by JE Gurley
The convoy would not have this problem. They were going nowhere. First, they had to clear the interchange of vehicles by blocking all east and westbound Perimeter traffic and diverting it south onto I-85. The process was slow and arduous, made more difficult by irate drivers. LaBonner, tired of the harassment and verbal abuse, leveled his weapon at one particularly garrulous driver and threatened to shoot him. The tactic worked. The driver shut up and cooperated. Finally, the way cleared, Caulder directed their convoy vehicles to various on-ramps and off-ramps. By taking positions along the westbound lanes of the perimeter, he set up a multi-layered and multi-leveled defensive ring, allowing them to fire down onto the Spiders from different locations and to bring to bear firepower from different groups on one target. LaBonner approved of Caulder’s tactics, but doubted they could hold for the three or more hours until ground reinforcements arrived.
They placed the howitzers in a vacant lot beside the northbound lanes of I-85 inside the perimeter, with a spotter on the overpass to direct fire. The objective was to decrease substantially the enemy’s numbers before engaging them with small arms fire. They could do nothing about the continued southbound traffic on I-85, but as the Spiders drew closer, people would abandon their vehicles and flee on foot. If not, dying by friendly fire was no worse than the fate that waited them from the alien creatures. With a certainty, civilians would die. They were already dying. Their deaths added precious minutes of preparation time to the main battle force assembling to defeat the Spiders.
LaBonner urged the Spiders forward. The day was dying, and he would rather fight them in the daylight than at night. A night battle would be confusing and cost more lives. When the stream of southbound vehicles slowed, and then became a trickle, he knew the Spiders were getting near. A pickup truck loaded with boxes and furniture was the last vehicle through. Small groups of pedestrians followed. The lull afterward announced the arrival of the Spiders.
Breaking through the low-hanging shroud of smoke like birds of prey, an A-10 dropped to ground level to unload on the Spiders. Nose-mounted GAU-8 rotary cannons fired 3900 depleted-uranium, armor-piercing rounds per minute. The whir of the seven spinning barrels pierced the low growl of the twin jet engines. A second Warthog followed close on its heels and released two laser-guided bombs from only a hundred feet above the ground. The twin explosions hurled burning vehicles, chunks of asphalt, and pieces of Spiders in all directions. The concussion rocked the Warthog. The brave pilot risked death by shrapnel to deliver his ordinance on target. He waggled his wings as he passed overhead to indicate he was the last aircraft in the immediate area.
Moments later, the 105mm howitzers began firing. At first, the firing was sporadic as the inexperienced crews learned their jobs. The noise was a raging thunderstorm a few yards from his ears. He cupped his hands over his ears to muffle the noise. The shells fell well short of the main body of Spiders over six miles away, inflicting more damage to the highway and surrounding buildings than to the Spiders. However, the Spiders were nearing the range as quickly as their twelve legs could carry them. Even an untrained crew could drop shells in the same area twice in a row.
LaBonner was more concerned about the Wasps. He was certain the helicopters had not eliminated them all. Acting as aerial support, wherever there were Spiders, they would also find Wasps. Searching the skies, he noticed several ominous dark shapes embedded in the churning smoke. He nudged Jackson, who had set up the .50 caliber Ma Deuce beside him, and pointed upwards.
“We’re expecting visitors.”
Jackson tilted the barrel of the .50 caliber. His face remained calm, but his eyes revealed the hatred and turmoil within. LaBonner imagined the same look was visible in his eyes. Hodges, sitting beside him, gripped the ammunition belt tightly and scooted a second ammo box closer. His expression was serene, almost blissful. Like LaBonner, both men had come expecting to die, but they intended to do some damage first. Their example encouraged him. LaBonner picked up a loaded RPG launcher, rested it on his right shoulder, and sighted toward the spot he had glimpsed the Wasps.
The Wasps were clever; using the smoke screen as cover, they came within a hundred yards of the interchange before attacking. Machineguns on two of the Humvees began firing just as Jackson cocked and fired his Ma Deuce. The .50 caliber chattered away, as he swung the barrel back and forth searching out targets. Slowly, as they noticed the Wasps, others began firing at them as well. The Wasps dove at the men on the overpasses, buzzing them like mosquitoes at a backyard barbeque.
LaBonner picked one cluster of Wasps, followed them with his sight, and fired the RPG. The rocket soared skyward, struck one of the Wasps in the abdomen, and exploded, killing two of them and injuring two others with shrapnel. Silently cheering, he watched their bodies fall to the ground. The two injured ones crawled around trying to escape, but bursts of machinegun fire killed them. He didn’t get cocky. There were plenty more Wasps waiting for a chance to kill them.
Their combined firepower held the creatures at bay for a while, but eventually, enough of them slipped through their defenses to cause havoc. A Wasp snatched a man from the overpass, thrust its stinger into his chest, and dropped him over the side. He fell screaming thirty feet to his death. Another descended on the gunner of one of the Humvees, using its forelimbs to hack the man to pieces. The driver inside the Humvee poked his SCAR through the opening and fired point-blank into its head. Small pockets of battle raged everywhere. Several of the creatures landed together on the overpass and attacked a Stryker vehicle. Their sharp claws dug deep gouges in the armored steel and ripped the rubber tires to shreds. The gunner inside the Stryker attempted to lower the .50 caliber remote-controlled machinegun to sweep the Wasps from the vehicle, but the barrel would not deflect sufficiently. One soldier foolishly left the safety of the vehicle through the rear door to fire at them with his weapon. The Wasps swarmed him and killed him; then, rushed inside the vehicle, killing the entire crew and knocking it out of commission.
LaBonner dropped his PRG, saving it for Spiders, and grabbed his SCAR-H, using it to ward off Wasps intent on attacking Jackson and Hodges on the .50 caliber. The untried collection of soldiers and airmen fought well, but the aliens had designed the Wasps as fearless, tireless fighting machines. As the battle dragged on, men tired and weapons jammed or needed reloading. A single distracted moment was enough for the Wasps. LaBonner watched as men and women died all around him. He could do nothing to help them, instead channeling his rage into killing Wasps.
As twilight fell, the muzzle flashes of the howitzers drew Wasps like moths to a porch light. By full dark, the howitzers were silent, their crews dead. So too had the gunfire lessened from the pockets of resistance. One Stryker, three Humvees, and less than two dozen men remained. The firing became sporadic. He had lost track of Captain Caulder and Sergeant Vance, but they were veterans of such battles. He was certain that, like him, they had managed to survive.
LaBonner was not sure why the Spiders had halted their advance. Perhaps it had been to allow stragglers to catch up or to allow the Wasps to wipe out the defenders. They could have easily gone around the howitzer fire, or attacked in coordination with the Wasps and overwhelmed the defenders. Instead, they waited just out of range until the howitzers presented no more threat before advancing. As if aware their black coloring would act as camouflage in the dark, the Spiders attacked just as the sun slipped beneath the horizon. A flare soared skyward from off to his right. Its brilliant glare revealed a sea of Spiders shoving aside abandoned vehicles and surging forward, crawling over vehicles and concrete construction barricades. He stared down at the mass of creatures and saw in their numbers the end for the small band of remaining defenders.
He picked up the RPG and began firing rockets as quickly as he could reload. He didn’t need to pick individual targets. Anywhere a rocket landed struck a Spider. He delivered death and destruction in epic proportions; yet, the number of Spiders seemed not to diminish. Jackson’s .50 caliber Ma Deuce j
oined the remaining armored vehicles and the lighter weapons fire. A blaze of tracers crisscrossed the battlefield like a grid map. The only sound from the Spiders was the steady tapping of their legs as they scurried along the highway, punctuated by explosions and weapons fire.
A large band surged up one ramp and attacked the remaining Stryker vehicle. Its weapons operator continued firing even as the creatures rolled it over and shoved it through the concrete guardrail onto the pavement below. It burst into flames and exploded a few moments later. No one escaped. The Stryker gone, the Spiders rushed up the ramp toward him. LaBonner turned his RPG on them, but there were too many. He fired his last rocket and picked up his SCAR-H.
More Spiders climbed the concrete supports and scampered over the sides of the ramps surrounding them. Men’s screams pierced the night, as the creatures ripped into them. LaBonner fired his weapon into the face of a Spider rising directly in front of him. It raked his chest with one of its short feeding legs, ripping open his shirt and slicing a gouge in his chest armor. If not for the armor, the blow would have sliced him open. He fell back, as Jackson’s .50 caliber raked it. The Spider toppled backward off the ramp into the darkness below. Then, the machinegun went silent. Hodges sat back on his heels staring at the empty ammo belt as if it was his fault.
“That’s it,” Jackson said, picking up the SCAR rifle. “No more ammo.”
The screams of the dying faded as their numbers dwindled. Small pockets of gunfire dotted the ramps and the roadway below. It was too late to try to regroup. They would die as they fought – alone and in the dark. LaBonner reloaded his weapon with his last magazine, and faced the horde of Spiders pushing up the ramp toward him.
Suddenly, a spotlight burst into life above him, flooding the ramp with light. The beam swept across the river of Spiders, revealing their malevolent hungry eyes. Machinegun fire tore into the first rank of Spiders, ripping them to shreds. He glanced to his side and saw a Pave Hawk helicopter rising above the level of the ramp. The gunner standing in the open doorway fired his GAU-17/A Vulcan minigun with deadly accuracy. From twenty yards, the 7.62mm armor-piercing rounds tore through the Spiders like BBs through cream cheese. The Gau-17/A was the big brother to the M134 Gatling gun Chalmers had used so effectively against Wasps in Paris, firing 6,000 rounds per minute. The gunner swept it across the line of Spiders, concentrating his fire until one creature was dead before moving to the next.
The pilot risked crashing the helicopter by hovering beside the raised roadway. A man stepped to the door with an Areas Shrike 5.56mm machinegun. LaBonner saw that it was Vance. Vance fired until the 200-round soft pouch magazine was empty, tossed it aside, and waved for them to climb aboard. He ignited a handful of flares and tossed them in front of the line of advancing Spiders.
“It’s not time to die yet, Jackson,” LaBonner said. “Let’s go.”
The three men raced for the chopper. LaBonner emptied his SCAR as he ran. Vance reached down and pulled him aboard. The sudden yank started a fire blazing in his injured side. He bit back on the pain and turned to help the others inside the chopper. As he watched on in horror, a Spider crawled up the side of the ramp, balanced on the concrete railing, and leaped at Hodges, pinning him to the ground. The creature’s legs became a savage blur, stabbing repeatedly into Hodges’ back until they came away dripping with blood.
Seeing his friend in trouble, Jackson stopped running. He glanced at LaBonner, wheezing from lack of breath, and apologized with his eyes for what he was about to do. He ripped the oxygen cannula from his nose and produced two grenades from his pockets. Guessing Jackson’s intent, LaBonner searched the helicopter for a weapon, but the Vance’s Shrike was empty, and the GAU-17/A gunner was busy holding back the Spiders. He watched on helplessly, as Jackson pulled the pins from the grenades with his teeth and ran at the Spider screaming like a banshee.
The Spider thrust a foreleg into Jackson’s chest, skewering him. Jackson stood erect, his body trembling from muscle spasms. Using his last remaining strength, he pitched the grenades underhanded. They rolled beneath the Spider and exploded. The blast ripped Jackson from the impaling leg and hurled his crumpled body backward against the concrete guardrail only inches from his friend Hodges’ body. The Spider disintegrated, as hot shrapnel sliced through its torso. The concussion rolled the helicopter, throwing LaBonner hard to the deck. He slid across the deck and slammed into the edge of the opposite door, bringing on a second bout of pain. The pilot banked sharply to avoid a collision, gunned the engine to lift it above the roadway, and turned toward the city.
A thud drew LaBonner’s attention to the open doorway where the gunner had stood. He was no longer there. A Spider was. It had made a tremendous leap from the elevated roadway to the moving chopper, throwing it off balance with its added mass. The pilot fought the stick to keep the chopper level. Unarmed, LaBonner watched helplessly as the Spider slowly surveyed its surroundings as if deciding which human to kill first. Vance, unarmed, stood, and faced the creature. LaBonner did not have time to consider options. He shoved Vance to the deck and charged the Spider with his combat knife. Before he could reach it, the Spider lashed out, catching him in the side with one of its legs. The blow didn’t slice deeply, but the pain brought tears to his eyes.
The co-pilot did not have a safe shot with his AR-15. Instead, he slid it across the deck toward LaBonner. He went to his knees as he moved, snatched up the rifle, and slid beneath the Spider. The edge of one gnashing mandible caught him in the chest. He fought down the sudden burning pain, jammed the barrel of the AR-15 just below its head, and squeezed the trigger. He emptied the magazine into the creature. Hot Spider blood splattered his face and hands. The pilot tilted the chopper even farther to the left to send the injured Spider over the side. Both LaBonner and Spider slid toward the open door. LaBonner grabbed the mount for the GAU-17 and hung on. The Spider slid past him and tumbled into the darkness below.
As he lay there catching his breath, the first of the F-18s arrived. Using the flares as guides, they unloaded their bombs on the Spiders. Massive explosions rocked the area. Sections of ramp collapsed in clouds of concrete dust and smoke. Twenty F-18s made a pass over Spaghetti Junction, reducing it to rubble. A few minutes later, a second squadron arrived, dropping napalm. The jellied gasoline exploded, covering the entire area in a sea of flame visible for miles. Spiders burst like ticks put to the match.
The Pave Hawk hugged the ground as it left the area to avoid the jets, but LaBonner watched the fire until only the glow remained visible.
“How many?” he asked Vance, groaning as the sergeant helped him to a sitting position.
Vance’s face was bloodied and bruised, his uniform reduced to rags. When he looked at LaBonner, his eyes told the story. “Nineteen.”
“Captain Caulder?”
Vance shook his head. “No. Captain Caulder was not one of them, or Warski.” He glanced back at the intersection, now a blazing funeral pyre. “We lost a lot of good people tonight.”
As they flew south along I-85, a line of trucks, M1 Abram tanks, and Bradley fighting vehicles rolled northward, the reinforcements. To them would fall the task of mopping up the remaining Wasps and Spiders. They had won, but as always, the price had been high. He had lived, while others had died. It seemed to be his fate to survive when he shouldn’t. He grinned.
The co-pilot saw and asked, “What’s so funny?”
“Twenty more pods are headed our way. I get to reload and start over.”
The co-pilot stared at him a moment. “Man, you need some rest.” He pointed to LaBonner’s side and chest. “You’re bleeding too.”
LaBonner reached down and felt his side. His hand came away bloody. He chuckled. “It’s okay. It won’t kill me.”
He didn’t think he was slipping over the edge into insanity, but would he really know if he did? He was tired, hurt, and dismayed by the death around him. Death surrounded him like a black cloud, touching everyone but him. Everyone he knew but Vance
was either dead or on their way to Haumea to fight the aliens, an almost certain doom. He lay back against the bulkhead and closed his eyes. He wouldn’t die until the radiation poisoning drained the life from his body. He would let the docs fix him up and send him back out to do what he did best – kill Kaiju.
20
August 18, Yacht Doria –
Pope Clement stood on the crowded foredeck of the yacht Doria watching as a young mother breast-fed her infant son. She looked barely out of her teens, skin smooth and unblemished. The child appeared cherubic. The beatific smile on her face relaxed him, reminding him of the Virgin Mary and Jesus. If he accomplished nothing more in his life, at least he had helped save a mother and her child from the perils of the Kaiju in Italy. It pained him that he had forced the separation of families with his decision. He prayed the fathers would soon join them in Malta, though by what means he was uncertain.
To the ire of the crew of the Doria, the dozen refugees they had picked up at Marina de San Nicola had just been the start. Once at sea, they had rescued another thirteen people – three men, four women, and six children – from three makeshift rafts in danger of capsizing. The captain warned him that the Doria was herself in danger of sinking from the additional passengers, but Johan would not relent. He would allow no one to drown as long as a square meter of space remained. He had given over his cabin to the more urgent needs of a large family, much to the consternation of O’Bannon.
He was anxious to reach Malta. The eighteen-hour voyage had already lasted four days. A host of delays filled his mind with turmoil and his heart with doubt. He wondered if God was guiding him away from the island instead of toward it, throwing obstacles and tests in his path.
Ten hours into the voyage, one of Doria’s three engines had decided to become uncooperative. Instead of her usual 30 knots, they had limped along on the remaining two engines while the mechanic worked on it, reaching the Sicilian port city of Selinunte midday of the second day out. After anchoring offshore, they had waited a day and a half while the engineer and chief mechanic went ashore for spare parts. Just as they had given up all hope of their safe return, the two had shown up with the marina’s owner and his family, their safe passage the price of the needed parts. It took the crew until after midnight to repair the engine.