Beyond Armageddon V: Fusion (40 page)

“Wait a sec,” Shepherd pointed out, “those things in the cities that disappeared were more like Mutants and Deadheads and bad things like that; not his core army.”

Jon cocked his head as that particular wrench bounced around in the works of his idea.

“Well, I guess you have a point there. Sometimes I sort of throw all of those things in with The Order as a whole. I guess there is a difference. His army he sort of grows or builds or whatever when he needs it. The rest of them kind of came here on their own it seems, like the other aliens but aligned with Voggoth. Still, all these reinforcements came from somewhere. Maybe somewhere else in the world? But you know what; I think this is the type of thing that Trevor was talking about. Every time Voggoth works his magic he risks, well, getting himself into trouble with the rest of the head honchos. If we can force him to keep pulling stunts like this then maybe that’s a break in those rules Trevor was talking about.”

“And you think that might get old Voggoth in trouble? That’d be a shame.”

“Only if he gets caught red-handed, I figure. If the rest of his pals are even capable of catching him. Trevor would know better. Damn. I wish he were here.”

Silence.

Shep fought the urge to tell Jon again how sorry he felt about Lori. About how he wished he could have traveled back east to be at the funeral. About how much he would miss that little pistol of a lady.

Instead he said, “Either way, I guess your little plan had better work.”

“It’s going to cost us,” Jon admitted. “It’s going to cost us big time. This is a one-shot, Shep. No matter how well we play this we’re going to take heavy losses.”

“So let’s hope he can’t pull any more reinforcements out of his magic bag, right?”

Jon swept a hand across the map noting, “He doesn’t need to. Hell, so far he’s used his main forces to fight us but he’s got all those other buddies of his spread out across the Midwest. He’s got hundreds of Roachbots in Kansas, a whole mess of Wraiths stirring up trouble in Iowa; I even saw a report of like ten thousand of those Ghoul-things tearing up shit in Oklahoma. Not to mention the rest.”

Shepherd knew what ‘the rest’ meant. It meant the other alien races coming together to support Voggoth’s attack. It meant the Geryons moving in from the north, the Centurians marching up from the south, and the Chaktaw somewhere to the west no doubt hurrying to join the battle.

“They on the move?”

Brewer answered, “Yeah. Intel this morning spotted the Geryon air ships leaving their moorings in Des Moines and the Redcoats breaking camp at Little Rock.”

Shep removed his hat and ran an arm across his sweaty forehead.

“That’s as sure a sign that this thing is coming to a head soon as anything else. If Trevor’s right, that is. Guess those other folks want to make it to the party on time.”

“Sure,” Jon agreed. “But if we can hit Voggoth hard enough he’ll postpone his attack on the Mississippi. If he does that, I’m guessing those others will back off and wait. If Trevor is right and all.”

“Be nice if we could hit them Geryons or the Reds first. You know, break the whole thing into pieces. I reckon that would improve our odds.”

Brewer smiled—a little—and flattered Shep with, “I ‘
reckon
you’d be right. But I don’t think we’ve got the mobility or the firepower to do it. Not with ground forces, at least.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Shepherd admitted. “Still, it’d be nice to play out Five Armies again, just like the old days. That worked out in our favor.”

“Never thought I’d see worse odds. Guess I didn’t know shit, right? But you’ve been running the show out here for a few weeks, Shep. Give me the lay of the land again.”

Shep leaned over the table and pointed to different segments of the map while he updated Jon on the defensive preparations made while Jon had mourned his dead wife.

“Duda’s got all of his 1
^st
Mech boys around St. Louis: 4
^th
Brigade is dug in the city in the worst kind of way, his 6
^th
Mobile Artillery is positioned at the Lockhaven Country Club to the northeast of the city and can move to follow the enemy’s approach when the time comes.”

“What about his 5
^th
Brigade?”

“They got sent all the way back to Springfield for re-supply and re-tool. Not much of those poor bastards left. I don’t think they’re going make it to the party.”

Jon mumbled, “Strip what you can.”

Shepherd went on, “Rheimmer’s 3
^rd
Armored is backing up St. Louis. 10
^th
and 12
^th
Armored Brigades are exactly where you wanted them: over on this side of the river waiting around as a mobile reserve. By the way, Rheimmer rolled what was left of his 11
^th
brigade in with the 12
^th
, in case you’re wondering where they headed to.”

“Makes sense. What about Simms?”

Shep pointed to the town of Quincy to the north and answered, “Her cavalry and mobile artillery are holding up in this quiet spot. I’m thinking she can turn south when the fighting gets going but until then she’s holding a crossing up there.”

“She’ll want in. No way you’ll keep her out of this.”

Shep smiled and continued, “You know Rhodes’ Second Corp got chewed up real bad getting out of the Rockies. Only the 10
^th
Mechanized Infantry Brigade is left in the 3
^rd
Division. Captain Vervain has got them dug in down at Cape Girardeu. Not likely to see any action unless we call em’ up. As for 5
^th
Mech, they were always under-strength to begin with. I’ve got one of their infantry brigades held up in Carbondale in reserve, the 1
^st
Mountain guarding supply depots—“

“I thought there weren’t any of them left after what happened in the Sierra Nevadas.”

“Just enough to pull sentry duty. That’s about all those boys got left in them but they won’t catch a bad word from me about it.”

“Wow, yeah, I hear that,” Jon agreed and then prompted, “Go on.”

“Anyway, Rhodes’ Armored Car battalion is in Chester watching a crossing and the 1
^st
Engineering Brigade is in the same neck of the woods mining in case Voggoth wants to try to cross that far south. But if he goes that way they will need help in a hurry.”

“Every bit helps. You did a hell of job getting Rhodes out of that pocket.”

“Wish I could take the credit. It was the Grenadiers who made that work.”

“And Third Corps?”

“Ross has got them moving good. That fella has a way of grabbing someone’s attention. He’s got Rothchild’s 10
^th
Armored brigade in the Golden Eagle area northwest of St. Louis to protect the river bend. They can move out of there fast if need be. You know 11
^th
Armored brigade was disbanded after the Rockies and I am very familiar with the 12
^th
Engineering Brigade; those knuckleheads are sabotaging the approaches west of St. Louis.”

Jon laughed. He had heard the story of the mix up during Shep’s relief mission. If not for the Grenadiers there would be nothing left to laugh about.

“What remains of the 4
^th
Mechanized infantry is positioned in East Alton. We’re talking about a fraction of an Infantry Brigade and some arty. Oh yeah, 14
^th
Mech is east of Hannibal, they’re not in too bad a shape if push comes to shove. That’s about the whole of it.”

“Sounds good.”

“No it don’t but it’s all we’ve got.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Jon reached for his glass. “As Gordon Knox would say, we just got to tough it out.”

Jon saw the water in his glass ripple. The table came next, then windows rattled. Activity in the mall-turned-military-base slowed to a hush…

They came like bullets flying from east to west, little more 300 feet overhead. A rolling, ear-splitting roar came with them as they raced hard and fast but very low in the sky.

F-15s in the lead but F-16s not far behind along with Tomcats and even a pair of F-18 Hornets. Eight—ten—twelve in all leading the charge followed by a mixed bag of aircraft: Six F-111 Aardvarks; three F-117 Nighthawk Stealth Fighters; four A-10s all of which sported the scars of recent battles and five EA-6B Prowlers stripped of their electronic warfare gear in favor of weapons pods.

The mass of soldiers in the mall parking lot below stopped packing crates, woke from their naps, put aside their chow, and watched.

They knew what passed in the sky. The last of mankind’s once-mightiest air force. Now piloted by left over guardsmen and commercial pilots-turned-warriors, those high-tech machines were once capable of ruling the skies, even in the post-Armageddon world when the Hivvans and the Duass and the California Cooperative had tasted death from above courtesy The Empire’s gallant flyers.

Despite the mighty roar, every soldier below knew they watched the end of something.

Voggoth would sacrifice 100—200—1,000 of his half-machine/half-monster ‘Spooks’ to knock the planes from the sky only to re-grow those horrible weapons by the bushel while The Empire could no longer replace, repair, or re-build the jets.

The soldiers on the ground did not know why the air force flew, they could only watch and pray that the Generals expended this last resource for some benefit. So they watched the fighters fly away; they listened to the last echoes of the turbines; they watched—and hoped.

The tail fins of the lead F-15s sported an icon of a female arm holding a bolt of lightning. The veteran combat pilot in the lead radioed, “Dasher One to group, watch the wash back there boys.”

His wingman—young before Armageddon but now a veteran as well—pointed out, “Dash One, this is Two, we’re at about three cherubs and really booming here; how we going to keep this all together with the slow-movers back there?”

“Don’t work your thinkbox too hard, Billie. That’s just the way it has to be. This isn’t exactly the most sophisticated mission we’ve gone on so we’ll just have to make it work.”

“What are we doing, boss?” Billie spoke through his mask as the scenery—some 300 feet below—whizzed by in a blur and the slower-moving of the phalanx of aircraft drifted further to the rear.

“Weren’t you at the meeting with General Brewer?”

Billie heard the sarcastic tone but replied, “No,” before he could stop himself.

“Guess not,” Dasher One answered with the obvious connotation of
you don’t need to know
.

“Dash-One this is Viking One, aren’t we do for a course correction?”

“Roger that,” Dasher One radioed the Prowler’s pilot, “turning on my mark.”

The planes—the army of jet fighters—banked to the northwest as they flew low and fast over the western suburbs of St. Louis. Below them scattered units of infantry gave the fleet a quick look. While the foot soldiers had grown accustomed to wearing a mixture of uniforms and carrying a diversity of gear, they had never seen such an eclectic collection of air power before; certainly not flying in one flock.

As impressive the aerial profiles and as ear-splitting the sound, the earthbound men and women who saw the sight knew it to be a formation of desperation.

“Dasher One to all wings, listen up. Follow I-80 below until we hit our next waypoint for Alpha target. Flight leaders, you know our instructions. Follow them.”

“What instructions?” Dash Two let his familiarity with this superior officer overcome the need to remain quiet.

“Billie, you just do what I tell you and be ready to jink, copy that?”

“Um, copy that Dash One.”

The attackers followed the interstate westward across Missouri. They flew over the hamlet of Pilot Grove, startling a band of civilian stragglers hurriedly transferring canned goods from an overturned and abandoned Deuce-and-a-half into a wagon pulled by two aging horses. Two of the civvies—carrying burlap sacks—actually fell over onto their rumps from the vibration and wind gust caused by the fast-movers.

Shortly thereafter, the historic town of Sweet Springs drew the attention of the flyers as a stream of thinning black smoke rose from a reconnaissance Eagle crashed nose-first next to a sagging gazebo in Gusher Park. A trio of gigantic Rat-like creatures—one of the first and most persistent alien monsters to invade Earth—clambered over each other to stick their snouts in the cracked-open transport module.

Dasher Two—‘Billie’—tapped his thumb against the flight stick nervously. He had flown hundreds of sorties with Dash One, including knocking Screamers out of the sky in support of Stonewall McAllister’s push into South Carolina during the Hivvan war and later the aborted strike on the Witiko’s Stealth Field Generator as the opening salvo of the California campaign. In each case he knew the mission, knew the goal, and understood the stakes.

Things felt different this time. He could not remember a mission when Dash One kept the details so murky. He did not understand how so many diverse aircraft—including several now miles behind the formation—should be tightly formed and used together in such a fashion.

But he did know The Order’s main battle force waited outside Kansas City. He knew them well-guarded by anti-air Spooks that would outnumber the strike force exponentially. He knew that all of the F-15s not born with Vulcan cannon received said cannons in wing-mounted weapons pods because fighting spooks with missiles made for losing the economics of this war. Still, he wondered if he carried enough bullets on board for the hell that would great them at Excelsior Springs. Of course he also wondered why the Spooks—not potential ground targets—appeared the priority of this mission.