Beyond Armageddon V: Fusion (54 page)

“And we can’t retreat.”

Shepherd did not ask so much as observe, but Jon replied nonetheless, “The next real natural barrier would be the Appalachians, maybe. But that’s no good. The civvies would be all crammed along the east coast and he could cut us to pieces. No, this is the best ground for a stand. Besides, we pull out now and start running he’ll just pick us off from behind. We stand here.”

“What about the rest of them?”

“The Geryons are camped a few miles north. Not far away at all. Same with the Centurians to the south and I’m guessing the Chaktaw, wherever they are. Sooner or later they’ll find their way to the front. The way I figure it, they’ll all be fashionably late. By then we might be minced meat and they can walk right through and take the credit. I’m thinking we’re going to get this on before lunch time.”

The landing gear touched ground and the Eagle rocked. A moment later the side door slid open and the general’s escort of well-disciplined career-soldiers led the entourage outside.

They landed at Bicentennial Park on the grassy river banks of Quincy, Illinois. A large gazebo with a blue roof and a miniature steeple served as HQ and provided a beautiful—but exposed—view of the river. The Mississippi stretched nearly 2,000 feet wide between the east bank at Quincy and ‘West Quincy’ on the other side.

Two bridges crossed the waters. The southern span was a truss bridge that brought the east bound lanes of Route 24 into town. Armageddon and Father Time had taken their toll on this relic. It appeared unsafe for travel. Only a handful of engineers dared work the bridge. Jon had half a mind to save the demolitions and challenge Voggoth to cross it.

The second bridge—a cable-stayed bridge in much finer condition—crossed the banks of the river a mere 200 feet north of the gazebo and shepherded the westbound lanes of 24 to the far side.

As for that far side, it offered flat, barren farmlands broken only by the remains of industrial buildings to either side of the highway and a patch of woodlands right along the coast. Jon hoped those trees would provide some measure of wind break but feared that, more likely, they would become deadly projectiles.

As for the town of Quincy that sloped down toward the east bank, a great fire during the days of Armageddon leveled much of downtown but a significant population remained in the neighborhood until a week ago. At that time evacuations removed the 5,000 residents living in the general area most of whom had resided close to the rail station on the northeast side.

Jon approached the gazebo where a cluster of soldiers and equipment worked frantically. Beyond them, across the river to the west, a threatening line of black clouds approached.

Cassy Simms met Brewer and Shepherd at the edge of the command center. She saluted. Jon returned the gesture and then got right to work.

“Cassy, can we stop them from crossing here?”

She appeared baffled; afraid even. Jon, however, could not question either her bravery or dedication. This was the woman who had sat in the shadow of Voggoth’s Leviathans as they pushed through the Rockies at Wetmore, Colorado. Somehow she had survived that Charlie Foxtrot and returned to command the best cavalry unit in Trevor’s army.

“I don’t know, Jon. I mean, I’ve got good people here. The town will provide a little cover for the 3
^rd
Mobile Artillery brigade. The streets are kind of tight and there’s a park—Washington Park—a few blocks from the river. I’ve got the guns moving in there and they should have no trouble finding range.”

“But?”

“But there aren’t too many hard points. This isn’t like St. Louis. Lots of the buildings downtown burned to their foundations and there aren’t many reinforced structures. A good puff from one of them Leviathans and this place will go
first little pig.”

Jon said, “Use those burned out basements as pillboxes and artillery emplacements. Get whatever Patriot batteries you have left in them, too. I’m guessing we’re going to trade bombardments with the bastards before they try to get across.”

Shepherd jumped in, “What about your riders, Cassy?”

“We’ve got ammo and grease for the guns. We’re digging in as best we can,” she swept her arm in a wide arc that referenced the trenches and sandbag bunkers hurriedly springing into place along the banks. “But our horses aren’t going to do us much good here and we don’t have the numbers to be very effective dismounted infantry.”

Jon told her, “The 14
^th
Mechanized Infantry brigade is to the south opposite Hannibal. They’re packing up and coming here.”

“What about the rest of Third Corp? Can we get some more of their pieces up here?”

General Brewer told her bluntly, “No. They’re dug in around St. Louis. Besides, that’s more than one hundred miles south of here. Even if we pulled them out they couldn’t get here in time to make a difference. But the first and second tactical wings are going to run some sorties up here. That, and, well you heard it here first: your old friend Kristy Kaufman is on her way. She should be here just in time.”

“The
Chrysaor?
She’s back on the line?”

Shep smirked as he told Cassy, “C’mon now, you rode with Kristy back in the days of Stonewall. Think she’d miss a fight this big?”

“Okay, good,” Cassy relaxed, a little. The thought of a dreadnought floating overhead inspired confidence. Jon, however, knew it to be a small consolation. The odds remained steep.

The trio of Generals moved into the shade of the gazebo. Soldiers worked on lap tops, studied maps, and barked orders into transmitters.

“Say, Cassy,” Shepherd spoke to the general but eyed the storm clouds on the horizon. “Time to find a new command post.”

“There’s a hospital at the center of town with an old fallout shelter in the basement. We’re moving things there. I’m just worried about freedom of movement once this starts.”

She walked to one of the bulky radio sets on a table inside the command post.

“All personnel,” Jon and Jerry heard her voice echo from radios up and down the river bank at Quincy. “Enemy contact estimated in less than two hours. Dig in, check your ammo, and confirm lines of supply and communication before things get hot.”

Shep whispered in Jon’s ear, “Before she breaks all this down, now might be a good time for you to send some final instructions to the boys.”

“What? Oh, well, I think everyone knows what to do.”

Shep stared at Jon. It took a moment, but he came to understand.

“I’m not really good at that sort of thing. Never have been. That’s kind of Trevor’s bag.”

“Jon, I reckon it’s
your
job today. Time for you to step up to the plate.”

Jon admitted, “I tend to strike out when I step up to the plate.”

Shep would not let go. “They’re fighting for you this time. You owe em’.”

Jon closed his eyes and ran a hand through his crew cut. And then accepted the radio from Cassy Simms.

“Um—hello,” his voice carried to every squad and vehicle radio in Quincy. “This is General Brewer. I just wanted to say—I wanted to say something—well, something…” he let go of the transmit button and sighed. Then, with resolve, he raised the radio again.

“Look, I’m not really any good at this. Every time I give a speech it just doesn’t sound right. I wasn’t made for this sort of thing. Never was. I’m not a politician. I’m not even a football coach.”

He stopped again, took a deep breath, cleared his throat, and broadcast, “I’ll tell you what I am. I’m a soldier. Like you. Like all of you. Maybe in the old world, you weren’t. Maybe before ‘all this’ you were a teacher, or a scientist, or you pumped gas. Whatever. Point is, since the day this started you’ve been soldiers.”

Quiet settled over the commons, intruded upon only by the call of a lonely bird and the rumble of approaching thunder.

“I know how you feel right now. You have energy, and you don’t know what to do with it. You feel afraid and you’re trying to hide it because you think a soldier isn’t supposed to be afraid. Part of you wants this battle to start right now—and part of you keeps hoping it passes us by. I feel—I feel the same way. My adrenaline is running fast—my mind is imagining what is to come—my stomach—hell, my stomach is doing somersaults.”

A few chuckles sounded in the air.

“Sorry, that’s not really very inspirational. But, here’s the thing; we’ve nowhere left to go. This is the last line in the sand; the enemy cannot cross. We’ve retreated all the way across the country. Our families have been uprooted. We’ve given back nearly all of what we’ve worked for; there’s no more room to give. No more concessions. No pulling back.”

He let the transmitter sag for a second. Memories of his wife danced in his mind. Shep must have seen them, too, because he put a reassuring hand on his friend’s shoulder.

“It’s no longer about territory or victory. It’s about the person next to you. It’s about us—about soldiers doing what we have to do. We did not ask for this fight. We don’t want to die. We don’t even want to kill. No one hates the taste of death more than the soldier because we’re the ones who shoulder the burden. We’re the ones who live with the dead faces in our dreams and the scars on our bodies.”

A long roll of thunder interrupted Jon’s words for a second. Not natural thunder; the sound of the enemy on the move; of the evil storm approaching from the horizon.

“So why did we sign up for this? Civilians? They don’t get it. They don’t understand why we would chose to be soldiers. Do we love guns and violence? Are we misfits who want to pick fights? You bet your ass that’s what some of them think. But you know the reason, don’t you? You just have a hard time putting it to words. I think it’s time someone tried, because you deserve it.”

“You do it so they don’t have to. You do it, because all your life you have taken responsibility. You stand here with me on this riverbank because
someone
has to stand here.

“You do it because the soldier next to you is your brother or sister and they are worth your loyalty and your courage. Your biggest fear isn’t death—hell, we face that every damn day just training for this job. Your biggest fear is letting them down. Your biggest fear is that if you fail here today, someone back home will have to do the job. Someone’s kid—maybe yours. Someone you love. You stand here and fight the nightmares because you don’t want the charge to fall to them; because you know how terrible this is. You wish no one had to face this but if someone has to, let it be you.”

Jon paused and took a deep breath.

“I don’t know if this makes a difference or not, but you should know that I will stand here with you because I don’t want to let you down. Not in some command center five miles away, but here on the river bank. As long as I draw breath, the enemy will not cross this line in the sand. Until the battle is won I will not move from this river. My wife—my dear wife—once told me that I can be a stubborn son of a bitch. She was right. I refuse to move. I refuse to retreat. I refuse to give way.”

The eyes in the command tent focused hard on Jon Brewer. As he glanced around, he saw soldiers poking their heads out from Humvees or pushing through the crowd to get closer or setting aside their shovel or spade to listen to their general.

“I feel personally responsible for all of you. I put together this army from the beginning. I’ve tried to do right by you. And I’m going to be honest, we’ve got a tough fight coming. Maybe the toughest ever. But I’m not going anywhere. No matter how bad it gets, you’re going to hear my voice through it all; right here, with you. You’re going to see me fighting alongside you. The only thing I ask, is that you do the same. Stand with me, do not yield, no steps back, no second thoughts, and give every last ounce you have one more time. The line has been drawn. They
shall not pass.”

No cheers. No hollers. No surge of enthusiasm. For a second, Jon felt certain his words had fallen flat; that yet again he had taken the ball of leadership and fumbled.

He set the radio down and felt the urge to crawl in a foxhole.

Then he saw his soldiers. The Generals and officers in the gazebo, the men and women in BDUs and jeans all along the commons, the bridges, the streets. He saw every last man and woman holding their arms in rigid salute.

His jaw felt loose. The general’s heart thumped. Goose bumps sprung on his arms and tingled.

Jon took a deep breath and stiffened his shoulders. His hand snapped to his forehead and his elbow locked tight returning their gesture with the same pride and courage that radiated from his soldiers.

They shall not pass.

Wild Horse Creek Road ran through the heart of upscale homes nestled among woods and small hills in the western suburbs of St. Louis. A set of railroad tracks ran parallel to the road about 1500 feet to the north where the hills and trees gave way to fields. Beyond those fields between the residential neighborhood and the bend of the Missouri river lay the Spirit of St. Louis airport as well as various commercial and industrial buildings of boxy design.

Nina’s rag tag army used the woods, hills, and vacant homes between Wild Horse Creek Road and the railroad tracks for cover as they chased Voggoth’s army in a maneuver akin to a kitty-cat shadowing a pride of lions.

She used a salvaged and badly dented Chevrolet Trailblazer SUV as a mobile headquarters. Vince rode with her; his leg felt somewhat better despite a mild infection and he could move with the help of a crutch if push came to shove.