Angels of War (Angels of War Trilogy Book 1)

by Andre Roberts

  Her eyes beheld Michael’s placid face, the sword he manipulated in his hand, and his slow movement. She followed him, captivated like a sparrow mesmerized by a dancing net.

  “First, you need to calm down,” he said.

  Joan nodded, transfixed by the way he moved. Her nervous eyes darted to his muscled legs and the muscles in his huge forearms each time he twirled the blade. He passed the sword from one hand to the other. Her eyes became heavy. Michael’s sword gleamed underneath the bright lights, the edge seeming to ripple. His moves lulled her mind into a dangerous sluggishness she found irresistible.

  The hard blow bounced against her helmeted head before her eyes registered his attack. The punch knocked her back to the ten-yard line. She landed on her back, the air blown from her lungs.

  Joan coughed, her lungs burned. A powerful ache throbbed in her head as hot anger flared up within her. She sat up, blinked her eyes, and recovered from the closed fist to the jaw. She scrambled to her feet and readied her gladius as Michael retook his spot at the fifty-yard line.

  “Are you going to sulk, or fight,” he said.

  Joan bit her bottom lip in concentration. Red heat warmed her face. She jogged forward as Michael remained in the center field with his sword drawn. His blade glinted from the spotlights above the artificial turf.

  She told herself not to follow his sword. She needed to remember her tactics. They would save her life. Do not stare into his eyes, she told herself, ignore his hands. Take in his entire body. Even consider his feet weapons. Even his hands could kill.

  Joan picked up her speed. Michael held his position. He stood still like a Greek statue. His face serene and his blade held down at his side as she neared him. She cleared the forty-yard line, forty-five, and forty-seven.

  She aimed her blade at his ripped golden abs, and wondered if his true abs matched the armor. He slipped to his left. Her blade sliced into air.

  Joan spun to her right as Michael danced away from her. She moved in close. He kept a five-foot distance before he lunged forward. He lifted his blade above his head to deliver a downward stroke.

  She raised her gladius, countered the blow. He feinted left and jammed his blade towards her ribs. She parried the attack. Metal struck metal to create a high musical note she enjoyed. She escaped his lunge towards her throat and tapped his sword away with her blade.

  Joan pursed her lips, amazed at how her body moved light like a feather. She stopped and twirled her blade as Michael zipped forward. She slipped his blow, the bright steel passed inches from her face, so close the wave like ripples within its folded metal danced before her brown eyes.

  Michael held the blade to her neck. “You lose, Joan.”

  Joan smiled as the archangel allowed his blade to touch the delicate skin just a hair beneath her jugular vein. “Below, Michael.”

  The archangel glanced down. Her sword tip sat against his inner thigh. “But that is not a killing blow. Losing your head is.”

  Joan grunted as he lowered his sword, and she removed hers.

  The archangel nodded. “Good, but now you understand the concept of how we fight?”

  Joan lifted her eyebrows. “Yea, don’t loose your head.”

  “And to answer your question, yes they are.”

  Joan blinked, paused at the archangel’s statement before her face flushed with heat. He smiled at her.

  Michael sheathed his weapon and placed a strong hand on her shoulder. He leaned his head forward until his helmet touched hers. “Don’t lose your head.” He clapped her shoulder as his wings spread large and wide upon his back.

  Michael stepped away from her and his face became stern. He closed his eyes and inhaled deep, his chest heaved, and a frown crossed his beautiful face. “Their stench is so close.” After those words, he gave his wings a powerful flap. The first push sent him headed for the Georgia Dome’s roof, and the second sent him through the steel and concrete.

  Joan turned from the fifty-yard line and jumped into the air. Her wings unfolded and each powerful stroke sent her higher and higher. The artificial turf fell away until she went through the dome and into the rain beaten air.

  The dome became an egg below her. Soon the city turned into a maze. With a thought, she changed into her regular clothes. She preferred a more relaxed dress and decided to reserve her armor for battle. Her thoughts trailed to California, to her oath, and those who depended on her.

  Again, anger sparked in her. God killed her family. The Creator didn’t search hard enough to find another way to get her attention. For the moment, she pushed the thought aside and headed north, to start her journey and stop the menace.

  13

  Joan needed to suspend disbelief and accept her midair flight. The eeriness as the ground fell away from her small feet struck her hard. Streets and roads turned into lines etched across brown and green earth. She closed her eyes. Cool morning air buffeted her face. She opened them to gaze at the world below.

  The clouds over Georgia broke into windows filled with blue sky. She tried to shoo away the oddness her flight over the mountains and hills created, a difficult task without a first class seat and a glass of red wine on an airplane. In the far horizon, planes floated by, sunlight winked off their metal skins. Below her, the roads remained congested with vehicles. Their headlights turned the highway into one long luminous snake crowded with fear.

  Joan, ignorant about aerodynamics, toyed with her wings. She adjusted them in flight to test the results. To slow down, she kept them still to catch air underneath her feathers. When she wanted to lower herself, she angled the front ends down. Enough so the air skipped against the feathers and dragged her speed. When she wanted to fly fast, she pumped them hard, and enjoyed the ride as the world whizzed by her in a blur.

  Joan managed to control her speed and rein in her excitement. She found the last few hours and events surreal. She went from self-pity and hatred to a maiden flight north with massive wings upon her back. Again, she recalled her childhood. At five years old, as she sat on the hot Virginia Beach with her adopted parents, she became self-aware.

  She played with the other kids in school and around the neighborhood, but somehow she comprehended more than they did. This separated her from them like a deep gorge cut through land. For five years old, a strange knowledge sat in her mind, waiting to uncoil and get out. Considerable time would pass before her knowledge matured enough for her to use.

  The angel reached the Appalachians with its snow-capped mountains. The crisp air brushed against her skin, clean and good. She pumped and flapped her strong wings as she soared over the lush green land. The sun shown against the snow covered mountains and transformed them into milky pearls strung together. Eagles soared below and negotiated the crags and clefts, their sharp cries reached up to her in long vibrant echoes.

  Joan cleared the Appalachians. She crossed over South Carolina, pushed into North Carolina and angled her way towards Virginia. She started her descent once she neared Washington, D.C. The city rested amongst green hills. The mighty Potomac lay beneath her. The river shimmered and coursed like a sword blade. In increments the maze below became streets. The ants over freeways and avenues turned into cars and people.

  From above she found a clear spot in an almost empty park. She landed hard behind a big oak tree, almost breaking her ankles. She regained her balance and jogged for the White House. Her wings vanished from sight. Above her, Black Hawk helicopters choppered towards the White House.

  Fighter jets boomed overhead and caused the earth to tremble beneath her feet. Cars slowed, people rubbernecked, and fingers pointed towards the skies. Someone got the news about what went down in California. Too many military trucks packed with armed soldiers approached the White House.

  Joan slowed her jog to a comfortable trot. She wanted to get a good grasp for the situation around her. The trucks stopped at the White House gates. Soldiers jumped out the enormous trucks and took defensive positions.

  Within minutes, san
dbags and wooden barriers piled up around the White House lawn and Pennsylvania Avenue. The soldiers and barriers posed no problem for her.

  The streets became crowded with more people. Black limousines, heavy with bulletproof glass and metal, headed for the White House with police escorts. Pennsylvania Avenue became thick with frightened citizens. She weaved her way through the frantic crowd, found an oak tree, and sat underneath the cool shade the leaves and branches provided.

  She expected President Wallace to sit on the fence until a horror showed up at his doorstep, shaking him awake to their reality. Joan did not want to appear as a threat but a solution to the invasion.

  14

  The black cloud over Los Angeles swelled and twisted. The Air Force AWACS fell to the earth in pieces like fireflies and behind the wreckage followed a monstrosity from Hell.

  Lord Wrath rode upon his bone colored horse from the clouds. He wore armor made from bones over his large skeletal body. He stood nine feet tall. His large skulled head, adorned with horns like a bull, turned about to survey the city with red eyes set in deep sockets. His rusty sword and black shield remained in his grip as he galloped down amongst Los Angeles ruined streets.

  Wrath grounded his beast and dismounted amid the shattered rubble and heavy black smoke. He walked a few steps forward. People cowered before him. The Screamers sat overhead, silent, their black eyes locked on the bleak skies. People lost in shock and disbelief eased from several untouched buildings, while some continued to escape the chaotic scene. Others approached the place where the oil tanker sized crater sat.

  Black smoke oozed from the sinkhole like tentacles. A few took pictures with cell phones, oblivious to the monster hidden beyond the smoke. Wrath raised his battered blade into the air.

  “Behold.” His voice boomed across the city like a trumpet blast. Windows shattered and car alarms wailed. “The kingdom of Hell is at hand, bow before your master.”

  People ran from Wrath.

  The foolish eased toward him like cats, unsure, yet mesmerized by the giant horror. The ground trembled. Masonry crumbled to the earth in chunks. The dark clouds above the city darkened even more, and the Screamers ringed around downtown L.A. began to speak in unison. Their voices rattled as if filled with shrapnel.

  “Your great master is here to free you. The day is at hand, choose your lord with care, for only one will be victorious, and he rises from the earth.”

  Wrath drove his sword into the black macadam. The ground cracked and a jagged rent split the street in half, cars and people tumbled into the fissure. Their screams echoed away as they fell into the black chasm. A tremendous rumble emerged from deep underground and grew into an earthquake. Several buildings collapsed from its ferocity, and many people caught in the tumultuous destruction died.

  Wrath rose into the air. He spread his big arms wide and threw back his head.

  The quake built momentum, the liquefied rubble parted. Black iron formed in a half circle broached the ground and rose from the crater. A pattern played within what began to take form as an immense iron circle. The pattern turned out to be a pentagram.

  Beneath the iron pentagram, an off-white monolith drove up and lifted the pentagram high into the harsh air. Another round layer emerged, larger than the top layer. The edifice lifted from the earth like a six-tiered cake. Each tier bordered with battlements, murder holes and black flags decorated with red pentagrams. Dark stained-glass windows lined the tower walls.

  A few windows glowed in a deep blood red. The second tier from the bottom held a balcony made from human bones. The bottom-tier, the largest, came with a metal drawbridge, closed and black with huge iron bolts driven into its thick frame.

  Hell’s Cathedral towered above the tallest buildings within the city. At two thousand feet, the monstrosity commanded dominion over all. The off-white walls spilled powdered bone into the tense air. Dust and smoke surrounded Hell’s Cathedral in thick clouds. Once the foul haze settled, the structure took on its nightmarish shape.

  The cathedral, birthed from Hell’s bowels, came with live stone gargoyles whose black eyes rolled about in their heads. They sat perched along the battlements like guardians. A powerful sulfurous stench exploded from the ground along with yellow smoke. Those who waited too late to flee the cathedral suffocated from the fumes.

  Thick blood clotted the victim’s throats as their lungs filled with the poisonous gas. Their bodies sprawled on the ground and convulsed until they died.

  Hell’s Cathedral measured a mile in diameter, a complete, perfect circle. The pentagram overlooked the city like an evil eye. From a distance, Hell’s Cathedral resembled a wedding cake from Hell. The Screamers drifted upwards to surround the pentagram. The horrors turned outwards to face the city.

  Wrath, still afloat, drove his weapon into the lethal air above his head. His fingers closed along the hilt made from tiny skulls and wrapped in red cloth. He surveyed the city once more. “Tell your leaders he approaches. Supplicate before the one who will save your souls at this awful time.”

  15

  The Army, Marines, Navy, and Air Force fell under one command. General Gerald Black, the Chief of Staff. He ordered a full engagement. Marine units from Camp Pendleton flew in on Chinook helicopters to start their Los Angeles ground assault. Air Force fighter jets screamed toward the embattled city to conduct their air attacks.

  Colonel Cecil Bryer led his F-22 Raptor squadrons into battle. The news he received came in hectic pieces. From what he gathered, Los Angeles fell under attack. The city sat a few minutes flight for him and his squadron who flew from Edwards Air Force Base. Their orders: attack the enemy invaders, refuel, and return to support the Marines ordered in to clean up any resistance. He forced himself to remain calm as more information about the attack came down from high command.

  Cecil became confused at the news his ears picked up over the helmet headset he wore. He wondered if China found a way to attack the United States.

  Colonel Bryer pulled back on the F-22’s control stick. The turbines pushed the fighter ahead. The powerful machine rumbled underneath him. The colonel guided his million-dollar fighter across the bright sky as other squadrons trailed behind. He checked his instrument panel, flicked his eyes at the unnatural dark skies a few miles ahead.

  Cecil sucked in a breath. F-22s speckled against the gray sky in the hundreds. The scene quickened his heart as the fighter jets roared towards Los Angeles. He lifted his eyes from the heads up display and gazed at the black clouds. A shiver ran over his body, the clouds seemed alive. The smoke breathed, and each swell quickened the closer the jets neared Los Angeles.

  Wrath pointed his sword at the bleak sky. His keen vision caught the silver fighter jets racing ahead. He called his stallion forward, mounted the beast, and issued a war cry. The shout from his voice vaporized the battered windows within the city.

  Thick chains rattled after Wrath’s call to arms. The cathedral’s wooden drawbridge cracked open and fell with an echoing boom to reveal a closed iron gate. The wrought iron gate lifted upwards. From the cathedral’s dark innards came rhythmic chants as if fans at a football game pumped themselves up for the championship team’s arrival. Within seconds, masked horsemen dressed in black Roman armor rode from the cathedral opened gate in the thousands.

  The cavalry thundered over the drawbridge and massed together behind Wrath. Red foam frothed at their black horse’s maws. Their Hell born masters fought to control their four legged charges. Wrath lifted his sword. The cavalry from Hell swarmed into the skies to meet the Air Force attack head on.

  Colonel Bryer strained his eyes against the shattered Los Angeles skyline. He spotted the huge pale cathedral. He glanced down at his radar, asked his squadron leaders to recheck their radar. Everyone turned up negative bogies on their screens. His heart hammered hard in his chest. His orders seemed simple, repel the invasion and come home. Someone miles away told him the battle should not last long.

  Colonel Bryer checked his radar a
gain, and adjusted his screen. A pale figure in the distance defied gravity followed by several thousands black objects. He blinked his eyes and used his gloved hand to clean the cockpit window. By the thousands the things flew up from the huge cathedral like a gnat infestation.

  “Get ready, all squadrons get ready, bogies at twelve o’clock, commence firing on my command,” he said. His eyes widened as the jets took on their formations.

  A strong awareness filled him. The world outside the cockpit grew brighter. He picked out the smallest details around him, from the pilots locked in their cockpits, to the horrid invaders, and the shattered buildings they approached.

  The pale monster grew form along with the others as he neared the horrible riders. Cecil realized he faced a large skeleton armed with a sword and seated upon a pale warhorse larger than a Clydesdale. The black creatures behind the skeleton rode horses and drew black swords from scabbards at their sides. The bone built monstrosity sped towards the jets and circled his blade overhead.

  Colonel Bryer swallowed stale air. “Weapons free. Weapons free. All squadrons attack.”

  Wrath’s hellish followers spread out in formation. The air battle erupted.

  The colonel squeezed the trigger on his flight stick. His Vulcan 20mm cannon went to work. He pressed another button on the stick and two AIM-120D rockets shot toward the pale rider. He hit a few horsemen with his 20mm cannon. The demons fell to the earth below. He wanted to fight through the horrors and destroy the tower they came from.

  Cecil understood somehow, if he destroyed the cathedral, they would win the battle and go home. He sent his Raptor back around for another attack after his rockets failed to take down the leader. Both his AIM-120D rockets went through the massive bone armored monster and slammed into the buildings below. This frightened and angered him as he raced towards the monsters downing his aircraft like tiny sparrows.