The atmosphere in FAF's operation command room was exceptionally tense.
"I assume you know why I called you here."
Brigadier General Klee stared at the pilots and base higher-ups before her. Her face was gaunt with exhaustion, making her look like a drug addict who had overdosed, and it bore a grave expression. Her gaze was fixed on the command center screen, where four black fighter jets were displayed.
Ever since Squad 666's sighting report, those four black fighters had appeared frequently across the battlefield centered on B7R. Their pattern was always the same: they would suddenly emerge while FAF was fighting JAM, wipe out the JAM with lightning speed, then withdraw decisively.
They accepted no communications, obeyed no commands, and never responded.
No one knew where they had come from. At first, FAF had assumed they were something cobbled together by one of their own frontline bases and put considerable effort into investigating, only to find nothing. Then they suspected Earth might have been behind it, but negotiations and intelligence searches proved that was not the case either.
That made things very strange.
All they knew now was that these fighters could transform at high speed, possessed maneuverability on par with JAM, and carried formidable firepower.
Beyond that, they knew absolutely nothing about them.
Could JAM have copied and manufactured them? But why would they attack their own side?
"Is there no way to locate those four fighters?"
Brigadier General Klee scratched at her hair and glared irritably at the casually slouching blond middle-aged man beside her. Noticing her look, he hurriedly sat up straight and turned to the person next to him.
"Zero, what about your side?"
The man called Zero looked to be in his twenties or thirties. Tall and slender, he dressed casually, while his long