Jorgie replied with a huff that suggested he had grown weary of answering questions about his birthday. "Yes. I am excited."
A silence grew between the two, punctuated only by imaginary gunfire. However, after a moment a new sound caught Trevor's ear: another buzzing insect flying overhead.
"Uh-oh," Trevor said. "Sounds like we have another intruder. Better get that newspaper."
To the contrary, JB remained focused on his battle.
"I will have to let this one go, father. If I spend all my time dealing with pests the battle will never be won. You understand, don't you?"
Trevor smiled politely, having listened to his son but not actually hearing.
9. Sic Semper Tyrannis
Prior to Armageddon, the Sikorsky Super Stallion helicopter transported officials of the American government. Now the plush interior of leather seats and fancy trim accommodated a new breed of politicians.
The shudder reverberating through the craft and the constant drone of whirring rotors reminded Trevor why he preferred to fly in quiet, smooth Eagle shuttles. However, the theme of the day was "Trevor loves Internal Security and the Senate," so bye-bye Eagle One, hello Internal Security VIP transport.
As bad as he found the situation, his elkhound, Tyr, suffered more due to his acute senses. The dog curled at his master's feet as if trying to hide from the noise.
His escort also included Ray Roos and plain-clothes I.S. agents, all part of the plan to emphasize subtlety. After all, an entourage of soldiers and a dreadnought floating above Evan's home would have spoiled the whole sucking-up-to-Godfrey ambiance Dante felt necessary.
Nonetheless, he remained well protected. A squad of agents secured the interior of Evan's home, army units from the Washington D.C. garrison manned checkpoints a mile from the meeting site, and the Excalibur waited on station to the south outside of Richmond.
Still, the phrase for the day was "low key." Trevor had arrived in D.C. in time for a breakfast with Chairpersons of several Senate committees. A tour of the rejuvenated Smithsonian followed where updated exhibits included a small but working matter-transformation machine taken from the Hivvans, a collection of extraterrestrial gear, and a Duass War Skiff.
Trevor particularly admired a twenty-foot interactive diorama depicting the collapse of Washington D.C. during the invasion a decade ago. The display included a two-inch replica Skip Beetle outside the Pentagon and toy-sized Hivvan Battlebarges advancing along Pennsylvania Avenue. A narrator stoically relayed information such as, "the Texas delegation turned the Hart office building into a modern Alamo where they survived for three weeks," and "the junior Senator from New York fell victim to a Crawling Tube Worm inside the Capitol Building."
Dante accompanied Trevor for most of the morning, but as lunch neared the Internal Security Director broke away from the main group to visit the Tambourine Monitoring Center. That station collated information from the smaller stations up and down the east coast that stood as an electronic fence protecting against attack from the Atlantic.
An hour later, Trevor boarded the helicopter and departed from Capitol Hill crossing the Potomac on course for Evan Godfrey's estate outside of McLean, Virginia.
Trevor glanced across the aisle at Ray Roos. The man's usually thin face appeared a little more drawn that day; a tad pale, maybe.
"You okay, Ray?"
Roos answered, "Yes sir, just fine thank you. Guess I don't like it too much in D.C. with all these Senators walkin' around and all."
"I know what you mean," said Trevor as he glanced out one of the portals to view the scrolling streets, expressways, and—the further they flew—woodlands and gentle hills.
While Washington had been cleansed and pacified, most of the homes in the metropolitan area and suburbs remained empty. In fact, in terms of population Washington ranked behind Miami, Pittsburgh, and Philadelphia, although D.C. did surpass New York in residents.
The helicopter overflew a cluster of softball fields, making Trevor think of baseball and how Jorgie neared Little League age. He thought about all the other 'ages' Jorgie would soon see, and how many already passed by.
Trevor knew he was not the father he wanted to be. He loved his boy greatly and he tried to spend time with his kid. If home, he would tuck JB to bed, often times reading him a book or telling stories from the war (edited to not incur mommy's wrath). He would wrap the same stuffed bunny in the same little blanket every night, and while that might sound silly, it had become an important ritual to both Trevor and his son.
JB's eighth birthday party had gone well, exactly the type of get together they needed in the wake of Stonewall's death. The Nehrus, Knox, Dante, and of course the Brewers attended, not to mention hordes of children including Catherine Brewer. JB's favorite gift came from Jerry Shepherd: a Feranite war cloth; essentially woven threads painted in bright colors to symbolize a chief's great victories. For Trevor, it served to remind that a band of Red Hand nomads remained at large in the Midwest.
"We'll, looks like we've arrived, sir," Ray said as the helicopter descended.
Godfrey lived in a colonial-style home nearly as large as Trevor's lakeside mansion. The red brick appeared recently re-pointed and three sharp gables gave it a taste of Victorian style.
The Sikorsky lowered to the finely manicured lawn behind the home, a yard large enough to accommodate one of those softball fields Trevor spotted during the flight.
Trevor saw no cameras or reporters, but that had been the case all day. The itinerary called for no media before or during their get together. Presumably, when finished, the two would address the media together in a dramatic showing of solidarity and mutual respect.
The helicopter landed. The rotors powered down. Trevor glanced out the window, noting Evan and several I.S. guards standing at the rear of the home near a colorful garden of red, orange, and yellow. Still, no sign of cameras. Whatever political trap Evan planned to spring would either not need the media or could wait until they addressed the reporters after lunch.
Or, a part of Trevor suggested, maybe Evan is really reaching out here.
"Sir, this way," Roos directed Trevor to the exit.
"You sure you're okay, Ray? You don't look so good."
"Fine, sir."
Tyr went first, Trevor and Roos followed with four bodyguards not far behind. Evan approached Trevor wearing a big grin; so big and so forced it could only be phony.
Trevor glanced to his left and noticed the beautiful but simple design of the Godfrey mansion. Not quite as flashy as Trevor would expect from a man so concerned about image. He then looked to his right and surveyed the open expanse of well-kept lawn surrounded by forest.
"Trevor, I'm very glad you could come."
The two met half way.
"How could I refuse such an invitation. Besides, Dante Jones twisted my arm. He seems to think that I have misjudged you all these years."
Evan's phony grin changed, a little. His teeth flashed; his eyes narrowed.
"Yes, Trevor. You have misjudged me."
A low, electric humming that Trevor recognized as the quiet engines of an Eagle transport drifted to his ears, pulling his attention to the rear of the yard. From there flew in—low and fast--one of The Empire's white Eagle transports.
The sudden appearance of the shuttle startled Trevor for only an instant. He had anticipated a political trap and was only surprised that no cameras played to capture whatever grand embarrassment the President of the Senate planned for The Emperor.
The ship landed and the passenger compartment opened. Out poured men in white and red body armor with full face plates—no, not men. Aliens. Centurians or, as they had been nicknamed during the battle of Wilkes-Barre, "Redcoats," the original owners of the Eagle shuttles.
In a flash, Trevor understood that an extraterrestrial assault team landed in Evan's back yard. It took Tyr even less time to smell the threat.
The dog charged as the attackers fired their first volley. While those energy bla
sts missed the K9, the shots did hit the ground next to The Emperor and the Senator. The explosive impact sent both of the men first into the air, then onto the beautiful green grass. Trevor's head hit hard, but he remained conscious.
He heard small arms fire as well as the crackle of energy bursts. Trevor felt a hand haul him up, expecting it to be Roos, but it was a member of the estate detachment. The man pulled an Mp5 machine gun and returned fire while struggling to drag Trevor to cover.
Trevor should have come to his senses and acted, but the sight he saw in Evan Godfrey's yard confused him. He saw alien plasma bursts firing into the air and into the ground; not really hitting anything. He saw Tyr rip into the arm of one of the Redcoats, but the alien reacted sluggishly, as if not feeling the pain. He spotted Godfrey cowering on the ground, arms over his head. He saw some of his escort firing at the attackers, knocking at least two of the dozen aliens to the ground with solid hits. He saw other I.S. agents firing at…firing at other I.S. agents.
"To the chopper!" Shouted the guard holding Trevor's arm.
Something streaked by Trevor. Something hot. Then he felt a warm liquid splash on his cheek. That liquid came from the man dragging him toward the helicopter; blood from his head. The hot thing had been a bullet fired by another I.S. agent, one from the estate, a short man with gray hair who held his pistol steady in both hands for the best possible aim.
Tyr bolted at that gray-haired agent, clamping down on the short man's arm. With his free hand, the agent blasted the Norwegian Elkhound, exploding the skull of Trevor's friend.
Another energy bolt hit at Trevor's feet, sending him rolling. He looked up and saw that while almost the entire security detail had died, the majority of the Redcoat aliens remained alive but stood still with their rifles held aloft but not firing, not advancing.
Trevor pulled himself to a sitting position and called, "Evan! Are you okay?"
Ray Roos cast a shadow over Trevor and pointed a gun at his boss saying, "He's fine, but you're dead."
The gun fired. Trevor felt a hot sensation in his chest and his limbs went numb...
---
Chaos.
"Confirm that message. Confirm it, NOW!"
General Jon Brewer stood on the bridge of the Excalibur alongside the command station where Woody "Bear" Ross operated as the 'brain' of the ship.
"Message confirmed from D.C. Station," Ross replied in his booming voice. "All friendly air traffic is grounded. The contact is not responding to hails."
Jon yelled the obvious order, "Intercept it, goddamn it! Intercept!"
The Excalibur's main engines increased to maximum thrust, propelling the massive vessel over the Virginia landscape at speeds approaching one-hundred and twenty miles per hour.
Jon, staring out the bridge windows at blue skies, growled at his unseen quarry, "Where are you going? Are you trying to get back to Mexico? Is that it?"
Nothing yet appeared on the Excalibur's scopes, but if I.S. spotters were correct then the getaway transport for the alien assassination team would soon be in range. As Jon waited for intercept, he played over the events of the last sixty minutes, according to reports from Internal Security, the media, and the Department of Medical and Health Services.
At 1:15 p.m. on May 22, an alien-operated Eagle transport—most likely a Centurian ship painted to resemble The Empire's versions—landed without warning at the estate of Senator Evan Godfrey. Within thirty seconds the bulk of the I.S. security detail had been killed. Godfrey and Stone had both been hit, although Godfrey's wounds appeared minor.
Less than two minutes later, the alien assault force flew off, chased away by the encroachment of perimeter guards and military units.
At 1:23 p.m. an I.S. transport helicopter departed with the injured, including Emperor Trevor Stone, to the Medical and Health Services facility in Washington D.C., where none other than Dr. Maple himself—a member of the Imperial Council—began emergency surgery on Trevor for a direct hit by an alien energy rifle.
At 1:45 p.m., Dante Jones, who was at D.C.'s I.S. complex and Tambourine Central Station, ordered the grounding of all Eagles in an attempt to locate the enemy craft that still had not appeared on any of the regional radar stations, or the Excalibur's own scopes.
At 2:12 the Internal Security station in D.C. reported contact with a suspect vessel matching the profile of an Eagle. Said ship did not respond to hails.
Ross shouted, "Got it! Radar contact coming from the northeast. Fifty miles and closing."
"Why didn't we see the damn thing sooner?"
"Maybe he was hiding in the mountains," Ross answered.
Brewer knew they might only have once chance. From what he remembered, the Redcoat shuttles could run at speeds close to one-hundred and fifty miles per hour, meaning the aliens could outrun the Excalibur, and the ship's fighter compliment was stowed below decks.
Jon wanted to know how the aliens managed to fly from Mexico to D.C. without detection. Could the Centurians have a hidden base inside the boundaries of The Empire?
For the next several minutes Brewer watched monitors and listened to Bear direct navigation to intercept. The radar blip closed to within missile range and while Jon's naked eyes could not see the enemy, Bear's telescopic lenses provided confirmation.
"That's it. We got em'. Do you want me to fire?"
Jon replied, "Hold for a moment. Contact them. Tell them they will be destroyed unless they respond."
Woody Ross relayed that order several times over the course of three minutes with no answer. The radar blip crossed the Excalibur's path heading from northeast to southwest at a high rate of speed.
"They ain't answering," the Brain stated the obvious. "They're going to outrun us if we don't do something about it. Should I get the crews to their fighters?"
"No. We don't need the jets. Fire."
One, two, three, then four radar-locked missiles streaked away from launchers. Jon turned from the open windows of the bridge and walked to the tracking station.
The missiles flew straight and true. The alien vessel either did not know that death fast approached or lacked any countermeasures. Ross, watching through telescopic lenses, yelled, "First one is a hit…it's smoking. Wait…second hit. And the third. Damn, that Got em! They're in pieces, no chance of survivors."
The blip disappeared from the scope. Jon visualized chunks of debris twisting and falling to the wilderness below.
Cheers erupted around the bridge but not from Jon Brewer. He knew what had happened. He knew the damage had already been done.
The General left the radar station and returned to the Brain area. Woody Ross did not cheer, either. In fact, he absolutely scowled as one finger pressed an earpiece tight.
"What? What is it?"
"Communication from Ray Roos. Trevor Stone is dead."
10. Wrath
The forty-acre tract of land called Highland Beach jutted out into the Chesapeake Bay a few miles southeast of Annapolis. The tiny municipality originated as a getaway for affluent blacks from the Washington D.C. area in the early 20th Century. That unique identity had been fairly diluted by the time Armageddon and Hivvan occupation arrived. Many of the resort homes and businesses burned to ashes during those dark years prior to liberation.
On top of the ruins, The Empire built the Southern Command facility to help prosecute the war against the Hivvans. From there, General Jerry Shepherd had directed tens of thousands of human forces, armored columns, and air assets against the lizard-like aliens until breaking the enemy's back at Atlanta.
As the war moved west, the Southern Command morphed from active headquarters to communication station and training facility.
For Nina Forest and the Dark Wolves, the vertical landing pads and communications office off Bay Drive served as a muster point prior to missions. They would usually catch an Eagle or a chopper from there and fly either to a larger airport or a dreadnought. The flattened rubble to the north of the facility also provided grounds for tactic
al training and weapons ranges.
When news surfaced mid-afternoon that Trevor had been badly wounded during an alien assassination attempt, Captain Nina Forest followed her first instinct and gathered her gear, caught a bus from her apartment complex to the transportation hub on Douglas Avenue at Highland Beach, then jogged passed the beach to the old Southern Command buildings.
The entire process—from saying goodbye to Denise to walking in the front doors at the center—lasted half an hour. Yet in that time, things changed drastically.
Nina, a duffle bag thrown over one shoulder and her M-4 cradled on the other, staggered away from the building after learning that nothing more remained to be done.
She moved along the shaded sidewalk with the plan of returning to the transportation hub. On the far side of the short beach the gentle waters of the Chesapeake lapped to shore. A series of rotting wood posts marched out into the surf, all that remained of a dock washed away long before Highland Beach burned.
A small park with rusty playground equipment stood vacant under a warm afternoon sun. Charred branches and logs lay in circles around the rim of the park. Nina knew that kids—kids like Denise and her boyfriend Jake—came here at night to build campfires.
Her legs weakened. Nina accepted the invitation of an empty bench and sat facing the swooshing waters.
It came at her unexpectedly: a powerful, unstoppable surge of sadness forming a horrible rock of despair in her stomach and sending a quiver across her body. She dropped her bag with a thump on the sand at the edge of the beach and set the M-4 down. A breeze carrying the scent of salt blew by and seagulls cawed over the water oblivious to the tragedy of the day.
Trevor Stone had died after suffering a direct hit from an energy weapon. He had been dead, in fact, before arriving at the hospital but Dr. Maple explained to the press that he had wanted to exhaust every avenue of treatment before abandoning hope.
Beyond Armageddon IV: Schism Page 15