In the world before Armageddon, Wichita, Kansas earned the nickname “Air Capital of the World” due to the volume of aircraft manufactured in the vicinity as well as McConnell Air Force Base, one-time home to the 22 ^ nd Air Refueling Wing.
A small military contingent of Kansas National Guard and Air Force Combat Controllers kept McConnell operating during that first summer of the initial invasion. They flew re-supply sorties across the country, even topping the tank on Air Force One in late July. Eventually they lost contact with the President after his return to Cheyenne Mountain and the orders-as convoluted as they were-ceased.
Eventually those who survived faded into the countryside.
Then The Empire and Trevor Stone swept west, returning life to the Great Plains, reopening the old Union Pacific rail stations, and pumping new life into McConnell AFB.
The new normal, however, lasted only a few years.
As Trevor Stone exited Eagle One and walked the tarmac on the afternoon of Tuesday, May 19 ^ th, he knew Wichita was dying again. He could see it in the panicked expressions of the soldiers and civilian workers hustling from shuttle buses to commuter jets. He could hear it in the constant roar of outgoing aircraft filled with evacuating equipment and personnel.
This scene of panic at the air base repeated across Wichita. With rail transportation seized for military use, the civilian population became refugees. Horses and carts and the few cars that could find gasoline formed a snaking line out of the city.
Many of those civilians belonged to the ‘groupies’ who traveled with the military formations. These were the spouses and children, friends and relatives of the warriors. Now those loved ones were abandoned as the soldiers and airmen left via rail or plane and their families resorted to more perilous modes of escape. As a result, the desertion rate among the armed forces spiked.
Just as victory after victory during the early days birthed a seemingly insurmountable momentum, defeat after defeat accelerated the downward spiral.
Trevor led his entourage-two Rottweilers, four heavily-armed soldiers, and Rick Hauser his personal pilot-toward a cluster of buildings including a four-story structure that served as a temporary headquarters. This HQ was a part of a cluster of refurbished buildings that stood in contrast to a neighborhood of the base’s facilities that had been destroyed a decade before and not included in the remodeling plan for McConnell.
Another jet roared along the runway and took to the sky as the group approached a side entrance. Trevor thought he heard panic in the sound of those engines.
They moved from the simmering mid-May heat into the cool confines of the building and headed upstairs to the second floor observation lounge where a wide table, metal cabinets, and folding chairs had replaced soft furniture.
General Casey Fink stood at the table surrounded by his staff and representatives from smaller units. Trevor, dressed in grungy BDU pants, a black shirt, and a dirty black baseball cap over hair that had not seen shampoo in the better part of a week, grabbed everyone’s attention as he walked up to the table where the very fluid “Kansas” front was displayed on a large map.
“We have some serious problems. I just got back from Great Bend. Enemy scouts have been spotted in that area as recently as this morning. I’m thinking The Order is pushing hard on the north flank to try and cut off the tracks at Peabody.”
Everyone understood that Trevor’s point revolved around the evacuation of heavy equipment and army units via the railroads, some of which had already been bombed. The only remaining intact routes ran in a north and northeast direction out of Wichita.
General Fink scratched his head and then timidly-a rare thing for Casey Fink-told Trevor, “2 ^ nd Armor is fifty percent loaded. General Rothchild and her command staff have set up shop over at the rail yard. I dispatched a pair of anti-air units for added protection.”
Trevor ran a hand over the rather thick stubble on his cheeks before finding his nose and pinching. Before he could burst into an angry reminder about the need for speed General Fink added, “We’ve got a strong garrison at Newton. They’ll cover the lines as long as we need. I’m more worried about the Chrysaor.”
“She’s out of action for a couple of days,” he told Fink. “No dry-dock, but she’s pulled back for weapons repair. Seems the air fight over Amarillo did more damage than we thought.”
Trevor stared at the maps of Kansas, Missouri, and Wichita. Markers represented friendly units as well as enemy positions.
“We have time, sir,” Casey said in a cautious tone.
“I know. That’s what worries me.”
On the map he saw markers indicating The Order’s legions, but felt greater concern over what he could not see. This sense of paranoia had grown acute in the four days since Voggoth outwitted him at the battle near Wetmore.
Trevor removed his baseball cap. Dirty hair fell over his ears. Outside, the roar of jet engines announced another flight trying to escape.
“We haven’t been moving fast enough, but they haven’t caught us, either.”
“They’ve had to do some farming,” said Fink. “Recon spotted a half-dozen fields just across the Colorado border.”
“A half-dozen? That’s nothing, you know that. Voggoth has got something up his sleeve.”
“Maybe he knows where we’re going. Maybe he wants to wait and set up shop closer to where the real battle is going to happen. You know, the Mississippi.”
The thought had occurred to Trevor.
“Maybe, yeah. But why let us make it to the barricades? He could hurt us bad right now, but he’s holding off. We’re too busy running to fight, and he still has enough firepower to kick us harder in the ass than he’s been doing. But he hasn’t. Just nitpicks. Bombing runs and a few shock troops here and there. It’s as if he wants us to make it to the Mississippi. Like he’s…”
Casey followed, “Like he’s stalling for time before finishing us off.”
Trevor nodded but his eyes remained on the map.
“Yeah, that about sums it up.”
“But why?”
“I don’t know. That’s what scares me.”
One of Trevor’s K9 bodyguards sitting by the door growled and stood. Everyone at the table turned and eyed the dog.
Rick Hauser spoke aloud what everyone thought: “Oh shit.”
A sound other than engines and shouts filtered in through the glass windows of the observation lounge: the base’s air raid klaxon springing to life in a wail of warning.
Casey Fink’s dry sense of humor surfaced for the first time in days: “Sounds like another nitpick.”
Trevor pointed through the big windows and said, “Here they come.”
A plume of exhaust on the distant perimeter of the base announced the launching of a Patriot missile. More plumes joined the first and reached into the white clouds drifting overhead. Explosions rocked the heavens; the flashes created lightning in a peaceful sky.
Voggoth’s bombers dipped below the clouds and flew toward the heart of McConnell. Like all of The Order’s weapons of war, these things appeared one part machine, one part animal. In this case the bodies resembled hammerhead sharks but without eyes and several times the size. The gray bodies ended not in a fin but in a point. Openings like gills lined the rear quarter from which slipped streams of white air like a kind of jet engine. Atop the bodies stretched a mechanical frame supporting pinkish fixed wings made from a fleshy material.
The phalanx of 12 flying abominations made no sound as they swooped over the target at speeds approaching 300 miles per hour.
Casey said, “Christ, they’re going straight for the air strip.”
As the lead flyer reached a point above one of the main runways, its entire body bulged like a water balloon filled from a fire hose-and then the entire flying contraption popped into pieces. Flakes of the outer skin and the wings fluttered in the wind while a payload of spherical ordnance-hundreds of black balls-fell from the sky having been released from the innards of the disintegrating thing.
As they fell, the group of balls spread like shotgun shot. Each impacted and exploded in a blast of concussion. Trevor saw waves of energy ripple through the air. The windows in the lounge bent and wobbled.
Several hit the runway tearing up concrete and creating impassable holes. Another clipped the wing off a Learjet. Another hit a supply truck flipping it over and causing it to burst into flames.
More of Voggoth’s suicide bombers arrived. A Patriot missile exploded one before it reached its target, sending its body as well as its explosive cargo raining down on a tree line just outside the base.
“Where the is the goddamn CAP?”
Rick Hauser, leaning over a radio technician, answered with one ear still stuck in a headset, “They got hit by Spooks ten miles out. They’re still tangled up out there. That’s why these things got through.”
A series of large explosions came across the tarmac directly for their building. The first few ripped through a group of pallets holding freight destined for air transport. They erupted, crates went flying, and several personnel were thrown around.
The last bomb hit 50 paces away. The blast shattered all the windows in the room.
Everyone in the room dove for cover. The dogs whimpered as the blast and shattering windows overloaded their sensitive ears.
Rick Hauser grabbed his shoulder. “Sir, we need to get downstairs to better cover!”
Trevor took a knee before standing. More claps of detonating bombs echoed in through the smashed windows. The air raid siren continued to blare.
“We have to go,” Hauser repeated and before Trevor could react he felt a second hand on his other shoulder, this one belonging to Casey Fink. Between the two men they managed to ‘encourage’ Trevor into the stairwell. The building trembled again and again as they hurried for the basement shelter.
Thirty minutes later the last of The Order’s warped kamikaze bombers dropped its load over McConnell. The side door to the communications room burst open as the air raid siren faded. Trevor, Fink, Hauser and the rest emerged from the partially-scarred building to survey the damage.
Smoke rose across the air strip and from many of the perimeter buildings and hangers. Two large cargo jets lay in pieces across the runway. Several smaller aircraft-all in various states of loading and preparation-had suffered substantial damage. A pool of aviation fuel burned steadily around the remains of a busted tank.
“Ah, Christ, this is bad,” Fink shook his head.
Trevor blocked out the screams of the injured scattered around the tarmac and told Casey, “You need to get this air strip up and running again. Fast.”
As terrible as the damage appeared, the first question revolved around the runways. How badly had they been hit? Trevor spied about a dozen craters pot marking the base’s air strips.
The second question involved aircraft. Two major planes lost, several more would require significant repair. But most of the reinforced hangers appeared intact. They should be; they had been designed with the B1-B Lance Bomber in mind back in the early 80s. While the B1s had been transferred away long before the invasion, the facilities to protect those Cold War aircraft remained and had certainly protected several aircraft from this strike.
“Sir,” Fink struggled with a way to phrase what he wanted to say. “Sir, I, well I’ll get on this. But if we’re in bombing range now that means they could hit us with anything. I think, well, I think you need to get out of the hot zone.”
Trevor did not respond as something caught his eye. More specifically, a flash of white fur moving between some of the left over dead buildings a hundred yards away. There he saw a familiar sight, albeit one he had seen less and less this past year.
A white wolf.
He mumbled, “I have to-I have to go,” and started along a path that led beyond the communications center toward the stretch of abandoned and burned buildings. Soldiers tried to follow, but Trevor raised a hand and Hauser reinforced the order by shaking his head. Hauser had come to know that on occasion The Emperor left to convene with unknown forces; a truth rarely spoken aloud but one the inner circle accepted.
The Rottweilers, however, remained in escort, following their master amid the cluster of buildings that had been destroyed a decade before when the alien forces first came to Earth. He led them through a blasted door frame and followed the wolf as it moved across what had once been an ornate reception area but only broken furniture and decaying walls remained.
Trevor followed down a corridor and into a wide round conference room. Rows of auditorium chairs arranged in a half circle faced toward an open area; no doubt a one-time briefing room for mission planning or training. The only light filtered in through a bank of partially broken but not completely smashed windows on the east wall that looked out upon a thick tangle of bushes and small trees.
The wolf sat at the feet of the Old Man who wore a black vest over a plain white shirt and a pair of faded blue jeans while sitting casually upon a dilapidated table that appeared far too weak to hold any weight. As Trevor had come to know, however, the mystical old man with the wrinkled cheeks, thin messy hair, and gray stubble did not exist in his world; not as he might think. Stone guessed him to be projection of a kind, for he left no footprints nor did his footfalls make any sound.
It had been the Old Man who eleven years prior had met Richard Stone in the woods outside his home and warned of his mission to survive, fight, and sacrifice for the good of mankind. It had been the Old Man who broke Trevor’s heart with the news that he and Nina Forest could not be together and the horrifying revelation that Stone’s mission revolved around one thing: murdering all the alien creatures on his planet.
Trevor suspected his hand in many things, including helping Trevor return from a parallel Earth and, before that, cluing humanity in on the existence of the runes; strange pillars that shut off alien reinforcements and provided a means to return the invaders to their home worlds.
Indeed, it seemed to Trevor that his benefactor had gone to great lengths to overcome several obstacles-apparently unfair ones-placed in humanity’s path by Voggoth.
Still, just last year the Old Man had happily suggested that Trevor and The Empire appeared certain to win on this Earth; one of many parallel Earths where each of the major species faced an onslaught. Things changed drastically since then. The Old Man rarely visited and did little more than bark encouragement at Trevor before dismissing him.
Unlike times past, the sight of the Old Man did not encourage Trevor or fill him with questions. Instead, he found himself annoyed at having been called away for what would certainly be pointless dialogue while a score of his soldiers lay dying on the airfield.
“Hey, Trevor! About time we had a little powwow, dontchya think?”
The Old Man’s seemingly jovial tone came as a surprise. Trevor approached between the rows of neglected seats while the Rottweilers remained behind guarding the door.
“What do you want now?”
In years past he would have craved a chance to pick the Old Man’s brain, despite being told on numerous occasions not to ask questions. Then, in the years since his return from that alternate Earth, Trevor had found comfort with the old-timer because he might be-whatever his true nature-the only entity in the universe that could understand Trevor’s plight.
“Now is that a way to go talkin’ to your ol’ pal? C’mon now, Trevvy, let’s sit down and you can tell me all ‘bout your plans to finish up the job you got here.”
Trevor stopped midway and cocked his head to one side.
“Huh? Finish up the job? What are you talkin’ about?”
“You gone crazy or sometin’ since the last time we chatted? Why I’m talkin’ ‘bout you kickin’ all the alien interlopers off this rock. Or have you decided to take an early re-tire-mint?”
The Old Man might well have suggested Trevor fly to the moon. Talk of kicking the aliens off the Earth sounded equally as out of place, considering the situation. After the invasion of California by The Order’s war machines, thoughts of victory had turned to thoughts of survival. Surely the Old Man knew as much?
“I think you’ve finally started to go senile. Do you know what’s happening out there?”
The Old Man had always known the situation, as if he watched the whole play unfold from some astrological balcony. Sometimes he knew the situation better than Trevor.
“What’s that, Trevvy? A little setback gotchya down?”
“Set back? Set back? Oh, my God, you’ve gone off the deep end.”
“Now, wait now, I hear what you’re saying. Okay,” the Old Man smiled, but it seemed an unsure smile. “You do have some problems, Trev. Better check your flanks. You got company comin’. Now I’m not supposed to be sharin’ that bit of info,” the mysterious entity winked, “but you and me have been known to push the old envelope of them rules now and again, right?”
“What are you-what are you saying? Does Voggoth have more forces coming at us?”
“Voggoth? You worryin’ your head about Voggoth? Sounds like you got those priorities of yours all messed up,” Trevor sensed a tone of desperation in the Old Man’s voice; something he had not heard since the time the Old Man had found out that Trevor loved Nina Forest. “He might have thrown a few monkey wrenches into things before and whatnot, but with all the shit you’ve got going he ain’t nothing but a footnote. You need to be watching out for the real problems maybe-hmmm…,” the Old Man leaned forward to whisper a secret he should not share, “…the Geryons and the Centurians. Maybe even them Chaktaw fellas, if you get my meaning.”
“What? Listen, I don’t know how long you’ve been napping but right now Voggoth is the only thing I’m worried about. He’s got-“
“Voggoth ain’t nothing! He’s insignificant! A token force! Just here to watch and keep us on our collective toes!” The sound of the Old Man shouting-a hysterical shout-knocked Trevor off balance. He had never seen such a reaction from his benefactor. This appeared more like…
Trevor’s expression corkscrewed from befuddlement to fear then to understanding.
“I can’t believe it. Holy shit, I really don’t believe it.”
“What? Now you listen, Trevvy, I don’t have time for whatever bird-brained idea that might be scheming in that noggin’ of yours.”
“I get it now. I see,” and Trevor did. And it frightened him. It also angered him. He directed his anger at the Old Man. “You’re in denial. You refuse to see what Voggoth is doing here, is that it? What’s wrong, this wasn’t part of the agreement?” Trevor sneered, “Just a token force. Just to observe. Just to keep us on our toes. Bullshit.”
“Watch it, now. Listen here. You can’t understand. Your little brain-“
“It’s you who doesn’t understand. You can’t believe it, can you? You can’t believe that Voggoth would break those precious rules of yours and send a full-blown army to wipe us out. I’ll bet he did the same to the Feranites, too, didn’t he?”
The Old Man’s virtual eyes widened at the mention of the Feranites, a race originally nicknamed by humanity as the Tribe of the Red Hand. While in the clutches of The Order’s torture machine, Trevor’s mind had traveled to the alternate Earth where the Feranites battled for survival. They lost.
He pushed the Old Man, “You keep talking about the rules of this little game you dragged my people into, but those rules don’t mean shit. Voggoth is here, Old Man. Why I’ll bet he’s right here, on this Earth, overseeing the whole party; I’ll bet that is against those rules of yours, too. He’s going to wipe us out unless you and your buddies do something to help.”
The Old Man did not say a word. He sort of gaped at Trevor like a lost puppy. That filled Trevor with another idea. A very unsettling one.
“Of course,” Trevor paced the aisle as he went on. “Let me guess, they aren’t talking to you anymore. How would you put it? Hmmm… Okay, let’s try this: they ain’t takin’ your calls n’more, are they? This is the Duass, we’re not home right now please leave a message and we’ll get back to you. Beeeepp.”
“Don’t push Trev. You don’t know-”
Outside the base’s air raid siren churned to life again. The screaming klaxon caused a pause in the conversation and it also gave Trevor another surge of anger.
He continued with a fierce edge in his voice, “You know why they won’t talk to you anymore? Because they don’t mind you losing, that’s why. So what if Voggoth is doing more than he’s supposed to on this planet. Why, I’ll bet they don’t even know what he’s doing here-they don’t want to know. They refuse to look. Deny it, even, like people who hear someone screaming for help but don’t want to be involved so they block it out. You’re being blocked out, Old Man.”
“Stop it, now.”
“As long as it’s not them, it’s all good. Why I’ll bet he’s whispered in their ear something like, ‘the humans have been breakin’ the rules so I’ll just even the odds a bit’ or ‘hey, Mr. Hivvan, just turn the other way while I do this and I promise to help you out on your world, too.’ That leaves you out in the cold, Old Man. It’d be funny, but I’m stuck in the freezer with you.”
The sound of bombs thudding to the ground echoed from the air field and in through the broken windows of the empty building. A shard of glass fell and shattered on the dirty floor.
“Where’s the smart old guy who I once thought might be God? Boy, was I an idiot. You aren’t any god. You’re just another human being like me and old Voggoth is playing the spoilsport in this little game of yours.”
The Old Man said nothing.
“Because of your arrogance every human being on this Earth is going to be wiped out.”
The Old Man sounded almost conciliatory in his tone, “There’s more to it than that, Trev, why there’s a whole bunch o’ universes out there and-“
“I don’t care.”
A bomb exploded much closer this time. Pieces of plaster fell from the ceiling; the walls rattled.
Trevor’s words came with a hefty force. The force of billions of dead people; the victims of this game the Old Man and his cronies played.
“Listen to what’s going on out there! I don’t care about you or the other parallel worlds or whatever the stupid-ass big picture is. I care about my people. Here. Now. That’s what it boils down to, you hear me? If you can help me it’s time to speak up, otherwise I’m done listening to you. I’m done with your cryptic messages, winks, nods and half-assed metaphors. If you got a trick up your sleeve then lay it out. If you don’t, stop wasting my time. Thing is, I think you’re all alone now. I think the others have abandoned you. But don’t worry, once we’re out of the way then whoever is left-well, they’ll all abandon someone else. Maybe it’ll be the Chaktaw next time. Maybe their Old Man or Old Woman or whatever will be on the outside looking in. And when the Chaktaw are done, the Centurians will be next, then the Witiko, then whoever. I don’t give a shit.”
A flash splashed through the lonely window on that side of the building. Trevor saw a dust cloud of debris drift by.
“Trev, listen, I know you’re upset and all,” a hint of pleading crept into the entity’s voice. “But look, you got to get this situation under control. Where’s the old Trevor who took it to em’ when they all ganged up on you?”
The Old Man referred to the Battle of Five Armies when three groups of alien warriors converged on the fledgling community of survivors during that first year. Trevor figured Voggoth orchestrated that, too; a more subtle attempt to destroy humanity’s resistance before it really got going. But they had won the day with a bold bayonet charge after their ammunition ran dry. That day became a turning point.
It seemed long ago. Simpler. A brave strike at the heart of the enemy with an unexpected move.
The Old Man took advantage of the brief silence to add, “You got to go for the throat, Trev. You gotta swing an Ali knockout punch-bam!” Yet it was obvious the Old Man had no idea what kind of knockout punch should or even could be thrown.
Trevor shook his head and a sardonic grin flashed across his face. He grabbed hold of a memory from one of the Old Man’s earliest speeches, twisted those words and spat them back at the mysterious entity.
“Yeah, that’s it. Shoot the exhaust port, is that it? Blow up the Death Star with one lucky shot and we’ll be all right as rain, right? Kill off the mother creature and all the little nasties will wither and die. Just like in Hollywood, right? Let’s wrap this thing up in the last five minutes.”
The Old Man’s expression drooped as if kicked in the gut.
Trevor went on, “You told me once this was a slug fest. That there’s no magic bullet. No one-shot. And you were right. And now Voggoth is out-slugging us. He may have broken all those dumb rules and I don’t care if you don’t want to hear it, but it’s true. He’s here and in force.”
For added emphasis, a large crash followed another nearby boom. Trevor heard something collapse in the distance; maybe a wall, maybe an entire building.
“He’s here in full force. He’s been behind this all along. The other races-they’ve been proxies. Pawns. They failed here on my Earth so Voggoth has come to my world to do the job himself and he’s conned your buddies into looking the other way because when we-when you — lose, things get easier for them. Or so they think.”
But it was Trevor who did the thinking; repeating his thoughts from a moment before: A brave strike at the heart of the enemy with an unexpected move.
He chewed on that while the old man rattled on as if he had already forgotten the rest of the conversation. “Yes sir, Trevvy, you got some work to be doing. Mind your flanks. Lots of your folks are begging to die for you. Say, maybe you should start arming the little ones. No reason grade schoolers can’t pick up a rifle for the cause!”
The rain of bombs quieted as the attack slowed.
Trevor Stone turned his back to the Old Man and walked away thinking of a brave strike at the heart of the enemy but, as he pictured the maps and markers that told the strategic tale, he could not possibly see where Voggoth might be vulnerable. Or how to strike a blow of any kind.
“Take it to em’, Trev! Give em’ hell!”
Jon Brewer did not like the situation at all. Before his Eagle transport even landed on the ruined tarmac at McConnell, he could already envision Trevor’s disapproving stare and if there was one thing Brewer did not need any more of, it was Trevor’s disapproval.
Trevor would want to know why Jon had forsaken his defensive preparations along the Mississippi to fly to Kansas. He would want to know why he had risked coming to an area under constant bombardment, the most recent of which had barely ended.
In answer to his own question, Jon glanced across the aisle. There, in the parallel row of seats in the Eagle’s passenger compartment, sat Omar Nehru. As he had since arriving in Missouri earlier that day, Omar smoked a cigarette and sat staring straight ahead. Whatever message Anita had given to Omar to relay to Trevor-a message he refused to share with anyone else-it had changed the man. He appeared shell-shocked. Afraid.
Omar’s history with Trevor and Jon Brewer could be traced to the first few months post-invasion. Therefore, when Omar Nehru arrived on the front lines looking for Trevor and insisting to see him personally, Jon Brewer listened.
Still, Trevor would not approve. He would not trust Jon’s judgment. That had not always been the case.
Up until last year Jon Brewer served as Trevor’s surrogate; Jon’s word equaled Trevor’s wishes. Jon Brewer-one of the first to join the estate along with his wife-held the role of second-in-command. He still held that position but more due to expediency than confidence.
Jon’s thoughts returned to last summer when everyone thought Trevor dead. A vote by the council resulted in Jon inheriting Trevor’s position although he later realized that Evan Godfrey and Dante Jones had manipulated the vote for that result.
And why did they do that, Jon?
And therein lay the dagger that remained stuck in Jon Brewer’s heart.
The entire plan had hinged one thing: Evan Godfrey saw Jon as an easy target for manipulation.
He was right, wasn’t he?
Yes.
Jon Brewer could command armies in the field, lead expeditions to the Arctic North, and turn a desperate battle against insane robots into a victory. But he could not lead a nation. In fact, he feared the very idea of such responsibility.
When Evan and Dante-supposedly Jon’s friend- proposed an easy way to escape that responsibility, Jon grasped it like a drowning man thrown a life preserver. He told himself it all sounded sensible. He told himself he considered Evan’s proposal intelligently and concluded that, yes, The Empire needed institutions and bureaucracy to survive and grow.
He had then handed it all over to Evan Godfrey, telling himself it to be a grand gesture to willingly give away power for the betterment of the people.
You ran away. Just like you ran away when your Guard unit was overrun during the invasion.
Eventually Jon Brewer realized his mistake and sided with those seeking to expose Evan’s conspiracy. This resulted in saving both Trevor and his son as well as the destruction of a gestating invasion force off the eastern seaboard.
In the end, however, it came down to one thing: I let Trevor down.
Jon felt certain that if it had not been for The Order’s surprise invasion Trevor would have shuffled his Generals. But he was too busy breaking up the Senate and re-organizing it to his liking; finding and executing those involved with the conspiracy; and gutting Internal Security in order to rebuild it as another extension of Trevor’s will, much like the military.
He had not the time for upsetting the military hierarchy, not with California turned into a giant graveyard. And that is why Jon remained number two. Yet he still had trouble looking Trevor in the eye.
The transport landed in a parking lot not far from Eagle One. Jon exited with Omar and an armed escort. They weaved through throngs of medics, engineers, and makeshift stretchers carting wounded to emergency triage areas. A few of the soldiers stopped to salute, but most appeared too busy to notice the general and his snappy black uniform with gold insignia.
Jon led Omar to the wounded and charred communications center. In they went and up to the second floor where they found Trevor studying maps on the main table. As they entered they heard Casey Fink ask The Emperor, “I don’t understand. What is it you’re looking for?”
“The heart of the enemy,” Trevor answered without taking his eyes from the map.
The commotion of Jon’s group entering finally stole Trevor’s attention.
“Jon? What the hell are you doing here?”
Exactly the reaction Brewer expected but before he could convey his well-rehearsed response, Omar pushed to the front of the group.
“I insisted he bring me. I need to speak with you.”
Trevor appeared both annoyed and confused.
“I don’t have time, Omar. We’re kind of busy out here,” and returned his attention to the map in a manner that suggested both Omar’s dismissal and Trevor’s obsession over an idea.
Omar spoke as forcefully as anyone had ever heard, “I have to tell you something, Trevor. My wife told me to tell you. It’s a message from her.”
“Omar, I have to figure out-“
“YOU WILL LISTEN!”
A quiet settled over the room. A stunned quiet.
Trevor stood straight and the glare in his eyes demanded explanation.
Omar glared back.
“You put my wife in that hole. You told her to understand these things. Well she understands now, Trevor. She is not the woman she used to be. She never will be again. I blame you for that. So you will listen to the message she has sent because I think it is why you wanted her there in the first place. She understands now, Trevor, and you must, too.”
Trevor licked his lips and considered.
“Okay, Omar, I’m listening. What is it she understands?”
“She understands why the universe is empty.”
Trevor’s eyes narrowed. Omar did not waver.
“Clear this room,” The Emperor commanded.