"It’s a slaver. They calibrate it to specific animals, shoot the prongs into the target, then they can control those animals, to a degree."
"Wow," Jon gasped. "Want to tell us how you know that?"
Trevor smiled and told him, "I just picked it up."
"Not that shit again."
Trevor ignored Dante. "The Witiko map brain waves of certain animals, so they just can’t shoot these things into anything. They have to plan it out."
Gordon said, "Our intelligence indicates that the Witiko use some big insects the same way we use guard dogs." Knox thought about that and rephrased, "I mean, the way we used to use guard dogs before, well, before those guard dogs became Grenadiers."
Trevor explained, "It causes a considerable amount of pain to the subject animal. So much so that most of the time the Witiko put down the animal before releasing the slaver device. Animals released early tend to go nuts, sometimes turn on the Witiko handlers. So it’s a way for them to increase their fighting power but it has limits and dangers."
Lori Brewer asked a disturbing question, "Can it be used on humans?"
"I don’t think so. Humans and other sentient life have far too complex brain patters and personalities. It’s not like this thing thinks for the animal, more like it implants an urge. From what I can tell, the subjects don’t like being under this thing’s thumb. But it is effective."
Gordon turned to Omar and asked, "We could use a means of blocking the signal."
"Oh! What a wonderful idea you are having Mister Knox! I will go build something right now! Let me get my erector set!"
Trevor kept things under control, "Good idea but that will take some time. Jon, how do those Stingrays match up?"
"They’re dangerous. First, they have both missiles and a short-range energy weapon. It can do some damage, but the beam itself dissipates after a half mile. Very much a close range weapon that they use more against stationery targets. Also, the Stingrays generate a stealth field. It’s not like an F117; it’s not a passive stealth but an active one. The Witiko have a good handle on electronics and jamming. We’ll see how they work in practice, but our information from the California war says no one ever saw them coming. Could be a problem."
Knox presented more bad news with photographs to match. "The Stingrays have built-in stealth field generators, but the Witiko have designed stealth fields in north and south California, one at Beale Air Force Base outside of Sacramento, another just went on-line at the old Marine Corps logistic base outside of Barstow."
Brett Stanton asked, "What do you mean, stealth field generators?"
Gordon answered, "The Stingray ships generate their own stealth capability but the Witiko have put together a system that, in theory, will allow all their ships in certain areas to become stealthy, as long as they have been upgraded with the right components."
Trevor examined Knox's photos. One showed what could have been a massive, three-sided stereo speaker with sloped walls stretching dozens of feet into the air.
"What kind of strange alien device is this?"
Knox corrected, "It’s not alien at all. It’s one of the PAVE PAWS phased array radar facilities. The US Air Force Space Command used to use them to detect missiles. The Witiko worked some of their high-tech alien magic on them. Now they emit what we’re calling a ‘stealth field’. Their human-built jet fighters and helicopters will have the same stealth capability as their Stingrays, as long as they’re within the radius of these generators, pretty much most of northern California and a nice chunk of the south."
"Wait a sec," Dante leaned forward. "We won’t be able to see their planes coming on radar? Are you kidding me?"
Jon said, "Our fighters won’t be able to get radar locks on enemy targets. We don’t think they can mask heat signatures, but we will be at a disadvantage in dog fights. The Cooperative’s human-built fighters will have a much greater stand-off distance. Could be a problem."
"Then we work the problem," Trevor grew agitated. He had heard bits and pieces for months now, but it seemed to be adding up to a bigger battle than he had hoped.
Gordon assured, "It’s all very theoretical, of course. These stealth fields might not work at all. We just have to buck-up and see what happens."
Dante shot, "Easy for you to say. You won’t be flying in a jet."
Trevor cut the confrontation off, "We have people inside; people who want out. The Cooperative isn't the utopia this Brad Gannon paints it to be."
Lori reminded, "He’s spent the last three days touring The Empire trying to drum up resistance to an invasion. He even met with the religious tribunal. Why did you let him in?"
Dante answered for Trevor, "Hey, the guy is a human being. Last I heard, we were taking in anyone who wanted to come over."
"Enough," Trevor brought the meeting to a close. As he spoke he made eye contact with everyone around the table. "Jon, you’ve been working on plans for this for months. Coordinate with the stuff Gordon has lined up and let’s get ready. I’m going to put together an ultimatum, we’ll give them a few days, then we take care of this. Now let’s get moving. There’s a lot to do."
Everyone gathered their papers and faded off toward the steps leading from the basement.
As he headed for the stairs, Trevor saw Anita Nehru and Omar standing in a corner talking. Or, at least, Omar talking and Anita not listening.
Trevor drifted over and asked, "What’s going on?"
Over the years, Trevor heard all manner of sarcasm from Omar as well as excitement, puzzlement, and terror. Yet he had never seen an expression of such desperation on the man’s face. Worse, Omar spoke without a hint of his usual accent, suggesting a great deal of worry.
"It is Anita. She has not been home to see the family in three weeks. She has been working non-stop at Red Rock. She does not call. She does not tell us anything."
Trevor studied the woman: vacant expression, her long black hair unkempt, bags under her eyes, chewed nails on fidgeting fingers.
"Anita, what’s going on?"
Her tired eyes widened as if forcing attentiveness.
"Nothing. I’m fine. Omar is over reacting."
"Over reacting? No, no, when have you been home last? When have you slept?"
"I sleep. I catch an hour or two at the lab."
Trevor jumped in, "Maybe you’re pushing yourself too hard. What’s going on?"
"I’m not pushing too hard! Damn it, just leave me alone. I’m close to something, Trevor. I’m close. We’re making breakthroughs."
He contradicted, "I’ve seen nothing new out of Red Rock in a while."
"You can’t put everything in a report. Some of it…some if it…"
Omar pleaded, "You see! She is exhausted. She is not even thinking straight."
Anita rebounded, "I’m on to something, Trevor. Do you hear me? I’m on to something. Those…those…" her eyes glazed as her mind drifted back to the underground corridors and labs and containment cells at Red Rock. "…those things from Voggoth’s realm…I’m getting a feel for them… something to them…something…familiar."
"She is talking nonsense! Trevor, you must do something."
"Yes," Stone agreed. "Anita, take the next week off."
She reacted as if stung by electricity. "No! I have important work to do."
"It can wait," he ordered. "And if you can’t pull yourself away from your work to take a week with your family, then I’m going to place you on forced medical leave and make you go see a counselor or something. Got it?"
She slammed her mouth shut so fast the two men heard teeth click. Her eyes flared with anger for a long moment, to the point that Trevor felt uncomfortable. Then that anger faded. She placed a hand to her head and closed her eyes.
"I’m…I’m sorry. Yes, you’re right. I need…I could use a break."
Omar put an arm around his wife.
Trevor said, "I’m ordering relaxation and family time."
Omar smiled.
"One of your better
orders, I must be saying."
4. Invasion
Few aircraft appeared less aerodynamic than an Eagle shuttle. The front featured a pointy capsule with a thin window. To rear, a pair of engine baffles pushing hydrogen-generated thrust.
Like many of humanity's tools in the war, the Eagles came to Earth with one of the invaders and had been adapted for man's use thanks to the engineering genius of Omar Nehru.
Trevor occupied one of the two seats in the cockpit, the other manned by his personal pilot, Rick Hauser.
Hauser wore a pair of bulky goggles that tricked his eyes into thinking that he was the craft, not merely a passenger inside; a fusing of pilot and ship like nothing any human had experienced before.
While Hauser flew, Trevor stared out the cockpit window thinking about the coming battle now that The Cooperative had ignored his ultimatum.
Through that window he saw the ultimate example of confiscated alien equipment aiding the human cause. Thanks to the same anti-gravity technology that kept the Eagles aloft, the dreadnought Excalibur hung in the air two thousand feet above the blue waters of massive Walker Lake, Nevada just east of the Sierra Nevada Mountains.
The Excalibur presented an aggressive profile. The rounded lip at the bow of the rectangular behemoth marked the start of a flat top. The ‘tower’ section dominated the rear third, one side a gigantic aircraft hangar, on the other--to stern--terraced levels peppered with launch pads, gun barrels, antenna, observation windows, and more. A squat dome on the tower housed the bridge, or the ship's "brain."
Hauser eased the Eagle to a landing pad with little noise from the smooth engines. The shuttle turned and lowered with so little fuss that Trevor could imagine he road an elevator.
After touching down, the pad descended and the morning sun disappeared as a protective bulkhead shut overhead. Bright white lights illuminated a hangar complete with fuel hoses, technicians in gray coveralls, and a greasy floor. Had it been full of Chevrolets, it could pass for a corner garage.
Trevor unbuckled his safety harness and stood.
Before leaving he said to Hauser, "You’re briefed, right?"
"Yes sir," the pilot answered. "We’ll be on standby if you need us."
As Trevor exited the cockpit and walked through Eagle One’s passenger compartment, his eyes darted to the specialized equipment that had replaced one row of seating. That equipment included two lockers holding special combat suits rigged to a charging station. There was also a weapons rack stocked with plasma rifles stolen from Duass infantrymen, a human-made M-4 carbine, a Chaktaw rail gun, and several pistols. Each held special meaning to Trevor and each offered a different way to kill.
A ramp extended from the ship's sliding side door to the floor of the bay. Tyr, who had been sleeping at the rear of the shuttle, trotted ahead and down the ramp.
The smell of grease and the sounds of tools and chatter filled the hangar. A water hose extended to refuel the hydrogen-powered shuttle.
Trevor entered the standby room. Rows of chairs, a large television, and plentiful storage compartments of spare parts, uniforms, fire suits, and other emergency gear lined the walls. There he met Woody "Bear" Ross, a one-time professional linebacker turned artillery commander by Stonewall McAllister and now the Excalibur's first officer.
Trevor asked, "Anything?"
The black man with the bull dog jowls usually spoke in a booming voice. This time, however, his voice sounded soft and sorry.
"No, sir. I think they’re resolved to fight."
Trevor closed his eyes for a moment, took a deep breath, then exhaled slowly, letting all the reluctance and doubt and questions dissipate.
He opened his eyes and hardened his jaw.
"Launch the invasion."
---
Trevor stood on the crescent-shaped bridge of the Excalibur. Ahead of him stretched a gray wall with rectangular windows offering a breathtaking view of thousands of feet of flight deck reaching toward the bow.
Under those windows and along the outer walls sat workstations with computer screens, microphones, and electronic displays. In front of each of those stations labored technicians in black and gray coveralls, most with communicator headsets.
Every one busied themselves with checks and re-checks, status updates and reports. Yet, despite the intensity of their work, those busy technicians served as redundant cogs in a system controlled by a solitary individual.
Jon Brewer acted as the Excalibur’s ‘brain’ that morning. His station dominated the center of the control room on a slightly raised platform surrounded by handrails with a Captain’s chair waiting behind for those moments that allowed for rest.
He stood in a cone of colorful touch screens hanging from the ceiling with angled keyboards mounted in arm’s reach. He wore a headset combining a microphone with a visor that worked similar to the Eagles' Nav goggles and he carried a small electronic device that acted one part pointer and one part computer mouse.
All of the ship’s functions funneled through the 'brain.' Jon could control them directly or quickly delegate to any station on the bridge. To serve as the ‘brain’ of a dreadnought required quick reflexes and a thorough understanding of the ship's workings.
Trevor fixed his eyes on the sky beyond the windows while the bridge crew shouted and discussed and hurried to war.
"Alert five, Aardvarks and F-15s in the pipe."
"Holding at angel two."
"Grav-pult green, ready to smack."
The chatter mixed and raised to a crescendo…and stopped.
Trevor realized the crew waited for him. He turned to Jon. The brain removed his goggles and asked, "Go or no-go?"
Humanity's Emperor shut his eyes.
After more than a year of preparation, months of negotiation, and hours of trepidation, the time had come. The decision rested on Trevor Stone’s shoulders. He could pull them away from the precipice if he chose. He could re-open negotiations. He could try to persuade.
Or he could continue the war he seemed cursed to fight. The war that served as his purpose, according to the Old Man.
Trevor saw the bodies of Chaktaw fighters dangling upside down from makeshift crosses on the wastelands outside the city of Thebes on a parallel Earth. He saw himself relishing the slaughter only to learn that he fought on the side of the invaders; that every victory he won there had furthered Voggoth’s cause.
Could he be so sure that striking at the California Cooperative served man’s interest?
Trevor did not find the truth behind his closed eyes, but he did find the answer. The only answer he knew. There had been a time when he had known that answer with surety. Now he spoke the answer because he did not know any other way.
"Attack."
The chatter returned twofold
Jon issued orders through key strokes and voice commands. Shouts around the bridge echoed those orders: "Condition Red. Battle stations. Battle stations."
"This is Air Boss; Brain says smack the fighters. Repeat, get my birds off the deck."
"Roger that, priority smack on the MiGCAP, two by two."
Far below, the flight deck exploded into organized chaos. Men in magnetic boots raced across the tarmac. Navigation lights flashed. Klaxons warned of an erupting storm.
At the rear of the flat top beneath the cover of the mammoth hangar, two horizontal bulkheads slid open, each at the end of a long strip of white runway lines.
Two F-15s rose from those holes and hovered a few feet above the deck in the grip of the ‘gravity catapult’. Painted on their tail fins was a feminine arm holding a bolt of lighting.
From his observation point high above, the Air Boss ordered, "Dasher One, Mother says smack your ass."
The first F-15 catapulted forward, thrown by a current of gravity ‘smacking’ it off the flight deck into the air ahead of the Excalibur. The stressful maneuver would not have been possible without substantial structural upgrades and a corresponding gravity ‘magnet’ situated inside the jet's fusela
ge.
As it cleared the deck, Dasher One banked hard to the left just as the Excalibur ‘smacked’ Dasher Two along a parallel runway.
Seconds later another pair of planes felt a smack from ‘Mother’ on their own asses. The process continued until six F-15s circled in a holding pattern around the dreadnought.
"Aardvarks, in the pipe."
The F-111 tactical fighter-bombers had received a new life in the post-Armageddon world after having been all but retired from the United States arsenal. Two of the green-painted flyers rose to the deck and then sprung forward, shaking and rattling from the intense g-forces until swooshing into the clouds overhead the Excalibur.
Moments after, another pair of Aardvarks joined the fleet flying overhead.
"Air Boss to Thunder and Lightning, you’re good to go, happy hunting."
The escorts took point and led the bombers west toward California.
---
"Dasher One to Thunder and Lightning, snuggle up folks we’re hitting the dead zone, watch your scopes."
The formation of fighters and bombers flew through a perfectly blue sky high above the jagged, white-capped peaks of the Sierra Nevada mountains. The steady drone of engines and the crackle of radio chatter presented the only distractions in a mission that began without a hitch.
As per Dasher One’s orders, the pilots tightened formation as they entered the estimated zone of effect for The Cooperative’s "Stealth Field" generated out of Beale.
Beyond Armageddon IV: Schism Page 7
