“Front gate, this is control, tactical team en route to your location. All lake personnel go to Alert 1 and lock down. Repeat, Alert 1 and lockdown…”
“Gordon—what should we do?”
”We wait here and tough it out, Miss Ashley.” As he spoke, Charles—the man with the prosthetic hand—walked into the room with several items clutched to his chest.
With his good hand he set an automatic pistol on Gordon’s lap, then shoved an identical one into Ashley’s hand. She dropped the book.
For his part, Charles carried an HK Mp5 machine pistol strapped around his shoulders with his good hand on the grip and his plastic hand balancing the barrel.
Ashley protested, “Gordon, Trevor took me target shooting a couple of times but I really don’t know how to—“
He grabbed the Glock from her hand, pulled the slide loading a round, and returned it to her. She stared at the pistol, dumbfound.
“Point and shoot. And remember to stay calm.”
A humming sound came through the walls from somewhere outside.
Gordon spoke to the growing noise, “Me, too? I’m flattered.”
He rolled to the doorway so as to see down the hall. Charles took station by the closed front door.
“What? What do you mean?”
“I can’t use my legs but the bastards still think I’m important enough to assassinate.”
“That—that makes you—happy?”
His answer came in the form of a big, nasty grin.
Brett Stanton stood at the base of one of the tall gantries that helped secure the Excalibur. His two assistants—the woman and the fat man—waited on his flanks while he consulted a third: a bearded black man wearing technician’s garb with a ‘supervisor’ badge.
Around them more technicians, mechanics, engineers, and security guards walked about, some boarding the caged elevators of the gantry and climbing up to the massive battleship and the super cargo carrier floating overhead.
The supervisor complained, “Mr. Stanton, I can do it but I’d feel a lot better if someone who was involved in the design phase was here to oversee the project. I mean, I hook up the wrong power conduit and that could cause the grav generators to repel.”
“Yes, yep, now I know, and that would start ripping things apart one expensive piece at a time. I’m working on getting Omar Nehru out here to take a gander at this stuff, but that’s not going to happen for a few hours. We don’t have a few hours.”
The woman at Stanton’s side gasped, “What the hell are those?”
Brett Stanton whipped his head around toward the east side of the base. There he saw a line of lights weaving around and over old buildings and hangers. The lights shined red and a sparkling blue that—for a brief instant—he thought quite beautiful.
Stanton yelled in a throaty voice, “Security breach!”
Someone on the gantry heard his holler and activated the general alarm. Klaxons sprung to life above, below, and onboard the Excalibur as well as the Hercules.
The lights kept coming from behind the buildings. A dozen—two dozen—three dozen—Stanton lost count as they swarmed from the airport perimeter onto the tarmac heading directly for their position.
“Get clear!” Brett shouted then grabbed hold of the woman and the fat man by their shoulders and shoved them toward the small cart they had used to traverse the airport grounds.
The fat man resisted and bolted for the perceived safety inside the scaffolds and fencing of the gantry. The woman obeyed and dropped a cluster of rolled blueprints as she scrambled for the cart.
Stanton heard the sound the attackers made: a hum gaining in volume like reactors going critical.
He stepped on the accelerator pedal and the cart moved away from the gantry making best-speed to escape the shadow of the floating behemoths for the sunlit open pavement of the runways.
“Hurry—hurry!” the woman screamed but it was too late. The line of red and blue spheres reached them—and missed.
The balls passed overhead like errant pitches. He felt a breeze as dozens of the things flew by but, at the same time, he also felt both heat and a discharge like static electricity from the things.
The swarm of attacking orbs continued above them like some kind of airborne stampede.
Then came the first explosion. Red balls hit the underside of the Hercules in a series of shots similar to artillery blasts.
The woman shouted the most obvious line Brett Stanton had heard in his life: “My God, they’re trying to take out the ships!”
A trio of the blue balls slammed into one of the temporary anti-grav generators affixed to the Hercules’ bottom. A storm of energy flashed like a hundred bolts of lightning and snaked across the bottom of the vessel like electronic worms digging into the belly of the ship.
What the hell are these things?
More red spheres—more blue—making for a combination of large explosions and electromagnetic bursts, most hitting the Hercules, a few hitting specific spots on the Excalibur.
Over the buzz of his golf cart as it sped away—over the hum of the attacking spheres—Brett heard another sound that made his heart skip a beat: a groan. A metallic groan. The sound of a gantry bearing more weight than originally intended.
“Hurry—hurry—oh, my god, hurry…” Stanton did not need her encouragement; that groan provided all the urgency required.
The red balls exploded one after another and apparently well-targeted. A line delivering aviation fuel to the Excalibur ruptured. The explosion followed the fuel hose down to the ground and obliterated a tanker truck as well as a dozen personnel within twenty yards.
A hull plate ripped from the Hercules’ body. As it dropped it careened into another support tower and cut through an elevator shaft. The car inside fell.
Another support tower moaned, only this time the sound did not stop.
Brett Stanton and his assistant reached the halfway point between the dry dock and his office building when the Hercules broke free of its moorings and listed to starboard, slipping sideways and raising its port side into the starboard side of the Excalibur from underneath. The impact of such heavy mass shoved the dreadnought and sent two supporting gantries tumbling like tinker toys. The sound of iron and metal falling into rubbish heaps produced a series of clings, clangs, and crashes that could be heard for miles. More explosions followed on the ground but the worst was yet to come.
Blasts from red orbs and electromagnetic pulses from blue ones destabilized fuel cells and ordnance catches. A line of yellow flames burst from the port side of the Excalibur ejecting equipment, bulkheads, and personnel.
The remaining gantries fell as the Excalibur dipped and pounded into the Earth below; ripping up pavement in a tidal wave of concrete and dirt. The super-strong SteelPlus hull bent and warped. A quarter-mile wide gash opened along the tilted flight deck; flash fires larger than city blocks erupted one after another; bolts of electricity—like lightning strikes—erupted and coated the entire superstructure in a volatile electromagnetic bath that lit the fuse of a powder-keg combination of aviation fuel, power cells, and ordnance.
The Excalibur, the Hercules, all the buildings, vehicles, and structures on the airport grounds; Brett Stanton and his passenger; the wild woodlands around the base; and the cluster of homes in a suburb five miles from the facility’s outer fence, were all consumed by a pressure wave larger than any man-made explosion short of a nuclear detonation.
The blast swept out in all directions via a wall of concussion. A mushroom-shaped cloud of blue and orange reached thousands of meters into the sky, the tremor rattled windows as far off as Akron, Ohio.
Shepherd stood outside the tent and took off his hat as if to bath in the sunlight.
The staging area at Riverfront Park buzzed with activity: trucks, tankers, and Humvees weaved through throngs of tents, temporary camps, and portable toilets. A line of raggedy soldiers stood at a water buffalo parked near a pile of industrial rubble. A handler encouraged
along a group of Grenadiers. Four men half in and half out of dirty uniforms sat at a folding table playing cards and smoking. The whistle of a steam train came from just beyond the big cisterns to the west.
He wished he could think of all the activity as an organized encampment. Instead, Shepherd saw the staging area for what it was: the chaos that comes when mixing retreating soldiers with both their supply lines and with incoming units being rushed forward to fill holes.
Pop. Pop.
The crowd silenced. Heads turned trying to find the source.
Rat-tat-tat: assault rifle fire.
Screams.
A flash of light then smoke followed by the boom of a small explosion.
General Shepherd fixed his hat in place and retreated a step toward the tent.
Suddenly the crowd between his position and the southeastern edge of camp—near the trees along the river bank—scattered like sheep running from charging wolves.
Someone shouted, “Incoming! We’ve got incoming!”
In the mid-morning light Shepherd spied balls of red sweeping at the fleeing soldiers like miniature cruise missiles shaped to resemble tiny suns. Their round bodies gave off licks of flames; maybe plasma.
He saw one impact a parked cargo van. The vehicle erupted in a powerful explosion that sent it into the air, upside down, and crashing to the pavement once again.
At this point several soldiers found their weapons and fired at the flying line of a dozen balls of red. One hit. The sphere exploded anyway throwing troops into the air like lifeless rag dolls.
The line of attackers flew toward his command tent. Shepherd saw them coming a moment too late.
He tried to dart inside but stumbled, falling forward to the pavement of what had once been a gigantic parking lot. Two of the red spheres flew directly over his head; he felt an intense heat as they passed.
Inside the tent, Simms and Duda dove for cover beneath the map table; Casey Fink and Bear Ross tried to run off.
The first of the orbs hit a storage locker at the rim of the tent. The explosion tore away the stakes and sent the tent flying off and up into the morning sky. The map table overturned; Duda and Simms tumbled over and over across the pavement.
The second impacted just beyond the tent, a pace behind General Fink and Ross. The blast sent chunks of pavement into the air along with the two men. Ross landed atop a pallet of supply crates; the sleeve of his black uniform caught fire.
Fink landed straight on the pavement, face down and motionless.
Another sphere hit an APC punching a hole in its side. Yet another dive-bombed into a crowd of men standing around a portable kitchen. Shepherd saw legs and arms tossed off as well as blobs of gore.
More explosions all around the camp. Shepherd scrambled to his feet and raced first to Woody Ross who rolled on the ground trying to douse the flames on his arm.
Shep used his hat to help snuff the fire. With a quick glance he saw Ross’ arm to be badly burned and one of his ankles twisted in an unnatural way, but nothing mortal.
He turned around and saw Cassy Simms kneeling next to Casey Fink. She rolled him over. His eyes remained open but lifeless.
“Here comes another one!”
Charles followed the sound and fired a burst from his MP5 just as one of the yellow balls flew in through a window at the front of the house. It popped from the shots and spilled sizzling acid across the hardwood. The droplets bubbled and disappeared leaving behind black holes in the floor.
“Backyard!” Ashley yelled.
Two of the yellow orbs swung into the backyard from the side of the house and raced toward the sliding glass window. The first hit, spraying its lethal cargo on the window which melted open a few square feet like ice hit with a blowtorch.
Gordon—in his wheelchair near his array of radios and computers—leveled his pistol and fired through the hole in the glass meeting the second flying ball before it entered the home. The resulting splash dissolved most of the rest of the sliding glass doors.
More machine pistol shots from the front of the house.
“I’m almost out,” Charles jogged up the hallway in search of another clip.
“Try the kitchen,” Gordon motioned toward the room across the hall from his nerve center. “I keep spare clips in the cookie jar.”
Charles pulled the lid off a Snoopy cookie jar and found what he needed. But before he could slam a new magazine home, a sight from outside the kitchen window grabbed his attention. His eyes widened and he threw himself to the ground.
“Incoming!”
Another yellow sphere smashed through the kitchens window and popped, spreading acid on the sink, floor, and Charles’ prosthetic hand.
“Are you okay?” She knelt near Charles as all went quiet inside and outside the home.
He nodded.
Ashley stood again. Gordon maneuvered his wheelchair into the hallway.
“I think that about does it.”
Another loud hum came from outside and then the front door exploded in with a wave of burning acid that splashed on the hallway floor. A second later another yellow orb flew inside the cottage and right up the hall directly at Gordon and his wheelchair.
He raised his pistol.
The orb locked onto target and increased speed—halfway down the hall…
Gordon Knox pulled the trigger on his automatic.
Click.
“Gordon!” Ashley screamed but Charles reached out with his good hand and stopped her from interfering.
The droning hum from the assassin filled the hallway. Its yellow light danced on the walls.
Knox growled, “Come and get me.”
In a swift, fluid motion Gordon threw off his pistol, reached down to a pouch just behind the right wheel of his chair, whipped out a Mossberg shotgun, pulled the forearm slide, and fired a slug five feet from the orb.
It exploded midair. The acidic contents splashed onto the ceiling, onto the walls to either side and onto the floor just an inch shy of Gordon’s foot. He eyed the sizzling drops meant for him with contempt.
“You missed, asshole.”
Yellow and red lights flashed across the estate lawn and the humming of the spheres drown out all but the highest-pitched screams.
A red ball impacted the side of the mansion; a gap tore in the stone wall and a cloud of dust billowed forth. Another detonated in the sky as a .50 millimeter round from the Humvee founds its mark.
Lori and Jon ran for the front door of the mansion as a red ball whizzed within inches of their heads, over shot, and blasted away dirt on the far side of the lawn.
One hit the Humvee and its gunner straight-on. The entire vehicle detonated in blast of black and orange and red ejecting the soldier in the cupola in several big chunks.
The concussion of the exploding Humvee knocked both of the Brewers from their feet.
Omar scrambled toward the front gate with the guard there trying to provide cover; he succeeded in blasting one red orb from the sky while a yellow one hit the fence dissolving iron posts into globs of black goo.
Jon rolled over and came to his knees, then ducked to avoid a yellow acid-ball which hit the ground next to his wife just as she scrambled to her feet. It splashed a wave of acid over her. Lori’s clothes sizzled and her lips cried out with an agonizing moan before the poison dissolved her lungs.
Jon’s shout boomed across the grounds. He stumbled forward to his wife’s side but what remained did not move. Smoke rose from the burnt grass and the tattered mess of flesh and bones.
The general slumped to his knees in front of those remains and gaped at them in an expression of disbelief. Behind him the last red ball smashed into the front porch of the mansion and exploded while the last yellow sphere fell amongst a trio of barking canines, killing two.
Jon did not see any of that. All he saw—all he felt—all he cared for at that moment was the loss of the woman he loved. So quick and so permanent; no last words and no chance for contemplation. In an insta
nt the assassins had taken his Lori from him.
His hands clamped onto his forehead, his mouth hung open, his eyes closed, and his body rocked back and forth.
11. Crash Dive
Trevor sat across from Captain Farway. The two men shared a cup of early morning coffee—or something similar to coffee—inside the Captain’s quarters. Those quarters allowed more space than the cramped rooms with multiple bunks provided for the crew, but all things were relative.
Trevor had politely refused Farway when the Captain had offered those quarters for the trip. Instead, Trevor shared a berth with his son in a tiny cabin a short way down the corridor.
Farway noted the glazed look in the Emperor’s eye and the drops of sweat on his brow.
“Fifth day out and you’re still not used to it?”
“Never, um, never knew I was, well, sorta claustrophobic.”
Farway chuckled and ran a hand over his thinning scalp, saying, “Imagine what it was like in the old days. This boat is a hotel compared to the W-W two subs.”
Indeed, the submarine moved under the water easily and with only the most subtle of motions. The journey across the Atlantic had, so far, been an easy one. If all went well they would make landfall in France later that night.
Trevor ran a hand over his forehead again. He did not feel queasy. Not quite. The Dramamine helped in that regard. He felt—caged. Yes. Trapped. Ever since they had closed that top hatch behind him, JB, and Hauser, Trevor felt trapped; no room to maneuver.
Jorgie handled it much better. He spent most of the trip taking tours of the boat. The sailors onboard viewed him as a kind of mascot, but with an added sense of wonder. After all, no secrets remained onboard a sub. The entire crew understood that Trevor and his nine-year-old boy planned not only to cross the Atlantic, but to march all the way across Europe.
The effect appeared multiplied on the Newport News’ sailors because most of them were well-seasoned, tracing their careers not only over the eleven years since Armageddon, but many years before the end-of-the-world.
Beyond Armageddon V: Fusion Page 18
