“All the world will be your enemy, Prince with a Thousand Enemies, and whenever they catch you, they will kill you. But first they must catch you: digger, listener, runner, prince with the swift warning. Be cunning, full of tricks, and your people will never be destroyed.”
A pair of A-10 Thunderbolts flew through a mid-May sky; their airframes dressed gray save for colorful, predatory faces painted on their nose cones. The heavily-armored jets emitted a deep rumble as they followed Route 96 below with the tranquil waters of Lake Pueblo off their starboard wing tips.
“Razorback, you are clear to engage.”
“Roger that, Pueblo.”
The landscape morphed from flat to rough to jagged. Ahead, the Wet Mountains of southern Colorado stood like castle battlements with few passages. The A-10s targeted one of those few passages in an attempt to plug the leak in The Empire’s dam of defenses.
“Know your targets, Razorback, things are FUBAR once you’re past Wetmore.”
“Copy that, Pueblo. Tallyho.”
The armor-killing planes shaved altitude as the battle came in to view. Erupting ordnance sent dirt, rock, and body parts-organic and otherwise-flailing through the air in a sort of morbid dust storm of horrors. Instead of individual claps, booms, and bangs, a cacophony of destruction raged like continual thunder.
On one side-to the east-the pilots saw a half-circle of 20 armored vehicles, some no more than melted scrap, others firing desperate volleys as they grudgingly gave ground.
Emplacements made from concrete and sandbags held tenuous positions along the mountain ledges and to either side of 96. Short-range artillery lobbed out from those stations, as did sniper fire and mortars. Squads of fragile, bloodied infantry scurried between the cover of fallen trees, blasted buildings, and dead tanks. They did not advance; they did not retreat. Instead, the foot soldiers bolted from spot to spot in a function more of survival than tactics.
Opposite the human defenses came an army of monsters under storm clouds spewing lightning and thunder.
Shiny rolling balls announced Voggoth’s assault. Barely larger than a beach ball, the things sped forward at 100 miles per hour bouncing over obstacles en route to targets. Well-placed sniper shots disabled some and mortar explosions consumed others, but many found their marks. One hit a sandbag bunker. It exploded in a flash of white, burning away the protective shield and microwaving the soldiers hiding behind. Another whacked into an Abrams tank melting the machine’s gun barrel and cooking the crew.
The crystal spheres came from a large, plate-like, coral-red platform of tubes and spikes that floated close to the ground like a hovercraft. Alongside the platform marched a protective ring of walking orbs resembling Daddy Longlegs spiders standing eight-feet tall and firing pellet guns that could shred body armor.
Behind this artillery platform and its escort came a collection of The Order’s infantry. Hundreds of assimilated humans wearing monks robes and firing alien bullets from growths on their forearms mixed with dozens of muscle-bound, gray-skinned, tall humanoids swinging slings made from chains to launch bowling-ball-sized explosive blobs. Many of the former fell to bloody shreds from mortar and artillery strikes while the latter shrugged off the shrapnel and kept advancing through the pass, struck down only by direct hits.
A line of carts-car-sized and rolling on a dozen tiny wheels-followed Voggoth’s army carrying ammunition that resembled slimy seeds and glowing globes. Hard shell-like roofs kept the re-supply wagons safe from all but the most precisely-aimed strikes.
The A-10s targeted the centerpiece-the platform of tubes that launched the rolling artillery balls-and let fly a stream of Maverick air-to-surface missiles complemented by a healthy dose of rounds from their Avenger Gatling Guns…
General Cassy Simms sat among the brush atop one of the mountain crests overlooking 96 from the north. Despite the open ground around her and an easy avenue of retreat behind, Simms felt penned in. That feeling came from the storm clouds above crackling with electricity and seemingly ready to burst.
Humanity had come to know that when the forces of Voggoth gathered in number the atmosphere boiled. Were the storms the result of some kind of bio-electric discharge from Voggoth’s largest war machines? Did the force of The Order’s anti-life machinations clash with the world of the living in a manner similar to anti-matter and matter colliding? Did God anger at the sight of such abominations on His Earth? Or perhaps the thunderheads served Voggoth’s purpose by disrupting the air space overhead.
Not even The Empire’s smartest minds or most spiritual philosophers understood why the storms came. They only knew that they came when Voggoth’s legions mustered. They did not bring rain, they did not usher in a new weather front. They merely gathered and roared as mightily as the battles that raged whenever The Order’s warriors marched.
Simms refused to allow the storms to unnerve her. She was, after all, a professional soldier, at least in terms of the post-Armageddon world. Still, unlike the Duass, the Hivvans, or the Redcoats, the soldiers of The Order seemed different, as if death at The Order’s hands would be far worse than falling to one of the other invading forces.
Simms shrugged those thoughts away and watched the A-10s strike. Spider Sentries disintegrated and missiles destroyed the coral-red platform. The jet engines then whined as the attackers banked away from the wall of mountain.
As the lead elements of Voggoth’s attack shattered, General Simms turned her attention to the west. From her elevated observation point she could glimpse through the spires of the mountain tops. Back there, between the walls of rock, hovered a thick, white mist hugging reaching out from the Wet Mountain Valley. That mist stumped guidance systems, distorted heat signatures, and hid The Orders’ muster zone.
Beneath that artificial mist Voggoth’s legions gathered for another push through the Rockies, a push thwarted several times before by weather as much as resistance. Simms knew that this time their battlefield was one of three that day, each aiming to hold off the easterly tide of The Order.
She heard a scream. A chorus of screams. And then from that mist flew a flock of four Spooks wailing as they searched for targets, each one resembling a ball wrapped in a large spoiled sheet that fluttered like a kite or a cape.
She radioed, “Razorback, this is Hawkeye, watch your six; Spooks closing fast.” The Spooks flew at the fleeing aircraft, their howls disappearing into the greater song of artillery firing and explosives detonating around the mountain pass.
In desperation, the planes dropped flares and chaff despite knowing that neither radar nor heat drew Voggoth’s anti-air defenders. Nonetheless, two of the pursuers followed the decoys, exploding in mid-air harmlessly. One of the A-10s, however, did not escape. The missile-seemingly a living missile despite Voggoth’s minions lacking any real life-impacted the tail assembly and shattered the rear half of the jet.
Cassy Simms shook her head in silent prayer for another dead comrade, then turned her eyes to the mountain pass favored by the enemy. She saw more Spider Sentries advancing from the mist in a long line, another coral-red platform preparing to shoot more rolling shells, she saw more of the monks who had once been human, and more of the lumbering gray Ogres.
Worst of all, she heard the approach of the mightiest of Voggoth’s weapons. Or more specifically, she felt it. The mountain peak trembled, small rocks cascaded away.
The Leviathan stood a thousand feet tall on two appendages describable only as legs. The main body appeared slug-like but facing upwards and held in place by bands of thick tendons. Wisps of protective mist slipped away as it rose from and left behind the valley, carefully moving through the tight confines of the pass.
Simms stayed on her belly and slithered backward down the slope toward more protective cover. The Leviathan passed her position for the heart of the battle.
She wiped sweat from her forehead and radioed, “Hawkeye to Command, do you copy?”
“We copy, Hawkeye, what do you see?”
“They’re still coming, sir,”
General Fink listened to Simms’ report.
“It’s a-it’s a Leviathan. Battle group Center has deployed their Leviathan.”
Fink tried to calm the shake from Simms’ voice, “It’s okay, Cassy. That’s what we wanted, to draw it out. Good job.”
“Copy that, Command. Good luck. Hawkeye out.”
Fink returned the transmitter to the technician who sat at a folding table inside a timber-built barn that served as an ad hoc command center on the south side of Wetmore.
The General walked between shuffling soldiers and climbed to the loft on a creaking wooden ladder.
Trevor Stone stood up there dressed in simple green BDU pants, a black top, and a baseball cap jammed over shoulder-length hair. The Emperor had cast away the ornate trappings of his position much in the same way he had cast away the bulk of the bureaucracy after his return to power. Things had simplified on that day ten months ago. After much blood, that is.
Stone’s eyes fixed tight to the lenses of powerful field glasses as he stared out the hayloft door. From there he saw the flashes and blasts of battle raging two miles away.
“Simms just eyeballed their Leviathan,” Fink relayed with none of the jokes, Looney Tunes references, or Mel Blanc inspired voices that served as his calling card. Times had changed. Trevor Stone had changed.
“Our guns ready?”
“Yes.”
He considered reminding Trevor that Woody “Bear” Ross commanded those guns, but that would serve only to re-emphasize the point that Ross now commanded a mobile artillery unit instead of serving as the Excalibur’s first officer. That, in turn, would conjure unpleasant images of The Empire’s flagship full of holes, burning, and limping away from the battlefield last year, barely reaching the Pittsburgh shipyards where she remained out of action.
Fink strolled closer to a portable table on which rested several maps and papers. Those maps and papers showed the positions and plans of Trevor Stone’s last chance at defending the Rocky Mountain passes. If Voggoth broke through this time, then it would become a race to the Mississippi, the next and essentially last great barrier between the advancing hordes and the population centers of the East.
Trevor had spoken confidently about this plan, all while dispatching General Jon Brewer east to build a defensive line along the Mississippi.
Stone interrupted Fink’s thoughts, “Any news from Kaufman?”
Casey Fink answered, “She’s engaged a small advanced force outside of Cimarron. So far her boppers and the infantry there are holding the line.”
Stone let the glasses drop, pinched his nose, and joined Fink at the folding table.
As he had done ever since his return, Trevor spoke in a tone that lacked any real emotion but felt heavy with concentration: “You did a hell of a job helping Rhodes transfer 3 ^ rd Mech down to Rye last night.”
“Thank you, sir,” Fink acknowledged as he thought about the troops of both his Third Corp and General Rhodes’ 2 ^ nd Corp who squared off against one of a trio of forces punching through the Rockies that day.
General Rhodes’ 3 ^ rd Mechanized Division had been pulled from the main lines during the night and moved south into a new position, hopefully without The Order’s spies catching wind. That new position could be used to slice into the heart of Voggoth’s main force if the primary stages of the plan failed to turn the tide.
Fink touched the map at Cimarron, New Mexico, one of the other two places where Voggoth tried to push through the Rockies. If all went according to plan, Kristy Kaufman’s Chrysaor and a handful of troops would hold the line in New Mexico against The Order’s Battle group South while Trevor dealt a crushing defeat to Voggoth’s Battle group Center.
But little had gone according to plan since Voggoth’s invasion from the Pacific Ocean, starting with the loss of California last summer, The Order’s breakout into Nevada and Arizona during the Fall, and fighting through the Rockies between blizzards all winter long.
Trevor added his finger to the map as well, this time touching the evacuated city of Denver far to the north where the northernmost flank of the fight prepared to play out.
“Hoth should be in position by now,” Trevor said.
The Phillipan resembled a massive flying rectangle with a flat-top flight deck in front of a tower-like structure covering the rear third of the gigantic ship. Anti-gravity generators kept the steel beast afloat while thrust came from a series of engine baffles to aft.
With Denver off his port side, General William Hoth’s Dreadnought drifted over and between the Rocky Mountains. His target-the battering ram of Voggoth’s Battle group North-stood as tall as a skyscraper stretching up from the protective mist shrouding The Order’s mustering forces, like a dorsal fin exposing a shark. A few scattered gray clouds-surprisingly few for a force estimated so large-swirled overhead, spoiling an otherwise blue sky.
Hoth occupied the command module onboard the crescent-shaped bridge of his battleship. From there he accessed computer screens, monitors, and communications to gather information and control every ship function. Whoever stood in that module became the “Brain” of an Imperial Dreadnought.
The heavy-set General with the stoic voice relayed his work to the crew, “Proceeding to firing range. Charging the belly boppers to eighty percent.”
Ahead waited the Leviathan, unfazed by the approaching war machine.
Hoth delegated one duty to his XO. “Contact Command, tell them we’ve spotted Battle group North’s Leviathan. We will engage the target in less than two minutes”
“Good,” Trevor said in reaction to the message from the Phillipan. “They’ve shown most of their cards so far.”
“Kaufman has yet to engage Battle group South’s Leviathan.”
“She will,” Stone answered. “Voggoth is getting greedy, trying to punch through three spots at once. Trying to spread us too thin so we can’t stop him.” Trevor returned to the view of the battlefield from the hayloft. Even from a few miles away he could see the lumbering giant coming through the mountain pass. “But if we can beat him decisively here, we can roll him back on the other two fronts.”
While Stone spoke confidently, Fink knew that the opposite of that scenario also held true. If Voggoth broke through at Wetmore, then the sparse number of ground troops in Denver to the north and Cimarron, New Mexico to the South would make the line untenable.
Stone grew transfixed by the far away cloud of battle and the gargantuan beast, its lower half invisible behind a horizon of rooftops and foothills. It appeared to Fink that the sight mesmerized Stone. As if maybe he saw more there than what met the eye.
Trevor spoke in a steady, quiet voice, “I used to think mankind was so good at making war that it was scary. Then I see Voggoth’s beasts, and I realize we don’t know shit.”
Fink offered a meek, “Yes, sir,” although he did not think Trevor heard because the Leviathan’s battle cry began; a sound that whined and built like an air raid siren. Fink gasped, “Oh shit, it’s gonna fire. Shit, shit, and it’s not in position yet. It’s not out of the pass all the way.”
Trevor spoke again, still hypnotized by the battle and the insane walking skyscraper.
“You know the difference between us and Voggoth?”
Fink stepped to Stone’s shoulder. The sound of the Leviathan grew louder still as the gigantic creature sucked in air. Fink knew the barn lay beyond the immediate blast zone but not completely out of danger.
Trevor appeared unconcerned. Or, at least, distracted by his thoughts.
“The difference is that when we make our smart bombs and build our jet planes we use words like ‘area of affect’ and ‘yield’ and ‘operational radius.’ All so sterile. So-so detached.”
Fink watched the Leviathan stoop, as if trying to get a better look at the tiny little creatures daring to block its path. As it bent, the massive hole that lived at the top of the giant swung down like the barrel of God’s gun taking aim.
“But Voggoth’s gunsmiths use words like ‘pain’ and ‘terror’ and ‘suffering’. You’ve got to hand it to them, they’ve boiled war to its essence. You have to admire their honesty.”
There came no noise from the blast of wind exhaled by the mighty Leviathan because that wind moved faster than sound. From the top of the loft Fink and Stone watched a storm of dirt and dust blow away tanks, artillery, and pieces of what used to be soldiers.
That supersonic blast of air twisted out of the mountain passage, through the center of the defensive line, and across the jagged land between the battlefield and the command center. The sound caught up to and overtook the slowing gust, reaching their ears in a beastly howl.
Fink shoved Trevor to the hay-covered floor. The lethal blast of wind dissipated fast but still hit the barn with hurricane force. Chunks of roof tore away, the map table flipped and rolled; the barn doors exploded in toppling gear and sending the staff diving for cover.
It passed.
Something metal and squeaky swayed back and forth at the rear of the barn. Static broadcast from radios. A cloud of hay, dust, and papers floated about. Soldiers emerged from under chairs and tables with soft groans and sharp cusses. The barn grew brighter with half the roof blown away.
Fink had fallen atop Stone in order to protect him from debris, but Trevor quickly broke free and returned to his view of the battle.
A wide swatch of smashed, toppled, and otherwise obliterated landscape lay between the south side of Wetmore and the battlefield, as if an F5 tornado had roared through. That battlefield had been cut in half-a north side and a south side-nothing between. Nothing where the Leviathan’s weapon had struck.
Sharp reports and blasts broke the quiet as what remained of The Empire’s front lines regained their composure and faced swarms of infantry pouring forward around the giant’s legs.
Fink knew this to be the pattern. It could nearly be called a game, something like rock-paper-scissors. Wherever The Empire formed defensive lines, along came the Leviathans to blast through. Fortresses? Trenches? Caves? Mountains? It did not matter. Anything in the direct path of the supersonic winds would be tossed aside.
Then the hordes would come.
With a great deal of effort, the full force of a dreadnought could destroy a Leviathan if that Leviathan could be directly engaged. And the Empire’s ground forces with proper support could hold off the tide of Voggoth’s insane foot soldiers. But the combination of the two? Deadly, as proven multiple times since last Summer, especially considering that Voggoth had found ways to deal with the dreadnoughts.
Of more immediate concern, today-at the centermost of the day’s war zones-no dreadnought waited. Today Trevor Stone prepared a different plan, one born either from desperation or invention, Fink could not be sure which. Then again, had not all of Stone’s tactics over the years been the same?
“Is it in position? Damn it, Fink, get on the radio with Simms!”
But Fink did not need to get on the radio. As the staff officers on the ground floor of the barn re-assembled their gear they eavesdropped on a conversation between Simms’ observation point and Woody “Bear” Ross’ fleet of MLRS vehicles.
“Hawkeye to Thor, do you copy?”
Ross’ deep voice answered, “Copy, Hawkeye.”
“Target is in position. Repeat, target is in position.”
Fink hurried to Trevor’s side to watch the plan unfold. A veil of debris clouded their view of the battlefield, but the monstrous towering beast could be easily discerned as it stepped across the threshold of mountain pass to open terrain.
Artillery flashed around its feet blasting apart formations of Voggoth’s Ogres and Monks and Spider Sentries. More crystal rolling cruise missiles launched from another of those coral-red hovercraft platforms. More of Trevor’s forces suffered but they gave as good as they got.
Yet Fink knew it did not matter. Any moment the Leviathan would suck in more air then aim another deadly blast at one side of the line or the other. Then repeat until the path lay bare.
“Get your reserve units ready to roll forward,” Trevor told Fink in reference to the twin columns of tanks and mobile infantry waiting on the far side of Wetmore. “And Rhodes, too.”
Fink reminded, “General Rhodes has been ready for hours. Just waiting for the go-word.”
Another noise trumped the chorus of destruction playing at the gateway to the Rockies. This time that noise did not come from Voggoth’s massive war-beast but from one of the many war-beasts at mankind’s disposal.
They came like a rainstorm of smoke and metal, line upon line of rockets fired a dozen miles away by Woody “Bear” Ross’s formation of mobile M270 MLRS vehicles, expending the last stores of their available munitions.
Fink shivered at the sight of nearly 100 rockets streaking toward the pre-designated target area on Highway 96 just outside the mountain pass where the Leviathan now stood, having walked right onto the planned bulls eye.
“C’mon…” Stone mumbled an urge that, to Fink’s ears, sounded one-part prayer.
The Leviathan did not lack defenses. As the bombardment closed, pores along the upper torso of the machine-creature ejected small cubes that detonated around the beast causing ripples of concussion. Some of the rockets shattered and burst prematurely, others were sent tumbling off-course. But for every rocket destroyed or deflected, three punched through.
Blasts of orange, yellow, and black smoke tore across the Leviathan’s mid-section. One after another they hit until the monstrous creature burned. Trevor’s grin grew wider with each impact. But would it be enough?
Between the debris cloud still floating after the wind storm, the plumes of rocket fuel, and the puffs of smoke coming from exploding rockets, the view of the battlefield from the command post became even more obstructed. But even through the smoke Trevor and Fink spied vile liquids spraying out from wounds, they saw the tendons wrapping the beast’s torso spring undone like the cables of a suspension bridge pushed beyond cohesion.
It fell in two pieces as the mid-section could no longer support the weight. Two massive pieces of war machine tumbled to Earth crushing hundreds of Voggoth’s foot soldiers. An earthquake shuddered across the landscape.
Trevor shouted, “Get Rhodes going! Get him going, now!”
Phillip Rhodes had come to Trevor’s post-Apocalypse lakeside estate 11 years ago with the group of U.S. soldiers who survived Armageddon on the run with Thomas Prescott.
During that first year Rhodes participated in the attack on the extraterrestrial Gateway outside of Binghamton, New York only to break his collar bone on the return trip when his Humvee rolled in a snow storm. Four years later it had been Rhodes’ unit that stumbled upon the strange cave outside of Blacksburg, Virginia where Trevor Stone’s half-brother dwelt.
For a brief time last summer Philip Rhodes commanded the vaunted 2 ^ nd Mechanized Unit of Virginia, known as “Stonewall’s Brigades”. When Thomas Prescott died during Voggoth’s invasion at Long Beach, Rhodes received another instant promotion to the leader of the decimated Second Corps.
Despite the haughty rank and long title, Generals Rhodes fought on the front lines, riding along with the 3 ^ rd Mechanized Division as it struck at the heart of the enemy. More specifically, his formation held the key to turning the tide of a war that had been deteriorating for months.
Essentially, he was tasked with saving The Empire, if it could even be called that anymore. The word did not roll as smoothly off the tongue when retreating.
Still, as he rode north in a Humvee as part of a snake-like band of infantry and light armor weaving between the crumbling rock walls hiding Highway 165, General Philip Rhodes believed his mission would be successful. The plan-Trevor’s plan-made perfect sense.
Voggoth marched his forces with a simple but effective strategy: engage and destroy humanity’s armies. He left his lesser minions-the Mutants and Wraiths and Roachbots-to infest cities and eradicate stragglers. But his main forces-his Leviathans and Spider Sentries and Chariots-sought to engage mankind’s organized forces.
And that is why The Order rigidly followed Highway 96 through the mountains and into battle against the main human army encamped at Wetmore. As such, Voggoth had ignored Highway 165 that sprouted away from 96 in the middle of the Wet Mountains. Highway 165 had become difficult to pass, anyhow, due to years of neglect. Landslides had turned it from a modern road into little more than a rocky path.
While heavy armor would have difficulty negotiating the downed boulders and debris cluttering the tight roadway, Humvees and infantry could push through. Rhodes’ strike from 96 would cut the alien force in two once the Leviathan fell. At that point, armored reserves hiding near Wetmore would attack the head of Voggoth’s column. Between the two attacks they would slice up and liquidate the enemy.
Of course, Rhodes knew his fight to be one of three that day. He knew that the Phillipan and the Chrysaor moved to intercept the other two prongs of The Order’s push east. And therein lay Voggoth’s mistake. With his heaviest weapons-three Leviathans-split between three different battle groups, The Empire could deal a decisive blow to the center and roll back the entire front. If they could draw out and knock down that walking battering ram.
The order to advance meant that part one of the plan had succeeded. While a tough fight remained, victory now appeared plausible with the Leviathan toppled.
A gamble, true, but all their victories since the invaders came had been the results of gambles and it seemed to General Rhodes that Trevor Stone rarely rolled snake eyes.
“Boppers charged to eighty percent,” Hoth echoed the display on his Weapons Status monitor for the benefit of the XO and crew. “Target in range. Preparing to fire.”
Beyond the windows and far out past the tip of the flight deck, loomed the incredibly large biomechanical monster known as a Leviathan. Near the top of its skyscraper-sized form hovered a patch of gray and black thunderheads, seemingly the remains of a storm long gone. Far below swirled a thick white mist pumped by The Order’s machines to hide the other components of Battle group North that threatened Denver.
Hoth knew the first Leviathan had fallen at Wetmore. He knew Rhodes launched a surprise attack. He knew it meant he had to keep his end of the deal. Those who knew Hoth understood that the General always kept his end of the deal. Ever since his days playing football for Army, the career-officer lived by the military code.
Indeed, on that fateful day last summer when Trevor Stone returned from the dead, the General had been prepared to blast the Excalibur from the sky because those had been his orders from the recognized chain of authority. That chain had changed that day, to the relief of all, but perhaps no more so than to William Hoth.
Indeed, while Hoth would never let his feelings show, he had found a great deal of satisfaction in watching the returned Emperor’s purge of the Senate, governors, and Internal Security. Not so much the public executions-they felt a tad gruesome-more so the eradication of the bureaucracy. In an instant, a library’s worth of post-Armageddon laws, regulations, and procedures vanished.
The remaining politicos served more as administrators implementing Trevor’s will, and no one complained because the results of Godfrey’s folly were on full display as Voggoth marched east. Voggoth’s invasion served a scary reminder and the people ran for Trevor’s protection yet again, as if he might be a messiah who could work his magic twice.
In fact, that magic appeared ready to work again. Success at Wetmore seemed the most unlikely of the chips that needed to fall and fall they had. Now Hoth had to do his job.
The Phillipan drifted into position. The mighty Leviathan did not move or react in any way, to the point that Hoth wondered if the beast had been activated. No matter, he felt no shame in shooting a big fish in a proverbial barrel.
“Firing main batteries.”
Two blobs of energy soared from the forward guns of the Phillipan. The energy bursts crackled and bubbled as they cut through the sky beneath the gray, churning clouds and above the ocean-like veil of mist. The entire dreadnought shimmied and bucked.
The energy blasts hit the ungodly war machine dead center. In an instant the creature shattered and crumbled into a shower of flakes and shards.
Silence fell across the bridge crew when there should be cheers.
The XO stood nearby and said with more hope than proclamation, “We did it, sir.”
Hoth mumbled aloud, “Is there anything down there? Anything at all?” He then announced to the bridge crew, “We’re turning about and setting course for Wetmore. Brace for maximum speed.”
“Sir, what is it?”
Hoth answered his XO, “A decoy.”
The line of soldiers stretched ahead of Rhodes’ lightly-armored Humvee. With all the rock slides and debris to either side, he felt more as if they marched through a big trench than a road.
He took note of his troops. They looked dusty and grimy and tired, their graying uniforms nearly matched the complexion of the stony, shadowed passage they traveled. Yet he knew his boys were in their best spirits since he had taken command. For the first time since the California War, Third Mechanized attacked instead of retreated.
Most of his troops were citizen soldiers molded from necessity, not recruitment drives. Their ages ranged from under 16 to over 60. Their equipment-even the graying uniforms-appeared only the least bit standardized. Most carried M16s or similar models such as M4s or AR15s, a few sported AK-47s while fewer still dealt with semi-automatic hunting rifles. All wore Kevlar helmets and some form of body armor in conditions ranging from pristine to threadbare.
Most important, each of those soldiers realized the stakes. Each was prepared to fight because they believed in Trevor Stone, the man who had saved them when the world seemed over, the man who had traveled across dimensions, the man who had returned from the dead.
They marched forward under the command of General Rhodes, but they marched for Trevor. He would lead them to victory again.
As he considered all this, Rhodes felt his morale rise. Then the screams started.
The driver instinctively stopped when a commotion rolled through the ranks. Heads turned skyward. Rhodes opened the passenger door and followed their gaze.
Up into the sky-toward the swirling storm clouds-rose black dots, one after another sent flying among the forward ranks.
No, not black dots. People. Arms flailing, a few letting loose horrified screams, but most already dead.
Another one went, this time only a few dozen yards ahead of Rhodes’ position. He heard a blast of vapor and saw the soldier go flying into the sky, dozens of feet, hundreds of feet, a thousand feet-lifeless arms and limbs shaking and waving. Then gravity took hold and the body plummeted to earth where it landed in a crowd of panicking infantry.
“Bouncers! Fucking bouncers!”
The column halted. Everyone stepped back, almost in unison.
“Sonofabitch,” Rhodes growled at his driver and anyone who would hear. “Bouncer mines. Why didn’t the dogs sniff em’ out? Christ this is going to slow things down.”
Fflloooooopp!
Fflloooooopp!
Another man, then another next to him, exploded skyward as a camouflaged packet of highly pressurized gas exploded from the ground beneath. One of the men screamed. The other-like most-could not because the force from the gas expulsion shattered his spinal cord or brain instantaneously.
“Get the dogs up! Get em’ up now!”
One of Rhodes staffers inside the car frantically called forward the K9 bomb sniffers, but Rhodes knew that if this breed of mines could be easily sniffed they would have been sniffed when the recon teams had gone through before dawn. Voggoth had changed the scent. That meant planning. That meant The Order had anticipated this move. That meant-
Something flickered ahead. Shadows and light danced on the walls of rock surrounding the road. More screams. Fire.
Two amber comets of flame roared a dozen feet overhead the army, each ball of fire dripping burning fuel that fell on the people below like napalm. Shouts of ‘Incoming!’ stated the blatantly obvious while men and women scrambled for cover.
Rhodes watched the pair of flying comets of fire come closer and closer. He could see two dark spots on the burning round balls that might be eyes and a shadowy maw smiling or screaming, all surrounded by a mane of golden yellow inferno.
“General! Take cover!”
The command Humvee quickly emptied as two grunts, a radio technician, the driver and the General hurried for a depression in the dead grass between the cracked pavement of the road and the rising wall of rock.
Swoosh!
An anti-tank missile intercepted one of the weapons, exploding it in a howl. The dying creature’s remains showered fire and destruction onto the fleeing soldiers below.
The remaining ball of fire streaked past Rhodes. Its wake killed a dozen men within the General’s view and caught his Humvee on fire. It burned for ten seconds before the fuel tank exploded.
“Get me a goddamn radio!”
The radio technician who served in Rhodes’ entourage panicked, “I’ve got nothin’ but static, sir! I think the damn things are jamming us!”
The General barked an order but no one seemed capable of complying. “We’ve got to let command know-they were waiting for us. Sonofabitches were waiting for us!”
Cassy Simms remained at her observation post, first confirming the destruction of the Leviathan then reporting on remaining enemy strength. She hoped the armored reinforcements from Wetmore and Rhodes’ strike up from Rye would come soon because the flow of forces from beneath the mist continued at an alarming rate; more than anticipated.
Ogres and Spider Sentries by the hundreds, thousands of converted humans, and three more of the rolling artillery platforms all covered by the low-flying blob-like ships known as Chariots. It added up to much more than she would have expected from one Battle group.
An incoming transmission asked, “Hawkeye, this is command, any news from Rhodes?”
Simms found it surprising that Fink would ask her about Rhodes, let alone use the General’s name on-air.
“No, Command, negative.”
“Let us know, Hawkeye. We’re having some comm problems.”
Just minutes ago, she had cheered as the volley of rockets blew the Leviathan into pieces. Now a feeling built in the pit of her stomach-an ache. And the thunderstorms above, they grew fiercer.
The ground shook. Small rocks cascaded away from her position.
She turned her attention west again, glimpsing through the mountains to the valley where the mist swirled. The valley where Voggoth had grown and nurtured his army.
A massive shadow rose, parting and pushing the mist aside. Taller-taller-taller until the top tickled the clouds.
A Leviathan.
And then another, a few giant paces behind. Two Leviathans like twin towers rising from hiding spots beneath the mist. They had no faces, no mouths other than the massive maw that served to suck in then expel air. Yet to Cassy Simms those faceless monsters appeared to smile.
“C-command, c-command this is Hawkeye-“
She stopped her transmission when more came from the mist. A screaming flock of Spooks rising together so fast and so tightly packed that for a moment it seemed as if a curtain rose.
Counter-battery fire.
Trevor did not need the binoculars to understand what unfolded on the battlefield. The Leviathans were plain to see, walking one after another through the mountain pass toward his defenses, toward the reserve armor they had committed to the fight before realizing that fight had already been lost. Now those tanks and APCs would be sacrificial lambs.
He had trouble considering it fully because the chorus of a sky filled with screaming Spooks bore into his mind. It almost sounded like a laugh. Voggoth’s laugh. The flock nearly blocked out the sun as it sped eastward in search of Ross’ line of artillery.
“Sir…?”
Casey Fink’s incomplete question asked so much.
Why didn’t this work?
How could you lead us into disaster like this?
What are we to do now?
Are you really the same Trevor Stone?
No, he was not the same Trevor Stone as prior to his phony assassination; prior to suffering a lifetime of torments in a matter of weeks while under the power of The Order. Before that time he had suspected that mankind’s defeat would lead to the end of the human race. Much to his regret, while imprisoned by The Order’s torture machine, Trevor learned that a worse fate awaited his species: If Voggoth triumphed, they would be twisted and mutated into that monster’s minions.
Trevor had witnessed the Feranites warped from a race who shared a special bond with nature into the exact opposite; a species of mechanical slaves far removed from all things natural. It seemed Voggoth valued both destruction and irony.
Bits of organic machines and streaks of flaming aviation fuel fell from the sky and burned among the remains of Wetmore. Trevor heard the roar of jet fighters and the hollers of The Order’s ‘Spooks’ colliding in the airspace above.
He cast his eyes upward through one of the many holes in the barn roof and sure enough contrails and starbursts of smoke filled what remained of the blue sky as the storm came over the mountains.
“Brilliant, you know,” he said aloud in a detached musing.
“Sir?”
“It’s brilliant, the way Voggoth fights up there. Reminds me of Hitler during World War II. The Nazis didn’t have much of a Navy to stand up to the British, so they built U-Boats by the bushel. Cheap U-Boats. Not to take control of the seas, but to deny England from having total control of those seas. Voggoth deploys hundreds of these things that probably cost him the same as pennies to make. Sure, we wipe them out by the handful, but it just takes one to knock down an F-15. He goes out and grows more tomorrow, we can’t replace an F-15 for months, if ever.”
Fink stood silent in a mixture of shock and confusion.
Trevor returned his attention to the disintegrating front lines. On some level he had been certain that victory would come today, that all the defeats of the past year were minor events. That he needed only a combination of the right terrain, a good plan, and a little luck.
All those stars had aligned, but yet he lost. Voggoth had out maneuvered him. Voggoth had out-thought him. And now Voggoth would out-fight him.
“Sir, shall I give the order to withdraw?”
“We can’t withdraw, Casey,” Trevor spoke plainly. “Our forces are engaged. We have no reserves to fight a delaying action. Our boys are either going to die fighting or get shot in the back running. Voggoth won’t allow an orderly retreat.”
And for that, Trevor felt compelled to tip his hat toward the sinister mind of Voggoth. That devil had conceived and hatched a plan to draw Trevor’s forces into the open and force a climactic battle. Certainly Jon Brewer’s units mustering on the Mississippi would provide some small challenge, but without the men who would be slaughtered here, today, then the Mississippi would prove little more than a speed bump.
“Um, sir,” Fink sounded embarrassed as he corrected his boss. “I didn’t mean the whole army, sir.”
“Oh? You mean us? Me? The headquarters unit? I guess so,” Trevor conceded but his eyes leered longingly at the battlefield. This was not supposed to happen. This day was to turn the tide. Those reserve tank units were supposed to surprise the vanguard of Voggoth’s ground troops after the Leviathan had fallen and Rhodes’ infantry columns were supposed to slice and dice the belly of the beastly army. That had been the script.
Blasts of tank cannon fired; explosions shook the ground; fireballs of pilots and wings and gore dropped from the sky.
A small part of Trevor-very small and very isolated-wondered if it would be so bad to simply stay in the ruined barn and let The Order’s forces swarm over. It seemed now that day would come, either there at Wetmore, in a few weeks at the Mississippi, or in the Appalachian mountains or at some last stand along the Atlantic coast.
Of course he could not. He would fight. And if he had nearly no army at the end of that day, he would fight on his own from the mountains and caves or cross the sea and join the outposts of humanity in Europe and Africa to muster forces anew.
“Sir..?”
“Yes, of course, let’s go.”
He glanced at his tanks once more. They rolled forward in a line past blasted buildings and across the wasteland swept clear by the Leviathan’s supersonic blast. Their treads creaked and squeaked and diesel engines rumbled and the stench of exhaust floated behind like a foul wake of tainted air. And forward they went into the shadows of the two advancing Leviathan’s no doubt knowing their fate was sealed but doing it anyway because-like Trevor-no alternative remained.
The headquarters unit hastily packed what remained of their gear and followed Trevor as he retreated through the rear of barn. Out back on the far end of a tattered field and protected by a dirt berm sat one of The Empire’s “Eagle” Transports. Those machines had come to Earth from the invaders known initially as the Redcoats then eventually as the Centurians. Humanity had captured several, reverse-engineered the design, added improvements, and now called them their own.
With alien-designed anti-gravity generators providing lift and clean-burning hydrogen fuel to generate thrust, what the boxy Eagles lacked in aesthetics they more than made up for in efficiency.
Soldiers and technicians surrounded the Eagle on all sides working to secure heavy trucks, Humvees, a water buffalo, and portable generators. A palatable aura of panic emanated from the men and women wearing various shades of battle dress uniform. A column of infantry onboard a collection of army trucks and SUVs raced toward the front passing the small encampment on a dusty road.
Trevor and General Fink descended the berm. Far overhead a burning Tomcat barrel rolled in a graceful arc after a ‘Spook’ rammed its rear thrusters.
The two arrived at the transport, walked the short entry ramp, and opened the sliding door with the push of a button. Several of the headquarters techs and soldiers joined them, still more waited behind for the anticipated Blackhawk chopper that planned to spirit them away, if air traffic control could navigate it into the hot zone.
One side of the rectangular passenger compartment offered rows of seats for safe travel, the other side presented an array of communications gear and data banks. A display of exotic weapons-including a Civil War era sword that once belonged to General ‘Stonewall’ McAllister-garnished a small stretch of wall. Its blade glinted silver with a hint of fading crimson.
“Rick,” General Fink called through the open bulkhead that led toward the pointy cockpit, “we’re cleared to go.”
Rick Hauser-Trevor’s personal pilot for years-did not listen to General Fink. Instead, the blond-haired man with glasses walked into the passenger compartment with a red face and gasped, “Sir, it’s the Phillipan. She’s here!”
“What? Hoth is supposed to be up in Denver!”
Unlike Casey, Trevor did not question the reason but, instead, grasped on to one last offered straw. He hurried to the communications array where a technician sat.
“Get the Phillipan on the horn. Rick, how far out is she?”
“Five minutes.”
Trevor turned to Fink and ordered, “Contact the ground commanders. Order a full retreat.”
“Sir?”
“Casey-the Phillipan can bail us out. She can fight a holding action.”
“One dreadnought? Hold off Voggoth’s whole army?”
While victory remained impossible, this last chance at survival infused Trevor with new enthusiasm.
“I gave you an order. Get on it. And find a way to get in touch with Rhodes.”
Casey gulped and sought a second communications port.
“Sir, I’ve got General Hoth,” the comm officer presented Trevor with a headset.
“Hoth, can you read me?”
“Yes, sir. The Denver army was a decoy. I think they loaded up everything on you.”
“That’s right. Good thinking for high-tailing it here. But you may wish you hadn’t.”
“What do you need, Trevor?”
“I need you to pull our asses out of a bad spot, General. They caught us by surprise. They caught me by surprise. Our forces are committed. No reserves; nothing that could put up a rear guard action. We can’t win this fight and we can’t get out of it, either. I need you to hold the line while the army-well, while the ground forces escape.”
No reply immediately came. No doubt Hoth soaked in the full meaning. And as General Hoth had done all his life, he accepted the order without question.
“Understood, sir.”
No words of bravado. No quote for the history books.
Casey Fink interrupted, “The forward armor units are fully engaged. I’m still trying to raise Rhodes. I have this feeling his communications are being jammed.”
Trevor nodded then returned his attention to the Phillipan.
“Good luck, General. To you and your crew.”
“To you too, Trevor. We’ll buy you as much time as we can.”
The massive air ship pivoted slowly like a sumo wrestler stomping into position for a big strike. Below-in the shadow of the mighty flying beast-the armored spearhead of Trevor’s attack force switched gears from forward to reverse. Ahead at the mouth of the mountain pass, the first of the two advancing Leviathan’s stood straight and tall to skyscraper height.
Twin blasts of energy fired from the Phillipan’s bow. They burned the flesh of Voggoth’s ungodly war machine like a laser scalpel slicing across a patient. Thousands of gallons of puss-like yellow bile sprayed out. But the beast did not fall.
A new wave of the hideous Spooks birthed from the mist-covered valley screamed up through the swirling storm clouds, arched across the heavens as bolts of lightning flashed and thunder boomed, then plunged into the upper deck of the dreadnought.
Anti-air Gatling guns fired defensive volleys. A dozen-two dozen-nearly three dozen of the vile missiles fell apart. But nearly the same number crashed into the target. Explosions peppered the flight deck and cracked the closed hangar doors. More pummeled the tower to aft, shaking Hoth onboard his bridge and giving life to flash fires and hull breaches.
In addition to the ship’s main batteries, a swarm of smaller gun ports to the underside rained missiles, smart munitions, gravity bombs, and artillery-caliber shells toward the enemy.
One of Voggoth’s hovering coral-red platforms shattered in the fury of the storm. A Chariot flyer suffered a direct hit, spewed smoke, then fell like a rock and rolled down a mountainside. An uncountable number of formerly-human monks disintegrated in the fire.
But still they came, pouring through the pass.
A terrible noise arose from the lead Leviathan: a sound like an air raid siren building louder and louder as it swallowed air from the sky. The turbulence from the vortex shook the Phillipan side to side but she did not retreat. Instead, the energy banks of the ship’s main batteries raced to beat the Leviathan to firing power.
The monstrosity ceased pulling in its deadly wind and began to stoop to obliterate the retreating rows of armor and vehicles.
The Phillipan fired again, this time at lower power but practically into the maw of the stooping beast. The blasts of energy tore at the monster’s top half and-through good fortune or great aim-severed several key tendons on the towering beast’s frame. The air pressure building to lethal force inside the monster worked against it. An explosion of air followed the explosion of the Phillipan’s attack, detonating long before Voggoth’s pet could aim at the fleeing humans.
Instead, the wind radiated out at a higher altitude, blasting into the Phillipan at less than supersonic speeds but at a force to be envied by hurricanes.
Hull plates already damaged from the bombardment of Spooks tore away; the cracked hangar doors ripped apart; radar and communications antennas atop the tower broke like matchsticks; and the entire dreadnought spun around 180 degrees and listed like a ship on stormy waters.
The badly wounded Leviathan wobbled like a drunken buffoon. A flight of missiles launched from the airship’s underside raced on plumes of smoky fire across the sky and into the bleeding belly of the foe. Explosions that otherwise could not harm the thick hide of the Leviathan aggravated the grievous tear across its body.
Another deluge of ‘Spooks’ hurried to the rescue, smashing into the tower section of the dreadnought with one hitting the closed blast screens of the bridge’s observation windows. The impact sent a wave of heat through the brain of the ship.
The ‘belly boppers’ remained fully operational and from them came the knockout punch. The blasts hammered the Leviathan one last time.
It stumbled then fell as it died the death of an imploding skyscraper. Hundreds of lesser minions died beneath the collapsing weight. An earthquake rattled Colorado and the beast came to rest not far from the fallen body of the first mighty Leviathan.
The third giant came to a halt in the mountain pass, hesitant to face the floating city blocking the path. Around its monstrous feet raced forward thousands more of Voggoth’s legions. More spider sentries. More Chariot aircraft. More hovering gun platforms. More ogres and monks and other things born from nightmares.
The Phillipan held.
When the mission had first begun, General Rhodes felt the tight confines of the mountain road seemed a hidden passage toward the enemy’s exposed underbelly. Now those high rocky walls that kept most of the afternoon daylight away felt more a trap.
The majority of his force stretched behind him in rows of infantry and light vehicles, a half-mile snake of humanity. At the head of that snake chaos ruled. Infantry darted between fallen boulders as well as the ditches and depressions to either side of the highway. Those soldiers dodged rapid-fire pellets coming from a handful of advancing Spider Sentries.
A trio of Humvees moved to support the human soldiers, one launching a TOW missile that obliterated an enemy into a gob of goo.
Several K9s moved around the battlefield accompanied by military handlers. The dogs sniffed and barked as they searched for bouncer mines. Voggoth had draped the hidden presents in a new scent, but once the dogs managed to get a whiff of some of the expended mines they could lock on to the ones that remained hidden. And there were plenty. Every few minutes groups of sappers rushed forward amidst the crossfire to spray the hidden cushions of compressed air with a type of acid that melted away the casing and released the tightly-held contents with an ear-splitting pop.
Rhodes peeked from behind a cluster of boulders and used his binoculars to spy the front line. He watched two of his men fall, one dying instantly the other begging for the mercy of a medic. He saw another Spider Sentry succumb to 50-caliber rounds. It appeared his men might just break through.
“Sir, look at this!”
Rhodes’ driver-who now had nothing to drive-pointed to an approaching K9. The dog dropped a small, dead creature on the side of the road in view of the General.
The K9’s handler-a thin man with tired eyes-told the General in an emotionless tone, “We’re finding bunches of these things.”
Rhodes eyed the creature while the sounds of explosions and ricocheting rounds roared around the canyon road. It resembled a two-legged green pineapple. Two protrusions similar to insect antenna rose from the top of a featureless head.
“Christ, I’ll bet a week’s pay that’s what’s jamming us. Can you get through, corporal?”
The radio man tested his set again. Static.
“No, sir. Must be more of them.”
As if he had not already had enough such signs, Rhodes saw this as yet another indicator that The Order expected his line of attack from Rye. Yet still, despite the obstacles in their way, the jammed communications, and the bouncer mines, his forward units made progress albeit with a casualty rate approaching 30 %.
General Rhodes hoisted himself atop one of the boulders and used his binoculars to survey the front. He saw another Spider Sentry go down and his Humvees roll forward flanked by infantry. The path appeared clear.
Before he could complete that thought another line of Spider Sentries complemented by a bunch of those muscle-bound Ogre things appeared in the distance. The former fired more of their pellet-rounds and the latter launched explosive balls with big slings, resembling some kind of mutant Olympic athletes competing for the gold.
One such explosive hit a Humvee. It relieved Rhodes to see the crew get clear before the vehicle burst. Nonetheless, their advance slowed again as small arms fire and grenades exchanged with the enemy’s weird weapons.
“Jesus Christ, these things keep coming at us piecemeal.”
A stretcher hurried by carrying a heavily-medicated middle aged woman missing an arm.
Rhodes jumped from the boulder.
“Corporal, we need to get a message to command. I got this feeling there is more going on out there than we know. If we can’t radio them, we’re going to have to send a runner.”
“Incoming!”
The small gathering of the general and his staff swiveled around and saw the amber glow of another burning comet-thing come roaring over the highway. The flames from its burning mane fell upon the front lines sending soldiers racing for cover.
Two energy blasts met the rampaging thing in mid-flight, exploding it like a sun gone rogue. A cheer rose from the ranks. General Rhodes backtracked the path of those well-timed blasts. Behind him-moving up from the south-came an Eagle transport.
The approaching ship fired another round of energy weapons from the turret under its nose cone. The weapon smashed into the spider sentries at the front line and gave the soldiers fighting there a moment’s reprieve. Then the ship descended to the road where it came to a rest slightly tilted on rocks obstructing its starboard landing gears.
“Seems someone else had the same idea,” Rhodes mused as he hurried to the craft.
The side door open and there stood Trevor Stone who looked more like a post-Apocalyptic survivalist than an Emperor.
“General Rhodes, pull your men back. Fast.”
“Sir, we’re making some progress. Slow stuff, but progress all the same.”
“No you’re not. Voggoth is sucking you in. They burned us, General. They burned me. The only reason you’re making any progress is because they want you to keep at it until they can bring the rest of their forces to bear. We’ve already wiped out two Leviathans but they’ve got a third one out there still.”
That last sentence-the idea of three Leviathans assembled in one battle group-ended any discussion. Rhodes’ eyes grew vacant with a type of visceral fear known only to those who have seen a Leviathan in action.
“Corporal, send word to all commands. Pull back, full speed. Do it.”
The corporal moved off to summon runners.
“You can ride with me if you like, General.”
“No sir, thanks all the same. I need to make sure we get out of this.”
“I understand,” Stone said. “Fall back to Rye and then start east. We’re all headed for the Mississippi now, but it’s a mess. The Phillipan is holding them off but we’re not going to get much separation. I don’t know how long the rail lines will hold. Don’t get cut off, General.”
“I’ll do my best, sir.”
General William Hoth stood inside the ‘brain’ of the Phillipan. With the blast doors closed, artificial light flickered across the crescent-shaped bridge. With no view, the room felt isolated and alone. A bunker mentality, perhaps.
A round black scorch mark on the bulkhead protecting the bridge windows served as one reminder that much more existed-and threatened-from beyond that room. A second indicator came in the form of banks of flashing lights on the various duty stations around the bridge.
The technicians fielded incoming communications from weapons ports, engineering, medics, and damage control teams.
Hoth knew it all from his position, but even the advanced interfaces, displays, and intuitive controls could not keep the information deluge from overloading his attention. He allowed the bridge techs to dispatch the appropriate assistance to the various parts of the vessel while he concentrated on the tactical situation.
Besides, it served no purpose to focus on damage to any systems other than weapons. Hoth knew that sooner or later that damage would drown the ship’s ability to fight; to stay aloft. He needed to concentrate not on saving the Phillipan, but in causing as much harm to the enemy as possible.
Distant rumbles and faint tremors spoke of another strike by the storm of Spooks or from the guns of the blob-ish Chariot ships buzzing around the mighty dreadnought. Like piranha, they bit in small bites but in great number.
Incoming data told Hoth that only a handful of The Empire’s jet planes remained in the local air space, most of those fighting for their own survival and not capable of giving his vessel any sort of cover. But that same data told Hoth that The Order had given full priority to that airspace, and not the ground below.
Images from cameras mounted on the superstructure showed a growing line of separation between the retreating tanks, APCs, and trucks of the human army and the slithering, rolling, and hovering machines of destruction from Voggoth’s realm. Indeed, the toppled bodies of the two dead Leviathans created a barrier of sorts at the mouth of the mountain pass.
As he surveyed the ground below he spotted one of the coral-like platforms maneuver through that barrier. Hoth tapped a touch screen and a missile shot from the Phillipan’s undercarriage, twisted, turned, and then slammed into the artillery platform. The blast knocked the vehicle sideways and birthed a fire in its belly.
The radar warned of another wave of Spooks. It seemed The Order had prepared well for this battle.
An order from one of the bridge crew to a damage control team caught Hoth’s attention as a copy of the message flashed across his screen. He quickly pushed the ‘countermand’ icon.
“Sir! We need that team in engineering: main thrusters are off-line!”
Hoth re-routed the damage control party with a series of inputs that fed a broadcast to the computerized announcement system. Somewhere far below on one of the lower levels that small team of mechanics and engineers received new instructions to forget engineering and move toward the bow; toward the energy pools and firing mechanisms that fed the ‘bopper’ guns.
The general never felt compelled to explain any of his orders. Nonetheless, he felt it important-and fair to his crew-to paint a clear picture of the situation.
He spoke from the ‘brain’ module loud enough for all to hear, “We don’t need engines anymore. We need weapons and the anti-grav generators. All maintenance teams and services are to be held ready until they’re needed for those two systems. Our boys on the ground are counting on us to hold the line for a while. We’re not going anywhere.”
His crew did not gasp. The helmsman did not panic. The weapons officers and technicians remained focused on their consoles. A shake passed through the bridge as if to punctuate the point yet they took it in stride.
That pleased William Hoth, who had spent his entire life-both pre-and post-Armageddon-following orders and fighting. It seemed no small measure of his discipline and his focus had rubbed off on those who followed him.
No one saw, but for the briefest of moments a very warm and genuine smile of pride for his people flashed on the general’s face. While it would be the last battle of his military career, he also knew it would be the finest.
The Phillipan held a while longer.
Onboard Eagle One as it flew away from the battle, General Casey and Trevor monitored radio messages from the front.
Rhodes had managed to break off his attack and appeared destined to escape with nearly half of his force intact. Getting them from Rye to the Mississippi would prove a greater trick.
The main forces around Wetmore faired even better, in terms of their retreat. Hoth succeeded in blocking the onslaught by making a massive choke point in the Rockies formed in part by a wall of dead invaders. The remaining Leviathan had retreated west in order to avoid the Phillipan’s main batteries. Nonetheless, the day remained a defeat; just not the final defeat.
The video feed offered a telescopic look at the burning dreadnought. Even on the grainy image Trevor saw the deformed engine baffles, scorch marks along the sides, and flakes of bulkhead peeling away from the constant burst of explosions across the vessel. No doubt several infernos burned unchecked within the hull of the great ship.
“She’s still afloat, sir,” Casey said. Trevor thought he detected a hint of hope in the general’s voice. “We’ve disengaged, sir.”
“For now, yes,” Trevor answered. “But The Order is going to break through before this day is done. And then it’s going to become a race east. With the shape we’re in it might take a week to get behind the lines at the Mississippi. I’ll bet Voggoth won’t let us go quietly, either. He’ll be harassing us all the way trying to keep us from re-forming defense lines.”
“How much time do you think we have?”
Trevor answered, “That depends on Hoth.”
Late that afternoon, a Spook-guided missile, three times normal size, knocked out the Phillipan’s top side main batteries. A storm of ground-based anti-air fire managed to penetrate the hull and rupture several important power nodes a short while later.
An orange glow of fire burning across the flight deck complimented the orange glow of twilight as the sun set to the west. The flames from the giant air ship lit the landscape around Wetmore in a surreal amber glow.
By this point all smart munitions had been exhausted, leaving anti-air shells and handfuls of gravity bombs in the dreadnought’s arsenal. The Order sensed the weakness and made one last push through the pass.
It took two more hours to finish the job completely. Chunks of hull the size of buildings fell from the ship; gaping holes grew in the superstructure; and eventually the tower collapsed upon itself rupturing the bridge and tilting the entire burning ship on its axis.
Then the grav-generators failed one by one. The front third of the vessel split and fell to Earth where it crushed more than a hundred enemy troops. The rear section crumbled as the structural stress became too much even for the SteelPlus spine of the ship.
Eventually all power-even the self-contained back up units on the generators themselves-failed. The pieces fell and joined the mountain of debris between the pass through the Rockies and what remained of Wetmore, Colorado.
The Order’s soldiers-including the remaining, giant Leviathan-marched tentatively from the cover of the mountains and into the open. No enemy forces remained to oppose them.
The race for the Mississippi began.