“J’ai pris les armes pour la liberte de tous.”
Trevor bit into the final chunk of bread and savored the taste. The bread ranked as the best part of the meal, although the stew certainly stuck to his ribs despite only a few morsels of meat-probably pork-in a bowl of broth and old vegetables.
To his surprise, Jorgie did not complain or wrinkle his nose. Something in the broth (which hinted of red wine) captured the boy’s taste.
Hauser ate, too, but his not-so-well-hidden expressions of disdain indicated he certainly would have preferred more traditional cuisine. Back home old-world fair such as burgers, chicken breast, and cheese made a strong return after the liberation of the Midwest.
After two days in Europe, Trevor came to know that the majority of their diet consisted of seafood for those villages near the ocean or lakes and produce for the rest, such as vegetables and baked goods made from wheat and flour. Meat from cattle in the Murol area remained a rare luxury because there existed little excess crops for the creation of livestock feed and the trade routes to other fiefdoms had been greatly diminished after Voggoth’s European offensive last summer.
Wine, however, could be found. Apparently there were some sacrifices up with which the French would not put.
The trio of visitors sat at a wooden table in a cafe at the village center. Plastic plants decorated tadelakt walls on the inside while natural ivory grew on black metal latticework erected between the dining area and the side walk. The tables remained beneath shade but out beyond the reach of the protective awning a sunny day bloomed. Horses, bicycles, and pedestrians traveled the tiny street outside.
The tables inside were mainly full. Customers wore garb ranging from a variety of military clothes to borderline rags. A handful of waiters tried to keep pace with demand, but food came slow and what came did not usually match the quality of Trevor’s stew and bread. Nonetheless, the cafe maintained an aura of propriety. Conversations remained hushed; proper table manners observed; servers treated customers with politeness and received the same.
Armand sat with them. His bowl and bread held his full attention.
Jorgie drank a metal goblet of milk; another rarity but the woman running the cafe insisted growing boys needed calcium. As JB finished-careful to drain every drop from the cup-he asked Armand a question. In French.
“Pardon me, Mister Armand, but I have a question I would like to ask.”
Armand spoke something that sounded like ‘yes?’ through a chewing mouth.
“I appreciate your looking after us,” Trevor listened to Jorgie’s words; all very polite and chosen to emphasize respect. “But do you not speak for the people of France in Camelot?”
Armand licked his lips and answered Jorgie in the warmest tone Trevor had heard from the man since landing.
“Lady Theresa speaks for what remains of my country. I am a warrior, not a politician.”
Hauser continued eating without interruption. He had grown accustomed to not understanding a damn thing anybody said.
“Have you seen many battles?”
Trevor spotted a glint behind Armand’s glasses; a sparkle.
“Young Jorgie, I have seen a hundred battles and slaughtered a thousand enemies.”
This time JB’s eyes sparkled.
“I would love to hear the stories some time. Will you tell them to me? My father has told me many stories of the war.”
“Maybe little boys should not hear such things.”
Trevor broke in, “Were you a soldier before the invasion?”
“I was fifteen then,” Armand answered. “Snowboarding in the mountains-water skiing-motocross-those were the things I did. Other than the television I do not think I saw a gun until the ducks and the other things came here.”
Jorgie said, “Mr. Armand, but you seem very comfortable with all of it. I mean that as a compliment.”
“I am comfortable with it. The first time I fired a gun I shot one of the big bats right in the head while it was flying.”
Trevor asked, “Do you think it was a lucky shot?”
Armand hesitated. His eyes glanced down and he bit his lower lip as if the answer might be embarrassing.
“No. No it was not luck. As your boy said, I felt very comfortable with it.”
Trevor smiled. A little.
Armand sneered, “What are you laughing at?”
“I’m not laughing. It’s just that, well, I think I know someone just like you back home. And for some reason, that gives me great comfort.”
“Hello! Armand! You’re wanted!”
The voice came from a young man wearing a BMW shirt and leather pants similar to Armand’s. He stood at the open driver’s door of a small sedan idling at the curb.
“That’s it,” Armand pushed away from the table. “You had better come with me now. I am guessing that Camelot has reached a decision on your request.”
Trevor stood as well, then JB. Hauser-not understanding the words-lagged behind as he struggled with the last drops of stew.
“And what do you want them to decide?” Trevor asked.
“I want them to do what I have always wanted them to do. I want to fight.”
For the third straight day Trevor returned to the Chateau de Murol. This time, however, he would learn if the previous two days’ worth of persuasion would pay dividends. The Europeans-the collection of enclaves calling themselves Camelot-would have acted more readily last year, before The Order and The Duass hit them with a pre-emptive strike. Everything rested on whether or not he, and JB to some extent, adequately conveyed the notion that they either fought now or would find themselves voted into oblivion by the Gods. The same fate as the Feranites.
While Hauser stayed behind in the guard shack, Trevor and JB climbed the stone steps with Armand, up and into the courtyard where they nearly collided with the mass of men and women exiting the door to the meeting chamber. Lady Cai was there, too.
Armand hurried to her. The two conversed in French. Trevor caught a few words that sounded like ‘convinced’, ‘instinct,’ and ‘good luck.’ Then Cai pressed her hands against Armand’s chest and gave him a kiss. Armand grasped her hips and pulled her close as if wanting to be enveloped by her essence.
Jorgie watched, fascinated by the display of such intense affection.
Of course, it would amaze him, Trevor considered. He never saw that type of affection between me and his mother.
When their embrace ended, Armand led Trevor and JB into the meeting room. Cai made eye contact with Jorgie before they moved out of sight and smiled sweetly at the boy.
Inside they found the meeting room deserted save for Alexander who worked his way around the empty table gathering papers that, no doubt, had served as part of his presentation to Camelot.
Armand remained near the entranceway. Trevor and Jorgie walked to the table and approached Alexander.
“I was married three times,” Alexander volunteered as he collected the discarded papers. Trevor sensed tension lingering in the room.
“Three times? I expect they were all lucky women.”
“Yes, yes they were. After each divorce, that is. My second wife nagged me nearly to death. Do you know what she nagged me most about? She told me that I thought about things too much. She said I needed to be more spontaneous and not so, oh, what would be the word? Pragmatic, maybe. Something like that. She threw around a lot of words that she did not fully understand.”
Trevor, still with a light tone in his voice, asked, “So why would such a smart man marry a woman like that?”
Alexander paused with the stack of papers cradled in one arm and said, “Why she was beautiful, of course.”
“Of course,” Trevor nodded.
“Anyway,” Alexander returned to gathering papers. “The point is that sometimes I wonder if she was not right. Maybe I am thinking about this too much. Ask Armand over there. He will tell you that sometimes you have to trust your gut. Maybe I should listen to him more.”
“You think breaking out now is a bad idea?” Trevor guessed.
“No. Well, yes. But I am in favor of it. I think I am wondering too much about what you have told us. Other worlds-the different races-parallel Earths-evolved super-beings and all of that. It can really set a mind to thinking. That is, if you can sort out the confusion.”
“I understand. Believe me.”
“I suppose you do,” Alexander finished gathering the papers and carefully slipped them into a small briefcase. “Point is, the group has voted to do as you request. I believe some chose so because they feel a sense of obligation for the material aid you sent to us over the years. Others are simply tired of hiding in these little villages. Many just want to fight because they would rather die on their feet. But they all know the stakes. First we have to get past the checkpoints the Duass have established to pen us in and break apart our lines of communication. Then an entire army from The Order waits.”
“I understand.”
“Trevor, the group trusted me to serve as the spokesperson and as a leader, of sorts. Over the years I have sacrificed many people so that others could live. I have made many hard decisions that will haunt me until I die. I sit in the responsibility seat. I did not ask for it, but as my third wife once told me, you get what you deserve. I believed her because I soon came to realize that she was punishment for something I must have done in a previous life. On the other hand, I do not know if my position here is a blessing or a curse. I suspect the latter.”
“Alexander, I-“
The Englishman held a hand up and Trevor stopped speaking.
“I want you to tell me, again, face-to-face that you are confident this will work. Convince me, one more time.”
Alexander waited. Trevor returned his gaze and told the truth.
“I don’t know that this will work, Alexander. I only know that if we do nothing then all of your people, and mine, will die. Or worse. We’re running out of time and any hope of victory has now shifted from my Empire to your Camelot.”
Silence. Alexander remained fixed on Trevor’s eyes, until JB tugged at his sleeve.
“My father is telling the truth, Mr. Alexander.”
Alexander closed his eyes, considered, and then opened them again. He first nodded to Trevor, then walked toward Armand.
“Prepare the cavalry.”
Trevor thought of Stonewall McAllister and his gallant horsemen galloping through a cloud of smoke to rescue him, Nina, and Danny Washburn when the Duass had trapped them in a bank building a few miles from the estate during that first year.
Trevor mumbled, “We have cavalry where I come from, too.”
Alexander glanced at Trevor then to Armand. The two Europeans shared a silent communication. Nearly a laugh.
Armand faced Trevor.
“Not like this you don’t.”
Armand’s war horses roared to life filling the garage with a chorus of mechanical screams and the smell of sizzling oil and smoky exhaust. Among the drab gray walls and naked fluorescent lights of the gritty pen, skins of red, black, yellow, and blue glistened.
The steeds wore badges: Kawasaki, BMW, Yamaha, and Triumph.
Riders wore racing gear complete with body armor branded Fox, Thor, Fly and more. They hurried in the call to arms with stops first at the armory at the rear of the chamber and then to their bikes. They grabbed machine pistols of varying types including Micro Uzis, Tuma MTEs, and Czech-built Scorpions. Everyone grabbed handfuls of grenades, a few satchel charges, and some larger packets that appeared to be homemade explosives. A few toted short-range mortar tubes with ammo crates strapped to the rear or sides of their bikes.
Most road singles; a few doubles. Most men, several women; some of the riders young and eager slapping high-fives and punching one another’s arms; others older and cautious checking safety straps and body armor.
Fifty bikes readied for war in the garage. A dozen of them-mainly touring style motorcycles-displayed modified windshields made from some kind of heavy plastic that seemed more to Trevor like a shield. Those riders wore the thickest body armor and carried large metal cylinder-like devices that enveloped one entire hand in a type of grip.
Trevor walked into the noise of the garage following Alexander and Armand with JB who plugged his ears with his fingers.
Armand-a FAMAS rifle slung over his racing gear-spoke as he fiddled with a red helmet. Trevor noticed the helmet came equipped with a transmitter and receiver and realized he was not dealing with a bunch of Hell’s Angels wannabes but a sophisticated force. Cavalry like Stonewall’s, except on steel horses.
Armand said to Alexander, “Hammer and Anvil, yes?”
“Exactly. Anvil will be ten minutes behind you, just as we have trained.”
Armand added, “The other regiments will meet us along the way in Saint-Nectaire and Montaigut-le-Blanc. We will number two hundred by the time we get on the A75.”
One of the riders-a burly fellow with a scruffy beard-paused on his way from the armory to his bike in order to ruffle Jorgie’s hair, apparently amused in a fatherly way at the kid blocking his ears.
JB responded with a smile and dared to pull a hand from his ear long enough to give the soldier a thumbs up. The fellow returned the gesture just before fixing a black and white helmet on his head and straddling a Yamaha Raptor ATV that carried several bundles of supplies strapped to its frame.
Jorgie blocked his ears again but watched the man prepare his ATV for riding. Trevor spied a glaze of awe on his son’s face. He realized he and JB had spoken often of battles, but Jorgie had never been so close to the front lines. At least, that is, other than his mysterious work at The Order’s base last year. But an actual full-scale battle? Nothing like this.
Trevor returned his attention to the two men and shouted over the revving engines, “Sounds like you have a plan.”
Armand turned to him and explained, “We have always known how to take out the Duass roadblocks. The ducks are nothing. It is the other son of a bitches camped out in Clermont-Ferrand that are the problem.”
Alexander clarified, “That is where The Order is held up, in what used to be a major city. From it they can react to any breach of the Duass checkpoints in southern France.”
Armand pushed his helmet into Trevor’s chest just hard enough to grab his attention.
“I will get us past the ducks. Then you had better have a plan.”
“We are committed,” Alexander said loudly before Trevor could respond. “Plan or not, we have voted to fight.”
Armand smiled at them as he answered, “That is what I do best. I hate this sitting around shit. If nothing else than at least the America has given me something to do.”
One of the bike soldiers approached Armand. He was a man of a very black complexion and lanky.
“Armand, what do you want me to do?”
“Take your scouts to Clermont-Ferrand while we kill ducks. I need to know enemy strength there. Meet us at the Duass base after it is our base with whatever you can find.”
“Done.”
The man walked away. Alexander explained, “That was Gaston. One of our better scouts.”
“Gaston is what we call him,” Armand corrected. “No one knows his real name. He was Russian intelligence spying on the French navy when the invasion came. We no longer hold that against him. It is all the same anymore anyhow, right?”
“Armand, be careful,” Alexander cautioned as the entourage came to halt and Armand climbed into the saddle of a red Ducati 999 superbike.
“I can only promise that I will be lethal, not careful. It is a tradeoff, no?”
Trevor stepped forward and extended his hand.
“Good luck, soldier.”
Armand shook it while flashing a cocky smile beneath the tinted black visor of the helmet.
“Good luck or good aim, I will take either.”
He revved the bike, kicked away the stand, and the garage door opened to let in the sun of a bright day.
Armand’s motorcycle cavalry swerved around a bend on the wide pavement of Highway A75 and sped north in a mass of some 200 riders on a variety of crotch rockets, cruisers, dirt bikes, and ATVs.
Fields of tall grass, dirt, brush, and burned foliage flanked the cracked and neglected pavement. Ahead waited the Duass checkpoint. A solidified, blurry but mainly clear gel four-feet-high served the Duass as sandbags often served human infantry. The substance stretched in a long wall from a hundred yards to the west of the highway, across A75, and then another hundred yards to the east.
The strange, duck-billed aliens on three thick legs drew plasma rifles that resembled a cross between a musket and a mega-sized squirt gun. As they approached, Armand and his riders also spied jumbles of heavy weapons, some kind of scanner atop a twenty-foot metal tower, and square temporary buildings built from thin metals.
No doubt the Duass had picked that particular spot due to thick woodland that started just to the north of their wall and reached to the east and west as far as the eye could see. Most likely reinforcements, munitions, and additional threats lurked in those dark woods.
One thousand feet south of the checkpoint the Route de Saint-Sandoux crossed overtop the A75 on an overpass. Atop that overpass lurked several Duass snipers wearing something akin to an American football helmet with a dark visor, a cord from which extended to a long-barrel rifle; a targeting mechanism of advanced design. Most of the Duass soldiers also wore a type of body armor that resembled chain mail.
Armand dared to use his short range radio knowing that the Duass would not waste one of their radio-tracking rockets on smaller targets such as the bikes. They reserved those for bases and command centers.
“Heavies, take point and execute the first phase.”
The ‘heavy’ cavalry formed a tight line across the front of the swarming bikers. Their engines roared with renewed enthusiasm. The scenery to either side of the highway became a blur.
As they neared the overpass, the first rounds of sniper fire came. The reinforced glass at the front of the bikes deflected those shots, making for black scars and cracked windshields.
One shot hit the top of a rider’s helmet leaving a smoking hole in place of the upper half of his head. The body fell to the pavement and rolled under the wheels of his brethren. The rider-less bike swerved wildly off into a drainage ditch.
Further north from the main checkpoint more guns came to life, some of a rapid-fire design and a few of a heavier caliber.
Bolts of plasma fired away from the barricade, under the overpass, and into the approaching bikers. Most of the smaller shots either missed or deflected away. One of the larger blasts launched from a powerful cannon smashed into the pavement just in front of one of the heavy cavalrymen. The biker and rider went airborne flying dozens of feet front wheel over back and spinning into the overpass.
The attackers passed under the overpass below the Duass snipers and raced toward the main barricade. As they neared, Armand calmly ordered, “Prepare to split..”
Enemy fire intensified claiming more kills but the cavalry responded with more speed and more intensity.
Faster-engines roaring-sizzling blobs of energy flying overhead and around and into the lead riders-alien tongues shouted commands-throttles revved-enemy infantry at the gel-wall instinctively ducked for cover as the speeding mass bore down-and then brakes and squeals and the smell of burning rubber.
Half of the attacking cavalry turned east, the other half west both running parallel to the boundary. As they changed course several of the ‘heavy cavalry’ soldiers lobbed canisters in front of the barricade. An instant later clouds of protective smoke billowed across where A75 met the Duass wall.
The ducks responded with glowing spheres the size of Ping-Pong balls. These grenades detonated, tossing bikers from their rides and splintering motorcycles into piles of burning steel. A few of the cavalry fired pot shots from machine pistols and hand guns, but they refused to sacrifice speed for firepower. Speed was the essence. Speed meant life.
The veil of white smoke rose like a curtain at the center of the defensive line. The bikers raced in opposite directions creating a different kind of cloud: a cloud of dirt and dust and exhaust.
As the last riders turned away from the barricade, they dropped bundles of explosives that bounced into the wall of solidified jell and came to rest at the center point, hidden from enemy view by the smoke. There the devices waited…
Alexander led Trevor and JB to the shaded park off the terrace at the Hotel le Parc. There-and on the streets nearby-mustered a column of military vehicles. The knowledge imparted to Trevor from his DNA database found entries for most.
He identified a pair of French-built Panhard AML armored cars with the fading remains of “U.N.” paint, one sporting a 90 millimeter barrel the other with dual 20 millimeter weapons for use as an anti-aircraft vehicle; three MOWAG Eagle military cars-based on American Hummer chassis-with what appeared to be anti-tank weapons mounted atop; four six-wheeled Finnish Sisu-Pasi amphibious armored personnel carriers, one of which sported some kind of homemade mortars; two Spanish Pegaso BMR APCs; and a dozen SUVs, some towing small artillery pieces and all hauling soldiers.
It occurred to Trevor that the vehicles ran on wheels, not treads. Alexander had left the Leopard tanks in the motor pool, choosing speed over outright firepower.
Their host led them to one of the half-dozen Sherpas at the rear of the convoy. The one they entered lacked a roof; the others brandished heavy machine guns.
Trevor noticed that Alexander kept closing and opening his one free hand (the other carried his ever-present clipboard) in a fist, repeatedly, as if exercising his fingers. He realized that the action came from nerves when Alexander said, “This had better pay off, Trevor. Even with your shipments our fuel resources are scarce. We have carefully shepherded them, preparing for our next offensive.”
“Yes, I’ve noticed. I see that civilians around here walk, use bikes, or ride horses. Very little vehicles.”
“We do not have access to those alien matter transformation machines you possess. Most of our petroleum resources came from Italian shale oil refined through Schwedt, Germany all the way over on the Polish border. Those facilities are still operating but the Duass and The Order have slowed our supply routes to a trickle. In other words-”
“In other words the gas we burn today may not be replaced for weeks, if ever.”
Alexander sat in the passenger seat, Trevor and Jorgie took the rear. A hard-nosed British Royal Marine slid behind the wheel and started the Renault truck. Meanwhile Hauser found a seat in one of the SUVs with a group of English soldiers who spoke his language.
The thump-thump-thump of helicopter blades pulled Trevor’s eyes skyward. Sunlight filtered through the trees in flickers. Rotating blades added to the strobe effect. As the convoy left the shade of the park he saw two helicopters circling overhead. The first was the green Eurocopter 135 transport that wore the iron cross of the German Bundeswehr. Trevor noted rocket pods affixed to the landing struts and an angry-looking soldier with a big gun leaning out an open side door.
The second bird impressed even more so: a 2-seat Tigre attack chopper wearing French colors.
“Look at it, Father!” Jorgie exclaimed excitedly. Certainly plastic soldiers on the table in the basement conference room back home could not compare to this experience.
The convoy picked up speed and moved quickly through Murol. Citizens hurried to the sidewalks and stared at the soldiers riding off to battle.
A skirmish line of Duass infantry hurried toward the eastern flank through overgrown brush and light forest to meet one end of the humans’ pincer movement. The sounds of the circling motorcycles echoed through the forest and grew louder-louder…
The attackers weaved through the trees aiming for the Duass encampment built on the highway. The smell of gasoline and the wake of dirt and rock tossed by the furious wheels made them seem like demons screaming out of Hell.
Alien soldiers fired. A shot knocked a rider from her saddle, breaking her neck around a thick, old tree and causing the motorcycle to split into front and back halves.
But the cavalry did not stop.
The heavy riders at the front pulled out their metal cylinders. In a series of smaller segments, those cylinders extended into metallic jousting lances twelve feet in length and anchored to the bars on their bikes.
First one then five of the alien fighters were impaled and then trampled. But the effect of the jousts-the sight of the devilish riders in heavy armor and wielding such a primitive and brutal weapon-caused more casualties from fear. The skirmish line broke apart. The motorcycles did not bother with them; they pushed toward the heart of the checkpoint; toward command and control.
That heart sat on the pavement of A75 1500 feet behind the front line and took the form of a trio of huts seemingly built from metal and a kind of glistening cardboard. Nearby, just to the west of the highway, were wooden racks filled with rectangular crates from which came the constant buzz and hum of insects; the equivalent of a Duass farm.
Several formations of alien infantry retreated from the front lines to protect the rear flank as the two pincers of bikers met behind the HQ and circled in toward the road.
A volley of plasma torched an entire squad of cavalry, leaving smoldering wheels and bloody leather behind.
A woman on the rear of a Suzuki super bike steadied her position with one hand on the driver’s waist while firing armor-piercing bullets from a Mach 10 in the other hand. She raked the enemy with bullets, killing three Duass and wounding several more.
One of the Duass fighters launched a large blob of energy from a shoulder-held tube. It hit one of the ATV’s. The vehicle burst into flames and the rider tumbled away.
A mounted soldier in red body armor sped toward one of the buildings and, with great balance, let go of his handle bars just long enough to yank pins from two grenades. He then bowled them forward, using his momentum to cause the explosives to bounce and roll into the structure. Just as the motorcycle veered away, the grenades exploded, knocking down a wall and sending two burning Duass running from the inferno and hollering an ungodly squealing noise.
Two bikers ditched their rides at the edge of the woods and quickly unpacked short-range motors. Several of the cavalry circled their position keeping the aliens at bay.
Armand communicated, “Second Phase. Everyone remember your assignments.”
Several dozen of the cavalry stopped their motored transport and dismounted, opening fire with rifles and carbines as well as tossing grenades.
The Duass rear area devolved into total chaos. Human bullets and alien plasma fired into, from and around the woods surrounding the base. Blasts of anti-personnel grenades tore apart three-legged aliens. Scorching balls of energy burned leather-clad humans. More soldiers left the front barricade to try and suppress the cavalry that had outflanked them.
Armand turned his Ducati sharply onto A75 and sped south directly toward the largest structure at the middle of the base. A pair of heavy cavalry crossed his path, one with a Duass body stuck on his lance. Bright laser-like blasts and red blurs of tracer shots crisscrossed the road in front of him.
He remained calm. Focused. Even as some of those plasma shots aimed for him.
Faster-faster…
Armand reached low on the right side of his 999 where several canisters were attached to his bike. He pulled pins.
He gripped the throttle tighter, revved it, and then yanked his wheel in a suicide turn. Armand lifted his ass from the saddle and kicked away, falling backward at over 60 miles per hour.
The motorcycle fell on its side and slid along A75 to the sound of screeching metal while sparks flew from the body armor worn by Armand as he slid behind the bike on his back, arms held wide to slow momentum. The friction of his padded suit stopped him far sooner than the cycle.
The Ducati-sparking and roaring and tires spinning futilely as it slid along the pavement-sent several Duass diving for cover as it impacted the headquarters building. The canisters-the fuel tank-they both explode and ripped the structure to pieces, killing several of the enemy both inside and out.
Armand moved nearly as fast as the blast wave. He rose to one knee and in the blink of an eye raised his right arm to knock off his helmet and, in the same motion, pull the FAMAS assault rifle from his shoulder.
Nearby Duass soldiers turned their attention to him while the rest of the battle raged behind on the road and to the forest to either side. The first plasma shot missed high of his head. The second bounced off the road to his right.
He did not panic. He did not hurry. On the bike, speed was life. With a rifle, aim was life. And dealt death.
He raised the sites to his eye and pulled the trigger. A bullet hit just above a bill. The duck dropped.
It all came naturally to him. As naturally as snowboarding in Avoriaz; parasailing off the coast of Cannes; rock climbing in the Swiss mountains of Bernese Oberland.
Before the invasion he desired challenge, thrills, and danger but never knew why until he held a gun for the first time and faced the aliens. Then those natural reflexes honed during extreme sports and his ability to suppress fear learned when facing death as part of his leisure activities all came into focus. All came together.
Another plasma shot, so close to his neck he felt hair there singe.
Armand swiveled left and fired. A bullet pierced body armor and another alien fell.
Armand turned right. He pulled the trigger.
Bang-dead.
Forward again.
Bang-dead.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
The armored convoy sped through the remains of a small village. The only pieces of buildings that stood were charred to the darkest black. A soft taste of smoke carried on the wind that whipped through Trevor’s shoulder-length hair as they drove. An odd-shaped mound of embers suggested human remains lying along one street; he did not think Jorgie saw.
A sign marked the rubble as Plauzat. The dead city brought questions to Trevor’s mind. He had heard vague reports and a few specific stories about how the invaders-led by the Duass-hit Western Europe at the beginning of the invasion. He decided to ask Alexander about those early days but when he turned and saw the expression of focus and determination on the Englishman’s face he thought better of it. Such questions could wait until another time.
The dead village faded away, replaced by plains although in the distance the sharp hills and rolling mountains remained, all part of the volcanic history across that part of France. A minute later the convoy approached a major intersection and drove around a bend to the left heading north.
“This is it,” Alexander warned. “We will stay back as best we can but you know how it is once these things start. But do not worry; we’ll keep your son safe.”
“I want to see, Father! I want to see the battle!” Jorgie perked up in his seat as if the main feature of a matinee were about to start.
The Duass snipers on the bridge opened fire but their rifles posed no threat to the armored carriers while the more vulnerable Sherpa’s and trucks remained screened behind the leading vehicles.
One well-placed high-powered round blew the snipers off the bridge and sent blasts of concrete exploding into the air. The convoy kept moving north, barely slowing.
Alexander retrieved a transmitter from a storage compartment.
“If all went according to plan, this should make for a big bang.”
Meanwhile, the fighting continued behind the barricades. Armand’s dismounted cavalry held the center of the Duass base amidst a fierce firefight. The duck-faced aliens, however, steadily regrouped and Armand knew this.
As he knelt beside a trio of comrades next to the toppled walls of a Duass building, Armand spied trouble above: a pair of Duass air craft. They resembled ultra-lights with a closed canopy cockpit, twin helicopter blades, and multiple weapons pods.
The thwoop of a mortar shot lobbed over Armand’s position and landed near a drainage ditch where ten or more enemy infantry huddled. The shell failed to score a hit and drew the attention of one of the Duass planes. It swooped in with its landing wheels skimming the tree tops, swung about, and launched a firestorm of explosive-tipped arrows into the brush where the mortar lurked. Armand watched two of his men die.
He popped up from cover and fired at the flyer but his bullets did no good against the well-armored hull.
Then Armand found himself flying backwards in the air with chunks of pavement and dirt flying with him. He hit the ground but quickly rolled into firing position despite a ringing in his ears and a sharp pain in his thigh.
His rifle barrel stared across the road and into a clearing where a Duass War Skiff rolled forward, smoke still lingering from its main gun and its big round wheels digging into the soil as it advanced.
Rifle fire could not penetrate its heavy wooden hull and fragmentation grenades only caused scratches.
A pair of fast-moving motorbikes whizzed by on the shoulder between Armand and the Skiff, drawing its attention away from the huddling infantry for a moment.
“Let’s go!”
Armand retreated with his men to the east searching for cover amongst the trees. Another shot from the Skiff went high, obliterating the top half of several pines and sending thick branches and leaves among the hiding humans.
With new confidence, Duass infantry emerged from positions along the road and the ruins of the base camp.
A line of heavy cavalry responded with a jousting charge north to south on A75. Their lances killed the leading Duass soldiers but a blast from the Skiff knocked out half the heavies with at least two dead on the spot.
Armand fired his FAMAS. The emboldened Duass re-thought their charge and took cover again. The Skiff, however, inched forward searching for targets to destroy.
At the barricade to the south, the smoke grenades dissipated and the skeleton line of defenders there spotted the new threat. A Duass officer and two grunts struggled to place a tri-pod mounted cannon in position to greet the convoy. The humans fired shells and machine guns in their direction.
Alexander, further back, judged the time to be right. He activated the transmitter a moment before the Duass’ gun came to life.
The explosive packages left by the riders detonated, immediately killing 20 Duass as a hole exploded through the wall of solidified gel.
The Finnish amphibious vehicles drove through first; their tires crunched over dead Duass as well as running over a few live ones. Enemy plasma bursts left marks-but nothing more-in the metallic hides.
Alexander’s car held back with the other Sherpas as the armored vehicles poured through the hole, firing machine guns and explosive shells almost continuously in the target-rich environment. At the same time, the transport trucks disembarked squads of infantry toting carbines and light machine guns.
The re-grouping Duass infantry that had poised to make a run at the cavalry now found itself stuck between a hammer and an anvil.
One of the Duass flying fighters launched an air-to-surface projectile that arrowed down from above and into one of the Spanish BMRs. The vehicle stopped moving and smoke poured from a gash in its side. Hatches opened and men evacuated; several fell to Duass plasma rifles and grenades.
Rapid fire from one of the Panhards’ 20mm turrets took the flyer by surprise and sent it spiraling into the treetops where it broke apart.
As the spearhead of the column fanned out to press the attack, 50 rounds spat from the side door of the Eurocopter transport as it circled above the battle.
The second Duass plane fell victim to a rocket-propelled grenade as it hovered to strafe Armand’s dismounted cavalry. As it crashed Armand saw that as a signal the tide had changed.
“Forward! Forward!”
Bikers came from the woods and attacked, forcing the Duass to retreat into a smaller and smaller parcel of alien-controlled real estate. Armand’s FAMAS hit targets one after another, most in the back.
The War Skiff moved to assist. Its cannon blew apart an ATV and its occupants.
Suddenly that Skiff rocked as a missile from the Tiger attack helicopter joined the fray. Smoke poured from the damage and licks of flames pushed through the vehicle’s body, indicating an inferno inside. A tiny door opened but before the crew could exit the entire Skiff blew apart from a secondary explosion.
While sitting in the Renault with Trevor and JB, Alexander received a radio signal beckoning him forward. The marine behind the wheel drove them through the barricade.
As they inched ahead, JB intensely eyed the battlefield.
Duass and human vehicles burned; scorch marks all across the pavement of the road and the grass to either side; toppled trees smoldering; body parts-human and alien-scattered about. Jorgie saw it all and his mouth dropped open.
The car stopped. Armand put his leg up on a toppled Duass wall, hoisted his rifle high, and shouted to the late arrivals, “It is about time you made it here. Any longer and I would not have left any of them for you to kill!”
Alexander left the vehicle. Trevor and JB followed suit.
The two Europeans spoke. In the distance another shot fired.
“Casualties are light,” Armand bragged. “The plan worked perfectly. I told you, the ducks are easy.”
Trevor stopped listening. Instead, he watched Jorgie as the boy approached the remains of a four-wheel vehicle; an ATV. The chassis of the thing had been cracked in two, fluids leaked on the ground mixing with the blood of the driver.
“Father-Father look.”
Trevor did. The dead rider was the same scruffy-bearded man who had ruffled JB’s hair and given him the thumbs up back at the garage. The man would ride no more.
“Father-he is-he is dead…”
Trevor knelt next to Jorgie and put an arm around his boy.
How often had JB tossed around words about war and death and killing? How many pictures of glorious victories littered with crayon-colored dead bodies had he drawn?
Jorgie turned to his father. Tears streamed down his cheeks.
“I am sorry, Father. I should be stronger than this.”
“No, no. I’m glad. This is exactly how you should feel. War is a horrible thing, Jorgie. I wish you and I could know something better in our lives.”
Trevor thought of himself on that parallel Earth. A tyrant Emperor. A murderer.
He told Jorgie, “When you don’t cry over this-well, that’s when I’ll be worried.”
A motorcycle approached quickly from the north. Loitering soldiers leapt out of the way as a shiny, blue Yamaha flanked by matching bikes screeched to a halt a few paces in front of Armand. The rider onboard jumped off the seat and removed his helmet.
It was Gaston, the former Russian intelligence agent with the very black skin. His wide eyes and fast breath suggested something had blown away his cool demeanor.
Alexander and Armand hurried to Gaston. Trevor waited a few paces behind.
“What? What is it?”
Gaston answered, “It is The Order at Clermont-Ferrand…”
“What?” Armand jumped. “Are they mobilizing? Already?”
“No-no…” Gaston struggled with an explanation. “They’re gone.”
Armand and Alexander simply stared at Gaston as if the man had set forth an idea so foreign that their brains could not process his words.
Trevor spoke. “The city is empty. Dead bodies of victims but none of The Order’s troops. Just gone.”
Gaston gasped at Trevor, “How did you-but there were so many of them there! Our spies confirmed this just last week.”
“They moved? Where did they move to? Further north? To the east?” Alexander guessed as his gaze alternated between the other parties to the conversation.
“No, no,” Gaston shook his head. “No signs of movement. They are just-they are just gone. Vanished.”
Alexander forced his voice to calm, approached Trevor, and asked, “You knew this would happen?”
“Call it a pretty good guess,” Trevor answered and as he did he made eye contact with Alexander, and Armand, and Gaston. “Voggoth is breaking all the rules, gentlemen. The alien invaders came here through special gateways that I shut down a long time ago. But not Voggoth. He’s got an ace up his sleeve. Back in North America, for the past several years, we’ve noticed towns full of Order-creatures disappeared. Poof. Just like what happened to people before the invasion.”
“Yes? So what is the point?”
Trevor replied to Armand, “I was taken to a parallel Earth by the powers of something called the Nyx. Voggoth had somehow given the humans over there access to that power to grab me. When I was there-at the top of their world finding their runes-a creature of Voggoth’s appeared out of thin air in that green shit.”
“What’s the point?” Armand repeated in a louder voice.
“The point is, Voggoth thinks I’m dead. He thinks I went down on the Newport News. He thinks my mission to come here and fight my way across Europe to go knock on his door is over. Besides, he could use those troops in the final battle against my people.”
Alexander and Armand glanced at one another, clearly shocked at the missing enemy forces and what that meant for any offensive.
“So-so what is it you think we should do now?” Alexander asked.
Trevor stepped forward with his son at his side and made eye contact with each man as he spoke. Nearby soldiers and bikers gravitated toward him. Soon a circle of humanity surrounded Trevor.
“Call out all your forces-every hidden redoubt-all your knights scattered across Europe. Tell them that the time has come. There can be no hesitation. We must strike as fast as we can.”
Alexander said, “It will take time to muster those forces.”
“No, we have no time,” Trevor insisted. “Have them join us along the way. We will be one mighty horde growing in size as we move across Europe and into the heart of Russia.”
A smile-no, a grin-grew on Armand’s face. A big, evil and satisfied grin.
Alexander again protested, “But, Trevor, what about our supply lines? What about logistics?”
“We don’t need them.”
“Yeah,” Armand shot with that grin beaming, “logistics are for pussies.”
“We take what we can carry. We live off the land as best we can. But the only thing of importance is that we attack before Voggoth realizes his mistake, before his creatures start popping up in front of us again. We have to be one giant sword stabbing into our enemy.”
Alexander offered a long exhale. Armand nodded his head, smiling. They both stared at Trevor, waiting for the last word.
Trevor recalled the Chaktaw leader named Fromm from that parallel Earth as he mustered his forces for a great battle. He remembered what he had said on that day. Trevor repeated those words to his new allies.
“We march.”