Crossing Orb: Newtype Commander

Chapter 109 Farewell, Desert Tiger

North Africa, the Sahara Desert.

Before dawn broke the horizon, the desert sky remained a deep indigo. The engines of the Archangel emitted a low hum in the silence, like the panting of some weary beast. In the bridge, Maru Ramias stood by the porthole, a cup of now-cold coffee in her hand, her brown eyes fixed on the awakening desert outside.

Last night, Kira brought back Butterfield's promise.

"He won't stop us." Kira's voice still echoed in her mind, calm and certain. "He said that if the possibility of peace becomes a reality one day, he will choose to stand on the side of peace."

Maru didn't know if the man would truly keep his promise, but she knew this was their only chance to leave the desert. ZAFT patrols had abruptly ceased operations the night before, the Baku forces had retreated deep into the desert, and even the scouts had vanished. The desert was as silent as a graveyard, but Maru preferred to believe—that it was a door opened for them by the "Desert Tigers."

"Captain, engine warm-up complete." Natal Bakirulu's voice came from behind, steady but with an undeniable hint of fatigue. "All systems are normal, ready for takeoff at any time."

What about freshwater reserves?

"The resistance delivered their final supplies last night—enough to last until the Red Sea. Celine Hawke personally led the delivery; he said it was a farewell gift."

Maru's lips curled into a slight smile. "Serin—what else did he say?"

Natal was silent for a moment. "He said—tell Commander-in-Chief Askha that the people of the desert will not forget his words. One day, flowers will bloom in this desert. Not because of rain, but because the seeds have been sown."

A moment of silence fell over the bridge. Murrue closed her eyes and took a deep breath. When she opened her eyes again, a resolute determination shone in her brown eyes.

"Notify all personnel to prepare for departure. Destination—the Red Sea."

Butterfield stood on the balcony on the second floor of the base, gazing in the direction of the Archangel in the distance, the golden light of the desert reflected in his deep brown eyes.

Elsa Trein walked up behind him, holding a cup of hot tea. She didn't speak, but simply handed him the cup and stood quietly beside him. The two stood side by side, gazing at the boundless sea of ​​sand, in silence for a long time.

"Elsa," Butterfield finally spoke, his voice hoarse, "do you think I did something wrong?"

"Do you mean letting the Archangel go, or what you said to that boy?"

"Yes, all of them."

Elsa was silent for a moment. "Andrew, do you even remember how many people you killed on the battlefield?"

Butterfield's fingers paused slightly. "I don't remember. There are too many."

"Do you remember why you joined ZAFT?"

Butterfield turned and looked into Elsa's eyes. There was a calm, gentle light in those grey-blue eyes. He remembered many years ago, on PLANT's agricultural satellite, his young self standing at the entrance to the recruitment office, clutching an application form. Back then, he believed the Coordinators were the future of humanity, that PLANT needed a powerful army to protect itself, and that war was a last resort, but a necessary one.

"For protection," he said softly, "so that Coordinators are not discriminated against, so that the people of PLANT can live peaceful lives."

"So, do you now feel that the war has helped you achieve this goal?"

Butterfield didn't answer. He turned and looked again into the distance of the desert. In that direction, the silvery-white hull of the Archangel was faintly visible in the morning light. On that ship were Naturals, Coordinators, Combine soldiers, and PLANTs.

The songstresses. They come from different factions, different races, and different backgrounds, but they are on the same ship, heading in the same direction.

"No," Butterfield finally said. "War doesn't protect anyone. It only creates more hatred, more corpses, more orphans and widows."

"Then why are you continuing?"

Butterfield remained silent for a long time. Char's words—the possibilities he brought and the future he showed—remained in his mind.

"Because I hadn't found another way yet," Butterfield said in a low voice, "but now, perhaps I have."

At 6:17 a.m., the Archangel slowly rose from the sandy ground of the abandoned airport.

The dust kicked up by the thrusters formed a yellow curtain behind them, obscuring the figures of Selin Hawke and his ragged soldiers. Kira stood at the hangar window, his amber eyes fixed on the shrinking figures. He saw Selin raise his right hand, clenching it into a fist—not a military salute, but a rebel's salute.

"Kira, what are you looking at?" Thor walked over to him, holding a rice ball in his hand—made with dates and dry rations sent by the resistance. It was irregularly shaped but had a strong aroma.

"We're looking for hope," Kira said softly. "We're seeing if they'll sprout."

Thor followed his gaze, but saw only desert and dissipating sand. He didn't ask any further questions, but simply shoved the rice ball into Kira's hand. "Eat. On an empty stomach, seeds won't sprout, and people won't reach the Red Sea."

Kira lowered his head, looking at the rice ball in his hand. The sweet aroma of dates filled his nostrils, his stomach churned, but his heart remained calm. He took a bite; the rice ball was sweet and salty—perhaps the sweetness of the dates, perhaps the saltiness of his sweat, or perhaps it was just his imagination.

"Thor, tell me, what's on the other side of the Red Sea?"

"The sea." Thor sat down beside him, hands behind his back, gazing up at the hangar ceiling. "And ships. And the road to Orb. And—" He paused, a slight smile playing on his lips, "and perhaps peace."

"Maybe," Kira took another bite of his rice ball, "maybe it's just another battle."

Thor's smile froze. He looked at Kira's profile, at the pale face bathed in the red light of the emergency lamp, a weight incongruous with his age. He wanted to say something, but in the end, he simply reached out and patted Kira's shoulder.

"Then let's keep fighting. Fight until peace is achieved."

Kira's lips curled into a slight smile. "Okay."

The Archangel flew low over the desert, its hull hugging the ridges of the dunes to evade ZAFT's radar. This was Mu's idea—"In the desert, the lower you fly, the safer you are. ZAFT's radar will be blocked by the dunes, and our signal will be mixed in with ground clutter."

Maru adopted the suggestion, but at the cost of extremely turbulent flight. The air currents from the sand dunes caused the ship to vibrate constantly, and the engine load increased significantly. Natal's fingers flew across the control panel, monitoring the status of every system.

She had deep dark circles under her eyes—she had been working for over three thousand hours straight—but her voice remained steady.

"Captain, a ZAFT outpost has been spotted 15 kilometers ahead." Her voice came from the fire control console, tinged with tension. "Two anti-aircraft guns, four armored vehicles, and at least a platoon of soldiers."

"Go around them," Maru said calmly. "Don't alert them."

"There's no way around it. The outpost is built at the entrance to the canyon, with rocky cliffs on both sides. If we were to pass through here, we would have to fly over the outpost—too close and we'd be detected by radar."

The air in the bridge froze. All eyes turned to Murrue, awaiting her decision.

Marlene closed her eyes. Butterfield's face flashed through her mind—"I won't stop you." But Butterfield wasn't ZAFT; he couldn't control every checkpoint, every patrol. His promise was "no pursuit," not "clearing the way for you." To cross this desert, the Archangel had to rely on itself.

"Send Kira out." Murrue opened her eyes, her voice calm. "The Strike Force will use beam weapons to disable anti-aircraft turrets and armored vehicles, but avoid lethality. The Archangel will pass through at high speed under MS cover. The entire operation must be completed within three minutes."

"Understood." Natal's fingers flew across the control panel. "Kira, did you hear that?"

Kira's voice came through the communicator, calm and firm: "Roger that. Strike Gundam, sortie preparation complete."

As the Strike Gundam ejected from the hangar, the morning light of dawn had just pierced the desert horizon. Golden sunlight bathed the dunes, turning everything a warm orange-red. The mobile suit flew at low altitude, its wing-shaped combat backpack's thrusters spewing pale blue flames, leaving a white contrail behind it.

Kira sat in the cockpit, his eyes fixed on the ZAFT outpost ahead. The anti-aircraft guns were turning, and the radar had begun scanning, but the soldiers' reaction wasn't fast enough. They hadn't expected an MS to fly in from the depths of the desert, much less that this MS's objective wasn't destruction, but paralysis.

The assault rifle was raised, and the trigger was pulled repeatedly. Three beams accurately struck the anti-aircraft gun barrels, rendering them incapable of firing. The armor of the barrels melted, the internal wiring short-circuited, and sparks flew in and out of the cracks. Soldiers ran, some shouting "Enemy attack!", some shouting "Requesting support!", and some just staring blankly as the silver-white machine swept overhead.

The four armored vehicles attempted to disperse, but the assault vehicle's mobility far exceeded their reaction speed. The beam rifle fired again, piercing the tires and hoods of the armored vehicles—making them immobile but not exploding, and no one was killed.

"Target disabled, Archangel can proceed." Kira's voice was calm.

"Roger that," Murrue's voice came through the communicator. "Kira, return to base."

The Strike Gundam turned and flew towards the Archangel. Before leaving, Kira glanced back at the outpost.

ZAFT soldiers stood beside the armored vehicle; some were putting out fires, some were inspecting the damage, and some simply stood there, staring in the direction he had gone. Their faces showed no anger, no hatred, only a numb, almost resigned calm.

"You don't want war either," Kira said in a low voice, "but you have no choice."

No one answered. Only the roar of the thrusters echoed in my ears.

Each time, Kira piloted the Strike, precisely disabling anti-aircraft fire with his beam rifle, and then quickly returned to base after the Archangel passed by. The ZAFT soldiers did not pursue, nor did they call for reinforcements—perhaps because communications were jammed, perhaps because they did not want to pursue, or perhaps simply because the "Desert Tiger's" orders had already reached every outpost—"Do not engage the Archangel."

But Kira knew this "understanding" wouldn't last forever. Butterfield's influence was limited; his orders only worked within his controlled territory. Once the Archangel left the ZAFT-controlled area in North Africa and entered the Red Sea, they would be met by another ZAFT force—one not belonging to the "Desert Tigers" and not under Butterfield's control.

"Kira, it's time to rest." Murrue's voice came through the communicator, carrying a hint of command. "You've launched four sorties in a row now."

"It's alright," Kira interrupted her. "Captain, how much longer until we reach the Red Sea?"

Maru was silent for a moment. "At our current speed, it will be early tomorrow morning. But we need to find cover before sunset; sailing at night is too dangerous—ZAFT's night vision equipment is more advanced than ours."

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"Then let's search," Kira said calmly. "I'll remain vigilant until we find a safe place."

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