Out of the Black (Odyssey One, Book 4) (53 page)

Five large hangar doors slowly opened on magnetic bearings in the predawn air of the New Mexican desert. Behind them, being wheeled out slowly by powerful tugs, were ten AH-982 Cherokee ground support vehicles.

The Cherokees were an older platform that had been one of the first to be refitted with the CM technology after it was successfully tested on the Archangel fighters. Designed to fill the role of lofty earlier platforms such as the Huey and Blackhawk, while still giving the pilots a bit of a bite in the air, the Cherokees were as good a platform to launch his mission as Eric could have hoped for.

Unlike the heavy transport they’d flown in on, the Cherokees had limited cargo space. Enough for a squad, a couple of medics, and their supplies, but very little else. In exchange for giving up that added space, you got a heavily armored platform that could hit true hypersonic speeds, loiter around an LZ, and hammer the ground into paste if the situation called for it.

In other words . . . perfection
.

They were just that, perfect, at what they did. Since the war ended there had been little use for the platforms and they’d been slowly retired in favor of other, more specialty designed systems. But Eric knew a lot of men who still considered the Cherokee to be the height of military design.

He hoped they were right.

“This my bird?” he asked, walking up to where a man in coveralls was looking over one of the craft.

“Sir!”

“Relax before you sprain yourself.” Eric walked past him, running a hand along the hard-edged side of the craft.

“Sorry, sir. Yes, I’ve been assigned as your pilot, Captain.”

Eric nodded. “Is she ready to fly?”

“Oh, yes sir.”

“Good. I’ll have my EXO-Mech loaded aboard . . .”

“Already done, sir. Loaded in fifteen minutes after you landed.”

That took Eric by surprise, but then he supposed that it shouldn’t have. When the brass had an idea, good or bad, they could ram it through in a hurry when they were of a mind to. He just nodded and walked back to the side door, then pulled himself up into the craft.

“I’ll just check it then,” he called back.

“You do that, sir.”

He walked back to the hulking EXO-13, eyeing the tie-downs carefully. They were slugged in properly, so he left them be with just the cursory check. He was more interested in the emergency supply compartments, actually, so that was his first stop. He popped the compartment and breathed a sigh, pulling out the gravity rifle inside. He certainly didn’t want to “misplace” the gift he’d received from the admiral on Ranquil, not when it was proving so damned useful.

That checked, he slipped the weapon back into the compartment and closed it up again.

Well, may as well do the diagnostics while I’m here
.

An order from his suit brought the war machine online as he hauled himself up into the cockpit, computers whirring to life as they began the process of counting down every single
relay and system. Eric knew that there were probably only minutes to go before they had their final orders cut, so it was time to make sure everything was in order.

The Sun broke over the horizon, its first golden rays casting across the airfield.

It was going to be a beautiful day.

The President looked over the map that was now threatening to turn completely red, particularly around the center of the nations he oversaw.

“General.”

“Yes Mr. President?” An ashen-faced man looked up and over.

“Give the order.”

“Yes sir.”

The general leaned back over the station he was overseeing and nodded to the operator. The young woman swallowed, but nodded resolutely as she opened a channel.

“All units, Operation Fire Bath is go. I say again, Operation Fire Bath is go.”

The President of the Confederation looked on, a sick feeling welling in the depths of his stomach.

Just so few words is all it takes to unleash so much destruction
.

He turned and walked out of the room.

There was nothing more he could do there. It was in the hands of others now.

In his office, President Conner flapped his hand at the agent standing guard, gesturing him out of the room. He wanted
privacy, and it was one of the few places on Earth where he could get it, so the man obeyed.

He sat down behind the large walnut desk and pulled a writing pad from one of the drawers. Real paper, not a computer tablet, and then picked up an obscenely expensive pen from where it rested to his right hand. Strictly speaking, he didn’t know if what he was writing would be necessary, but better to have done it and be done with it than otherwise.

He kept his letter straight and to the point. His speechwriter was responsible for most of his silver-tongued moments. Conner was more the straightforward type by nature, a disadvantage he’d worked hard to overcome through the years. As he finished it up, signing with a flourish he’d practiced for literally
months,
he wondered if anyone would ever read it.

I suppose I’ll find out, one way or the other
.

Unlike many of his predecessors in their later years, he wasn’t a religious man. He supposed that was a good thing, because he didn’t need that on his mind at the moment in addition to his own regrets. One man’s burdens were hard enough to carry, but they were his and his alone. He preferred no help in the task.

He folded the letter and set his pen beside it, getting up from the desk as he walked back out to the door and nodded to the agent again.

“I want to see my family.”

“Yes sir.”

President and agent left the facsimile of the Oval Office and the handwritten letter behind as they headed down the hall away from the war room. He had no more strategic decisions to make, and would not allow himself further action. Not after giving the order he had.

It might have been necessary, but no man had a right to sit in that chair for longer than it took to write his resignation after ordering the use of nuclear weapons. Particularly not when that use was going to be on home soil.

No, his day was over.

If they survived, the Confederation would have a new leader come morning.

The skies were clear over New Mexico as the Cherokees took off, turbines screaming as the CM aircraft leapt into the sky with full loads of armaments, soldiers, and supplies. They’d received the go order just seconds earlier, but everyone had been leaning on the sticks in anticipation.

“Be advised, Operation Fire Bath has been greenlit. I say again,” the dispatcher announced, “Operation Fire Bath has been greenlit.”

Eric hung his head for a moment, though it was far from unexpected. Finally, he just opened the channel. “Understood.”

He changed over to a squad-level channel, addressing his people. “You heard the lady. I want you to do your jobs, but don’t get your ass fried for nothing. If you’re in a strike zone, watch the clock. If you can’t get out, find cover and hunker down.”

Contrary to what most people thought, nuclear blasts were far from all-encompassing. Shock waves that could turn a man’s insides to Jell-O had a disconcerting habit of bouncing back and canceling themselves out at the oddest times. If you could find reasonable cover, and were either far enough
to avoid the searing heat of the blast or armored enough to endure it, you had a reasonable chance of survival.