The Dragons of Men (The Sons of Liberty Book 2) (29 page)

“Stop!”

Rick held up his hands and shouted in the middle of the street, trying to halt the final fuel truck. When the massive rig failed to slow, Rick jumped to the right, diving out of the way. The semi-truck barreled past him, leaving the shouting men who guarded the truck to disappear down the road.

Thousands of other terrified refugees fled in all directions, their cries of horror battling against the thunder of approaching battle. Panicked fathers, horrified mothers, and crying children ran along the streets next to Rick and his family. Some escaped into nearby homes while others continued onward in an effort to flee the city all together. Rick watched as one pistol-wielding man one hundred yards ahead ran with his wife toward a house and began kicking in the door, risking the occasional frantic stare back at the distant explosions. On the third kick, the door flung inward just as the man flew backward with his arms flailing—the flash from the shotgun that had killed him bright against the darkened interior. The man landed hard on the front lawn behind him, dead upon impact. The lifeless man’s hysterical wife cried a defeated shriek of madness, her screams beating against Rick’s own sanity.

The flashes of war that you never forget,
Rick thought painfully as he attempted to push the frenzied woman out of sight and out of mind.

“Trey!” Eric shouted, “I need you to see if you can—”

Before Eric could mutter another word, Lieutenant Rue bellowed at the top of his lungs, his voice quickly overshadowed by the howl of inbound artillery.

“Incoming!”

Violent explosions began to sprout up like colossal, fire-born wild flowers. The building a few hundred feet ahead of them blew apart in a shower of brick and dust as another house behind them became a fireball. Rick dove onto Judi, pushing her to the ground as debris zipped through the air. He screamed loudly—a pathetic wail compared to the chorus of death around him. When the explosions ceased, Rick raised his head slowly.

Buildings ahead and a few houses behind burned, black smoke billowing into the air. Dozens of other refugees slowly made their way to their feet. Just as many bodies remained motionless on the ground—the mangled corpses littering the smoldering earth. Judah and Alexandra quickly found their feet and ran over to Sarah to help her and the two young girls up. Eric rose, followed shortly by Trey and the Rangers.

“Is everyone okay?” Eric shouted. Rick shouted back after quickly looking himself and Judi over. Fortunately, no one from Rick’s group had been injured past a scraped knee or bloody elbow in the sporadic artillery barrage.

“Alright, keep moving,” Eric said as they began fleeing once again. “Trey, I need those sat images and I need to know what the hell is going on!”

Eric guided them toward downtown with the hopes of crossing the river at the Interstate Sixty-Five Bridge. They fled west now on High Street, stepping over and around the injured. A legless woman reached up for help—her hand grabbing Grace’s foot and tugging at her. She shrieked and Sarah kicked the injured woman’s hand away. A man to their right cried out in agony as he stumbled out of a burning building, trying and failing to hold in his entrails as flames climbed up his back. He paused before falling to the concrete, his body finally still. It was a hellish nightmare—a warzone where even those left alive and unscathed suffered horrific wounds nonetheless.

“I got it!” Trey finally shouted between breaths, looking down at his Featherweight device. “It looks like they’re….” Trey’s eyes narrowed before he widened them and looked up with horror on his face. “Oh my god.”

“What?” Eric demanded. “What do you see?”             

“They’re moving over the trading post and coming this way,” Trey replied. “They have orders to kill everyone they see.”

“How long do we have?” Eric demanded.

“There’s a couple dozen drones branching off now,” Trey said as he glanced over to Rick and his family. “If they move north, they’ll overrun us within minutes!”

“The trading post at Alabama State is destroyed,” Battle Marshal Madison nodded, turning to Eli. “Our forces are splitting to mop up any survivors now. The Patriarchs just bombarded the area with artillery, but it was a wide area barrage and mostly ineffective. We only lost seventeen Yellow Jackets.”

“Good,” Battle Lord Kane replied. “How many people managed to escape the trading post?”

“We’re picking up tens of thousands of heat signatures moving across the city. There’s no telling exactly how—”

“Then give me your best guess,” Kane cut in irritably.

“Ten to twenty thousand, sir.”

“Damn it,” Lukas mumbled. “Any idea how many people Sigmund can turn?”

“Turn, sir?” Battle Marshal Scott asked.

“As in contaminate and convert with his hellish drug before bending them to his will,” Lukas replied.

“No idea,” Battle Marshal Madison replied. “We’re unfamiliar with the technology. Still, I doubt people on the ground will pose any serious threat.”

“One man doing the will of Sigmund is a nuisance,” Jacob replied. “Twenty thousand is a threat. Still, the call is yours, my Sovereign. I trust your wisdom.”

Lukas paced back and forth at the rear of the room, watching the map intently as Kane tried to decide what to do next.

“What of the eastern front?” Lukas asked. “Can we simply move our bombers and gunships in to hit them?”

“Their drones are moving off the Interstate and into the city as we speak,” Kane replied, zooming into the column of tanks. “They have anti-air that is waiting for us should we move in. If we send in our heavy bombers without taking that anti-air down, we’ll likely lose them all before they drop a bomb.”

“And how will the Yellow Jackets do against those tanks?” Lukas asked.

“Likely a total loss,” Battle Marshal Scott replied. “Though they are equipped with some missiles and rockets, they are mostly designed for crowd control, not assaulting a column of tanks and anti-air vehicles.”

“So you’re telling me we came here to go to battle and yet we have no way to outmaneuver a few anti-air tanks?”

“It’s more than a few,” the Battle Lord replied. “Nearly one hundred. Forgive me, but we did not anticipate such a strong anti-air support.”

“Then what the hell are our options?”

“We can move our Yellow Jackets in now and try to stay low enough to avoid engaging the tanks until we’re right atop them. We’ll lose a lot of them by attacking that way, but we’ll hopefully overrun them with our superior numbers. We might even squeeze out a victory.”

“We are not here to squeeze out a victory,” Lukas grumbled. “We are here to crush Sigmund and win the first battle of this war!”

“Then with all due respect,” Kane began, “now that we know what Sigmund’s army consists of, it might be best to withdraw and wait until we have adequate ground forces to counter his army.”

“This is not a hit and run,” Lukas growled. “Nor is this a debate. This isn’t a battle where we came to show up, take a look around, and flee with our tails tucked between our legs. We stop Sigmund from advancing any further, here and now! Now would anyone care to suggest how we do that?”

“We start by taking out the bridges to the north,” Damian Ross said, stepping forward to the map. He guided the view north to a bridge that linked the north side of the Alabama River with the city. “There are only four bridges linking the north side of the river. If we lose today and fail to cut off the Patriarchs, they’ll move north to Birmingham unhindered, not to mention what looks like dozens of smaller towns in-between. I refuse to believe Sigmund wants anything more than numbers at this point. Twenty thousand refugees is a paltry number compared to the populations of Birmingham, Huntsville, Nashville, and Atlanta. Sure, he could reach those cities via other routes, but that will take time—a luxury he won’t have once we press forward. I say we stop his advance here and now, just as you said. We put him on the defensive today and we don’t let up until we’re moving through his den.” Damian moved the map again, guiding it around the battlefield. “Kill everyone within the city limits and take out the bridges to the north. We do that and we’ll have brought their advance to a halt and defeated the very reason they set out in the first place.”

“He’s right,” Lukas replied, turning to Battle Lord Kane. “Perhaps I should have given a Praetorian your job.”

“Though I don’t agree with your statement,” Kane began with a visible ire, “I do agree with Damian. We cut off their advance and they’ll be bumping into one another as they screech to a halt. If you’re willing to risk a substantial number of Yellow Jackets, we could sacrifice a few hundred of them to occupy the anti-air while our fast moving fighters move in and take out the bridges.”

“The Patriarchs are so congested that one bomb would take out five tanks,” Battle Marshal Madison said. “If we can keep them occupied, I can move the high level bombers in and destroy the column as they engage our Yellow Jackets.”

Lukas nodded his head in approval, turning to face the battlefield he so badly wanted to win.

“Alright,” Kane began, taking a deep breath, “dispatch a squadron of MIGs to circle around out of range and take out all bridges that cross the river within two hundred miles. I want another squadron to fly low and try to take the main bridge on Interstate Sixty-five.”

“And what if they don’t succeed?” Jacob asked. “What if we can’t occupy the anti-air long enough or well enough to prevent the Patriarchs from downing your jets?”

“Then we risk the rest of our Yellow Jackets and move them north into the city to finish the job,” Lukas replied. “Damian is right. We must cut them off no matter what.”

“Okay, listen up!” Victor shouted over the radio. “We just got word from our guys on the inside that the Imperium is planning to destroy the bridges to the north.”

“A few of our forward IRDs are approaching the north side of the city,” Will said. “They’ll hit the refugees fleeing toward the bridge and we can order them to fight.”

“Good,” Victor said. “Sigmund’s given us the order to move our column forward and protect the bridge on Sixty-Five at all costs.”

“We can’t hold that bridge,” Lieutenant Hardy replied in a frustrated tone. “We don’t have enough surface-to-air missiles to focus on the approaching Yellow Jackets, fighter jets, and bombers once they’ve deployed.”

“Forget the Yellow Jackets for now,” Victor replied. “Sigmund and General Mahiri have ensured me they will take care of them. Our job is to secure that bridge so that we can continue to press northward in the coming days. Now why have we not moved yet?”

“A shell misfired on one of the lead artillery tanks,” Will replied. “We’ve got men trapped inside and they’re blocking our advance.”

“How long until they’re out?”

“No idea,” Will replied. “A few minutes maybe.”

“We don’t have a few minutes,” Victor replied. “Push the tank off the road and leave it behind. I don’t care if the men are still trapped inside.”

“Sir?”

“Just do it,” Victor replied. “We cannot afford to wait. Sigmund says he’s got a surprise coming for Lukas and that we need to get moving now.”

Eva and Grace wailed hysterically as the artillery round crashed to the ground three blocks away with an air-displacing concussion. Rick raised his hand to shield his eyes from the bright flash and it felt as though he had suddenly been placed into an oven. Just as quickly as the heat had hit him, it fled, leaving only the irritating sensation of a slight sunburn where bare skin had been.

They were finally downtown, running with a frantic crowd of survivors as they passed a massive stone building on their right. Judi fell to the ground huffing and puffing as the whine of mini-guns approached them from behind. Rick cursed and grabbed her by an arm, hauling her to her feet.

“I can’t,” she protested between her gasps for air as she began to sink back to the ground. The others continued to run, unaware of Judi’s collapse. “Rick, go! I can’t—”

Rick threw his rifle aside and picked her up. He cradled her in his arms as he ran forward, his legs begging him to slow. He firmed his jaw and grunted with every breath, letting his anger fuel his exhausted muscles.

Up ahead, Sarah suddenly looked to her left where Rick had been running and then stopped, staring wide-eyed as she cried out for him frantically.

“Keep going!” Rick shouted as Lieutenant Rue ran back for him. “Don’t—”

As Sarah turned around, her horrified eyes locking with his for a brief moment before glancing upward. No sooner had she started to scream than the popping behind them began.

Rick instinctively ducked and felt something pass by his head, a quick breeze rippling through the air and pulling at his gray hair. Lieutenant Rue and four people to Rick’s left fell and immediately began thrashing about. Two drones passed overhead—striking down the other two Rangers next to Trey as they each started to blare out over a pair of loud speakers.

“Kill or burn! Kill or burn! Kill or—”

Eric raised a shotgun and blasted the two drones out of the sky, though one continued to repeat the same message as it skidded across the pavement. Rick started forward again just as Lieutenant Rue and the four who had fallen next to him stopped screaming and emptied their stomachs. They quickly looked over at the wailing drone—eyes widening before looking confused at one another. A couple seconds passed before they started to thrash about again.