Chapter 14: My General Grandfather

"Fine, but my things aren't packed yet!"

Makarius gestured toward the chaotic mess scattered across the floor: combat gear, rucksacks, field packs, and a jumble of service uniforms, dress uniforms, training gear, camouflage fatigues, and PT clothes that had yet to be stowed in his locker.

"Everyone, go help him!"

The officer’s eye twitched. Though he was required by his orders to maintain a polite demeanor, he had no choice but to turn and signal his military police to assist. It must be said that the Military Police, who were constantly tasked with cracking down on military disorder, possessed a rigorous work ethic; their speed in organizing quarters was top-tier. Within mere minutes, all of the students' belongings were sorted and neatly arranged according to protocol.

"Thank you so much. It's a Green Water Mine from Crocodile Bay—don't look down on it! Take it and smoke it when you get back!"

Makarius took a box of cigars from Andrei and shoved them into the hands of the MP officer. The officer hesitated for a few seconds before accepting them, passing them to the non-commissioned officer behind him, and giving a curt nod.

"So, shall we head out now?"

"Mm-hmm, let's go!"

Having changed into his summer service uniform, Makarius grabbed his peaked cap from the side and followed the military police out. Their destination was the headquarters building at the center of the garrison base—or, to be precise, what used to be the garrison commander's office. Now, however, an elderly man sat there, puffing away on a cigar.

"Reporting, student Makarius Krini of the 7th Squadron, Army Armored Academy, has arrived!"

"Thank you, Lieutenant. You may go and rest."

The MP officer, possessing the necessary tact, took his leave and promptly closed the heavy doors behind him.

Once the door was shut, the ramrod-straight posture of Krini instantly collapsed. In a display of complete disrespect for hierarchy, he plopped down into the seat beside the old man and snatched the cigar right out of his hand.

"Stop smoking that. You'll actually get lung cancer if you keep it up!"

"You little rascal, can’t you wish me well for once?"

"That's exactly why I'm telling you to stop! If you really need to chew on something, shove a stick of beef jerky in your mouth instead!"

"I'd need to be able to bite through that first!"

Lieutenant General Ginn Krini had always been cold and stern toward everyone—he wouldn't even offer a pleasant look to Santa Claus or his fellow Federation Lieutenant General Gopp. Known throughout the military as "The Iron Face," the old man found it impossible to maintain that stony expression when it came to his own grandchild. He examined the young man in front of him closely and asked in surprise, "You’ve been in Australia for so long; how come you haven't turned dark at all?"

"You don't get a tan sitting inside a tank!"

"You really did choose a fine branch of service, didn't you?" The Lieutenant General was momentarily struck speechless, finally settling for that dry remark.

"So, what did you call me here for? I'm busy this afternoon; I have to go perform maintenance on my tank. You wouldn't want me to have a malfunction during the exercise and embarrass you, would you?"

"Regarding your assignment preferences! You want to go to Zeon?"

"No—wait, isn't that classified information?"

"Don't you dare underestimate my intelligence network!"

"I see. So, it looks like I won't be able to stay here after all?"

"That's right. The Zeon people are at their breaking point! They are preparing to negotiate with us. By the time you graduate, the entire garrison battalion might be disbanded."

"Are you so sure the old men are certain that Zeon is going to bow their heads?"

"If they don't bow, what else can they do? The Federation has completely blockaded every aspect of Zeon. The food, minerals, and electricity they need now have to be bought on the black market. Most importantly, they can't import a single drop of oil. If they don't compromise, chaos will erupt."

"I don't think so."

"That's because you aren't sitting in my chair yet, kid. Being a strong leader isn't easy. Look at Zeon's founding father, that Zeon Deikun—no matter how hardline he was toward the Federation, didn't he fall to a backstab from his own people? Everything the Zabi family did back then is coming back to haunt them now."

"True, but they won't just sit there and wait for death. Isn't the Federation afraid that the Zeon people might jump over the wall like a dog driven to desperation?"

"That requires capital. What do they have now? Even if they have two space fleets, so what? To say nothing of the rest, the First Fleet alone could hold them down and crush them. What else could they rely on? That 'mobile suit' thing you keep talking about? I admit, it's an interesting weapon, but what can it actually do? Even if it's equipped with a nuclear bazooka, it's hard to pierce the armor of a Magellan-class! We have so many warships, and they have so few people. With thirty times the national power on our side, what can Zeon possibly do to win?"

"This..."

"Let's not talk about that. Tell me, how are our own mobile suits coming along?"

"Still in development. The experimental models are still quite unstable."

"Aren't you a Lieutenant General in the Space Force? Can't you find a way to push the progress along?"

"It's difficult. I'm not in charge of that project! Even if I were, I wouldn't authorize any more funding for them."

Watching Makarius's disappointed expression, Lieutenant General Ginn couldn't help but sigh. He couldn't understand why this wretched child was so obsessed with those mobile suits. A man's journey should be toward the stars and the endless sea; he should be roaming the galaxy aboard a starship. When he first learned his grandson intended to join the military, he had happily cracked open a bottle of fine 1970 vintage wine. But afterward, he felt like smashing the bottle because the boy claimed he would be "one-shotted" by a giant mobile suit wielding a bazooka, and refused to join the Space Force under any circumstances. He eventually chose the Army, which even became a bit of an anecdote at the time; many colleagues often teased him about it at tea parties.

Furthermore, Lieutenant General Ginn and several other Space Force generals were staunch believers in the "Big Guns and Battleships" doctrine. They believed that there was no problem or enemy the Space Force faced that couldn't be solved by a massive number of battleships. Therefore, Makarius’s claim that a mobile suit could sink a warship with a single shot was like dancing on a minefield for the old man.

And now, seeing his grandson prefer playing with tanks and these so-called man-made robots rather than giving his warships a second glance, he felt a sting of frustration.

"Don't be upset. I know what you're worried about. The outcome of a war isn't determined by a single type of weapon yet. And don't you worry—the first one off the line will definitely be yours to pilot."

"Do you mean that?"

"Have I ever failed to keep a promise to you?"

"Oh, one more thing. About that 'superpower' of yours..."

"It's not a superpower. It's just heightened perception."

"Whatever it is, try to keep a low profile. I won't restrict how you use it, but you must ensure your own safety first! Don't be too obvious during the exercises."

The old man sighed as he spoke. "I shouldn't have let you go with Tiffany back then. I never expected that after that attack, you would seem like a completely different person."

"That's because I had an epiphany, Grandfather. If we do not fight, we cannot survive. The people of Earth, bound by gravity, do not know how high a price must be paid to understand that simple truth."