An incoming transmission asked, “Hawkeye, this is command, any news from Rhodes?”
Simms found it surprising that Fink would ask her about Rhodes, let alone use the General’s name on-air.
“No, Command, negative.”
“Let us know, Hawkeye. We’re having some comm problems.”
Just minutes ago, she had cheered as the volley of rockets blew the Leviathan into pieces. Now a feeling built in the pit of her stomach—an ache. And the thunderstorms above, they grew fiercer.
The ground shook. Small rocks cascaded away from her position.
She turned her attention west again, glimpsing through the mountains to the valley where the mist swirled. The valley where Voggoth had grown and nurtured his army.
A massive shadow rose, parting and pushing the mist aside. Taller—taller—taller until the top tickled the clouds.
A Leviathan.
And then another, a few giant paces behind. Two Leviathans like twin towers rising from hiding spots beneath the mist. They had no faces, no mouths other than the massive maw that served to suck in then expel air. Yet to Cassy Simms those faceless monsters appeared to smile.
“C-command, c-command this is Hawkeye—“
She stopped her transmission when more came from the mist. A screaming flock of Spooks rising together so fast and so tightly packed that for a moment it seemed as if a curtain rose.
Counter-battery fire.
Trevor did not need the binoculars to understand what unfolded on the battlefield. The Leviathans were plain to see, walking one after another through the mountain pass toward his defenses, toward the reserve armor they had committed to the fight before realizing that fight had already been lost. Now those tanks and APCs would be sacrificial lambs.
He had trouble considering it fully because the chorus of a sky filled with screaming Spooks bore into his mind. It almost sounded like a laugh. Voggoth’s laugh. The flock nearly blocked out the sun as it sped eastward in search of Ross’ line of artillery.
“Sir…?”
Casey Fink’s incomplete question asked so much.
Why didn’t this work?
How could you lead us into disaster like this?
What are we to do now?
Are you really the same Trevor Stone?
No, he was not the same Trevor Stone as prior to his phony assassination; prior to suffering a lifetime of torments in a matter of weeks while under the power of The Order. Before that time he had suspected that mankind’s defeat would lead to the end of the human race. Much to his regret, while imprisoned by The Order’s torture machine, Trevor learned that a worse fate awaited his species: If Voggoth triumphed, they would be twisted and mutated into that monster’s minions.
Trevor had witnessed the Feranites warped from a race who shared a special bond with nature into the exact opposite; a species of mechanical slaves far removed from all things natural. It seemed Voggoth valued both destruction and irony.
Bits of organic machines and streaks of flaming aviation fuel fell from the sky and burned among the remains of Wetmore. Trevor heard the roar of jet fighters and the hollers of The Order’s ‘Spooks’ colliding in the airspace above.
He cast his eyes upward through one of the many holes in the barn roof and sure enough contrails and starbursts of smoke filled what remained of the blue sky as the storm came over the mountains.
“Brilliant, you know,” he said aloud in a detached musing.
“Sir?”
“It’s brilliant, the way Voggoth fights up there. Reminds me of Hitler during World War II. The Nazis didn’t have much of a Navy to stand up to the British, so they built U-Boats by the bushel. Cheap U-Boats. Not to take control of the seas, but to deny England from having total control of those seas. Voggoth deploys hundreds of these things that probably cost him the same as pennies to make. Sure, we wipe them out by the handful, but it just takes one to knock down an F-15. He goes out and grows more tomorrow, we can’t replace an F-15 for months, if ever.”
Fink stood silent in a mixture of shock and confusion.
Trevor returned his attention to the disintegrating front lines. On some level he had been certain that victory would come today, that all the defeats of the past year were minor events. That he needed only a combination of the right terrain, a good plan, and a little luck.
All those stars had aligned, but yet he lost. Voggoth had out maneuvered him. Voggoth had out-thought him. And now Voggoth would out-fight him.
“Sir, shall I give the order to withdraw?”
“We can’t withdraw, Casey,” Trevor spoke plainly. “Our forces are engaged. We have no reserves to fight a delaying action. Our boys are either going to die fighting or get shot in the back running. Voggoth won’t allow an orderly retreat.”
And for that, Trevor felt compelled to tip his hat toward the sinister mind of Voggoth. That devil had conceived and hatched a plan to draw Trevor’s forces into the open and force a climactic battle. Certainly Jon Brewer’s units mustering on the Mississippi would provide some small challenge, but without the men who would be slaughtered here, today, then the Mississippi would prove little more than a speed bump.
“Um, sir,” Fink sounded embarrassed as he corrected his boss. “I didn’t mean the whole army, sir.”
“Oh? You mean us? Me? The headquarters unit? I guess so,” Trevor conceded but his eyes leered longingly at the battlefield. This was not supposed to happen. This day was to turn the tide. Those reserve tank units were supposed to surprise the vanguard of Voggoth’s ground troops after the Leviathan had fallen and Rhodes’ infantry columns were supposed to slice and dice the belly of the beastly army. That had been the script.
Blasts of tank cannon fired; explosions shook the ground; fireballs of pilots and wings and gore dropped from the sky.
A small part of Trevor—very small and very isolated—wondered if it would be so bad to simply stay in the ruined barn and let The Order’s forces swarm over. It seemed now that day would come, either there at Wetmore, in a few weeks at the Mississippi, or in the Appalachian mountains or at some last stand along the Atlantic coast.
Of course he could not. He would fight. And if he had nearly no army at the end of that day, he would fight on his own from the mountains and caves or cross the sea and join the outposts of humanity in Europe and Africa to muster forces anew.
“Sir..?”
“Yes, of course, let’s go.”
He glanced at his tanks once more. They rolled forward in a line past blasted buildings and across the wasteland swept clear by the Leviathan’s supersonic blast. Their treads creaked and squeaked and diesel engines rumbled and the stench of exhaust floated behind like a foul wake of tainted air. And forward they went into the shadows of the two advancing Leviathan’s no doubt knowing their fate was sealed but doing it anyway because—like Trevor—no alternative remained.
The headquarters unit hastily packed what remained of their gear and followed Trevor as he retreated through the rear of barn. Out back on the far end of a tattered field and protected by a dirt berm sat one of The Empire’s “Eagle” Transports. Those machines had come to Earth from the invaders known initially as the Redcoats then eventually as the Centurians. Humanity had captured several, reverse-engineered the design, added improvements, and now called them their own.
With alien-designed anti-gravity generators providing lift and clean-burning hydrogen fuel to generate thrust, what the boxy Eagles lacked in aesthetics they more than made up for in efficiency.
Soldiers and technicians surrounded the Eagle on all sides working to secure heavy trucks, Humvees, a water buffalo, and portable generators. A palatable aura of panic emanated from the men and women wearing various shades of battle dress uniform. A column of infantry onboard a collection of army trucks and SUVs raced toward the front passing the small encampment on a dusty road.
Trevor and General Fink descended the berm. Far overhead a burning Tomcat barrel rolled in a graceful arc after a ‘Spook�
�� rammed its rear thrusters.
The two arrived at the transport, walked the short entry ramp, and opened the sliding door with the push of a button. Several of the headquarters techs and soldiers joined them, still more waited behind for the anticipated Blackhawk chopper that planned to spirit them away, if air traffic control could navigate it into the hot zone.
One side of the rectangular passenger compartment offered rows of seats for safe travel, the other side presented an array of communications gear and data banks. A display of exotic weapons—including a Civil War era sword that once belonged to General ‘Stonewall’ McAllister—garnished a small stretch of wall. Its blade glinted silver with a hint of fading crimson.
“Rick,” General Fink called through the open bulkhead that led toward the pointy cockpit, “we’re cleared to go.”
Rick Hauser—Trevor’s personal pilot for years—did not listen to General Fink. Instead, the blond-haired man with glasses walked into the passenger compartment with a red face and gasped, “Sir, it’s the Phillipan. She’s here!”
“What? Hoth is supposed to be up in Denver!”
Unlike Casey, Trevor did not question the reason but, instead, grasped on to one last offered straw. He hurried to the communications array where a technician sat.
“Get the Phillipan on the horn. Rick, how far out is she?”
“Five minutes.”
Trevor turned to Fink and ordered, “Contact the ground commanders. Order a full retreat.”
“Sir?”
“Casey—the Phillipan can bail us out. She can fight a holding action.”
“One dreadnought? Hold off Voggoth’s whole army?”
While victory remained impossible, this last chance at survival infused Trevor with new enthusiasm.
“I gave you an order. Get on it. And find a way to get in touch with Rhodes.”
Casey gulped and sought a second communications port.
“Sir, I’ve got General Hoth,” the comm officer presented Trevor with a headset.
“Hoth, can you read me?”
“Yes, sir. The Denver army was a decoy. I think they loaded up everything on you.”
“That’s right. Good thinking for high-tailing it here. But you may wish you hadn’t.”
“What do you need, Trevor?”
“I need you to pull our asses out of a bad spot, General. They caught us by surprise. They caught me by surprise. Our forces are committed. No reserves; nothing that could put up a rear guard action. We can’t win this fight and we can’t get out of it, either. I need you to hold the line while the army—well, while the ground forces escape.”
No reply immediately came. No doubt Hoth soaked in the full meaning. And as General Hoth had done all his life, he accepted the order without question.
“Understood, sir.”
No words of bravado. No quote for the history books.
Casey Fink interrupted, “The forward armor units are fully engaged. I’m still trying to raise Rhodes. I have this feeling his communications are being jammed.”
Trevor nodded then returned his attention to the Phillipan.
“Good luck, General. To you and your crew.”
“To you too, Trevor. We’ll buy you as much time as we can.”
The massive air ship pivoted slowly like a sumo wrestler stomping into position for a big strike. Below—in the shadow of the mighty flying beast—the armored spearhead of Trevor’s attack force switched gears from forward to reverse. Ahead at the mouth of the mountain pass, the first of the two advancing Leviathan’s stood straight and tall to skyscraper height.
Twin blasts of energy fired from the Phillipan’s bow. They burned the flesh of Voggoth’s ungodly war machine like a laser scalpel slicing across a patient. Thousands of gallons of puss-like yellow bile sprayed out. But the beast did not fall.
A new wave of the hideous Spooks birthed from the mist-covered valley screamed up through the swirling storm clouds, arched across the heavens as bolts of lightning flashed and thunder boomed, then plunged into the upper deck of the dreadnought.
Anti-air Gatling guns fired defensive volleys. A dozen—two dozen—nearly three dozen of the vile missiles fell apart. But nearly the same number crashed into the target. Explosions peppered the flight deck and cracked the closed hangar doors. More pummeled the tower to aft, shaking Hoth onboard his bridge and giving life to flash fires and hull breaches.
In addition to the ship’s main batteries, a swarm of smaller gun ports to the underside rained missiles, smart munitions, gravity bombs, and artillery-caliber shells toward the enemy.
One of Voggoth’s hovering coral-red platforms shattered in the fury of the storm. A Chariot flyer suffered a direct hit, spewed smoke, then fell like a rock and rolled down a mountainside. An uncountable number of formerly-human monks disintegrated in the fire.
But still they came, pouring through the pass.
A terrible noise arose from the lead Leviathan: a sound like an air raid siren building louder and louder as it swallowed air from the sky. The turbulence from the vortex shook the Phillipan side to side but she did not retreat. Instead, the energy banks of the ship’s main batteries raced to beat the Leviathan to firing power.
The monstrosity ceased pulling in its deadly wind and began to stoop to obliterate the retreating rows of armor and vehicles.
The Phillipan fired again, this time at lower power but practically into the maw of the stooping beast. The blasts of energy tore at the monster’s top half and—through good fortune or great aim—severed several key tendons on the towering beast’s frame. The air pressure building to lethal force inside the monster worked against it. An explosion of air followed the explosion of the Phillipan’s attack, detonating long before Voggoth’s pet could aim at the fleeing humans.
Instead, the wind radiated out at a higher altitude, blasting into the Phillipan at less than supersonic speeds but at a force to be envied by hurricanes.
Hull plates already damaged from the bombardment of Spooks tore away; the cracked hangar doors ripped apart; radar and communications antennas atop the tower broke like matchsticks; and the entire dreadnought spun around 180 degrees and listed like a ship on stormy waters.
The badly wounded Leviathan wobbled like a drunken buffoon. A flight of missiles launched from the airship’s underside raced on plumes of smoky fire across the sky and into the bleeding belly of the foe. Explosions that otherwise could not harm the thick hide of the Leviathan aggravated the grievous tear across its body.
Another deluge of ‘Spooks’ hurried to the rescue, smashing into the tower section of the dreadnought with one hitting the closed blast screens of the bridge’s observation windows. The impact sent a wave of heat through the brain of the ship.
The ‘belly boppers’ remained fully operational and from them came the knockout punch. The blasts hammered the Leviathan one last time.
It stumbled then fell as it died the death of an imploding skyscraper. Hundreds of lesser minions died beneath the collapsing weight. An earthquake rattled Colorado and the beast came to rest not far from the fallen body of the first mighty Leviathan.
The third giant came to a halt in the mountain pass, hesitant to face the floating city blocking the path. Around its monstrous feet raced forward thousands more of Voggoth’s legions. More spider sentries. More Chariot aircraft. More hovering gun platforms. More ogres and monks and other things born from nightmares.
The Phillipan held.
When the mission had first begun, General Rhodes felt the tight confines of the mountain road seemed a hidden passage toward the enemy’s exposed underbelly. Now those high rocky walls that kept most of the afternoon daylight away felt more a trap.
The majority of his force stretched behind him in rows of infantry and light vehicles, a half-mile snake of humanity. At the head of that snake chaos ruled. Infantry darted between fallen boulders as well as the ditches and depressions to either side of the highway. Those soldiers dodged rapid-fire pellets coming from a ha
ndful of advancing Spider Sentries.
A trio of Humvees moved to support the human soldiers, one launching a TOW missile that obliterated an enemy into a gob of goo.
Several K9s moved around the battlefield accompanied by military handlers. The dogs sniffed and barked as they searched for bouncer mines. Voggoth had draped the hidden presents in a new scent, but once the dogs managed to get a whiff of some of the expended mines they could lock on to the ones that remained hidden. And there were plenty. Every few minutes groups of sappers rushed forward amidst the crossfire to spray the hidden cushions of compressed air with a type of acid that melted away the casing and released the tightly-held contents with an ear-splitting pop.
Rhodes peeked from behind a cluster of boulders and used his binoculars to spy the front line. He watched two of his men fall, one dying instantly the other begging for the mercy of a medic. He saw another Spider Sentry succumb to 50-caliber rounds. It appeared his men might just break through.
“Sir, look at this!”
Rhodes’ driver—who now had nothing to drive—pointed to an approaching K9. The dog dropped a small, dead creature on the side of the road in view of the General.
The K9’s handler—a thin man with tired eyes—told the General in an emotionless tone, “We’re finding bunches of these things.”
Rhodes eyed the creature while the sounds of explosions and ricocheting rounds roared around the canyon road. It resembled a two-legged green pineapple. Two protrusions similar to insect antenna rose from the top of a featureless head.
“Christ, I’ll bet a week’s pay that’s what’s jamming us. Can you get through, corporal?”
The radio man tested his set again. Static.
“No, sir. Must be more of them.”
As if he had not already had enough such signs, Rhodes saw this as yet another indicator that The Order expected his line of attack from Rye. Yet still, despite the obstacles in their way, the jammed communications, and the bouncer mines, his forward units made progress albeit with a casualty rate approaching 30%.
General Rhodes hoisted himself atop one of the boulders and used his binoculars to survey the front. He saw another Spider Sentry go down and his Humvees roll forward flanked by infantry. The path appeared clear.
Beyond Armageddon V: Fusion Page 3
