The Desert Tiger's Exit

Tian Mu's Bombard Round arrived first.

The warhead struck the sand ahead and to the left of the custom unit. The overpressure pulse released by its implosion chamber swept up half a ton of sand and gravel, slamming into Andrew Waltfeld's machine from the side like a moving brown wall.

The quadrupedal machine was shoved two meters sideways, its front left claw gouging a deep trench through the sand.

Liu An's Bombard Round followed immediately after, its trajectory pressed along the arc of the custom unit's rightward turn.

Andrew Waltfeld reacted with incredible speed. All four legs kicked off the ground at once, forcing the entire machine into a jump while braking and avoiding a direct hit.

But he did not avoid the fragments.

The Bombard Round detonated five meters behind his right side. Ceramic Steel fragments from the implosion spread in a fan-shaped sweep across the rear half of the custom unit. Three fragments lodged in the intake grille of the rear right leg's propulsion nozzle, while two struck the casing around the abdominal transmission linkage.

At that same instant, Sheng Lan's 30mm fire-control system completed a six-round burst.

The bright tracer lines cut through the sandstorm, and two rounds punched straight into the gaps between the cooling fins of the custom unit's rear propulsion nozzles.

The sound was not an explosion, but tearing metal.

Three guide vanes inside the propulsion nozzles were severed by the 30mm rounds. The fragments were sucked into the turbines, producing a shrill grinding screech.

The dark red-striped custom unit landed crookedly.

The propulsion assistance system in its rear right leg had failed, and the output of its back-mounted main thrusters had plummeted from full power to below forty percent.

The rhythm of its four-legged movement changed from smooth to uneven limping. With every step, the rear right leg lagged half a beat behind the other three.

Han Zheng did not let up.

Black Iron Unit One's Bombard Gun had already turned toward it, its muzzle aimed at the front of the custom unit from less than three hundred meters away.

At this range, the Ceramic Steel frontal armor could withstand Beam Rifle fire for seven seconds, while a Bombard Round took less than 0.2 seconds to arrive.

Andrew Waltfeld raised his Beam Rifle.

Its muzzle pointed at the center of Black Iron Unit One's chest armor.

The two machines faced each other at a distance of three hundred meters.

That hoarse voice came through the comm channel. The amusement was gone, but there was no anger either.

"Friend from East Asia, you set a fine trap."

Han Zheng's hand rested on the trigger without withdrawing.

"Commander Waltfeld, your rear right leg transmission is damaged, and your back thrusters are operating at less than half output. You can't escape in that condition."

"I know."

The custom unit did not lower its Beam Rifle, but neither did it fire.

"How do you intend to end this?"

Han Zheng did not answer.

He was waiting.

Sheng Lan's voice came from the communications truck, suppressed beneath the channel static.

"Director, Andrew Waltfeld is trapped. Awaiting instructions."

Lin Yuan's voice arrived three seconds later.

"Tell him to abandon the machine and leave. His troops will withdraw south of the 32nd Parallel South and cease pursuing any targets in this area. In exchange, his cockpit will not be penetrated."

Han Zheng relayed those words through the broadcast channel without changing a word.

Andrew Waltfeld's channel fell silent.

Just then, a signal from another frequency cut in.

Its power was weak, coming from the southeastern night sky.

A short-range transmission from the Strike Gundam.

Kira Yamato's voice came through, a beat too hurried.

"Wait. Don't attack the cockpit."

Han Zheng frowned slightly.

"Kira Yamato, this is East Asia's battle. It has nothing to do with you."

"He can't move anymore. There's no need to—"

Sheng Lan cut off Kira's access frequency.

Only equipment static and the distant howl of desert wind remained in Han Zheng's headset.

Andrew Waltfeld's transmission resumed twelve seconds later.

"I accept your terms. We will withdraw south of the 32nd Parallel South. But I have one additional request."

"Speak."

"I have wounded men. If your supply convoy has medical supplies, give me two cases."

Han Zheng did not have the authority to answer that question.

Lin Yuan's voice arrived four seconds later.

"Give them to him. Also, leave behind the wreckage of that Baku you knocked down. One intact front left leg transmission assembly and one optical sensor head. That will be the toll for your safe passage out of here."

Andrew Waltfeld laughed again. This time, there was something more in his laughter—not anger, but closer to the relief of a chess player after losing a match.

"East Asians truly do business more honestly than the United Army. Fine, it's a deal."

The custom unit's Beam Rifle retracted into its back-mounted rack.

Its four legs slowly backed away in a limping rhythm, its dark red paint gradually swallowed by the sand and dust in the morning light.

By the time Han Zheng returned his gun to standby position, the back of his pilot suit was soaked through a second layer.

Tian Mu let out a long breath over Unit Two's channel.

"Brother Han, did we win?"

"Put it away. Prepare to receive the wreckage."

Sheng Lan jumped down from the truck, her boots sinking into the sand.

She walked over to the communications vehicle and opened an encrypted channel.

"Director, Andrew Waltfeld has withdrawn. The pressure from the Archangel's direction has been relieved."

"Losses?"

"Unit One's right knee joint needs its transmission gears replaced. It remains usable in the short term, but performance is down thirty percent. Four Bombard Rounds expended. No personnel casualties."

"Results?"

"Two Bakus destroyed, one forced back, and Andrew Waltfeld's custom unit forced out of combat. One Baku wreckage captured."

The channel was quiet for two seconds.

"Was Han Zheng's baiting plan his own idea?"

"Yes."

"Put it on his record. When he returns, have him write this tactic into the Black Iron Desert Operations Manual."

Sheng Lan closed the communications handset and turned her memo pad to a fresh page.

In the distance, the Archangel's white hull slowly rose in the morning light, its engines restored to cruising output.

No longer forced off course by the Baku formation, it began turning northward.

Ye Qingluan approached from behind the communications vehicle, an intercepted terminal in her hand.

"Adjutant Sheng, the Archangel's bridge has sent us a transmission."

"Contents?"

"Murrue Ramius requests an encrypted call with the commander of the East Asian escort formation."

Sheng Lan looked at the blinking communication request indicator on the terminal.

"Director, the Archangel's captain is requesting a call."

Lin Yuan's reply arrived within a second.

"Accept it. Use my channel. I'll speak with her directly."

Sheng Lan finished switching the encrypted channel and leaned against the outer wall of the communications vehicle.

The desert morning wind carried fine sand over the tops of her boots.

Two minutes later, Lin Yuan's voice returned to the command channel.

"Sheng Lan, the call is over. The Archangel needs supplies and route intelligence for safe passage through the desert. I gave her one condition."

"What condition?"

"A meeting. Her communications officer and our representative will rendezvous at the midpoint coordinates in three hours. If she wants to reach Alaska alive, she'll bring the Strike's non-core combat data for the exchange."