Armand turned his Ducati sharply onto A75 and sped south directly toward the largest structure at the middle of the base. A pair of heavy cavalry crossed his path, one with a Duass body stuck on his lance. Bright laser-like blasts and red blurs of tracer shots crisscrossed the road in front of him.
He remained calm. Focused. Even as some of those plasma shots aimed for him.
Faster—faster…
Armand reached low on the right side of his 999 where several canisters were attached to his bike. He pulled pins.
He gripped the throttle tighter, revved it, and then yanked his wheel in a suicide turn. Armand lifted his ass from the saddle and kicked away, falling backward at over 60 miles per hour.
The motorcycle fell on its side and slid along A75 to the sound of screeching metal while sparks flew from the body armor worn by Armand as he slid behind the bike on his back, arms held wide to slow momentum. The friction of his padded suit stopped him far sooner than the cycle .
The Ducati—sparking and roaring and tires spinning futilely as it slid along the pavement—sent several Duass diving for cover as it impacted the headquarters building. The canisters—the fuel tank—they both explode and ripped the structure to pieces, killing several of the enemy both inside and out.
Armand moved nearly as fast as the blast wave. He rose to one knee and in the blink of an eye raised his right arm to knock off his helmet and, in the same motion, pull the FAMAS assault rifle from his shoulder.
Nearby Duass soldiers turned their attention to him while the rest of the battle raged behind on the road and to the forest to either side. The first plasma shot missed high of his head. The second bounced off the road to his right.
He did not panic. He did not hurry. On the bike, speed was life. With a rifle, aim was life. And dealt death.
He raised the sites to his eye and pulled the trigger. A bullet hit just above a bill. The duck dropped.
It all came naturally to him. As naturally as snowboarding in Avoriaz; parasailing off the coast of Cannes; rock climbing in the Swiss mountains of Bernese Oberland.
Before the invasion he desired challenge, thrills, and danger but never knew why until he held a gun for the first time and faced the aliens. Then those natural reflexes honed during extreme sports and his ability to suppress fear learned when facing death as part of his leisure activities all came into focus. All came together.
Another plasma shot, so close to his neck he felt hair there singe.
Armand swiveled left and fired. A bullet pierced body armor and another alien fell.
Armand turned right. He pulled the trigger.
Bang-dead.
Forward again.
Bang-dead.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
The armored convoy sped through the remains of a small village. The only pieces of buildings that stood were charred to the darkest black. A soft taste of smoke carried on the wind that whipped through Trevor’s shoulder-length hair as they drove. An odd-shaped mound of embers suggested human remains lying along one street; he did not think Jorgie saw.
A sign marked the rubble as Plauzat. The dead city brought questions to Trevor’s mind. He had heard vague reports and a few specific stories about how the invaders—led by the Duass—hit Western Europe at the beginning of the invasion. He decided to ask Alexander about those early days but when he turned and saw the expression of focus and determination on the Englishman’s face he thought better of it. Such questions could wait until another time.
The dead village faded away, replaced by plains although in the distance the sharp hills and rolling mountains remained, all part of the volcanic history across that part of France. A minute later the convoy approached a major intersection and drove around a bend to the left heading north.
“This is it,” Alexander warned. “We will stay back as best we can but you know how it is once these things start. But do not worry; we’ll keep your son safe.”
“I want to see, Father! I want to see the battle!” Jorgie perked up in his seat as if the main feature of a matinee were about to start.
The Duass snipers on the bridge opened fire but their rifles posed no threat to the armored carriers while the more vulnerable Sherpa’s and trucks remained screened behind the leading vehicles.
One well-placed high-powered round blew the snipers off the bridge and sent blasts of concrete exploding into the air. The convoy kept moving north, barely slowing.
Alexander retrieved a transmitter from a storage compartment.
“If all went according to plan, this should make for a big bang.”
Meanwhile, the fighting continued behind the barricades. Armand’s dismounted cavalry held the center of the Duass base amidst a fierce firefight. The duck-faced aliens, however, steadily regrouped and Armand knew this.
As he knelt beside a trio of comrades next to the toppled walls of a Duass building, Armand spied trouble above: a pair of Duass air craft. They resembled ultra-lights with a closed canopy cockpit, twin helicopter blades, and multiple weapons pods.
The thwoop of a mortar shot lobbed over Armand’s position and landed near a drainage ditch where ten or more enemy infantry huddled. The shell failed to score a hit and drew the attention of one of the Duass planes. It swooped in with its landing wheels skimming the tree tops, swung about, and launched a firestorm of explosive-tipped arrows into the brush where the mortar lurked. Armand watched two of his men die.
He popped up from cover and fired at the flyer but his bullets did no good against the well-armored hull.
Then Armand found himself flying backwards in the air with chunks of pavement and dirt flying with him. He hit the ground but quickly rolled into firing position despite a ringing in his ears and a sharp pain in his thigh.
His rifle barrel stared across the road and into a clearing where a Duass War Skiff rolled forward, smoke still lingering from its main gun and its big round wheels digging into the soil as it advanced.
Rifle fire could not penetrate its heavy wooden hull and fragmentation grenades only caused scratches.
A pair of fast-moving motorbikes whizzed by on the shoulder between Armand and the Skiff, drawing its attention away from the huddling infantry for a moment.
“Let’s go!”
Armand retreated with his men to the east searching for cover amongst the trees. Another shot from the Skiff went high, obliterating the top half of several pines and sending thick branches and leaves among the hiding humans.
With new confidence, Duass infantry emerged from positions along the road and the ruins of the base camp.
A line of heavy cavalry responded with a jousting charge north to south on A75. Their lances killed the leading Duass soldiers but a blast from the Skiff knocked out half the heavies with at least two dead on the spot.
Armand fired his FAMAS. The emboldened Duass re-thought their charge and took cover again. The Skiff, however, inched forward searching for targets to destroy.
At the barricade to the south, the smoke grenades dissipated and the skeleton line of defenders there spotted the new threat. A Duass officer and two grunts struggled to place a tri-pod mounted cannon in position to greet the convoy. The humans fired shells and machine guns in their direction.
Alexander, further back, judged the time to be right. He activated the transmitter a moment before the Duass’ gun came to life.
The explosive packages left by the riders detonated, immediately killing 20 Duass as a hole exploded through the wall of solidified gel.
The Finnish amphibious vehicles drove through first; their tires crunched over dead Duass as well as running over a few live ones. Enemy plasma bursts left marks—but nothing more—in the metallic hides.
Alexander’s car held back with the other Sherpas as the armored vehicles poured through the hole, firing machine guns and explosive shells almost continuously in the target-rich environment. At the same time, the transport trucks disembarked squads of infantry toting carbines and light machine guns.
The re-grouping Dua
ss infantry that had poised to make a run at the cavalry now found itself stuck between a hammer and an anvil.
One of the Duass flying fighters launched an air-to-surface projectile that arrowed down from above and into one of the Spanish BMRs. The vehicle stopped moving and smoke poured from a gash in its side. Hatches opened and men evacuated; several fell to Duass plasma rifles and grenades.
Rapid fire from one of the Panhards’ 20mm turrets took the flyer by surprise and sent it spiraling into the treetops where it broke apart.
As the spearhead of the column fanned out to press the attack, .50 rounds spat from the side door of the Eurocopter transport as it circled above the battle.
The second Duass plane fell victim to a rocket-propelled grenade as it hovered to strafe Armand’s dismounted cavalry. As it crashed Armand saw that as a signal the tide had changed.
“Forward! Forward!”
Bikers came from the woods and attacked, forcing the Duass to retreat into a smaller and smaller parcel of alien-controlled real estate. Armand’s FAMAS hit targets one after another, most in the back.
The War Skiff moved to assist. Its cannon blew apart an ATV and its occupants.
Suddenly that Skiff rocked as a missile from the Tiger attack helicopter joined the fray. Smoke poured from the damage and licks of flames pushed through the vehicle’s body, indicating an inferno inside. A tiny door opened but before the crew could exit the entire Skiff blew apart from a secondary explosion.
While sitting in the Renault with Trevor and JB, Alexander received a radio signal beckoning him forward. The marine behind the wheel drove them through the barricade.
As they inched ahead, JB intensely eyed the battlefield.
Duass and human vehicles burned; scorch marks all across the pavement of the road and the grass to either side; toppled trees smoldering; body parts—human and alien—scattered about. Jorgie saw it all and his mouth dropped open.
The car stopped. Armand put his leg up on a toppled Duass wall, hoisted his rifle high, and shouted to the late arrivals, “It is about time you made it here. Any longer and I would not have left any of them for you to kill!”
Alexander left the vehicle. Trevor and JB followed suit.
The two Europeans spoke. In the distance another shot fired.
“Casualties are light,” Armand bragged. “The plan worked perfectly. I told you, the ducks are easy.”
Trevor stopped listening. Instead, he watched Jorgie as the boy approached the remains of a four-wheel vehicle; an ATV. The chassis of the thing had been cracked in two, fluids leaked on the ground mixing with the blood of the driver.
“Father—Father look.”
Trevor did. The dead rider was the same scruffy-bearded man who had ruffled JB’s hair and given him the thumbs up back at the garage. The man would ride no more.
“Father—he is—he is dead…”
Trevor knelt next to Jorgie and put an arm around his boy.
How often had JB tossed around words about war and death and killing? How many pictures of glorious victories littered with crayon-colored dead bodies had he drawn?
Jorgie turned to his father. Tears streamed down his cheeks.
“I am sorry, Father. I should be stronger than this.”
“No, no. I’m glad. This is exactly how you should feel. War is a horrible thing, Jorgie. I wish you and I could know something better in our lives.”
Trevor thought of himself on that parallel Earth. A tyrant Emperor. A murderer.
He told Jorgie, “When you don’t cry over this—well, that’s when I’ll be worried.”
A motorcycle approached quickly from the north. Loitering soldiers leapt out of the way as a shiny, blue Yamaha flanked by matching bikes screeched to a halt a few paces in front of Armand. The rider onboard jumped off the seat and removed his helmet.
It was Gaston, the former Russian intelligence agent with the very black skin. His wide eyes and fast breath suggested something had blown away his cool demeanor.
Alexander and Armand hurried to Gaston. Trevor waited a few paces behind.
“What? What is it?”
Gaston answered, “It is The Order at Clermont-Ferrand…”
“What?” Armand jumped. “Are they mobilizing? Already?”
“No—no…” Gaston struggled with an explanation. “They’re gone.”
Armand and Alexander simply stared at Gaston as if the man had set forth an idea so foreign that their brains could not process his words.
Trevor spoke. “The city is empty. Dead bodies of victims but none of The Order’s troops. Just gone.”
Gaston gasped at Trevor, “How did you—but there were so many of them there! Our spies confirmed this just last week.”
“They moved? Where did they move to? Further north? To the east?” Alexander guessed as his gaze alternated between the other parties to the conversation.
“No, no,” Gaston shook his head. “No signs of movement. They are just—they are just gone. Vanished.”
Alexander forced his voice to calm, approached Trevor, and asked, “You knew this would happen?”
“Call it a pretty good guess,” Trevor answered and as he did he made eye contact with Alexander, and Armand, and Gaston. “Voggoth is breaking all the rules, gentlemen. The alien invaders came here through special gateways that I shut down a long time ago. But not Voggoth. He’s got an ace up his sleeve. Back in North America, for the past several years, we’ve noticed towns full of Order-creatures disappeared. Poof. Just like what happened to people before the invasion.”
“Yes? So what is the point?”
Trevor replied to Armand, “I was taken to a parallel Earth by the powers of something called the Nyx. Voggoth had somehow given the humans over there access to that power to grab me. When I was there—at the top of their world finding their runes—a creature of Voggoth’s appeared out of thin air in that green shit.”
“What’s the point?” Armand repeated in a louder voice.
“The point is, Voggoth thinks I’m dead. He thinks I went down on the Newport News. He thinks my mission to come here and fight my way across Europe to go knock on his door is over. Besides, he could use those troops in the final battle against my people.”
Alexander and Armand glanced at one another, clearly shocked at the missing enemy forces and what that meant for any offensive.
“So—so what is it you think we should do now?” Alexander asked.
Trevor stepped forward with his son at his side and made eye contact with each man as he spoke. Nearby soldiers and bikers gravitated toward him. Soon a circle of humanity surrounded Trevor.
“Call out all your forces—every hidden redoubt—all your knights scattered across Europe. Tell them that the time has come. There can be no hesitation. We must strike as fast as we can.”
Alexander said, “It will take time to muster those forces.”
“No, we have no time,” Trevor insisted. “Have them join us along the way. We will be one mighty horde growing in size as we move across Europe and into the heart of Russia.”
A smile—no, a grin—grew on Armand’s face. A big, evil and satisfied grin.
Alexander again protested, “But, Trevor, what about our supply lines? What about logistics?”
“We don’t need them.”
“Yeah,” Armand shot with that grin beaming, “logistics are for pussies.”
“We take what we can carry. We live off the land as best we can. But the only thing of importance is that we attack before Voggoth realizes his mistake, before his creatures start popping up in front of us again. We have to be one giant sword stabbing into our enemy.”
Alexander offered a long exhale. Armand nodded his head, smiling. They both stared at Trevor, waiting for the last word.
Trevor recalled the Chaktaw leader named Fromm from that parallel Earth as he mustered his forces for a great battle. He remembered what he had said on that day. Trevor repeated those words to his new allies.
“We marc
h.”
16. Preemption
“I don’t want you to go, Daddy. Please stay.”
Jon knelt in front of his nine-year-old girl and ran a hand over her long, dark hair. She usually returned his gaze with beautiful eyes that were—as much as any could be in that new world—innocent. But eleven days ago her mother had been murdered by The Order’s assassins.
Together, Jon and Catherine Nina Brewer had drifted through a memorial, a funeral, and a bereavement dinner. Worse, they drifted through a quiet house with daddy sleeping beside his daughter each night to stem her nightmares and to keep from facing his own empty bed.
The knock at the front door came for a second time. A soft knock. Courteous. Somber.
Catherine glanced at the closed door then back to her father.
“If you go, you won’t come back and I’ll be all alone. I don’t want you to go!”
How could Jon answer that? Voggoth’s armies had firmly established their operating facilities in Kansas City and western Missouri. All of the enemy’s preparations appeared ready and the most recent intelligence reports—perhaps the most terrifying and puzzling reports ever provided by Gordon Knox—suggested the great battle along the Mississippi river would be a human slaughter.
Adding it all together, Jon did not expect to return home; he did not expect to see his daughter again, despite the fancy plan brewing in his head.
Desperate plan.
Of course, he could not tell her as much.
“I have to go, honey. I don’t want to. But I have to.”
She stuck out her lip and glared at him as if anger might accomplish where pleading failed. Jon turned from her and answered the front door.
“Jon. How are we doing?” Ashley asked as she followed Gordon Knox—rolling in his powered wheelchair—inside.
“As expected,” the general answered and then addressed Catherine. “Like I said before, Ashley and Mr. Knox will look after you while I’m gone.”
Ashley followed the cue and approached Catherine in an effort to make small talk about things they would do, fun to be had, and lots not to worry about. Jon took the opportunity to speak quietly with Gordon Knox.
Beyond Armageddon: Book 05 - Fusion Page 28
