Beyond Armageddon V: Fusion (10 page)

Casey said, “Christ, they’re going straight for the air strip.”

As the lead flyer reached a point above one of the main runways, its entire body bulged like a water balloon filled from a fire hose—and then the entire flying contraption popped into pieces. Flakes of the outer skin and the wings fluttered in the wind while a payload of spherical ordnance—hundreds of black balls—fell from the sky having been released from the innards of the disintegrating thing.

As they fell, the group of balls spread like shotgun shot. Each impacted and exploded in a blast of concussion. Trevor saw waves of energy ripple through the air. The windows in the lounge bent and wobbled.

Several hit the runway tearing up concrete and creating impassable holes. Another clipped the wing off a Learjet. Another hit a supply truck flipping it over and causing it to burst into flames.

More of Voggoth’s suicide bombers arrived. A Patriot missile exploded one before it reached its target, sending its body as well as its explosive cargo raining down on a tree line just outside the base.

“Where the is the goddamn CAP?”

Rick Hauser, leaning over a radio technician, answered with one ear still stuck in a headset, “They got hit by Spooks ten miles out. They’re still tangled up out there. That’s why these things got through.”

A series of large explosions came across the tarmac directly for their building. The first few ripped through a group of pallets holding freight destined for air transport. They erupted, crates went flying, and several personnel were thrown around.

The last bomb hit 50 paces away. The blast shattered all the windows in the room.

Everyone in the room dove for cover. The dogs whimpered as the blast and shattering windows overloaded their sensitive ears.

Rick Hauser grabbed his shoulder. “Sir, we need to get downstairs to better cover!”

Trevor took a knee before standing. More claps of detonating bombs echoed in through the smashed windows. The air raid siren continued to blare.

“We have to go,” Hauser repeated and before Trevor could react he felt a second hand on his other shoulder, this one belonging to Casey Fink. Between the two men they managed to ‘encourage’ Trevor into the stairwell. The building trembled again and again as they hurried for the basement shelter.

Thirty minutes later the last of The Order’s warped kamikaze bombers dropped its load over McConnell. The side door to the communications room burst open as the air raid siren faded. Trevor, Fink, Hauser and the rest emerged from the partially-scarred building to survey the damage.

Smoke rose across the air strip and from many of the perimeter buildings and hangers. Two large cargo jets lay in pieces across the runway. Several smaller aircraft—all in various states of loading and preparation—had suffered substantial damage. A pool of aviation fuel burned steadily around the remains of a busted tank.

“Ah, Christ, this is bad,” Fink shook his head.

Trevor blocked out the screams of the injured scattered around the tarmac and told Casey, “You need to get this air strip up and running again. Fast.”

As terrible as the damage appeared, the first question revolved around the runways. How badly had they been hit? Trevor spied about a dozen craters pot marking the base’s air strips.

The second question involved aircraft. Two major planes lost, several more would require significant repair. But most of the reinforced hangers appeared intact. They should be; they had been designed with the B1-B Lance Bomber in mind back in the early 80s. While the B1s had been transferred away long before the invasion, the facilities to protect those Cold War aircraft remained and had certainly protected several aircraft from this strike.

“Sir,” Fink struggled with a way to phrase what he wanted to say. “Sir, I, well I’ll get on this. But if we’re in bombing range now that means they could hit us with anything. I think, well, I think you need to get out of the hot zone.”

Trevor did not respond as something caught his eye. More specifically, a flash of white fur moving between some of the left over dead buildings a hundred yards away. There he saw a familiar sight, albeit one he had seen less and less this past year.

A white wolf.

He mumbled, “I have to—I have to go,” and started along a path that led beyond the communications center toward the stretch of abandoned and burned buildings. Soldiers tried to follow, but Trevor raised a hand and Hauser reinforced the order by shaking his head. Hauser had come to know that on occasion The Emperor left to convene with unknown forces; a truth rarely spoken aloud but one the inner circle accepted.

The Rottweilers, however, remained in escort, following their master amid the cluster of buildings that had been destroyed a decade before when the alien forces first came to Earth. He led them through a blasted door frame and followed the wolf as it moved across what had once been an ornate reception area but only broken furniture and decaying walls remained.

Trevor followed down a corridor and into a wide round conference room. Rows of auditorium chairs arranged in a half circle faced toward an open area; no doubt a one-time briefing room for mission planning or training. The only light filtered in through a bank of partially broken but not completely smashed windows on the east wall that looked out upon a thick tangle of bushes and small trees.

The wolf sat at the feet of the Old Man who wore a black vest over a plain white shirt and a pair of faded blue jeans while sitting casually upon a dilapidated table that appeared far too weak to hold any weight. As Trevor had come to know, however, the mystical old man with the wrinkled cheeks, thin messy hair, and gray stubble did not exist in his world; not as he might think. Stone guessed him to be projection of a kind, for he left no footprints nor did his footfalls make any sound.

It had been the Old Man who eleven years prior had met Richard Stone in the woods outside his home and warned of his mission to survive, fight, and sacrifice for the good of mankind. It had been the Old Man who broke Trevor’s heart with the news that he and Nina Forest could not be together and the horrifying revelation that Stone’s mission revolved around one thing: murdering all the alien creatures on his planet.

Trevor suspected his hand in many things, including helping Trevor return from a parallel Earth and, before that, cluing humanity in on the existence of the runes; strange pillars that shut off alien reinforcements and provided a means to return the invaders to their home worlds.

Indeed, it seemed to Trevor that his benefactor had gone to great lengths to overcome several obstacles—apparently unfair ones—placed in humanity’s path by Voggoth.

Still, just last year the Old Man had happily suggested that Trevor and The Empire appeared certain to win on this Earth; one of many parallel Earths where each of the major species faced an onslaught. Things changed drastically since then. The Old Man rarely visited and did little more than bark encouragement at Trevor before dismissing him.

Unlike times past, the sight of the Old Man did not encourage Trevor or fill him with questions. Instead, he found himself annoyed at having been called away for what would certainly be pointless dialogue while a score of his soldiers lay dying on the airfield.

“Hey, Trevor! About time we had a little powwow, dontchya think?”

The Old Man’s seemingly jovial tone came as a surprise. Trevor approached between the rows of neglected seats while the Rottweilers remained behind guarding the door.

“What do you want now?”

In years past he would have craved a chance to pick the Old Man’s brain, despite being told on numerous occasions not to ask questions. Then, in the years since his return from that alternate Earth, Trevor had found comfort with the old-timer because he might be—whatever his true nature—the only entity in the universe that could understand Trevor’s plight.

“Now is that a way to go talkin’ to your ol’ pal? C’mon now, Trevvy, let’s sit down and you can tell me all ‘bout your plans to finish up the job you got here.”

Trevor stopped midway and cocked his head to one side.

“Huh? Finish up the job? What are you talkin’ about?”

“You gone crazy or sometin’ since the last time we chatted? Why I’m talkin’ ‘bout you kickin’ all the alien interlopers off this rock. Or have you decided to take an early re-tire-mint?”

The Old Man might well have suggested Trevor fly to the moon. Talk of kicking the aliens off the Earth sounded equally as out of place, considering the situation. After the invasion of California by The Order’s war machines, thoughts of victory had turned to thoughts of survival. Surely the Old Man knew as much?

“I think you’ve finally started to go senile. Do you know what’s happening out there?”

The Old Man had always known the situation, as if he watched the whole play unfold from some astrological balcony. Sometimes he knew the situation better than Trevor.

“What’s that, Trevvy? A little setback gotchya down?”

“Set back? Set back? Oh, my God, you’ve gone off the deep end.”

“Now, wait now, I hear what you’re saying. Okay,” the Old Man smiled, but it seemed an unsure smile. “You do have some problems, Trev. Better check your flanks. You got company comin’. Now I’m not supposed to be sharin’ that bit of info,” the mysterious entity winked, “but you and me have been known to push the old envelope of them rules now and again, right?”

“What are you—what are you saying? Does Voggoth have more forces coming at us?”

“Voggoth? You worryin’ your head about Voggoth? Sounds like you got those priorities of yours all messed up,” Trevor sensed a tone of desperation in the Old Man’s voice; something he had not heard since the time the Old Man had found out that Trevor loved Nina Forest. “He might have thrown a few monkey wrenches into things before and whatnot, but with all the shit you’ve got going he ain’t nothing but a footnote. You need to be watching out for the real problems maybe—hmmm…,” the Old Man leaned forward to whisper a secret he should not share, “…the Geryons and the Centurians. Maybe even them Chaktaw fellas, if you get my meaning.”

“What? Listen, I don’t know how long you’ve been napping but right now Voggoth is the only thing I’m worried about. He’s got—“

“Voggoth ain’t nothing! He’s insignificant! A token force! Just here to watch and keep us on our collective toes!” The sound of the Old Man shouting—a hysterical shout—knocked Trevor off balance. He had never seen such a reaction from his benefactor. This appeared more like…

Trevor’s expression corkscrewed from befuddlement to fear then to understanding.

“I can’t believe it. Holy shit, I really don’t believe it.”

“What? Now you listen, Trevvy, I don’t have time for whatever bird-brained idea that might be scheming in that noggin’ of yours.”

“I get it now. I see,” and Trevor did. And it frightened him. It also angered him. He directed his anger at the Old Man. “You’re in denial. You refuse to see what Voggoth is doing here, is that it? What’s wrong, this wasn’t part of the agreement?” Trevor sneered, “Just a
token
force. Just to
observe.
Just to keep us on our toes. Bullshit.”

“Watch it, now. Listen here. You can’t understand. Your little brain—“

“It’s
you
who doesn’t understand. You can’t believe it, can you? You can’t believe that Voggoth would break those precious rules of yours and send a full-blown army to wipe us out. I’ll bet he did the same to the Feranites, too, didn’t he?”

The Old Man’s virtual eyes widened at the mention of the Feranites, a race originally nicknamed by humanity as the Tribe of the Red Hand. While in the clutches of The Order’s torture machine, Trevor’s mind had traveled to the alternate Earth where the Feranites battled for survival. They lost.

He pushed the Old Man, “You keep talking about the rules of this little game you dragged my people into, but those rules don’t mean shit. Voggoth is here, Old Man. Why I’ll bet he’s right here, on this Earth, overseeing the whole party; I’ll bet that is against those rules of yours, too. He’s going to wipe us out unless you and your buddies do something to help.”

The Old Man did not say a word. He sort of gaped at Trevor like a lost puppy. That filled Trevor with another idea. A very unsettling one.

“Of course,” Trevor paced the aisle as he went on. “Let me guess, they aren’t talking to you anymore. How would you put it? Hmmm… Okay, let’s try this: they ain’t takin’ your calls n’more, are they? This is the Duass, we’re not home right now please leave a message and we’ll get back to you. Beeeepp.”

“Don’t push Trev. You don’t know—”

Outside the base’s air raid siren churned to life again. The screaming klaxon caused a pause in the conversation and it also gave Trevor another surge of anger.

He continued with a fierce edge in his voice, “You know why they won’t talk to you anymore? Because they don’t mind you losing, that’s why. So what if Voggoth is doing more than he’s supposed to on this planet. Why, I’ll bet they don’t even know what he’s doing here—they don’t
want
to know. They refuse to look. Deny it, even, like people who hear someone screaming for help but don’t want to be involved so they block it out. You’re being blocked out, Old Man.”

“Stop it, now.”

“As long as it’s not them, it’s all good. Why I’ll bet he’s whispered in their ear something like, ‘the humans have been breakin’ the rules so I’ll just even the odds a bit’ or ‘hey, Mr. Hivvan, just turn the other way while I do this and I promise to help you out on your world, too.’ That leaves you out in the cold, Old Man. It’d be funny, but I’m stuck in the freezer with you.”