The Witiko Stealth Field Generator at Beale went dark on March 27 ^ th.
The next day, the garrison at Callahan surrendered without a shot to a small force from General McAllister's Mechanized division. Many of those Cooperative turncoats accepted advisory positions in Stonewall's ranks while the rest simply went home.
More Californians followed the Callahan example. Over the next ten days, coastal defenses along the northwest shoreline at Crescent City and Trinidad Head either sat out the balance of the war or actively assisted The Empire's advance from the north.
Without the advantage of the stealth field, Cooperative jets lost control of the skies north of San Francisco. Two dreadnoughts-the Chrysaor and the Excalibur — with their compliment of air superiority fighters, fighter-bombers, and support craft cut in from Oregon and Nevada. Witiko Stingray cruisers engaged in hit and run attacks but failed to stem the advance.
On April 5 ^ th, after enduring constant air bombardment and facing the threat of two inbound dreadnoughts, the defenders at Weed slipped away on Interstate 5, hoping to re-form to the south at Shasta Lake.
Imperial Apaches and A-10s chased the retreating columns, finding and destroying almost every ground vehicle. That destruction came at a high price as Stingrays knocked four choppers and two Warthogs from the sky.
On April 12 ^ th elements of General Tom Prescott's 2 ^ nd Corp., crossed from Arizona into Southern California along Interstates 40 and 10 covered by General William Hoth's Philippan.
A massive air battle inside the dead zone of The Cooperative's southern Stealth Field Generator just outside of Barstow ensued a day after the new front opened. The Philippan suffered nearly fifty crew killed when a California F-16 scored a direct hit on a crowded flight deck. However, the stoic General Hoth-serving as Captain aboard the ship-showed his customary resolve and pushed forward despite holes in the Philippan's superstructure and shrinking reserves of heat-seeking anti-air missiles.
His fortitude bore fruit on April 15 ^ th when the Pennsylvania 1 ^ st Armored Division blasted through well-manned ramparts east of Newberry Springs and rushed the Stealth Generator at the old Marine Corp Logistics base.
On that same day, the Excalibur obliterated the heavy artillery, well-dug entrenchments, and Witiko officers of two hundred stubborn hold outs barricaded inside government buildings in Sacramento. Brewer used the ship's 'belly boppers'; powerful energy weapons based on technology stolen from the Redcoats.
At that point-with three of the mighty ships moving with near-impunity over the state's skies-garrisons south of San Francisco reconsidered their allegiance.
Still, the Witiko used what cruisers still functioned to cover retreating loyal soldiers and managed to mount local counter-attacks to buy time. Time for what, however, became a question because unlike The Empire, no relief force waited in the wings and their war stocks dwindled.
After his mission at Beale, Trevor shuttled between dreadnoughts, forward operating bases, and the various fronts but remained relatively out of the line of fire.
This did, however, expose Trevor to what he had hoped to avoid: news from home. Or, rather, the political and PR battle.
While most of the media praised the military's success, some commentators and reporters-not to mention a certain Senator-remained focused on casualties.
Years had passed since Trevor's military fought in a major combined arms assault against an equally inclined enemy. As such, it had been years since the daily casualty report covered so many pages.
By the time Prescott's armored spearhead took out the Barstow generator, The Empire had suffered over four thousand killed in action on the California front and double that number wounded. The newspapers who shared Evan Godfrey's point of view emphasized that most of those causalities died at the hands of other human beings and The New American Press printed full-color pictures of smoke rising from the Philippan as well as somber images of coffins at train stations back east.
To further fan the flames of discontent, Brad Gannon continued to share "reports from home" during his tour of The Empire. Those reports spoke of civilian casualties, destroyed infrastructure, and a rising death count on both sides (not including Witiko, of course).
The religious tribunal called for the immediate cessation of hostilities. An alliance of 'moderate' Senators passed a non-binding resolution labeling the attack a 'failure of diplomacy.' Meanwhile, more radical politicos led by Godfrey marched in the streets of D.C. and Boston chanting slogans characterizing the California war as a crime against humanity.
On April 23 ^ rd Trevor-motivated as much by a desire to get away from the political and public relations war as a desire to get back into the action-flew to the First Armored Division's assembly area in Mission Viejo south of Los Angeles…
…Prior to the end of the world, Richard Trevor Stone had never visited California. Yet by the second week of the invasion he understood why so many people in the pre-Armageddon world chose to suffer the Earthquakes, high taxes, congestion, and screwed up politics to live in the "Golden State".
The forests of the northern region, the beautiful white-capped peaks of the Sierra Nevadas that also hid the natural splendor of Tahoe, the dangerous but beautiful desert in the southeast, and the jagged Pacific coastline that inspired poets and songwriters made for a collection of majestic scenery few regions of North America could match.
Mission Viejo fit with that scenery with neatly planned residential neighborhoods surrounded by natural beauty. A tremendous number of small parks-nearly two every square mile-made perfect muster zones for the Pennsylvania 1 ^ st Armored Division commanded by General Bobby Bogart and the 1 ^ st Tactical Support Wing under the charge of Five Armies veteran Jimmy Bragg.
About half of the locals locked themselves inside their homes, a few even sniped at patrols but soon found that K9 noses could sniff out their positions.
The rest welcomed the advance, mostly the folks who worked at the cylinder-shaped Witiko factories outside Los Angeles or who played servant or chauffeur to the better-off.
On the morning of April 23 ^ rd, the tanks and helicopters set out from their encampments…
…While the San Joaquin Hills sit atop the Pelican Hill fault zone, the shaking that afternoon came not from subterranean tremors but Abrams tanks and armored cars making their way northwest on Route 73.
Mortar fire from pro-Cooperative partisans operating out of Laguna Hills slowed but could not stop the advance. That changed as the formation’s destination came in to focus. At that point, The Cooperative responded by dispatching twenty light armored vehicles of various configurations and nearly two thousand worn and weary infantry to greet the onslaught. The defenders hurried to forward positions centered around the campus of UC Irvine-about forty miles south of Los Angeles-backed by artillery on the west side of Upper Newport Bay.
Governor Malloy-who fled Sacramento prior to the Excalibur reducing the government buildings to slag-and what remained of his top-ranking cohorts had taken refuge in the city of Angels. Prescott’s 2 ^ nd Corp aimed to punch a hole in the ring of defenders protecting that city. More specifically, he wanted to capture the southern anchor of those defenses by taking Long Beach. Such a move would sever communications between The Cooperative’s leadership and San Diego where their largest remaining army waited.
As for the Witiko, California propaganda claimed that Chancellor D’Trayne took to the skies in a Stingray to fight to the bitter end, something Trevor highly doubted.
Whatever the truth, he watched artillery duels and advancing armor from atop the mountains sandwiching Route 73. Eagle One-playing host to Prescott and his staff-sat nearby. Tyr-Trevor’s loyal but aging Norwegian Elkhound-stood alongside his master.
A few lonely clouds hovered above but the sun provided plenty of golden rays. The prevailing wind pushed east, nonetheless traces of the odor of battle brushed overtop Trevor’s hilltop position, carrying an eclectic mix of burning metal, spent powder, and gasoline.
Desperate California artillery fell haphazardly among rumbling tanks. Those errant shots caused smoky fires to erupt in a field of sagebrush where a yard of Bloodhorns-slender, red-eyed extraterrestrial ungulates-grazed. The creatures scrambled back and forth, chased first by the burst of artillery in one direction, then the other way as tanks emerged from an adjoining neighborhood.
To the south and west of 73, the enemy’s defense lines included infantry as well as light armor operating from the Big Canyon Country Club. Those vehicles-mainly APCs and Bradley’s-darted out and fired shots at the approaching spearhead, then retreated only to repeat the tactic when circumstances permitted.
Witiko-made war machines joined the human-built ones. The alien vehicles moved fast on six massive tires, stopped and unfolded metal support legs much like a back hoe might when digging trenches, and spat well-guided but very short-range rockets from both fore and aft launchers. While only lightly armored, they packed a punch.
Trevor saw one of the mobile missile platforms fire a dozen strikes at the forward thrust of the Imperial advance crossing the field where the Bloodhorns had grazed. The first hit literally split a Dodge Durango 'up-armored' with metal plating in half. Another slammed the ground at a harsh angle and tipped the sixty-plus tons of an Abrams on its side.
However, the Witiko vehicle did not last long.
A TOW-equipped Humvee circled behind the launcher by cutting through the tightly packed homes and passages of Buffalo Hills Park. The Hummer hit the offending machine with an anti-tank round. The rocket fuel in the reloaded launchers ignited and the vehicle-along with its crew of six aliens in a dome-like cabin-burned to cinders on a soccer field.
Tyr grumbled something, pulling Trevor’s attention from his binoculars. He saw General Tom Prescott exit the parked eagle and walk toward him.
Prescott had risen to the rank of Major in the U.S. Army by the time Armageddon came. He kept a hundred soldiers and a smattering of civilians alive after the military’s command structure fell to pieces until finding Trevor's lakeside estate. Prescott then worked with Jon Brewer during the Battle of Five Armies and, in the years since, proved an enthusiastic leader with a knack for tactics.
Forty-something Prescott showed a youthful bounce in his step as he joined Trevor atop the hill and reported, "7 ^ th Armored has broke through the defenses at UC and took the bridge at Campus Drive. I’ve switched the axis of attack that way."
Trevor returned his binoculars to his eyes and scanned in that direction. He saw plumes of smoke rising one after another across sedate neighborhoods then through the libraries, lecture halls, and pavilions of what had been one of the largest universities in California.
If the 7 ^ th Brigade could exploit the breakthrough-a relatively easy task considering the tactical situation-then The Empire could gain control of the "John Wayne Orange County Airport" and the Tustin Marine Corps Air Station. Those facilities would prove valuable as staging grounds for a final assault on Los Angeles.
Prescott absently scratched the back of his neck and said, "Got one other thing, boss."
Trevor, through the field glasses, watched a friendly tank crew abandon their mine-damaged smoking vehicle at the big intersection of 73 and Bonita Canyon Drive.
Prescott told Trevor, "My Captains tell me I.S. teams are taking custody of Witiko officers from forward positions. Pardon my French, but ain’t that a little off, you know?"
Trevor's binoculars dropped and hung from the strap around his neck. His eyes narrowed and he grumbled, "What did you say?"
"Internal Security has prisoner control and transport teams operating closer to the front lines than usual. They're bypassing military police and taking custody of Witiko-especially officers-right up by the front lines. Kind of out of the ordinary, don't you think?"
Trevor smelled the hand of Evan Godfrey. Internal Security had strong ties to the Senate and Trevor already knew how much Evan liked the Witiko. He sensed a plan to embarrass him or force an early end to the campaign.
"What about Governor Malloy? Where’s he at?"
Prescott scratched the back of his neck again. "Well, Intel says he’s held up at L.A. City Hall with a bunch of mayors and ministers. The top dogs, I guess, on the human side of the whole Cooperative thing."
Trevor told the General: "Hit it."
"What’s that, sir?"
"Get on the horn to the Philippan and have them hit City Hall. Knock the whole damn building down."
Prescott said nothing but his face corkscrewed with confusion.
"What’s wrong, General, haven’t you ever heard of taking out command and control?"
"Well, yes sir. But those guys up there don’t have any freedom of movement. Or, I guess, they won’t after today. Shouldn’t we be talking to that Governor about surrender? I’m guessing he’ll listen and he’s still got clout with what’s left of the true-believers."
Trevor felt one part anger and one part fear with a spice of urgency. The thought of Evan slipping Witiko officers away made Trevor uneasy. The idea of Malloy and his top lieutenants-the human core of The Cooperative-remaining intact bothered him even more. In an instant he saw press conferences and debates, sad stories of dead Californians, protests against the military, and calls to rethink war strategy in the light of the ‘human’ toll. He did not want anyone with ‘clout’ left from California. They must be beaten in every way to clearly display the folly of siding with aliens.
He did not need to kill Malloy to win the war but a part of him-the cold calculating part that had made his doppelganger a dictator on another world-saw an ends that needed justifying and he knew he possessed the means.
"I said hit it. Don’t make me repeat myself again."
– Governor Terrance Malloy stared out from the Tower Room on the top floor of City Hall. In the old world, the large square room hosted banquets and awards dinners, meetings and other prestigious events enhanced by the panoramic views of Los Angeles.
Like most of that metropolis, during the war against the Witiko City Hall endured much damage. Several levels had been charred black by fires. Furthermore, chunks of the structure’s concrete-concrete made with sand taken from each of the state’s fifty-eight counties and water from each of its 21 missions-had been blasted away to the streets some thirty-two floors below. In other words, an important icon of Los Angeles and, therefore, California had suffered greatly.
City Hall had not been alone in that regard.
As if to emphasize the thought, the Governor’s eyes sought out and found the dusty hole to the north; all that remained of Dodger Stadium after a bombardment of Witiko rockets had struck that makeshift rescue center, killing more than five thousand refugees on a fine summer day during the first months of the alien invasion.
Whether those missiles targeted the refugees or, as the Witiko explained during negotiations, resulted from a malfunction, did not matter. That hole served as a symbol.
When that first war ended, Malloy worked to cleanse the scars, starting first with renovating City Hall. Similar projects in other cities erased some-certainly not all-of the wounds from that five-year conflict.
At the same time, the social structure underwent renovations. Their Witiko allies brought new technologies and new ways of thinking that might have repulsed small minds. But Malloy convinced his people that survival depended on re-thinking how they viewed government, work, and life in general.
The result? California survived. No easy task, particularly when the rest of the country descended into chaos ruled either by aliens overtly enslaving human survivors or dangerous wilderness with no laws, no organization, and no hope.
On long nights when the faces of the former Governor and others who had been in front of Malloy in the line of succession haunted his sleep, he admitted to himself that, yes, his embracing of Witiko ideals served as much his self-interest as the interest of California. Yet he also knew one truth: the peace deal had stopped the fighting.
In the years since, human and aliens rid the cities and suburbs of dangerous predators, re-established industry, and built a functioning society.
Certainly that society lacked perfection. The human population in California shrank with a slow but steady drop in life expectancy and a low birth rate. Malloy and his people agreed with D’Trayne that the best hope for prosperity lay with a smaller population base.
The Governor dropped his eyes to a closer sight: tents and tables cluttering a parking lot across the street. Lines of people waited for their portion from pots of bubbling stew made with vegetables, fish, wild game, and lots of water. Dinner time at the "Municipal Feeding Station."
Malloy felt a vague sense of pride in the station. These people lived. If the war with the Witiko had gone on, they probably would have been killed. The Governor did not buy Trevor Stone’s explanation that it had been the Witiko-not California-in danger of losing that war.
No, Malloy felt that his decision to seek peace, to share power, to accept new (alien) ideas resulted in survival for Californians while the rest of the world died. It was mere coincidence that doing the right thing helped make his life easier.
While food lines were not new, something else down there was: the presence of cameramen. Such pictures had not been transmitted across the state before the invasion by Trevor’s "Empire." To do so, Malloy believed, would merely hurt morale and paint an unflattering picture of life in The Cooperative. In contrast, with the start of the new war images of breadlines, homeless citizens, and poorly-functioning hospitals served a purpose, especially when subjecting the context of those images to heavy editing. As a life-long politician, Malloy understood the value of propaganda.
He sighed and walked away from the view.
Four men in fine suits and one woman in a business skirt hovered around several banquet tables. A half-dozen guards stood at the entrances to the Tower Room bearing assault rifles and dressed in black coveralls. No sign of any Witiko, officer or otherwise.
Witiko or no, so few people gathered in a room meant to hold so many did not sit well with the Governor. The emptiness of the chamber made him feel small.
A young courier hustled in. He wore a muddy uniform and sported bruises and cuts on his face and forearms.
"One of The Empire’s dreadnoughts is approaching. Spotters identify it as the Philippan. It’s out by San Bernardino. My commander sent a message to the airport."
Malloy knew the courier meant his commander had tried yet again to get the Witiko Cruisers at LAX to engage the approaching threat. The Governor also knew that with the regular air force destroyed, the Stingrays did not desire to engage the dreadnoughts head on, despite the advantages of their radar cloak. Apparently the mighty Witiko preferred the company of human jets as cannon fodder when flying into battle.
"I see," the Governor spoke. "What am I supposed to do?"
Malloy surveyed his gathered advisors and focused on his Minister of Defense, a diminutive man in his mid-forties with scruff on his cheeks and a balding head.
During the Witiko War, that man served as a soldier in a regular army unit. But when his commanding officer refused to recognize the peace treaty, that officer disappeared, the unit fell into line, and the subordinate who had made all that possible received an appointment to lead a new Defense Department.
Malloy asked, "Minister Snowe, what is the military situation?"
Snowe said, "The attack coming up from the south is moving on Long Beach. They’ll take it sometime in the morning, we think. We don’t know what the dreadnought is up to, but I doubt it will fly downtown."
A fifty-something woman with thinning hair and a sharp nose who served as the Secretary of Family Planning questioned, "Why? Can the Stingrays hold it off?"
Snowe answered, "No. But The Empire knows we have surface to air missiles and artillery batteries that are effective against dreadnoughts. Besides, a direct assault on downtown L.A. would lead to a lot of civilian casualties, and we don’t think they want that."
"This is true," Malloy said. "But so far our public relations campaign has not borne fruit. What is Gannon doing over there? I have not heard from him in over a week."
The assistant Director of Information loosened his striped tie and spoke, "Gannon has made a lot of friends among the Imperial Senate, particularly our ally Mr. Godfrey."
"For all his talk, Godfrey has done me little good."
The Information Director continued, "Well, it appears Godfrey has friends in their Internal Security apparatus. We have received a recommendation that when the time comes, we surrender to their Internal Security units, not regular military. I understand a number of Witiko officers have already been taken into custody by them."
The Secretary of Family Planning jumped at the word ‘surrender’ in a tone that suggested the idea intrigued her: "Surrender? Are we talking like that yet?"
Governor Terrance Malloy ran his hand over his head and sighed.
"I may not have any other choice. Our forces are being pushed back."
Snowe countered, "We’ve got five thousand troops in San Diego that are fresh and haven’t been used. We’ve got another fifteen hundred or so veteran troops outside of Monterey. Some of those are the guys who gave the Imperials a good pasting outside of Stockton last week. We can count on them. They’re not going down without a fight."
"Ah yes, I remember the type," Malloy mused, thinking of Snowe's CO who preferred to die fighting than bargain with aliens.
Snowe finished, "If we can drag this out longer, maybe we can win the PR battle. Maybe there'll be enough pressure on Stone to pull back. Or, negotiate something favorable."
The Governor considered the situation. His forces no longer held any kind of strategic front, only isolated islands with lines of communication nearly cut. By morning he would no longer have the ability to command forces beyond the Los Angeles city limits and those limits appeared destined to shrink. The Witiko, for all their high talk, appeared to have abandoned the effort after the Barstow generator went down.
Where is D’Trayne?
If they continued to fight, the additional blood on Trevor Stone’s hands might be enough to gain Malloy a sympathy card to play, but he doubted he could play that hand into any power or authority. At best, maybe a comfortable retirement.
Surrendering now could save thousands of Cooperative soldiers and leaders. They would become citizens of this Empire, in one form or another. If he made the right speech, maybe framing himself as a peace broker interested in the greater good, if those loyalists channeled their devotion into a political movement inside The Empire, maybe he would have a chance. A long shot, but a much better shot than the military situation. "I will prepare a communique. I will end this fight to save lives on both sides." The Secretary of Family Planning said, "Governor, how very far-sighted of you."
A harsh beeping grabbed the attention of Defense Minister Snowe. He produced a communicator of Witiko design and walked away from the gathering to better hear the message.
"What? When? Okay."
Snowe then hurried to the windows on the east side and told them, "Spotters say the Philippan just launched a lot of missiles. Probably cruise missiles."
The Information Director nearly cried, "I thought they didn’t have GPS munitions?"
Snowe explained, "They don’t. I think they use radar altimeters and digital strip maps. Not exactly low tech, but not dependent on GPS, either."
Malloy insisted, "Those missiles are not meant for me. They need me to tell our soldiers when to stop fighting. Without me-"
Three missiles slammed into the observation windows of the Tower Room; five hundred kilograms of explosives in each warhead. The blast incinerated the ministers, guards, and Governor. The concussion broke the top floors of City Hall into blocks of concrete, glass, and steel. Those blocks rained down on the streets below, including the bread line.
For all purposes, the California Cooperative died at that moment.
– Fremont Boulevard and Canyon Del Ray Boulevard crossed in a big ‘X’ about a half-mile away from the Monterey Peninsula airport, which was Stonewall's last objective for the day. He found it intolerable that his formation’s vanguard remained stuck at that intersection, so close to the airport but seemingly unable to make that last push.
Part of that vanguard lay in ruins at the center of that big ‘X’ with treads popped off and armored chassis’ burning among craters and charred patches where a combined total of sixteen lanes of roadway crisscrossed. The rest of his division stretched northeastward on Fremont, waiting for their chance to punch through for the airport. Stonewall paced behind an ad hoc bunker constructed with sandbags among the skeleton-like remains of two cars. "Benjamin, please explain why my division is not currently moving forward."
Stonewall just arrived at the front line from his headquarters further back in the column. So far he saw his damaged war machines but no sign of what caused that damage.
Before Duda answered, a Bradley Fighting Vehicle moved into the cluttered intersection, weaving through the carnage and attempting to drive south. Stonewall stopped pacing and eyed the Bradley’s progress, still wondering what had caused the fuss.
The answer came in a long hiss and crackle heard above the pops and snaps coming from the smoldering wrecks in the center of the ‘X’. Just as the Bradley cleared those wrecks, a glint of silver flashed in the rays of sunset as it rose into the air from behind a cluster of buildings.
Stonewall watched as that silver flash swooped toward the Bradley. The armored vehicle spotted the threat and fired its main gun, but the Witiko Skytroop zigzagged.
The turret rotated, but not fast enough. The Witiko hovered a hundred feet in the air for one quick second and fired a missile from a portable launcher. That missile lumbered relatively slow for a rocket. Despite its slower-than-expected speed, the projectile ruptured the protective armor of the vehicle and exploded inside the cabin, killing another crew.
"Oh dear. Get anti-air units forward."
"Sir, wait a second," Benny Duda pointed toward the spot in the air where the Skytroop had hovered. That trooper remained visible, having risen higher into the sky but not retreated toward the airport as had been the routine during the standoff. Four more Skytroop officers joined the first.
Stonewall ordered, "Hurry with those anti-air units. Time is of the essence."
But the Witiko airborne soldiers did not attack. They turned their thrusters to full power and raced off to the northeast at a fast pace, maybe as fast as eighty miles per hour. Whatever their actual velocity, their speed and height allowed them to easily avoid carbine fire from below.
"Well, what an interesting development," Stonewall said.
Duda replied, "They look like they’re headed toward our rear area."
Stonewall considered the events of the last few days, up to and including the news that the Governor and his staff died earlier that evening in a missile strike on Los Angeles. One of the more interesting developments in those few days had been the willingness of Witiko officers to go to great lengths to bypass the front lines and surrender to Internal Security units.
"Fear not, Benjamin, I believe our Witiko friends will be well received."
Stonewall stepped from cover and stared to the southeast. He knew the airport waited to be overrun, probably abandoned by the Witiko. If lucky, he might find one or two Stingray cruisers there for the taking.
Beyond the airport rose rough mountains. On the far side of those mountains, the Carmel Valley Ranch resort where, according to aerial surveillance, nearly fifteen hundred hard core California soldiers dug in.
Stonewall had already held dealings with that lot. They had stopped his advance outside of Stockton last week, inflicting a fair number of casualties and, according to eyewitness reports, executed a squad of his engineers who had taken a wrong turn into enemy territory. "Looks like we’re clear," Duda said enthusiastically. "Yes," Stonewall lamented. "On to the next battle." — "They surrendered about an hour ago," General Prescott explained from the front passenger seat of the moving Humvee. "After Bogart broke their front lines they pulled back near Rainbow Lagoon to try and protect access to Interstate Seven-Ten. We used Bragg’s Blackhawks to land units and some light arty behind them at the harbor. They gave up the ghost after that."
Trevor listened to Prescott but kept his eyes focused out the window. He saw crowds of California civilians daring to move outside now that the guns had stopped. They did not know that the man who led The Empire sped by as part of a motorcade. Even if they did, their attention focused on the dead bodies, broken machines, and damaged buildings left from the battle for Long Beach.
A Chinook flew low overhead, no doubt ferrying more infantry forward to secure the newly taken prize. Further off, a cloud rose from atop Signal Hill on the north side of town where earlier that morning a bombing run reduced Cooperative artillery to a pile of melted iron.
Closer, they passed a Humvee driving slowly along East Ocean Boulevard broadcasting, "All Witiko are ordered to report to the processing station at the Hilton near the old Trade Center. Failure to comply will result in forcible arrest."
Soon, Trevor knew, the Hunter/Killer teams and their K9s would enter the city and sniff out alien hideaways. Doors would be smashed. Witiko children and their parents would be forced into custody prior to being shipped across country for a one-way trip through the runes.
He felt bad about what was to come, but not guilty. No one invited the Witiko to Earth. The fact that they had bargained their way to power in California with the help of human accomplices changed nothing.
Trevor glanced to his right. Resort homes, condominiums, hotels, and shops came and went. When he looked out the window to his left, his heartbeat changed to heavy, fast thumps.
The Pacific Ocean. Trevor held a hand to the window, as if trying to touch the sparkling blue waters on the far side of a brilliant white beach.
Ten years of war replayed in his mind. He saw those first battles in northeast Pennsylvania, when his army could be counted on two hands. Then four years of skirmishes and local battles to expand across the state and into neighboring regions. After that came the Hivvan War; a raging combined-arms fight across the south until the entire Mid-Atlantic region as well as the heart of Dixie had been wrested from the invaders.
The march to the Mississippi and the problems in Ohio; the re-settling of the new American frontier, crossing the Rockies and into the Northwest, and now the Pacific.
He knew the war to liberate humanity would rage for decades more with battles in the jungles of South America, the deserts of the Middle East, the plains of the Ukraine, the frozen tundra of Scandinavia, and across the vast expanse of Asia. That's what waited for Trevor, his children, and their children. Yet today-right now-they achieved a milestone. "Stop the car." The Humvee escorts pulled to the curb outside a mansion surrounded by palm trees identified as the "Long Beach Museum."
"Sir? What is it?"
Trevor did not answer Prescott. He opened the door and stepped outside the armored cabin. A fresh morning breeze carried the scent of salt and a hint of blowing sand. Seagulls cackled over the beach. The sun shot in behind him, casting shadows across the sand but with a strength that hinted at a hot day to come.
With a dozen soldiers scrambling to form a protective cocoon around him, Trevor cut behind the museum, walked through the garden that once hosted the finest weddings in all Long Beach, marched across a small parking lot, and stepped onto the sand.
The deserted beach stretched little more than one hundred feet wide, much thinner than the beaches further to the south and puny compared to the one in the backyard of his summer house in New Jersey.
With Tyr at his side, he walked to where land met ocean. Low waves curled and crashed then flowed in. A few inches of water brushed against Trevor’s boot, lapping over the top and tickling the bottom of his pant leg.
He felt the heavy weight the Old Man had placed on his shoulders. A weight that demanded Trevor think in the most focused of terms: victory at all costs. For the sake of generations to come and for the sake of those whose memories gave Trevor the skills and perspective to lead, he could think of nothing other than total victory. He could not afford the luxury of the moral high ground or the release of passing the baton of command to others.
Yet for a few moments he stood on that beach in the face of the Pacific Ocean and felt a sense of accomplishment. The weight still bore down, but with what had once been the continental United States now under one banner that weight shed a pound or two.
Tyr walked forward and sniffed the remains of a white cap as it rolled in. The spray tickled the dog’s nose. Tyr sneezed and retreated a step. Trevor knelt and held his hand to the water, letting the chilly flow wash over his fingers. Only his canine companion saw the tears in his eyes. — The Carmel Valley Ranch resort sat on four-hundred acres surrounded by the forested slopes of the Santa Lucia Mountains. The golf course, the pavilions, the luxury cottages…all fell dark beneath the shadow of the Chrysaor.
Captain Kristy Kaufman, her hair sculptured into a small bun and her black uniform perfectly pressed, stood on the bridge hooked into her ship as the "brain." The ship's infrared sensors displayed on one of the many monitors at her control station, illuminating the body heat of California hold outs dug deep into the buildings and brush of the resort.
General Stonewall McAllister's voice spoke into her ear from his forward position on Carmel Valley Road: "I have attempted to convince them that their position is untenable, but they refuse to listen. Therefore, Captain, I must ask that you undertake a most distasteful task."
"I understand, General. Are you sure the civilians are out? Any innocent bystanders-"
"Yes, I know. At this point, I believe we have done all we can possibly do, and I would much rather not lose any more of my division when your services are so readily available."
"I understand," she replied. "Your officers have confirmed forward positions with my tactical station, so I believe we're ready to go."
"I guess I should say 'happy hunting,' but somehow those words taste rancid right now."
Kristy knew what the General meant. She only wished the fools holding out in the Carmel Valley Ranch Resort knew. Almost in response to her thought, through her video feeds she saw the trail of a portable anti-air missile fire up from the enemy position. A moment later the war head explode, barely scratching the undercarriage of the Chrysaor.
She spoke her orders aloud for the crew to hear but her fingers did most of the work.
"Charging the Belly Boppers to twenty-percent. Energy dispersal pattern set tight."
A digitalized readout reflected the amount of power to be turned into destructive energy. The Chrysaor's energy weapons had come from the seed of alien rifles taken during the battle for Wilkes-Barre that first winter of the invasion, and utilized the same principle when it came to power: the more the weapons charged, the greater the destruction to the target.
Kristy had served as the Chrysaor's captain since its christening six months ago. Now she would see through the purpose for her ship. With Cooperative units falling apart across the country, their leadership dead, and their Witiko allies surrendering in droves to Internal Security, the battle at Carmel Valley seemed likely to be the last.
At least she hoped so. To visit this type of destruction upon any enemy-particularly a human one-required a reason. A good reason.
"Weapons charged. Burst pattern confirmed. Target area locked. Firing."
Death came in two massive blobs of incinerating energy hitting the ground and splashing out in glowing waves. The beautiful bungalows fell apart like sandcastles in a tornado and acres of forest charred and fell as if discarded matchsticks.
Having ordered the attack, General McAllister felt obligated to ride in with the first wave of infantry to secure the area, although he knew 'securing' would mean little more than sweeping up the ashes. As he approached on horseback, he realized there may not even be ashes remaining.
Small fires erupted from secondary explosions and a dirty haze hung over the target area. No walls remained intact. Ash and dirt fluttered on the wind like a warped ticker-tape parade in celebration of Lucifer. The temperature rose to nearly one-hundred degrees as the ground radiated residual heat from the energy weapon.
"Oh my," the General gasped as he surveyed the destruction.
He maneuvered his horse to the circular pavement that had once led to the main entrance, the pieces of which now rested in a smoldering pile. McAllister directed his horse at a slow trot, his sword jingled as he moved.
Such a complete victory should have elicited celebration, but these had been humans.
A breeze blew in and pushed some of the smoke off, revealing acres of green turned black and brown. Flames flickered in the distance. Puffs of smoke rose from heaps of leveled buildings. Far away, a tree line at the base of a hill marked the limit of the Chrysaor's fury, a line between destroyed woods and healthy forest.
Gunfire reverberated through the smoky air. Benny Duda galloped to the General's position. He held a radio to his ear until he stood alongside Stonewall's horse.
"Sir, we've got survivors up on the east ridge taking pot shots at us. Must've been out of the blast radius but Kaufman says she can't spot them on the infrared, too much residual heat from the boppers."
"Very well, Benjamin," Stonewall said. "Let's get over there and root them out."
At that moment, the leather reigns fell from General McAllister's hands, he slumped forward, and pin wheeled off the saddle, landing hard on the charred-black ground. A sharp pop slapped the air. Benny Duda watched, confused over what he just saw while the General's escort dismounted with carbines drawn. "Sniper! Sniper!" "Gen…General..?" Benny eased from the saddle. Stonewall rolled over on his back. Benny knelt and lifted the General's head. In the distance, more gun fire erupted. More shouts.
"Oh dear," Stonewall stared toward the sky as if trying to find the blue on the far side of the debris cloud. "Benjamin, I believe I have been shot."
A red stain pushed through the heavy fabric of the Old Mist colored uniform Garrett McAllister dressed in since the day Armageddon chased away the alcoholic in favor of a noble, courageous gentlemen.
A soldier shouted, "Medic!"
Benny Duda sobbed, "You'll…you'll be okay."
"Ben…," he licked his lips. "Benny, please do give my sword to Trevor Stone. Per-perhaps it can still serve him in some capacity. There is so much left to do."
Stonewall reached up with one gloved hand. Benny grabbed tight.
"Hold on…hold on, General."
"It's okay, Benny. It's okay. I have," he coughed. His eyes closed for a moment, then opened wide again. "I believe I have…paid my penance. My family…my family will be waiting for me. I expect I shall do much better this time."
"General… please…"
"Yes…I can see them now…"