The G3 Gas grenades were clumped together next to a small collection of picnic tables. They were called grenades on my HUD, but each canister was far larger than a normal human, and they dwarfed the nearby picnic tables.
As soon as I pressed the activation button, white smoke began pouring out of the canisters. The smoke spread outward toward the city, transforming into an invisible killer around the time it reached the edge of the park.
"Mission accomplished!" Vultee cheered over the radio.
There was a deep sigh from Hotchkiss's frequency, and he said, "Why are we doing this? I mean, what does Zeon gain from the destruction of Side 2?"
I had been thinking the same thing. Unfortunately, the logic of the Principality of Zeon was clear to me.
"It's not our place to question orders," Vultee chided.
Hold on. Officer Vultee's response was strange. Blinking in confusion, I asked, "Were you two told the end goal of Operation British?"
"No, sir," Hotchkiss said. "Vultee and I just know the mission parameters. Only you were briefed on the strategic value of our mission."
"I'll answer your question, then," I said, sighing. "The goal of Operation British is to crash Island Iffish into the Earth."
After a moment of shocked silence, the sound of Officer Vultee's laughter began emanating from my radio. Between peels of laughter, he said, "Is that right? That's the secret plan the Zabis have been talking about for all this time! We really can win this war, after all!"
"I don't understand," Hotchkiss muttered over the radio.
Great, it was my job to justify the colony drop. I said, "The Principality of Zeon is outnumbered 10-to-1 by the Earth Federation, and the Zakus won't be sufficient to turn the tide in our favor. The top brass is thinking that we can only win this war if we cripple the Earth Federation with weapons of mass destruction."
The other option was simply not going to war with the Earth Federation. For the Principality of Zeon, billions of lives was a price they were willing to pay for freedom from the Earth Sphere.
With his voice beginning to verge on mania, Vultee said, "It's only been a week, and we're already on the verge of winning. We'll be home by Groundhog's Day."
A brief snort of laughter came from Hotchkiss's Zaku, and he said, "That doesn't really roll off the tongue like 'back by Christmas.'"
Defensively, Vultee said, "Hey, man. It's not my fault there are no good holidays early in the year."
My squadmates' conversation about a quick end to the war put me in a contemplative mood. What would be the safest route for me to take from here?
"I sure hope you're right, Vultee," I said over the radio.
Something small and fast slammed into the midsection of Hotchkiss's Zaku. For an instant, I heard Hotchkiss scream over the radio before he was cut off. The struck Zaku took a faltering step backward, but otherwise seemed undamaged.
Vultee and I acted on instinct, and our Zakus ran for the cover of the nearby buildings. Based on the trajectory of the bullet, we both could tell immediately that the shot had come from an elevated position ahead of us.
"Where did that shot come from?" Vultee asked with panic in his voice.
My Zaku's head poked out of cover, and I scanned the angle where the shot must have come from. I expected to find a tall tower on the outskirts of town, but there was nothing of the sort. Pulling back into cover, I said, "Unknown. It should have been impossible to take a shot from that angle. There's nothing over there."
"Maybe…" Vultee said frantically, "I don't know, maybe they arced the bullet?"
My Zaku's single red eye turned back toward Hotchkiss's mobile suit, and I realized that he was still out in the open. Why hadn't the shooter taken another shot at him? Was the shooter waiting for someone to come rescue Hotchkiss?
That was the first time I had ever felt the shroud of death fall over me. The fight against the train-mounted cannon was over so quickly that I had no time to stew in the threshold between life and death. At that moment, however, all of my animal instincts were screaming at me to cower behind cover.
I looked over to Vultee's Zaku, and I felt his expectant gaze upon me. To my immense chagrin, I was the squad leader, and Vultee expected me to do something.
Even in the best case scenario, this wouldn't be my last mission as a Zaku pilot. I needed Vultee to watch my back. If he began to hate me for leaving his friend for dead, my chances of surviving this godforsaken war would drop significantly.
"I'm going for Hotchkiss. Cover me!"
I activated my Zaku's boosters and charged toward the center of the park. Once I was clear from cover, my Zaku swiveled, and I fired a burst of 105mm rounds back in the direction of the shooter. Vaguely, I was aware that my rounds made contact with an elevated part of the cylinder several kilometers away.
My rifle fell to the ground, and I maneuvered my Zaku's shoulder under the shoulder of Hotchkiss's mobile suit. As I began to lift the Zaku, Vultee took the other arm. He had followed me into danger without hesitation, and this fact caused my new body's lips to curl into a smile for the first time.
Miraculously, nobody shot at us while we carried Hotchkiss's mobile suit back into cover. Vultee and I disentangled ourselves from Hotchkiss's Zaku, and it automatically returned to its default stand-by stance.
Vultee let out a sigh of relief over the radio and said, "Do you think the gas might have already knocked out the shooter, Lieutenant Dogwood?"
Knocked out? Dear God, they didn't know the true function of the G3 Gas.
"Maybe," I said noncommittally before flipping on my Zaku's exterior speakers. "Ensign Hotchkiss, status report."
There was no response, so I moved my Zaku into a kneeling position and maneuvered to get a better view at the damage. My face morphed into a grimace as I realized that Hotchkiss had taken a hit to the cockpit. My mobile suit's head craned down even lower, and I was able to get a good look at Hotchkiss.
His cockpit had been breached, and his space suit had been torn by the attack. The tear must have been small, but it was big enough to let the G3 Gas reach him.
Ensign Hotchkiss was dead. His arms were curled around his neck as if he had spent his last moments tearing at his own throat, and his back was arched in an expression of immense pain.
"He's dead," I said dully over the radio.