Beyond Armageddon V: Fusion

by DeCosmo, Anthony

  “One of these days I’m going to catch a break. But not today.”

  The Director slid open a drawer in a metallic desk and found a flask. Even he could not be sure exactly what the stuff was, but he knew it came from a bunch of hillbillies living in the Appalachians, therefore it must be good.

  He removed the black cap, took a deep swig, and then re-sealed the bottle and returned it to its hiding place.

  “Now that’s what I call aviation fuel.”

  A moment later he exited the building alongside a middle-aged woman and one very fat man, two of his advisors. They carried blueprints and books while struggling to keep pace with their boss. The trio commandeered a golf cart and buzzed across the open space toward the ships.

  “What did the general say?” the woman asked.

  “Can he send us more workers?” the man asked.

  “Put that to him yourself. He’s coming out this way later.”

  A line of black marked the difference between the open pavement under the May sun and nearly a mile’s worth of shade beneath the docked ships.

  “Now there’s something you don’t see every day,” Stanton switched his attention from his driving to the sky just before that sky disappeared behind the airship.

  The fat man said, “Geez yeah. They kinda look like hawks.”

  The woman said, “I didn’t think they traveled in flocks.”

  The older man with the prosthetic hand led Ashley along the hall of the lakeside cottage to the rear room that served as Gordon’s nerve center.

  “Thank you, Charles,” she said to Gordon’s assistant and he smiled in return as a sign of welcome.

  One of the computer printers ran furiously; line after line of type coming off the inkjet at maximum speed. Voices on two different radios filled the room with conflicting sounds, one seemingly the local Internal Security band and the other a news broadcast decrying something about the military abandoning Little Rock.

  To her surprise, Gordon did not sit amidst the chaos. Instead, he waited in his wheelchair by the sliding glass door staring at something outside.

  “Gordon?”

  He answered without turning, “Hello, Ashley. Please, come in.”

  His expression appeared different than last Thursday morning when she confronted him over presenting his intelligence reports in person. On that morning he had stared into his backyard looking at something that was not there. This time, something specific held his attention.

  “Anything wrong?”

  “No, not really,” and turned to face here. “Take a look at this fantastic bird. I’m not sure exactly what it is.”

  Ashley—who carried a paperback book in one hand—walked to his side and tried to follow his view.

  Before she could say anything, Gordon complained, “Damn. It’s gone. Marvelous creature. Some kind of hawk I think. It was sitting out there in one of the higher branches just staring at the house for a good fifteen minutes.”

  “I didn’t know you were a member of the Audubon Society.”

  He flashed a grimace—or was it a smile—something—it was hard to tell with Gordon.

  “Tell me, Miss Ashley, did you come all the way over here to cause me grief?”

  “Yes. And lots of it,” she placed a hand on his shoulder and they shared a chuckle. She the waved toward the equipment going mad in the center of the room. “Something big going on?”

  “Preparations. All the pieces are moving into place for that glorious last stand. Except for General Brewer, of course. He’s still tying up some loose ends before he heads out. You know, it won’t be long and we’ll have this lake practically to ourselves.”

  “That will be a change. For us, at least. You and I, Gordon, we joined on a little later than the rest of them. I understand things were a lot quieter back when there was only a handful of them. Say, you never told me, what were you up to before you hooked up with Trevor?”

  He shook his head. “Not today, Miss Ashley. I wouldn’t want to spoil our afternoon. What have you got there?”

  She held a paperback aloft. He read the cover and said, “Conrad, Heart of Darkness. Yes, we still have some more reading to do, don’t we? Charles is putting together a late lunch; shall we wait or get started?”

  She pulled a folding chair from a lonely corner of the room to his side and joined him in the light by the sliding glass door.

  “I’ve done enough waiting,” she answered. “I think we should dive right in.”

  “We should tough it out, is that it? My thoughts exactly.”

  Ashley opened the story to a bookmarker.

  “Okay, here we go, page fifty-six,” she cleared her throat. “You can’t judge Mr. Kurtz as you would an ordinary man…”

  Two hundred years ago the legendary explorers Lewis and Clark camped on the grounds of what is now Riverfront Park during their trip across Kansas. A different type of camp returned to the shores of the Missouri River there; one much larger and more chaotic.

  The area served as a muster zone for retreating elements of General Casey Fink’s Third Corp as well as advanced units from General Jerry Shepherd’s 1st Corp. The former disembarked from rail cars via the tracks a few hundred feet to the west of the park on the far side of a destroyed highway. In fact, destruction ruled the outer perimeter of the base camp: an industrial facility of a kind had once operated there but all that remained were a few huge cisterns and the massive parking lot that now hosted hundreds of tents.

  Shep had not wanted to move any of 1st Corp this far west. They belonged at the Mississippi. But developments on the ground demanded action.

  He stood under a canvas cover discussing that situation with a collection of officers. These included General Casey Fink, whom Brewer and Trevor had left in charge of operations for the last week; General Cassy Simms of 2nd Mechanized; Captain Benny Duda who had been overseeing the deployment of his 1st Mechanized units around St. Louis; and Woody “Bear” Ross who had commanded a mobile artillery unit during the Wetmore battle but now sought a new assignment.

  “Here’s what we got, folks,” General Shepherd leaned over a folding table and explained the predicament to the officers involved. Outside—in the bright mid-morning sun—Jeeps and squads of soldiers hurried to and fro giving the gathering of brass little attention. “It seems General Rhodes has got himself into a mess. The garrison at Newton got overrun before his boys could pass through.”

  Shep traced lines on a map.

  “The bulk of his boys had to abandon their train at Halstead. With the shit Voggoth pulled on us yesterday, that puts them behind enemy lines. That’s about four thousand soldiers plus an entire mobile artillery brigade that was on flatbeds taking a train ride.”

  The markers on the map designated The Order’s positions. Casey verbalized what those markers showed: “Last night The Order’s advanced forces skirted Wichita and broke North right up Interstate 135. On top of that, they dropped airborne units supported by concentrated aerial bombardment on Newton.”

  Shepherd said, “Long and the short of it, folks, is that Rhodes is getting pinched into a pocket. Those are four thousand soldiers we could use at the Mississippi, so I’m not fond of the idea of leaving them in a pickle like that.”

  Murmurs of agreement. None of the gathered officers relished the idea of being surrounded by The Order and each of them knew General Rhodes personally.

  Casey Fink reported, “Bragg’s First Tactical Support Wing has gone into full operation; about one hundred sorties have been flown since last night focused mainly on…” he touched spots on the map, “enemy formations on 135. But you know how it is once Voggoth gets any type of bridgehead anywhere. It’s like trying to stamp out roaches with half a can of Raid.”

  Cassy Simms volunteered, “Stonewall’s brigades can do it, sir. We can punch through and open a hole for Rhodes.”

  Shepherd, his eyes on the map, answered, “I figured you’d say that, Cassy, but all your units aren’t up to the front yet. I think we’re
going to have to mix and match brigades and units from just about everyone here, then see what we can get done.” He traced a line on the map and mused, “Ain’t it funny how things turn? Seems to me I recollect a situation like this a few years back, except then it was a bunch of Hivvans in a bag and we were the ones doing the trapping.”

  Benny Duda—the young officer who had started his post-Armageddon military career as Stonewall McAllister’s bugler—spoke with acid in his tone, “Speaking of New Winnabow and all that, where is Trevor? Where is Brewer?”

  Shepherd stood straight and glared at Duda. “You mean to say General Brewer, right?”

  “Where’s he at?”

  “After he gave you your orders, Captain, he headed back to the estate for a big get together. He’s expected out this way soon but right about now he’s trying his damnedest to hustle up some reinforcements for us. And to tell you straight, it isn’t your place to go asking about General Brewer like that.”

  Duda’s freckle face remained stone cold. He said, “And Trevor? I thought he had taken to leading from the front these days.”

  “Whoa, easy there, partner, Trevor is opening up a whole new front in this war and like I said, he don’t report to you, son.”

  “I just think it’s funny that he high-tailed it back east after his plan at the Rockies went FUBAR. Just a thought.”

  General Shepherd glanced around at the gathered officers and realized that there were still two camps among the officer corp: those whom Trevor had recruited to the estate, and those who had come there with Stonewall McAllister. Tension between the two camps flared now and then, but this was the first time in a long while that he found himself faced with such an obvious dividing line.

  Indeed, Stonewall McAllister would never have sanctioned such division, but with his death easy to blame on Trevor’s overly aggressive actions in California that division had been greatly agitated.

  He felt eyes turn to him. How would he handle the confrontation? Push too hard and Ross as well as Simms might come to Duda’s defense. Show weakness and command might break down.

  Shepherd carefully removed his hat and set it atop the map.

  “I’m going to give you that one, Benny, because I know how much Garrett meant to you. But so help me to God if I hear you say anything along those lines again, I’m going to drop you.”

  Benny appeared ready to speak. His lips moved.

  Woody “Bear” Ross growled, “Benny—shut it.”

  The line that Shepherd could see so clearly a second before faded.

  Casey jumped in, “What we need right now are SITREPS from each of you on your unit’s operational readiness. You’ve got two hours to report back here. Think about how close those units are and how quickly they can be assembled here.”

  Shepherd kept his eyes locked on Benny Duda’s. The kid finally glanced away as Shep spoke, “We have to hit hard and fast. I’m not so much worried about arty but armor and vehicles are priority. Now let’s move.”

  “Sir,” Ross interrupted as the briefing dispersed, “I haven’t got a unit. Still waiting on the Excalibur, sir.”

  It seemed to Shep that Ross emphasized sir so as to emphasize his loyalty. He must have seen that line, too.

  “You do now,” Casey Fink put a hand on one of Ross’ strong shoulders. “Marty Blue’s staff car was hit by an air strike this morning. 4th Mech is yours. Welcome to 3rd Corp, General Ross.”

  Shepherd replaced the cowboy hat on his head and approached a water cooler on one end of the open tent. Ross and Casey began discussing the particulars of his new assignment with all sorts of paperwork to review; Duda sort of sulked, Cassy Simms examined the map.

  Far overhead in the clear blue sky of mid-morning, a black and brown bird made its final circle over the camp. The Humvees and ambulances and squads of marching infantry and forklifts pushing along supply crates took no notice of the airborne voyeur.

  No one watched as it stopped circling and flew toward the wooded picnic and camping area a few hundred feet to the southeast along the river bank. The strange, large bird dove toward hard and furious, its wings pulled taut against its body.

  Faster and faster it fell not like a bird, but a missile. Its beak sunk into its skull in a mechanical, contracting motion. Its neck puffed thicker as if reinforced from within. And still it fell toward the Earth at a speed surpassing the natural pull of gravity.

  Feathers—first one, then another, then in clumps—flaked away and fluttered in the wind. The ground came closer and closer; the creature continued to gain speed faster and faster.

  What remained of its beak broke away revealing a shiny metal stake that glinted in the sunlight. The feathers fell off in fistfuls until—as it crashed through the tree tops—nothing remained of its avian costume. Instead, a cone-shaped metal vessel broke tree limbs and burrowed into the ground between two thick roots blasting dirt in a quiet explosion. Only its top end—a metal cylinder lined with pulsing emerald veins—remained above the surface.

  The head of the cylinder rotated a half-turn and a small iris opened in its center. A second later, a sack exploded out in a gush from the container as if it were a dashboard airbag deploying in a crashing vehicle. The contents inside the brown and gray sack writhed and squirmed as the proper activation and growing sequence gave them mass and purpose.

  Red lights glowed from inside the sack. Those lights pushed against their confinement like a horrific litter demanding to be born.

  Jon Brewer exited the front of the mansion with his wife, Lori, at his side. He carried a briefcase and walked with the intention of boarding an Eagle transport waiting on the nearby landing pad. Around them, several K9s patrolled the grounds, guards stood ready at the main gate, a well-armed Humvee eased along the drive way, and Omar Nehru marched to meet them.

  “What is this? I thought we were meeting?”

  “Change of plans, Omar. You’ve got to come with me out to Pittsburgh.”

  The group congregated on the lawn.

  “Pittsburgh? I cannot be going to Pittsburgh. What of Anita?”

  Lori assured, “I’ll keep an eye on her and we’ll put a nurse in the house twenty-four hours. I promise.”

  “I don’t want promises,” Omar objected. “I am not going to Pittsburgh!”

  “Look, Omar,” Jon struggled to keep understanding in his voice. “Brett pulled the Hercules in. He’s scavenging engine parts and anti-grav generators from it to shoehorn into the Excalibur.”

  Omar angrily shot, “I have told Mr. Stanton not to do this on a number of occasions! The Excalibur’s anti-gravity generators were first-generation. The Hercules has a different type of generator! The two are not compatible and could create a dangerous electromagnetic feedback across the entire system!”

  Jon insisted, “Brett says he’s worked that out. But I need you to eyeball it to see if he’s right.”

  Omar threw his eyes to the heavens in frustration. The first thing he noticed was that the birds Anita watched all morning had flown off. He did not know why, but that bothered him. Perhaps because it meant Anita had lost a source of entertainment.

  Lori broke in, “Listen, Omar, I’ve got to have you give Stanton’s work the okay before I release about five tons worth of supplies and a couple hundred personnel for duty on the Excalibur. Otherwise those supplies will go somewhere else.”

  One of the K9 sentries barked. The sound grabbed their attention.

  The animal—a German Shepherd—stood on the far side of the Eagle transport facing the northern fence and the thick woods beyond. As they watched, a second then a third dog joined the first, all three staring north.

  Two human handlers walking the grounds as well as the guards at the main entrance also took notice. The Humvee that gently rolled up and down the driveway halted and the gunner in the copula swung his .50 caliber northward.

  “What is wrong with them?” Lori asked.

  The dogs kept barking. Very agitated.

  A sound rose above the
barks. A hum. An electronic hum growing louder and louder.

  “What is that?” Jon reached to his wife’s shoulder. “Look, get inside. You too, Omar…”

  Lights flickered in the woods; red and yellow lights as if a mob of flashlights worked in the forest, sending flashes between the trees.

  The humming grew louder—louder…the dogs barked.

  “Security!”

  Jon’s call brought the two policemen-like guards from the front gate to their side. The pair of handlers also drew weapons. The soldier in the Humvee pulled the bolt on his heavy machine gun. More dogs came from across the grounds to face the northern fence.

  Jon’s touch on his wife’s shoulder turned into a strong grip.

  “Inside. Now.”

  The lights grew brighter and took form; spheres of light—spheres of red and yellow…

  “Run!”

  They came from the forest like bullets, flying over the fence and onto the estate grounds: a dozen softball-sized suns with flames of red and yellow dancing on their surface. Each generated a screaming hum that sounded like alarms announcing their arrival.

  A red one slammed into the nose cone of the waiting Eagle transport. It exploded with the force of an artillery shell breaking apart the cabin and throwing the mortally-wounded pilot onto the lawn along with a shower of metal and glass and burning circuitry.

  The handlers pulled pistols and shot at the attackers. Human guards let fly 3-round bursts from automatic rifles, the dogs yapped and jumped—one collided with a yellow ball that popped like a water balloon. The dog disintegrated into patches of fur and bones as the instantly-corrosive acid contents of the weapon covered the K9’s body. The gunner onboard the Humvee joined the fray with a fierce volley of high caliber bullets…

  Ashley snapped the paperback shut and leapt to her feet as Gordon directed his motorized wheelchair into the center of his information hub.

  The voice on the Internal Security band made no mistake: something attacked the estate; an observation further confirmed by the pop-pop-pop of distant gunfire.

  “…repeat, this is front gate, we need back up! Man down! Man down! Oh, Christ—“