Dawn of the Mad (44 page)

Local police stood no chance against these forces; they were too few in number, and their small-caliber pistols were ineffective. Small groups of the local populace attempted to repel the invaders, but their corpses soon littered the streets. There had been no word of a response from the White House or the Pentagon. The survivors felt alone and isolated, eventually going into hiding to wait it out. After the initial shock had worn off and the reality of what was happening had settled in, a few local National Guard units north of the Rio Grande managed to assemble a few platoons of mixed personnel, along with tanks and some artillery, but their efforts also were too little, too late. No one could get answer on who was attacking, the Russians? The Chinese? Were nuclear weapons detonated on American soil?

The northern offensive continued north at a breakneck pace until it stalled at a natural water boundary, the Rio Grande River waiting for supplies and reinforcements. After the rear area was secured just north of the Texas/Mexico border, Penal Battalion 7 touched down with its full complement of drop ships and equipment, just north of the Rio Grande near Brownsville, Texas. As his company charged down the ramp of the drop ship, Johnny Roman paused and raised his face shield. He could instantly smell the sour waters of the Rio Grande and the smog generated by the nearby maquiladoras in the Mexican city of Matamoros. A thin smile broke across his face as his company charged into the scorched-earth landscape. Fires from nearby buildings lit the evening sky like funeral pyres. “I’m home,” Roman said with neither joy nor sadness. He slammed his face shield down and vanished with his company into a grey, ashen wasteland.

“I’ve got hostiles all over my position, where are those damn jets?”

First Lieutenant Lance Chapa of the Texas National Guard yelled hoarsely into radio handset as the dying screams of men around him threatened to drown out his transmission. The past hour had been far more intense than Chapa had ever experienced in Afghanistan. The ground all around Chapa’s position was littered with the corpses of a few black armored invaders and several of those who dared to oppose them.

Chapa’s handset came to life. “Calm down, lieutenant, you need to give me a proper report so I can send in those jets,” the faint voice broke through the static just barely. Chapa had a sick feeling starting to rise in his gut. Radio comms shouldn’t be that weak. He was only 40 miles or so from Kingsville Naval Air Station.

“This is General Shimanek, 7th Cav. Now hang on down there, son. I’m trying to get reinforcements your way. Those bastards hit us all over. We got caught with our pants down.”

Chapa sat down and leaned back against the smoldering husk of a State Highway Patrol car. He stared blankly ahead, the faint silhouettes of the strange egg shaped ships still visible off in the distance. The only thing that really slowed down the black armored invaders was the Rio Grande River. They seemed confused on how to get across, almost as if they were afraid of it. Chapa thought maybe the fire mission he called wasn’t such a good idea. Once the first few 155mm HE rounds hit, they scattered like angry ants and stormed across the river in rage. Within seconds of the first salvo, a half dozen or so missiles rained down from space, annihilating the battery.

“My defensive line is breached, my arty and armor is gone, how copy?” Chapa whispered into the radio handset. He was surprised he was actually holding it together. A weekend a month and two weeks in the summer hadn’t prepared him or his men for a situation anything like this.

Static crackled over the radio. Chapa raised his Steiner binoculars up and couldn’t count the invaders approaching his position. Time was running out quickly. Chapa tried again, “Hotel two five actual this is Phoenix 6. I need flash. Drop everything you have on my pos.”

“Roger, flash on your position. Coordinates adjusted. You have jets inbound on your position. Keep your head down.” Chapa detected a hint of sadness from the voice on the other end of the radio, the situation now being fully understood. The front line wasn’t tenable; there just weren’t enough soldiers mobilized yet. He couldn’t get a word from Kingsville Naval Air Station and 7th Cav was out of Ft Hood, over 250 miles away. He could only assume the worst, that it was vaporized like most other military bases across the country.

Chapa threw down the handset and grabbed his M-4 carbine and stood up. He marveled at the black armored figures storming his position just north of the smoking remains of Brownsville Border Patrol Station. The few of his men who stood their ground were quickly cut to pieces under precise rifle fire. His soldiers were well equipped with ceramic plates and soft body armor, but the invaders weren’t firing bullets. A trailing green smoke followed the rounds as they penetrated their targets with ease. After penetration, the rounds kept going, tunneling through cars, walls, and whatever else got into their baneful path.

Rifled shotgun slugs and 5.56 rounds tore into the lead invaders chest and blew of its right arm as it crested the hill. As Chapa watched, the severed arm still twitched on the ground. Even without his arm, the soldier got up and continued on. It took another magazine of 5.56 and several slugs from two County Sheriff’s Deputies to drop him for good after concentrating on the helmeted head, which vaporized into a mass of high- density plastic and black mist. The body hit the ground just shy of the Chapa’s feet, convulsing and leaking black ooze out of its neck. Chapa longed for a single .50 cal machine gun, but unfortunately, the Humvees that the .50 cals were mounted on had long since been destroyed. The following invaders spread out and drove on as the remaining human defenders opened up with everything they had.

Chapa inserted a fresh magazine and raised his M-4 and squeezed off controlled bursts as he lined up targets in the reticule of his Aimpoint sight. He quickly depleted his magazine, and fell back against the burned out car behind him. Within seconds Chapa heard the telltale sounds of fast movers approaching low, at treetop level, dropping ordnance from their pylons. Chapa watched with satisfaction as the cluster bomblets hit the scorched earth, bounced upward, and exploded in the air, sending lethal shrapnel everywhere.

Ground Marshal Chuikova stood in the bridge of
The Emperor’s Fist
in his ceremonial battle armor, his gloved hands clasped behind his back. The bridge was busy with technicians and crew attending to their various tasks. Chuikova observed the waves of troop ships and larger supply ships being discharged from the other capital ships in the armada.

“Sir,” a grey-suited technician said as he held a hand up to his headset. “We have an incoming transmission from the Battalion 3, Company 6 commander. They should be one of the leading assault units.”

“Patch him through.”

The technician nodded and punched a few red buttons on his console. Immediately, static and explosions could be heard.

“Go ahead with your traffic. Ground Marshal Chuikova is present.”

“Understood!” After a brief pause of silence, the transmission clicked back on. “Captain Siminov reporting, Sir!” The captain yelled into his mike. Judging by the sound of gunfire around him, he probably couldn’t hear himself talk.

Chuikova stared absently into the view screen, which was dominated by the blue planet. He had a feeling that he was being watched by some unseen presence, even though he could detect only his officers and the technicians around him. Neighboring dreadnaughts on either side of The Emperor’s Fist occasionally let loose with a volley of blue plasma fire or tactical missiles, trailing white smoke as they exited launch tubes and streaked for the planet’s surface.

“Go ahead, Captain.”

“Ah. Copy. We are experiencing pocket resistance at the moment. We may have to dig in until we are reinforced. Tac strike missions will follow this transmission. Ground forces are being neutralized effectively; however, we are now under aerial attack. We are drawing casualties and may need resupply soon.” The captain’s voice was not panicked, but calm. Chuikova was grateful that at least he was able to review the personnel files of his troopers going into battle with the clones to ensure that experienced officers were leading. He always preferred to deal with war veterans in combat.

“What of the clones? Are they holding up?” Chuikova asked.

“Copy. They are able to withstand a lot of damage. Most are still following their programming.” The transmission static clicked off as a tremendous explosion resonated throughout the bridge.

“Captain! What do you mean ‘most’? Respond!”

Silence ensued. Chuikova immediately turned to the technician and yelled, “Get him back!”

The technician was already busy over his console; his hands were a blur as he punched various buttons. “The frequency is still open. He is not responding, Sir.”

“Keep trying.” Chuikova now felt a presence behind him, and the hair on the back of his neck stood on end. His earlier reservations were now confirmed. His robed “advisor,” as he called himself, was now standing directly behind him.

“The attack is being stalled. This is unacceptable,” the black-robed figure said. “I thought your bombardment erased all military opposition.” The black-robed figure moved silently before the large panoramic view screen. Chuikova stood still, the view screen still capturing his gaze. From space numerous red circles of razed targets were visible.

“Resistance is to be expected, but it shouldn’t take this long to pacify this planet.” the black-robed figure paused, and continued, “no matter what preparations have been carried out.” It was obvious to Chuikova he was being made to feel like a blundering fool.

“So far, the southern part of the continent has been pacified to a satisfactory level up to a large natural river border. North of the border, the defenders possessed better weapons than originally thought,” he replied curtly. Getting no response, he continued, albeit more calm.

“Reinforcements will catch up and secure the rear areas as planned. Because you did not desire to use orbital weapons on the final push, ground forces will bear the brunt of the assault. Your wish to push the clone battalions without proper support will be costly. Unnecessary confusion is manifesting at the front. I warned you of that.” He wanted to choke the figure and tell him I told you so, but he thought that probably wasn’t the best idea.

The figure’s face was hidden by a shadow within the depths of his black robes. The figure hissed back, “If the supreme chancellor’s will is not carried out, you will answer with your life, and I will have to answer to my master. That is something I do not wish to do.” The figure turned and exited the bridge, leaving Chuikova to himself with an intense look of hatred on his face, and wondering if his thoughts perhaps his mind had been read.

“I think he’s back!” the technician yelled.

Chuikova again stood by himself, with a bustle of activity around him.

“Put it through.”

Transmission static again came through loudly. Faint sounds of gunfire could be heard in the background, as well as a few random explosions. A faint moan drifted throughout the bridge.

“Captain, report!” Now only a faint moaning answered the marshal. The explosions and gunfire seemingly died out. The technician indicated that the communications line was still open. Chuikova heard a sickening crunch, like the one a bone makes as it breaks, shattered the static. A thick, droning voice filled the bridge.

“Destroy. Kill and destroy.” The communications line went dead. The technician tried in vain to get it back up, but to no avail.

“He’s not going to answer. Shut it off.” Chuikova said. The clones were unstable, and if the advance units were being held up, or worse, tearing themselves apart, the offensive would be over. “What is the status of the forward units?”

“Clone battalion Four, Five and Six were committed for the northern offensive. We are unable to establish contact with any of them.”

“What is the status of the reinforcements?”

“Fighter Squadron One is deploying. Three assault infantry regiments from
Mycla’s Hammer
are enroute plus a penal battalion.”

“Where is Matthias?”

“He is with regiment “Dreadwolves” taking part in the southern offensive,’ the technician replied quickly. Chuikova frequently asked the location of his close comrades and the technicians learned quickly to keep tabs on them.