Homefront: Portal Wars III

by Jay Allan

  “What?” Charles yelled again, gritting his teeth against the pain as he forced himself up to his feet. He staggered a few steps and fell forward as the ship shook again, grabbing onto the back of the pilot’s chair.

  “It’s New York, sir…” The pilot was clearly shaken, and his voice trembled as he spoke.

  “New York, what do you mean…” Charles climbed back up behind the pilot’s chair and he held himself up, staring, transfixed. It was on the extreme right of his field of view. New York. Or the rapidly-expanding cloud of smoke and fire that had almost engulfed it. He stood in horror and watched as the massive metropolis they had just left was consumed by thermonuclear fury.

  There were millions of people in New York. He’d left a dozen of his own behind, and the rest of Wickes’ Resistance fighters were there too.

  They’re all dead now…

  His squinted against the brightness, but he couldn’t take his eyes off what he was seeing. He stood, bent over, propping himself against the chair, watching as the last bits of the city vanished in the yellow-white cloud of death. Then he felt as if the floor had dropped away from him. The ship was going down.

  “I can’t keep her up, Captain,” the pilot said, his voice on the verge of panic. His hands gripped the throttle tightly, struggling to maintain control as the ship bounced around wildly.

  Charles grabbed onto the back of the chair, leaning forward and looking through the cockpit. The ground was close…and getting closer.

  “Everybody hang on,” he yelled, dropping low and holding on. “We’re going down…”

  He could feel the ship falling, his stomach lurching as they plummeted to the ground. And then…impact. A loud crash, the ship rolling…screams of fear and pain…

  Charles lost his grip and slammed into the side of the cabin. There were bodies flying around everywhere, creaking sounds as the ship came apart, finally settling

  Charles tried to focus, to stay alert. But then he felt the impact, pain across his face…then silence. Nothing. Blackness.

  * * *

  “I’m sorry, General Taylor, but there is no deal without your guarantee. Neither I nor any of my operatives will be held responsible for any acts committed in service of UNGov. I don’t care what you do with the Secretariat, the security forces, any UNGov personnel. But you will pardon the Shadow Company and me. Or we can sit here together and listen to the reports come in. It is a simple choice, General. Two hundred of my people…or four billion innocent civilians.” There was no arrogance in Drogov’s tone, but his resolution was like iron.

  Taylor sat still, not saying a word. His mind raced with the horrible things he’d imagined Drogov had done, the murders, the torture, the wreckage and misery he had left in his wake. To let such a man escape justice—escape vengeance—it was anathema to all he had fought for. But he knew Drogov was right. He couldn’t surrender his army…he wouldn’t. But he couldn’t watch billions die either.

  “I am willing to commute any death sentences for your people, but…”

  “Then there is no deal.”

  “Mr. Drogov…”

  “Jake!” Hank Daniels came rushing into the room. Daniels was the coldest of Taylor’s inner circle, the most committed to the quest. His face was white as a sheet. “It’s New York, Jake…”

  “What?” But Taylor knew.

  “It’s gone.” Daniels’ voice was weak, raspy. “The reports are still coming in, but the explosion was massive…hundreds of megatons.”

  Taylor’s stomach lurched, and he felt the bile start to rise from his stomach. He looked at Daniels for a few seconds, and he saw the same horror in his friend’s face. Then he turned toward Drogov, and his expression turned to ice.

  Drogov met Taylor’s gaze. “This is only a preview, General,” Drogov said, his tone cold, utterly lacking emotion. “No one knows Anton Samovich as I do…and no one else has a chance to stop the cataclysm that is coming in just over ten hours.” He paused. “So do we have a deal?”

  Taylor turned away, but his eyes caught Hank Daniels’ stricken face again. Every fiber in his body wanted to refuse, to throw Alexi Drogov in the deepest, darkest hole he could find. He hated Samovich with a passion, but now he wondered if he wasn’t even more disgusted with the turncoat sitting across the table, his hands drenched in three decades of blood. But he knew what he had to do.

  “Very well, Mr. Drogov. If—and only if—we successfully prevent Samovich from destroying any more cities…” Taylor paused for a few seconds then forced himself to continue. “…you and your men will be pardoned for all crimes.”

  Drogov nodded.

  “So what is the plan? What do we need?”

  “We need my men, General. And two hundred of your very best. And we have to be ready to go in two hours.”

  Chapter 25

  Jake Taylor’s Order to Karl Young:

  Karl, events continue to defy even my most thoughtful analysis. Of everything I had envisioned, a madman holding the world hostage was not one of them, and even less was trusting one of UNGov’s coldest, most unrepentant killers. But I have no choice. Perhaps I walk into a trap, go willingly to my death. But I must follow my instincts, and I must take any chance.

  I am taking Hank with me, along with our 200 very best Erastus veterans. They will give me the best chance to survive this mission, a way to resist, even if this is a trap. But just as importantly, I am leaving you behind. If I fail to return, you must take my place, guide the army to its final victory. No matter what happens, how many people die, you must complete the quest we have begun.

  If this proves to be my final order to you, go forward with my blessing and my staunchest confidence in your abilities. There is no one I trust more to carry on if I die. And if I do not return, let this be my farewell to you, my friend. My brothers.

  “What about Geneva’s defenses? What about the detection grid? How can we get this close?” Taylor sat in the airship, staring across the cramped cockpit toward Drogov. His voice was tense, and doubts were creeping into his mind. “I committed most of my air strength to this operation. If you’re trying to lead us into some kind of trap, I am telling you now…”

  “It is no trap, General.” Drogov was hunched over one of the flyer’s workstations, his fingers moving frantically over the keys. “Geneva’s defensive installations are not what they should be. UNGov never considered a military attack a serious threat, not once they had suppressed the old national military formations. And I have access to what is there.” He paused, punching another few keys. Then he turned and looked up at Taylor. “And I have just disabled it all.”

  “All of it? Weapons? Scanning devices?” Taylor looked disbelieving. “Don’t you think that will be suspicious? With the current situation, they will put every installation on alert.”

  “You don’t have to like me, General, but give me more credit as a professional. No system will show any malfunction. The scanners will continue to operate…they will simply provide normal reports, readings that will show nothing of your airships.” Drogov paused. “We have been enemies, General, and I realize our cooperation is born of necessity and not choice. But I acknowledge you are an extremely capable soldier. Please accept that I too am skilled at what I do.”

  Taylor just nodded. He didn’t like Drogov, and he hated having no choice but to cooperate with him. But there was no question that Samovich’s henchmen was incredibly good at what he did. Just getting as close to headquarters as he had proved that. Besides, Taylor didn’t have any alternatives. Four billion people were going to die in a few hours unless Drogov’s plan worked.

  “Bring us down at the coordinates I just sent you,” Drogov said to the pilot. The officer turned and looked toward Taylor, who just nodded.

  “And transmit the coordinates to all ships. We need to get on the ground as quickly as possible.” The pilot repeated his glance toward Taylor.

  “General Taylor,” Drogov said, “perhaps you could instruct your people to take my directions
. I am the one here with an intimate knowledge of Geneva’s layout and defenses.”

  “Do as Mr. Drogov says,” Taylor said, sounding like he’d just tasted something bad.

  “Yes, sir.” The pilot didn’t look happy, but he turned back to the controls.

  Taylor turned and stared at Drogov. “There, that’s my good faith. Now, you tell me exactly where we’re going and what we’re going to do right now, or I will turn these fucking ships around, regardless of whatever your insane ex-boss is planning.”

  Drogov returned the gaze, silently for a few seconds. Then he said, “We’re going to a spot where we can land undetected. It’s ten klicks out of Geneva, a low spot with a high ridge between it and the city. I’ve disabled all the detection grids, programmed them to give clear readings. And there’s an underground tunnel that leads right into the heart of the city…right to UNGov headquarters.”

  “A tunnel?”

  “It’s an escape route, intended for the Secretariat if they had to flee the city. The access point is well hidden, and usually inaccessible from the outside. But I entered the override codes. It should be open by the time we get there.”

  Taylor sighed. “That sounds like a risky plan. If we get caught there, if someone sees the airships coming and reports them…”

  “It is a risk. Everything is a risk. But Geneva is in an uproar…people are running scared, trying to figure out what to do, how to survive, to preserve their wealth and position. There’s a good chance we can get in before anyone knows we’re there. A very good chance.”

  “And you know where we need to go to deactivate the doomsday system? To disarm the weapons.”

  “No,” Drogov said. “There is no way to disable the system, not once it has been armed. Not in the time we have.”

  “Then what is the plan? Why are we here if we can’t disarm the weapons?”

  Drogov took a breath. “We can’t deactivate the system, General Taylor, but we can prevent the final detonation code from being entered.”

  “How?”

  Drogov hesitated, a pained look passing briefly over his emotionless expression. “By killing the one man who possesses those codes. By killing Anton Samovich.”

  * * *

  Stan Wickes stared up at the sky. It was dark, hazy, an immense cloud of ash and dust completely blocking the sunlight, creating a bizarre midday dusk. The deep gray of the sky glowed softly, the reflections from the fires consuming New York the only light in the darkness.

  He moved to the side, gritting his teeth against the pain. He was hurt, in more places than he wanted to think about. But none of that mattered. He had a stark choice. Get up and on his feet…or lie where he was and wait for death. And Marines didn’t give up.

  His mind was fuzzy. He remembered crawling from the wreckage. The actual crash was a bit obscure. He remembered the shouts in the airship, strapping in to his seat and bracing for impact. But he couldn’t actually recall when they’d hit. The next thing he remembered was lying in the shattered craft, surrounded by chunks of metal and plastic…and bodies.

  He struggled up to his feet and staggered back toward the ship. He was dizzy, and he had to concentrate to avoid falling down. But his comrades were in there, and he had to get to them, help them out. He leaned against the broken fuselage and looked around. Nobody. It looked like he was the only one who’d gotten out. He froze when his eyes moved back toward New York. The massive cloud was still there, dissipating a bit, but still hanging over the entire city. He could see the light of a massive firestorm in the gaps in the smoke and dust. He was a groundpounding Marine, no expert in high-yield nuclear weapons. But he couldn’t escape an obvious conclusion. Not one person in twenty could still be alive in the ravaged city…and most of them would die in a day or two from radiation poisoning, even if they escaped the rampaging firestorms.

  In all his years in the Resistance, all his dreams of rebellion, of freeing the city, and later the world, from UNGov’s tyranny, he’d never imagined retribution on such a scale. He found himself frozen, unable to tear his eyes away from the vision of hell before him. Everyone he knew, all the Resistance warriors he’d left behind, friends, comrades…they were all dead now. They had won a great victory, struck a blow toward freeing the world, but their celebration was short-lived. Their struggle had cost them their lives.

  No, there’s nothing you can do about New York, no way to help your comrades there…

  He took a deep breath, steeling himself against the pain, and he pushed his way back into the remains of the airship. It was a nightmare. There were bodies everywhere. His eyes panned around, looking for movement, any sign of survivors. But there was nothing. Nothing but bodies, bloody and mangled.

  He stumbled forward, grabbing onto anything he could reach to steady himself. The main body of the ship was at an angle, and a large section of roof had caved in, making it difficult to move around. He looked down at each body, reaching out, checking vainly for a pulse, for any signs of life. But they were all dead.

  Finally, he found Charles. The man who had saved his life…twice. The man who had commanded the AOL soldiers who had made the Resistance’s victory possible. He knew in his gut as soon as he saw his friend. Charles’ was lying on top of a bulkhead, his legs covered in blood. But it was when his gaze fell on the AOL captain’s face that he was sure. Charles’ head was twisted at an obscene angle, his neck clearly broken.

  Wickes knew his comrade was dead, but he reached out and put his fingers to Charles’ neck. Nothing.

  Wickes felt the strength draining from him. New York destroyed…his home. All his comrades, old and new. He was old, alone, in pain. He felt an almost irresistible urge to give up, to stay where he was, lie down and die next to his comrades. If he hadn’t gotten a lethal dose of radiation yet, he knew he would if he stayed put. The effort could end, the pain. Death would bring relief, it would bring peace.

  But there were voices in his head, friends long gone…and the men who had trained him so long ago. He could hear the drill sergeants, the officers who had commanded him in battle. He saw images of himself, young, vital, clad in the combat fatigues of the Corps.

  Marines don’t give up. He’d heard that before, he’d said it. He’d used the phrase to encourage the Marines under his command so many years ago. And the phrase had driven him, provided the strength to drive his Resistance fighters to push themselves to the limit. Could he do less than he had urged so many others to do? Give up when he could press on, even if it was futile…even if he only got a few kilometers before the radiation took him down.

  He stared down at Charles for another moment, saying a silent goodbye to a comrade whose impact had been enormous despite such a short acquaintance. Then he turned and stumbled back the way he had come. He stopped next to the twisted remains of the cockpit locker, holding on and kicking open the door. He reached inside, pulling out a survival pack. Then he climbed from the airship, from the wreck he alone had survived.

  He turned and looked back toward New York, for just a few seconds. Then he opened the sack he’d brought with him, grabbing one of the two water flasks and taking a deep drink. He hadn’t realized how thirsty he had been, not until the water poured over his parched throat. He felt the urge to drain the plastic canister, but he knew he had to ration what he had. He took one more swig and replaced the cap, shoving the bottle back in the sack.

  He looked through the survival kit, pulling out two doses of painkillers, tiny injector units. He jabbed one into his thigh and then, without a pause, he injected the second one. He felt the relief almost immediately, and a surge in his energy level as well.

  He knew he should eat something, but his stomach was upset. Even the water had made him nauseous. It’s the radiation, he thought. He considered trying to force some food down anyway, but even the thought made him retch. He dug through the meds in the kit, pulling out another injector, a stimulant. And he saw another small plastic bag with three of the small injectors inside. It was labeled, ‘a
nti-rad kit.’ He ripped it open and pulled out a small scrap of paper with instructions. “One shot every two hours,” he said, reading it out loud.

  He stood up slowly after he had finished with the meds and repacked the survival kit. He slung the bag over his back and he turned away from New York, and began walking due west. He had no idea where to go, but he knew if he was going to have any chance of surviving the radiation, he had to get some distance from New York. He felt the urge to look behind him, one last glance at the dead city that had been his home. But he wouldn’t let himself.

  The way is forward, he thought. There is no room for sentiment or weakness, not now…

  * * *

  Taylor moved forward, almost at the head of the column of soldiers. He’d intended to be in the front, but the Supersoldiers had almost revolted on the spot, and he’d finally agreed to allow a dozen scouts to move to the head of the formation.

  Hank Daniels was standing right behind Taylor, his position as a general of the AOL currently subordinated to his self-designated responsibility as Taylor’s bodyguard. Daniels didn’t like Drogov, and he’d argued with Taylor against trusting the UNGov turncoat. There was too much chance it was all a trap, that the AOL’s irreplaceable commander was walking into an ambush. Even if Drogov was legit, Daniels knew the mission was a desperate gamble. He’d finally accepted that there was no choice, but he’d begged Taylor to stay behind, to put him in command instead and not risk himself. But Taylor had been adamant. He’d come through four years and a dozen worlds to get to this moment…and he would see it finished. Whatever the risk.

  Daniels had known Taylor for a long time, too long to think his friend would back down no matter what he said. He doubted Taylor would have under any circumstances, but having lost Tony Black, and now Bear Samuels, he knew the AOL’s commander would never send another friend out while he stayed behind. Jake Taylor was the most loyal person he’d ever met…and he inspired that same intense dedication in those he led. So, Daniels put his real energy into insisting he come along. If Taylor was going to go on a mission like this, with UNGov’s premier murderer at his side, Daniels was determined he would be there too. Taylor had argued, ordering Daniels to stay back with Karl Young, so the two could jointly command the army, lead it on its steady advance to Geneva. But Daniels was as stubborn as his commander, and Taylor finally gave in.