Soon, she saw the outskirts of Old Fort across the river, a small community sheltered against the base of the Peace River valley. She could just make out the riverfront homes, farms, and long lawns that ran down to the river. She didn't see a single person, which seemed odd given it was a weekday morning.
She forced her anxiety down again. There could be a thousand reasons why no one's out this morning.
The river banked sharply south, taking her farther away from Fort St. John. The thick woods gave way to tall grassy hills on her side of the river, with the rocky cliffs continuing along the opposite bank.
She didn't realize she had picked up the pace until painful hot spots once again formed on her heels. She stopped in place, wiping her sweaty face with the end of her shemagh. If she didn’t do something, the hot spots would be blisters within an hour, and she'd be hobbling along. She removed her pack, laying her rifle nearby, then unlaced and removed her boots and socks. Her feet were white, but the heels were inflamed with crimson. Once again, she channeled what little healing magic she could manage. When she was done, a portion of the redness remained, but the hotspots were gone. That was as good as she was going to get today. She put on another pair of clean, dry socks then reluctantly pulled her boots back on before shrugging her arms back into the straps of her pack. She sighed as she retrieved her rifle. "Don’t give up now, Elizabeth. People are counting on you. Stephen is counting on you."
Less than an hour later, she came across something she hadn't expected on the river ahead of her—a large dark iron railroad bridge in the distance. She stared at it in surprise then pulled out her map again, this time easily finding the bridge. Of course there's a railroad bridge. How else do the trains make it to Fort St. John? It had always been there. She had just been too focused on the Taylor Bridge to pay attention to it.
Railroad bridges had to be unsafe, but the Taylor Bridge was still another six kilometers away. If she crossed here, she'd be on the outskirts of Taylor almost immediately. When the wind gusted over the cliffs to the north, carrying the acrid tang of smoke, she knew there was no real choice.
She had to find her family.
She picked up the pace, heading for the southern end of the railroad crossing. The metal bridge sat atop a high manmade hill built along the bank, elevating the bridge so that it rested high above the waters. By the time she reached the summit of the hill and the bridge's entrance, her legs felt like cooked spaghetti.
Panting heavily, her face coated in sweat, she rested, looking in both directions, wondering how often trains came. The bridge consisted of a single set of tracks, with maybe a foot or two of space on either side. A wire-mesh barrier covered the open sides of the bridge. End to end, the bridge must have been at least half a kilometer long and maybe a couple of hundred feet above the surface of the river. A fall from that height—like, say, if she were to jump to avoid an oncoming train—would be lethal, if she could even get past the wire-mesh barrier first. Most likely, she'd be smashed into jelly. She'd need to get across the bridge as fast as she could. If a train caught her partway across…
Maybe this wasn't such a good idea after all.
Stephen.
Kneeling down, she placed a palm atop one of the metal rails. She felt nothing. Standing up again, she stared south one last time, searching the horizon for smoke. Do trains still make smoke? Probably not.
"Hurry up. They need you," she told herself.
She breathed in deeply, then, holding her rifle across her chest, she began to trot across the bridge. Its surface was a crisscross of metal framework and the uneven railroad ties, but she focused on the far bank, making sure she didn't look down. The wind picked up the farther she went, but it wasn't strong enough to do more than frighten her. Soon, she was almost halfway across.
Then she felt someone channeling mana and staggered to a stop, staring about her. The hair on the back of her neck stood up. She spun about, looking in all directions, but saw no one. Then, faintly drifting over the wind, came an animal's cry, like a predatory bird but different, alien.
A year ago, on Rubicon, she had heard one of the winged lizard-like creatures the dark elves used as mounts make a cry like that. It had frightened her so badly she had never forgotten it.
She wiped the sweat from her eyes again with her scarf. "It's just your nerves, Elizabeth. Keep going."
Still, she couldn't shake the feeling something terrible had happened—was still happening—in Fort St. John. She began to trot across the bridge again, moving faster this time. She was less than a hundred meters from the end of the bridge when she heard the howling.
A shiver coursed down her spine, and she staggered to a halt again, panting. Two large creatures like a cross between a wolf and a hyena, but far larger than any wolf had a right to be, darted out onto the far end of the bridge, cutting her off.
They stared at Elizabeth with red eyes, their hackles rising menacingly.
Hellhounds.
A year ago, a pack of these fire-breathing monsters had slaughtered an entire family. Cassie and Task Force Devil had gone after them, hunting them through the woods with the help of Paco. They had finally cornered the hellhounds, setting up an ambush with explosives and snipers to take the monsters down. Even then, Cassie had told her, everyone had been terrified of them.
And now it was just her, with nowhere to run.
"God, help me, please," she whispered, forcing herself to raise her rifle to her shoulder and aim through its scope. One of the animals, a couple of hundred pounds of muscle and fur, barked out a cloud of orange fire, setting nearby bushes aflame. Panic bubbled within Elizabeth. Fire. They breathe fire.
Of course they breathe fire.
Through her rifle's scope, both monsters appeared menacingly close. Their heads were like the obscene offspring of a wolf and a hyena, with angry red eyes. Flames and smoke curled from their jaws.
"Be like Cassie," Elizabeth told herself. "Be brave."
She dropped to a knee, pulled the weapon tightly against her shoulder, and concentrated on her breathing, trying to focus on what Swamp Thing had taught her. But she had only ever shot at paper targets, and the moment she opened fire, she was certain both beasts would charge—then she'd be trying to shoot moving targets. They paced closer, their heads low, their eyes locked on her. Her mouth dry, sweat trickling into her eyes, Elizabeth put the aiming arrow over the closest hellhound.
"You are a lioness," she heard Swamp Thing's words echoing in her memory.
She squeezed the trigger.
Nothing happened.
She almost cried out with frustration when she realized the weapon was still on safety. Now, the hellhounds were much closer. She snapped the selector to single fire, took aim, and fired.
The weapon cracked, far louder than she would have thought possible, but she usually wore ear defenders. The barrel jumped up off target, but the shot had been good. The closest hellhound stumbled, lifting its head and grunting in surprise. The second beast froze, staring at her. She fired again, and this time both animals bolted forward.
Can bullets even stop them?
Now, she aimed over the scope, using the targeting notch intended for close combat. She fired as fast as she could, pausing only to let the barrel fall back again, on the onrushing monsters. Then she used her thumb to switch the firing selector to automatic and began firing short bursts. The first of the hellhounds fell forward, skidding along the railroad tracks. The second leaped over it, fire trailing from its open jaws. When she squeezed the trigger, nothing happened. She canted the weapon to the left, remembering Swamp Thing's admonitions as he drilled her in weapons usage: "Cock, cant, look, react" —the breach was fully back; she had fired all thirty rounds.
As she fumbled for another magazine, the second hellhound smashed into her, sending her flying onto her back. With a snarl of rage, it was on her, its teeth seeking her throat. She rammed her rifle's plastic forestock between its jaws, trying to force it back. This close, its breath wa
s like chemicals. Its saliva dripped on her cheek, hot, burning. The animal's weight was crushing her, and she knew she had, at best, seconds before it got past the rifle and ripped her throat out. She made a desperate choice. Releasing the rifle, she channeled, wrapping tendrils of mana around the hellhound.
The beast's eyes actually registered surprise and fear—just before she sent it flying away from her to smash into the wire barrier along the side of the bridge. She scrambled to her feet as the hellhound, shaking its head and breathing gouts of orange flame, recovered and charged once more.
This time she wasn't frightened. She was angry.
As the hellhound leaped at her, she channeled telekinesis again, catching it in midair, holding it motionless and dangling five feet from her. It snapped furiously but was unable to reach her. It then opened its mouth, perhaps intending to breathe fire on her, but with a single wrenching motion of her hands, she snapped its spine, killing it instantly. Next time, Elizabeth, she admonished herself, start with the magic.
She let its carcass fall to the bridge, its eyes already glossing over in death.
Her pulse pounded in her ears as she stared at it. "Hyenas don't attack lions."
She picked up her rifle and checked to make sure the barrel hadn't been damaged then ejected the spent magazine before loading a new one and letting the action ride forward with a metallic snick. She hit the forward assist with her palm—again, just as Swamp Thing had taught her—and casually put two rounds into the skull of each hellhound before crossing the rest of the bridge.
She set her gaze north.
Her family needed her.
16
Brigadier General Oscar Redford McKnight, a tall, distinguished black man with his gray hair shaved into a crew cut, stalked through the White House hallways, his thoughts a tempest. The day had started badly enough with the loss of communications with the Magic Kingdom and had only gotten much worse.
He wore his service dress uniform today—his "dress blues"—so a lifetime of service decorations covered his chest: his combat infantry badge, the red-and-blue ribbons with bronze oak leaves signifying his bronze stars, and his Ranger tab, jump wings, and arrowhead flash of the USSOC Combat Service Identification tab. On the right sleeve of his tunic, a series of overseas service bars, each signifying six months in a combat zone, ran down his arm. What he didn't wear, due to operational security, was the Purple Heart he had been awarded in a secret ceremony a year earlier. McKnight was the only member of the US military who had been captured and tortured by an alien race. It was hardly the type of thing he wanted to discuss, but that was entirely why he was here now.
He was what passed for a subject-matter expert on the dark elves.
The presidential aide escorting McKnight and three other visitors was a dour-faced, no-nonsense Asian-American woman in a smart gray pantsuit. McKnight's colleagues were the Air Force brigadier general who commanded the 56th Fighter Wing, an F-16 training unit housed out of Luke Air Force Base in Arizona; Bob Archer, a colonel from the joint intelligence branch of USSOCOM who McKnight drank beers and played poker with on a regular basis; and an overweight bearded civilian he didn't know but suspected was CIA. As the aide hustled the three men downstairs to the basement of the West Wing, McKnight saw the tension in the faces of the White House staff they passed. In the space of hours, everything these people had taken for granted was gone: Not only were aliens real, but so were monsters—and people were dying.
By all accounts, a lot of people.
The aide led them to the Situation Room. A plaque on the door identified it as the John F. Kennedy Conference Room. The lighting inside was subdued, and a massive black glass conference table dominated the room, around which sat dozens of harried-looking staffers, both military and civilian—including the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, the vice president, the president's science advisor, and the White House Chief of Staff. No one paid the slightest attention as the three men entered. The aide motioned them to plush rolling office chairs, and McKnight and the other two military officers sat together at the table. The civilian sat against the wall at the back of the room.
Definitely CIA. They're always hiding in the back.
White House staffers came by, placing bottles of water on the table. The smell of coffee and too much cologne wafted through the cold air-conditioned room. The wall-mounted plasma screens at the head of the table displayed static satellite images of Arizona, northern British Columbia, and three of the other nine sites currently identified as alien incursions. And those are the ones we know about. There could be dozens of others. Staff hustled about the room, kneeling to whisper to the men and women seated at the table, handing them scraps of paper in a desperate attempt to give them the most current intelligence before the meeting began. Although it was highly inappropriate given the vast difference in their ranks, the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, a lanky five-star general with a ruddy complexion, rose and came over to greet McKnight, his hand held out.
McKnight jumped to his feet and shook the chairman's hand. "Sir, it's an honor."
"Oscar, right?" the chairman asked, still holding his hand and squeezing his shoulder with his other hand.
"Yes, sir." He looks exhausted, McKnight thought, different from his pictures.
"Thank you for coming on such short notice."
"Of course, sir."
"My staff insist this is related to Operation Rubicon. Do you agree?"
"I do, sir. There's no—"
Two Secret Service agents came through the doorway, taking up position on either side of it. The occupants of the room jumped to their feet, and McKnight and the chairman assumed rigid positions of attention. Leonard Tillsman Jr., the president of the United States, swept into the room, followed by a small entourage of assistants and the heads of Homeland Security, the Justice Department, and his communications advisor. The president seated himself in the center of the conference table, where he had the best view of the monitors. "Everyone sit down. Let's go."
The chairman squeezed McKnight's shoulder once more then hurried to take his seat. Chairs creaked as the occupants settled in.
The president looked over to the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. "Tom, please tell me you know what the hell's going on."
The chairman, looking decidedly uneasy, rose. "Mr. President, the situation is … fluid and confused."
"No shit," said the president. "I just got off the phone with the Secretary-General of the United Nations. He was understandably … emotional. Thinks I'm going to nuke ET. Before that, I was trying to explain to the Russian president that the appearance of an alien army near Mount Bolshoi in eastern Russia has nothing to do with us. Was I lying?"
The chairman shook his head. "Mr. President, at 5:00 a.m. this morning—8:00 a.m. in Washington—our joint US-Canadian covert operations base in northern British Columbia was attacked. The base, as you're aware, exists solely to support Operation Rubicon. Shortly after they reported a … a dragon attack, Mr. President, we lost contact with the base."
The chairman paused as shocked whispers rolled through the room.
"Quiet. Quiet," the president said.
"Less than a half hour later, we began to receive the first reports of attacks upon the nearby city of Fort St. John, with a population center of almost twenty thousand people. Our best assessment is that a non-terrestrial force, an army numbering in the tens of thousands, appeared on the outskirts of the city and attacked it. The Canadian government thinks there may be hundreds dead. We think that number may be conservative—much too conservative. It's likely thousands dead."
A collective gasp ran through the room as well as hushed whispers asking about Operation Rubicon.
The president sighed and ran his hands over his face. "Go on, Tom."
"At the same time, or very close to, the incursion in Fort St. John, we had our own non-terrestrial incursion in the Sonoran desert in southern Arizona. This incursion was mirrored in at least eight other sites all
over the world, maybe more."
"Oh, Goddamn, stop saying non-terrestrial, and just call it aliens."
"Yes, Mr. President. With the exception of Fort St. John, though, all the other … alien incursions have been in isolated locations, far from population centers. The only site where there have been significant hostilities is northern British Columbia. We don't know why. In fact, if it wasn't for NASA reporting massive gamma radiation spiking in the Sonoran desert, we'd likely not be aware of our own incursion, as remote as it is."
"The ones in the Sonoran desert, are they hostile?"
"Hard to say, Mr. President. If left alone, perhaps not, but that may easily change. This is the same species slaughtering civilians in Canada. We sent a UAV and recorded this." The chairman pointed toward the wall-mounted monitor, and an aide put up an aerial video feed from a UAV camera of the desert and a large grouping of people or creatures numbering in the thousands.
"Jesus, how many of them are there?" the president asked.
"We estimate at least five thousand aliens clustered within a five-mile zone."
"How did they just … get there, and what are they doing?"
"So far, nothing, Mr. President. Or let me clarify ... they're not advancing, not acting in an overtly hostile manner. They have established clear military fortifications, but they're acting entirely in a defensive posture. If it's an invasion, they're content to sit in place, doing nothing more than erecting this."
The camera feed paused on a structure being built in the desert, a tower of some kind built atop poles so that its base was above the ground. A metal globe sat atop the tower, with sunlight flashing from it, giving it the appearance of gold.
"So," said the president, disbelief in his voice, "five thousand aliens secretly appeared in the Sonoran desert in Arizona and started building a big tower with a gold ball? None of this makes sense. Why? What is it? What does it do? Are they trying to communicate with their home base?"
"We don't know, Mr. President. We're working on it."
Gunz (The Dark Elf War Book 2) Page 10
