“Anything new on your end?”
Knox shook his head and answered, “No. Jon, my people have no idea how The Order built up to such a level, even accepting that they might have established more farms faster than ever before. There is just no accounting for it. The SR-71 did another run yesterday evening and it’s still the same picture. We’re estimating his main force to be more than double what it was after the Rockies fight. What about you?”
“Wow. I just don’t get it. They came out of thin air,” he shook his head and answered Knox’s question, “Operation Baseplate should be ready to go tomorrow. I’m flying out now to brief Shep and the rest. The fuel supplies and armament load-outs are already at the airfields.”
“With the Chrysaor still out of action, it could be a suicide run,” Gordon spoke plainly with no drama and not as a critique of the plan, just a fact.
“She won’t be up and running for three more days. I don’t think we have that long. Besides, everything we do now could be a suicide run. But just waiting around for them to hit us…”
“I hear you,” Knox offered one of his trademark smiles that came across as much scary as in good humor, wheelchair or not. “We’ll just tough things out on this end.”
“I’m going to stay out and see this through. I probably should have left days ago.”
“Don’t say a word, Jon. You did what any man would do. Any husband—or father. Don’t second-guess yourself.”
“I suppose I do that a lot,” Jon admitted. “I guess no one is perfect.”
“Speak for yourself,” Knox smiled even broader and the scariness went away. “Anyway, if things go, well, badly out there then you can count on Ashley here to keep Catherine out of harm’s way.”
“Exodus protocols ready to go?”
“Not for me,” Gordon tapped the handles of his wheelchair. “This old thing becomes a bit more of a liability if we start running and hiding again. Besides, that was never my style. But your girl will be on one of the first boats out if we activate Exodus.”
“That’s your decision. Monitor what happens out west and if you lose contact with me, make the call.”
Knox nodded.
Jon returned to his daughter. Despite Ashley’s best efforts, Catherine would not willingly accept the situation.
“Honey, I’ve got to go now.”
“It’s not fair.”
He took her tiny fingers in his big hands. He thought about her words. He thought about the whole damn invasion, the war, and the deck Voggoth stacked in his own favor.
“It has never been fair. Fair just isn’t a part of it.”
Before Armageddon, St. Clair Square held the distinction of the largest shopping mall south of Chicago thanks to more than 140 stores on two levels brightened by sky lights and 1,000,000 square feet of retail space.
During The Empire’s march west the mall re-opened as a barter center and—with Interstate 64 directly to the north and two air fields within minutes—a shipping waypoint.
As the last of the civilian population pulled out of the greater St. Louis area, St. Claire Square played a new role: command center.
From the point of view of General Jerry Shepherd, St. Claire served as the most recent command center. Not quite two weeks ago he survived—barely—The Order’s assault on his HQ at Riverfront Park in Kansas City. Shep knew that that park now operated as a center of operations for his enemy. Needless to say, this did not sit well with the general but battlefield reverses had become the norm during the last year.
St. Claire felt a lot like Riverfront had the day of the assassinations: vehicles driving to and fro; crates of supplies scattered around the large parking lot and a collection of weary veteran troops withdrawing east mixing with green newbies marching west.
Inside the mall different units created command centers out of what used to be shops. As Shepherd strolled the second story promenade he saw a group of soldiers standing beneath the facade of what used to be Bath and Body Works. The scented candles and gift baskets were long gone replaced with ammunition boxes, a metal filing cabinet on a hand truck, and radio equipment. Freckle-faced Benny Duda wore his black officer’s uniform with a patch on his shoulder depicting a hand gripping an axe; the icon for the 1st Mechanized Division.
He saw more men with more patches moving between stores-turned-unit-commands. He saw a young courier with a cowboy hat with a patch of a hand brandishing a broadsword on his shoulder. That patch indicated the 2nd Mechanized Division of Virginia.
Another such patch—this time on a slender brunette wearing Sergeant’s stripes—displayed a hand in a fist inside an armored glove: the calling card of William Rheimmer’s 3rd Armored Division of New Jersey.
The men and women shouted among each other, hurried the hall with important papers tucked under arms, or searched through boxes to find one need or another. Many sported trophies from the withdrawal across Kansas: slings, bandages, limps, bruises, and eye patches.
Shepherd shook his head in silent tribute to the marks of sacrifice, but then forced those thoughts from his mind as he walked inside what had once been a clothing store for children named ‘Abercrombie’. There Shepherd found a large round table in the center of the store, maps on the walls, and a gathering of important personnel. He finished his return trip from the restroom just in time to hear Jon Brewer tell the assembled crowd, “Any minute now.”
“Everything is still a go?” Shepherd came to the table and glanced—for about the one hundredth time that day—at the map of Missouri and Kansas.
“I just got off the radio with Carl Dunston. 2nd Tactical support’s fixed wing assets are in the air and joining up with the rest,” Jon answered and then took a sip from a glass of water.
“Not much left of them,” Shepherd said in reference to both the 2nd Tactical Support unit as well as the overall amount of air assets at The Empire’s disposal. He tapped the map in a spot northeast of Kansas City. “Still no idea how they built up so fast?”
Jon ran a hand across the back of his neck because that particular mystery remained a large pain there.
Shep shared that pain. He recalled the Blackbird’s surveillance photos depicting a massive amount of Voggoth’s bio-mechanical weapons in place and ready to fight. Many more—tens of thousands more—than thought possible. Enough to sweep across the Mississippi in one afternoon.
Jon said, “An idea? Yeah, I have an idea,” Brewer said and that caught Shep’s attention. “I was chewing it over during my flight out here last night. I’m thinking it’s one of two things: either The Order’s production cycle out of their farms has been sped up by ninety percent or—or…”
“Or?”
“Or—well, we’ve been asking ourselves for a couple of years now what happened to Voggoth’s boys in cities like Cincinnati.”
“When they just disappeared before we hit those cities, is that what you’re talking about?”
“Yep.”
Shep followed along, “So you reckon he yanked them out of those places in the past and is bringing them back now. Sort of like all those people before the invasion disappearing and then showing up again years later. Like Ashley.”
“I’d be lying if I said I knew for sure, but I have got to believe that Voggoth pulled these reinforcements from somewhere without using the typical type of transport we would expect. And I think finding that same radiation signature in those cities is a big clue.”
“Why not just drop em’ in behind our lines then? Like paratroopers or whatnot?”
“Why bother?” Jon thought. “He brings them in as reinforcements with the rest of his group and they make one big kick-ass army. If he drops them behind us maybe we manage to isolate them, split them up. I would bet he’d go for the easy way. The sure way.”
“Wait a sec,” Shepherd pointed out, “those things in the cities that disappeared were more like Mutants and Deadheads and bad things like that; not his core army.”
Jon cocked his head as that particular wrench
bounced around in the works of his idea.
“Well, I guess you have a point there. Sometimes I sort of throw all of those things in with The Order as a whole. I guess there is a difference. His army he sort of grows or builds or whatever when he needs it. The rest of them kind of came here on their own it seems, like the other aliens but aligned with Voggoth. Still, all these reinforcements came from somewhere. Maybe somewhere else in the world? But you know what; I think this is the type of thing that Trevor was talking about. Every time Voggoth works his magic he risks, well, getting himself into trouble with the rest of the head honchos. If we can force him to keep pulling stunts like this then maybe that’s a break in those rules Trevor was talking about.”
“And you think that might get old Voggoth in trouble? That’d be a shame.”
“Only if he gets caught red-handed, I figure. If the rest of his pals are even capable of catching him. Trevor would know better. Damn. I wish he were here.”
Silence.
Shep fought the urge to tell Jon again how sorry he felt about Lori. About how he wished he could have traveled back east to be at the funeral. About how much he would miss that little pistol of a lady.
Instead he said, “Either way, I guess your little plan had better work.”
“It’s going to cost us,” Jon admitted. “It’s going to cost us big time. This is a one-shot, Shep. No matter how well we play this we’re going to take heavy losses.”
“So let’s hope he can’t pull any more reinforcements out of his magic bag, right?”
Jon swept a hand across the map noting, “He doesn’t need to. Hell, so far he’s used his main forces to fight us but he’s got all those other buddies of his spread out across the Midwest. He’s got hundreds of Roachbots in Kansas, a whole mess of Wraiths stirring up trouble in Iowa; I even saw a report of like ten thousand of those Ghoul-things tearing up shit in Oklahoma. Not to mention the rest.”
Shepherd knew what ‘the rest’ meant. It meant the other alien races coming together to support Voggoth’s attack. It meant the Geryons moving in from the north, the Centurians marching up from the south, and the Chaktaw somewhere to the west no doubt hurrying to join the battle.
“They on the move?”
Brewer answered, “Yeah. Intel this morning spotted the Geryon air ships leaving their moorings in Des Moines and the Redcoats breaking camp at Little Rock.”
Shep removed his hat and ran an arm across his sweaty forehead.
“That’s as sure a sign that this thing is coming to a head soon as anything else. If Trevor’s right, that is. Guess those other folks want to make it to the party on time.”
“Sure,” Jon agreed. “But if we can hit Voggoth hard enough he’ll postpone his attack on the Mississippi. If he does that, I’m guessing those others will back off and wait. If Trevor is right and all.”
“Be nice if we could hit them Geryons or the Reds first. You know, break the whole thing into pieces. I reckon that would improve our odds.”
Brewer smiled—a little—and flattered Shep with, “I ‘reckon you’d be right. But I don’t think we’ve got the mobility or the firepower to do it. Not with ground forces, at least.”
“I suppose you’re right,” Shepherd admitted. “Still, it’d be nice to play out Five Armies again, just like the old days. That worked out in our favor.”
“Never thought I’d see worse odds. Guess I didn’t know shit, right? But you’ve been running the show out here for a few weeks, Shep. Give me the lay of the land again.”
Shep leaned over the table and pointed to different segments of the map while he updated Jon on the defensive preparations made while Jon had mourned his dead wife.
“Duda’s got all of his 1st Mech boys around St. Louis: 4th Brigade is dug in the city in the worst kind of way, his 6th Mobile Artillery is positioned at the Lockhaven Country Club to the northeast of the city and can move to follow the enemy’s approach when the time comes.”
“What about his 5th Brigade?”
“They got sent all the way back to Springfield for re-supply and re-tool. Not much of those poor bastards left. I don’t think they’re going make it to the party.”
Jon mumbled, “Strip what you can.”
Shepherd went on, “Rheimmer’s 3rd Armored is backing up St. Louis. 10th and 12th Armored Brigades are exactly where you wanted them: over on this side of the river waiting around as a mobile reserve. By the way, Rheimmer rolled what was left of his 11th brigade in with the 12th, in case you’re wondering where they headed to.”
“Makes sense. What about Simms?”
Shep pointed to the town of Quincy to the north and answered, “Her cavalry and mobile artillery are holding up in this quiet spot. I’m thinking she can turn south when the fighting gets going but until then she’s holding a crossing up there.”
“She’ll want in. No way you’ll keep her out of this.”
Shep smiled and continued, “You know Rhodes’ Second Corp got chewed up real bad getting out of the Rockies. Only the 10th Mechanized Infantry Brigade is left in the 3rd Division. Captain Vervain has got them dug in down at Cape Girardeu. Not likely to see any action unless we call em’ up. As for 5th Mech, they were always under-strength to begin with. I’ve got one of their infantry brigades held up in Carbondale in reserve, the 1st Mountain guarding supply depots—“
“I thought there weren’t any of them left after what happened in the Sierra Nevadas.”
“Just enough to pull sentry duty. That’s about all those boys got left in them but they won’t catch a bad word from me about it.”
“Wow, yeah, I hear that,” Jon agreed and then prompted, “Go on.”
“Anyway, Rhodes’ Armored Car battalion is in Chester watching a crossing and the 1st Engineering Brigade is in the same neck of the woods mining in case Voggoth wants to try to cross that far south. But if he goes that way they will need help in a hurry.”
“Every bit helps. You did a hell of job getting Rhodes out of that pocket.”
“Wish I could take the credit. It was the Grenadiers who made that work.”
“And Third Corps?”
“Ross has got them moving good. That fella has a way of grabbing someone’s attention. He’s got Rothchild’s 10th Armored brigade in the Golden Eagle area northwest of St. Louis to protect the river bend. They can move out of there fast if need be. You know 11th Armored brigade was disbanded after the Rockies and I am very familiar with the 12th Engineering Brigade; those knuckleheads are sabotaging the approaches west of St. Louis.”
Jon laughed. He had heard the story of the mix up during Shep’s relief mission. If not for the Grenadiers there would be nothing left to laugh about.
“What remains of the 4th Mechanized infantry is positioned in East Alton. We’re talking about a fraction of an Infantry Brigade and some arty. Oh yeah, 14th Mech is east of Hannibal, they’re not in too bad a shape if push comes to shove. That’s about the whole of it.”
“Sounds good.”
“No it don’t but it’s all we’ve got.”
“I suppose you’re right,” Jon reached for his glass. “As Gordon Knox would say, we just got to tough it out.”
Jon saw the water in his glass ripple. The table came next, then windows rattled. Activity in the mall-turned-military-base slowed to a hush…
They came like bullets flying from east to west, little more 300 feet overhead. A rolling, ear-splitting roar came with them as they raced hard and fast but very low in the sky.
F-15s in the lead but F-16s not far behind along with Tomcats and even a pair of F-18 Hornets. Eight—ten—twelve in all leading the charge followed by a mixed bag of aircraft: Six F-111 Aardvarks; three F-117 Nighthawk Stealth Fighters; four A-10s all of which sported the scars of recent battles and five EA-6B Prowlers stripped of their electronic warfare gear in favor of weapons pods.
The mass of soldiers in the mall parking lot below stopped packing crates, woke from their naps, put aside their chow, and watched.
They knew what passed in the sky. The last of mankind’s once-mightiest air force. Now piloted by left over guardsmen and commercial pilots-turned-warriors, those high-tech machines were once capable of ruling the skies, even in the post-Armageddon world when the Hivvans and the Duass and the California Cooperative had tasted death from above courtesy The Empire’s gallant flyers.
Despite the mighty roar, every soldier below knew they watched the end of something.
Voggoth would sacrifice 100—200—1,000 of his half-machine/half-monster ‘Spooks’ to knock the planes from the sky only to re-grow those horrible weapons by the bushel while The Empire could no longer replace, repair, or re-build the jets.
The soldiers on the ground did not know why the air force flew, they could only watch and pray that the Generals expended this last resource for some benefit. So they watched the fighters fly away; they listened to the last echoes of the turbines; they watched—and hoped.
The tail fins of the lead F-15s sported an icon of a female arm holding a bolt of lightning. The veteran combat pilot in the lead radioed, “Dasher One to group, watch the wash back there boys.”
His wingman—young before Armageddon but now a veteran as well—pointed out, “Dash One, this is Two, we’re at about three cherubs and really booming here; how we going to keep this all together with the slow-movers back there?”
“Don’t work your thinkbox too hard, Billie. That’s just the way it has to be. This isn’t exactly the most sophisticated mission we’ve gone on so we’ll just have to make it work.”
“What are we doing, boss?” Billie spoke through his mask as the scenery—some 300 feet below—whizzed by in a blur and the slower-moving of the phalanx of aircraft drifted further to the rear.
“Weren’t you at the meeting with General Brewer?”
Billie heard the sarcastic tone but replied, “No,” before he could stop himself.
“Guess not,” Dasher One answered with the obvious connotation of you don’t need to know.
“Dash-One this is Viking One, aren’t we do for a course correction?”
Beyond Armageddon: Book 05 - Fusion Page 29
