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The first thing to greet Emily von Oldendorf as she wearily stepped out of the Eclipse's cockpit was a bone-crushing hug from Viveka. Other than the bruise her sister's mechanical arm was going to leave on her back, it did leave her with a nice warm feeling of kinship. Something she had found herself missing— and something she was surprised to see she was so happy to have again.

"Next time you go running off into the Earth's atmosphere on your own," Viveka admonished, "don't land so goddamned far away."

"R-Right," Emily squeaked as her sister let her go. "What did I miss?"

The triumphant look on Viveka's face said it all.

"Um, congratulations?"

"Why, what were you up to?"

Emily's eyes fell towards the floor. "I'll tell you later." She looked back up at the feeling of Athrun approaching, and tried not to blush at the little flutter that stirred in Viveka. "How come the Justice wasn't out there?"

"It got trashed up in space," Athrun said, and paused to give Emily a hug of his own. "Glad to have you back, though. We were a bit shorthanded for a while."

The Minerva's hangar rattled as the catapult swung open to receive the DOM Trooper, fresh from a patrol run outside the ship. Emily smiled nervously at the storm of excitement rippling out from inside the green mobile suit's cockpit.

"I guess I was missed," she mumbled, and smiled back at Athrun and Viveka. "I should go say hi. He was probably pretty obnoxious without me."

"Who, Trojan? All he really did was sulk." Viveka's smile faded. "Are you okay, Em? You seem distracted."

The roaring fires of Anori and the haunting words of Rau Le Creuset echoed in her mind. She shook them out. "I'm fine," she said, "I'm just going to go say hi to the others."

Emily made a quick escape down the gantry, leaving behind Athrun and Viveka, and the latter glanced nervously at the former. "Well?"

Athrun turned his gaze towards the CGUE Assault, as it settled into a corner of the hangar. "I'll deal with it," he said.

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The Aristotle was as silent as submarines could be, and it was these moments of silence that made Camwell appreciate his job as a submariner. Few other weapons of war gave their operators a chance to simply think— and, sequestered in a metal tube almost a kilometer from the ocean's surface, a man often had nothing but his thoughts and his task to keep him company.

Camwell stood on the conn and watched with annoyance as the crew went about their tasks. Nine hundred meters down and blazing on silent drive at flank speed through the Atlantic Ocean, with the reactor humming at nearly one hundred and five percent. Nothing on sonar or the periscope. Just the Aristotle at top speed in the mighty Atlantic.

But so had Captain Hatias ordered. After all, the Aristotle had to navigate the Strait of Gibraltar and pass by what had once been ZAFT turf, but now sat under the flag of OMNI Enforcer. It was the only feasible route into the Mediterranean, where the Minerva was surely headed, and the silent drive would make it work.

Camwell clenched his fists in frustration. Gibraltar. He had been stationed there once, briefly, during the Valentine War, as a junior officer aboard a ship that called its mighty fortress home. It was one of ZAFT's rightful bases, won by the blood of Coordinators...and here they were, passing it up.

It would be child's play to unleash a full spread of torpedoes, sink the ships where they sat in dock, and surface with a barrage of missiles and mobile suits. They had the silent drive. They had the element of surprise. They had boldness, for God's sake, the sheer audacity it would take to bomb the Rock, the castle door of the Mediterranean, into oblivion. But once again, Captain Hatias demurred when glory and imperative called.

It made his stomach churn. They would pass Gibraltar in a few days, and Camwell knew not what he would do as their opportunity passed them by on the surface. Why the captain wanted to ambush the Minerva in the Mediterranean was a similar mystery, but Camwell had his own doubts about that. There was little good reason, really, for the Aristotle to go hunting the Minerva with all that important strategic work to do.

And there were the other possibilities as well...the ones he wanted even less to consider.

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The Earth Alliance Navy was the composite naval fighting force of the great powers that made up the Earth Alliance. And with the Phantom Pain at the top of the Alliance's military hierarchy totem pole, an enterprising Phantom Pain officer would have the best the world had to offer among his choices of naval officers, crews, and equipment.

Of course, mused Ivan Danilov bitterly, we're all supposed to be the best.

The captains of seven warships of the Earth Alliance Navy sat before him in a small elliptical conference room, all eyes locked on the officer who technically outranked them. It had taken a lot more of that Phantom Pain pulling of rank than Danilov had liked to get them here, but if his plan worked, nobody would care.

"The Minerva's projected course will take it into the Mediterranean near Algiers, and it will move back down over the continent near Tobruk in Libya," he explained, and tapped a baton against the wire grid map behind him. "That time in the Mediterranean gives us an opportunity. We will move the Charlemagne to Malta and force a confrontation with the Minerva in the Gulf of Sidra. Meanwhile, your ships will be docked in Benghazi and they will move in as soon as we've engaged the enemy. We'll back them towards the coast; you'll sweep up from the south and hit them from behind. Classic pincers movement." He tapped the baton meaningfully against his hand. "Any questions?"

One of the officers leaned forward. "If we're against the coast, our backs will be exposed to land-based reinforcements," he protested, "and you know that we don't have the Mediterranean coast entirely pacified."

"I am aware of the threat the desert guerrillas could pose to our plans," Danilov answered, "but we have no intelligence to suggest that they possess weapon systems that could interfere. If we keep the battle far enough from the shore, their weapons won't be of any use. And there are no other Resistance units in the region with heavier weapons." He fixed the officers with a steely gaze. "I want there to be no illusions, gentlemen. You know the Minerva's reputation— but even with their mobile suit complement reduced, they will exact a fearsome toll. I should know." He tapped his baton again. "It will be a battle in the truest sense of the word— but you are the finest of the Alliance Navy, and if anyone can help me, it's you. Dismissed."

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Meyrin Hawke had always enjoyed geography. The interplay of ancient, natural forces and human agency to create politics, economies, cultures, histories, all of it appealed to that meticulous nature that had gotten her selected to oversee the Impulse Gundam's complicated launching process so long ago. And now, after three years in the captain's chair, she understood just why she hadn't been chosen to sit there in the first place. The captain of this ship could not be too worried about details. Not when she had to invent strategies on the fly and leave the details for others to work out.

But these were the moments where she felt comfortable in command. Hunched over the Minerva's mapping console at the back of the bridge with a wire-grid map of Africa before her, here she felt that confidence on its way back.

The Minerva would have to travel over land in Mauritania and Algeria, and it would have to slip by the Alliance and local police's presence on the Mediterranean coast. But there were plenty of holes there, and the cluster of population centers along the coast ensured that there were always Resistance fighters in position to help if need be. And if it came to blows, the Sahara was wide and unforgiving.

She frowned at her plotted course and undid the second leg of it. A message had gone out to the leader of a major Resistance cell, staying on the Atlantic coast in Mauritania. They would have to discuss their strategy; for now, she expected to have to enter the Mediterranean somewhere in western Algeria, travel over the ocean, and then reenter the continent somewhere to the east. The city of Benghazi was teeming with Resistance fighters. Perhaps that would make a good destination.

Meyrin sat back in one of the seats with a heavy sigh. All this, just to get the ship past Suez and Socotra. But soon they would stop being on the defensive. She looked up ahead, at the hazy horizon of the Atlantic Ocean. Soon they would turn this war around. Before it went out of control.

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The sand rippled under the force of the levitator and the engines. The sinking sun lit the sky like fire as the desert's colors slowly faded into darkness. But for the ship's engines, all was calm and still on the settling sands of this edge of the mighty Sahara.

On the bridge of the Seraphim, Varder Ehrmacht suppressed a scowl. Sameness, everywhere. How the Naturals could live in an environment like this was beyond him.

He turned his mind back towards his mission. Crossing this barren wasteland was necessary, because somewhere out there was the Lesseps-class land battleship Arrhenius. And the Arrhenius had its secrets— and those secrets needed nothing less than the added protection of a FAITH unit. They would rendezvous north of here, at the dismal little army outpost of Madama, and turn those handful of Alliance soldiers into guinea pigs for their new weapons.

And somewhere to the north would be the Minerva.

Varder fought down the urge to break something again. Defeating him at every turn, trashing two of his mobile suits, humiliating him in front of the Vice Marshal...all by some little girl with a Gundam.

But there was good news. The Minerva's mobile suit complement had been badly reduced. And the Arrhenius's unit would prove to be a surprise. And there was the Seraphim's new mobile suits, and the training, and the toll the Alliance would likely take as the winged warship made its way across Africa.

He tightened his fists as the sun slipped beneath the sands.

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"Surface contact, one o'clock," Camwell muttered to himself as he peered through the Aristotle's periscope. "Maguchi-class, flying Red Cross and OMNI Enforcer flags."

He glanced over his shoulder on the conn. Captain Hatias wasn't here; he was still back in his bunk. He had specifically left the conn to his executive officer. Whatever the ship did, it would have to be on his command.

Camwell looked back through the periscope. The Alliance usually chartered civilian vessels to act as hospital ships. Even the Resistance tended to simply leave them alone— after all, wounded soldiers were soldiers out of the fight, and that was good enough for a ragtag bunch of guerrillas.

But ZAFT was no band of guerrillas. They were an army for a people who still were prey to their genetic inferiors. They had spent too long defending the moral high ground, and it had cost them everything. Even now, some of ZAFT's men did not understand that. But the ones who did— it was on their shoulders, to strike back, to protect the seed from which their people might grow back.

Camwell turned towards the weapons console. "Fire control, load torpedo tube one and plot a solution. Target is the surface contact at one o'clock. Fire when ready."

"Aye sir." And moments later, the telltale rumble of the torpedo tube firing rattled through the ship. Camwell returned to the periscope—

...just in time to watch the ship above snap in two amid a column of seawater and fire, and seconds later, the broken ends of the ship vanished beneath the waves. He smiled grimly and pushed out of his mind the thoughts of injured soldiers. Injured or not, they would heal, and they would threaten the Coordinators again, just as the Alliance always did. He could not allow that. Not when so little remained already.

"Camwell," a voice broke into his thoughts, and he turned around to find a furious Nathaniel Hatias on the conn. "I don't recall authorizing you to deploy weapons."

Camwell turned up his nose. "I am following our orders, sir." He waved a hand airily. "A hospital ship is an enemy asset all the same— "

"You torpedoed a hospital ship?!" Nathaniel barked, and closed the distance between them both in two steps. "A hospital ship?! Full of wounded soldiers and civilian contractors?! What the hell is wrong with you, Camwell?!" He whipped around, eyes wide with rage, towards the weapons officer. "You— did you know this?!"

His anger softened a bit at the disbelieving look on the weapons officer's face. "A-a hospital ship...?" he repeated quietly.

"Captain," Camwell interrupted with an icy glare, "allow me to remind you of our orders." He drew a piece of paper from inside his uniform, tapped it, and began to read. "'The Aristotle will move at captain's discretion and attack any and all targets of opportunity, including shore installations, military vessels, civilian vessels, and vessels ordinarily protected by international law.'" He arched an eyebrow. "'International law is to be considered null and void. All targets that can be safely targeted must be engaged and destroyed to the greatest extent possible.'"

"Camwell," Nathaniel snarled, "I am the captain of this vessel. Not you. If I tell you to leave civilian targets alone— "

"Our orders," cut in Camwell, "come from a higher authority."

He turned away and went back to work at the periscope, leaving Nathaniel to clench his fists in anger and curse himself for leaving the conn.

"Sir, our heading," the navigator started. Nathaniel nodded painfully.

"Continue on your present course," he answered quietly, and returned his eyes to Camwell— and Captain Hawke rose like a wisp of smoke into his thoughts.

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The sky was lit up in brilliant colors as the sun sank down into the ocean's hazy horizon. It was, Emily mused, nearing twilight. Her least favorite hour.

She glanced over her shoulder as she felt the telltale pressure of Shinn Asuka emerging onto the external deck behind her. She hadn't yet spoken much to him about her time in South America. She hadn't yet spoken much to anyone about it.

"So I see the Eclipse held up pretty well," he said quietly as he came to a stop next to her.

"I guess."

Shinn eyed her suspiciously. "I'm sure you and Rau took care of each other?"

"Y-Yes."

"You know," he said, "I don't think I've ever told you what it is he was up to before he found his way to us."

Emily frowned. "He said he was a ZAFT officer in the wars."

"That's one way to put it." Shinn looked up towards the sky. "What did he say to you?"

"H-He told me..." She trailed off and thought back to just what he had said— about the necessity of destruction. "He told me about his past."

"And what did he say?"

Emily glanced awkwardly at Shinn, finding his emotions as unreadable as his face. "That he was a clone, and his genes are defective, and he's dying. And..." She paused. "And that he wanted me to change the world for him, because of that."

Shinn was silent for a long moment, before he glanced down grimly at Emily. "Do you remember the Junius 7 colony drop?" She nodded. "And you know that the ones who carried it out were terrorists loyal to Patrick Zala." Another nod. "But where would they get flare motors and high performance mobile suits if they didn't have a well-placed connection within ZAFT?" He eyed the young Newtype carefully. "It was him."

"Wha— what do you mean?"

"Rau Le Creuset gave them the supplies they needed to carry out the Junius 7 colony drop."

Emily stared in shock. "What— you mean he did that?"

"Yes." Shinn turned towards her, his eyes cold. "That's what he means when he talks about changing the world. He wants to change it, alright— by destroying everything in it."

Emily turned haltingly towards the ship, towards the dim pressure of the masked man within its hull. "He helped carry out Junius 7...?"

The words echoed through her mind.

Everything must burn before it can be set right.

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Nouadhibou was a graveyard.

Under the pale moonlight and calm, clear night skies, the dusty rat hole of a city on the edge of the African continent could be described no other way. It was a monument to the dead.

And the reason for that was strewn all around the city, in the murky waters around the peninsula on which it rested. For centuries, Nouadhibou had been the dumping ground of choice for shipping companies eager to get around costly deconstruction and environmental regulations for their decommissioned vessels. And the local officials had been corrupt and pliant enough to accept virtually any scrap of metal on the seas for the right price. The governing forces in faraway Nouakchott and farther-away regional governments had tried to clear away this phantom fleet, but business boomed for Nouadhibou's officials and now over five hundred ships of every class and size imaginable disintegrated in the brown, oily waters of the city.

It was this quality that attracted the guerrillas.

Sitting in the back of a dune buggy driven by two of his well-armed bodyguards, Sahib Ashman glanced out towards the water, and the forest of rusting ships. These were the places the Resistance called home: the forgotten places, the cracks in the Earth Alliance's iron edifice, the graveyards, the places nobody thought to look. Almost none of these old scrap heaps were structurally sound or habitable; those that were, however, were teeming with Resistance equipment and fighters. No one would think to check inside that forty-year-old freighter for guerrillas; and thus, nobody would ever find the sixteen fighters and their gear, stashed inside the bridge and quietly waiting for the smugglers.

Sahib turned his eyes back towards the city, slowly fading into the distance. The fishing industry here had been decimated, but the city's one hundred thousand miserable but determined residents continued to find ways to survive. It was for them that he kept up this dangerous business, and it was among them that he could feel at home. They were like him, in their own way, fighting one of the most inhospitable environments on Earth to eke out a living. It was like the desert; he took what was offered, made something out of nothing, found his place in the crevices his enemies had forgotten.

But, as he turned towards the horizon, towards the western shore, his thoughts turned gloomy. Guerrilla warfare was easy compared to what was coming.

"The Minerva will be here in the morning," he said quietly, catching the attention of one of his bodyguards. "They're going to want our help crossing the continent."

"Isn't that what we do best, sir?" the driver asked with a smirk.

"Don't get cocky, Muhammad," Sahib shot back. "Just because you haven't been caught yet doesn't mean you're invincible." He glared back out towards the horizon. "Our operations have been so limited lately..."

"But sir," the other guard started, "we've been shepherding our resources for a day like this. If the Minerva calls in our help, the Alliance won't know what hit them."

Sahib sat back with a tired grunt. Three years of work, it had been— but was it really coming up to this? Was the Minerva's arrival in North Africa really what he had worked so hard to see?

"Well," he grumbled, "if they get here, that is."

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