The air in the makeshift command center hummed with the low thrum of ventilation and the frantic scribbling of ink on paper. Outside, the endless ocean stretched, a zudah guarding their hidden bunker. Inside, the new Operation British 2 blueprint lay spread across the main holographic table, a complex web of logistical nightmares and tactical aspirations.
Verline leaned back in her worn-out command chair, rubbing the bridge of her nose. Across from her, Jean, her perpetually crisp and efficient second-in-command, was completing the final, grueling simulation round with the newly summoned pilots. Even though these pilots were veterans, hardened by countless skirmishes in the one year war insisted on retraining. In a new location, as the un had occupy their beta farm, after the UN had brazenly taken over their farm a move verline still seethed over.
"Training complete, Commander! A resounding success," Jean announced, her voice a cool, professional counterpoint to the chaotic paperwork littering Verline desk. She snapped a data pad down onto the table, its screen glowing with flawless performance metrics. Her black combat uniform looked as if it had been tailored minutes ago, a stark contrast to verline rumpled attire.
Verline sighed, taking the pad. "Man, I never thought being a commander would be this hard and this boring," she muttered, her eyes scanning the report, the fatigue of endless logistical planning weighing on her. The beta threat was one thing; the bureaucratic hell was quite another.
She checked the pilot scores, a faint smile touching her lips. "Excellent work, Jean. Your ruthlessness is appreciated." She looked up, her expression hardening. "Oh, almost forgot. Get a team of Zudahs ready. I think it's time that we… announce ourselves."
Jean paused, her perfect military posture faltering ever so slightly. "Why, Commander?"
Verline tossed the data pad back. "I've gotten reports from one of our radio operators that the UN is broadcasting non-stop. They're claiming they won. That they defeated the beta. Which I find profoundly offensive. We destroyed the primary hive, Jean. We did that. And for them to have the nerve to claim all the credit, not even mentioning us, is a big no-no."
A cold fury settled on verline face. The unpaid taxes—the resources, the moral victory, the simple recognition—they'd had to forfeit due to the UN's power play was a debt verline intended to collect, starting with a very public, very pointed reminder of who the real players were.
Jean simply nodded, her hand already moving towards the communication system. "Understood. Preparing the strike team now." She turned and left, her stride purposeful.
Verline watched her go, leaning back. "If I know better, this might be a trap to lure me out," she mused to herself, picking up a pen and marking a section on the Operation British 2 map.
"But then again, I ain't sending myself out there. Just Jean and a team of Zudahs."
She dipped her head back into the endless paperwork, the glow of the holographic plan illuminating her grim resolve.
Meanwhile, in the dimly lit hangar bay, Jean was a whirlwind of focused energy, overseeing the preparation of the five customized Zudah Mobile Suits. And one in golden-yellow paint, a hallmark of their elite status and a stark contrast to the blue, seemed to absorb the light.
"Alright, listen up!" she barked to the pilots, their faces obscured by their helmet visors, but their attention absolute. "I want two Zudahs equipped with Bazookas—no nuclear ammo, of course. The other two will take the basic loadout. The Commander wants a spectacle, not a catastrophe."
The pilots, already moving with practiced efficiency, acknowledged her command.
"What are you waiting for? Move it!" she snapped, and the bay instantly became a hive of synchronized activity.
As they boarded their sleek, high-speed machines and headed towards the main elevator, Jean delivered her final instructions, her voice low and menacing over the comms channel.
"This is a clean, surgical operation. You're there to make a statement and disappear. If even one of you messes up, I will personally drag you to hell myself. Is that clear?"
A chorus of affirmative nods and comm-clicks confirmed their understanding.
"Good. Prepare for jump."
With a burst of controlled thrust, the five Zudahs launched from the hidden base. Jean took the lead, her gold Zudah slicing through the air just above the ocean's surface. They flew incredibly low, a blur of golden machines leaving trails of spray, their high-performance engines barely a whisper over the waves thanks to advanced stealth systems paid by verline.
The target was the Empire of Japan air space—a key territory that the UN had been using for their self-congratulatory broadcasts. As they breached the maritime boundary, they immediately spotted four TSF (Tactical Surface Fighters) near the beach, likely a patrol or they have noticed us coming.
Jean made a sharp, subtle gesture with her hand—a move all four pilots instantly recognized. The squad separated. The two Zudahs with the standard Zaku Machine Guns went wide and fast, drawing attention, while the two Bazooka units hung back for a clear shot.
"Hey, do you see that?" one of the TSF pilots radioed in, squinting at the rapidly approaching blurs on his radar.
"What the—!?" the pilot screamed, his TSF instantly engulfed in a storm of 120mm machine gun fire from one of the advancing Zudahs. The TSF exploded mid-air, a flash of doomed pieces of metal.
"Everyone, evade now!" the surviving leader yelled into his comms. But he was too late. Jean's Zudah was already upon him. The gold machine didn't slow; its Heat Hawk swung with terrifying speed, slicing the TSF clean in half before the pilot could even register the threat.
The two last remaining TSFs desperately tried to fire, their 37mm guns blazing. But the Zudahs, flying at extreme velocities and executing impossible, almost fluid maneuvers, simply phased out of the line of fire.
"What the hell! I can't hit them!" one pilot screamed, emptying his clip in a futile attempt. He was silenced moments later, his TSF crumpling under the impact of a direct hit from a Sturm Faust—an anti-armor rocket propelled rocket.
"Command! We need help! Now!" the last pilot shrieked into his comms, a plea of pure terror. Jean appeared directly behind him, her gold Zudah a terrifying silhouette. Before the pilot could pull the trigger, the Heat Hawk descended, carving his TSF into scrap.
"Captain, more TSF incoming!" one of her Zudah pilots reported, his tone flat and professional despite the intensity.
Jean's orders were swift. "Bazooka team, prepare to fire! Aim at the sea wall!"
The two Bazooka-equipped Zudahs surged forward, their massive weapons shouldering. They took aim at a crucial section of the heavily fortified coastal defense.
"Fire!" Jean screamed.
The twin roar of the Bazookas was deafening. The massive shells slammed into the wall, emptying their explosive charges and tearing a massive, gaping chunk out of the fortification.
"Retreat! Throw the EMP grenade!" Jean commanded, knowing the incoming TSF squadron would be here in seconds.
"Copy," a pilot confirmed, and a brilliant, blinding flash erupted. The Cracker Grenade—a sophisticated EMP device—released a cluster of smaller charges that instantly overloaded the approaching TSFs' systems. They sputtered, shut down, and began falling helplessly towards the water.
"Release Minovsky Particle jamming!" Jean ordered, and the battlefield was instantly enveloped in a cloud of electromagnetic interference, making any pursuing radar useless. With a final, explosive burst of thrusters, the four blue Zudahs and one gold shot skyward and vanished as quickly as they had arrived.
In the TSF Command Center, miles away, the atmosphere was utter chaos.
"Not again!" the commander roared, slamming his fist onto his console, the metal groaning under the force. The display showing the destroyed section of the sea wall seemed to mock him.
"Inform the UN to deal with this, and send out the 54th TSF Squadron to retrieve the ones in the water!" he snapped, sinking back into his chair with a defeated sigh.
"Can this day get any worse?"
As if summoned by his question, the door burst open. A communications officer stumbled in, his face white with panic.
"Sir! Other attacks! Multiple locations! All within the last three minutes!"
The commander just stared at him, the weight of the universe settling on his shoulders. "Oh, no! Why?!" he whispered, his voice cracking, before turning to his console with a renewed, desperate plea.
"Request more reinforcements! Now!"
Somewhere in the cloud-choked sky, a team of zudah was already on its way to the next target.