Beyond Armageddon V: Fusion (25 page)

He tried to dart inside but stumbled, falling forward to the pavement of what had once been a gigantic parking lot. Two of the red spheres flew directly over his head; he felt an intense heat as they passed.

Inside the tent, Simms and Duda dove for cover beneath the map table; Casey Fink and Bear Ross tried to run off.

The first of the orbs hit a storage locker at the rim of the tent. The explosion tore away the stakes and sent the tent flying off and up into the morning sky. The map table overturned; Duda and Simms tumbled over and over across the pavement.

The second impacted just beyond the tent, a pace behind General Fink and Ross. The blast sent chunks of pavement into the air along with the two men. Ross landed atop a pallet of supply crates; the sleeve of his black uniform caught fire.

Fink landed straight on the pavement, face down and motionless.

Another sphere hit an APC punching a hole in its side. Yet another dive-bombed into a crowd of men standing around a portable kitchen. Shepherd saw legs and arms tossed off as well as blobs of gore.

More explosions all around the camp. Shepherd scrambled to his feet and raced first to Woody Ross who rolled on the ground trying to douse the flames on his arm.

Shep used his hat to help snuff the fire. With a quick glance he saw Ross’ arm to be badly burned and one of his ankles twisted in an unnatural way, but nothing mortal.

He turned around and saw Cassy Simms kneeling next to Casey Fink. She rolled him over. His eyes remained open but lifeless.

“Here comes another one!”

Charles followed the sound and fired a burst from his MP5 just as one of the yellow balls flew in through a window at the front of the house. It popped from the shots and spilled sizzling acid across the hardwood. The droplets bubbled and disappeared leaving behind black holes in the floor.

“Backyard!” Ashley yelled.

Two of the yellow orbs swung into the backyard from the side of the house and raced toward the sliding glass window. The first hit, spraying its lethal cargo on the window which melted open a few square feet like ice hit with a blowtorch.

Gordon—in his wheelchair near his array of radios and computers—leveled his pistol and fired through the hole in the glass meeting the second flying ball before it entered the home. The resulting splash dissolved most of the rest of the sliding glass doors.

More machine pistol shots from the front of the house.

“I’m almost out,” Charles jogged up the hallway in search of another clip.

“Try the kitchen,” Gordon motioned toward the room across the hall from his nerve center. “I keep spare clips in the cookie jar.”

Charles pulled the lid off a Snoopy cookie jar and found what he needed. But before he could slam a new magazine home, a sight from outside the kitchen window grabbed his attention. His eyes widened and he threw himself to the ground.

“Incoming!”

Another yellow sphere smashed through the kitchens window and popped, spreading acid on the sink, floor, and Charles’ prosthetic hand.

“Are you okay?” She knelt near Charles as all went quiet inside and outside the home.

He nodded.

Ashley stood again. Gordon maneuvered his wheelchair into the hallway.

“I think that about does it.”

Another loud hum came from outside and then the front door exploded in with a wave of burning acid that splashed on the hallway floor. A second later another yellow orb flew inside the cottage and right up the hall directly at Gordon and his wheelchair.

He raised his pistol.

The orb locked onto target and increased speed—halfway down the hall…

Gordon Knox pulled the trigger on his automatic.

Click.

“Gordon!” Ashley screamed but Charles reached out with his good hand and stopped her from interfering.

The droning hum from the assassin filled the hallway. Its yellow light danced on the walls.

Knox growled, “Come and get me.”

In a swift, fluid motion Gordon threw off his pistol, reached down to a pouch just behind the right wheel of his chair, whipped out a Mossberg shotgun, pulled the forearm slide, and fired a slug five feet from the orb.

It exploded midair. The acidic contents splashed onto the ceiling, onto the walls to either side and onto the floor just an inch shy of Gordon’s foot. He eyed the sizzling drops meant for him with contempt.

“You missed,
asshole.”

Yellow and red lights flashed across the estate lawn and the humming of the spheres drown out all but the highest-pitched screams.

A red ball impacted the side of the mansion; a gap tore in the stone wall and a cloud of dust billowed forth. Another detonated in the sky as a .50 millimeter round from the Humvee founds its mark.

Lori and Jon ran for the front door of the mansion as a red ball whizzed within inches of their heads, over shot, and blasted away dirt on the far side of the lawn.

One hit the Humvee and its gunner straight-on. The entire vehicle detonated in blast of black and orange and red ejecting the soldier in the cupola in several big chunks.

The concussion of the exploding Humvee knocked both of the Brewers from their feet.

Omar scrambled toward the front gate with the guard there trying to provide cover; he succeeded in blasting one red orb from the sky while a yellow one hit the fence dissolving iron posts into globs of black goo.

Jon rolled over and came to his knees, then ducked to avoid a yellow acid-ball which hit the ground next to his wife just as she scrambled to her feet. It splashed a wave of acid over her. Lori’s clothes sizzled and her lips cried out with an agonizing moan before the poison dissolved her lungs.

Jon’s shout boomed across the grounds. He stumbled forward to his wife’s side but what remained did not move. Smoke rose from the burnt grass and the tattered mess of flesh and bones.

The general slumped to his knees in front of those remains and gaped at them in an expression of disbelief. Behind him the last red ball smashed into the front porch of the mansion and exploded while the last yellow sphere fell amongst a trio of barking canines, killing two.

Jon did not see any of that. All he saw—all he felt—all he cared for at that moment was the loss of the woman he loved. So quick and so permanent; no last words and no chance for contemplation. In an instant the assassins had taken his Lori from him.

His hands clamped onto his forehead, his mouth hung open, his eyes closed, and his body rocked back and forth.

11. Crash Dive

Trevor sat across from Captain Farway. The two men shared a cup of early morning coffee—or something similar to coffee—inside the Captain’s quarters. Those quarters allowed more space than the cramped rooms with multiple bunks provided for the crew, but all things were relative.

Trevor had politely refused Farway when the Captain had offered those quarters for the trip. Instead, Trevor shared a berth with his son in a tiny cabin a short way down the corridor.

Farway noted the glazed look in the Emperor’s eye and the drops of sweat on his brow.

“Fifth day out and you’re still not used to it?”

“Never, um, never knew I was, well, sorta claustrophobic.”

Farway chuckled and ran a hand over his thinning scalp, saying, “Imagine what it was like in the old days. This boat is a hotel compared to the W-W two subs.”

Indeed, the submarine moved under the water easily and with only the most subtle of motions. The journey across the Atlantic had, so far, been an easy one. If all went well they would make landfall in France later that night.

Trevor ran a hand over his forehead again. He did not feel queasy. Not quite. The Dramamine helped in that regard. He felt—caged. Yes.
Trapped.
Ever since they had closed that top hatch behind him, JB, and Hauser, Trevor felt trapped; no room to maneuver.

Jorgie handled it much better. He spent most of the trip taking tours of the boat. The sailors onboard viewed him as a kind of mascot, but with an added sense of wonder. After all, no secrets remained onboard a sub. The entire crew understood that Trevor and his nine-year-old boy planned not only to cross the Atlantic, but to march all the way across Europe.

The effect appeared multiplied on the
Newport News’
sailors because most of them were well-seasoned, tracing their careers not only over the eleven years since Armageddon, but many years before the end-of-the-world.

On the first day of the trip, Trevor noticed something odd about the crew in that their physical appearances matched so much that it could have been a boat manned by siblings. He found a tactful way of asking the Captain about that and the answer was surprisingly simple. The men on the
Newport News
had now spent over a decade together, eating exactly the same food, breathing the same filtered air, and living in the same dim light. Their environment chipped away at their differences, like a generation of family living in the same house.

Trevor raised the cup of warm drink to his lips and considered the situation. They might make it to Europe before tonight. That pleased him. It also pleased him that JB still slept in their quarters. His boy needed the rest although the difference between morning, noon, and night held little meaning inside the undersea coffin.

Farway sensed Trevor’s mind planning and assured, “We’ll have you at the rendezvous point in time for dinner.”

“Dinner? Right now it
should
be breakfast, but I don’t feel like that,” Trevor closed his eyes, pinched his nose, and tried to come to terms with his biological clock. “Right now it feels like the middle of the night. Between being locked up down here and the different time zone I think I’m all screwed up. I shouldn’t even be out of my berth yet, but I couldn’t sleep any more. Is there such thing as sub lag?”

He un-pinched his nose, opened his eyes, and flashed a quick smile. Captain Farway, however, did not smile. He glanced over Trevor’s shoulder with an expression of concern.

Trevor swiveled in his chair. Jorgie stood at the open hatch dressed in his pajamas, holding his wrapped stuffed bunny, and staring at the men through wide, red eyes.

“JB? Buddy? What is it?”

“It’s coming, Father,” the boy’s body quivered. His sense of fear radiated through the room. That feeling of being trapped shivered along Trevor’s spine. “It’s coming for us.”

“What? Huh? JB, what are you talking about?”

The squawk box burst, “Captain Farway to the con.”

Trevor stared at his son. JB stood motionless just outside the open portal. Captain Farway pushed the ‘answer’ button.

“Farway here, go ahead.”

“Sonar contact to aft, sir. Closing fast.”

“Can you identify the contact?”

“Negative, sir.”

Farway ordered, “Call GQ, I’m on my way,” and he stood. So did Trevor.

For a split second JB blocked their exit.

“It’s here, Father. And we’ve nowhere to run.”

For the first time in five days’ worth of uneventful travel underneath the Atlantic Ocean, the bridge of the
Newport News
came alive. The helmsmen scanned their computer monitors keenly and gripped their steering controls with sweaty palms; the Chief of the Boat paced anxiously between sonar and fire control stations; the Executive Officer shoved a stick of ancient chewing gum in his mouth and worked his jaw as if biting on nails; and the rest stood in a pensive silence waiting for what would come next.

To Trevor’s eye the bridge appeared a strange combination of his expectations. On one hand valves, piping, cramped corners, and the periscope fit with his memories of World War II submarine epics such as
Run Silent, Run Deep
: a movie he and his father watched several times in the old world.

On the other hand, modern monitors, a vast array of blinking buttons and flashing lights, and the hum of electronics seemed more akin to
Star Trek.

In any case, Trevor and his son stood near the Control & Attack Center and watched patiently, Jorgie having quickly changed from pajamas to shorts and a t-shirt but still held his wrapped bunny.

Captain Farway hovered at the center of the high tech bridge and tried to understand the situation.

“Chief, break it down for me.”

The Chief of the Boat—a broad shouldered fellow with the jaw of a Marine—answered while looming over the sonar operator’s shoulder, “Contact at two hundred yards and closing fast. Looks to be at fifty knots. Damn, that’s fast.”

“Target info?”

“A little bigger than a torpedo, sir, which is what its sonar profile resembles. Also hearing something secondary—engines of some type—maybe a type of jet propulsion like a Barracuda’s mag-drive.”

The Executive Officer—a thin man who could have appeared at home working in a bank or at an accounting firm—added, “We’re at thirty-five knots and it’s gaining. Helm, prepare for evasive maneuvers.”

“Aye.”

Farway: “Chief. Get on the horn with the engine room and make sure we’ve got everything she can give.”