proximity to the ground caused a miniature dustcloud to form in their immediate area, other soldiers shielding their faces and waving their arms to prevent even more sand from getting into the every nook and crease of their uniform and bodies.

The Wappas were incredibly fast, agile little vehicles, and the moving air buffeting McKnight's helmeted head made it feel even faster as the three of them raced ahead of the convoy, almost racing eachother as they rocketted out from the convoy's formation, small clouds of dust following their wake like a sonic boom.

Following Latyn's suit, McKnight banked to the right and decreased his speed slightly, so he formed up onto Milo's right flank, the three officers forming a loose "V" as their vehicles skimmed the top of the sand dunes. Wheels and mobile suit legs always had a degree of difficulty when it came to operating in the loose sands of the desert. While treads were more capable of traversing the dunes and sand than wheels and legs, the true kings of mobility would always be flight. The ability to grant such small vehicles the power of flight made the mobile Wappas incredibly useful to the Zeon forces as scouts, as well as rapid response and attack units.

"Keep in mind, we're not going around looking for trouble."