Cyclones of Chaos

LAND & SEA

Blaine Pardoe

Print Copyright © 2024 WarGate Books

Text Copyright © 2024 Creative Juggernaut

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ASHUR is a registered trademark of Creative Juggernaut

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Land & Sea created by Brent Evans

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, or government agencies, is entirely coincidental.

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Contents

Acknowledgements:

Dedication:

What has gone before…

Cycle I:

1. Chapter 1

2. Chapter 2

3. Chapter 3

4. Chapter 4

5. Chapter 5

6. Chapter 6

7. Chapter 7

8. Chapter 8

Cycle II

9. Chapter 9

10. Chapter 10

11. Chapter 11

12. Chapter 12

13. Chapter 13

14. Chapter 14

15. Chapter 15

16. Chapter 16

Cycle III

17. Chapter 17

18. Chapter 18

19. Chapter 19

20. Chapter 20

21. Chapter 21

22. Chapter 22

23. Chapter 23

24. Chapter 24

Cycle IV – 15 March 2041

25. Chapter 25

26. Chapter 26

27. Chapter 27

28. Chapter 28

29. Chapter 29

30. Chapter 30

31. Chapter 31

32. Chapter 32

AUTHOR & CREATOR

Acknowledgements:

Welcome to the Season Two trilogy of LAND&SEA ™. This book is part of a trilogy to kick off the second year of the series and the war. The Creative Juggernaut team is pretty excited with how the launch of this new franchise has gone and where it is about to go.

Thank you to the fans who graciously donated their names for this project:

Teaera Adam

Brandon Avery

Paul Bailey

David Baker

Craig Castillo

Terry Cooper

Jordyn Danielle

Robb Dunn

Greg Franz

Lawrence Greenwood

Erik Hansen

Brian Harris

Finn Harrison

Georgia Johnston

Ron Ledwon

Lawrence Lee

Justin LeMacks

Maci Mansur

Jim McCoy

Roger Morgan

Ryder Nelson

James Niemynski

TJ Parmele

Sean Poynter

Rafael Antonio Rodriguez

Vicente Serrano

Travis Shults

Amanda Schrivener

Ben Shouse

Emil Stewart

Heather Dawn Taylor

James Teasley

Angela Watts

Thanks to fan Stephan Ball who got me into light gas weaponry, which led to creating the Fox Hunters. You never know where a little idea can take you.

Declan Finn helped me with O’Malley’s prayer. Check out Declan’s books.

Additional thanks go out to the US Army Rangers at Fort Benning who put up with me for a few days while I got to experience Best Ranger Competition up close and personal.

Dedication:

To my new grandson, James Barret Kilby. Rhett, you have come into a world of wonder and chaos, love and violence, harmony and conflict. Every generation thinks they have been raised in the hardest of times. I hope you will rise above the voices of negativity and despair and become a man that others will look to for the strength of your character and the charm of your warm personality. This story is for you. It is about brave people pushed to their limits and beyond. May you never have to face a threat as great as those they do.

What has gone before…

Welcome to early 2041. Aquatic aliens have invaded Earth’s oceans. The year before, they attacked, striking every coastline at once. They are different species, genetically engineered for battle. Their entire technology base is biologic.

America got a heads-up as to the risk from one lone DIA analyst, Ashton Slade. Even that warning was not enough to stave off the enemy assault. While some cities were successfully defended, others around the globe have been turned into Alien Incursion Zones, AIZs—occupied battlespaces.

Mankind’s best defense thus far has been ASHUR technology (Augmented Soft/Hard Unconventional Combat Rigs). Named after the Assyrian god of war, these power-armored suits have been instrumental in holding the aliens, dubbed the Fish, at bay. Despite having a common enemy, the nations of Earth are not cooperating with each other. Everyone hopes to be the country that discovers something useful from the Fish’s technology. Meanwhile stockpiles of munitions dwindle and mass migrations away from the coastlines have rearranged the centers of power around the globe.

The US Space Force shot down one alien ship long enough to study and take samples from it. While humanity struggles to learn more about the alien invaders, the Fish keep up an unrelenting assault, seemingly determined to eradicate humankind from the planet.

Mankind is adapting, as are their alien enemies. The war lunges into its second year…

Cycle I:

Hilliard, Florida, Southern Front, the United States

Jacob Niverson heard a sound from outside his family’s rental cabin. It wasn’t the sound of footsteps, but more of a rustling. At the front door, he parted the flimsy curtains and peered off into the night. He saw nothing other than the parking area and their car. There were several vehicles in the tiny court. From what the clerk at the Hilliard Motor Lodge had told him, the cabins were rented out to other families like his, those that were fleeing from the war being fought in Jacksonville.

I’m overreacting. We are safe behind the lines.

He, Traci, Becca, and Todd had enjoyed a normal life until the aliens invaded. Jacob had been an architect; Traci had homeschooled their young children. It had been an almost idyllic life. The invasion had ruined it. His firm was now in the AIZ, the Alien Incursion Zone, if it was still standing. Then the National Guard had arrived, turning their once-pastoral neighborhood into a war zone. Home was home no longer. In the middle of the night they packed and fled, staying in Callahan a few nights before moving inland to Hilliard.

“What is it?” Traci whispered as she tucked in Becca on the rollaway bed.

“Just my nerves,” he said in a low tone, moving back to the tiny living area. They had a bedroom in the back of the cabin, but the rest of it was essentially a general living space. It stunk, the kind of mustiness that could only come from decades of being in a wooded area in Florida. But they’d decided to stay there until they could figure out the best way to reach Traci’s family in Kentucky. The clogged highways were impossible to navigate, forcing most refugees like the Niversons on the back roads. With the net being mostly overloaded, he’d been relying on an old paper road atlas, almost forgotten in the rear of their SUV.

Jacob silently checked his children, then followed Traci to the back room. “I want to air this place out tomorrow,” she quietly said. “I wish we had gotten some place nicer.”

“That old Holiday Inn Express was charging four-hundred and eighty dollars a night,” he replied. The invasion had upended the economy.

“Don’t remind me,” she said, pulling back the sheets. Florida in January was cold. “Fortunately, we won’t be here long.”

Jacob slid into the bed and could feel the crater in the mattress between them. Neither complained about it, but he was forced to hug the edge of the mattress to avoid sliding in. In the rush out of the house, he had missed grabbing the power cord for his CPAP machine, so he knew his snoring was going to be a problem.

Once we get near a big city, I should be able to get a replacement.

It took a while to drift off, as the room was chilly and the blankets thin. He was unsure how much time passed when he was awakened by a noise in the living area where the children slept. At first, he assumed it was one of the kids, possibly getting up to go to the bathroom. Closing his eyes tight, he heard another sound trickle from the outer room. This time it was wet, the noise of a wet mop plopping down on the floor.

What are they into?

He slid out of the bed, doing everything he could to avoid waking up Traci. He tiptoed to the door and opened it, the top hinge creaking in protest. There was something there, in the darkness—something large and moving.

What the hell?

Jacob fumbled for the light switch on the unfamiliar wall. When he clicked it, he saw what it was. It had the shape of a squid, larger than he ever could have imagined. It stood a full seven feet tall, with a long oblong body, rising on at least ten thick tentacles. Two of the tentacles held his children, gripping their throats. The children were limp, unconscious, their faces bright crimson, perhaps the only clue they were still alive.

His eyes caught the full image of the creature, and he saw that there was more to the tentacles than he had originally thought. They had scales, dull yellow with black streaks. The end of each of them had an eyeless head and flicking tongue. My God! Those are snakes! Fear grappled with him, and the instinct to save his children.

The scales seemed to disappear where they connected to the pale gray body of the beast. In the center of the slender body of the creature was not an eye, but a slit of some sort, narrow and dark. A dull red light shimmered from behind it.

Shouting, Jacob rushed at the creature madly in a desperate act to save his kids. One of the snake tentacles on the floor whipped up, snapping at him, hitting his face and neck hard. He fell over mid-step and slammed on the floor. Behind him, Traci screamed—he had to protect her.

Jacob started to rise, but something slithered up his back and across his throat, pulling tight. A prick stung his neck, like a bee sting but a hundred times worse. Numbing cold rippled down his neck and into his chest and arm as he struggled. Something crashed, glass broke, Traci screamed again, and he tried to pull the tentacle from his throat. The alien loomed over him, drawing closer, closer, lofting his children off to the side and strangling the life from them.

Cold settled into his limbs. Then tightened in his lungs. Panic and pain blurred his senses. His vision tunneled, and he gasped his wife’s name.

Six hours later…

Dr. Willow Sanchez followed Dr. Amanda Schrivener under the police tape at the perimeter of the Hilliard Motor Lodge. Immediately, they were approached by a police officer and both of them showed their identification, identifying them as members of the Extraterrestrial Task Force (ETF). The officer checked them each, handing them back. “Are y’all sure you want to go in there?”

Schrivener nodded. “It’s not about wanting to go. It’s about needing to go.”

The officer nodded and led them to the door. “I should warn you…”

“You don’t have to,” Schrivener replied. At the door, they broke out their environmental suits, big white HAZMAT-like affairs with rebreathers and hoods. Willow fumbled with the zipper, and Schrivener helped her.

“You’ve done this before,” Willow said.

“You saw the footage out of Greenland.”

“Point taken,” Willow said. The investigation into one of the downed alien spacecraft was a treasure trove of new data. Schrivener had been the lead in that effort.

Willow opened the door to cottage eight and was stunned by the image that loomed before her. There were two police officers, wearing similar gray gear to theirs. They stood at the far ends of the room, recording video of the dominant feature of the great room. Four dead bodies, seemingly deliberately posed, looming upright in the room. A human female was in the center of the grizzly display. She was upright, about six inches off the floor, suspended from the wooden beam in the center of the cabin by what appeared a webbing material, light gray. It seemed to act as a bonding agent, and gave her the appearance of having wings. Her arms were extended out, as if she had been crucified, with webs hanging down from her arms. At her sides, at almost forty-five degree angles, were two small corpses, a boy and a girl. The same web substance was attached to her outstretched arms.

At first glimpse, their bodies appeared to have been flayed open. Intestines and internal organs were laid bare, some hanging down from the smooth wounds. At their feet was the body of a man, his limbs spread out at strange angles where bones had been precisely broken. He lay like an abused toy doll, spread out almost like a swastika, lying in a pool of the family’s blood.

Out of the broken male’s torse, something was growing on the floor. It looked like a pillar rising only six inches up. The surface was irregular and pinkish, like coral, and its base entwined with the dead man’s body.

“That thing is growing,” the male officer said, seeing Willow was fixated on it. “It’s gradual, but if you watch it, you can see it grow.”

Bile rose from Willow’s stomach, but she suppressed it, forcing it back down her now burning throat. She felt warm, and sweat beaded as she stared at the horrific scene.

One of the officers, a dark-skinned woman, put her hand on Willow’s shoulder and said, “Someone put up a good fight. The end of a tentacle is over there.” She pointed to the floor and Willow walked over to it. The object looked like a snake whose tail had been cut off. It was thick, with scales and an open fanged mouth. Two feet away lay a kitchen knife covered in some sort of grayish blood. Mute, Willow studied the image, then turned back to the presentation that the alien had created in the center of the cabin.

Schrivener shattered the long silence. “We have footage of the creature from the security cameras. It isn’t great, but it gives us an idea of what it was.”

“It,” Willow said, gathering her composure. “Only one of them?”

She got a nod from her superior. “It looks a lot like a Class XI, but shorter, with more tentacles, with almost snake- or eel-like characteristics. The ends of the tentacles were almost like snake heads. We haven’t come up with a zippy name for it yet.”

Willow stepped closer to the horrible display. “Has anyone gathered a sample of the air?”

One of the officers nodded. “We did. It’s horrible. Almost like a mix of rotten egg and oil.”

Willow wasn’t surprised. She had been trying to figure out how the aliens communicated, almost from the start of the war. Her colleagues offered many different theories as to how they shared information, from telepathy to engaging frequencies in the EM spectrum.

Sanchez had her own theory. She believed that the aliens didn’t use a single medium to communicate, but a combination of movements, such as enzymes emitted in the water or pheromones in the air. The problem she faced was that no one knew for sure.

Theories are cheap. It’s like throwing spaghetti against the wall to see what sticks.

“Willow,” Schrivener said. “What do you make of this?”

“I’ll start with the obvious. This setup was deliberate. This creature, whatever it was, came here to do this. Otherwise, why not attack frontline troops? This was done behind the front, an infiltration. It wasn’t here to just kill. It did that. It came to kill and present the corpses this way.”

She pointed. “Look at the cuts. They weren’t made to kill. They are wavy, making patterns. The marks on the children’s throats indicate strangulation. It didn’t have to cut them. Likely the autopsy will show that the cuts were postmortem.”

“It wanted this to be seen.”

“It was done to communicate. This is a message. Delivered by a specific courier and done in an exacting manner. This display acts like a marker or a totem. It is significant. This could be the most significant find we’ve had to date.”

“So what does it mean?” Schrivener asked.

“I don’t know. If that coral thing is growing, it might be part of the message that this thing is attempting to convey. We need to let it grow. These bodies can’t be disturbed.”

One of the officers sharply reacted to her words. “We need to get these people down. We’ve already informed their family about this. Leaving them up like this is wrong.”

Schrivener held her phone out. “This is about national security. I’ll make the call and you will do exactly what Dr. Sanchez says.” Her words clearly infuriated the officers who stormed out of the room.

“Well, you have a lot of work to do then,” Schrivener said to Willow, then turned to go.

This is the first time we have ever seen the Fish trying to communicate with us. She’s right… I have a lot to do. More than a lot. I must do this—people I love are depending on me!

Mackinac Bridge (The Big Mac), St. Ignace, Michigan, the United States

Chief Safety Officer of the Big Mac, Finn Harrison, entered the office of the director with a large, heavy, orange bucket. “We need to shut down the bridge immediately,” he said, putting the bucket down on the floor.

Director of Bridge Operations, Ben Jenks, frowned and his face went crimson. “What the Sam hell are you talking about?”

“The structure has been compromised. We need to halt traffic, now.”

“You can’t just barge in here and make a demand like that, Finn,” Jenks snapped. “This bridge is a major artery between Wisconsin and Canada. You have me shut down the bridge, with no notice, I will be stranding tourists and families. It isn’t a little decision. Way beyond your pay grade, too.”

“Actually, I can make this demand,” he countered. “Our sensors on the bridge are detecting an instability.”

“What does that mean?”

“We picked up a lateral list on two of the verticals, both from the base.”

“How big of a list are we talking about?”

Finn was frustrated. “Two-point-three degrees.”

Jenks chuckled. “We get more during a moderate nor’easter. You are overreacting.”

“This isn’t wind,” snapped Finn. “Conditions are calm and the list is progressively growing. It tripped our alarms this morning.”

“Still, that isn’t enough for me to cause a major transportation and public relations nightmare.”

Finn drew a deep breath. “Sir. I don’t give a flying fuck about public relations. We have a problem and lives are at risk. I’m telling you, we need to shut the bridge down.”

Jenks moved to deflect the argument. “What is the cause of this so-called list?”

It’s not “so-called,” you fat frick.

Reaching down to the bucket, he pulled out the contents. To untrained eyes, it was a gray-green fish with dark brown splotches on its scales. The creature’s mouth was large, abnormally large, with strange little feelers surrounding its wide maw. It didn’t have traditional fish fins; they were long, triangular. The eyes were little yellow bubbles. “This.”

“What is that, a catfish?”

Clearly this ass has never gone fishing. “This isn’t a catfish. I sent a picture of it down to Michigan State. They say it’s not one of ours. It’s the aliens.”

“That can’t be,” Jenks countered. “They are in the oceans.”

“One of my divers pulled this from the number one piling an hour ago. It was eating through the concrete. The water at this time of the year is frigid as hell. We only could keep our men down there for twenty minutes or so before bringing them up. This creature wasn’t alone. There were at least fifty of them down there, running right into the bedrock.” He dropped the strange creature back into the bucket with a wet plop.

“Have your teams remove them,” Jenks demanded.

“Sir, it took three divers to pull this one off, and those little barbels cut their hands up pretty good in the process. We don’t have enough men or gear to get them all off.”

“Were they on both supports?”

“We only checked number one. Given the list, we have to assume they are hitting the number two as well.” His words hung in the air like a warning. “Sir, we have to close the bridge.”

“We should call the Army—no, the Navy. They will know what to do.” Jenks was grasping at mental straws.

“Sir, people’s lives are at risk. I’m the damned safety officer. I’m making the call. We are going to shut down the bridge.”

“We need to contact the Department of Transportation first,” Jenks cautioned. “There are procedures here that need to be followed.”

Beyond angry, Finn growled, “To hell with procedures. This list is getting worse. With the weight of traffic on the bridge, the progression of the problem is going to get worse.”

“We have to follow procedure!” Jenks said, slamming his sausage-fingered fist onto the desk for effect.

A metallic rending groaned outside the office, cutting their argument short. Finn looked out the window in time to see the number one vertical support jerk to the right, then drop several feet. The grated metal deck of the bridge swayed, the cables whipping around, two of them snapping and breaking off.

“Contact operations and tell them to stop traffic!” Finn exclaimed. But Jenks had risen to see the source of the noise and was standing paralyzed at the scene before him. His jaw slack, his eyes wide with terror.

Finn dove for the phone and punched the button for Operations. “Close the gates! Halt all traffic! Do it now!”

Another angry metallic grating sound caused Finn to slam the phone down and turn back to the window. The Mackinac Bridge, Big Mac, his work and love, collapsed. The first vertical fell over, spilling cars into the icy winter waters below. As the massive support cables whipped in the wind, the far structure, vertical number two, tore off at mid-height under the strain. It swung in the air like a scythe. The remains of the car deck came crashing downward in a violent twisting motion. A white water billows splashed skyward, marking the frigid burial ground for the poor souls trapped on the bridge. The thick late-winter ice along the banks was pulverized by the impact. The remains of the magnificent bridge sank into the icy waterway.

Grief tore at Finn’s heart as the warning sirens’ blare filled the air. The bridge had taken forty-eight months to build with a small army of over three thousand men. It had collapsed in mere seconds, leaving only the twisted stump of the number two vertical like a memorial to where it had once stood.

I should have been faster. I should have just shut it down. Ten minutes earlier would have saved dozens of lives.

He buried his face in his hands as the tears came in rivers down his cheeks.

Gravelines Nuclear Power Plant

Gravelines, France

Capitaine Claud Barre of the Légion étrangère (The Foreign Legion) rose to the small hill several kilometers from the power plant. His trained eyes squinted at the plant. The large cylindrical structures of the reactors in the distance looked benign enough. Then the third one in line sent out a plume of steam skyward. He winced. A part of Capitaine Barre had hoped that the crisis had somehow resolved itself. The sight of the steam told him it had not. At least there are no signs of the envahisseurs. That did not mean the aliens were not out there, but only that they had yet to make an appearance.

He piloted his Cuirassier, his power-armored fighting plate-forme back down the rise to where the Minotaure command vehicle waited. When he reached the bottom, the gathered group of scientists and technicians waited.

“The path is clear. Number three just vented again,” he relayed through his external speakers.

The reactors were poised on the north coast of France. When the envahisseurs had come, the French army had put up a vicious fight around the nuclear power plant. Much of the channel coast relied on the power from Gravelines. The aliens had struck with force, damaging the facilities. For months, they had been driven off and the plants had continued to operate.

Then came a raid three days ago. This time the damage to the reactors and their supporting structures was substantial. No one was willing to take the risk of a nuclear catastrophe in the middle of an invasion. The reactor were shut down with their emergency procedures. Even shut down, the reactors were incredibly hot, requiring a constant flow of cooling water.

Something happened in reactor three. Contact with the operations room there ceased and remote systems tracked the rise in temperature. Efforts were made to cool the reactor remotely, and for a while, it was thought they were working. Now, suddenly the temperatures had spiked.

If we don’t get it under control soon, it will melt down.

The scientists assured him that an explosion was not possible, but that was far from reassuring.

They said the same things about Fukushima, and that site is still cordoned off as a health hazard.

The scientists had babbled on to him and his men, but all he heard was “melt down” and “radiation exposure.” While the scientists chattered like seagulls, Barre’s patience eroded.

“If we are going to do this,” he snapped, “we need to go now. Evening approaches.” He didn’t want his platoon of legionnaires out there in the dark. While they were well versed at fighting in the darkness, the aliens were better at it.

They climbed aboard the repurposed Minotaure and he turned his Cuirassier to the other three that would be accompanying him on the mission. The rest of the platoon would be coming on fast-moving Gazelle transports, still painted in desert camouflage patterns. “Alright, I want flank protection for the Minotaure as we move. Call out any contacts with the enemy. Our job is to get these scientists and techs in there to prevent a disaster. France, if not the world, is counting on us… they just don’t know it yet.”

“Oui, Monsieur Capitaine,” Sous-Lieutenant Narrel replied.

He did not have to give the order to move out; his people knew their duties. As he angled his Cuirassier back over the hill, he broke into a jog, heading down the roadway for the plant. The exterior fencing of the facility and the gate lay folded over, no doubt from the earlier fighting. The closer he got, the more damage he saw to the structures. Holes melted into metal buildings, pipelines twisted and mangled. A thought gnawed at him.

Can they repair this enough given the damage already done?

Approaching the first structure, he slid along the wall, using it for cover, his armor grating on the brick exterior. Leaning forward, he checked around the corner and saw nothing beyond more damaged piping and blasted bits of the building. Spent casings lay everywhere, and a Gazelle from a previous attack was toppled over. The bloated bodies of the dead lay there still, deformed by the warmer than usual winter along the north coast.

“Above you!” Narrel called out.

There was no time to react. Something heavy collided with the top of his Cuirassier’s shoulders, shoving him downward as if it were a pile driver. Damage indicators flashed warnings as his armor bent, moaning and breaking, until his plate-forme collapsed face-first. His safety harness dug into his already throbbing shoulders, and the crotch strap split his testicles under his weight.

Pushing with one arm, then the next, he tried to move. Gunfire erupted, seemingly all around him, but he could not get up. Behind him, the power system for the Cuirassier hissed as something breached it and the warning indicator flashed crimson. The power was dying. An explosion went off near him, heart-poundingly close, but it did not shake whatever was pinning him to the ground.

His plate-forme’s frame groaned near his head then broke, snapping right over his shoulder. On the exterior armor he saw a bit of ebony shark-like skin, and a hooked nail almost as big as his wrist.

A monstre d’ébène!

The massive enemy aliens were towering giants, able to take on a Cuirassier one-on-one and win. Panic flashed through him, and he twisted hard, to roll the Cuirassier, to no avail. The claw poking through the back of the cockpit flexed, and a sharp white nail dug into his skin. Barre wailed in pain as it punctured his flesh, poking deep into his muscles and bone.

A wave of heat and sweat rolled over him. His vision wavered, the edges losing focus. Blood—his blood—squirted onto the cockpit canopy below him. He extracted his arms from their control sleeves and tried to push up, to free himself from the claw, but the searing pain was too much.

Consciousness oozed from him with each squirt of blood. His final thoughts were of the plant, and the meltdown soon to come.

Pico-Robertson, Los Angeles AIZ, California, the United States

Cassidy Chen, CC, slowed as she walked by the abandoned toy store. Her eyes were drawn to the bright pink display of Next Gen Barbies covered with a light film of dust in the store window. Halting, she could not shake her gaze from the toys. As if they had hypnotized her.

Dolls. She’d had a Barbie once. Laurie, she’d called her, a customized Barbie that matched her own hair and skin color. She wondered where Laurie was now. Probably back in her house, in her room. CC had been in dozens of homes lately, using them for shelter and firing positions. Maybe someone was using her home as shelter now.

She tried not to think about what life was like before the Fish. Usually when such thoughts came, in the darkness of the night, she cried. This was no place to weep. Studying the dolls in the store window, she felt the pangs of sadness and memories try to take her away. As she had done so many times before, she pushed them back, smothered them.

Still, tears pricked her eyes. She wiped them on her uniform sleeve. Antonio came up next to her. “You okay, Little Doll?”

CC sniffled. “Yeah, just thinking about the before times.”

Antonio glanced at the store, then at her. Without speaking, he pushed the door open. She watched as he leaned into the window display and pulled off one of the Barbies. He blew the dust off it, came back, and handed it to her.

It was strange to hold a doll again. Memories twisted in her mind as she looked at the lifeless plastic. A part of her wanted to say she had outgrown dolls. She couldn’t form those words though. Instead, she took the doll and slid it into the deep pocket on her pants.

“Thank you,” she said, sniffling back her tears once more.

“It’s okay,” Antonio said. He didn’t have to say more than that, and wisely didn’t.

He understood her, better than her parents ever did. CC smiled at that thought. She swung her ACR around from her shoulder and gripped the weapon tight.

They still had four blocks to go on this patrol. Time to get crispy.

Chapter one

Extra Terrestrial Task Force (ETF) HQ, DIA Intelligence Annex, the Penetrator, Los Alamos, New Mexico, the United States

Colonel Ashton Slade had a strange feeling that had been growing for the last few weeks. He knew that he should have felt good. After all, his ETF team had secured and explored a downed alien craft in Greenland over a month ago. They were going to be analyzing their samples and data for months, perhaps years. The preliminary results were promising. While it was nothing that would end the war with the aliens anytime soon, they would give the Americans better insight into the biotech of the Fish.

I should be happy—but I’m not, he thought as he looked over at the ETF logo on the wall of his office. Just getting the name of the task force had been a struggle in bureaucratic marketing. Slade had wanted to call it the Alien Task Force, but the branding people within the FedGov refused. They didn’t want us to be confused with the other ATF—alcohol, tobacco, and firearms. There had been far too many wasteful meetings about logo design, which he didn’t care about. I shouldn’t have to worry about what the American people think of the work we do here; about if our logo instills confidence. All that matters is that we eventually win this war. No one gives a shit about what our logo was while we did it.

Leaning back in his chair, he granted himself a few moments of quiet to gather his composure and clear his thinking. The op in Greenland had been a boon in some respects. We can no longer view the alien threat as a monolith. They fired at each other. That means there are factions, competing against each other. They are not some vast unified force. There was something strangely reassuring about that knowledge. They are a lot like us. Any lack of cooperation in their ranks is something we might be able to exploit.

Closing his eyes, he rubbed his lids, embracing his personal darkness like a comfort blanket. The biologists on his team were saying that some cells they recovered had mitochondrial DNA that could generate energy at an almost alarming rate. Tapping that power would take time, but it might revolutionize power generation, assuming of course humanity survived the war.

Not all of it was cheery news. The losses to the team he had formed had hit Ashe hard. The Rangers had suffered nearly thirty-five percent losses. Omega Force had lost almost fifty-percent. Yes, we killed a lot of Fish, but we can ill-afford such losses. Unlike the aliens, we can’t grow replacement troops in genetic vats. It takes us years to get personnel at the right stage of life to fight a war.

Slade hadn’t asked for this position. It just seemed to happen. It was thrust upon him and he tackled it with every bit of his energy. He had come to accept that this was a position that was unrelenting in the burden that came with it. Every government agency had been tasked with supporting him, but they all seemed to find subtle little ways of subverting that support. When I was a kid, there was talk of a Swamp in DC. It’s not that glamorous. It’s far worse than that. It is a tar pit. You step in and you are stuck. The more you resist and struggle, the deeper you go. He had managed to overcome many of the hurdles that were thrown before him, but all of that wasted precious time and effort.

The worst offender had been the CIA, led by Director Artemis Wilson. What had started off as a frigid relationship had devolved to, what Slade considered, outright sabotage. Ashe could not prove it, but it looked as if Wilson had withheld information about the British incursion at the crash site from him. If he gave the old man the benefit of the doubt, he might have chalked it up to incompetence. That’s not Wilson. He wouldn’t have gotten to that level of power if he was a buffoon. He held that nugget of information back out of the hope that it would lead to a catastrophe. It could have, if Slade hadn’t picked good people to handle the mission on the ground. I was lucky that we didn’t end up in a shooting match with the Brits. Next time I might not be so fortunate.

The intercom in his desk chirped, shattering the few moments of reflection. Opening his eyes, he hit the button. “Sir, your next meeting is here.”

This isn’t going to be fun. He hit the comms button. “Send him in.”

Artemis Wilson came through the door as if the office was his own, swinging it wide. He was a presence, that much was undeniable. Some of it was his expensive tailored suit, his perfectly styled hair, and his manicured nails. The rest was his personality. “Colonel,” he said as he moved near the desk.

Ashe rose and moved around the right of the desk, shaking the CIA director’s hand. “Director.” Gesturing to the chairs, he moved back to his own. “Please, have a seat.”

Wilson had insisted on the meeting, arriving hours earlier to take in a full tour of the facility. Ashe wondered if he was genuinely curious or if he was looking for something else. Wilson had a shallow grin on his face, which made Slade even more curious as to the reason for the visit. “Can I have my aide get you something to drink?”

“I am fine, Colonel, just fine.”

“What brings you to the Penetrator?”

“Interesting name, if not a bit sexist, don’t you think?”

“It’s just a code word. People can read into it whatever they want.”

“Well then, I understand from my liaison that you are still slightly miffed regarding the intelligence you received in regards to Greenland.”

There it was, the unspoken challenge. Ashe was glad; now they could get this aired out once and for all.

“You could say that,” he replied. “We were caught off guard by the presence of the British there. We are able to avert any conflict with them, but the initial intel we got from your agency was that we would not be encountering them at all.”

“Well, if you had any practical strategic experience with intelligence, you would know that these are matters of probability. If you check the footnotes of what we sent you, you’ll find a reference to the fact that there was a chance of the British mobilizing and moving on the site. It was a low probability, but it was noted.”

The prick was hiding behind footnotes. “First off, I have done nothing but strategic intelligence work for the last few years,” Ashe said. “I’m surprised you didn’t know that. We could go back and forth attempting to level the blame for this, but I think there are bigger issues at play here.”

“Really,” Wilson replied coyly. “And what might those be?”

“I understand you are reluctant to assign resources to the ETF. If I were in your position, I might see that as some sort of affront. I would like to remind you, we are not competitors. I think deep down we both want the same thing, an end to the alien threat. We need to work together.” It was as diplomatic as Ashe could be.

Wilson leaned back in his seat, as if he were savoring Slade’s words. For Ashe, that was disturbing. “I’m sure you think it is that simple. I want to assure you, Colonel, it is not.”

“Why is that?”

“The CIA has legal authority for intelligence operations outside of the United States. Your ETF has no legal authority. It certainly doesn’t supersede the law that put us in place.”

“President Bobrow created us under an Executive Order.” The director knew this. Clearly he was trying to use the law as a basis for his little turf war.

“The thing about Executive Orders, they often are overturned in the courts or overwritten by real laws. Bobrow won’t be president forever. At some point he will be out of office and a new administration will be in place. Your little piece of paper can be overwritten easily.”

“That may be true. In the meantime, I am here and you are here and we have a war to win. In order for me to do that, I need CIA resources. I need accurate intelligence information. I need cooperation.”

“Servitude.”

“Excuse me?”

“You use the word cooperation, but what you really as asking for is for the CIA to become a servant of your ETF.”

Ashe hated word games, and he could tell that he was going up against a master in that arena. “We are in the middle of a war. I need your resources. That doesn’t diminish the CIA’s role; if anything, it elevates it.”

“When I took over the Agency,” Wilson began, “it was a mess. I spent a lot of time and burned a lot of political capital rebuilding it. I have no intention of making it submissive to some hot Army colonel trying to carve out a name for himself.”

Ashe knew he was being baited, but he no longer cared. “I didn’t ask for this.”

“No, you didn’t. Yet here we are, and you are attempting to siphon away my people. And for what? What have you actually done to improve the war effort?”

“We won the Battle of Port Republic based on our analysis. We have learned more about the enemy in the last few months than we ever knew. You, of all people, should know that the intelligence game is not won as a matter of singular victories. It is a progression.”

“That is what differentiates the two of us, Colonel. You call it a game. This is no game. It’s a matter of life and death.”

“Sir, need I remind you that I was in the fighting in Washington, DC, myself? I am well aware of what this is about.” He could feel the anger swell in him and he hoped that he was keeping it in check. The last thing he wanted was let this old fart think he’d scored a point.

“So I have been told. One has to wonder, though. Was that a wise move on your part? You were a vital national asset, yet you took off with a gun and ran into a battle. Were you thinking more about your own quest for personal glory over the needs of the country? Perhaps this was an attempt to relive some of your previous war experience. In the end, it doesn’t matter. In the intel community we don’t reward people out to make a name for themselves. If you had really been a part of it from the start, you would understand that.”

The military man in Ashe Slade knew if he wanted to, he could kill Art Wilson. He also knew that he wanted to.

Wilson is a master at trying to punch my buttons. Why? Am I really that big of a threat to him? I must be, at least in his twisted mind.

“I think it’s amusing,” was all he said.

“What do you mean?”

“That you, sitting in your office up in McLean, think you know what my motivation is. I wasn’t aware that the Agency had that level of clairvoyance.”

“I think I know exactly what I’m dealing with.”

“So do I. You are trying to build some sort of empire. You are putting your ego ahead of the war effort. In doing so, you put men and women under my responsibility in harm’s way. You are the worst kind of Washington insider, a career-minded politician. When I make a request for resources, I’m doing it because I need to. This isn’t a turf war, though it is becoming painfully clear that is what you are looking for.” As he spoke, the speed of his words and the volume increased. He was laying down verbal suppression fire on Wilson, and savoring it.

Before the older man could rebuttal, he continued. “You came down here to try and intimidate me. You failed. I didn’t buckle when I was fighting the Russians or the aliens, and I won’t let you push me around either.”

Wilson rose to his feet. The grin on his face was not reassuring. “Bold words. I would expect no less than that. I would advise that you keep in mind that this war is not going to be won just on the battlefield. It will be won by men like me, people that can handle the rudder of the FedGov.”

“So noted,” Ashe said, reining in his raw emotions.

“Oh, one more thing,” Wilson said as he angled for the door. “I trust that you remember Senator Carwell of the great state of West Virginia?”

Ashe knew the senator well. He had been quasi-supportive of the ETF, but also had a healthy distrust of the military having any role in it. He didn’t like Ashe, but he tolerated him. The mention of the senator did not bode well for Slade. “He and I are professional acquaintances.”

The grin on Wilson’s face grew. “He’s throwing a little meeting you’ll be invited to.”

“Meeting?”

“They call it a Senate Armed Services Committee meeting. Your subpoena is on its way. He has some questions about what went down in Greenland and your role in that entire affair.”

Ashe felt as if he had been tossed an eighty-pound ruck. He had been summoned to Capitol Hill several times since taking over the ETF. Those visits had consumed precious days of his life. If Carwell is calling him up, and if Wilson is aware of it, it couldn’t be good news. This was an ambush. With the director calling the shots.

“I look forward to it,” Ashe lied.

“I’m sure. Thank you for your time and hospitality,” Wilson said, trying hard to suppress a chuckle and failing. “I will see you there.” With that, he opened the door and left Slade’s office.

Ashe slumped back in his chair. Heat rose off of his wrinkled brow. Wilson wants my job. He’s willing to crush me to get it. Politics was a game that Ashe had gone out of his way to avoid. Now he saw the mistake he had made in that evasion. Trying to be apolitical has emboldened my enemies.

So, an ambush was coming, thanks to Wilson. His military training kicked in. There were two ways to overcome an ambush—stage a counter-ambush or to break through it. Since there was no good counter to a Senate hearing, that meant he would have to rely on the second option—plowing through the attack.

While his instinct was to fight, a part of him, the weary intelligence analyst that had first discovered the Fish, wondered if it was worth it.

I never asked for this position. They made it around me because I was the only one to figure out we had a new threat. If Wilson thinks running this is easy, he should try it. Every branch of the armed forces resists me, as does every agency.

The only thing that stopped his cascade of negative thinking was the thought that Wilson wouldn’t do any better than him. He was a political appointee. To him, this was all about power. But for Ashe, only one thing mattered: winning the war. Where Wilson saw the ETF as a means of control and authority, Ashe saw it as a tool to gain more usable information about the enemy.

Greenland was not a failure to Ashe. Yes, the losses had been high. But what they had gained from the expedition gave them new insights into the Fish. This was war and in war, men and women die. He had reached out to every family of someone killed in that action, and each contact had torn at Slade heart. Ashe had thought it was important that they knew their loved one had died on a vital military operation. Memories of Wade’s funeral service had left him emotionally and physically exhausted—but he had done it regardless of his own mental turmoil.

I owed it to him and the others. I was the one who sent them there.

Drawing a long breath, he wrestled with his composure. I need to prepare for this. Let the chips fall where they may. If Wilson and Carwell want a pound of flesh, they can take it from me. What is most important is that the ETF mission continues. I will do whatever it takes to ensure that we stay true to our mission.

He hit the intercom on his desk. “Please have Archangel report to me.” Archangel was the code name for his CIA liaison, Heather Dawn Taylor. Wilson’s surprise visit was what he would have expected a heads-up from her about.

It took a few minutes, but Heather knocked, then entered his office. She always dressed well, pressed and professional. He motioned for her to take a seat and rallied himself for the conversation. “Your director just left.”

She looked confused. “Director Wilson?” If she was a mole, faking her response, she was doing a top-notch job of it.

“You didn’t know he was here?” Ashe asked.

“No, sir.” Her cheeks got red, and her jaw set.

“I would have expected you to tell me he was coming.”

“I would have expected to know that myself.”

Ashe leaned forward in his chair, locking his gaze with her. “So you are telling me he kept you in the dark, too?”

“Yes, sir.”

Which begged the question as to why. “I have reason to believe that he is attempting to supplant me as the director of the ETF. I know this puts you in a sticky situation, but I have to ask. Has he told you anything that might confirm that suspicion?”

Her face betrayed nothing for a few long moments. “When I questioned the intelligence reports about the British being in Greenland, he had me come in for a face-to-face. He told me I needed to careful about my loyalty.” The words sounded as if she were struggling to say them.

“That had to be rough.”

“I didn’t appreciate him questioning my integrity.”

“Heather, I’m not going to punch that button with you.” God knew he wanted to, but he had to do what was right. “What I am doing… what the ETF does, is coordinate intelligence from thousands of sources and process it into something meaningful. I think we are making a difference.”

“So do I.”

“Good. If Wilson thinks he can convince the president to remove me, well, he’s welcome to take his best shot. I’d love to ask you to report on his activities to me, but doing so would put you in a vice and might make you betray yourself. I can’t do that. All I can say is that I need someone in your role that I can trust. If that’s you, fantastic. If it’s not you, I’ll have you replaced in a heartbeat.”

“Understood. Is there anything else?”

“No. Thank you for being honest with me.”

She rose to her feet and took a step towards the door, then stopped, turning back to face him. “Colonel.”

“Yes.”

“My brother is in the Navy. He was wounded in Task Force Iron Bottom. This is very personal to me.” With those words, she left.

Having confirmed to Slade where her loyalties lay.

Chapter two

Peterson Space Force Base, Colorado, the United States

Captain Georgia Johnston stood saluting in the commanding general’s office of the US Space Force. She had come a long way from Greenland, having been summoned with no explanation. She wasn’t too worried about the orders to come back to the States. Two weeks ago she had been promoted to captain, due, in no small part, to the fact that she had shot down an alien spacecraft—the only one known to have been downed yet. That kill, combined with those she had gotten during the Russo-Bratva War, had made her an ace.

Commanding General Kate Mulvane was stocky, with thick gray streaks in her fading black hair. She didn’t invest in cosmetics, not that any could be found since the war started. Her skin had a leather quality to it, mostly in appearance.

“Reporting as ordered,” Johnston barked.

Mulvane rose and returned the salute. “Grab a chair, Captain.”

The general wasted no time with small talk. “I called you here because you are one of the best we’ve got. I have a mission I think you’d be perfect for, but I wanted to discuss it with you, in person.”

She was intrigued. Whatever this mission was, it must be something pretty dangerous to bring her here from Thule. “What is it, sir?”

“Back during the war with the Russians, we had a plan to launch a weapons platform into space. It was called Thor, a rail gun system with a fairly sophisticated targeting system—something that would give us dominance of orbital space. By the time we started building it, the war came to an end. Congress, being Congress, cut off the funding, wanting to reap some damn peace dividend. We mothballed it in a DARPA warehouse. It was almost forgotten. After the Fish showed up, someone remembered it.”

“And we are thinking of putting it up there?”

Mulvane nodded. “DARPA and the boys and girls at Northrup Grumman and SpaceX gave it an overhaul. Musk’s people did the initial design and engineering originally. The targeting system has been updated to address the speed at which we have tracked alien spacecraft. We added a close support weapons system since we are dealing with aggressors that might respond against an orbital threat. Thor has been armored so as to be able to hang in a fight.”

Georgia’s mind raced. I took out a ship, but that was more luck and chance than anything else. Having a platform in orbit would make the job of shooting at them easier than trying to use aircraft. “You want me for this mission?”

“Prior to the last war, you were slated to go to the ISS. As a result, you joined the Space Force and are an ace. There’s a lot of people on the list that want the job, but none of them have actually engaged and taken down an enemy spacecraft. If you’re interested, you’re on the team.”

Georgia had been in space, at least in low orbit, in the X-62. What General Mulvane was talking about was going into actual outer space. “I busted my butt to qualify as an astronaut. The Russians robbed me of that. Yes, sir, I accept this offer.”

“Before you do,” Mulvane said. “You should know the risks. Thor is a prototype. We have not tested its systems in orbit. When we enhanced its design, we had to cut out some of the safety gear, namely an emergency reentry vehicle. It’s our intent to deliver something in a future flight, but when you go up, you are not going to have the means of coming back, not anytime soon.” Mulvane hesitated, then added, “Not to mention, it’s outer space. A million variables must go right for your mission to succeed. All it takes is one thing to go wrong to make the flight lethal.”

“General, I know the risks. I’ve taken the X-62 up there, to the limit. Every time I get into the cockpit, I’m putting my life on the line. I don’t push the odds, but I know what they are.”

General Mulvane eyed her the way her father would look at the butcher’s display case. It was as if she were evaluating Georgia on some unknown quality. “Very well. Report to Marshall. I’ll inform them you are on the way.”

Mulvane rose and extended her hand. “Best of luck, Captain.”

“Thank you, sir,” she said, shaking the shorter woman’s hand.

Marshall Flight Center, Huntsville, Alabama, the United States

With the loss of Cape Canaveral and the risks to Houston, Huntsville, home to Alabama’s Marshall Flight Center, had become a boomtown. Mission Control had been transferred there, along with Flight Operations and Vehicle Assembly. In a few short weeks, the population had more than doubled, with more personnel and equipment arriving weekly.

Georgia had gone through three security checkpoints to arrive at the Astronaut Training Center, a cinderblock building that, to the casual observer, looked bland. For her, this was a dream coming true. She had always wanted to go into space and while the Space Force had afforded her that opportunity, in their own way, this was something else.

The Russies and the Fish messed up my chances of getting to the big black but now I am going up there, as a full-blown astronaut.

Her first few days were physical exams, strength and endurance tests, and classes on spaceflight and orbital dynamics. There were four people in her small class, but with such limited time, she had not gotten to know them well. Quietly, she wondered if they were going to be on the Thor mission with her, or if they were preparing for some other mission.

Near the end of the second week, that question was answered during their first briefing on the Thor. They had been driven over to the Vehicle Assembly building and inside, she saw her spacecraft for the first time. At first glance, it was unremarkable. It looked as if it were the stage of a larger rocket. It was long, cylindrical, with retracted maneuvering thrusters fore and aft. One end was open, clearly housing the large rail gun. The entire craft was glossy black, a coating from the solar filaments that were embedded along the hull. Technicians in white gear checked the craft, doing some sort of work to it. To an untrained eye, it was ugly, a big blunt object. But to Georgia, Thor was a thing of beauty.

Their instructor, Commander Ryder Nelson, stood before the five students with Thor looming behind him. Nelson came with a reputation. He had been on the last American mission to the moon. When their lander experienced an electrical malfunction, he had jury-rigged it so that the crew could return to orbit and home. He was a legend in space flight.

“Good day. What you see behind me is America’s space-based response to the alien threat. This is Thor—” he gestured as if no one noticed the massive craft dominating the building. “It is one of the largest rail guns ever built. It fires a five-kilogram round at Mach nine. That round, upon impact, fragments, ripping to shreds whatever it hits.”

Nelson paused, letting that sink in. “There is a personnel module at the rear of the weapon, where you will live during the duration of your mission. Thor has a layer of ballistic armor and has a self-defense turret at the rear of the craft for close combat, should the Fish decide to come at you. The platform, and that is what we call it, a weapons platform, has maneuver thrusters to allow aiming and a sophisticated targeting and tracking package.”

“That’s one hell of a gun,” the astronaut nearest to Georgia, James Niemynski, muttered.

Commander Nelson continued. “There are four of you that will be manning Thor, one of you will be designated as the backup. We have two roles on the platform. One is the pilot, the person in charge of maneuvering the weapon. The second is the gunner. Thor is to be manned around the clock, two twelve-hour shifts. It is tight quarters up there as well. We don’t have the luxuries of the ISS.”

Another astronaut in the training cadre, Andre Garman, spoke up. “What about the safety systems? If we become damaged, is there a module for us to return to Earth?”

Nelson shook his head. “No. Our intent is to put you up there for five to six months at a time, sending up relief and resupply missions. With the modifications we have had to make to the original design, we were forced to remove the emergency return module.”

Georgia had been briefed on the removal, but apparently Garman hadn’t. His face sagged at the response.

“Space is a dangerous place,” Nelson continued. “All of you are from the Space Force and the Air Force. All were, at one time or another, slated for astronaut duty with NASA. I’m not going to kid you. This is full of risk. I will personally pilot the command module for the deployment. Between then and now, I am going to make sure you know every inch of this ship. You will know how all the systems, no matter how minor, operate. We will throw every possible contingency at you to get you ready for what might happen out there.”

Commander Nelson studied them with steely eyes. “Space hates human beings. It is a sneaky bastard. It will try to find ugly and nasty ways to kill you, usually when you least expect it. I know from experience. Moreover, when you are up there, fighting in the most unforgiving and hostile environment known to man, you will be expected to tackle an alien invader who possesses superior technology. If we didn’t need to do this, if it wasn’t vital to the war effort, we wouldn’t risk it. But the truth is, we must level the playing field with the Fish. That means taking risks like Thor. Now, if any of you want to bow out, do it now. No one will think less of you. There’s a long list of people that would kill for your seat, despite everything I’ve just told you.”

He stopped, looking at each one of them, seeing if anyone was going to step away. None did.

“Good,” he said. “Let’s start with a tour of the living module.”

* * *

Georgia slid into the gunner’s seat of the Thor simulator. It had been a week since their introduction to the weapons platform. The days were long, almost as exhausting physically as they were mentally. She and the others buried themselves in their studies. There was a feeling of excitement about being on the mission. This was her first time sitting in the simulator and as she pulled the safety harness tight, it was hard to deny the feeling of raw and deadly power that was at her disposal.

Thor was not as much complicated as it was cumbersome. Commander Nelson had described it as “A big-ass floating rail gun with a mobile home strapped onto one end of it.” While Thor was the code name for the platform, the gun itself bore the name Mjölnir—the mythical hammer of the god of thunder. Nelson’s description wasn’t far off from the reality. The gunner role, the one she was mastering, was half-pilot, half-gunner. Targeting control would be handed off to her by the pilot during the firing sequence. She would use the maneuvering thrusters to lock onto the target. An autoloader system would chamber a round and once she locked on, Georgia was to channel the energy into the capacitors, then fire.

Rail guns had little in the way of recoil, but in space, even a small amount would move the weapon. An automatic system would fire boosters to compensate, keeping the gun relatively in place. On paper, it seemed easy, almost mechanical. The challenge was that the gun system had never been test-fired in orbit, at an actual target. The amount of power being routed around the gun’s massive coils was dangerous if something went wrong. Also, once the gun fired, it would take the fuel cells at least five minutes to build up enough energy for another shot. Five minutes could be a lifetime if the enemy was still a threat. When the weapon did fire, the stresses on the entire platform would be massive. While the engineers assured the astronauts that they had addressed every contingency, Georgia noted that none of them were coming up in space with them.

It’s always easy to assure people when it’s not your life on the line.

Georgia activated the firing checklist. She had memorized it, but having it up gave her a sense of comfort. As she adjusted her helmet and activated her comms system, simulator control came blaring in her ears. “Gunner Johnston, these first sets of runs are simple targeting and firing. No curve balls… not yet. We are not pushing for speed, either. Take your time.”

“Slow is steady and steady is fast,” she muttered, more to herself than to the sim control.

“Roger that,” the controller replied.

Niemynski’s voice came on next. “Pilot ready.”

She went over the status lights on all three of her displays. “Gunner ready,” she added, adjusting her butt in the seat.

“Executing long-range sweep,” AJ said. Her secondary monitor showed the digital feedback. The ISS was painted, which made her crack a thin smile.

I was supposed to be there, but everyone managed to mess that up. And look at me now…

A crimson dot flickered at the far upper left quadrant of the screen. “Pilot to Gunner. Target. Designating as Alpha.” Next to the fast-moving dot, the word “Alpha” appeared.

“Gunner confirms. Transfer maneuvering controls.”

“Transferred,” AJ replied. “You have the ball.”

Reaching out, Georgia wrapped her gloved fingers around the two joysticks. “Preparing for targeting adjustment.” The formal name did not do justice to the control now at her disposal. The simulator responded, pushing and dipping as she activated the targeting for the tracking controls and started to try and lock onto the target. It took very little effort to have a large impact on her movement. Georgia was struggling more to avoid overcompensating. Even with the AI system running, it was like trying to aim a bus. She leaned forward, staring at the target.

Come on… come on… It was taking her longer than she wanted. While all the pressure she was feeling was internal, Georgia wanted success faster than she was getting it. But with each passing moment, she became more comfortable with the joysticks.

The targeting reticle fell in behind Alpha and as soon as she drifted over it, she hit the lock button. The target flashed from crimson to green and the word “Locked” flashed repeatedly. “Target is locked,” she said, taking her hands away from the controls. Now the automated systems of Mjölnir automatically adjusted the aim to stay on target.

“Charging capacitors,” she said, hitting the stud to shunt the power. It lit up green. She hit the load button and heard a simulated thunk of a round sliding into the large gun’s chamber. “Powering the primary coils.” Another button was pressed, and she watched the indicator showing that the weapon was readying itself for fire. “Weapon is hot.”

“Full power,” Georgia said. She then switched her comms for the entire platform. “Stand by for fire.”

Reaching out to the firing mechanism, a simple joystick with a red finger control and a thumb button. She hit the thumb stud, and the image on the curved targeting monitor zoomed in. She tapped it again to further zoom in. “Adjusting,” she said through gritted teeth, using the joysticks to bring the targeting reticle on the very heart of the wedge-shaped icon that represented the enemy ship. The adjustments to the joysticks changed, requiring more movement to align the shot. Georgia knew that in reality, she wasn’t visually aiming at a ship, but rather an intersection point for Mjölnir’s projectile and the alien craft. Deep within Thor, the targeting system was calculating speeds, trajectories, gravitational influences, etc, to give her that image.

Time was running out. The alien ship was banking, going for an orbit.

If I don’t squeeze off this round, he either gets away or I’ll have to reacquire him on his next orbit.

Instinct and skill kicked in. “Fire!”

The simulator recreated the sound of Mjölnir firing. It was a deep hum and a sudden jerk backwards, followed with a forward thrust to compensate, pushing her back into the seat. It was jarring, but eerily realistic.

Alpha turned into a fast repeating pulse, indicating a hit.

“Target has been hit.” She started the sequence again, but the target moved into orbit, using the Earth to block the line of slight. “Target is off the board.” She used the thumb button to zoom back out.

“Sim control. Confirm target status.”

The voice of the controller came back on. “Probably hit, Thor.”

A part of her was disappointed that the results didn’t come with a congratulations. Then again, this was the first sim run on what would be thousands of shots. This one was probably easy. The others are going to be harder. As she wiped the bit of sweat from her brow, she mentally noted that to her, it didn’t seem that easy. Aiming the entire ship in time to hit the enemy will not be simple. Distance from target is an ally, but it’s going to take a lot to get a round off with any degree of accuracy quickly.

“We will need two minutes to reset the system. Any comments, pilot or gunner?” came the voice of the controller.

“Just one. That icon for the ship. It’s all wrong. They aren’t a sleek wedge like that.”

“How do you know that?” came the voice of the controller.

“I shot one down,” she said with pride.

There was a momentary pause, then the controller came back. “Oh—you’re the one. We will see what we can do to tweak the graphics.”

Georgia smiled.

If they can get us up in orbit, I can add to my kill list.

Chapter three

North Branford, Connecticut, the Eastern Front, the United States

Sergeant First Class Daniel Thun eyed the artwork on the side of his new Schwarzkopf armored fighting vehicle (AFV) with skepticism. Not that it was poorly done. It just lacked something. It was a cartoonish dog food can with a funny-looking, dumb-grinning dog on it. The can image looked to be bursting at the seams. The brand of the dog food had the bright red letters spelling out “Whoop Ass.”

The Schwarz, as they were called by the enlisted ranks, was in a large warehouse that the Army had commandeered. It had been converted into a repair and refit facility. It was heavy with the aroma of lubricants and, despite the heaters running full tilt, was still chilly. New England in January… typical weather. The snow had dampened some of the alien offensive operations, which had been welcome.

While their AFV was new, it still had to be checked out by the maintenance staff. Sparky had leveraged that opportunity to find someone to paint their logo on the armored hide of the Schwarz while it was indoors. It was a friendly gesture by his gunner, a tribute to their last ride.

“Come on,” Staff Sergeant Heath Sparks said, trying to coax a verbal response. “It’s way better than the last one. It makes a statement.”

What, that we are driving around in an armored can? Memories of their previous Schwarzkopf, the original Whoop Ass, were far from fond for Thun. They had been fighting in Branford, Connecticut, their last time out in their original vehicle. The Fish had crippled the tracks and the Air Force dropped a phosphorous bomb that had burned the tank to a worthless hulk, along with a lot of the enemy. Thun and Sparky had barely gotten away from the target area on foot, just before the bombardment came.

“I guess it will do,” he conceded. Other tankers had decorated their vehicles with art showing buxom women or cartoonish weapons or aliens. A dull metal can seemed lame by comparison.

“You’ve been down in the dumps for a while,” Sparks said as he climbed down from the hull. “We are getting reassigned. That’s good news.”

“Is it?” he snapped. His trust in the Army bureaucracy was limited.

“Sure,” Sparks replied. “For the first time, the Army is actually sending us someplace warmer than Connecticut in the winter.”

“That should make you nervous all on its own.”

“We got a new Schwarzkopf. It still got that new AFV smell.”

“That it does,” he sighed. It was hard to argue with Sparky about that. The Army had them held for several weeks of much needed downtime. Now they had a new ride, fresh off of the Detroit production line. They hadn’t even gotten the chance to put it through its paces when word came that their battalion was being redeployed to the south, someplace in North Carolina. He would’ve liked a chance to take this puppy out a few times in combat, get a feel for its performance. If there were any kinks with the new AFV, they would have to sort them out later.

He was about to walk away to grab something to eat when Lieutenant Rodriguez came up. “You two checking out the new ride, I take it.”

They both responded, “Yessir.” Rodriguez was new to the 67th Armor Regiment, the Death Dealers. He had been with them in Connecticut, but before that, he had been in OCS. He seemed nice enough, but Thun was not looking for a pleasant officer—he wanted one with brains and balls. Thus far, Rodriguez hadn’t shown either.

“You two have been in the replacement pool for a while,” the lieutenant said. “You’re transferring under me in second platoon.”

Sparky groaned, just enough for Rodriguez to hear him. “Is there a problem, Staff Sergeant?”

“No sir. We were in the first platoon before. I just assumed that was where we’d be going.”

“The captain has shuffled things around,” the lieutenant replied. “This happens when you are on the replacement list.”

The mention of Captain Briggs was all the explanation that Thun needed. The officer spent more time reorganizing than letting his men be organized in the first place. “I’m just happy we got a new Schwarz and not one that had been all melted up and rebuilt.”

“You lucked out. The captain felt that after your promotion a few weeks ago, you deserved a fresh ride.” His words only slightly improved Thun’s impression of Captain Briggs.

“Luck of the draw.”

“Well, it got here just in time. As you know, we are redeploying. We begin the loading process at 0800. The equipment is going down by rail, we are getting there in trucks.”

Trucks, in the winter? Thun thought. Only the Army could be so cruel. Well, maybe the Marine Corps too. Still, we will freeze our asses off for days getting down to North Carolina.

But of course he only said, “Very good, sir.”

“The transport teams will handle the loading.”

“Sir, I was hoping we might get a few minutes of actually driving this new ride.”

Rodriguez shook his head. “Fuel is critical right now. Supply chain issues. We have orders to minimize our training time until we get down south.”

“Every Schwarz has a few bugs in it to work out,” he said, drawing on his experience in combat. “I’d rather not find out what quirks we have in the middle of a firefight.”

The lieutenant eyed him carefully. “Tell you what. You want to load your own ride, you can. You’ve had a lot of hours driving one of these. It’s not like a full shakedown run, but at least if there is something major that’s wrong, you will have a chance of finding it.”

That was the right answer.

“Thank you, sir.”

“Be down here at 0730 for the loading briefing. Our convoy isn’t taking off until the afternoon, which should give you more than enough time to get loaded. I’ll let the sergeant major know you are loading your own ride.”

“Very well.”

“Sir,” cut in Sparky. “What can you tell us about where we are going?”

“We’re going to some sun spot named New Bern. It’s on the coast, on the Neuse River. The Fish took the town at the start of their invasion. So far the local militia and National Guard have kept them bottled up there. They are sending us down to give them the armored support necessary to drive the Fish out.”

Thun preferred fighting defense, from prepared positions. It was easier to bleed the Fish when they came at you. Damn aliens have no sense of fear. They like rushing right at you as you shoot at them. Going out on the offensive would play well with some troops, but the experienced ones knew that such ops often were like smashing a hornet’s nest. “Sir, before you got assigned here, did you see any action?”

Rodriguez hesitated, which Thun took as not a good sign. “I saw a little action.”

“In the seat?” Sparky asked. In other words, combat from a fighting vehicle.

“No, not exactly. We got sent in to help evacuate civvies. I got my first taste of fighting from a street corner in Boston those first few weeks.”

And now he’s commanding an armored platoon. “So you’ve never been in armored combat.”

“I went through training down at Bragg/Liberty, just like the two of you. I was on the command track.”

He’s answering by not answering. At least he’s being honest. “Understood.”

“Don’t worry yourselves. I can handle my position just as I am sure you will do your jobs well out there.”

Thun found himself praying that Sparky wouldn’t follow up the lieutenant’s words with some snarky comment. His gunner had a knack for saying things that dragged Thun down with him. Oddly enough, Sparks only nodded in response.

“Don’t worry about us,” Thun replied. “We’ve seen the enemy up close and personal.”

“And we killed a lot of them in the process,” Sparky added.

“Good,” Rodriguez said. “Well, then I’ll see you tomorrow after you load up.” With that, he pivoted and walked away.

Sparks moved up next to Thun and spoke in a low tone of voice. “He’s wet behind the ears.”

“We all were just a few months ago.”

“I never thought I’d say this, but I will miss Lieutenant Carron.” Carron had been their platoon commander in the second battalion. He wasn’t a brilliant officer by any means, but he was a known entity.

“The devil you know, versus the devil you don’t,” Thun said.

“Either way, they are devils,” Sparks replied, heading off to the mess tent.

* * *

The loading of their new Schwarzkopf went well, no hiccups other than it took Thun longer to load than the load team, and they expressed displeasure in his slowness. He had been tempted to chew the asses of the corporals that were grumbling, but he had always saved his ass-chewings for enlisted troops that really needed them.

Telling a bunch of guys to be fucking patient because we aren’t as fast as they are just makes them hate NCOs.

The truck he and Sparks were assigned to was with the new platoon. Lieutenant Rodriguez rode up front, which was no real surprise. A tiny electric heater had been rigged in the back, hardly enough to shake the cold out of the air.

Introductions were made, and he did his best to keep names and faces straight. One of the drivers, named Teasley, was from Camdenton, Missouri, near Thun’s hometown of Osage Beach. He had just been assigned to the Death Dealers. They killed an hour talking about places back home they had both been to. What struck Thun about Teasley was that he looked and sounded young.

Am I getting old? I’m thirty years old. This kid looks like he’d be more at home playing video games than driving a Buford.

Sparks slept through the conversation and the first few hours of the trip. There wasn’t a lot to do other than check your phones. Thun had let his mom know he was heading south, but didn’t give her any other details. He knew that even a simple text would drive up her stress levels. She would tell his father. His dad’s dislike of the Army was not something that Daniel wanted to engage directly. The elder Thun was a Marine; there was no such thing as a former Marine. If Daniel had sent him the text, the response was predictable. “If they want to end this war, they would send in the Marines.” Which would be followed with a compulsory commentary on how superior the Marine Corps was to the Army, and Thun had never been bored enough to be drawn into that argument with the old man.

Crossing his arms tightly against the cold, he leaned back and got a few minutes’ sleep. The back of the truck stunk of ancient coffee spills, grease, diesel fumes, and body odor. The exact same aroma of every military truck he’d ever ridden in. Having spent part of his life in the driver’s seat of a Schwarz, he had trained himself to sleep just about anywhere. The suspension of the truck seemed to seek out and hit every bump, crack, and pothole on the winding road, but he still snagged some sleep—at least until they pulled off the road for refueling and a rest stop.

The convoy had weaved through the countryside, heading west, avoiding New York. There were a lot of reasons for that. Manhattan had been turned into a war zone, along with a lot of Long Island and New Jersey. Thun was thankful they hadn’t been sent there. It wasn’t good ground for fighting vehicles—all of those tall buildings and narrow streets.

As they reloaded the trucks, a lieutenant introduced himself. TJ Parmele, call sign Boomer. “I heard you and your gunner got assigned to our platoon. We’re glad to have you here.”

“Thank you, sir,” he said, savoring the fact that he could feel his butt again. Of course, that would end once they got back on the road.

“The way I heard it, you two called in an airstrike on your own Schwarz,” Parmele said with a big smile. Those words seemed to get everyone in the truck’s attention. Eyes opened a little wider and people leaned in. Evidently they wanted the whole story.

“It sounds worse than it was. We were doing some light recon along a river. The Fish came out, a lot of them.”

“That’s a fucking understatement,” Sparky said, adding his own embellishment. “Crabs, Frogs, Bosses. There we were, dicks in our hands, in a lonely Schwarzkopf.”

Thun flashed a glare at him, which only made Sparky grin more. Every time we tell this story, he makes it out to be worse than it was. “We started pouring it onto them, nothing unusual for us.”

Sparky cut him off. “He’s being modest. We fired an EFP round at damn-near point-blank range into a Boss. They are pretty tough until you blast a hole the size of a rucksack through their middle.”

Thun took back the story. “A Crab hit us with one of those power whips and we took care of him. We lost a tread in the process.”

“And BS command called in an airstrike,” Sparky interjected. “For our grid coordinate.”

“Comms was down and we couldn’t move. We had to scramble our asses out on foot with the Fish swarming our ride behind us.”

“You got air support?” Parmele asked in amazement. “I can’t tell you the last time we got air support when we called for it.”

“You’d think it was a blessing,” Thun said. “Apparently, you can only get it when you are in the target zone and crippled. Anyway, we just got clear and they hit it with a phosphorous bomb.”

That brought winces from the troops in the back of the truck. Thun understood it better than they did. The hot phosphorous particles could burn through the armor if they touched it. What they did to alien flesh was worse. “We were clear of the blast zone. That took out the Fish that were after us.”

“Thun here got a promotion after that,” Sparky added. “We gunners never seem to get the honor we are due.” All the gunners in the truck grumbled and nodded in agreement.

But Thun wasn’t proud. His promotion came with the loss of the original Whoop Ass. In any other place other than the Army, that wouldn’t make sense. His superiors claimed he demonstrated clear thinking under fire and his actions had resulted in the deaths of numerous enemy combatants. To Thun, it felt different.

We were in the right place at the right time to see them coming out of the water. If anything, the Air Force deserves the credit for killing so many of them—that or the battlespace commander, Captain Ronaldo.

“There’s a lot of ass-pucker factor with shit like that,” one sergeant added. “The Air Force has been without munitions for so long, they’re bound to be a little sloppy when dropping their loads.” There was a deep tone in his voice that told Thun he was speaking from experience.

Telling that story seemed to bring him closer to the others in the truck. He and Sparks were not raw replacements. They’d seen and fought the enemy up close, and now his brothers-in-arms knew it. It wasn’t bragging, it was telling a war story, one that gave them both an air of credibility.

Leaning as flat as he could manage on the cold bench where they sat, Thun closed his eyes. It was going to be a long trip to North Carolina, and Sparky had a lot of other stories to share still.

When we get down there, we’ll have new ones to tell, no doubt of that.

Chapter four

Naval Station, San Diego, California, the Western Front

Chief Petty Officer Viktor Langman stood at the gangway of the Gorgon mini-sub patiently awaiting the captain to emerge. When he saw the boat’s captain, he was surprised. Sure, the Gorgons were small subs, but he didn’t expect the captain to be so tiny. He looked like a child. As the officer stood at the other end of the gangway, Viktor saluted, and the captain returned it.

“Permission to come aboard.”

The captain nodded. “Granted.”

Viktor cleared the gangway in four steps, presenting his written orders to the captain. He eyed the name tag on the jumpsuit that the submariners of the Gorgons wore. “Castillo.” The port smelled like every navy port he had been to, the mix of the sea and the distinct aroma of ships—from the occasional fumes from running engines to the breeze that carried the sink of sea life. There weren’t a lot of vessels in port in San Diego. The Navy’s losses in the war were staggering so far. Task forces tended to attract attention from the enemy, who saw the seas as their domain. Their response was almost always brutal and deadly.

The captain eyed the paperwork as if he were a teacher, looking to assign a grade. “So you’re the new rig jockey sent to my boat.”

“Sir, I’m not a rig jockey. I’m a Trident pilot.” He didn’t say the words lightly. They were rimmed with pride as they left his lips.

“Right,” he replied, handing him back his orders. “Naturally, I read your service file when I heard you were joining my crew.”

“Naturally.”

“Naturalized citizen. Joined the Coast Guard when you got here. You were top of your class at Panama City. You made Master Diver fairly quickly, if I remember correctly.”

“Yes sir.”

“You volunteered for the Trident program.”

“It seemed like a natural fit for me. I spent most of my career underwater.”

“Not too many Coasties that are Trident pilots, I assume.”

“To my knowledge, I’m the only one so far.” Langman wanted to say something about the captain’s use of “Coastie,” but he let it go.

“You’re probably right. Damn risky work if you ask me. The Trident program is hazardous work.”

“No more hazardous than going to sea in a Project Gorgon sub.”

His words brought a little color to Captain Castillo’s face. “We’ve been putting subs to sea for over a century. Underwater suits? Those are newcomers.”

“Warfare evolves. You either adapt to it or find yourself obsolete.”

“Based on your life before the Coast Guard, I would have thought yourself tired of fighting wars.”

Langman knew where the captain was going, and he was determined to not go there. “I came to America because I felt I owed this country a debt. In my mind, it’s not paid yet.”

“Some of your former countrymen feel differently.”

That was true. America had been the principle in propping up his former country when the Russians invaded. When the spigot of arms and equipment slowed to a trickle in hopes of bringing about peace talks, many of his nation turned on the United States. They somehow felt betrayed. Not so with Langman. A man could be thankful for what he has, or not. He chose to be grateful. “Every man makes his own decisions in life. Some choose wisely, others embrace bitterness.”

Captain Castillo nodded as if he understood, though Viktor knew it was impossible for him to fully comprehend his life’s experience. Castillo opted to change subjects. “Chief, I have to tell you, I’m not exactly thrilled at having your suit hooked up to my sub.”

“Why is that, sir?”

“It’s a lot of dead weight with little impact, in my book.”

“Sir, I pilot a Hammerhead. It’s got its own punch in a fight. I assure you, it’s not dead weight, nor am I. I give a hell of a lot better than I get.”

“So far we have fought in three engagements with the enemy. In none of those called for the need or desire to deploy a Trident. We fire our fish and then give ourselves some space between the bad guys and our boat. Having a rig attached will only slow us down.”

This wasn’t the first time that he had heard a verbal barb from a naval officer about the Trident program. The Navy was set in their ways and traditions. Underwater combat rigs were new technology. Naval officers only thought in terms of boats and ships and planes. Deep down, Langman knew, he saw pilots as a threat.

“I’m not here for the battles you’ve already fought, sir. I’m here for the battles you have to fight in the future. Like you, I have my orders.”

Captain Castillo nodded once. “We got word a few hours ago that your rig is on the way. Get with my engineer, Lieutenant Shults. He will oversee getting your suit attached.” With that, he extended his hand. “Welcome to the Proteus.”

* * *

The Proteus was a Medusa-class Gorgon boat. The Medusas were new, which was something Viktor appreciated. At the same time, that meant they were fraught with potential problems that hadn’t been found yet. It was wider than some of the earlier models, more of a stingray shape. The propulsion rings were sleek and longer, but had a limited extension radius. Tradeoffs came with everything.

Lieutenant Shults took him on a tour of the boat, which didn’t take long. The command deck was a cramped room near the front of the vessel. The power plant, air and water recycling systems, and ballast control were on the bottom and aft of the boat. His Hammerhead attached where the rear of the ship arced downward, right next to the magdrive system.

The crew compartment was a set of bunks, a tiny kitchenette, and a shower and head. Comfort was something that had been sacrificed in the design, as were several safety features common on larger submarines. That was the nature of the Project Gorgon boats. They were designed to be like underwater fighter aircraft.

The Proteus was equipped with six torpedoes, externally mounted. These were faster than the larger torpedoes on traditional subs. It was also equipped with a small forward mounted array to emit ELF frequency bursts, which had been discovered to be an annoyance to the Fish. “She’s got a bite to her, if the Fish choose to fight,” Shults said proudly.

“Don’t they always?” Viktor countered.

Shults laughed. “You’re right. They always have so far.” The lieutenant introduced him to the small crew, all of which seemed cordial enough. To CPO Langman, they all seemed young, almost fresh out of Groton. The helmsman was female, Ensign Jordyn Danielle. She’s young enough to be my daughter. Seeing her momentarily reminded him of his long-lost family. It is the way she wears her hair and her cheeks—they are just like my little girl’s. He would have thought that the sting of those memories would have faded with time. They didn’t. Olena would be twenty-two in May, if she had lived. All he had of her were his memories. Everything else had been lost in the war.

The weapons officer, Lieutenant Brian Norris, was tall for a submariner, probably pushing the Navy’s height restrictions for boats. He was middle-aged, blond, and had a wide grin as he introduced himself.

Shults had showed him where to stow his gear. There wasn’t more than a single ruck. “You travel light.”

“I don’t have much.” It was an understatement. The Americans in the military loved to talk about their war with Russia. Viktor was a survivor of another war with the Pусианс, when they had invaded his homeland of the Ukraine. He had lost everything before leaving that nation to come to America. His wife, his son, his daughter, his mother. Almost everyone had perished in the quagmire of that conflict. It was his father, a man who limped on a prosthetic leg, that had managed to get him out—but doing so had cost him his life. After all of that, possessions meant nothing to him.

I only need what the Coast Guard provides me. A ship, a suit, and food.

He and Shults went ashore and grabbed a meal at the base mess. All along the perimeter of San Diego, tanks and ASHURs patrolled. It was one of the few ports that were still under the control of the United States since the start of the war. For some reason, the Fish had paid little attention to San Diego, other than a minor attempt at taking the port that had been easily repulsed. Some officers were puzzled by the actions of the aliens, but Viktor was not.

They know our surface naval ships are ineffective against them. They won’t waste resources on San Diego.

He and Shults were inspecting the mating ring/hatch when his Hammerhead arrived. Seeing his Trident suit, it was hard for Langman to not stand a little more erect, with pride. The suit was the pinnacle of the United States’ underwater technology. It was larger than the ASHURs on land. The Hammerhead got its name from the distinct head-mounted flat fins that mimicked the shark species of the same name. At the end of each of the fins was a small maneuvering thruster.

The Hammerhead had a sonic emitter and a flash strobe designed to blind any aliens stupid enough to near it. It had a spear gun and a pair of micro torpedoes. Like most of the Tridents, it had a sleek, streamlined look.

The crane operator maneuvered it over the moorings where two techs stood by aboard the Proteus to help position the suit. Viktor jumped over to the boat to assist them as they spun the Hammerhead into position.

“Take it slow,” he said, more out of instinct.

“We are,” the younger ensign said. “It’s not our first rodeo.”

Langman used his shoulders and back to help adjust the positioning over the mating ring. The ring acted as an airlock of sorts between the Hammerhead and the Proteus. It allowed the pilot to enter the suit from the rear. The docking mechanism was said to be built off of some NASA design for spacecraft. All he knew was that the ring was critical, and he didn’t want to risk damaging it or his Hammerhead during the maneuvering.

It took an hour. If they had done the same docking maneuver underwater, it would have taken a few minutes. But this was the Navy way—doing it the hardest way possible. He didn’t complain. All that mattered was that it slowly seated in the ring and he heard the hiss and clang of the ring sealing. When he was done, Viktor stood and looked at the suit. It looked odd, mounted on the aft end of the mini-sub. But given the underwater dynamics of the coupling, the sleek, sloped design of the aft of the Proteus would minimize the drag of the suit being there.

Lieutenant Shults checked the ring and used his communicator to signal one of the techs inside of the sub. “We have a solid seal.”

Viktor nodded. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to cycle the hatch and check the suit.”

Shults nodded and Victor moved up the Proteus to the top hatch and entered. When he reached engineering, he saw the tech there, checking the seal. “She’s solid, Chief.”

Langman didn’t say anything, instead he moved in close to the hatch. Opening the switch cover, he cycled it and heard the seal release. Pulling open the sub’s hatch, he was confronted with the hatch on the rear of the Hammerhead. Viktor flipped open the release cover, then flexed his arms hard to push the hatch in and up.

He climbed in and slid around the rear of the pilot’s seat, which was harder with the rig being on its back at an angle. His muscles protested, not so much pain but as a reminder that he was no longer a young man. Once in the seat, he hit the power switch. When the small control systems screen came up, he activated the diagnostics routine.

As lines of computer code whizzed past him, he gave himself a moment to relax. In the Hammerhead, he was at home. This was a place where the world was small, dark, cold, and deadly. It was also the one place he felt comfortable. Some of that was control. In the seat of a Trident suit, the pilot was the master of his own destiny. Anything that went wrong might kill him instantly, but holding that fear at bay gave him a feeling of immense power.

It took two minutes for the diagnostics routine to finish.

Green across the board… good.

There was no reason to remain there, in the suit, but he was in no rush to return to the sub. This was his second assignment as a pilot. The first had been a raid on some sort of alien facility. Two of his comrades had died in the shifting battle that ensued. Viktor had forced the attacking Mermen, Class VI aliens, to withdraw, with half of their number killed by the Trident suits.

He had not mourned the loss of his comrades. I lost the ability to be sad for the dead long before I came to this country. War had stripped him of that emotion. Other pilots called him cold-hearted, and he did not rebut them. I am numb to the deaths of others. It is war, and war is about deaths and dying. At least the Fish don’t play politics with us. Fighting them is easier than people.

The Navy had called the mission a success. For Viktor, that sufficed. I fight what is in front of me and battle as if I am the third monkey boarding Noah’s ark and the rain is falling. My war is what is in front of me—that is what I am responsible for. Looking out through the trapezoid portal under the hammerhead projection, he could see the clouds up above, thickening, with a hint of purple in them. A storm is coming, but for those of us who fight under the sea, it has no meaning.

“Everything okay in there?” Shults asked from the rear.

He shut off the power and double-checked all the control switch settings. “Yes, everything is fine,” he said as he rolled and twisted to get to the rear hatch.

“Good,” Shults said. “I just got word from the captain. We need to be underway in three hours.”

“A mission?” he asked as he climbed out and sealed the suit’s hatch behind him. As he got clear, Shults closed and cycled the ship’s hatch as well.

“From the sound of it, yes.”

“Good,” Viktor said. “We can’t win the war from the safety of the port.”

Chapter five

Manhattan AIZ, New York, the Eastern Front, the United States

Detective Kenyon O’Malley led his team to the shattered front lobby of the Copper building. The high rise overlooked the East River in Manhattan. For years, it was considered premier living in the city. Then the Fish had invaded, turning most of Manhattan into a war zone. The Army’s effort to maintain its tenuous grip on New York City had the battle lines erratically drawn around 36th Street. Looming skyward in defiance, the Empire State Building was still on the humans’ side of the fighting, but no one knew for how long that could be maintained. The Fish had come out of the East River near 52nd Street but had been contained in pocket, much like the Hudson Yards salient on the Hudson side of the island.

Seeing Manhattan in its current state pained O’Malley. The city had endured its ups and downs over the years, but in its heart, it was always Manhattan. Now it looked like just another war-torn city. Freedom Plaza and Tower lay in ruins, as did most of the Financial District. From Soho south, the island was a bizarre jumble of buildings that were completely destroyed, and some that appeared almost untouched. The air had a haze, a fog-like appearance, occasionally shaken by whirlwinds of dust and ash. Papers from blasted office buildings were everywhere on the streets and sidewalks. Smoke from small fires filled the side streets and made O’Malley’s eyes sting while walking home at night. The smells of the city that he was so accustomed to no longer existed except in his memory. The familiar aroma of street vendors and auto fumes had been replaced with human waste, charred rubber, and the stink of garbage, burning and otherwise.

The flooded subway tunnels had become an underground roadway for the Fish to strike. Parts of the New York aqueduct had to be sealed off as well for the same reason, leaving parts of lower Manhattan without drinkable water. The Army had blown up some subway access points to bottle up the Fish from using them. Watching them destroy parts of the city to save the city hurt.

An Army sergeant met him as he crunched his way across the shattered glass of the Copper exterior. “You O’Malley?” he asked.

“Yes,” he said as his team spread out, entering the lobby.

“Here’s the sit,” the sergeant said. “The Fish are pushing south from the pocket up near 52nd. We were hoping to hold them at the UN Building, but that might not be the case. As such, this block is between two groups of aliens and likely to be where they link up.”

It wasn’t news to O’Malley. The old UN Building had been converted to office space decades before. The rumor mill in the New York Police Department was still as good as it ever was. He’d heard two days ago that the Fish were tearing a path south. “So what do you need us to do?”

“We need you to clear this block.”

O’Malley pursed his lips and blew a long breath. He was getting too old for this shit. “That’s a tall damn building.”

“Forty-eight.”

“We are talking the better part of two days.”

“I know. Look, we don’t have the personnel available to these tasks,” the sergeant replied.

“I’ve heard this song already,” O’Malley said with a hint of disgust in his voice. We always get the jobs the Army doesn’t want to do. “Tell me, Sergeant, have your joyboys run drones up the building to make sure we don’t have any alien surprises up there?”

“Only to the twentieth floor. After that, the winds were too much for our sweep drones. I don’t think you have to worry. The Fish are not fond of higher altitudes.”

“The Army loves to spin that tale. Three weeks ago, we encountered Fish in a building that was fifteen stories up. The sergeant that told us it was clear assured us the same thing. These cakewalks can turn to shit quick. What you military types call ‘the front lines’ is fluid and you know it.”

The sergeant crossed his arms and nodded. “I understand. Look, you badge-boys are tasked to support us. I know it’s not glamorous duty, but we need the job done. Are you going to comply? Or do I have to bump this up to our superiors?”

Since Manhattan had been hit during the invasion, the New York Police Department had gone from crime-fighting to providing support to the military. Before the war, he had been a detective. As much as O’Malley was proud of his work, he knew he was middle of the pack in terms of his work. There was not a lot of incentive for him to excel in his job. Some of the younger detectives thrived on their resolution rates for crimes. O’Malley was more of a cop that counted his blessings for the days he came home alive.

A fourth-generation New York police officer, he still remembered his dad coming home every day, the smell of his leather shoes and belt, the hint of gunpowder from his service weapon. Kenyon had memories of his father bringing him a PlayStation 7+ and other toys when he came home on special days. His mother got fur coats and jewelry. The younger O’Malley never questioned where his father, a street cop, got such things. He assumed they came from criminals… spoils of the war against crime in New York. It was easier to think of the gifts as just rewards rather than his father being on the take or light-fingering the goods.

“We are good, Sergeant. Just make sure your people know we are in this building. We don’t want any of that shit that went down in the tenth precinct.” It had become a sore spot between law enforcement and the police. Two squads of cops were clearing a block when some Hawking decided to drop artillery on it. Six dead and wounded cops were the result. For a full week, the police refused to assist the military on their operations. It had taken some serious butt kissing and groveling on the part of the Army to get the cops back in the field.

“I assure you, we will not bring this building down with you in it,” the sergeant replied. His tone was flat, showing that he was not being goaded by O’Malley’s reference to the tenth precinct incident. “When you tag this as clear, signal us on channel fifteen.”

“Fifteen. Roger that.”

With that, the sergeant walked out, glass crackling under each bootstep.

O’Malley turned to his people. “You heard the man. We need to clear this building.”

“Why do we get all the shit jobs?” Patrolman Hazel asked.

“Because we are cops,” snapped Corporal Esposito said.

“Pretty high-end building at least,” Sergeant Narvaez said, as she leaned over the lobby desk to check behind it. “Our take should be pretty good.”

“Keep that shit quiet,” O’Malley said. His people did “liberate” things from time-to-time from the rooms they cleared. Everyone did. Besides, it wasn’t like the people that lived there were going to be coming back anytime soon. The Fish were still winning the ground war and were seeming to thrive on destroying the island of Manhattan in the process. While they all did it, O’Malley knew that saying it out loud was a big no-no.

It was part of the strange dichotomy of working in the war zone. The police had no criminals to chase, so they became criminals.

Pausing for a moment, he touched the St. Michael medallion he wore around his neck and silently prayed. St. Michael the Archangel, defend us in battle. Be our defense against the wickedness and snares of the Devil. May God rebuke him, we humbly pray, and do thou, O Prince of the heavenly hosts, by the power of God, thrust into hell Satan, and all the evil spirits, who prowl about the world seeking the ruin of souls. Amen.

He sketched the sign of the cross. The war had disrupted his going to church, but O’Malley still considered himself a good Catholic. How he reconciled his looting was that he was “finding things that were abandoned.” It wasn’t stealing, if anything, he was saving things that might otherwise be destroyed. At the same time he knew he was doing something wrong. If someone catches us doing this shit, we can still face charges. He mentally told himself it was a victimless crime. O’Malley knew it was a lie, but it was a lie to himself, which was how he coped with what he was doing.

The Army recommended climbing to the top floor and working down. It was the best way to make sure that no one came in the building after you cleared part of it. The problem was there was no power to the Copper. That meant climbing up forty-eight floors in full tactical gear. Sometimes O’Malley ignored the Army recommendations, but a week ago, his captain caught him bending the rules and slapped his wrist for the infraction.

“Alright, we go up to the top and work our way down.” Those words brought a groan from his squad. “Knock that shit off, we have to climb the same number of stairs either way.”

They began the trudge up, stopping every five flights or so for a break. Patrolman Christie used every halt as an opportunity to light up a cigarette. Some cigarette brands were nearly impossible to get. His brand, which to O’Malley smelled like a roasting rat turd, was sadly available. At the fifteenth floor, Hazel said to Christie, “You know, you’re going to get cancer from that shit.”

Christie took a longer drag. “We are in a war zone. There’s a damn good chance that I’m going to die long before the cancer gets me.”

“What do you say, O’Malley?” Hazel asked.

The older detective glared at Christie, then reached out and ripped the cigarette out of his subordinate’s mouth, tossing it down the staircase. “The Fish aren’t going to kill you, Christie. I will if you keep smoking that shit in my presence.” Christie was stunned for a moment, until everyone started to laugh.

When they reached the top floor, they checked the roof. O’Malley didn’t do that sweep. The detective hated open heights like rooftops. He avoided windows in the rooms they checked on such missions because he didn’t want to look out. When he did, a wave of vertigo would wash over him, complete with hot sweats. Once the roof was cleared, they locked the door and spray-painted on the cross-hatch to show that it was clear. It was a process they would do for each floor they inspected on the way down.

The clearing of a huge apartment building like the Copper was necessary because, no matter what, there were always people that refused the leave. They huddled in their apartments, often looting their neighbors’ rooms for food. O’Malley understood it when it was elderly occupants. A lot of times it was younger people. There’s always some idiot that thinks that somehow the war is going to somehow bypass them, that they are going to be spared. O’Malley blamed movies and films for perpetuating that lie in the minds of young people. Everyone liked to think they were going to be the hero of their little story, rather than just another dead person… a statistic in someone’s journal.

There was a protocol that was followed by his personnel. One, you never opened refrigerators. With a lack of power, they were toxic and disgusting. Second, always check the cupboards for food. With the supply chains shattered around the globe, food was a priceless commodity. Each officer with him carried an empty ruck to fill with unexpired food. O’Malley ensured that his people got their fair share first, and the rest was donated to St. Vincent Ferrer church. Most people took food with them when they fled, but not all of it.

In their clearing efforts, they had seen some strange things. Occasionally dead bodies were found, which were ID’d and the door marked, though why he wasn’t sure. No one, to his knowledge, followed up after a sweep to pick up the dead. Sometimes they had found evidence of fires from squatters. Other times graffiti, which made no sense given that Manhattan was a war zone. In a few there were signs of looters, smashed jewelry boxes, ripped up safes, things like that.

At least we don’t leave a mess when we go through a place.

A few times, they were shot at by some self-proclaimed urban survivalist who would turn a room or apartment into a bunker. On one occasion, the occupant refused to believe they were police and got into a gunfight that resulted in his death. Like most of the officers, O’Malley didn’t have the time or patience to deal with someone that was living out their survivalist fantasy.

The war is real. If you shoot at us, we will return fire. If you opt to get your ass killed shooting humans, well, we are obliged to assist you.

The Copper was more high-end than the buildings they usually cleared. Nicer, you know? The dumps, the dingy flats that rented for far too much money, often came with horrible smells that forced him to wash his uniform twice to make sure that all traces were obliterated. They began the routine, knocking on doors, announcing they were police, then forcing their way in, usually with a pry bar.

The first apartment he went into was large, a penthouse suite on the top floor. The air was stale, but otherwise it looked very much like it did the day the occupants fled. As he moved through the space, he admired the big live edge river table in the dining area… now covered in dust. O’Malley called out several times as he went to each of the bedrooms.

The kitchen had been looted or stripped when the occupants fled. Still, he found two cans of peaches that had not expired yet, a box of rice, and boxes of Jello. Fruits and vegetables were highly prized. O’Malley tucked the food into his ruck. Some family is gonna get a meal or two out of this.

The master bedroom was the one in shambles. Clearly someone had packed in a hurry. Clothing was tossed all over the floor and bed, clothing he could never afford to buy, according to the designer labels he saw.

He stopped at the open jewelry box in the walk-in closet. It was mostly empty, but there were a few pieces that he could tell were of value. Years of being a beat cop had honed his skills for spotting shit jewelry versus the good stuff. He picked up a couple of rings that had been left behind, and tucked them into a pouch on his tactical vest.

If his wife hadn’t divorced him, she would have loved the ones he had found. The divorce had been finalized two weeks prior to the Fish invasion. O’Malley referred to his divorce as the prelude to the war. Debbie had taken both kids, his car, and the apartment in the settlement. For that, he no longer called her Debbie or Deborah. No. She was the Vicious-Ass Harpy from Hell—or The Harpy, as he preferred to say. He would’ve put up a bigger fight against her, but she pointed out that she knew about his light fingers, how he’d lifted money and goods from criminals that he’d arrested. Rather than risk getting fired, he let her take almost everything. They were off to Albany now, at her uncle’s place. When he called, she wouldn’t even answer the phone. The Harpy would call him back—when it was convenient for her. That was a woman who always had to be in control.

A part of him wanted to take the Harpy to court, if only to enforce seeing his daughter. The court was gone, behind the lines in the AIZ. His lawyer was gone too, either dead or one of the hundreds of thousands that had fled. It would be years before the legal system rebounded from the alien invasion.

He and his squad rendezvoused in the main hallway after almost an hour. The others in the squad liked to show off anything of value they found. O’Malley never took part in the display. He wasn’t proud of his looting, but he didn’t want anyone to get their claws into him like his ex-wife did. Corporal Esposito was the winner on this floor. She held up her left arm and pulled back the armor and sleeve to reveal a watch there.

“Is that a Rolex?” Hazel asked.

“Does it matter?” she countered. Her point was more than just a humorous quip. With shipping cut off from Europe, it might be years or never before new watches made their way to the US. Who knew if any factories were still making them?

“Alright, people—let’s get to the stairwell and tag this floor.”

The next floor down featured the smell of mildew in the air along with the carrion aroma of something dead. The stink lingered in the hallway, meaning that at least one room was bound to have some sort of surprise in it.

“I hate finding dead stuff,” Esposito said, pulling a red kerchief up and covering her nose.

“Part of the job,” O’Malley replied.

“It wasn’t before the war,” Patrolman Richards said. “I joined up to bag bad guys.”

O’Malley stopped in front of one of the apartment doors. “I was in Homicide for three years, right after I made detective. That’s all you dealt with—dead bodies.”

“These are rotting though,” Richards replied.

“You’d be surprised at how many we found that were decomposed,” O’Malley countered. “Especially north of Central Park. You get into some of those drug holes, someone may have OD’d three weeks before anyone reported it.” Checking the door, it was locked, so he went to the pry bar. It took three hefty shoves before the metal bent enough on the doorframe to open it.

Almost immediately, he was greeted with an amplified version of the dead smell that had drifted in the hall. Shit—I drew the short straw. He pulled his dark blue NYPD gaiter up over his nose as he entered the apartment.

Things seemed off to him almost immediately. One curtain had been half-torn down. Dried mounds of feces were on the once plush rug in the main living area. They were big piles, almost big enough for a human being. I hope this isn’t some elderly person. Those instances were hard, but his years on the force allowed him to plow through them.

As he moved to the kitchen, he rounded the island and saw what looked like a pile of fur on the floor. It wasn’t fur, he knew that. It was a dog. Either a golden or another similar breed. Its khaki-colored hair clung to the dead remains. A puddle of body fluids had flowed out from the dead dog onto the tile floor, where they had dried and now peeled. It lay next to empty food and water bowls.

The sight hit O’Malley hard. He had become able to face dead humans numbly. Not dogs. Anger swelled in him as his eyes teared up. What kind of sick fuck abandons their pet? Rage tore at him, as did sorrow. Mentally, he tried to purge what the poor animal had suffered through, starving to death, alone. O’Malley didn’t get shaken when cats died. They were soulless creatures in his mind. Dogs were different. He remembered his childhood pet dog, a pug named Slicker. Even family members said Slicker was an ugly dog, but to young Kenyon, that dog was his most loyal friend.

O’Malley moved near the dead dog and lowered to his knees, tears running down his face. With a trembling hand, he reached out to the stretched skin that clung to the head of the creature. With a brush of his gloved hand, he gave the dead dog a pet, brushing aside hair in the process.

Good boy. Your suffering is over. I never would have let this happen to you.

Deep down, he wanted to find the owners and kill them. Anyone that would do this to a pet deserves nothing less. His hand was trembling as he pulled it back. He heard the footsteps behind him and did what he could to ignore the source. Slowly, he rose to his feet, and wiped the tears off his cheeks.

“Everything okay, boss?” Esposito asked from behind him.

“I’m good,” he said in a tone that even he didn’t believe. Normally, he would have turned to face her, but he didn’t want anyone to see that he had shed tears. None of them would understand. In some respects, he wasn’t sure that he understood why seeing dead dogs hurt so much. It just did.

Looking down at the dead pet, he wished there was something that he could do, but there wasn’t. That was the hard part of the war, that helplessness. It had suffered and died long before he had found him.

“This apartment is cleared,” was all he could say. There was no need to check the other rooms. If someone were alive there, they would have done something about the dead dog. “Let’s get back to our job.” He turned and walked past Esposito and into the hall, sniffling as he suppressed the urge to weep.

Chapter six

Operation Purple Rain, 555E, Hoboken, New Jersey, the Eastern Front, the United States

Lieutenant Bianca “Blackjack” Cordova rounded the corner of Madison Street onto 10th and could see the far wall of John F. Kennedy Stadium at the end of the street. Her Hornet ASHUR, dubbed Royal Flush, slid on the tight turn, but her leaning compensated for it. Her squad was running behind her and cleared the corner as she slowed her pace. “This is the spot,” she transmitted on the tactical channel.

Sergeant Robb “Subspook” Dunn immediately responded. “You heard the lady, let’s get cover in these buildings. I want overlapping fields of fire. Burton, haul that big-ass machine gun up to the second story on the right.” Dunn was an ideal NCO. He possessed an intuition as to when to offer useful advice without her having to ask. He took her orders and made them operational with the squad, and she never had to question what he was doing. His experience was something that was crucial to their patrols.

Dunn makes me look good, and I look out after him and the others. That’s exactly how it’s supposed to work.

“I’m going up on the left,” Cordova said, maneuvering her Hornet to the side of the building, almost scraping the shoulder-painted logo for the rig against the brick in the process. The ASHUR was a Gen Two rig, one that had seen some action long before she became its pilot. It was light and fast, perfect for urban combat.

“If Blackjack is on the left, so am I,” Corporal Riggins said. Sergeant Dunn didn’t counter that. It was a sentiment that everyone in her squad understood. Cordova was seen as lucky, very lucky. She understood the feeling. Her entire life she always seemed to land on her feet. As a kid, when her parents took her to the State Fair in Tennessee, she won every carny game, to the operators’ chagrin. Her dad told her she had a gift, that fortune smiled on her. She knew better than try and argue with him. Her collection of large stuffed animals clearly supported her father’s assessment.

Right after she was transferred to the 50th Infantry Regiment in Georgia, she had been the number three on the short list to be sent up for ASHUR training. The following week, the Fish invaded, and the two candidates in line before her were both casualties. Suddenly, she was at the top of the list to try out for pilot training.

It had been grueling, physically and mentally. Bianca’s Hornet had its own luck-bound reputation. Her tech told her it had to be haunted—that what she did with the rig bordered on the supernatural. She wrote it off as superstition. That changed when she came to the final test for would-be pilots.

She ran all out, and every shot that hit her ate armor rather than anything vital. One time she almost collided with a rocket that was boring down at her, but the rig froze up, just for a moment, just enough to miss the warhead. When the other rigs bore down on her, she twisted and contorted her movement so much that she dodged incoming fire. She passed with the least amount of damage ever tracked on the last test. Her tech swore she was doing maneuvers in the rig that couldn’t be done, that were physically impossible. Bianca favored luck over hints of dead pilots’ specters lurking in the machine.

There were times she felt buried in the depth of the Army’s many levels. She had been assigned to First Battalion, Able Company, First Platoon, Striker Two Squad. Just rattling it all off took awhile. Her comrades were good people. She replaced the lieutenant that had been with the squad at the start of the war. He had been killed the day she showed up in the replacement pool. In this instance, she also felt lucky. Her NCO, Sergeant Dunn, knew his stuff. They had bonded quickly. She had gotten into a squad with no real screwups. It only confirmed for Bianca how lucky she really was.

On patrols, Cordova had a knack for being in the right place at the right time. Her squad had the lowest casualty rate in the 50th Regiment. Often the supporting infantry tried to keep some distance from ASHURs out of fear that they drew more enemy fire or might accidentally squish them. Not so with Cordova’s Hornet. They had even given her rig its iconic name—Royal Flush. Bianca got the call sign Blackjack. She appreciated the gambling references, though to her she was taking plenty of big risks.

She maneuvered to the side of the building and leaned the rig back, looking skyward. The window spacing looked about right. She jammed the right foot of her rig into the concrete windowsill and reached to grab the ledge above her—then pushed off. The Hornet stood and she flexed her muscles hard in her arms, back, and shoulder to pull herself up to the next level, crumbling part of a windowsill on the second floor. Glass shards cascaded down and shattered against her transparent aluminum canopy as she climbed. She’d given up on avoiding property damage long ago. New York City and the surrounding communities were war zones and had been for months. Nobody is going to bitch to the Army about me messing up some windows in freaking Hoboken, New Jersey. Based on some of the neighborhoods she had been in, it could even be considered urban improvement.

Despite the ASHUR’s weight, climbing externally pushed the pilot to the limit. It was her legs and arms that were augmented by the rig. To extend her reach and pull up made her shoulders ache. Sweat stung the corners of her dark brown eyes. It was cold along the Hudson River in late January, but inside her cockpit, it was all heat and sweat as she made her way up.

When she reached the roof, it took a moment for her to stand. “Blackjack is in position,” she breathed heavily as she moved to the corner. “We have any word on that Cthuga?”

The squad’s drone jockey, Private Festus, replied. “Squirting you the battlespace feed now.”

Her tactical display flickered, and she got the view. The alien creature was two blocks away, heading for their position.

My luck’s held again. We’re perfectly poised to hit it.

“Second platoon engaged and broke off.” Festus’s GRDs were moving out to get a live feed. From her position, Bianca saw a Greyhound sprinting around the corner on 10th Street, darting right.

“Wusses,” growled Kurland. “They always cut bait and run.”

“Can the chatter, people,” came the voice of Sergeant Dunn. “Check your fields of fire. Remember these things are stupid. They will come right at you even if you are blowing them apart.”

“No problem,” Private Walstead replied with a hint of glee. “We’ve got Blackjack in the house!”

While her squad mates cheered, Bianca winced. I wish they didn’t have that much trust in all of this luck-shit. Her good luck streak could all end with one or two poor decisions. I’m not sure how much influence luck has over the Fish.

A dust cloud shot up from Kennedy Stadium in the distance. “Here he comes.”

“How do you know it’s a he?” asked Festus.

“I don’t think the Fish even have sexes,” came back Riggins said.

“That’s probably a big reason they are so nasty,” fired back Walstead.

“Damn it, people…” came Dunn’s angry voice, barely held in check. A crashing sound as part of the stadium roof collapsed added emphasis to his warning to be quiet.

“I don’t have eyes-on, but it is almost here,” Festus called out.

Bianca steadied her stance, aiming her above-arm attached grenade launcher towards the stadium. Every fiber of her being was focused on the coming threat. Cthugas were huge, massive organic torpedoes. They could absorb a lot of damage before dying. They were not bothered by obstacles or threats, they simply plowed through or over them. She had never battled one before, but her entire company had been through several briefings on the creatures.

The wall of the stadium exploded outward as the Cthuga plowed through it. Bricks and debris chunks rained out onto the street as the creature emerged. What struck her at first was its immense size. It stood at least two stories in height, and was easily eighty meters in length. It was six-legged, with thick crab-like legs covered with nasty jagged barbs. The front legs were nearly twice the length of the rear ones. It was a blue color, darker on the top, lighter on the belly and legs. Its massive hunched body was a thick carapace, sloping down to a relatively small head that was covered with bulbous hard blobs that looked like cancerous growths. It shook its head as it broke through, throwing off dust and bricks. Each footfall that stabbed into the asphalt was like thunder rolling down the street.

“Sweet Jesus!” exclaimed Walstead.

The only response that followed was fire being poured into the beast. Gunfire blasted away as did a series of stackable grenades that were tossed in the path of the creature as it lumbered forward. The explosions threw dust and tiny bits of the street upwards, pinging against Royal Flush’s front armor.

Bianca did a fast program setting on her grenade launcher then fired off three grenades from her arm-slung launcher. She had set them for impact detonation, and her aim from the roof was true. They went off close to each other, but as the creature moved forward, she saw only black marks from the blasts.

This SOB is tough.

Kurland fired his Carl Gustav, just missing the head and plowing into the front armor. The blast made her entire ASHUR quake. From her angle, she couldn’t see if it had penetrated or not, but a trail of gray smoke rolled out as the creature moved forward.

“This thing is heading for the Kearny Generating Station,” Festus said.

“We need to stop it,” Subspook called out as Bianca followed the creature that was two stories below her as it crashed down the street. “If it hits that power plant, a lot of this area is going to be out of juice for a while.”

Cordova’s mind raced with options and risks. The Hornet was excellent for urban combat, but wasn’t heavily armed. She had a chainsaw cutter on the underside of the arm mounting the grenade launcher. The rig also had a laser shotgun. It fired a conical burst of laser energy—great for short ranges, better for breaching doors. You could fire the power round and store the energy for it in the capacitors, approach a target door, aim, and fire. The silent weapon’s burst was enough to melt though most fireproof doors. With wooden ones it burned an instant and perfect circular hole, with almost no sound.

Her mind came up with a plan—not a great one, but a plan nevertheless. “Hold your fire, I’m going to try something.”

The bang and cracks of gunfire stopped and she moved along the building. Then she brought her feet up on the ledge. She jumped, timing her leap to come down on the back of the Cthuga. She landed, but it was off-kilter. The impact of the ASHUR hitting the back had to have been felt by the beast, but it did not seem to respond. The Royal Flush started to slide off but with a half roll, she managed to grab the edge of an armored plate and avoid spilling into the street.

Adrenaline almost compensated for the long list of muscles that ached. The landing damaged some of the armor on her legs, the sheer thickening fluid going rigid, making moving difficult. With all her might, augmented by the rig’s hydraulics, she pulled and got to the center of the back of the alien.

“What are you doing, Blackjack?” came Subspook’s stunned voice.

“Making shit up as I go,” she muttered as she rolled over and got on her knees near where her grenades had seared the top armor plate.

She reached out and diverted power to her chainsaw. The blades were diamond tipped, designed to be able to cut into a Boss’s thick hide-skin. The weapon purred under her arm as she lifted her hand up to avoid the ASHUR’s hand getting caught in the blade that now protruded out.

She jammed it into the chitin plate and the saw threw bits of alien tissue out all around her, some splattering on her rig’s legs. Bianca just pushed down and twisted, trying to create a hole. Red tissue became visible as the fast-moving blade chewed it up, spraying it wildly, splattering the lower portion of her cockpit canopy.

The creature was moving past her squad’s position, seemingly immune to her activities. It took several long tense moments to chisel a hole in the back.

Removing the saw, she fired off a power shell, which banged loud as she routed the power to the laser shotgun. Jamming the weapon straight down in the ugly hole she had cut, she fired the weapon. It was impossible to see the laser burst, but the superheated tissue crisped instantly, turning from crimson to black and sizzling loud enough for her to hear it in her seat. White smoke rolled from the hole as she fired off another power shell and repeated the attack. She did it again, two more times. An amber warning light on her weapons display screamed for her attention with the last shot.

I’m overheating it.

She waited a moment, then fired again.

The Cthuga seized up, then its enormous tail lashed out, then up. It fell short of her by less than a meter. That last one hurt, didn’t it? The massive creature lurched hard to the left, its ugly head crunching through the façade of a building and crushing a postal box.

Sergeant Dunn’s voice came on the tactical channel. “Blackjack, I think you pissed it off.”

That was an understatement. The Cthuga twisted around, slamming into two parked cars, crushing them in the process. She held on tight, but it was hard.

“Kurland is down,” came Riggins’s voice.

“Get him clear of that tail!” barked Subspook’s command voice.

“If that laser hurt, this is really going to piss you off,” she said, aiming the top-mounted grenade launcher barrel into the smoke-belching hole. There was no way for her to know how deep it was, but it didn’t matter. Cordova nimbly programmed the grenades for a time delay, then fired five of them in quick succession. The weapon thunked five times fast, adding to the smoke in the hole of the creature.

Bianca didn’t wait for the explosions. She slid down the side of the Cthuga, tumbling out onto Madison Street. She rolled away from the creature and called, “Clear!”

The explosions were so muffled, she wondered if they were misfires. They went off in a long, low rumble.

The Cthuga stopped as the squad opened fire, now shooting at its rear and thick barbed tail that dragged behind it on the ruined roadway. Bianca got her rig standing, amber damage indicators on her leg armor trying to get her attention but failing. Her attention was focused on the massive creature. She backstepped up against a nearby building, half worrying that the huge tail might whip her rig.

But the creature seemed frozen in place. Cordova didn’t have a plan beyond what she had done.

Then the Cthuga wobbled, trembled, then it toppled over towards her. From where she stood, she saw the hole she had blasted belching smoke. The gunfire trickled to a stop and she stared at the hulk of the creature that loomed in front of her. There was no sign of life, no movement whatsoever. As much as she wanted to cheer, she still wondered if it might somehow lurch back to life.

“She did it!” called out Festus.

“I told you, the LT was born on a four-leaf clover!” added Walstead. Slowly the members of her squad moved beside her in front of the wall of dead alien flesh.

“Any casualties?” she asked, finally getting in control of her breathing. Kurland had been hit, but she had no idea how bad. Bianca looked at her damage display and saw that most of the damage the Royal Flush had taken was superficial.

“Kurland, you good to go?” Sergeant Dunn asked.

“Got too close to the tail,” he groaned. “My arm is sprained and I think that thing bruised a rib or two. I’m walking and breathing, though.” She could hear the pain in his voice.

“Rub some dirt on it and let’s gather our shit,” Dunn replied.

“That was brilliant,” Riggins said, reaching out and touching the dead Cthuga in front of her. Cordova had seen that behavior before, the almost instinctual need to touch a dead opponent.

“I didn’t think it would work,” Cordova replied.

“Well, it did,” Dunn said. “Battlespace Command, this is Subspook. Target Tango Five has been neutralized.”

The voice of the battlespace commander came back. “Confirmed, Subspook. Target is down. Recovery team will be dispatched. We do not show any activity in your sector. You are clear to stand down. Good job.”

Cordova did a quick check of all of her systems and ammo levels. Just because the battlespace commander said they were clear didn’t mean they were. Things changed on the front lines, sometimes quickly. And she was still stunned that her attack had worked. What are the odds of me actually hitting a vital organ in something that big?

Riggins moved over by the creature and posed, having Kurland snap a photo of him in front of the creature. He flashed an idiotic gang sign and grinned broadly under his visor. There were chuckles and back-patting around her, none of which she was able to savor inside the safety of her cockpit.

“With your permission, Lieutenant…?” Dunn asked.

“Move them out, Sergeant,” Bianca replied.

Slowly Striker Squad moved out. Cordova brought up the rear, the footfalls of her ASHUR crunching on the pavement as they headed away from the waterfront area and to their base in the rear. As they moved out, she couldn’t help but agree with Walstead.

The gods of luck do smile on me, whether or not I deserve it.

Chapter seven

Extra Terrestrial Task Force (ETF) HQ, DIA Intelligence Annex, the Penetrator, Los Alamos, New Mexico, the United States

Dr. Ming Tong stood in the amplification chamber in front of the holographic full-size schematics of the new Mako Trident suit. Using the chamber, she could move in and around the hologram of the suit, even simulate being strapped into the suit, if she wanted to. Her eyes followed the contours of the sleek design and it was hard for her to suppress the feeling of pride in what her team had created.

“Doctor,” her assistant Rick Zere spoke up from behind her. “What is it you are looking for?”

“Something we have overlooked.”

“We’ve run the model through the sims. It’s a solid design.”

There was truth in that. The Mako had incorporated changes based on the Tigershark and other previous Trident suits. Its limbs and torso were more streamlined than its predecessors. The shoulder thrusters were far more efficient and at least fifteen percent more powerful. In its test runs, it was able to go deeper than previous Tridents.

The suit had what Dr. Tong could only refer to as “eloquence.” There were no harsh lines or blunt edges. When you looked at the legs, they almost had a human look to them—thicker, but streamlined like the sinew of muscles. The same could be said of the arms. The Mako’s torso had a thin ridge running down the middle, sweeping back on the sides. In test runs, it actually acted as a light rudder. The “head” of the suit, above the pilot, was a sleek pod that held sensor and targeting systems. Canopy design was improved on the Mako, with a semi-hexagonal portal, where the lower part was extended downward, giving the pilot a better view of the ocean below.

On paper, it was better in almost every way. That wasn’t enough for Ming. Every change they introduced, every improvement made, had the potential to introduce something new that could go wrong. That was the unspoken rule of engineering. The more you touch something, the greater potential for failure. She had learned that at MIT and had refined it working for DARPA.

“I am looking for the things we have missed.”

“We’ve had a dozen engineers go over it,” Zere replied. “None found any flaws.”

“That is what concerns me,” she intoned as she moved around the holographic model.

“Let her do her work, Rick,” another voice said. She turned and saw Kent Warner, the DARPA head of the Trident and Gorgon projects for the ETF. Seeing him, she cracked a smile. Of course he is here checking out the design. Warner had jumpstarted the Trident program, getting it off the drawing board and into battle in record time. The man is a legend in the engineering community.

She continued for a few more seconds, her eyes following the shoulder and arm of the holomodel. When finished, Ming turned to Warner. “To what do I owe the honor?”

“I’m just here to check your progress.”

“We are still three days behind schedule,” she assured him. “Production is working on the prototypes. Our programmers believe they have resolved the balance issues. In sims, it worked fine.”

“Yet you are down here, checking out the suit.”

“There is always the unseen, the overlooked, the little things. Those are what can kill.”

“I agree. We’re putting people in these suits. If they fail due to some engineering flaw, the blood of the pilots is on our hands.” They were not just words. Warner meant them.

“She’s a good design, sir,” she stated with pride. “I always think they can be better.”

“That’s the thing with these suits. Yes, we had some shallow water suits, the Sea Wolf for example. Going deep with the Tridents, that broke new ground. Pressure variables are off the charts, as is incorporating new propulsion systems and weapons. You have ice-cold waters which affect the surfaces as well as new power systems. There’s a million places that one of these suits can fail. Everything has to work and work well. A single failure can kill the pilot. Risk is part of what we do. It is just as much an enemy as the Fish.”

The burden. That was what the engineers called it. The pressure, not from the sea, but from fate. It was instilled in each of the Trident suit teams and was completely justified in the mind of Dr. Tong.

“Don’t worry, sir,” Ming said firmly. “The Mako will not let you down.”

“I’m sure it won’t. I wouldn’t expect anything less from someone who won the Gold Medal Award,” he said, turning and leaving the room.

For a few moments, she had silence. Then Zere spoke up. “You never told me you won the Gold Medal.”

It was the highest award from the American Society of Naval Engineers. Ming didn’t like bragging about her accomplishments. Her thruster design, which had been incorporated into the Tridents and the Gorgon subs, had earned her the distinction. It was that innovation that had gotten her attached to the projects to begin with.

“That is in the past,” she said. “What matters now is the future we are building.” With a pinching motion of her fingers, she zoomed in on the left shoulder assembly for the Mako and walked around the model, squinting and adjusting her glasses as she moved.

* * *

After a fifteen-hour day, Ming Tong went to the small flat that the government provided her at the Penetrator complex. It was cramped, but she didn’t mind. Most of her worldly possessions were in storage in Newport, Rhode Island. At least she hoped they were still in storage there. Ming made a point not to watch the news feeds on the net when it came to the war.

I have enough pressure from the war without letting it bleed into what little free time I have.

Tossing her jacket over on the lone hook that hung near the door which acted as her closet, Ming surveyed the room. It had a futon that doubled as her bed. The mattress she used was one of the new ones impregnated with stim-fibers that kept it nice and cool, the way she liked it. Los Alamos was cold at night, and she liked the cold as an excuse to pile on the blankets that she had left neatly folded beside the bed. She made the bed every day, even though she never had visitors. There was something about the routine, something she had learned in the Navy, that stuck with her.

The living space opened to a small kitchenette. She went over, pulled out some rice cakes and a jar of peanut butter, and coated them. From the refrigerator, she pulled out a strawberry kiwi yogurt, double-checking the expiration date before she opened it.

The tiny table that served as the hub of her room was cramped, given the number of books and engineering journals she had there. Brightly colored sticky flags jutted out from pages of various articles she thought might be useful. She pulled out the latest copy of People magazine, sat in one of the chairs, and ate while flipping through the pages. People had almost gone out of business a few years back, but now it was one of the few guilty pleasures that she enjoyed. Magazines had gone mostly digital, but for Ming, holding a tangible print edition was something she savored.

The article she read was about Prince George. According to the British press, he had not been seen in public since the start of the alien incursions. George was in the military which should have explained a lot, but it wasn’t enough to sate the British media. She loved the photos of him, admiring how handsome he was. The press was wallowing in speculation over many things regarding the heir to the British throne—everything from his death to being captured by the Fish. Nothing in the story had any bearing on her life, which made it all the more interesting. I wonder where he is, why we haven’t seen him in public? It was fun imagining Prince George out there, fighting on the front lines in the war. Or maybe they have secreted him off to some shelter somewhere, in case the royal family is killed?

As she finished the rice cake, she poked at the yogurt with little enthusiasm. She needed to eat better. Her clothes were starting to look big on her, and Ming had never been a big person to begin with. She was short and now she was skinnier than she had been in years.

It’s funny, when I tried to lose weight two years ago, it was a struggle. As it turns out, if all you do is work, it happens naturally. If the war continues, I might disappear altogether.

As she neared the end of the magazine, she heard a sound, almost like a tiny whoosh. Turning to the source, the door to her flat, she saw a large white envelope that had been slid into the room. Ming rose and walked over to it, picking it up. She didn’t open it. Instead she opened the door and looked out in the hallway for a sign of who may have slid it. The white LED lights of the hall revealed nothing.

Closing the door, she locked it, double-checking the locks. Ming carried the envelope to the small table and pulled the unsealed lip of it open. There were several photos, eight by ten, inside. Looking at them, she saw they were familiar faces. One was her aunt, two others were of her grandfather and grandmother—all back in China where her parents had emigrated from. The images showed her grandparents walking in a park together, clearly not aware they were being photographed. The one of her aunt was of her tending her tiny little garden plot. At the bottom of the stack was a photo of her parents, a recent one, of them sitting in a restaurant, taken from another seat in the same establishment.

It had been a long time since she had seen her grandparents. The war over Taiwan had strained relations between China and the United States. She did video conference with them before her assignment at the Penetrator, but that had been months ago. How could I have let so much time pass? Now, suddenly, because of her, someone was following them, photographing them. They probably did not know the dangers they might be facing. I need to warn them!

Looking down in the bottom of the envelope, she saw an index card. Printed on it was a simple note in a cold Courier font:

We have much to discuss.

Additional instructions will follow

If you love your family, speak of this to no one

It took a moment for her brain to process what she was seeing. Someone had been surveilling her family, both in China and the US. The photos were designed to shock her, and despite her understanding that, the shock took hold. Her heart started pounding like a bass drum in her chest.

Why would someone do this? What does this mean? Ming’s brain was alive with fear and trepidation. It’s my work. This is blackmail. They don’t have to make threats. Just sending me the photos was all the threat I need. The sender knows that. Whoever it is, they have a reach far beyond this country.

Instinct told her that telling anyone would put her and her family at risk. At the same time, Ming Tong was a loyal citizen of the United States. She took her commitment to the Trident project seriously. It was payback of sorts, for everything that America had provided in terms of opportunities to her family. I can’t betray my country any more than I can my family.

There were established protocols for this happening, but in those moments of fear gripping her, she couldn’t remember them. Should I call the colonel? No. He has a security person… what is her name? It bothered her. She could remember the cold water stress tolerances of nano-carbon weave material but the names of people were a challenge. Was it Helen? No, wait. Heather-something. Heather Taylor!

I don’t even have her number.

Panic rippled through her body as she grabbed her jacket and started towards the door. She then paused, remembering the photos, and turned around to grab them.

Three hours later she sat in Colonel Slade’s office, the photos sealed in plastic lay on his desk. Ms. Taylor had treated them almost like murder evidence, handling them on the edges and sealing them so they could be vacced for DNA and scanned for fingerprints later. Ming cursed herself for touching the images and the envelope so much. Once I saw the photos, I should have carefully put them down then had the security people come over. In her haste, she feared that she might have corrupted evidence, though Ms. Taylor had told her that they had likely been cleansed before the envelope had been slid under her door.

“What was the CIA’s recommendation?” Colonel Slade asked, rubbing the stubble of a night’s worth of beard on his chin.

“They will set up some sort of meeting. That is generally how this works. Our people are going to set up covert surveillance when they do. I’ll need to reach out to the DHS and FBI for the resources. The recommendation I was given was that Dr. Tong should attend the meeting when they reach out.”

“Wait,” she said, waving her hands in a horizontal cutting motion. “I am not some sort of spy. Let’s say they do reach out and set up a meeting. If your people are spotted, that will put my family at risk. What is being done to protect them?”

“I have been told that we have a team that is being sent to monitor them,” Taylor replied coldly.

“What about my aunt and my grandparents?”

“We can’t afford tipping off the Chinese. In fact, they may very well be behind all of this.”

It made sense that the Chinese would be the ones trying to get at her. No doubt they want technical data on what we are doing with the Tridents. While the logical side of her brain understood, her emotions wanted her family protected, wherever they were.

“Are you going to outfit me with a recording device or something? I mean, I’m going to this meeting and feeling pretty damn naked. What if this goes wrong? I’m not trained for any of this. If they spot your people, my family might pay the price.”

“Of course you aren’t. They probably targeted you because they had easy access to your family overseas. In terms of a wire, we don’t recommend it. If they are professionals, they will scan you and the rendezvous location for anything transmitting, making a device moot. Our people are professionals. We will have them well positioned. You won’t be alone,” Taylor assured her.

Taylor continued. “In the meantime, you should continue with work as usual. Of course, we will be monitoring your activity… strictly routine.”

That was her breaking point. “Monitoring me? I came to you. Do you really think someone who’s a security risk would reach out to you and tell you they were being blackmailed? This is ridiculous!”

Taylor put her hands out as if to pat away the words. “This is procedure. I believe what my superiors are doing is trying to find out who is coming at you, see if we can expose a larger network. We are not inhibiting your work, simply monitoring you and what you are working on to make sure they don’t have someone on the inside watching you.”

That thought had never occurred to her. It was enough to dampen her moment of rage. “Alright. I’m at a critical point with my project. I don’t need anything that will slow me down.”

“Understood,” Colonel Slade said. “In the meantime, while it’s obvious, we don’t want you telling anyone about this.”

“What about my superior?”

“We will inform Captain Warner. I’ve seen these things before, Dr. Tong. It’s important that we compartmentalize who knows you are exposed.”

That word hit her, “exposed.”

Is that what I am? This is not just about my family, it’s about me now.

Chapter eight

Weapons Development Facility, Prototype Proving Grounds, the Penetrator, Los Alamos, New Mexico, the United States

Master Sergeant Adam Cain stepped out into the bay in the Eagle-S, its sound-deadening footpads muffling the footsteps. It felt incredibly familiar to Cain, which was no surprise given its origins. He saw the quasi-astonished faces of his trainees as he stood in front of them in the ASHUR. A part of him wanted to chuckle because he knew why they were caught off guard by his appearance.

For weeks they had been training, physically and mentally, to be ASHUR pilots. It was not the official Army program, though. Cain was on TDY with the Extraterrestrial Task Force (ETF), reporting up to Colonel Slade. The Army would not spare any trainers, nor any of the gear. Adam had been forced to improvise, falling back on years as a pilot, to craft his own program.

It was only fitting. The Fox Hunters, as he had dubbed the unit, was a prototype. The colonel had floated the idea to the Army, but they said they had other priorities. What could be more important than getting an edge to win battles? Cain knew what it was, typical stupid-ass Army bullshit. If the idea didn’t come from within their ranks, they brushed it aside. Slade hadn’t taken no for an answer, and decided to create the Fox Hunters to prove his point. To do it, he had put Adam Cain in charge of it.

Cain actually admired Slade for doing it—a rare emotion about any officer. Most officers he met were so stupid they thought General Motors was a division commander in World War II. Slade knows talent when he sees it. That’s why he picked me for this command. It takes a special kind of officer to know to listen to the NCOs and give them enough rope to do their jobs right.

Or to hang themselves.

He raised the eagle-shaped helmet/visor which gave the rig its name and looked out at the eight members of his hand-selected team. He didn’t even suppress a grin at the look of muted shock on their faces. “Good morning, ladies and gents.”

“Sergeant,” Corporal Franz spoke up. “Why are you piloting that antique?”

Leave it to Franz to kick this off. Game-the-fuck-on! He understood the comment all too well.

“This is not an antique. This is a revamp of the Gen One Eagle, dubbed the Eagle S, S being for sniper.” He swung his right arm out so they could see the long barrel of his weapon. “Yes, it is built on the original frame of the Eagle, but this fine piece of hardware is equipped with Gen Three gear from top to bottom. A thin STL layer under carbon ferro-ceramic armor plates, a new power plant—this ride is both old and new.”

“You’re awfully damned exposed in that thing,” said Lance Corporal LeMacks, one of the two Marines assigned to his team. “There’s not even a real cockpit. You’re just wearing a lot of hardware.”

Cain manually threw the egress latch and swung open the torso armor. “This is how we did it back when we were fighting the Russies. No cockpit, no big-ass canopy. These rigs are designed to be worn. Its knees are your knees. There’s no sophisticated power management system, and your targeting and tracking is a link to your helmet.” As he spoke, he conjured up memories of shooting at the Russian rigs up in Alaska during the last war. They were fond remembrances of glorious battle.

In some ways, the new rigs have made us soft. This is part of an era where we had to fight and survive on our wits and skills, more than the armor and firepower we carried.

“Is that what we are going to be fighting in?” Staff Sergeant Serrano.

Cain nodded. “This is what you will be killing the Fish in, yes.”

There were grumbles, which Cain ignored. Reaching down, he hit the release on his torso restraint and then popped his leg harness straps, letting the armor swing outward. Undoing the arms took a few moments longer, but when he was done, he stepped down out of the rig. He could feel it standing behind him, almost as if it were a human being.

“Before you all get your panties in a wad, let me give you the facts. The mission of the Fox Hunters is simple: we are there to take out the enemy Foxes and target the Bosses. We are there to cripple their reconnaissance capabilities and kill the big guys in the battlespace. Army logic is that you should have a larger ASHUR undertake that role, something big, with tons of firepower. Far be it for me to question their logic,” he paused and heard at least two snickers from his team, “but I think the solution is to go lighter.”

Cain jerked his thumb over his shoulder at the Eagle-S. “The old Gen One rigs are light, and this one is even lighter thanks to the improved STF packs and new armor plates. They are smaller than the Gen Two and Three rigs as well. Most of the newer ASHURs struggle getting indoors. Not the Eagle-S. You can climb stairs and get on rooftops without worrying about a plunge to the floor below. This reskinned version of the old Eagle also sports the latest and greatest in nano-hydraulics and power systems.”

Cain looked at his team individually. “We trained you to be snipers and spotters interchangeably. The programmers have done a great job on the sensor pod on top. It gathers your DOPE info, so you won’t need a spotter in the field.”

DOPE, Data on Previous Engagements, was integral in sniper training. Cain had tested the targeting and tracking software himself for two days. He was sincerely impressed, though he never let the programming team know that.

God, what I wouldn’t have done for something this good when fighting the Russies. Memories of fighting in the last war were fond and glorious. In reality, when he had those memories burned into his mind, they were moments of pure hell. Turning slightly, Cain touched the long-barreled weapon mounted atop of the right arm of the ASHUR. “This little baby is the SR-28 Light Gas Sniper Rifle, code-named Trinity. It doesn’t use traditional ammo, but a mix of hydrogen and other gases as propellants. It fires a round at four klicks a second; we are talking hyper-velocities here. All the fun and thrills of a rail gun without the burn of power. It uses water for its bang. The best part is with the adapter at the base—you can dip this thing in water to get hydrogen if you need to.”

Reaching into his jumpsuit chest pocket, he pulled out a tan object. “It fires this, a sabot round, a tungsten needle cradled in a break-away sabot.” He tossed the round over to LeMacks, then walked over to a makeshift firing wall that had been erected. There was an object on a pedestal, covered with a piece of burlap. Flipping it back, Cain revealed the head of a boss. It had been cut off with a laser, rather crudely, but was poised facing outward.

“If we were going to be using ASHURs, why have you been busting our asses to be unarmored snipers?” LeMacks asked.

Cain reveled in such questions. Not only were they a chance for education, they were an opportunity to unleash a dose of his unique brand of harsh language. “LeMacks, I get it, you have shit between your ears. Only a fucking moron or a crayon-cruncher like you thinks that ASHURs are of use on their own. They are tools. Without the base skills in your arsenal, the rig just gives you better protection and endurance. The reason you have been learning to be a sniper is that if you are good it at without a rig, you’ll be better with an ASHUR.

“There are challenges with ASHUR pilots. You climb in a rig, you start to feel invulnerable. You take risks you might not normally take because you have so much protection around you. Pilots rely too much on their targeting systems and massive firepower rather than their training as infantry. The ASHURs give us an edge in a fight, but the best pilots know that it is your training as a soldier that makes the actual difference.

“Being a sniper is about picking an excellent position to do your job; adopting the right concealment and cover; patience, tolerance, and focus. It’s about field craft, excellent observation skills, and above all, having the endurance for the mission. So yes, I have been busting your asses to be great snipers, because once I put you in the Eagle, you’ll be fucking superheroes.” He then glanced over at Corporal Cooper. “Except you, Cooper. If you don’t improve your accuracy, I’m going to plant my boot up your ass and kick you out of here.”

Cooper dipped his head. He wasn’t going to respond, which was smart on his part. There’s always some dimwad who manages to lower the bar for everyone else. He knew Cooper needed a few verbal kicks to get his shit together, and Cain was more than willing to deal them out. The man couldn’t spot his dick if it was in his hands and he was pissing. The only thing that kept Cooper in was that he refused to give up and his field craft was outstanding. Hopefully Fumble-Butt gets his shit together soon or I will make the tough call and boot his sorry ass out.

Adam walked back to the Eagle-S, not bothering to strap himself in. Sliding his right arm into the arm of the rig itself, he hit the power switch and leveled the rig’s SR-28 at the alien head. Jerking his head backwards, the top helmet and visor dropped, allowing him to aim. As his eyes narrowed, he breathed out slowly, lowering his finger from the hand of the rig to the trigger and squeezing it slowly, almost lovingly.

There was a muffled hiss and pop as the round chambered and fired. The head of the boss jerked then fell off of the podium. Cain powered down as he and the team moved the fifty feet to where it had fallen.

Picking it up was harder than it looked. The Bosses had a thick hide-material that was better than most armor that the Army used. Beyond that, they possessed a knobby skull and layers of inner muscle that were immune to most small arms fire. As he hoisted the head back up on the pedestal, everyone could see the tiny hole in the front of the Boss’s forehead, right above the eye slit. Tugging at it, he turned it and they could see a larger exit hole, this one the size of a quarter, out the back of the head. Their attention shifted to the wall where they found the hole where the round entered the sandbags that had been positioned there. Digging a little harder, they found the projectile had stopped behind the sandbags in a quarter-inch steel plate, denting it to where it almost went through. The round itself was a ball of metal. It had superheated with kinetic impact.

Each of them examined the entry and exit wounds, along with the spent round, with the kind of scrutiny he expected from a forensic examiner at a crime scene. It was worth all of the headaches and hassles he had gone through to get the head in the first place. Then again, Cain loved bureaucratic hurdles. They were among his favorite things to smash.

It was like getting the Eagle-S’s built in the first place. Everyone told him it was impossible to get new rigs built in the middle of a war. That was where Colonel Slade had come in. Under the auspices of the Extraterrestrial Task Force, they had the Defense Logistics Agency track down some of the retired Gen One rigs. After that it was a matter of creating the new ASHURs as “prototypes.”

Prototypes my ass. Engineers always like justifying their mistakes with words like prototype or test model. Fuck that. We are taking these things into the fight once the rest of the Hunters get ready with them.

“As you can see, the Trinity packs a lot of punch,” Cain said. “And while this rig is not as heavily armored as the ones rolling off the assembly lines at the Warren Tank Plant, it is nimble and speed is just as good as armor in the right situation.”

The Fox Hunters moved over to the Eagle-S and began to check it out. “What about concealment? Once the ACS systems fizzle out, we are going to be pretty exposed,” Warrant Officer Stewart said as he eyed the Trinity rifle’s suppressor.

“A good sniper doesn’t rely on technology for the kill shot. Pilots are junkies when it comes to tech. I trained you better than that. Your job as a sniper is making pinpoint accurate shots and taking out the enemy. We know the Foxes have a recon role in the Fish military. We will deprive them of that. Once that is done, we target their heavy hitters. So, to your point, you will rely more on standard camouflage to hide your rigs. You will blend in. In the battlespace, you will be a damn stalker, a shadow that kills. You will not count on tech that fails. You will have the core skills to be effective without the rig, if necessary.”

“So we are talking ghillie suits for an ASHUR?” Stewart asked.

Cain nodded firmly. “Why the hell not? It’s not like you have something better on your calendar. We aren’t looking to get into a standard fight with the Fish in these things. We are there to cripple their command and control. It’s best to do that from a distance.”

“Are we going to have to do the ghillie wash in a rig?” Stewart asked.

Cain’s response was a wicked grin. The wash was a critical part of sniper training. It tested the sniper’s craftsmanship of their suits and it added to their natural colors with crawls through a variety of mud, muck, weeds, and concrete. “You can count on that, Stewart. I look forward to watching you put a rig through the course the engineers are setting up for us.” That was true, he was relishing the endurance test they would face.

That seemed to satisfy Stewart. The Fox Hunter was a graybeard, like Cain. If the Fish hadn’t taken the right side of his body, he’d still be piloting a rig. He had lost his ribs, hip, leg, and arm from his left side thanks to a nasty grappling contest with a Crab. One of its pincers had nearly killed Stewart. They were going to muster him out or worse, put him in some sort of desk job, when Cain had rescued him.

That was the case with all the Fox Hunters. Every one of them was a seasoned combat veteran. He had one SEAL, two Marines, an Air Force security officer, and the rest were Army vets. All had suffered grievous injuries in battle, ones enough to keep them from going back regardless of their desires. Under the authority that Colonel Slade had given him, Cain recruited them for his Fox Hunters.

Each soldier was battered and broken physically. Many suffered the psychological and emotional traumas that plagued the men and women that stood on the front lines and fought. Cain understood that better than most. While he did not struggle with PTSD or whatever little acronym they used now, he had seen it tear up men and women over his long years in the Army. Cain knew that for some, the answer was medication. For others, it was to have a sense of purpose. The Fox Hunters provided that focus in their lives, something to work and strive for.

Their training regime had been crafted to get them physically fit to pilot an ASHUR. While almost all of them had bionic replacements, they needed precise control over them. Other muscles had to be built up. The grizzled master sergeant had created engineering classes on ASHURs, bringing in some of the ETF’s engineers as guest speakers. Everyone had gotten some time in a number of different test rigs that the DARPA teams were building. All of this under the Army’s radar—a feat he was quite proud of.

“May I?” asked Staff Sergeant Natalia Falto, nodding at the rig.

“Mount up.”

Falto was one of his favorites, which was saying a lot because she was a Marine. He never let on that he thought she was good; that wasn’t his way. Falto had been taken prisoner by the Fish and had been rescued. Having lived with the Fish for months, she was more than an expert on them. Most recently, she had gone to Greenland and had actually explored the interior of one of the alien ships. Right off the bat, the two of them understood and respected each other.

The aliens had taken a lot from her: one ear, both legs, and an arm. Then the geniuses at Marine Corps decided to pin the Medal of Honor on her and were going to send her off on some recruitment drive when Colonel Slade told Cain about her. She wasn’t intimidated by anything or anyone, which was one of her endearing qualities. The downside to her attitude was that she didn’t tolerate flak from Cain either. As much as that irritated him, he also respected it.

Falto climbed into the rig backwards. It took her a few moments to secure the leg and arm straps. Then came folding over the armor on her limbs and lower torso. Cain moved up next to her. “Here’s how you seal the torso armor.” The slender, curved armored plate and pads snugged up tight against her lithe frame.

“Where’s power?” she asked as he reached over and lowered the top of the helmet and face shield.

“Left hand index finger,” he said. Unlike its contemporary counterpart, the Eagle-S didn’t have a cockpit or the controls for it. It took her several seconds of groping to finally find it. She flipped open the cover and hit the switch. The Eagle-S started an inaudible hum, almost like a speaker for a music system that didn’t have anything playing.

The other Hunters stepped back as the rig came to life. While lighter than a modern rig, if it fell onto them, it could be painful if not deadly. Falto took a few wobbly steps. Cain knew what she was experiencing. Every ASHUR had a different center of gravity, range of movement, and sensitivity to the human motions that translated in moving.

Falto moved the arms in slow wide sweeps, testing what their limits were. Her steps forward became steadier with each footfall. She bent her knees to feel the changes to the rig’s balance. Twisting her body at the waist, the upper portion of the ASHUR followed each motion she made.

She has an intuitive feel for this. Some of that comes from mastering her own bionics. For the Hunters, this is an extension of skills they’ve already been forced to master.

The Marine pilot took up a firing stance, holding the large Trinity as if she had a target downrange. After a few seconds, she lowered it and powered down. Cain moved over and assisted her out of the rig. Her chest was wet with sweat, not so much from the heat but from the effort needed to move the rig.

“What do you think?” Cain asked her, as Sergeant Serrano moved over to take the pilot’s saddle.

Falto looked at him with a face that revealed no emotion. “It’s different than the prototypes you’ve had us testing. This isn’t piloting; it’s wearing a suit of armor, a heavy-ass suit. ASHURs are like that too, but this is right on top of you. You don’t get the claustrophobic feeling at all.”

“That’s right. With these rigs,” he spoke loud enough for everyone to hear, “you are the suit. There’s some of that with the modern ASHURs, but this older generation it was more of an augmentation of what you can do as a soldier.”

“When do we get ours?” Falto asked.

“The tech-heads tell me that they should be ready any time now. For now, everyone needs to get familiar with the hardware. We will have a class in the hydraulics this afternoon. Then we begin with the mechanics and care of the Trinity rifle. You will all get to know every bit of this rig as if it is a second skin on your body—which, in many respects, it is. We have a specific mission for these babies, and I want all of you ready to do your job when that time comes.”

His Fox Hunters huddled around the rig, helping Serrano get strapped in, taking even more interest in every aspect of the Eagle-S. Serrano’s right side of his face was distorted, the result of a dose of Fish-fired acid spray. He kept putting off the corrective surgery, for personal reasons. He was moving on past his deformity, wanting once more to get back in the fight. Cain respected him for that determination and was proud that the team was helping him saddle up.

Each of them was going to be shoved off to some idiotic admin role. Now they can contribute to the war effort and leverage their experience. It was a feeling that he understood all too well. They had shuttled me off to the Third Regiment, the Old Guard… trying to put me out to pasture. I showed them what I could do, and these Fox Hunters will do the same when they get the chance.

* * *

At the end of the day, Cain didn’t go back to his quarters. Instead he went to the shop where the techs were finishing up the rest of his rigs. They were gone for the night, but he wandered around the rigs, checking them over with his seasoned eyes, looking for any reason to chew some tech ass.

He heard the footsteps behind him and turned to see Colonel Slade. “Checking on the kiddies?”

“Someone has to.”

“How did it go today?”

“They all have a little wobble in their walk. Nothing I can’t fix.”

“Are you going to put them through the same tests that you had to go through to be a pilot?”

Cain chuckled. “Fuck no.”

“Why not?”

“No one has ever proved to me that the testing we underwent improved our chances of survival. The final test… that was something that the Immortal Twelve dreamed up. It doesn’t ensure that the pilots are the best of the best, it ensures that they can deal with something close to actual combat situations. Besides, these are sniper rigs. I’m not training the Fox Hunters to get into nasty stand-up fights with the enemy. I want them to kill from far away.”

“You and I both know that war is pretty uncooperative that way,” Slade said.

“You are correct. They will be ready to defend themselves if it gets up close and personal. My emphasis is taking out Foxes. That was why we created this unit.”

“Agreed. It’s your command. Of course, if it bombs, it’s my butt on the line too, you know.”

“It won’t fail. All of them have something to prove. They all want to show that they can still contribute in some way on the battlefield.”

Slade nodded and turned, only to pause the wheel back around to Cain. “You know, I was thinking earlier today about the first time we met. You called me Major Nuisance, if I remember correctly.”

“That’s right,” Cain said. “You were in my battlespace and frankly, a bit of a slow-moving target. You were lucky you weren’t killed.”

Slade grinned. “I know that. You always seem to have colorful nicknames for officers. What do you call me nowadays?”

Cain drew a breath. Slade was right. He did have nicknames for most officers. Damn few of them he ever met deserved the respect he showered upon them. Slade was different, he saw that over the last few months. The man wasn’t jockeying for position or trying to get the next promotion. He, like Cain, just wanted to win the damn war.

But it was more than that. Slade came to visit him every two weeks, just to see how Cain was doing. Good officers did that kind of shit, and Cain respected it. Slade never brought up the loss of his wife and daughter, never poked at the raw nerves of Adam’s emotional loss in an effort to “help.” He didn’t have to. Officers that actually cared were few and far between, at least in his experience. It was one of the reasons Cain had stayed with the ETF. Which weirdly helped him feel better about himself.

“Colonel,” he replied. Then, with the crisp military precision that came with decades of experience, he saluted Slade.

It was clear that he had surprised the officer, who returned the gesture. Slade was speechless, which made Cain prouder than if he had bestowed a hostile nickname on the man. It was best to leave officers guessing.

“If there’s nothing else, sir, I need to retire. The kiddies have a six-mile run first thing in the morning and I need to rest up if I’m joining them.”

“It’s not as easy as it was years ago, is it?”

“No sir. My knees scream at me and my left hip throbs just to remind me of my age. I’d bitch about it, but what good would that do? I still have what it takes, though. And so do my people.” With that, Cain walked out of the bay.

Cycle II

Extra Terrestrial Task Force (ETF) HQ, DIA Intelligence Annex, the Penetrator, Los Alamos, New Mexico, the United States

Dr. Willow Sanchez stood in the lab in front of the 3D printed images she had meticulously scanned down in Hilliard, Florida. The object growing out of the body of one of the victims had stopped after three days. Until that point, the human remains had not decayed, not as would be expected. After it had finished growing, the body started to rot. She had scanned them at their peak, and had brought back the strange growth with her, finally allowing the authorities to properly inter the victims.

Standing in front of the recreated murder scene, her eyes drank in every detail. The printer had captured the colors and the looks of grotesque horror perfectly. It was so intricate that one of her assistants saw it and vomited at the sight. Where the assistant had been overwhelmed with the monstrosity that the alien creature had left, Willow saw something else.

This was a communication. A message sent. There could be no other purpose. Her analysis of the strange growth that had reached over a full meter in height showed it to simply be tissue. It had some small organs in it, but nothing that was easy to discern. She’d have it dissected, though she doubted they’d learn much from that. So far the postmortems on the Fish had led to more questions than answers.

She had hovered before the macabre statue, pacing around it carefully. It represented a mystery, one she was intent on cracking.

They placed it behind the front lines. The alien methodically killed a family to create this. They could have done it anywhere. Why there? The positioning of the bodies was intentional. What is it they are trying to tell us?

She didn’t hear Dr. Amanda Schrivener enter the lab behind her—not until she cleared her throat. It shook Sanchez, like a person who is about to nod off to sleep who suddenly jerks up wide awake. Turning, she saw the tall figure of Schrivener looking both at her and the bizarre monument. “Any insights yet?”

“No,” Willow replied, adjusting her glasses. “It’s a totem of some sort, that much I am convinced of.”

“A totem of what?”

“Unknown. The problem with communicating is that what they may think is simple and straightforward was created with their patterns of thinking. We are completely different species. Our ways of thinking are likely quite different as well. It was what prevents us from communicating with native fish. We’ve been able to teach dolphins to communicate a handful of words or concepts to us, but that is nothing compared to this.”

“This isn’t the only line of work your team is doing,” Dr. Schrivener said, as if to remind her.

“I know. But this is the best lead we have had in terms of communication. I mean, look at this—” she gestured to the monstrous statue. “The program I wrote is processing thousands of hours of light patterns from the Bosses. We have monitored magnetic patterns, sounds, even gestures from the aliens. So far we have found some patterns, but nothing beyond that. We are looking for everything the military is gathering, but thus far we can’t ascertain the difference between communication and what is simply gestures or animal noises.”

“It’s promising.” Schrivener replied.

“I need a full-blown AI to really crunch this.”

“You know the process. Pull together your application.”

Sanchez hated it. The regulations and rules around AI were unnecessary in her opinion. Far too many times she had been rejected perfectly legitimate requests. “Is there a way to fast track a request?”

“You know the rules.”

“I hate the rules.”

Schrivener nodded. “This may help,” she said, handing her a report. “It’s from Florida. It’s an analysis of the air in the cabin where this thing was found.”

Willow scanned the report. “Pheromones?”

“Yes. The first officers on the scene, before it was sealed off, reported a sweet smell. Apparently they weren’t wrong. Whatever was in the room, or that thing that grew out of them, omitted a complex string of pheromones in the air.”

Willow flipped through the pages. “Nonfatal?”

“It is assumed so. The officers that breathed it in have not reported any aftereffects. We have had their lungs scanned, just to make sure. So far, nothing.”

Sanchez’s eyes were all over the pages, again searching for a pattern or clue that others might overlook. Is this significant? Maybe it’s just alien sweat hanging in the air. As much as she challenged herself with such questions, her instinct pointed to the pheromones being important. “Do we still have samples?

“Yes. Their catalog numbers are on the cover sheet.”

“Good. You never know, these could be part of the message they left us.”

“Or not,” cautioned her superior. “I know this is a tempting rabbit hole to crawl down, Dr. Sanchez, but it still may be just a rabbit hole.”

But the wheels were already turning in Sanchez’s mind. “Dr. Schrivener, this could be a Rosetta Stone for us. They brought it beyond the warfighting area to convey something. Thus far we are fighting an enemy we don’t understand. We don’t have the means to communicate with them. Both sides are killing each other and we really don’t know why. We need answers, and this, thing, this totem, may be the key.”

Searching her face, Schrivener said, “You’re overworking. I’ve had a few of your people say you actually slept down here with this thing.”

“I didn’t have time to get back to my apartment.”

“You’re missing my point. I understand that you believe this is important. I think you may be onto something here. But you are of no use to me or your team if you burn out.”

“I have to do this,” Willow said, almost under her breath.

“Why?”

“My brother is in the Marines,” she said in a low tone. “He’s in Japan. I’ve only heard from him once since the start of the war.” Memories of Ricky’s late-night call to her to try and assure her he was alright rushed back. Willow could feel her face flush as Dr. Schrivener studied her intently.

Ricky and I are all that Mom has left. If I can solve this puzzle, maybe I can somehow use it to save his life.

The doctor placed a on her shoulder. “I am sure he is fine. You would have heard by now if he wasn’t. In the meantime, you are no good to your brother or the team if you are mentally wiped out. Take a day, clear your head. Trust me, you need it.”

Willow nodded. “Thank you. I’ll do it.” Glancing at the printed horror, she closed her eyes and silently prayed for her brother.

The Vatican

Rome, Italy

Oberstleutnant Lukas Keller of the Scutum Humanitatis, the Shield of Humanity, stood near the Castel St. Angelo in his pristine Lionheart power armor, overlooking the River Tiber at the Ponte Vittorio Emanuele II Bridge. The Lionheart was a custom suit of armor manufactured by the Swiss at the behest of the Vatican. His was stark-white with an emblazoned crimson cross on the torso under his cockpit canopy windows. It was hard to not be impressed with the suit. It was like the new models of ASHURs fielded by the Americans, but it had sweeping Swiss lines to it. It had a narrow profile, with crisp fine edges. The weapons he carried were impressive—a shoulder-mounted 105mm recoilless launcher and a large SIG SG 775 Heavy Assault Rifle. Another variant was equipped with a halberd, though he felt the weapon relied too much on being close to the enemy… something he tried to avoid. Keller stood with the Swiss Guards, the protectors of Vatican City.

They had been blessed by the pope only a few hours before their deployment at the bridge. The image of the kneeling Lionhearts, all in a row, being sprinkled with holy water was something he felt he would never forget. The Scutum Humanitatis had been formed by the pontiff, calling the invasion by the Fish a test from God. The Catholic Church had declared the alien invasion a threat to humanity, and, as the Church had done many times before, they had declared a crusade against the invaders. Keller had answered that call. He had little choice, at least in his mind. His pontiff had called for a crusade. As a mere mortal, who was he to refuse such a challenge?

The struggle for Italy, especially Rome, had been vicious. Plumes of smoke rose from all around Keller, all marking the destruction of buildings and lives. For months the aliens had tried to wrestle Rome from humanity, but the city had refused to fall. Each time they struck, more of the city was laid waste, crushed and crumbled in the fighting.

But Keller was not alone in answering the pope’s call. Volunteers had arrived from around the world. There were papal militias, Warrior Guilds, in many countries. Over a hundred thousand Catholics had come to Rome to defend it and the Vatican. Some were seasoned combat veterans, others were housewives, schoolteachers, nurses, college students… a cross section of society. What they lacked in training and skill, they made up for in zeal. The Vatican had provided them with arms, supplies, and even a few Lionhearts—all so they could fight in their own countries. Thanks to them, Rome was still keeping the aliens at bay, but it was a vicious daily struggle.

Lukas had been rushed through training in the Lionheart, getting his the day it rolled off the assembly line. He tried to spend as much time as possible in the suit, knowing he lacked experience with it in battle. It was inadequate; he understood that. Times and people are desperate. Yet he knew he had been called by God for the fight. As such, God would guide his actions and protect him. While he shielded humanity, his faith shielded him.

“Oberstleutnant, I am picking up motion in the water to the south,” one of his scouts called down from his perch high in the Castel St. Angelo. “It is heading our way.”

“Acknowledged. Hold fast, men,” Keller transmitted on the tactical channel. “They will not penetrate the Vatican. We stand here, as our forefathers did. We have been the source of security for this most holy place for centuries. Your children and their children will talk often of what you do in the next few hours. You are legends already, you simply must live up to that.”

As if in que, the water near the arched bridge swirled. Then he saw it, a Scorpione. They were named thus for their massive stinger tails. These were a glossy black on top, blending to a gray on their bellies. The Esercito Italiano called them the Morte Nera, the Black Death. Now he was facing them for the first time in battle. Despite all his preparations, Keller was stunned at the sight of the lobster-like creatures.

They are so large, so menacing. God help me!

“Open fire, keep them from getting out of the river!” He leveled the massive SG 775, syncing it with the targeting system in the Lionheart. With his hands, he adjusted the aim of the hulking weapon, bringing the targeting reticle on the raised torso of the Scorpione, then firing three of the armor-piercing rounds.

The SG 775 bucked hard in his arm, and despite the compensator programmed into the targeting system, it was hard to keep his shots on target. The big rounds, 12.7mm rounds, were special armor-piercing ones, and at least two of his rounds hit their mark. One took a nick out of the big front claw of the creature, while the other punched in, and ugly black mist sprayed from the wound.

The Scorpione angled the undamaged claw at the line of Lionhearts and sprayed something, a firehose of gray ooze.

Acid! It is that accursed acid!

“I’m hit! I’m hit!” cried out Feldwebel Hans Moser, followed by a horrible scream. The anguish in his voice was palatable, the agony real. Keller wanted to look over at him, to see his fate, but he was focused on firing at the attacking Scorpione. There was no order he could give, no command that could help.

I pray for you, Moser.

The creature lashed into another Lionheart with its tail, ripping off frontal armor plates, sending them flailing along the cobblestone streets and knocking over the power armor in the process.

With the skill of a master marksman, Keller brought his second targeting reticle onto the Scorpione. The moment it flickered red, he triggered the recoilless rifle. There was a momentary tug as the round blasted out. It impacted the creature’s head, exploding it in a black-gray mist. The creature flopped over lifeless, slumping into the River Tiber.

Keller started to smile, when something slammed into him from the rear. An icy chill rushed through his body. In the next heartbeat, it was followed by pain. Glancing down at his chest, he saw something poking through, a slender blood-covered obsidian object. Keller felt numb when he saw it retract out the back of his body.

His vision narrowed, and he struggled to breathe. A cough came up, wet with blood and something yellowish… toxin. He wanted to move, to turn and face what had struck him, but it was as if his limbs were no longer under his control.

It was a Scorpione stinger… that realization came to him quickly. The searing pain seemed to be pulling him down, followed by gravity. His Lionheart fell face-first onto the cobblestones, the armor crunching and grinding against the centuries-old stone.

“Oberstleutnant!” a female voice, Vizekorporal Anastasia Moller, called out. Keller wanted to respond, but his body was fading fast. His final thoughts came as he struggled to breathe, fighting for every ounce of air he could get.

God… I have served you as best I can…

Beverly Hills Salient, the Western Front, California, the United States

“CC” Cassidy Chen wiped a table of the small abandoned bistro clean with the sleeve of her uniform. Dust and the constant film of blasted plaster and concrete was a part of her life. She sat down, pulled out her ration pack, and tore it open. The aroma of the chemically heated ravioli rose to her nose and made her mouth water as she tore open the hot pack. The key to eating these things was to squeeze them into your mouth one at a time. She burned the roof of her mouth with the first pasta nugget, as Gio called them. Still, she savored the taste.

A full squad of the Fifth California Militia, Colton’s Cutthroats, were reclaiming the bistro, if only as a place for cover and a few minutes’ rest. The patrol through north Beverly Hills had been without incident, but that didn’t mean that it didn’t take a toll. It wasn’t just tired legs. It was the raw mental burn that CC and the others felt, constantly watching and bracing for an alien attack that hadn’t materialized… yet.

Gio pulled a chair over to the table, turned it backwards, and straddled it. “You going to eat your Skittles?”

The military ration packs came with a treat, at least that was how she thought about them. Checking the pack, she pulled them out. M&M’s! Chocolate was rare and highly prized. “No Skittles, I’ve got M&M’s.”

Gio frowned. No one gave up chocolate when it showed up, so bargaining was out of the question. He pulled out his own pack and opened up the packet of peanut butter, smearing it on crackers. “How was your scouting run?”

She shrugged. “Saw a Fox, shot a Fox.” It was easy to be casual about killing the Fish. Months ago, a surprise attack had taken back a chunk of Los Angeles, namely Beverly Hills. It took weeks for the Fish to press to take it back, but they had come in their usual blunt force, hammering the perimeter of the Beverly Hills Salient, or so the Army called it. CC stuck another ravioli into her mouth, taking a moment to savor it.

In a strange way, it reminded her of when her father was alive and cooked dinner. It was getting harder to remember what her dad was like. Some memories were well anchored in her mind, distinct memories like their last Christmas together. It bothered CC that the memories were fading. She thought about her mother often, but even the details of those memories were fading. With her parents, what was left were feelings, emotions of the times they spent together more than the specific things they were doing.

Her brother Donnie was likewise a blur in terms of memories. Instead, he came to her in nightmares every so often. It was always the same: Donnie crying, jolting her awake. He had been a toddler when he and their mother had died. Her memories of her little brother were mostly of them riding in a car together. His crying haunted her still, jarring her awake in a cold sweat.

Antonio Colton, leader of the Fifth California Militia, entered the remains of the bistro. The boots he wore crunched on the shattered bits of glass from what had been the front window. Colton had changed from when CC had first encountered him. There were hints of gray appearing in his hairline, along his sideburns and atop his ears. He took care of CC. Hell, he takes care of all of us. She felt his care for her was different, though. Antonio didn’t have any children, or so he said. In his own way, he tried to act as a parental figure for her. At times, he did so awkwardly, but CC appreciated his trying. Sometimes, what matters is the trying, rather than the achieving.

Colton’s ACR was slung over his massive shoulder. He looked around the bistro and CC knew he was mentally sizing it up for defense, if it came to that. It was part and parcel when you worked on the front lines. Every place you were in was a potential battle zone. She had done the same thing when she had walked in.

“We need to move out in thirty,” Colton said to his people.

“We heading back to base?” Gio asked.

Antonio nodded. “Yeah. They want to pull us off the line for a few days. They told me that they have some special operation for us… but they say that shit all of the time. In the meantime, the Surfers are taking our spot on the line.”

CC grinned and shook her head. “The Surfers? Those guys are losers.” It was a sentiment shared by the others in the unit. Not all militia units were the same.

“Not our problem,” Colton said. “Colonel Logan wants to meet with us. He says he has a special assignment in mind for us.”

“I’m not a big fan of special,” Gio quipped. “Special is a good way for us to get it in the ass.”

“I miss the Eagle,” CC said. Colonel Hollifield had been a good CO. Word was the Pentagon brass was using him to fix problems on a number of fronts. The shuffling of officers seemed continuous to those on the front. Antonio had said the Army was still trying to find the right people and put them in the right places. It was as good as an excuse as any.

“Me too, Little Doll,” Colton said, using her nickname. “We don’t get a choice in who gives us orders, though. I am thankful we are getting some time back on our old stomping grounds to rest up. Besides, I think we could all use a hot shower and a change of uniforms.”

CC glanced down at her own garb that she had been wearing for days. It was filthy. She had recently upgraded to a recovered chest plate of STG, but it showed the scuff marks and grime of urban combat. While she didn’t think the militia members smelled bad, it was hard to tell. After a while, you got used to your teammate’s stink.

Colton took a chair at the table with CC and Gio. “I heard you got a Fox earlier.”

“Yeah,” she said as she finished the last of the ravioli. “He was poking around where he shouldn’t have been.” There had been a time when CC had been proud of her kills, when she had notched her weapon stock with each kill. That had faded as the war had dragged on. She had become blasé when it came to her sniping skills, even a long-distance shot like the one that had killed the Fox.

“I want you to stick closer to us when you are running recon.”

“Why? I can handle myself.”

“I know you can. I don’t want you to have to. We work as a team. We can’t support you if you are four blocks off on your own.”

How does he always know what I’m doing?

“Fine,” she sighed. “You know, you don’t have to worry about me.”

“I know,” he said, placing his beefy hand on her shoulder armor plate. “What’s important is that you understand that I want to worry about you.”

Nodding, CC thought, He really is the closest thing I have to a dad.

Chapter nine

Extra Terrestrial Task Force (ETF) HQ, DIA Intelligence Annex, the Penetrator, Los Alamos, New Mexico, the United States

Ashe saluted General Braxton Rainer and gestured to the chair in his office. Rainer was the Army Chief of Staff and this was his second visit to the ETF HQ. Rainer ran a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair as he settled into the chair. The years had been kind to him. The man didn’t look as worn and weathered as many officers that had fought in the Russo Bratva War.

“It’s good to see you again, Colonel.”

“And you as well, sir.”

“You’ve got quite an operation here,” Rainer said. “Intel assimilation, science labs, weapons development—all of it impressive.”

“Sir, you didn’t come all the way out here to pay me a compliment,” Slade replied, mentally bracing himself for what was to follow.

Rainer shifted in his seat. “No, Colonel, I didn’t. I’ve gotten word of some things that are a little troubling. I could have called, but I thought any conversations we have on these matters should be done face-to-face.”

He’s worried someone is monitoring my comms… that’s what he’s really saying.

“While I have no idea what you are referring to, I assure you, I’m not hiding anything.”

“Well, I received word that you are putting together a military unit down here, code name the Fox Hunters. You’ve requisitioned equipment for them, ASHURs. And you are training them, here. I find that a little disturbing and a bit beyond your remit, Colonel. We look to the ETF for intelligence on the aliens. I don’t like the idea of you forming up your own little private army.”

Two thoughts popped into his mind. Someone was leaking this information up the chain, and they were distorting it to make it sound dangerous. “General, I did requisition some hardware in the form of Gen One ASHUR suits. We haven’t fielded them in several years and they were sitting in a DLA warehouse gathering dust. In terms of putting together a private army, well, that is a misrepresentation. A dozen troops is hardly an army. If anything, I would categorize it as a pilot test of a theory.”

“Why are you putting them together in the first place?”

“We have a working theory that the Fish use their Foxes as their battlespace coordinators. We have seen them in the field. They only fight when they are forced to. Most of the time, they work on the periphery of the battlespace. Our thought was to create a unit to test a theory. If we can knock them out of a fight at the start, it might give us an advantage on the ground. So the Fox Hunters are just that, sniper ASHURs designed to take out the Foxes.”

“We don’t have sniper ASHURs.”

“Correct. The R&D teams have customized these old-school rigs for that mission.”

General Rainer hesitated, clearly considering his next words. “Why not go through the normal chain of command?”

“I tried that, sir. We weren’t a priority. The truth of the matter is we were blown off by the normal routes to get the equipment and test this within the Army itself.”

Evidently, those were the words Rainer didn’t want to hear. “If you were getting stonewalled, you could have reached out to me directly.”

“With all due respect, sir, this should be handled way below your pay grade. I don’t have time to play Pentagon politics to beg to get what I need. I took initiative and simply decided to put together a prototype team to prove a working theory. If it fails, the Army has plausible deniability. If it works, I can then give the Army everything it needs to implement the program everywhere appropriate.”

“And the personnel you are using. None of them are considered combat ready.”

“I’m not responsible for the Army’s standards. The truth of the matter is, all of them have been badly wounded or had bionic replacements. According to the Army, they are unfit for action. I’m putting them in ASHURs. I won’t send anyone out there that isn’t able to do their job.”

“I understand that Army regs and rules may be behind the times, and I hope to get those changed. In the meantime, if any of those people get killed or wounded, I’m likely to have a number of civil rights organizations clamoring at me and demanding to know why I am sending invalids into battle.”

“You can send them my way, sir.”

Slade would stand behind his actions. The minute I don’t, I’m worthless.

“I can handle the naysayers and whiners in the press. All I’m saying is bring me into the loop before you kick off something like this. I can’t help you when I’m in the dark.”

“So noted, sir.”

Rainer uncrossed his legs and leaned forward in the chair. “This sergeant you put in charge of this project… He is a known loose cannon.”

Ashe allowed himself a smile. “I will say this, Sergeant Cain doesn’t treat fools lightly.” It was an understatement. His mind went back to two weeks earlier when Cain had saluted him. I guess I’d earned his respect. Not an easy thing to do.

Rainer continued, “He’s been promoted and busted in rank several times. Some of his former COs certainly don’t have any remorse that he’s here. He turned down the Medal of Honor. I didn’t even know you could do that.”

That is the essence of Adam Cain.

Ashe countered, “And he saved the Pentagon, despite his better judgement. Let’s not forget his role in the Battle of Port Republic. The man is a pain in the ass, but he’s a genuine hero. He’s forgotten more about ASHUR combat than what any other NCO knows.”

Rainer frowned. “The word I have gotten is that he’s crass, unpolished, dangerous old-school.”

Ashe chuckled at the description, mostly because it was true. “Cain is a graybeard. I didn’t bring him in here because he is a spit-and-polish master sergeant. I brought him in because he has a fantastic track record in fighting the Fish and he knows ASHURs inside and out. Is he rough around the edges? Yes. Does he do more damage with his harsh language than his weapons? Probably. The Army would have squandered his talent. I have him heading up the Fox Hunters because no one else is better qualified to do so.”

That got a thin grin from the general. “You don’t pull your punches, do you, Colonel?”

“No sir. I don’t have time for niceties. There’s a war on, and my job is to figure out how to win it.”

“What do you have that is new that we can use in the field?” Rainer pressed.

“Nothing deployable, yet. We have been working with the team from Fort Detrick on a neurotoxin that is showing a lot of promise. It seems to be effective against the Fish. Just a few particles per million exposure, and they spasm, thrash around, essentially combat ineffective. After that, it works on their internal organs, rupturing what they have for blood vessels. Nasty stuff.”

“Sounds perfect.”

“The problem is that it also affects humans. It lingers on surfaces and that means area denial for at least a week after deployment.”

Rainer pondered that. “Where we’d want to use that stuff, there’s still a lot of humans there.” Despite the warnings and orders, despite the carnage of war, some people remained in the AIZs, refusing to abandon their homes or continuing to engage the aliens as freedom fighters.

“Exactly. We have the team working on a way to fine-tune this to the alien DNA, but that is complicated and is going to take time.”

“Time is as much of an enemy as the Fish,” Rainer conceded. He shook his head in silence, clearly disappointed. Then he locked gazes with Slade.

Slade drew a deep breath and he looked deeply into the general’s eyes. Something was still up. This conversation could have been addressed in an email. The general hadn’t come all the way down here to talk about Cain.

“Sir, why are you here? It can’t be because of the Fox Hunters. At best, I bent a few regulations. It’s an awfully long way to travel just to talk about some out-of-date ASHURs or where we are with our bioagent program.”

Rainer’s grin went flat. “You got this job because you were smart, smarter than the entire intelligence establishment. That has already been established. You’re right, I’m not here because of a few minor indiscretions. I’m here because there’s people out there gunning for you. Powerful people. While you are assigned to lead the ETF, you are still Army. We take care of our own.”

There was something reassuring in hearing those words. It’s good to know that someone has my back. “Let me guess, Artemis Wilson.”

The general nodded. “And others. They are gathering every scrap of dirt they can on you.”

Ashe took the words for what they were, a warning. “Sir, believe it or not, I’m just a simple officer trying to give us the edge to win this war.”

Rainer nodded. “I believe that. In reality, it doesn’t matter what I believe. What matters is how Wilson and the others spin this. They want to control the narrative. They approached General Lee and me about you. It is pretty clear they intend to paint Operation Sulaco as a debacle, a ‘squandered opportunity.’ That’s how Wilson put it. They want to hang you out to dry for the loss of life and the destruction of the enemy ship we shot down.”

Greenland had not been a clear-cut victory, not in the eyes of many. The arrival of the British forces had complicated matters, not to mention the enemy forces both in the crashed ship and coming out of the sea. The British had set off a bomb that had destroyed the vessel and ended the fighting, and the combat losses had been staggering.

It had been Ashe’s mission, under command of the ETF. He considered it successful. New aliens had been discovered and their capabilities learned; samples of alien technology had been brought back as well.

We learned more about their space travel capabilities than we ever knew before.

“Sir, you and I both know we can’t judge an operation like that on the numbers of dead and wounded. This was about gathering intelligence on the Fish and their tech. On that front, the mission was a success.”

“That’s a harsh message to deliver to the families and loved ones of those lost,” Rainer cautioned. “Many don’t want to hear that their husband, son, or brother died over a bunch of tissue samples.”

His words hit Slade hard. It was an aspect of the operation he hadn’t considered. He had been the one to write letters to the families of dead. The thought that they might not be proud over the loss of their loved ones hadn’t occurred to him. “I understand that, sir. This is war. People die as a result. You know that better than I do. What we learned from Greenland might take months or years to fully exploit, but I believe that in the end, it will help us.”

“People like Wilson don’t care about that. He’s planning a hearing in a few weeks. When it’s over, he wants to be in a position to take the ETF from you.”

For a few long moments, Slade said nothing. A part of him hoped Wilson would simply go away, that his threats had no merit. General Rainer had squashed those hopes. I should have known he wouldn’t let this drop. “He came here a few weeks ago and warned me that he disapproves of my leadership of the ETF.”

“He has launched a quiet crusade against you. Wilson’s smart enough to know it will look like a power grab if he comes at you directly, one-on-one. He’s trying to line up people to testify against you. If he can get enough people to back his position, he hopes that the president will hand it over to him.”

Slade felt a swell of anger. His face went fiery red and he clenched his fists. “All I am trying to do is get the upper edge on the enemy.”

“I know that, as do many people. This isn’t about intentions or results. This is about Washington politics. It’s about power. You’re a good officer, but you didn’t come up in the Washington DC food chain. Most of us have waded into the cesspool that is the DC quagmire. We know the games that people play and learn how to avoid these pitfalls. You don’t. You were an outsider that suddenly got a major high-profile position. In their eyes, that makes you a high-profile target.”

Ashe sighed deeply as he tried to reel in his anger. “Sir, what do you recommend?”

“Colonel, there’s only so much cover fire I can lay down in your direction. Wilson has no love of the military. If I overplay my help to you, he may very well try and absorb all of the DIA. That is something I can’t risk.” The older officer paused, sighing himself. “Going up against Wilson is dangerous. He has the CIA behind him, and despite their mandate to not meddle internally, they do. No matter how good your life has been, they will dig up things out of your past. They will find dirt on your family, your subordinates… no one will be spared.”

It was a gloomy picture. Is it really worth holding onto this job for all of that? I don’t want to ruin the lives of people around me. I didn’t ask for this. Maybe things would be better if Wilson was running the show?

Slowly his resolve returned. No. I’d be disrespecting those who died in Greenland if I just let this go without some sort of fight. He had attempted to find some dirt on the old man, but Wilson was the kind of person that buried his mistakes deep, in places that even Ashe could not unearth. “How would you approach it?”

Rainer crossed his arms and leaned back in the seat. “You served in battle. You’re walking into an ambush and you know it. Yes, it’s political, but it is still a skirmish. Treat it like that, and you might just have a chance.”

The general’s words were weirdly comforting. I’ve been in my share of ambushes. The Russians weren’t great at them, but I’ve been in them. Memories of fighting in the cold of Alaska came roaring back. I have one big advantage, I know it’s coming. Wilson won’t surprise me or catch me off guard. I can use this time to prepare my case. I can come out swinging. If I can, I need to put him on the defensive, make him dance to my tune.

If I can’t, then the mission of the ETF might be lost… and that is something I cannot let happen.

Chapter ten

Marshall Flight Center, Huntsville, Alabama

Gunner Captain Georgia Johnston struggled at the controls of Thor, straining to get the targeting reticle lined up with the object that showed on the simulator screen. The exercises were intentionally getting more difficult by the day. She understood the logic; it allowed for her and the other astronauts to build on their skills. Coupled with rigorous physical training, her mind and body seemed to be fighting her. I’m fighting the laws of physics in this thing on top of my own exhaustion.

The targeting system was a marvel. The entire Thor module spun on its central axis, to generate gravity for the crew. If a person looked out one of the few portals, the spinning could make you nauseous. When looking through the targeting system, it provided a stable image to the gunner, one that Georgia was thankful for.

The previous test runs had been easier in that the targets were farther away. Moving at high speeds at a distance, Mjölnir was easier to aim. Now the targets were closer. That made the moves of the giant rail gun larger, faster, and more difficult to aim. She struggled with the controls as she tried to lock onto the simulated alien spacecraft, but it felt as if Thor was fighting her every effort.

It was tempting to say, “I can’t do it,” but that was not in Georgia’s makeup. Instead she concentrated, leaning in against the forehead brace, squinting, and moving the pair of joysticks as if they were part of her hands.

He’s too fast and close.

It was close enough that the automated defense turret opened fire, its humming filling her headset—another distraction. Her mind ran through the mathematics of the problem and she decided to try a different tack.

Instead of continuing her violent turn, she fired the retros to give Thor some distance and angled the other direction. It took a few seconds for the momentum to be nullified, and she swung the arc of the weapons platform in the opposite direction.

Even if that bastard sees me, it can’t just stop dead and turn around. If I did this right, he will pass in my arc.

Then she saw it. The simulated alien vessel was also slowing, much faster than she did. Now the physics are working to her advantage. She was picking up velocity in her aim as the craft juked hard and away.

I’ll only get one shot at this.

“Charging capacitors,” she muttered as the targeting reticle inched closer to her prey. Georgia knew she was breaking with protocol. She wasn’t supposed to take these steps until she had target lock.

I’ll deal with that during the debrief.

“Powering the primary coils,” she said and stabbed the button.

There was only going to be a few milliseconds where the target would pass through her reticle—not enough for a weapons lock, but enough to fire. She leaned into the targeting scope, her finger poised right at the point where she knew by feel that the weapon would fire. The moment the reticle drifted over the target, she squeezed the trigger ever so slightly, just enough to fire. The sounds and recoil of the big rail gun jerked her in the seat.

On the tiny screen she saw the impact, then she saw the alien craft spinning.

Do I need to put another round in it?

She toyed with the idea, but instead killed the retros and opted to stabilize her turn, finally getting a weapons lock after the fact.

The simulator paused and the bright white lights of the simulator came on, making her wince. Overhead fans in the simulator room kicked on, blowing a blast of cooler air on her sweaty brow as she leaned away from the targeting scope. Georgia heard the footfalls of Commander Ryder Nelson as he walked up behind her.

“What was that?” he demanded.

“I fired without a target lock.” There was no point in denying it. Nor was there any debate as to its success.

“Why did you do that?”

“I didn’t have time for the protocol.”

Nelson motioned for the other astronauts to join them, which didn’t make Georgia feel any better.

I hope he’s not planning on dressing me down for getting a kill.

“You got a hit, Johnston. A lot of that was skill, but a big piece of it was luck.”

“I trusted what I knew about the weapon.”

“You did. But if you had missed, or only damaged that ship, where would you be then?”

“I’d reload, recharge, try again.”

“And how long does that take?”

“Two minutes, a little more than that.”

Nelson nodded. “Two minutes. Given the speed and performance of the Fish, that two minutes could be the difference between life and death. They could double back or return fire. You would be sitting there, waiting for power build-up, a sitting duck.”

Georgia felt her face get red. “What do you suggest we do in this situation, Commander?”

“Weapons lock is there for a reason. The software needs time to take into account for the velocity and trajectory of both Thor and the enemy. Bypassing it shouldn’t be done, period. This isn’t a fighter aircraft or an X-62. It’s a platform. If you get excited and take a snap-shot like that, you put the entire platform at risk. You fire on the good targets, the ones you have a lock on. It’s best to avoid taking a shot and waiting for another opportunity, than simply popping one off.”

“That means letting some enemy ships get away,” Pilot Niemynski said, disappointment in his voice.

“Yes, it does. They Fish can grow their hardware for this war. We cannot. Thor took months to put together, and that was only because we had a head start already. If we lose your ship, it might be six months before we can put another one up there. As such, we are in this for the long game. If that means letting some ships get by, we will take that over keeping the platform up and capable of fulfilling its mission.”

No one spoke in response. There’s no rebuttal we can put forward. Nelson is right. She was embarrassed that she had been hot-dogging with Mjölnir. I should have known better.

The commander seemed to sense the deflated mood. “Look, it’s near lunchtime. Grab something to eat and be back in the debriefing room at 1300.” With that, he walked away.

The astronauts started down the stark white hallways to the cafeteria. Georgia didn’t feel like eating much, but grabbed a yogurt and an orange. The smell of the government-issued hamburgers was tempting, but she stuck with what she had. They didn’t have buns, but instead used white toast as a substitute—no doubt another supply chain issue. I’m thankful. There’s rumors of some units and towns not getting food for days at a time. At least NASA is keeping us fed. They sat together, in silence at first. It was the other gunner, David Baker, who broke the quiet. “I don’t care what Nelson said, that was one hell of a shot.”

Johnston shook her head. “No. He’s right. It was a stupid mistake. I should have followed the protocol.”

“You swung Thor around over 180 degrees and brought your reticle right up on target,” Niemynski said. “The fact you even found the target was a miracle.”

“I should have known better. I have been a pilot my entire career. A good pilot takes feedback and learns from it. He may be by the book, but he’s right. This mission is too important to our defense for me to be treating Thor like riding a bucking bronco. I’m actually glad he called me out on it. It’s something that we can all learn from.” The words were not hollow. She believed it.

I am not going to do something that might jeopardize me going on this mission.

Overcoming personal challenge had always been a part of her life. Georgia’s brother died when she was young, a victim of a drunk driver. It had devastated her family. Her mother became overly protective of her. Her father… something broke inside of him. He was never the same after the funeral. There were times she felt that she was raising herself, which taught her that she was responsible for what she did and where she went in life. It had been a long time since she had even spoken to them.

The zeal to get into space was something that she had never shaken. Fate had conspired against her every time she got close to getting up there. The Russo Bratva War had cost her a trip to the ISS. Georgia had completed her astronaut training and was six weeks from launch when the war started and the Americans and Russians pulled out of the International Space Station. That had been a blow, but Georgia had transitioned back in the Space Force where she had gotten more satellite kills than any other pilot during the war.

Georgia had been slated for transfer to NASA for one of their upcoming missions but then the Fish had shown themselves. Her dreams of being on a moon or Mars landing had been squashed.

It wasn’t that she didn’t get a taste of space. Piloting the X-62, she was in low Earth orbit. Technically, it was space, but for Georgia, it wasn’t outer space. If anything, it was a tease being up that high, seeing the blackness of the void and the stars.

She made ace a few months earlier when she had pulled off two amazing laser shots and downed an alien spacecraft in Greenland. Being the first space ace had gotten her on two magazine covers and a visit to the White House. Georgia had gotten promoted and a medal for her efforts, but she had learned something about herself after her victory. It wasn’t about the glory and the accolades. What drove her was constantly upping her game, pushing herself harder and farther.

During their training, she had bonded with AJ and Baker. Both were fairly bright guys, a little younger than her, but quick thinkers and problem solvers. Baker was a good gunner; she beat him by only two points so far on their informal leader board. Baker was single, like Georgia. His parents were dead. He spoke of his sister, but only in the past tense. No one asked about her, mostly because Baker seemed so casual and comfortable. She knew him well enough that he would be pissed that her last sim run had gotten her a hit, and that emotion he would display when they got back to the briefing room was enough to make her feel good.

James (AJ) Niemynski was a smooth pilot, as if he had a natural feel for piloting Thor. His wife and daughter had relocated from the west coast to Indiana, hopefully out of the reach of the Fish. His nickname was Jimmy Nine-Fingers, because he had lost the tip of his left-hand pinkie finger as a kid.

The remaining pilot, Ursula Webb, was a bit standoffish. Georgia had tried to be friendly and engaging with Webb, but all she usually got were one-word answers to questions or an icy stare. Webb had been a test pilot before the war, finding herself rotated back into the fighter pilot ranks. There had been little room to prove yourself in the Air Force after they ran out of bombs several weeks into the conflict. Recon flights were important, but lacked the prestige that Air Force pilots seemed to yearn for. Georgia hoped she’d thaw a little once they were living up on Thor.

“What do you think of Georgia’s sim run?” Niemynski asked Ursula.

She glared. “I think Commander Nelson summed it up fairly well.”

“So she shouldn’t have taken the shot?” Baker pressed.

“No.”

Georgia turned to face Ursula head-on. “You know, we are all going to be living together. You hardly engage with us. Is there some sort of problem?”

Still glaring, Ursula said, “No problems. I’m just not into small talk.”

“We know almost nothing about you,” Niemynski threw on the table. “Hell, I know the mascot for Johnston’s college team. But you—I know almost nothing.”

“There’s not a lot to tell.” She glanced down at the tabletop, then back at her flight crew. “I was with the ninth fighter squadron out of Holloman. When this opportunity came up, I put in an application.”

“Where are you from?” Baker asked.

Her olive skin got tinged red. “It’s not important.”

“Aw, come on,” Niemynski said. “You had to come from somewhere.”

“Miami,” she said, as if the word was bitter in her mouth. “My family was in Miami.”

In that moment, Georgia understood. The Fish had fought long and hard for Miami. Their initial invasion has seized half of the city. Before the National Guard could respond, the aliens began to savage the human-controlled portions of the city. Georgia remembered seeing the images of several tall apartment buildings along the coast in flames. Civilians had clogged the bridges and highways, only to be slaughtered. Thousands had died in the panic that followed.

If her family was from there, they might very well be dead. While Johnston didn’t want to go to that dark thought, she felt the need to.

“Did your family get out alright?”

Ursula glared at her. “My sisters did. We still have not found my parents.” Her wording told her that despite the fact months had passed, she was still clinging to hope of finding her mother and father. The reality, as Georgia understood it, was that if they were alive by now, the military would have put Ursula in contact with them. She knew that the fighting in Florida was bad, not from experience, but from how the media wasn’t covering it.

“That’s rough,” Georgia replied. “I’m so sorry.”

“There’s nothing to be sorry about,” Ursula replied. “It’s war. People die in wars. My sisters and I have moved on.”

“Why are you going on this mission?” Niemynski asked. “I mean, I would have thought that you would want to stay down here.”

Ursula was clearly fighting back her emotions, but got on top of them. “I applied to transfer from the Air Force to NASA just before the war. My dad and me, we had a telescope. We would go outside of the city on the coast, where there was no light pollution, and look up at the stars for hours. When the opportunity came for Thor, I knew he would want me to go. Up there, that’s where I belong. I want to see those stars we looked at when I was a kid as close as possible.”

Suddenly the ice melted off of Ursula’s façade. She cracked a painful smile, battling not only the emotions, but the tears welling in her eyes. Georgie reached out and took Ursula’s hands in her own. “I wish there was something I could say or do to help.”

“You can’t. It’s okay though,” Ursula tried to assure her. “I’m flight cleared. Everyone has lost something in this war. It has hit every single person in some way. What I’m working through, it won’t affect my ability to do my duty.”

There was something to that. Georgia knew they had all undergone psychiatric evaluations as part of the program. If she is here, the shrinks think her head is screwed on tight. That is all I need to accept.

“You’re right about that. What has happened to each one of us before this assignment is important. It’s a part of who we are. What is more critical is what we do when we get up there—” her eyes darted to the tiled ceiling of the government cafeteria. Ursula nodded, then dashed the tears away.

“We’re a team,” Niemynski said. “What’s important is that we have each other when we are out there. It’s not much of a family, but it will do.”

Georgia smiled at that. Now we are a team. Until Ursula opened up, it was a little weird. Now, though, we are together. And together, we will be unstoppable.

Chapter eleven

New Bern, North Carolina, the Eastern Front, the United States

Lieutenant Rodriguez’s voice rang crisp in Sergeant Thun’s earpiece. “We will be moving north through these woods, wedge formation. We are the spear point on this move with first and third platoons taking the flanks. G2 says there are no signs of alien activity, but I want everyone to be sharp, just in case.”

Just in case the intel officer has his head up his ass. Thun kept his thoughts to himself as the lieutenant continued.

“We are going to take it slow, moving about ten miles out to establish a fire base at grid coordinates, 3HAJ55217801. I’m feeding those into your vehicle’s system now.”

True to his words, the map systems updated.

“We aren’t expecting any problems along the way,” Rodriguez’s voice sang. “That doesn’t mean we are safe. Keep your eyes peeled and call out any signals that seem suspicious. Does everyone understand?”

“Yes sir,” Thun replied in his helmet mic.

“Good, we roll in ten minutes. Once we are in motion, go to Tac Four for communications.”

Thun glanced at the grid coordinates and saw they were in the boonies. The proposed firebase was to the northwest of New Bern. As he zoomed in on the coordinates, the only things he saw that indicated civilization along the wooded tracks was a place that allegedly sold Amish storage sheds, which he doubted, and an ice cream stand.

Sparks must have been doing the same thing on his screen off to Thun’s right. “Talk about the middle of nowhere.”

“Well, half of the city is in the Fish’s hands,” Thun said. “At least they aren’t rushing us in there.”

“Yet.”

“Yet. Look, the LT is taking us up there because someone told him to. He gets orders, we get orders.”

“These new guys seem okay,” Sparky said. “But being nice don’t mean shit when the shooting starts.”

“I’m well aware of that. Remember, they think of us as the new guys.”

Sparks blew off the correction. “We just got this new Schwarz. I don’t want to do anything that is going to mess up the paint job.”

That made Thun chuckle. Sparky had a good, if annoying, sense of humor. Somehow during the trip down to North Carolina, he had managed to scrounge a plastic gold crown air freshener and had slid it in the compartment between them, just above the view screens. It stunk, reminding him of a bad cab ride he’d once had while drunk in Cleveland, but Thun didn’t remove it.

“Hey,” came the voice on the Schwarzkopf’s intercom from the rear compartment, “what’s the word on this deployment?” It was Corporal McCoy, who was in command of the squad that was huddled in the tight confines of the Schwartz’s rear.

“We’re rolling in a few, heading north,” Thun replied. “Switch to Tac Four.” The kid was green and should have been monitoring the lieutenant’s deployment orders. McCoy looked like he could be Thun’s kid, if Thun had any kids. His face looked doughy; that was the word Sparks used to describe McCoy. He’s in command of a squad now, probably a sign of how short the Army is on good sergeants. I can only hope that his instructors did a good job with him because this kind of on-the-job training comes with a lethal price tag.

There was something to be said about being older in a unit. We are in a profession right now where people die young. If you get some salt-and-pepper in your beard or a bald spot starts, everyone naturally looks up to you. Of course the wrinkles of experience came with the burden of trying to bring the younger troops along.

Lieutenant Parmele was a good example. A fresh replacement, fresh out of OCS. He commanded one of the Buford Main Battle Tanks in the first platoon. He was a good guy, concerned for the men and women he led. His drawback, a tendency to volunteer. Thun wasn’t sure if he was trying to impress the others with his zeal, or if he simply didn’t understand that no one in the Army volunteered for anything.

After a few moments of doing nothing other than waiting, the orders came to move out. They set off from the staging area on State Highway 17, and headed north, cross country. The woods were dense but were not old growth. Most of the trees had been logged off some ten or twenty years earlier. A dense tangle of brush limited visibility, and Thun was constantly surveying the trees, making the mental calculations as to whether he could fit the Whoop Ass between the spindly trees.

The temptation was always to follow the lead tank but that was a deception. Doing so messed up formation. They were in a wedge, which meant spreading out. As the Schwarzkopf maneuvered forward, he drove over a clump of ugly cedars. As he broke through, he spotted the Bull Moose ASHUR that was assigned to the platoon. It had a cockpit canopy that was long and narrow, sloping downward, like its namesake. Only second and first platoon had ASHURs attached to them. As Sparky had put it, “Having a platoon of armor is usually more than enough firepower.” Thun felt differently. ASHURs were critical for support functions. He wished they had more of them, but like everything else, they were a rare commodity.

“Hey,” Sparks called from his seat on the AFV’s channel. “There’s a bunch of Christmas trees off to the right that we can destroy.”

Thun smiled, but just slightly. “I’m not trying to kill the trees.”

“You are taking all of the fun out of this,” Sparky whined.

They sloshed through a creek, splattering mud in every direction. I guess this new Whoop Ass is no longer a mud virgin. A few minutes later, the Schwarz hit another line of young conifer trees, sending a doe and three fawns jutting away erratically.

“You see that venison you almost hit?” Sparky said with an excited tone.

“Yes I did,” Thun replied, licking his lips. “If you bring that turret around, you can shoot one of them. Venison’s a real treat.”

Thun had killed a deer while they were posted in Connecticut. He butchered the deer and prepared steaks for the platoon. His gunner had hated it. Sparks was quick in his reply. “They are not a treat. They taste like licking the bottom of a twenty-year-old bong.”

“You just don’t appreciate a delicacy when you taste one.”

Thun used the handle controls, turning the Whoop Ass, narrowly missing a thick hickory tree.

“It tasted like hamburger dragged through dead grass and dog shit.”

Thun rolled his eyes. “You didn’t give it a chance.”

“To what, rot in my mouth?”

Thun grinned. We’ve had this conversation before, and it never gets old. The banter, even rehashing old arguments, was one of the reasons he liked Sparks as his gunner. Thun slowed, angling the AFV in a tight pass between a number of hardwood trees. As he downshifted, he heard the hum of the engine change tempo. It differed from his last Schwarz by at least a thousand RPM. I’ve forgotten what it is like to drive a new vehicle. She’s got a feel that is different from the old stuff, she purrs like a kitten. As he looked around the cramped pilot compartment, it was hard to forget its predecessor. We were lucky to get out of Branford alive. Abandoning their Schwarzkopf had not been easy for them. Worse was the fact that it was ultimately destroyed by their own Air Force.

Lesson learned: be careful when you call for an air strike… you may get one.

Sparky shattered his memories of his last engagement. “Dad… are we there yet?”

Thun rolled his eyes.

* * *

It took the better part of an hour to complete the journey. When they arrived at the site where their new base was to be established, it was a wide wooded hill nestled south of State Highway 70. Below them was a highway rest area, which meant they wouldn’t have to dig latrines. More importantly, it meant a source of clean water. Further west, he could see the Amish shed place on a side road. We should go requisition a few of those. It’s got to be better than sleeping in the ATV or in a tent. Thun wasn’t in the mood for asking permission. He planned on paying a visit the moment they got some downtime.

Less than a mile away was State Highway 17, the road they had started on before their cross-country journey. The highway had run east, then angled north. Seeing it in the distance and checking it on his display, Thun could not help but shake his head.

Great, we could have taken the road to get here. Typical lieutenant, not able to use a damned map. While he wanted to believe that, he was sure that the move had been deliberate. They never tell us shit.

He signaled Corporal McCoy and the squad in the rear of the Whoop Ass. “Alright, kids, we’ve arrived at your destination. Make sure you leave a five-star review and be sure to tip your driver.”

“And his gunner,” Sparky added.

The rear door lowered, and he heard the shuffle of the squad departing, then the door closed shut with a clang and a metallic snap as the latches clicked into place. Lieutenant Rodriguez’s voice came on.

“We are going to assume a defensive posture here. I want a perimeter formed up in these trees. Infantry are to prepare firing positions. The engineers will set up firing positions for our vehicles. I want full camouflage on everything. For the time being, this is our base of operations.”

“Camouflage?” Sparks moaned as he unhooked his safety gear to climb out. “No one even knows if that shit works with the Fish. Not to mention we are in a heavily armored AFV. I mean, I can throw dirt topside and put some branches on it, but we are still pretty damn hard to hide.”

Thun unhooked his own restraint and took off his headset. “The lieutenant is going by the book.”

“It’s a stupid book. Written for the wrong war,” Sparks said as he pushed his hatch open.

Thun did the same. Getting out of the Schwarzkopf was always a little tricky for the gunner and driver. You had to tuck your legs so that your feet were under your ass, then push up slow and turn to avoid the turret. He had the flexibility, but after sitting in the driver’s seat for so long, his legs liked to protest extreme movements.

The air was warmer, one of the things he liked about being in North Carolina as opposed to Connecticut. Once it got hot out, there would be plenty of things to bitch about, but for now, before the pollen and the humidity, it was pleasant. Rising out of his seat, he stood on the hull, then made his way down to the side and jumped down.

Sparks came up alongside him. “Just once I wish they would have us set up our base in range of a good strip club.”

“Imagine the kind of strippers that would stay behind during a war,” he cautioned as the two started gathering up twigs and leaves to place on their Schwarz.

“Does it matter? I mean, a boob is a boob, right?”

Thun gave him a sour look. “Like that ‘girl’ you were so entranced with outside of Boston?”

“Hey, there was no way anyone could have known that was a guy,” Sparks said defensively as he laid a pine bow on the hull.

“We all knew.”

“That’s easy to say after the fact.”

Their banter was cut short by a distant sound. It was a deep bass noise, guttural, animal. Thun and Sparks froze in place, looking off towards the empty strip of highway and the woods beyond it. For a few moments, it was replaced by the sounds of troops doing their assignments. Then it came again.

“You heard that, right?” Sparks said.

“Fucking Frogs,” Thun replied, making a beeline for the top of the AFV and his hatch. Twisting and dropping his legs in, he bumped his left funny bone on the edge of the hatch, making him flinch. Plowing through the pain, Thun turned on his headset without putting on his helmet. “Lieutenant, this is Whoop Ass. We just heard Frogs to the northeast.”

As he spoke, Sparks lowered himself in.

“Confirmed,” came Teasley. “We heard them too.”

With a crackle of static, Rodriguez came on. “All forces, button up and prepare for battle. Infantry, take your positions, establish good fields of fire.”

Thun confirmed and fired up the engine of the Schwarzkopf. It was reassuring; the engine’s throbbing made the tank feel like it was waking up, as if it were a living creature, ready and willing to obey his command. He synced his vehicle to the battlespace feed and soon got a three-sixty-degree view of the company. While he didn’t see the Frogs on his screen yet, he knew they were out there. The grunting started, this time with more voices linked up with it. Reaching up, he pulled the hatch down and threw the latch. He would have been hard-pressed to feel more secure than he was in that moment.

“They are showing a lot of patience,” Sparks said.

“That’s… not like them,” Thun replied. The Frogs deployed in mass attacks. They were formidable against infantry, often swarming unarmored targets. They spit a nasty toxin. Just a little of their spittle could throw a body into toxic shock. Breathing in any of the spit was a death sentence. They’re cannon fodder, and it only takes a few to get through to make things messy. That the lieutenant kept the infantry out of the vehicles would add to the firepower outbound, but it would put some of them directly in harm’s way. It was a judgment call that he was glad that he didn’t have to make.

“They make a lot of noise for being amphibious meat sacks designed to catch bullets,” Sparks said as another wave of grunts, this time even louder, welled from the woods.

“You should have a clean field of fire,” Thun said, trying to keep his gunner focused.

“Yeah, yeah,” he replied as the turret turned slightly. “It’s Frogs, how bad can it be?”

The answer came before Thun could reply. The distant woods quaked, the trees swayed, and the Frogs emerged. They were in clusters of a dozen or so, moving fast and in unison, hopping at angles no doubt intended to throw off incoming fire. At first he saw eight to ten of the clusters emerge, then more came, and more. Soon it was a sea of Frogs.

“How the hell did G2 miss that many Frogs?” Sparks called out.

“It’s proof that you don’t have to have intelligence to be in intelligence.” Thun switched the platoon’s channel. “Do we have weapons free yet?”

“Confirmed,” came back Rodriguez’s voice. “Light ’em up.”

Machineguns roared to life from the vehicles facing the advancing Frogs, quickly joined by Sparks. Frogs quaked under the fire, some exploded in a pinkish mist, others temporarily dropped. The missed shots tore into the winter grass of the hillside as more Frogs emerged from the tree line.

“Holy shitballs,” Sparky called from his side. “That’s a big-ass buttload of Frogs.”

It was an understatement. It was more Frogs than Thun had ever seen before, hundreds of them. They grunted, eerily in unison, sounding off like some sort of fantasy RPG war horn right out of Skyrim 11.

The machine gun in the turret fired in short bursts as Sparks had to watch the barrel temperature. While the Frogs were hit by the dozen, dozens more took their place. Even the wounded dragged themselves towards the copse of trees where the Death Dealer troops had dug in. The infantry position off to his right joined them, their machine guns loud even with the Schwarzkopf’s sound deadeners.

When the front line of the Frogs reached close range, grenade launchers went to work; their explosions adding to the cacophony of battle.

Their gun paused. “Reloading,” Sparks called out.

The Schwarzkopf was a C configuration, mounting ten missiles and Mark 7 rail gun in addition to the turret-mounted machine gun. They were splendid weapons against larger enemies, but against Frogs, they were mostly worthless. Gunfire raged all around the Whoop Ass, and ricochets pinged along his side armor.

Those noobs. They need to watch their fucking fields of fire.

The Frogs continued to surge forward.

We need more firepower on these fuckers.

“This is Whoop Ass. Request redeployment of forces from the rear to the front.”

“Heading your way,” called out Joxer, not waiting for the orders from the LT. He should have felt better with the support coming, but Joxer and his gunner, Sledge, were unknown quantities to him. In that instant he longed to be in his old platoon.

As soon as Sparks fired again, the front line of the Frogs reached his tank. Two sprang into the air mid-grunt, landing on the front of the vehicle, spraying their deadly goo over the left of his visor. They exploded as the turret turned and Sparks brought his machine gun to bear on them, their bodies falling headless and limp on the AFV.

Sparks kept the turret moving, constantly spraying, then reloading again. The infantry fell back, throwing stacked grenades at the Frogs, devouring them in explosions, shrapnel, fire and smoke. Thun popped the transmission into reverse and tightened his grip on the motorcycle-like throttle controls for the Schwarzkopf. He wanted to gun the engine, put some distance between them and the Frogs. Technically he was supposed to wait for the lieutenant to give the word, but no one would court-martial him for a little tactical redeployment to the rear. What kept him there was that Sparks was still blazing away—that and he was secure in the knowledge that the Frogs couldn’t get inside of the fighting vehicle. The camera and monitor would show his rear as he reversed, so he hoped he wouldn’t back up over anyone if he was forced into that action.

Another few thuds followed as Frogs scaled his fighting vehicle.

Screw this.

“Retrograding,” he said, turning the grips slowly as the Schwarzkopf began to back up. His eyes focused on the screen, showing the back of the vehicle as he moved. The clanking of the treads and the roar of the engine wrapped around Thun like a comforting blanket.

“Keep it going,” Sparks muttered as he reloaded.

Above his head, Thun could hear banging and thunking. The Frogs were trying to pry open the hatch. He slammed the brakes of the fighting vehicle, just to hear them fall down.

A spray of machine-gun fire banged and tinged off the top and side of his vehicle as the infantry support peppered the Frogs on top of his Schwartz.

“Geez,” Sparky called out as he began to fire again with the machine gun. “Those guys hit us more than they did the Froggies.”

The firing went on for several long minutes, then trickled off. The explosions became fewer, more spread apart. Have we been overrun? That concern was real and terrifying. Sparks held his fire. Looking out the visor, Thun could barely see through the haze that filled the air, battle smoke.

“What have you got, Sparky?” Thun asked after a few long moments.

“Nothing but the dead and dying.”

“You got them all?”

“All I can see.” There was a few seconds of pause before the usually jocular Sparks spoke again. “Thun—you need to see this.”

He threw the latch and pushed the hatch up and forward. As he rose, the smell hit him before the visuals. A stink, like crab meat left out too long on a summer day, stung at his nostrils. It mingled with gunpowder and other aromas—the blood of the dead enemies.

Looking at the top of his fighting vehicle, he saw the greenish-black blood splatters, along with the still-dangerous spittle from the Frogs. Dead alien bodies filled his field of vision. The fog-like haze faded, and what remained was a sea of hundreds of dead Frogs, starting at the highway and leading up to their position. In some areas, such as where his Schwarzkopf had been parked initially, they were piled three deep. In the middle of the kill box, he could see some of the Frogs were alive, limbs twitching, trying to pull bodies forward.

We’ve got to send some infantry out and put those things out of our misery.

Through the haze, heading back into the opposing woods, he saw a pair of Foxes, the alien scouts, retreating into the woods for cover. Behind him, he heard someone calling for a medic. Somebody’s hurt!

Off to his right, Sparky rose out of his hatch. “What were they thinking? They sent these Frogs to die. This was slaughter.”

Sparks was right. Thun eyed the distant woods where the Frogs had come from. “They were testing us.”

“What do you mean?”

“They threw all of those Frogs at us to see how many vehicles we had, how we were arrayed, what our firepower is. That’s why those Foxes retreated.”

“They lost a shitload of troops.”

“They have them to spare,” Thun said. “This was just them feeling us out.”

“So they’ll be back,” Sparks said with a hint of disgust.

Thun nodded. “That’s one thing you can always count on—they’ll be back.”

Chapter twelve

Operation Walrus—210A, the USS Proteus, East of the Vance Seamount, Pacific Ocean

The Proteus made strange sounds as it dove near the ocean floor. There were a few pings, metallic, followed by a groan. Chief Petty Officer Viktor Langman watched the crew’s reactions, more than reveal his own concerns. The crew knew the Gorgon sub better than he did. They didn’t say much, but sweat beaded on their brows.

The mission was reconnaissance in nature, with Langman doing the work. There had been a few deep-sea Fish sightings in the area. The DIA theorized they might be using the Vance Seamount as a base. The mount was a tall mountain in the Pacific. An old underwater volcano, horseshoe-shaped. A UWD, underwater drone, had tried to do a close pass over the top of the volcano but the drone disappeared. While it could’ve been an equipment failure, especially given the extreme depth, there was a chance that the Fish had taken the UWD out of commission. Langman was to be dropped a distance from the mount and would attempt to stealthily approach the mount to see what, if anything, might be there.

Presuming the sub didn’t implode first.

Captain Castillo stood behind the helmsman, Ensign Danielle, resting his hand on the top of her headrest to steady himself. “Bring us to stable one—bring the rings to hover mode.”

The captain then turned to Langman. “According to the mission parameters, this is as far as we go.”

“Understood,” he replied. “I’ll suit up.” He already had on his cold weather diving suit. Suiting up meant getting into his Hammerhead Trident suit.

Moving through the hatch at the aft of the ship, he reached the dock where the suit mated to the boat. With the stab of his short stubby finger, Langman pulled up the status. “Suit fine, docking ring fine, rear hatch pressure nominal,” he muttered. Glancing over at Lieutenant Shults, the ship’s engineer, he said, “Can you seal me in?”

Shults moved up next to him. “No problem.” Langman cycled the hatch locking mechanism and opened it. The hatch was heavy at first until the pistons took over the weight. It came downward at an angle in the ship.

Next came the rear hatch to the Hammerhead. He opened the control panel for it and cycled it. That hatch was smaller and opened downward easily. Inside was the saddle, the seat for the rig, turned to the rear where he was entering. The saddle was mounted on a pivot to make it easy for the pilot to get inside.

As he pulled himself up and inside the suit, he slid his legs into their control sleeves and hit the auto-tightener on the safety harness. Shults stood with his head in the docking ring, looking around inside the suit.

“Silly question,” the lieutenant said. “But what’s with the hat?”

Langman wore a dull navy blue knit hat. It was patched in two places, hand stitched with his sewing kit, far from a job well-done. The mention of it made him smile. “It was my father’s,” he said with pride, letting a little of his Ukrainian accent leak out. He continued to check systems and prepare for departure.

The hat was almost all he had left of his father, besides the memories. Viktor had lost everyone but his father when the Russians made their final push. His father had been a Navy man, but had lost his leg early in the war. That was back before bionic prosthetics, so he had nothing more than a cheap metal leg from the knee down with a foot-shaped appendage at the end to hold a shoe.

They and millions of others fled for Poland when Ukraine fell. The Russians let some flee, but not nearly enough. They rounded up refugees before they reached the border. His father had not been fast enough to get away. In Viktor’s ruck, he had his father’s old navy knit hat. Since then, he had worn it when he went on every tour of duty. In this way, the Ukrainian Navy is still at sea.

The Fish had become proxies for the Russians. The Russians had killed everyone he held dear. While he had served in the Russo-Bratva War, he only fought in one engagement with them. He owed them, owed the world, vengeance. It was why he stayed in the Coast Guard, for that chance to strike back.

Fate has dealt the Russians the same cards we have been given. I can’t kill Russians, but I can kill these aliens.

“We should be good to seal up,” Langman said, ignoring the question as he fought the memories of loss it had summoned.

Shults pushed the rear hatch to the Hammerhead up and Viktor cycled it shut. He heard the Proteus’s hatch shut and seal as well. Turning to face outward, he powered up the Trident suit. It throbbed around him as the power cells brought the systems online. Sitting in the saddle, he felt both powerful and vulnerable. His right arm ached from his anti-bends injection, as it always did. There were many ways to die in a Trident suit. If any one thing went wrong, he would lose his life. One had to be crazy or brave enough to pilot one of the suits, understanding the risks and embracing them as he did.

“Comms check,” he said as he pulled on the headset.

“We read you five by five, Cossack,” Lieutenant Norris replied.

“Undocking in three, two, one—” he cycled the maglock that held the Hammerhead in place and disengaged from the Proteus. With a skilled hand, he used his shoulder thrusters to bring the Trident suit to an upright position, behind the Proteus. Langman’s eyes darted to all of the small display screens, looking for any sign that something was amiss. Everything he saw was in the green. Outside everything was black until he toggled on his dull red running lights on the upper torso. Even then, his field of vision was limited but the low crimson beams had been demonstrated to not attract alien attention.

He pulled up his nav system and laid out the designated course. In the dark, he would have to trust his systems to find their way back. Channeling more power to the thrusters, he turned away from the sub and started the twenty-meter descent to the ocean floor. There was a gracefulness in the movement as he came along the lifeless seabed, hovering some five meters above it as he moved toward the unseen seamount in the distance.

“Good hunting,” came the voice of Captain Castillo.

Langman concentrated on what little he could see. The seafloor differed from what he had experienced before. It was an ancient volcanic flow, layers of once molten rock spreading out all around him. After twenty minutes, he deployed a WetNet buoy. Communications underwater were difficult. The tiny buoys formed a crude network, allowing him to communicate back to the Proteus if he had to.

It was hard to fight the sense of loneliness while piloting a Trident suit. Most deep-sea pilots had their own techniques for fighting it. Much of it was driven by the fact that death could come from any angle, randomly, in milliseconds. Langman differed from most pilots. Fighting that fear was a waste of time and energy, so he devoted nothing to it. He merely faced the fear and pushed past it, focusing on the mission.

As his Hammerhead slowly moved forward, he deployed another WetNet buoy after thirty-minutes had passed. It was tempting to transmit back to the sub, to make sure that the network was operating, but he didn’t want to shatter the silence.

Besides, if it isn’t working, there’s nothing I can do about it.

After an hour of slow moving, he slowed his speed more. According to the nav system, he was in the right spot. The Navy had replaced both of his microtorpedoes with a sensor suite. He was to deploy another buoy, then fire the torp into the sea mount from the open end of the large volcano. The modified projectile would kick off active sonar pings and flash special strobes designed to relay images back through the WetNet to the Proteus. Langman hated the fact that he had to sacrifice the weapons for probes, but who was he to question naval intelligence?

As soon as he launched, Langman was to begin the trek back. The probe was bound to stir up any of the Fish that were there, if any. They would be coming to find the source of it.

I would prefer to not be around when they show up.

“This is Cossack,” he signaled to the ship. “I am in position and about to release the package.”

“Understood,” came back Castillo’s voice. “Fire when ready.”

He triggered the jettisoning of another WetNet buoy. He heard the metallic click and the tiny snap as it broke free. He brought up the targeting and tracking system and hit the weapons lock release for the microtorpedoes. The two sensor-equipped torpedoes were ready. Langman aimed out in the blackness. “Let’s see what you are hiding…” he muttered, then fired the first one. He angled slightly to the left and fired number two. He heard the independent whooshes as the probes launched and darted away from his suit.

“One and two away,” he transmitted back to the boat as he brought the suit around in a tight curve and began the journey back. His focus went from not only his nav display, but to his sensors.

I can’t afford to go active on sonar, that will only serve to tell them where I’m at.

Where the trip out had been at a cruising speed, he pushed the suit faster to get back the Proteus. He leaned it forward, reducing the rotations in the waist thrusters slightly, so that it was a more angled profile in the water.

At the half-way point of the trip, his comms crackled to life. “Cossack, be advised,” came the voice of Lieutenant Norris, “torpedo two just went off-line. A pair of hostiles took it out.”

Well, that confirms that the Fish are in the Vance Seamount. He hoped that it gathered a wealth of data before it was destroyed.

“Recommend you keep your eyes peeled for bad guys.”

“Roger that,” Viktor replied. As if I would be ignoring any potential threat.

When he was about two hundred meters or so from the ship, his sensors picked up movement behind him. “Suka blyat,” he cursed.

“Contact,” he transmitted.

There’s no point in hiding now that they’ve found me. He switched on the active sonar. Two targets appeared on his scope, moving some ten meters out in a wide circle around him, moving to flank him.

“We show you at one-ninety meters,” Norris replied.

“I need to deal with this problem first,” he said, gripping the hand controls of the Hammerhead tightly. He adjusted his altitude, lowering the suit’s depth on the floor of the ocean so that he would have better balance and control.

“Come on, you bastards,” he muttered as he pivoted the Trident suit around. Some silt kicked up from his landing but he ignored it, his eyes darting to the sonar display. The two targets were moving to his right, coming together. Sidestepping, he angled himself to face them head-on. He switched power to his weapons systems.

They came like living shadows, swirling and twisting as they closed the distance. Mermen! The creatures had spindly arms with blade-like cutters at the tips. Their segmented bodies flexed and fluxed in the water as their massive flipper-tail moved in blurs. Their triangular heads were sleek, much like his suit’s. They were dark blue with hints of black and came at him, their claw-cutters pointed at his Hammerhead.

Raising his suit’s left arm, he triggered the sonic emitter. The weapon throbbed as it fired, distorting the water between him and the two Mermen. The waves of sonic energy were circular and expanding from the barrel of the weapon, engulfing both targets.

They halted their rush towards him, putting their arms up as if to deflect the sonic energy. One broke to the left, while the other rode through the attack. The moment the emitter stopped, it lunged at him.

Sharp claws scraped across the hull of the Hammerhead as he managed to land a blow with his right fist. The Merman twisted, almost as if it were coiling around him. Viktor didn’t panic, but jabbed his right arm into the torso and triggered a harpoon. The weapon couldn’t miss; the barrel was stuck in the creature’s side. An inky blood swirled from the hit. The creature lunged to break away, with part of the harpoon still in the barrel. His arm jerked as the weapon tore more of the alien flesh.

Once it got free, the Merman swam away, masked by its blood trail that formed dark clouds in the water. Langman saw that the other Merman was coming at him from behind, so he stepped forward and wheeled around, just as claws scraped into the suit. A hydraulic warning light on his left shoulder went off as he pivoted to face the threat.

Viktor started raising his left arm to unleash the sonic weapon, but the Merman grappled with the arm, blocking a good shot.

You’re a wily one, aren’t you?

Flexing with all his might, he twisted around, kicking up silt as the Merman wrapped around him like a boa constrictor. His footing was off thanks to the flaps of the tail fin of his enemy and he fought to keep the Hammerhead upright.

With a violent jerk, he got his right arm free. He moved it in front of the head of the Merman, just above his viewport, and triggered the flasher. The strobe went off with an intensity so bright, he closed his eyes and still saw flickers of red. Bright lights bothered the Fish immensely, and while it didn’t injure them, it did blind them.

The alien broke its grip, moving away several meters. Which was all Langman needed. As he shut off the flasher, he aimed his right arm at the Merman. The targeting reticle on the inside of his viewport showed he was on target as he pointed at the head of the creature, who was twisting, reaching up at its eyes, trying to figure out what had happened.

A gentle squeeze of the trigger fired a harpoon. The weapon hissed as it launched, filling the space between him and the alien, then slamming into its left eye. The weapon went deep, its barbed hook tearing at the soft flesh of the Merman’s eye and spilling more inky blue blood into the water.

Unlike the first Merman, this one did not swim away. It seemed to seize up for a moment, tensing its muscles, then a half-a-heartbeat later, it went limp. It slowly fell backward, away from him, the mini-harpoon standing like a flagpole as the creature settled on the ocean floor.

Checking his sonar, he didn’t see any sign of the enemy. At the same time, he was smart enough to know that didn’t mean he was safe. His damage indicator showed that the last attack had severed a hydraulic line in the left arm. Viktor tested it, trying to raise the limb. It was possible, but it took every bit of his strength to budge it. Wisps of greenish gray hydraulic fluid swirled down near the bottom of his viewport.

If they come again, I won’t be able to use the emitter. That thought didn’t frighten him. I’ve been through worse situations in my life. I have no intention of dying down here, against these aliens.

Light appeared behind him, making the stirred-up dirt in the water appear even thicker. Turning slowly, he saw the Proteus moving in behind him, its forward light array trained on him.

“Are you alright, Cossack?” Captain Castillo asked.

“Minor damage, but I am still kicking.”

“We thought you might need a lift.”

“It is most appreciated.” He toggled the thrusters on and adjusted their angle, kicking up more silt as his Hammerhead rose. The fighting with the Mermen had been nerve-wracking and dangerous, he could feel the adrenaline waning already. He had controlled it, as he always did, but that hadn’t prevented one of his attackers from damaging his suit.

I must be mindful next time out. Vengeance can only take me so far.

Chapter thirteen

Carnegie Hall, New York, the Eastern Front, the United States

A bottle flew past Detective Kenyon O’Malley’s head, hitting the building behind him and showering his back with dozens of bits of broken glass. The rioters numbered around a hundred, and from what he could see, there was more than enough police present to handle the situation. This will be like the last riot. Lots of yelling, some blunt objects tossed at us, maybe some head-busting, but in the end they will disperse. He crouched a little more behind his transparent riot shield, just to make himself less of a target.

What was different was the frequency of the food riots. Too many people had stayed behind in Manhattan after the invasion. The supply chains around the country were mere shadows of what they had been before the war. For major cities, things were worse. It took tons of food to feed even a small portion of a city like Manhattan. When people get hungry, they get desperate. While he understood their pains, he also was a police officer.

Carnegie Hall had been converted to a food distribution site. It wasn’t ideal, but someone in city hall had decided that it was a well-known landmark that everyone in the city could find. While churches had their own distribution networks, this was one that the State of New York established. With rationing tight, disturbances in the lines were commonplace, and getting more violent each week.

A brick came flying, hitting Sergeant Narvaez’s shield hard. “Detective—can we just take out the batons and beat these guys yet?”

“No,” he said, regretfully. “We are here to hold the line. We have a team on 57th that has the duty of breaking them up. We are just here to make sure they don’t try to flee down Seventh.”

The procedure was fairly straightforward. Arrested rioters were bussed out of the city to Peekskill. The thinking was that getting the troublemakers out of the city reduced the need for provisions and moved the troublemakers somewhere else. Of course some of them made the long trip back to Manhattan. The stubbornness of New Yorkers was not something easy to shatter.

The rioters chanted, “We want food!” mostly in unison. They weren’t starving, not yet. While O’Malley hoped that things would change, he knew not to bank on hope. It’s like someone has rebooted the entire planet. Some things will come back on, some won’t. He was confident that things were going to get worse before they got better.

More objects came flying, hitting their shields, as the crowd pushed forward. Most was garbage, things scrounged by the rioters along the way. Others were more concussive, like the bricks and bottles filled with water. As they got nearer, O’Malley was less confident that they weren’t going to be banging heads.

Where in the hell is the Bravo Team? They should be coming in behind the rioters now.

He contemplated activating his comms and finding out, but he kept his focus on the approaching wall of human flesh, angrily chanting at him.

“I think they mean business this time,” Patrolman Hazel called over from down the dark blue wall of police.

“Has anyone ever tried to explain to them that we aren’t the bad guys?” Narvaez called back.

They don’t care because they are hungry.

Where the heck was that support? O’Malley reached up to his shoulder and toggled on the communications microphone. “This is Alpha Team. Bravo, we are getting pressed here. Where are you guys?”

A muffled voice came back in his earbud. “Alpha, this is a bigger crowd than we thought. We are pinned down on Broadway.”

We’re on our own. Fuck. His mind shifted back to a tactical model. We can pivot and fall back down Seventh Ave. That would put us parallel to Bravo.

As his mouth opened to issue the orders, a crack went off from the crowd. It was a gunshot. His head snapped down the line just in time to see Christie fall back hard, a hole in his riot shield. A splatter of blood streaked on his transparent shield.

“Christie!” he called. The patrolman was moaning and twisting on the sidewalk.

Rage rose up in him. Like someone had thrown gasoline on a small campfire, it erupted. Another shot banged off from the crowd, this one going over their heads, ricocheting off Carnegie Hall.

The mob, which was around seventy-five feet away, seemed to sense the police were stunned. They advanced, hesitantly at first, then as they gained confidence, it became a rush. Someone screamed, “Kill the cops!”

O’Malley turned, hearing them get louder and recognizing the threat. His inner fury got the best of him as the mob headed right at him. He hated it when his anger welled like this—it felt too much like those times when his father pulled off his belt to administer some kinetic discipline when he was a kid. Over the years on the force, he learned that there were times when anger was wholly appropriate. But once it was let out of the little mental box where he kept it locked up, it was uncontrollable.

Screw the riot rounds. He toggled his microphone on his shoulder. “Live ammo. Defend yourselves. Lethal force is authorized!” he called. It wasn’t department procedure, but then again, none of the rules were written to deal with alien invasions and food riots. There was an officer that was down and a mob that could overwhelm them all. O’Malley felt cornered, and when he was cornered, he came out swinging.

His people didn’t question the orders. They drew their sidearms and fired. O’Malley did the same, aiming at a protester that was preparing to throw a brick. He hit the man lower than he had been aiming, right in the crotch. The man seemed to freeze, his arm curled back for the throw, then he fell backwards into the crowd.

A half dozen other rioters went down as well. Someone was hit in the head, which made it disappear in a spray of crimson mist that splattered the rioters. Screams replaced the chanting and the crowd broke into a mad panic, running in every direction except towards the police. As they ran, he saw the dead and wounded, more than just the six he had initially seen. Bullets did that, passing through bodies and hitting others. O’Malley should have had pity for them, but as he moved over near Christie, he found himself wishing that more had been hit. It looked as if Christie’s blast plate had stopped the round, but he was clearly still in pain.

Reaching up to his shoulder, the detective broadcast, “Officer down. Shots fired. Carnegie Hall. We have returned fire. Get the paramedics down here, now!”

Reaching down to his wounded officer, the older man leaned in close. “Did that shot get through?”

“I—I don’t know. Hurts like a bitch.”

O’Malley had to know. Unhooking Christie’s tactical vest, he pulled it free. There was blood, soaking into his blue uniform shirt that was already slick with sweat. As a few more shots were fired above him by his officers, he pulled the shirt open, sending buttons flying.

The wound was actually a piece of the blast plate, a chip of it. The dull gray material was sticking in between Christie’s ribs.

I miss the old plates; they didn’t fragment like this.

“Hold still,” he muttered, pulling the sliver out. It had penetrated nearly an inch. Christie hissed in pain as he pulled the fragment out and threw it on the sidewalk.

Looking up, he saw that the crowd was gone, rushing out in every direction. A few people remained, most were just like him, bent over fallen rioters. “Get out there and help the wounded if you can,” O’Malley barked. His people obeyed as the detective fumbled to pull out his first aid kit. Blood bubbled up out of Christie’s wound.

His lung has been hit… damn those morons.

“Is it bad?” Christie said, clearly afraid to look down and see the wound himself.

“Not too bad,” O’Malley said, finding a gauze compress and putting it on the bloody injury. “Help is on the way.”

It was an automatic response, not one necessarily founded in reality. Ambulance service in the city was sporadic and erratic. He heard sirens bouncing off the buildings, echoing down the concrete corridors of Manhattan. He could only hope that was for them. More gunshots echoed around him, but they were distant, no doubt the rioters taking a few more potshots at other officers or panic firing. I didn’t join the force for this kind of duty.

19th Police Precinct, NYPD, New York, the Eastern Front, the United States

Six hours later

Captain Babish gestured to the chair opposite his dull gray desk. O’Malley felt like he was a kid being pulled into the principal’s office, and in many respects he was. He had gotten out of his tactical gear after the mop-up at Carnegie Hall. He had two officers wounded. There were over a dozen wounded protesters, with nine confirmed dead.

“Kenyon, you know why you’re here, don’t you?”

He nodded.

It’s best to keep my answers short.

“I think so.”

“So how did this clusterfuck unfold?”

Babish wanted nothing but facts. He was an old-school PowerPoint kind of officer… he worked off bullet points.

“We were holding at the Carnegie Hall. The crowd started throwing bricks and other stuff, then opened fire on us. I ordered my men to return fire.”

“That isn’t the procedure and you know it,” Babish said. “Why no tear gas, or rubber bullets?”

O’Malley wanted to tell him, “Because that shit doesn’t work and you know it.” But that would only be digging his hole deeper. One thing about being a cop in New York: you had to know when to lie and when to tell the truth. “We have been out of tear gas for two weeks. They were throwing heavy metal jacketed shit at us. I made the call. You can’t respond to deadly force being thrown at you with batons and bruise-makers.”

“We’ve got ten dead and sixteen in the hospital.”

It is worse than I thought, but not by much.

“There wasn’t time to play games. These so-called protesters weren’t. They were armed and wanted a fight. I did what was necessary to protect my people. As it is, we have two men in the hospital. If I hadn’t, we might all be there, or on the morgue bus heading out of the city.”

There was no point in trying to sugarcoat it for the captain. Babish was smart and would see right through any attempt to go beyond the raw facts. The older officer’s brow wrinkled, and he dipped his head down over his desk, shaking it gradually for a few moments. When he raised it to look back into O’Malley’s eyes, his face was bright red. “I’m supposed to turn you over to internal affairs for this kind of bullshit. They’d pull you and your people off duty to do an investigation. The DA’s office would be involved. You know that, don’t you?”

O’Malley nodded, but was unconcerned.

“Of course you know internal affairs has been shut down and they are back on the street just like you. The DA isn’t even in the city and you would actually be pretty damn low on their lists of potential prosecutions.”

Kenyon wanted to crack a smile, but knew better. The legal system was more shattered than the supply chains in the city.

Law is what you make it.

“I understand.”

“Do you? This isn’t the first time we’ve had this discussion, Kenyon.”

“The streets are rough. You know that, sir.”

“I do. I get paid to look at the bigger picture. Let me share this with you. At some point, we will either win or lose this war. If we lose, you and I are dead. Our problems are over. If we win, the morons in the DA’s office will come back. They will start looking and incidents like what happened with you and your people down at Carnegie Hall. Some wild-haired DA will see this as a chance to deal out some justice for the people. They will want people to blame, you will be a target… and there’s nothing I’ll be able to do to help you.”

O’Malley hadn’t considered what the captain laid out. “What are you saying, sir?”

“What I’m saying is this—you are going to write this up as a report. You will stick to the facts. I want you to write it to justify your call. You’ll need to get all the personnel involved to read it, and write reports to validate yours. They need to claim their lives were in imminent danger. You need to get them in line with this, because if you don’t, they are all potential witnesses for the prosecution. Understand?”

O’Malley nodded. It wasn’t the first time he had been asked to slant a report, and the way things were, he knew it wouldn’t be the last. “I do, sir.”

“Then get on it. Don’t write it for me, write it for a trial that might happen in the future. I’ll file it. We can hope that this matter is dead, but we will plan for the worst.”

“Yes sir,” he said, rising to his feet.

“Your personnel that were hit,” Babish said as he reached the door. “Are they going to make full recoveries?”

“Yes,” he said wearily. “One’s got a punctured lung and bruised ribs. One got a flesh wound on the shoulder. The docs all say they’ll be ready for duty in a week or so.”

“Good. I want their names. The phones aren’t reliable, but I will try and call their families—let them know we are thinking of them.”

“I appreciate that, sir,” he said. O’Malley had already called the families, but hearing from the captain was important. The NYPD was a fraternal organization, a pseudo-family.

As O’Malley went to document the event, he found himself craving just a few hours’ sleep.

Even in the middle of a war, I’m having to cover my ass.

St. Vincent Ferrer Church, New York, the Eastern Front, the United States

Two days later

Kenyon entered the church with a box of food that he had recovered from apartments that he and his people had cleared earlier in the week. Father Conner saw him put it with the other sparse donations and smiled. The detective then walked over to the confessional as he did every Friday night. He entered and knelt, his knees protesting the gesture. On the other side, he heard the dark wooden door of the confessional close.

“Good evening, my son,” Father Conner said.

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.”

“Go on, my son.”

“I have stolen food and other items so that people will not starve.” Kenyon hesitated.

“Go on.”

“And… my men were attacked. I ordered them to shoot back. Rioters died because of what I did.” He was fairly sure that Father Conner would have heard of the riots. Even without television or web coverage, such stories traveled fast. Drawing a deep breath, he went into prayer. “God, I am sorry for my sins. In choosing to do wrong and failing to do good, I have sinned against You whom I should love above all things. I firmly intend, with Your help, to do penance, to sin no more, and to avoid whatever leads me to sin. Our Savior Jesus Christ suffered and died for us. In His name, God, have mercy.”

“You stole food to feed those that were needy,” Father Conner said. “And your defending yourself, the Psalms say, ‘Blessed be the Lord my strength, which teacheth my hands to war, and my fingers to fight.’”

“People died because I lost my temper, Father.”

“Proverbs tells us that those with a hasty temper will make mistakes. Your father was a man quick to the fight too. You are a stronger man than him, I have seen that in you. I know deep down you have a good heart. You come in here all the time, saving food that would rot so that we can give it to those that need it. You’re a good man.”

“I don’t always feel that, Father.”

“We all should strive to be better, Kenyon. This war is a test from God. He is watching all of us, seeing how we deal with these difficult times.”

“It isn’t easy out there. It’s not just the people. Temptation is everywhere.”

“It always has been. Just remember, the Lord is watching you and what you do.”

O’Malley wasn’t sure that he would be able to resist… in fact, he was sure of it.

At least I have bared my soul. I can be a better man than my dad.

“I will do my best.”

“That is all anyone can do in facing these demons.” Father Conner paused, then prayed for Kenyon. “God, the Father of mercies, through the death and the resurrection of His Son, has reconciled the world to Himself and sent the Holy Spirit among us for the forgiveness of sins. Through the ministry of the Church, may God give you pardon and peace, and I absolve you from your sins in the name of the Father, and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. Make the sign of the cross and close with Amen.”

O’Malley made the sign of the cross and rose to his feet. For a few hours at least, his conscience was clean.

Chapter fourteen

Operation Private Dancer 106-J, The Heights, New Jersey, the Eastern Front, the United States

Paterson Plank Road snaked along a steep brush covered hillside that dropped down a steep slope to Hoboken, New Jersey. Lieutenant Bianca Cordova patrolled the road, looking down on Hoboken, which was now officially the Hoboken AIZ—occupied alien territory. Just two weeks earlier her platoon had been fighting there, but the onslaught had been a meat grinder, slowly pushing the Army back.

Three members of the platoon had been wounded in the fighting, though none of their injuries were serious. They attributed that to her presence. Not so much from a firepower perspective, but from being the platoon’s good luck charm.

Cordova had given up trying to argue that luck had nothing to do with it. And a part of her actually believed it herself. It was hard to deny that a long string of her successes had saved the platoon, even before they got to Hoboken. She’d taken out the Cthuga, had ended two ambushes by managing to place incredibly accurate and effective shots on Bosses that were about to destroy her unit, and just three days earlier she’d put her Hornet between an enemy cutter beam and Corporal Riggins and Sergeant Dunn, saving their lives.

I guess I am lucky, and for them, the luck keeps rubbing off.

While their position was on the high ridge overlooking Hoboken, that didn’t mean it was safe. The Fish had been slowed by the thick brush and steep incline up the granite slopes, but they weren’t averse to trying to find a weakness in the line. Patrols along Paterson Plank Road were necessary due to their unrelenting nature.

They don’t stop coming at us. They keep pushing. At some point, we might run out of ground to fall back on.

She adjusted her Hornet rig, Royal Flush, along the road, carefully looking to the right, down the slope, for any signs of alien movement. To the right was Hoboken. To the left, a sheer wall of dead vines covering a stone wall—impassible. Bianca had taken point for the patrol, being the only ASHUR in the unit. The roadway was slick from an early morning rain and gray skies hung overhead. Smoke rolled out of the area near the docks, and from across the Hudson in New York—indications of fires, battle, and death. There were rumbles from the distant city, deep and low like thunder, but man-made. Bianca glanced towards Freedom Plaza. The towers still stood, though they were damaged. It was hard to suppress her pride in seeing them through the haze.

As long as they stand, we stand a chance in this war.

“Battlespace Command, this is Blackjack. Striker Two has reached Waypoint Romeo,” she said as checked her Hornet’s tactical display. “No contacts here.”

“Confirmed, Blackjack,” came the disembodied voice of battlespace command. “We have possible activity to your northeast, approximately two kilometers.”

“Type?”

“Unknown. Aerial drones have detected movement in the brush on the Hoboken side of the line. They are keeping out of the open.”

Well, that can’t be good.

She was confident that the steep rock wall would have exposed any aliens attempting to scale it, limiting where she had to look for the enemy. “Understood. We are continuing that direction.” Bianca switched to her tactical channel. “Subspook, did you hear that?” She could just make him out, having synced up with his Adaptive Camouflage System (ACS) which had rendered him and the other members of the squad semi-visible. Her Hornet’s system was on as well. She had always felt that the ACS gave soldiers and pilots a false sense of security. The damn things fail once you start shooting or moving fast. Still, having it on gave them some degree of stealth.

“Yessir,” Dunn replied. “Alright, boys and girls, we have possible enemy movement up ahead. Spread out the formation. Do a quick weapons check and make sure you are hot. I want eyes down and weapons ready. Festus, get your drones out there. I’d rather they find the baddies before we do.”

Festus’s voice came back. “You want Santa’s Little Helper to go alone or you want a pocket drone or two?”

Santa’s Little Helper 14 was the tag for his Greyhound GRD. Why Festus had chosen that designation was something that she never got a straightforward answer on. Bianca didn’t give it much thought. Cordova knew that she should send out one of her squad to reconnoiter as well, but she felt that it wasn’t necessary.

This is a shit place for an ambush, even for the Fish. The GRD alone is probably more than enough. Intel says that the enemy has only been scouting this part of the road. It’s probably just a Fox or two, she thought.

“Send in Santa’s Little Helper,” she replied. “That should be more than enough.”

“Copy that,” Festus said as he moved out his Greyhound GRD. The sensor and camera package on the GRD transmitted to the squad and battlespace command. She could see greater detail on her tactical display.

So far, nothing horrible. BS command may have made a bad call. No baddies up there.

As the squad moved forward, the additional feed going to the Greyhound wavered, then flickered off. “Hang on, just lost my high eyes.” Bianca could see the Greyhound slowing on her tactical display. No doubt Festus was slowing it down so that he could try to fix whatever the problem was.

The enemy appeared from below, springing upward from the brush, landing so hard on the road that the ground throbbed. It was a Boss, slick black sharkskin glistening. With one clawed hand, it reached out for the Greyhound, gripping it hard as the drone’s legs pedaled in empty air. The Boss’s strange articulated joints flexed as it pulled the GRD back, then threw it right at the squad.

Santa’s Little Helper flew past Bianca, hitting Private Walstead and knocking him down behind her. His ACS went off and he was no longer a transparent ghost to her, but fully visible. His chip feed showed that he was injured on her tactical display. Off to her right the brush moved and a Crab rose onto the roadway.

We’re flanked!

“Battlespace Command, we are under attack. One Boss at my coordinates,” she gritted through clenched teeth.

Gunfire filled the air around her as Cordova aimed her grenade launcher and unleashed three rapid-fire grenades at the Boss. The massive alien charged as the explosions peppered the thick hide on its legs with hot shrapnel. If the hulking alien was hurt, he didn’t show it.

There was more movement, as if the brush to her right was alive.

“Fall back!” she ordered as instinct and training kicked in. She fired off a power shell. The capacitor in the right arm of the Hornet hummed as she leveled the laser shotgun at the charging Boss. Sergeant Dunn heard her and clarified her orders. “Retrograde, by fire team. No running, this is orderly. Keep up the fire, hit that Crab first!”

She fired the moment the Boss came in range. The creature raised an arm in front of the narrow crimson horizontal slit that served as its eyes, hopefully blinded by the laser burst. It slowed, but only for an instant, then it renewed its charge, each thudding footfall cracking the asphalt as it ran. She fired another power shell and fired the weapon again.

The Boss sprang past her, swinging its big arm out. The strange joints made the arm like a battering ram as it passed. It hit her ASHUR just below the cockpit canopy. The force of the hit was so strong, it threw her rig on its back, skidding along the road. She heard more gunfire, more frequent and intense, all around her. Her own ACS system went off, lasting far longer than she had expected.

Warning lights flickered red on the damage display, screaming for her attention, but she only rolled to her side, got to her knees, and surveyed the targets. A lone Crab was thrashing wildly into her squad and the Boss that had knocked her down grabbed Festus, then threw him into the granite that flanked the road. His body hit hard and he dropped limp into the guardrail.

As she rose to a standing position, she unleashed a pair of grenades into the Boss’s flank. At least a few pieces of shrapnel penetrated as they went off, and fine sprays of high-powered liquid fired off like tiny geysers from the alien’s upper legs. They sprayed intensely, then stopped.

The Crab’s deadly tail stabbed down at Riggins and from the crunching sound, the stinger had gone through the soldier and into the pavement. As the stinger extracted, slick with gore, she saw that the tip of it had broken off from the impact. Walstead slumped over his machine gun, which tore into the Crab’s side with a deadly and steady burst. An oily spray of alien blood shot out, making the creature pivot in place to face the new threat.

The Boss turned its attention to Cordova. It aimed its left arm in her direction and a deadly cutter beam of high-pressured water cut a slash up her torso and across the transparent aluminum of her cockpit canopy. Bianca fired off a power shell and retaliated with her laser shotgun. Smoke rose from the burn marks on the alien’s hide as she discharged another round.

Like a deer, the Boss sprang off to her right flank as the purr of the machine gun continued to tear into the Crab. She turned to respond as the cutter tore into the right knee actuator of her Hornet. The beam of super-pressured water dug into the actuator and it blew apart, bits of metal sputtering down the road. She felt the knee of Royal Flush give way slightly, throwing off some of her laser shotgun blast. Enough of the laser burst hit to burn more of the hide from the Boss, but not enough to kill it.

The Crab twisted hard in her peripheral vision, grabbing someone with one of its forward claws. Oh my God, it’s Dunn! The sergeant was lifted off the ground, his weapon clattering on the road as the alien lifted him up. Blood squirted from where the pinchers were closing, crushing Subspook in its grasp.

Walstead went full auto as she moved, focusing on the Boss. The brutish ebony creature had a lightning-like light pattern on its chest, shimmering a hot pink hue as it moved towards her. Cordova discharged another power shell and fired another pair of grenades, the shrapnel hitting her ASHUR and the Boss at the same instant. Moving was difficult with the crippled knee joint, but she managed to drag the damaged leg a few meters as she fired another burst as the Boss closed with her.

It swung one of its massive claws at her, hitting her rig hard, spinning her for a moment, then sending her Hornet crashing down on the pavement. The transparent metal of the canopy caved inward from the fall and she was thrown forward towards it hard, the safety restraints digging into her shoulders and crotch. For a moment, her vision blurred and Bianca feared she might pass out.

She tried to roll, but the right leg of the rig refused to respond. Her eyes raced to the damage indicator and in horror, she saw that the leg had been severed at the damaged knee. The Hornet was a light ASHUR, its speed was part of its defense. Now it, and she, were crippled. Flexing her legs in the control sleeves, she rocked the Royal Flush in the other direction, pushing with her left leg enough to roll on her side.

As she did, she saw the Boss start back towards her, raising its leg as if to drive it into her rig and soul. Her arms ached as she pushed back while the leg came down. It missed by mere centimeters, but the impact cratered part of the asphalt and shook the Hornet.

Cordova pushed with her arms and got to a sitting position. Swinging the laser shotgun around, she fired at point-blank range. The side torso of the Boss erupted, spraying out liquid under intense pressure all over her rig and the road. It staggered from the hit, stepping back slightly, then it seemed to get its balance. Streams of steam curled from the damaged side.

How the hell can it shake that off?

She never got the answer. The Boss exploded in the midsection, its internal organs and bits of shrapnel raining down all around her, riddling her armor in several places. The colossal alien had been hit, no doubt by a Carl Gustav round. Its lifeless body crunched on the ground next to her. It had to be Kurland firing that. Glancing around, she couldn’t see him.

Bianca looked over and saw the Crab, its tail had been cut off by machine-gun fire. It had collapsed dead as well, releasing Sergeant Dunn. His chest rose and fell—the man was still alive, which was a momentary relief.

“Battlespace Command, this is Blackjack. My squad is down. I am down. We need immediate relief and evac. Send the medics in—send them now,” her voice was breathy as she tried to control her breathing. Her heartbeat thudded like a bass drum in her ears.

“Help is on the way,” came back the voice of the battlespace commander. “Can you hold?”

Glancing around, she didn’t see any of her squad standing. Blood and alien guts and gore were everywhere. A blur of movement further north on the road revealed an alien Fox. It had been hiding up in the vines and brush overlooking Patterson Plank Road, no doubt monitoring their every movement.

Bastard had the high ground.

The creature paused, seeming to glare at her and the mangled remains of her squad. She angled her left arm up, bringing the grenade launcher into a firing position. The Fox was at the far end of range, so her angle was steep. The targeting and tracking system said it was a no-go, but she shifted slightly and fired more on instinct than anything else.

Her launcher thunked and whooshed twice and two grenades sailed downrange. They hit near the Fox, throwing up smoke, shrapnel, and chaos. As the wisps of while smoke faded, she saw no sign of the Fox. Disappointment hit her. No mangled corpse to see.

She hit the egress latch on the canopy and the small pistons hissed as it tried to open. Bianca pulled her legs from their control sleeves, curling up for a moment, then swung them forward. Flexing hard, she pushed the canopy open the rest of the way.

With her ASHUR downed and missing a leg, she focused on seeing what she could do for the rest of her squad. Hitting the release to her harness, she crawled out. The cool air stung at her sweat as she moved to Sergeant Dunn. “How bad?” she asked, seeing the crumpled STG armor of his legs and torso. Blood was everywhere, and she fumbled to open her medkit.

“Can’t feel my legs,” Dunn replied, straining to get each word out through waves of pain.

She placed a freezer pack on the worst of the cuts, tightening it down and activating it. It would slow the blood flow, hopefully buy him some time. “Help is on the way.”

Dunn nodded. “Get to the others,” he said, then closed his eyes. She saw he was still breathing and hoped he would be able to hold on.

Moving to Riggins, she saw that the stinger had gone right through him. He was not moving, his face was pale. There was no point in checking for a pulse.

She turned her focus to Walstead. He was still hugging his machine gun, but looked exhausted. His shoulder was out of joint, she could see that even with all of his armor. Blood ran from a wound on his right side.

“What can I do for you?” she asked, kneeling.

“I’m fine. What about Festus or Kurland?” he managed, his voice weak and weary.

Festus was gone. She knew that. Kurland, though… she got up and looked. She found him slumped over a guardrail, the Carl Gustav lying in front of him. Cordova went to his side and found he had a pulse, which surprised her given the uncomfortable way he lay on the rail. Pulling him back, she saw that a cutter had hit him. His intestinal track spilled out from the diagonal cut that had pierced and sliced his armor.

Vomit rose in Bianca’s throat. She swallowed it back down hard. There was a smell, almost like feces, coming from the wound. As she gently laid him back, she struggled to hold in another urge to spew. Pulling out the auto-suture from her medkit, she tried to pull his cut skin back together. Her fingers slipped with the blood that was everywhere. She attached the kit as best she could, near one of the ends of the cut, then activated it. His injuries were far beyond what the suture could repair, but it was something, and Bianca felt she had to try.

From the south, she heard the roar of vehicles heading towards her. She rose to her feet and waved her arms to get their attention. “Hold on, Kurland, help is on the way.”

The medics came along with a handful of support troops to provide cover if needed. A recovery vehicle came and winched up her Hornet onto its flat bed. Everything was a blur to Cordova then. Someone asked if she was okay and she could only nod. She watched as they worked on Sergeant Dunn, getting him aboard an Army transport. The grizzled veteran looked pale, weaker than she had ever imagined him being.

The two medics working on Kurland struggled with him, hooking him up to IVs even before trying to move him. He convulsed at one point, his body quaking, and they gave him a shot that seemed to calm him. Only Walstead could walk into the ambulance, and that only with help.

Standing on the road, she realized she was the last one there. Looking down at her hands, they felt sticky, covered with Kurland’s blood.

We were just going down the road and two of them tore us apart. How could this have happened so fast?

Guilt swelled.

I should have moved faster. We should have called for help. They had fought the same classes of aliens before and had beaten them. What did I do wrong?

As she stared at her hands, one medic told her it was time to go. Cordova nodded and followed the medic into a transport.

Everything went wrong. How did I let this happen?

As they started away from the battle site, she struggled not to cry.

Chapter fifteen

Extra Terrestrial Task Force (ETF) HQ, DIA Intelligence Annex, the Penetrator, Los Alamos, New Mexico, the United States

Dr. Ming Tong had taken a quick lunch, as was the norm. The cafeteria food was not bad, though there were shortages from time-to-time that made assembling a meal challenging. Today there were salad greens with carrots and radishes, but no dressing. While some of her coworkers complained, she didn’t.

There are people in the country who are surviving on far less.

When she returned to her desk, she found several reports waiting, no doubt about the metallurgy analysis from the recent tests of the prototype Mako Trident suit. As she picked up the stack of charts and numbers, an envelope fell into her lap. She set down the report and held up the envelope.

It was small, like an invitation, but there was nothing else on it. Opening it by simply unfolding the flap, she saw a small card with a dangerously familiar font:

You were warned not to involve anyone.

Do not test our resolve further.

413 Longstream Road, Unit 10, Santa Fe

8:00pm - Tonight

Come alone.

A chill washed over her body and she instinctively looked around, wondering if she might catch a glimpse of who had dropped off the note. When she saw no one was wandering around, her eyes fixated on the message.

They know I have talked to security. I have put my family in danger.

It had been almost three weeks since she had received the first note in her apartment. After that, silence. Every day, when she went home, she opened the door with trepidation, fearing another note like the one that she had just found. She assumed DHS and FBI had set up cameras around her apartment, so that if anyone left a message, they would be captured on video and could be identified and tracked.

This message was different. First it had been left on her desk. That meant they had agents that working inside of the ETF. That realization made her shiver even more than when she read the note. She’d thought their security was airtight. She was wrong. It could be anyone, a coworker, even her manager. Invisible eyes watched her, piercing her, studying her reaction as she looked at the note.

The second thing that was different was that the message required her to take action. Just thinking about that made her fidget in her seat.

Why me?

It was a question she had struggled with since the first mysterious message showed up. It had to be the Chinese that were behind this, but why single her out?

Is there something they know about me that makes me susceptible to being blackmailed?

Long hours alone in her apartment had been wasted trying to figure out what had made her the unseen enemy’s objective.

Being a target was difficult. It came with a mental weight that was hard to shake. The CIA had assured her they would not share the information with her coworkers, but there were times Ming felt as if they were watching her, studying her movements. She had assured herself that it was nothing more than paranoia, but it was a feeling impossible to shake.

Putting the note back in the envelope, she called Heather Taylor’s office. She didn’t want to meet her there, not if someone was watching her from within the ETF. Taylor agreed and told her to meet with her in a small indiscreet conference room.

When Ming arrived, Taylor ushered her in, closing the door behind her. Handing the CIA liaison the note, Ming didn’t speak beyond telling her she had found it on her desk after lunch. Taylor read the note, holding it by the edges of the paper, then carefully set it down on the conference table. Ming understood and silently cursed herself.

I may have messed up fingerprints or DNA evidence by touching the note.

“You will need to go to the meeting location,” Taylor said.

Panic swirled around Dr. Tong and she held her hands up. “I’m not equipped for this. You are in the CIA. You go.”

“It’s not that easy,” Taylor said. “Things are complicated by the fact you got this at work. You have to go. They are watching you. They are expecting you to be there, alone.”

“What about support from the government?”

Taylor nodded once. “We will have surveillance in place and some counterintel assets positioned to move in, if we have to. The FBI is taking the lead with ground resources, DHS on SIGINT. Right now, we need to find out who we are dealing with.”

“What about my family?”

“I’ve been told that the Bureau is monitoring them. So far, no indications of danger.”

That could change at any moment.

“Shouldn’t I get a gun or something?”

“Do you know how to use a weapon?”

She shook her head no.

“Look, people think guns make them safe. Without the right training, having a gun is nearly worthless. Chances are you might hurt yourself more than anyone you are facing. It is best that you leave the shooting stuff to the professionals.”

Taylor’s words made sense, but that didn’t help her. Going to the meeting unarmed made her feel naked, exposed.

Why am I the only one putting my ass on the line?

“So I go, then what?”

“Listen to what they have to say. Our people will monitor the conversation. We have some toys that make that easy. They will press you to turn over information to them. You need to protest, tell them that you feel like you are betraying your country, etcetera. They will press you harder and eventually you will need to agree to help them.”

“What?” The concept of helping people that were threatening her family was abhorrent to Ming.

Nodding, Taylor said, “I know it sounds strange, but in the end, it will help the United States. You need to learn how they expect the data to get to them—that is very helpful for us. Agreeing to assist them will give us the ability to determine just how big their network is and who is involved.”

“That makes sense, except for the part where I am putting my life and the lives of my family on the line.”

“They aren’t going to kill you. If they wanted you dead, they would have done that anytime. They still see you as a potential asset, even after talking to us. They will not kill your grandparents because doing so removes their leverage over you. Ultimately, if you refuse to cooperate with them, that will force them to up the ante, to prove to you that they are willing to be brutal. The best way for you to help ensure the safety of your family is to play along, at least in the short term.”

It was a terrifying proposition, but the logic was hard to escape. Taylor’s comments made sense, strangely… not that any of this was sensible to her.

I don’t want this responsibility. It’s too much. If I make a mistake, my family will pay the price long before I do.

“This isn’t fair,” was all she managed to say.

“No, it isn’t. I could try and tell you that this is your patriotic duty. I won’t lay that burden on you. What you’ve uncovered is that a foreign government has an agent working inside of the ETF. Because they’ve targeted you, we know what kinds of information they want. You’ve already done enough. Unfortunately, my job is to ask you to do more. We need you to go to this rendezvous. Unless we know the extent of their operation, they may very well put other people, people not as strong as you, through this too. Your taking action may be the one thing that helps others.”

There was a sincerity in Taylor’s words. At the same time, Ming knew she was CIA. I wonder how much of this is right out of one of their playbooks? Worse, what if the people that are engaging me have read that very same book?

She gathered her raging emotions in a mental knot, shoving it deep down in her psyche. There was no choice to do otherwise. Ming needed to move forward. As she did, there would be no room for fear or other negative thoughts.

What I do next, I do for my family. Resolve took the place of doubt. I need to approach this like solving any engineering problem, with analysis, deduction, a bit of math, and some solid reasoning.

* * *

Dr. Tong arrived at 413 Longstream Road, in a run-down urban area of Santa Fe. When she arrived, she found a building that had been converted to a storage structure. Unit ten was little more than a heavy duty articulated garage door in the side of the building. An ugly padlock showed the door was locked. For a few moments, she stared at it, then turned around. There’s no way in. Maybe this is a wild goose chase. Maybe they have changed their minds.

Along the street was a young boy, perhaps fourteen years old, on a flex-scooter. Its electric engine made a low whining sound as he crossed by her on the opposite side of the street. Ming’s eyes went to the nearby buildings.

Somewhere out here is the FBI. I hope they are in position.

The boy did a U-turn on the scooter and came back. As he got near, he slowed down in front of her. Through the visor on his helmet, she saw that he too was of Asian heritage. Reaching into his coat, he handed her a note. There were two words.

Get on.

The boy moved forward on the seat to make room for her. She slid on the seat and wrapped her arms around him as he took off. The boy clearly knew his way around the side streets. He went down a long dark alley, then through an underpass, then weaved in and out of traffic. At one point, he hopped up on the sidewalk and used that as a roadway. There was no pattern that she could make out. As he drove, the cool night air stung at her eyes. Her stomach pitched on some of the tight turns as he leaned into the bends. Ming understood what he was doing—ensuring that drones or satellites couldn’t track him easily.

After a few minutes, he stopped in front of Rosario Cemetery. A stone cross stood at the entrance, and in the dark, it was forbidding. He turned and gave her a quick nod, so she slid off of the scooter. She wanted to ask him why she was there, but before she was able to form the words, the boy sped off into the night.

For two minutes she stood before the cross, alone, in the darkness. Then she heard a chirping sound of a phone ringing. Walking to the cross, on the concrete base, was an old-school flip phone, a virtual antique. Picking it up, she flipped it open and put it to her ear.

“Walk through the graveyard to the north. Climb the wall. Beyond that is a building at the end of Rio Grande. Go to the second door.” Before she could speak, the person on the other end terminated the call.

On any given night, walking through a graveyard would have been frightening enough. Doing it at the bidding of foreign spies added to the tension. For many people, it would have been easy to be consumed by the fear. Ming refused. She held it in check. Some of that came from the fact she was confident that the FBI was monitoring her. The rest came from her own determination.

It took several minutes. She used the light on her iPhone to light the path as best it could. The only noises were the faint echoes from the city, the low rumble of distant traffic, car horns echoing off buildings, even a fire truck siren. Ming found the low wall at the far end and scaled it with little difficulty. The building she was heading for was visible because of security lights on the corners.

She was tempted to knock, but before she could, the door opened and a young man gestured for her to enter. He led her through stacks of crates and pallets of goods to a small cleared area in the center of the large warehouse. Industrial lights hung down, illuminating a small folding table, a dull white plastic topped one. There were two folding chairs, and another man, also with oriental features, standing at the edge of the circle of light. As she walked in, the door was closed and the man who ushered her in gestured to a chair. Ming sat down. As she put her hands on the table, she saw they were trembling. As much as she tried to stop them, she couldn’t.

“You were told to tell no one,” the man who lowered the door said as he took the chair across from her. She could make out his features as well. Dark eyes, a thin black mustache, his black gelled hair sweeping back around his head with a perfect twist.

“I know.”

“Yet you did. This is disappointing.”

“I just—”

He shook his head, his greasy black hair sliding down his brow. “I have no desire to hear it. You seem to think we are without assets of our own. We found the surveillance team. They have been dealt with.” As he spoke, the other man, taller than his partner, waved a plastic wand-like device around her, concentrating on her purse. It reminded her of a handheld metal detector at the airport.

“I had no choice.”

“You did, and you chose to defy us. If I were you, Dr. Tong, I wouldn’t press my luck further. While I have a modicum of patience, those I report to do not.”

She bowed her head, almost instinctively. Ming wanted to demand why they had reached out to her, but she knew she was not in a position to issue demands. If they had taken out the surveillance team, she was alone.

“What is it you want?”

“Your homeland would like the technical details and specifications of your so-called Trident suits. You will provide us with that information. We will arrange the means for you to send that data.”

“You’re asking me to betray my country.”

“And this bothers you?”

“Of course!”

“How about putting your parents and grandparents at risk? Is that something you are more comfortable with?”

There was the threat… implied, but still potent. “I have always been loyal to the United States.”

“I am not asking you to conduct sabotage. I am asking you to share material of your work.”

“It’s just that—”

The man waved his hand, cutting her off. “You are proceeding with the assumption that you are American. That is a fallacy. You are Chinese. Your family is in the homeland.”

“I was born in the United States.”

“You cannot deny where you come from, and that is the People’s Republic. However, I understand your conflicting emotions on the matter. Let me remind you, you have family still in China. If you do not comply, they will be brought in and interrogated, perhaps held in one of our remote camps.”

“My grandparents did nothing!”

“Except foster your sense of betrayal. Then there are your parents. We have eyes on them as well. It would be a shame if they had to pay a price for you not realizing where your loyalties should lie.”

The fear made her stomach cramp. Beads of sweat formed on her brow and she could hear the pounding of her heart as her fingers continued to tremble on the plastic tabletop. In the back of her mind, Ming naively thought if she went through with the meeting, that the matter might be resolved. Now she was there, alone. Ming remembered the prompting that Taylor had given her.

I have resisted, as she said to. Now I must capitulate.

“I know what you are thinking,” said the man sitting across from her. “You are wondering if you could trick us, give us information that is faulty. I assure you, we will be validating what you provide us, Dr. Tong. If you opt for that ploy, it will be costly, in ways you cannot possibly imagine.”

She said nothing in response since he had been so close to the mark with his comment.

The man continued. “You are now wondering if the vaunted FBI can somehow protect you. Let me assure you, they cannot. The surveillance team sent to monitor this discussion could not even protect themselves. They are dead. It was pathetically easy to neutralize them. What makes you think they can help you?”

Suddenly, Ming felt more alone than ever before in her life. Taylor, who had assured her safety, had failed. All she could grapple with mentally was that her family was in danger, and she had the power to save them. The cost of that would be her honor, integrity, and betrayal of the United States.

“If I do this, no harm will come to my family.” It was a statement, not a question.

“We are reasonable, Dr. Tong. We don’t want to take harsh measures. But there is a war on. Your actions will save lives, starting with those of your family.”

She wanted to cry. The government was supposed to monitor me, listen in. Instead they are dead and it is my fault. The only person who I can rely on in this is myself.

Still, she chose to follow her instructions. I need to capitulate now, let them think they have won. “I will assist you.”

“No more meddling from DHS or the FBI or anyone else for that matter,” the man warned her.

Nodding, she thought, What have I been sucked into, and how far down must I go?

Chapter sixteen

Weapons Development Facility, Prototype Proving Grounds, the Penetrator, Los Alamos, New Mexico, the United States

Adam Cain stood before the piece of desert that he had claimed as the Prototype Proving Grounds and lit a cigar, savoring the taste of the tobacco in his mouth. Jules hated his smoking, and his daughter considered him a contributor to global warming and air pollution when he lit up. As he took a second drag of the cigar, he wished he could hear either of them complain to him about his habit, just one more time.

They were dead, killing by the Fish. He had tried everything he could to get them to leave the west coast and come to DC. If they had listened, he knew he could have protected them. Jules was always stubborn, but in the end, Adam knew it was his fault they were dead… not hers.

I should have taken leave, gone out there, and forced them to come back with me.

The counselor that the Army had made him go to, told him that wouldn’t have helped, but Cain knew differently.

Sure, the Pentagon would have fallen, but would that have really hurt the war effort?

Daily, Cain mentally kicked himself often over the loss of his family and his failure to save them.

The counselor had pushed him to embrace their deaths… something the weathered sergeant major was unwilling to do. Instead, he wanted vengeance on the aliens that had done this. After the Battle of Republic, he had been promoted, despite his protests. There was talk of having him head to Fort Campbell and train ASHUR pilots there, but Cain wanted to not just fight the enemy, but be part of crushing them all.

All I want to “embrace” is their destruction.

Colonel Slade offered him that opportunity. While the rest of the Army was fighting to win battles, Slade was trying to figure out how to win the war. In Adam’s thinking, that was the ultimate vengeance, and that was what he craved the most. Out of it, his Fox Hunters had been born. It was a chance to get back into the fight on his terms, targeting one species of the alien invaders, hopefully to tip the balance of engagements.

There was more to their mission than that, though he would never say it out loud. They were using old ASHURs, modified first-generation gear. The Army had warehoused them, shoved them aside as worthless. An assessment long familiar to Cain. He had been transferred to the Third Regiment, essentially put to pasture himself. He had proven to the military hierarchy his worth in battle. Today, he would prove that the obsolete hardware still had purpose—and that the pilots using the gear, who had been sidelined in the war, still could fight.

This is a chance to change the thinking of the asshats in charge, and I never pass up that kind of opportunity. Today my people prove their mettle and prove themselves ready for duty.

Eight solid weeks of training in the Eagle-S’s were finally over. The training had been intense. Cain had already taught them to be snipers; now they were highly armored mobile snipers, with outstanding state-of-the-art weaponry. They will either prove themselves to be the killing machines I think they are, or they will screw it up and we all get reassigned. There was a little tension, mostly because he was not out in the field with them.

Cain had crafted a difficult final test for his Fox Hunters, and was proud of what it would accomplish. Usually an ASHUR pilot’s final test was an exercise against a superior force, where you were awarded points for damage, kills, and if you managed to cross the battlespace and exit the other side. He had completed the drill three times in his career, a rarity shared by only a handful of ASHUR pilots. While he was proud at having mastered three different rigs in his career, four if you counted the Eagle-S, he thought little of the traditional final exam.

Technically, his people were not considered by the Army to be ASHUR pilots. They were a test team.

Even if they rotated back to active duty, the services would not acknowledge them as ASHUR pilots. The military wrote off these warriors long ago due to their injuries. If they weren’t here, they never would have gotten a chance to pilot a rig, even a rebuilt first-gen rig like ours.

Colonel Slade had joined him in the watchtower overlooking the proving grounds. Slade said little, like his mind was elsewhere. To Cain, it didn’t matter. He gave me total control over their training, which means I get to make the calls when it comes to this unit, not him.

The test he had concocted was fairly straightforward. He had contacted the Spears Sniper School and asked them to provide eight sniper students. Adam knew that they were more than willing to participate, if only to discredit the work he was doing.

My people better wax their asses, because if they don’t, they’ll have to contend with me.

They would go up against his Fox Hunters. Both teams started at opposing ends of the field at midnight, giving them time to deploy. Now, at 0730, the test would begin. Using range lasers instead of actual weapons, the two teams would go up against each other. The sim computers used were sophisticated enough to compensate for wind speed, temperature, and the nuances of the liquid gas rifles his people were using. Cain had come up with a rating system and had put up a digital scoreboard at the end of the field to let them know how they were progressing. He had entered the tracking tag of every participant into his and the colonel’s enhanced binoculars, allowing them to watch the event. Looking out on the field, he could see where both sides were concealed.

He surveyed their positions with a critical eye. Corporal Franz had taken a fairly aggressive position, in a clump of cacti. A typical sniper wouldn’t use the space, but in an Eagle-S, he had protection from the spines. While he was barely visible from above, Cain knew he was far less of a target from the ground.

His eyes drifted to Serrano. It was hard to see him in a small mound of rocks. Still, the leg of his rig stuck out just a tad too far.

He’ll pay a price for that.

A few moments later, he did, as one of the opposing snipers tagged the leg with a long-distance shot. The blank round cracked as the laser bore in on the staff sergeant’s ASHUR. Serrano rose, acknowledging the hit, clearly frustrated, and walked off the field.

Let’s see if this is good for him. He’s had some pretty arrogant boasts about how he would perform in this test.

Cain knew that the best teacher was defeat. If you lived through it, most people learned their lessons and got better. Hopefully Serrano would follow suit.

“It’s hard to hide a rig,” Colonel Slade commented. It was what he didn’t say that counted.

There’s still a little doubt about this project.

Another shot cracked and Cain swept the proving grounds for the shooter and target. This time one of the enemy snipers rose, arms and rifle in the air, and walked off the field.

“That it is, sir,” Cain replied, allowing himself a grin of satisfaction.

The deadly game was a timed event, scheduled for an hour. Cain’s own moment of cockiness faded when LeMacks and Morgan were both taken out by the opposing snipers, though LeMacks got one just moments before he was hit. Stewart got two targets, but in the process, had given his position away. Cooper missed twice. No surprise there. Then he was taken out. Cooper was getting better, but in Cain’s eyes, he still had too many clusterfucking moments. Even he was reluctantly willing to admit that Cooper had somehow held out until near the end.

Maybe there’s hope for him after all.

As the time wound down, it came down to Falto against three of the enemy. From the tower, he could see her rig nestled in the southeast corner of the range. He didn’t even need his enhanced binoculars to make it out.

It’s a strange place for her to plant herself.

The enemy snipers were moving, crawling slowly, sweeping the brush. He watched as they slowly deduced where she wasn’t, narrowing where they had to look.

It’s not like her to take the rear like that. For Cain, it felt disappointing. Natalia isn’t the kind of trooper to play it safe.

“Who’s left?” Colonel Slade asked.

“Falto.”

Slade chuckled. That caught Cain off guard.

That’s a first. I didn’t know he could laugh. Wonders never cease.

“If Falto’s the one that’s left,” Slade said, “those other guys are screwed.”

Lifting his enhanced binoculars, he looked down at her rig. Instead of seeing the registration of her ID chip, he could only make out the barely visible outline of the Eagle-S. Cain whipped the binoculars down and saw where her rig was. It hit him like an express train.

She’s not in her rig!

Slade must have seen it, too. “I’m not seeing her,” he said, angling his own binoculars around. As he spoke, the three opposing snipers slowly closed on the corner where her rig was hidden in a copse of mesquite.

Cain swept around the field, looking for her chip signature. It took a few minutes to find it, and when he did, he was surprised. Falto was behind enemy snipers!

How the hell did she pull that off?

Falto was crawling slowly as well, stalking the three troops that were sure they had her trapped.

Well, this is going to get fun.

A minute later, a shot rang out, hitting one of the opposing snipers. One hit man rose and stomped off the range, clearly pissed. Cain beamed. The remaining two enemies now knew something was wrong. The sound of the shot was from behind them. Like snakes, they maneuvered around to face the direction of the threat.

“She’s not in her rig,” Slade said.

“There’s nothing in the rules of engagement that says she has to be.”

A shot rang out, this time from an enemy sniper. He had misidentified a target in the brush. He fired a second suppressed round, which hit something poised at the edge of some tall scrub brush. Cain zoomed in on it and saw it was an ASHUR pilot’s helmet.

She’s baiting them, getting them to reveal themselves.

Falto’s liquid gas gun fired a blank with a dull thunk, hitting the soldier that had been blasting at her helmet. Her training laser scored its target and the sniper rose, weapon held high, and walked off.

Cain checked his chronometer and saw there were only a few minutes left. He had little doubt that Falto was not going to run out the clock. It wasn’t in her character. Instead, he tracked her movement as she searched for the remaining enemy. He had taken up Morgan’s former position and went defensive.

Snipers work best at long distances. Falto was closing in, far too close, in his mind.

What is she up to?

Approaching a potential enemy meant that she had to move slowly and to come at her victim from an angle he was not expecting. All that took precious time.

The horn sounded, ending the exercise. The remaining Army sniper stood, and as he did, Falto came up behind him, putting the blade of her tactical knife at his throat. It was far too late to count it for a kill, but it was enough to make Cain laugh. Falto looked up at him, then re-sheathed her blade.

Slade turned to him, and Adam could see that he was trying to hold a grin in check. “A draw.”

“Not in my mind,” Cain replied. “This wasn’t a win-or-lose test. This was to validate that we could use the Eagles in a sniper capacity. I think we more than proved that.”

Slade nodded. “You are right about that. So what do you think is next?”

“We’re done playing games in the desert,” Cain replied. “It’s time to go do what we were built to do, hunt Foxes.”

Slade nodded. “You want to take them in the field? I would have thought you’d want some more time.”

“We are only going to get marginally better here.”

“I understand. By the same right, these folks are all crutch brigadiers, walking wounded. All have been injured fighting in this conflict. One of them hasn’t even had a face reconstruction surgery yet.”

It was Serrano. Splashed by some of the Fish acid, the right side of his face was a mass of scar tissue. After the first few minutes, Cain found himself not even noticing it. “Scars are part of the job. I’d drop my trousers and show you some doozies, if that’ll help.”

“That’s not necessary. You know what I mean. Some scars are not physical, but emotional.”

Adam understood. “War sucks. We’ve both been in it before. It can mess with you. All of them have pushed past their issues. If we had sent them to desk duty, they would be pumping PTSD meds every day and night. Getting back into the fight is the best thing for them.”

“I trust you, Sergeant,” Slade replied, talking slowly, as if he was still considering the next course of action.

Cain pressed on. “You saw what they can do, Colonel. I say it’s time we test the theory.”

The colonel sighed, long and hard. “Well then, I will have some people start calling around. I’ll see if I can find you some good ground.”

“Thank you, sir.”

NCO Club, the Penetrator, Los Alamos, New Mexico, the United States

Cain arrived ten minutes late to the gathering of his Fox Hunters. They weren’t rejoicing. In fact, some looked downright terrified. He had told them he was meeting with them there to go over who had made the final cut based on their test four hours earlier. Cooper was as white as a sheet as he cradled a beer. LeMacks had on his calm game face, but Cain had been good at reading soldiers over the years and knew that he was nervous.

He wanted to laugh, simply because he was screwing with them.

As he came to the head of the table, he made eye contact with each one of them. “Well, we should probably get this over with. You did good, but let’s face it, we walked away with a draw. Colonel Slade, well, he was not entirely pleased. He told me I need to take things in a different direction.”

“Well, that’s a bag of bullshit,” Falto said.

For a moment, Cain said nothing. He let his stare do the talking, giving an icy one to the Marine staff sergeant.

She’s good enough to read me. Slade was right about her from the start.

“Alright then, Falto, since you don’t have a fucking sense of humor, you’re right. I was just bullshitting you.”

The relief washed over the table. Beers were raised and drunk. Cain continued.

“The colonel and I see eye-to-eye on this. We held our own against some of the newest grads of the Army school and we did it with ASHURs—which no one has done yet. If nothing else, we proved our theory.”

“Damn right we did,” Cooper said, hoisting his glass.

“Oh shut up, Cooper,” Morgan snapped.

“Hey, cut him some slack,” LeMacks said. “He got Falto to the other end of the field.”

Cain tipped his head at that news. “I was wondering how Falto got behind the other team.”

She smiled, a rarity, but it was plain. “I crawled out of my rig and got to Cooper. When he was hit, I snugged up behind him. None of the opposing forces bothered to watch him as he walked off with me right behind him, mirroring his moves. I just slid off and flipped the game on them.”

Well, even Cooper managed to do one thing right.

Cain admired the bravado of what Falto did.

“Well, Cooper, it took a Marine to teach you to be a good soldier… who would’ve thought?” Cain said, raising his own beer in a toast to Cooper, then to Falto. The beer tasted good.

“So we all graduate?” Corporal Franz asked.

“It never was a graduation exercise to begin with,” Cain replied, taking his seat. “The service branches are not likely to ever acknowledge your busted-up asses as real ASHUR pilots. That doesn’t mean I can’t. Everyone is moving to the next phase.”

“And what’s that?” Morgan asked.

“We’re going to Seattle, or what is left of it. I got the word a few minutes ago. We are going Fox hunting.” He hefted his beer again and took a sip, as did the rest of the unit.

“When do we depart?”

“The colonel has some Lieutenant Loserville working through the details,” Cain replied, happy with the nickname he’d coined. “Probably a week or two. In the meantime, we will continue to train and focus on urban environments. I even got us time at Fort Benning in the Urban Assault Course.”

His people drank their beer and, for the first time in weeks, relaxed.

“There is one more thing, though. It’s a minor little item we need to address before the night is over.”

“What’s that?” Falto asked.

“The Army, Marine Corps, and Air Force might not recognize you as an ASHUR pilot, but the colonel and I do. I’ve arranged for a tattoo artist to come in here in about an hour.”

“For what?” LeMacks asked.

“Christ on a crutch, LeMacks,” Cain said. “For tattoos. ASHUR pilots wear their wings. I don’t want you caught up in some false valor thing, so I had an artist change the ASHUR wings for you all. Tonight, you get marked and celebrate.”

Cain was proud of them, and it made him less agitated to see that they were enjoying themselves. He also knew deep down what their assignment in Seattle was likely to mean.

Some of these men and women are likely to die up there. It’s bound to happen, sooner or later.

There was nothing he could do to change that. What he could do was make sure that they enjoyed this night, and savored their new status as pilots.

Cycle III

Extra Terrestrial Task Force (ETF) HQ, DIA Intelligence Annex, the Penetrator, Los Alamos, New Mexico, the United States

Dr. Willow Sanchez stared at the recreation of the Niverson murder scene in her lab for what must have been about the thousandth time. What are you trying to tell me? What is your message? What is your secret?

Dr. Schrivener had suggested that she take a break. Willow had ignored it. How could I possibly take a break now, with so much more to be learned? She had been getting side-eyes from her co-workers from time to time, as if they thought something was off about her. They just don’t understand how important this is.

Her test results were frustrating dead ends. There had been some that showed promise. She had tried angling lights at the horrific totem, wondering if it cast shadows that might hold some sort of message—none was apparent. Sound waves hadn’t produced any meaningful results on the model.

There has to be something more to this than what I am seeing.

Willow had begun work on an extensive AI program, one that would combine light and sound combinations and run it against other icons, totems, and signs. She had simply ignored putting in a formal request and risking that it would be declined. Obsession with finding answers drove her to simply cheating and writing the app herself. In her thinking, her manic transgression would be overlooked once she had results. There was a great deal of extrapolation that the program would have to perform, but at this point, she needed the machine learning’s perspective.

There may be something I don’t fully understand that the AI could uncover.

Pausing, she glanced over at the specimen that had been preserved from the murder scene. It was in a special enclosure, still upright, shimmering reddish pink. It was like the stigma of a flower, a growth that was wider at the top than at the bottom. The containment vessel was filled with the air taken from the scene of the murders, and it was maintained at the same temperature. While the victims eventually began to decompose, the strange growth had simply stopped growing.

All the tests on it showed that it was alien DNA. That was of no surprise to Sanchez. What was strange was that it had stopped growing but had not died. Where the piece was drawing nutrients from was a mystery. Despite CAT and MIT scans, there was no sign of how the growth survived.

Its base was a mass of small tendrils. Some had grown to two feet in length, anchoring themselves in Mr. Niverson’s torso. Suspended in the sealed tube, the tendrils moved as if they were floating in seawater. She wasn’t sure what they were for and analysis showed them to be more than tiny tentacles; they were loaded with neurons and a network of neural fibers. Another mystery that made no sense.

As she stared at it, there was an undeniable draw to the object. They didn’t leave it here for no purpose. It has meaning, or a function. We just have not figured out how to trigger or activate it yet. Why is it still alive?

Her vid-call window chirped to life on her computer and she opened it to see Dr. Schrivener’s face. “Hello, ma’am,” she said, running her fingers through her hair.

“Good morning, Willow. I’m reaching out to you because some of your work got flagged in our security system.”

“What?” Her mind couldn’t deduce what she had done wrong.

“You’re coding an AI, correct?”

“Well yes. Technically, it is a modification of an AI used by our sonics team.”

“Willow, you know the sensitivities around AIs. You didn’t put in for a formal request to start creating this, as I told you to do.”

So that is what the call is about.

“That’s true. I was modifying another existing AI. I didn’t think that warranted getting approval.”

Schrivener shook her head. “The military is in charge of the ETF. You know their sensitivities when it comes to AIs.”

Willow was embarrassed when she thought about how the military might react to what she saw as a minor bit of recoding. Corrupted AI had been responsible for the Taiwanese missile defense systems not working. Chinese-altered code aboard the USS Gerald Ford had left an entire US task force open to a hypersonic missile attack.

Thousands died because of AI. That is why it is so restricted. I should have known better.

“I’m sorry. I got ahead of myself. I should have thought it through.”

“Sorry isn’t going to cut it. I need you to shelve your work until the approval goes through. In the meantime, the project governance committee wants to do a full review of your work.”

That sounded serious.

“Is that really necessary?” Willow asked. “I made a mistake, I admit it. I’ll toe the line going forward.”

“It’s out of my hands at this point. This kind of action triggers an automatic review, you know that. They want to make sure you are following accepted principles before you kick off any new avenues in your research.”

There had been a few instances where researchers had been hauled in front of the governance committee. In the ones Sanchez had heard of, the scientists had been released.

Am I about to lose my job? That fear was tangible to her. This is where I belong. This is the biggest linguistic and communication challenge in history. Where will I go if the task force lets me go?

Thoughts of returning to teaching classes in academia felt like what it would be, a demotion. Worse yet, someone else would be the person to finally figure out how to communicate with the aliens.

I can’t let that happen.

“I’ll do whatever it takes,” she said in an almost pensive tone.

“Willow, I wish there was something I could do… something that I can say. This goes beyond my remit. I will be there, of course, but for now, keep your head down and do nothing that might look unfavorably on you between now and your hearing.”

Sanchez wanted to say, ‘This isn’t fair. The military has no place in what should be a scientific investigation.’ Saying those words to Dr. Schrivener was not going to help matters. In fact, it might make things worse. Her face was hot with anger and shame as she drew a long deep breath and cleared her mind of thoughts that would only work against her. Finally, she spoke slowly, in a controlled tone. “I understand. I’m sorry that this happened.”

“I know you are. We all have to play by the rules,” Schrivener replied. “It’s not that what you’re doing is wrong, it’s how you went about it that was wrong.”

Willow nodded. Her habit of jumping first then asking permission later was not going to work in the ETF.

I hate bureaucracy, even for the right things. My parents always said this would come back to bite me someday, and it looks like they might be right.

While she mentally vowed that it wouldn’t happen again. At the same time, she knew that was wishful thinking.

Operation Argon, A21, Conway, South Carolina, the Eastern Front, the United States

Staff Sergeant Brandon Avery, call sign Obeast, hated these kinds of missions. A squad had gone silent, unresponsive to calls from the battlespace commander. There were a few life signs from their embedding chips though, indicating that they might still be alive. So Avery’s squad was sent to bring them back.

He hated these kinds of missions because they often were about recovering dead bodies by the time they got there. The reasons a squad didn’t respond were usually because they were either dead, dying, or under siege by the Fish. His squad had brought a STEED (Silent Tactical Energy Enhanced Dismount) with them, a powered wheelbarrow-like hauler. Along with a Bernard GRD, they would be able to recover any wounded that they found.

“How far, Sergeant?” Corporal Vega groaned.

“Not far,” Avery replied. Checking his helmet’s visor, he turned his attention to Private Shouse, one of the recent replacements to the squad. “Tell me, Shouse, are you where you need to be?”

Shouse hesitated. “I thought so.”

“You thought wrong,” Avery snapped. “You’re wandering all over the damn formation. Get your shit together and move out to the right flank like you are supposed to be.”

“Yes, Sergeant,” he replied, the dejection hanging in his voice.

These kids they’re sending us get in the field and start to forget everything they learned. Avery ran a tight squad. If Shouse didn’t get his act together, he’d send him to some rear area unit. There’s no place up here for people that can’t follow orders.

Before the war, Conway had benefited heavily from its proximity to Myrtle Beach. Now that closeness was a liability. The Fish had not been overly aggressive in their thrust inland. Everyone had their opinions why. Avery’s thinking was that the Fish didn’t like forests and trees. It’s got to be pretty alien to them if they live in the oceans. They had pushed in as far as Conway and seemed to have stopped. It had been a seesaw string of engagements with the Fish, with neither side really seeming to have the advantage.

It’s hard for us to mass troops when they hit all of our coastlines at once.

“This is Battlespace Command to Bravo Three. We show the signals on the hill just to your east.”

Avery looked at the hill in question. Low pines covered it. A trail of smoke rose from the dense growth, a marker of some sort of battle.

“Copy that, BS Command. Any enemy contacts?”

“We have limited drone coverage and their GRDs are all down. Impossible to tell for sure.”

That’s just great.

He switched back to the tactical channel. “Alright, our target is that hill over to the east. I want our flankers to advance to the edge of the wood we are in to provide cover fire. We will go over the open ground between here and the tree line fast and furious; flankers will follow once we are across.” Avery hated the open ground between where his people were and the hill, but the only other option was an hour hike around the cleared space, one that might put the enemy between him and his firebase… another bad option.

He checked his tactical display on his helmet visor and was satisfied that his people had shifted appropriately. “Alright, I want Durning on point. We move with purpose, people. Let’s haul ass.”

They sprinted across the open field, the dead brown grass being knocked down, showing the path of each soldier as they moved.

Once across, they started up the hill, slow and steady. He transmitted in the clear. “Charlie Eight, this is Bravo Three. We are approaching your position from the west. Do not fire on us.” No response came back. Three weeks earlier one of his men had been wounded by friendly fire on such a relief mission. It was a mistake that Avery had no intention of making again.

As they moved up the hill, the signs of battle were everywhere. He saw a Crab’s leg lying in a burned patch of pine needles. Spent casings appeared, a few at first, then more. The ground was churned up, no doubt from grenade blasts. Blasted pine boughs were everywhere. If he didn’t have his facemask on, Avery knew he would be smelling dead Fish flesh and the smoke of expended rounds commingled with burning pine. He brought his ACR up tight to his chest as they silently moved up the hillside.

The top of the hill was a makeshift bunker. He recognized the telltale signs of hastily shoved dirt and crude log berms. A few tall pines loomed over the peak, surrounded by the position that Charlie Eight had dug.

Avery whispered, “Hold up,” and on his visor display, he saw his people obeyed. “Alright, I want the flankers to move so that we encircle the hilltop.” His people silently moved out. Once he was sure that they had the position surrounded, he called on Durning to crawl up and get eyes on the position.

Private Durning couldn’t have made himself flatter as he crept up the hill. Avery watched him strain to look over the top of a felled log, then he slid back.

“No bad guys here,” Durning said. “But Sarge, you need to see this. Pretty fucking horrible.”

“Alright, Khokhar, you, Phelps, and Kane are with me up top. Bring in the GRD and the STEED. The rest of you, move down the hill and find some cover. If you see the enemy coming, I want word before any trigger-action.” He didn’t want them trapped in the same position as Charlie Eight.

A light cool breeze hit Avery as he looked in at the position. It reminded him of a butcher shop he had seen in his youth. The dark ground was stained with long-dried blood. The bodies of the victims had not just been killed, but flayed, cut up, with their internal organs thrown about in a sickening mixed jumble. For a long moment, the tough sergeant stood and looked at the carnage, unable to form words. Khokhar pulled down his lower mask and threw up on the berm. Phelps stood mute, his rifle slumping in his hands.

That was when it hit Avery. The heads were gone. He looked around the dead bodies, but there were no signs of their heads other than a few empty helmets, smeared with gore. Khokhar kept heaving until there was nothing else on his stomach. He wiped his chin with his sleeve as Avery looked at the dead.

“Where are their heads?” Private Kane asked. “Why did the Fish cut them open like that?” Kane pointed to the long incision on one victim, from his neck down to his crotch. His skin had been peeled back, exposing his organs to the cool air.

The sergeant reached deep down in his soul, gathering his wits. “We don’t have time for this. Get their remains rigged on the Bernards and stacked on the STEED.” His firm words cut through the stunning scene he was witnessing. They drove his people to move.

His squad went to work with the grizzly task. As they did, he watched, once fighting back his own urge to heave his last meal. He watched as one of the arms of one member of Charlie Eight flopped down along the side of the squatting GRD where it was being attached. The arm was limp, coated with dried blood that flaked off as his men repositioned it. He activated the scan mode on his helmet camera and panned the position, making sure he got every detail. Once the bodies were gathered, he had his men grab as much of their gear as they could. The entire operation took less than twenty minutes.

Avery took hold of a handle on the STEED and gave the orders to move out. As they started down the steep hill, he allowed himself a backwards glance at Charlie Eight’s last stand.

Kane asked the right question—why did the Fish do this? What were they thinking?

Whatever it was… this was something new.

Headquarters, Foxtrot Sector, the Western Front, West Los Angeles AIZ, California, the United States

Cassidy Chen walked in with the rest of Colton’s Cuthroats into the gymnasium of the old school that had had been taken over as a staging area. The basketball hoops had been retracted to the ceiling, but the wooden floor was eerily familiar. Peeking through the parts of the floor not covered with tarps were the old painted markings. Memories of dodge ball and gym class surfaced. They were her memories, but they seemed like those of a different person. Not exactly a stranger, but someone else.

The militia unit was led in by their latest liaison, Warrant Officer Angie Watts. She was the third liaison officer assigned to the unit; one was killed and the other simply requested another assignment. While the Cutthroats were not a difficult unit, at least in CC’s thinking, they apparently rubbed traditional Army thinking the wrong way.

As Antonio says, all that matters is the results, CC reflected as they went to an old locker room adjacent to the repurposed gym.

The first thing to greet her was the smell of the locker room. Despite being used by the military, it still had a slight moldy aroma, tinged with a hint of stale body odor. Laid out on a table was a .50 caliber Barrett M225. CC had seen them before, but had never had the chance to fire one. It was imposing to look at, and it took a lot of control to resist picking it up and checking it out.

Laid out next to the weapon was a box of standard sniper rounds, and a set of purple-tipped bullets. An officer came into the room, at least she guessed he was an officer by the way he walked and acted. His fatigues lacked any emblems or insignia.

What’s his deal?

WO Watts stood at parade rest in front of the table. “What you are looking at is the latest infantry sniper rifle the Army has ordered, the Barrett M225. It has the range and punch to inflict serious damage on the alien invaders. What we are looking for the Fifth California to do is to test—not the rifle, but a new piece of ammunition.” She reached down and pulled out one of the purple-tipped rounds, holding it up for the Cutthroats to see.

“What is it?” Antonio asked. “Some sort of new armor-piercing tech?”

Watts shook her head. “Negative. This is a chemical round.”

“Chemical?” Philistine asked. “As in gas or poison?”

Watts looked over at the other man. “This is Mr. McLaughlin. He’s with a team from Fort Detrick assigned to the ETF,” she said, gesturing to him.

“The round is a bio-chemical agent that releases on impact. Its technical name is Quaran X1, but those of us working on it simply refer to it as QX1.”

“What kind of agent?” Deadbolt asked, eyeing the round with a suspicious eye.

“It is a nerve agent, both liquid and aerosol. It releases on impact and contact with it on the external surface of the targeted Fish or in the wound itself should trigger an attack on its nervous system. If it works as planned, it should disable and kill the target. One shot, one kill.”

“You’re using the word ‘should’ a lot,” Antonio said as McLaughlin put the round back on the table in its box.

“Well,” McLaughlin said, hesitating, “we engineered this agent based on toxins we had in our research lab, attuning them to the alien DNA. This has presented some problems in terms of testing. It seems effective against Class I’s we have captured. We have had only a handful of Class II’s. We are confident that the agent will work against Class II’s, but we have not exactly had a field test.”

Cassidy understood what he was saying. We are the ones who are going to have to test it, she thought.

“And you want us to prove it works,” Antonio said.

“That’s the plan. We need you to shoot a Class II, then, after an appropriate period of time, recover the body so we can evaluate the effects of the round.”

“Little Doll here is our best sniper. She will need some time to get used to the gun.”

McLaughlin shook his head. “Mr. Colton, no disrespect is intended, but these are delicate rounds to work with. In fairness, there is a risk to humans that are exposed to the agent as well. I would recommend that you have an adult handle the weapon.”

“Explain that risk,” Antonio demanded.

“We have seen the agent have a toxic reaction if exposed to human flesh. It impacts a relatively small percent of people. Because this is delivered by a bullet, you should be perfectly safe. But, because there is a slight chance of exposure, I simply recommend an adult handle the rounds.”

CC felt her face redden. She opened her mouth to lay into McLaughlin, but Antonio beat her to it. “Look, Mister, I have no issue with us helping you with this test. We’re happy to do it. You have to trust me on this. She’s our best shot. If you want this done and done right, let me make the call on who shoots and who doesn’t.” There were nods from the rest of the members of the Cutthroats.

It was McLaughlin’s turn to have a red face. “Fine. It’s a lot of gun, that’s all.”

“I can handle it,” Cassidy assured him.

“Alright then. We need to talk about the protocol around the handling of these bullets.”

“Okay,” Antonio said. “I’d like to know more about how this stuff is a risk to humans. Last I checked, we all were.” That elicited some chuckles from everyone other than McLaughlin and Watts.

Drawing a deep breath, CC stared at the gun. This was different from most of their missions.

Everything will hinge on me, she thought. I won’t—no, I can’t let my family down.

Chapter seventeen

Senate Hearing Room, Washington DC, the Eastern Front, the United States

Colonel Slade knew an ambush when he saw one. Being summoned to Washington was his first clue. He was in DC often, but this was a special meeting—a Senate Homeland Security Committee meeting. The fact that it was closed-door meeting was his second clue. When he saw the CIA director in the hallway, he knew the trap was about to be sprung.

He had been warned by many people it was coming. While it was no surprise, he’d hoped he might have a few months more to exploit the recoveries from the Greenland crash. Time never seemed like it was on his side when it came to the war. He knew that Director Wilson wanted control of the ETF. Slade was prepared to defend himself and his decisions, which defended the work that the task force did.

Slade didn’t like the room. Every time he had seen it in vids, it was someone being confirmed for an office, being roasted by haughty politicians, carving up people’s careers like rare roast beef. There were no cameras today on the navy blue carpeting, but it was hard to shake the memories of seeing this room and realizing it was him that was being served up to the carving knife in Artemis Wilson’s pudgy hand.

Director Wilson looked smug as he slid into his seat, casting a sideways glance at Slade, then whispering something to an aide. His eyes held a lock on Ashe as he snickered at something the aide said.

He’s oozing calm and wants me to see it.

Slade broke their staring contest and glanced over at General Lee, who gave him a nod. Lee commanded Special Forces and had been the one to send Omega Force to Greenland. Ashe knew he was one of the few friendly faces in the room.

Senator Carson had been both hot and cold with Slade from the start of their relationship. He banged the gavel hard twice. “Alright then, I enjoy starting on time. I hereby convene this meeting.”

The first topic on the agenda was Operation Sulaco, the events in Greenland. General Lee reported the military side of the operation. Director Wilson drilled in on the losses.

“Omega is down forty-two percent in terms of manpower and equipment. Our estimated time to have them back at full strength is two months,” Lee replied. “The Ranger losses are easier to make up. We are still looking at another forty-five days before the battalion is back at full strength.”

“So,” Wilson said, drinking in the moment. “Operations in Greenland have essentially crippled us in terms of two of our best fighting units.” His eyes darted over at Slade.

“They are not our only assets that fight at their level,” Lee couched his response. “But the numbers are what the numbers are. You can’t evaluate an operation on the losses alone; you need to look at what we gained.”

Wilson spoke up. “We could have gained more if the ship had not been blown up by the British. Is that a fair assessment?”

General Lee knew a trap when he saw one. “I can’t speak to what we didn’t find. In terms of the ship being blown up, there’s evidence that it wasn’t the British alone, that Colonel Wade may have been an active participant in the ship’s destruction.”

Senator Carson turned to Slade. “Perhaps you can tell us what we got out of costly venture, Colonel?”

Ashe shifted in his seat, his dress uniform jacket suddenly feeling hot. “Senator, other members of the committee, we gained a great deal of information from that operation. First, we learned that the aliens are not some unified entity. During Sulaco, we witnessed them firing at the target vessel and fighting aliens that emerged from the ship. Given some of the genetic variants we have cataloged from different fronts, we have projected that they may be colony based. As it stands, we estimate we may be facing as many as six different factions. Yes, they coordinate with each other, but they are distinct entities.”

Carson pressed ahead. “What good does that do us?”

“Today, not a great deal. Down the road, it may be something that we can leverage at a strategic level. Up until Sulaco, we were thinking of them as a singular force. They are not. The time may yet come when this is something we can use.”

Director Wilson shook his head. “In other words, we got nothing for the massive loss of life.”

“No,” Slade said, turning to face Wilson across the table. “We experienced and recovered several different species we had not yet encountered. Yes, the ship was blown up, but it took out thousands, maybe tens of thousands, of creatures that had not fully gestated. We gained inroads on how some of their technology operates. At this stage of the war, it is hard to say what tiny little nugget of information we have gained might be the thing that allows us to turn the tables on the enemy.” They were not just words, he believed that.

“Pah,” Wilson said. “You are talking about things that might happen. The dead men and women that perished in Greenland might feel differently about what you got.”

“Director Wilson,” Slade said slowly. “We are at war. I have shed blood for my country before. I know what it is to have people under your command die. I take those deaths seriously.”

“Really?” Wilson pressed. “The entire Sulaco Operation was a debacle from the start. The British beat our people to the ship. God only knows what kind of intel they were able to gather. While you may see Greenland as a success, in reality, it was a failure.”

Ashe felt his face redden. “Director, the CIA assured me that we would not have foreign interference in that operation. If anyone is to blame, it’s your agency.”

Wilson’s eyes narrowed. “That’s not what we said. If you’d bothered to read the report, you would have seen that we said that there was an outside chance that a foreign power would intervene. It was in the footnotes on page six of the intelligence briefing my people provided you.”

In the footnotes? Of course! It was an old ploy in Washington. He’s covered his ass by burying some obscure reference in the footnotes. He wanted to kick himself in the butt for not seeing it earlier. “If it was a serious concern, why bury it in the footnotes?”

Wilson was enjoying himself far too much, Ashe could read it in his face. “I understand that you might be overwhelmed with your responsibilities. After all, you were just a lowly captain when this conflict started. You probably haven’t had the time to acclimate to the full scope of your responsibilities. If you had, you would have paid attention to what intelligence we provided you, and acted accordingly.”

Wilson spoke was if he had rehearsed the accusation, which Slade was sure he had. He’s laying the deaths of those men and women on me. In some respects, they were his responsibility. He owned that. Wilson was using the point for political gain, and that was what rubbed him the wrong way.

“At no time did the CIA warn my people that the British were mounting an expedition. If you have proof otherwise, I suggest you show it. I relied on you to do your job, and the people I sent to Greenland relied on me. As for the losses we suffered, I take full responsibility for my actions and decisions, Director. Do you?”

The air was so thick with tension, it was palatable.

The newly appointed Director of Homeland Security Margaret Hillard spoke up. “We are not here to grill Colonel Slade. We’re here to get a briefing.”

“I know why we’re here,” Wilson snapped. “Tell me, Colonel, isn’t it true that the military has learned the location of one of these alien colonies?”

“Yes,” Slade said. “Underwater reconnaissance, under the ETF direction, has located a possible colony location at the Vance Seamount.”

“Why haven’t you passed that intel on to the members of this committee?” Wilson demanded.

Ashe drew a shallow breath. “We are working through the best way to attack that site.”

Wilson threw himself upright in his seat. “It doesn’t take a lot of thinking. We should nuke that colony.”

Slade could feel all the eyes boring in on him. “Director Wilson, need I remind you what happened when the Russians used a nuclear weapon in Murmansk? The aliens retaliated with a weapon of mass destruction of their own. The scientists at the ETF believe that was a signal for us, a warning. If we utilize a nuclear weapon on that colony, we do not know what their reaction might be, but it could be devastating.”

“Your scientists should not be involved in the decision-making process at all,” Wilson replied. “You did your job, you found the site. Turn it over to the military to take action.”

“Our duty is to provide analysis to end the war. In doing that, we make informed and intelligent decisions, and pass those to the military. Need I remind you, I am in the Army?”

The Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, General Trevor, leaned in, planting his elbows on the walnut table surface. “Colonel, I appreciate what you are doing. You should have reached out to us immediately when you located that colony. The decision-making process should be done by the Navy or the Air Force, with your people advising.” Trevor was barely masking his anger.

“Sir, we were coming up with options.”

“Let us handle that, Colonel,” Trevor replied.

“That’s not all that colonel has been hiding,” Wilson said. “Why don’t you tell the members of this committee about Quaran X1?”

Slade understood in that moment that the CIA had spies everywhere in his task force.

My own government is working against me.

“We have completed preliminary work on a nerve agent, Quaran X1. In a laboratory it appears to be effective against the nervous systems of several of the alien species. I have authorized some controlled tests of the agent in the field.”

“I’m unaware of these tests,” Trevor said.

“That’s correct, sir. We are utilizing a militia unit for the field test.”

General Trevor stirred in his seat. “That’s most irregular. A test of a nerve agent should be done by the military.”

“I requested that, General,” Slade replied. “I was told by the chief of staff that they didn’t have the resources for such a mission. As such, I have employed a trusted militia unit to test the agent.”

“Why not simply issue it, test it in the field?” Senator Carson asked.

“The agent lingers after deployment as an aerosol. Our initial studies show that it could be fatal to a small percentage of humans exposed to it. We need to be careful around the procedures as to how it is used and where.”

“The Fish are using gas and poison on us. If we have something that can level the playing field, we should be using it right now,” Trevor replied.

“Most AIZs still have people in them, sir,” Slade reminded him. “If we start using this without proper testing, we may be killing humans as well as aliens.”

Those words brought a few moments of contemplative silence to the room, which Slade savored for as long as it lasted. Trevor finally gave Slade a cool gaze back. “Alright. Do your tests. I want you to keep us apprised of your results though. We need to be able to fight the Fish on their terms. They have been using biological and chemical warfare against us since they started this war. I want parity in this fight.”

“Sir, unleashing an untested nerve agent might make things worse. Give us a few weeks to validate the tests. That’s all I’m asking.”

The Chairman of the JCS gave him a nod of agreement. “What is the word on your Fox Hunter initiative?”

Finally, something positive to discuss.

“The team has completed its training. The refit ASHURs are working well. They are ready to go into the field and test our theory.”

“Good. I want to know if this works. If it does, it may help our tactical operations.”

Slade drew a deep breath in from his nose. “I will keep you posted as to their results.” For a moment, he felt as if the peppering of him and the ETF had faded. The smile on Wilson’s face told him otherwise.

Wilson refused to let him have a respite. “Is it true that you are using handicapped individuals for this Fox Hunters project?”

Slade felt his jaw clench. “That is true. All of them are active duty personnel, but have suffered injuries in battle.” For a moment he thought about his own Purple Heart ribbon he wore on his chest from his time in Alaska.

“While technically accurate, these personnel are not fit for combat, isn’t that correct?” Wilson pressed.

“I think that remains to be seen. All have suffered injuries, that is true. One is a Medal of Honor recipient. Two more have earned their Distinguished Service Crosses. Three have silver stars. The sergeant training them is three-time ASHUR-qualified and was nominated for the Medal of Honor himself for saving the Pentagon.”

“A medal that he refused to show up and be awarded for,” Wilson sniped.

That comment only allowed Ashe to smile slightly. “Master Sergeant Cain is a unique NCO, that much is true. But there is no one more qualified to oversee this program.” That response got a solid nod from General Trevor, which Wilson caught out of the corner of his eye.

For a moment, Slade thought he had fended off the verbal assault, but Wilson simply changed the subject. “I’d like to bring up to the members of this committee that there is also an espionage issue with the ETF.”

Dr. Tong! He had hoped to keep her out of the meeting, but Wilson had come loaded for bear. “The director is correct. One of our researchers has been approached by a foreign government, we believe to be the Chinese. We are fully cooperating with the CIA to ensure that this spy network is caught and punished.” Ashe felt that the less he said, the safer he might be.

“While what the good colonel has said is fundamentally true, there are aspects of this case that merit further exploration.” The way Wilson had positioned Ashe’s response was that he was hiding something. “This is not just about a researcher being approached to turn over data. What we have learned thus far in the investigation is that this spy network is operating inside of the ETF, not just from the outside. We came by this knowledge the hard way, costing the lives of two of our FBI special agents that were tasked with tailing Dr. Tong, the target of this penetration.”

This was the first time that Slade learned that two agents had died. Wilson must have deliberately saved that detail to drop on him now.

“I am saddened to learn that two people have died in this investigation. What Director Wilson has said is true, in that we do know that someone within the ETF has contacted Dr. Tong. I am unsure that would qualify as a network. If the director has such knowledge, I would have hoped that he would have shared it with me, along with the information regarding these deaths.” It felt good to volley back at Wilson. It took a great deal of effort to conceal that feeling.

“Is this Dr. Tong still working in his capacity on the ETF?” the DHS secretary asked.

“She is, yes.”

“Don’t you think you should have this person isolated?” Senator Carson queried.

“This person is not a risk,” Ashe said. “I am following the advice of my CIA liaison on this matter.”

“Regardless,” Wilson weighed back in. “Common sense says this person should not have access to classified material.”

Ashe wanted to say, “I’m doing what you told me to do,” but knew that would only serve to make him appear defensive. Instead he opted for, “I most certainly will take that under advisement.”

Wilson shook his head. “Members of this committee, this has been a most distressing update. I applaud the work that Colonel Slade has done in identifying the alien threat and organizing the ETF. But it seems that the scope and scale of this may be too much for him to handle alone. Perhaps what we need is some restructuring, at the top, to streamline operations and hopefully avoid some of these costly and dangerous pitfalls.”

There it is, the coup de grâce, Ashe thought. This was his play.

“I assure the members of this committee that I have matters well in hand, despite the spin that has been applied to them today.”

Carson shook his head. “Colonel, you are a hell of an officer. We haven’t seen eye-to-eye all of the time, but I respect you. You have to admit, Director Wilson makes good points. We were all hopeful that Greenland was going to be the key to breaking the alien tech. Yes, we’ve learned some things, but that has come with a big price tag in terms of dead warriors.”

“No promises were made about Operation Sulaco,” Ashe countered. “We were hopeful that we would learn more. Losing the ship, while regrettable, kept it out of the hands of the aliens. You’re looking at this cup as half empty; I am looking at it as half full.”

“It is vital that the military remain in a leadership role of the ETF. We are at war, and that ensures it keeps a war focus,” General Trevor said.

Nodding, Wilson said, “General, I think we all know that Colonel Slade is an important part of this effort. I would not think of displacing him or taking away the military focus. What I would suggest is that much of what he is doing is intelligence focused. As such, I would be willing to serve my country and step away from my role at the CIA temporarily to lead the ETF… keeping the colonel on as my deputy.”

Slade would have appreciated simply being fired as opposed to working for Wilson. He opened his mouth to respond, but Carson spoke up. “I find myself in agreement with my colleague from the CIA. This is by no means a shot at you, Colonel, but, at least on the short term, it might be good to have some more established senior leadership of the ETF.”

The fix was in. Slade liked to imagine that Wilson had dirt on Carson and had forced his hand. In reality, the senator might very well think he was doing a less than adequate job.

Is that what they think of me? That I have somehow failed to do my duty?

General Trevor spoke up. “This is not a sprint, but a marathon. You’re passing judgment on the colonel here because of a few incidents. This war is just starting. We are bound to have setbacks, make missteps. The key is that we learn from those mistakes and move forward. We don’t throw people under the bus because they did their best and tried.”

Carson shook his head. “No one is throwing him under the bus, General. What we are saying is that he needs help, someone to oversee the running of the ETF.”

It feels like I’m staring at the underside of a bus, regardless of what he is saying. Slade’s anger was rising, mostly because he saw what was coming. There were a few different ways that he could play it, but in the end, this was giving Wilson control of the ETF. It had been wrapped with a bow for him already.

I need to make sure that I am able to save the task force with him in charge, he thought. The worst thing I can do now is let my ego crawl into the driver’s seat. Slade cleared his throat. “I can see where this is going. Director Wilson had made it abundantly clear to me in private that he wants control of the ETF. Maybe he should get it. I don’t regret my actions. I won’t apologize for doing what I thought best. I know that cost lives in Greenland, but I also know that what we learned there was immeasurable. Everyone here seems set on getting quick results. You’re all looking for some sort of silver bullet that will end this conflict. It doesn’t exist. I know, I’ve looked for it myself.”

Leaning forward over the table, he admitted, “I know I’m not a Washington power broker. I don’t kiss babies or lick boots. I never asked for this job. You people and the president thrust this on me. I’ve been operating on five hours of sleep or less for months now. Every waking moment is focused on finding ways for us to get an edge in this war. I don’t take my work, or the work of my people, lightly. I believe with all of my heart that the ETF is the key to winning this conflict.”

Ashe glared over at Wilson, who put on an emotionless mask. “If you think you’re going to humiliate me into resigning, you’re wrong. I’m not going anywhere. I built this task force and I will remain with it until the mission is complete.”

You can’t beat me because I refuse to let myself be beat, he mentally resolved.

With that, Ashe slid his chair back and rose.

“Colonel,” Carson said. “We still have a lot of ground to cover.”

“It seems the number one topic was settled before we even came into this room,” Slade replied. “If you don’t mind, I need to get some fresh air and make my arrangements back to the Penetrator. I have work to do.” He then walked to the door of the senate chamber and let himself out.

It wasn’t until he was in the hallway that he unbridled his rage. His fists balled up and his jaw clenched tight. Tiny droplets of sweat formed on his brow as he allowed himself to release the anger he felt.

I was stupid in there. I should have tried to fight harder. I let that old fart get the best of me.

For a few moments, he toyed with going back inside, but his feet refused to obey his will.

Leaning back against the wall, he closed his eyes for almost half an hour, then finally relaxed. The sound of the door opening jarred him back to where he was. Looking over, he saw General Trevor walking towards him. Ashe gathered himself and stood erect.

“That was a hell of a show,” the chairman said.

“I won’t apologize for what I said, sir.”

Trevor cracked a grin out of one side of his mouth. “I wouldn’t expect you to. They came to a decision, one I disagreed with and voted against. Wilson is taking command of the ETF as its director. They want you to remain as his deputy. Carson is going to run the recommendation up to the president. I think it’s safe to say that Wilson has already plowed the row with the White House.”

“He’s a political animal.”

He’s a flaming asshole. He would burn down Rome to rule its ashes.

Trevor nodded. “That he is. I don’t like him, but he’s not trying to be liked. I pressed him on his approach. Deep down, he believes he can do a better job than you as the director.”

Maybe he can. Hearing the general tell him that was unnerving. I never considered him in that light, Slade thought.

“All I want is to win the war.”

“He wants that too. Don’t take me wrong; he’s power hungry too. You and he want the same thing. He just wants to sit in the big chair to achieve it.”

“I wonder,” Slade said slowly. “Is that bad?”

The general forced a razor-thin smile. “I think it is. I learned a long time ago to not trust people that want power. Always trust those that don’t want it but have to figure out how to cope with it. As such, I voted against him taking over, and while General Lee didn’t get a vote, he did voice his support for you. This was never about how Operation Sulaco went. That was window dressing. This is about Wilson’s control and exerting power. It is new ground for me as well. You should have never had to deal with it. Fate dealt you a difficult hand, but you played it as best you could. Unfortunately the dealer was stacking the deck.”

Ashe sighed. “So now what?”

The general put his hand on Slade’s shoulder. “They want to move ahead with the destruction of the colony on the Vance Seamount. They are holding back on deploying the nerve agent until it is tested though.”

“Sir, they are putting things in motion that none of us fully understand if they set off a nuke.”

“That decision has been made. There’s a need to show that we are all-in with this war, that we are willing to use everything in the arsenal. It’s going to happen.”

Slade lowered his gaze and shook his head. The decision was always one above his pay grade, but he had hoped to be able to provide adequate warning for the president. “So what happens to me? Am I stuck reporting to the man that stabbed me in the back to take my chair?”

General Trevor winced. “You can resign of course, but I recommend against it. If you’re right about nuking the Fish, the country will need you in that job to pick up the pieces or at least continue to give good counsel. I still think you are the best person for the job as his deputy. If it wasn’t for you, we would be in a worse state than we are now. I want you to stay in the ETF, be my eyes and ears there. It won’t be easy, I won’t try to kid you about that. Wilson is all about Wilson. The country needs someone who is focused on the enemy and winning the war. I think you are that person.”

“As his deputy.”

“For the time being, yes. I know it sucks but I need you to rise above this. I meant what I said. This is an endurance test, and guys like Wilson don’t have what it takes. You do. Are you up to it?”

Slade nodded. “I am.”

Trevor removed his hand. “Alright then, Colonel, let’s get you back in that room. We have a war to win.”

Chapter eighteen

Marshall Flight Center, Huntsville, Alabama, the United States

Georgia Johnston got out of the modified Airstream, the Astrovan, at the base of the SpaceX Starship Five launch system that would carry the Thor weapon into space. She stopped on her way to the gantry, looking up to drink in the full scope of the system. It wasn’t her first time out to the launch pad, but this was the one that counted. The floodlights illuminated the massive rocket, its stark whiteness almost shimmering in the early morning hours.

“You joining us, Georgia?” Commander Nelson asked, his voice loud in her helmet.

“Yes sir,” she replied, lowering her eyes and following the crew to the elevator.

As she got in the elevator along with her fellow crewmates, Niemynski said, “You have to admit, that breakfast was awesome.”

“Last actual food for months,” Baker replied as the elevator jerked into motion.

“You’ll get used to the standard meal packs,” Commander Nelson said.

“I wish my family could have come down for the launch,” Niemynski commented.

The thought of inviting her family was not one that Georgia had entertained. She wasn’t sure if they would come even if it had been allowed. Too much time has passed, she thought. Even if I had invited them, we haven’t talked in so long, I doubt they’d make the effort. Besides, NASA was doing the launch in secret… as secret as a launch of a huge rocket could be concealed. There were security concerns, fears that the Fish might be monitoring what the humans were doing. Georgia doubted it. If they could understand what we are doing, chances are they would have contacted us by now.

The elevator reached the top where the command module was poised above the massive stage that carried Thor. As the doors opened, an older man stood there in a white decontamination suit. Through his hood’s faceplate, she recognized him instantly.

The elderly Elon Musk grinned and extended his hand to the astronauts, shaking theirs firmly as they stepped out of the elevator. She noticed his enhanced leg braces that allowed the old man to walk like a man half his age. Musk was the Thomas Edison of the century and appeared excited to be there. “I never thought I’d see this day come.”

Musk’s reputation was legendary. It makes sense for him to be here, as SpaceX designed Thor originally. His presence at the launch was assuring, almost comforting. There were a dozen questions Georgia wanted to ask him, but she was dumbstruck, and by the time she gathered herself, she was in the queue to climb aboard the command module.

The pad crew secured her into her seat for the launch. She was in the second row, with only one portal that gave her any view. For her, as a gunner, there wasn’t much for her to do during takeoff. Georgia watched the hatch close and seal, her eyes drifting down the emergency release. From her seat, getting to it would take some effort, especially if the rocket was taking off. They had trained for it, but in the back of her mind, the hatch felt as if it were a mile away.

If something goes wrong, most likely we’ll be toast before I reach it.

Commander Nelson went through the preflight checklist and she listened impatiently with each item being rattled off. Nelson’s role as commander was to pilot Thor into position. He and the command module would remain with the crew, with him acting as overall mission leader. Georgia liked Nelson and his reputation in space travel was well known. He had flown the first manned orbit of Mars before the program had been shut down.

He’s spent almost two years of his life in space already. We are lucky to have someone with that much experience along.

“Nervous?” Baker asked her from his seat next to hers.

Georgia shrugged. “Not really. More excited.”

“Guys,” Nelson’s voice came back. “You’re on VOX.”

Georgia’s face flushed. This is not how to start your first trip to space. “Sorry, Commander.” She glanced over a Baker who only grinned.

Finally, they reached the two-minute countdown. When launch control gave the green light and started the clock, she shifted in her seat, far from an easy task with a suit on and strapped down tightly. This is it! They are going to light this tube and a few minutes later, I will be higher than I’ve ever gone before. For a moment, she thought of her high school chemistry teacher, Mr. Boone. I almost failed his class, and he told me to pursue something other than science for a career. I didn’t invite my parents to come, but I wish I could have invited him, just to rub it in.

The final ten-second countdown was exhilarating. Her entire body tensed as fuel pumps kicked in under her, three seconds to launch. When the word “ignition” came in her helmet’s speakers, the world around her rumbled to life. In a matter of moments, she felt as if two grown men were sitting on her chest, crushing her into the seat. Through it all, Commander Nelson was calling off their statistics, indicating that they were go for orbital insertion.

The command module throbbed as the deep roar continued. Georgia glanced at the small viewing portal, her neck muscles straining under the increased G forces. There was a shimmer of azure sky that went to a darker shade of blue, then a few moments later, to black.

Space!

The sound from under her reduced slightly, and then came a clunking noise as the boosters shut down. Silence took over for three heartbeats, and Commander Nelson said, “Separating from first stage.”

A thunk followed and Georgia’s body surged up into her restraining harness for a moment, then another lower rumble of the Thor booster kicking in tossed her back into her seat again as they once more accelerated.

It was another three minutes when that booster shut down. Nelson’s voice came in her helmet again.

“Thor crew, we are at our cruising altitude. Our flight time is estimated at nine months. Feel free to move about the cabin, but in the event of turbulence, please return to your seats and put on your seat belts. Thank you for flying SpaceX!”

Georgia removed her helmet and gloves, fascinated at how they floated in front of her. She couldn’t resist the opportunity to tap one glove into a spinning motion before she hit the restraint release on her chest. It only took a few moments to get out of her space suit and stow it.

Everyone in the module was enjoying weightlessness. Nelson joined them a few minutes later. “We are three orbits from our designated station-point over North America. That gives us four and a half hours to enjoy the floating and the view. I suggest you take it all in, because once we kick in the grav spin, you won’t be able to take in a real view.”

Georgia and the others found a portal and every minute or so, Earth came into view. It was brilliant against the blackness of space. The deep cobalt color of the oceans, the browns and grays of the elevated ground and deserts, the stark white of the clouds… they all kept her transfixed. North America was still in the shadow of night, but the lights from the cities sparkled like stars where they poked through the clouds. The war seemed very distant to her for a few moments.

Slowly she gathered her thoughts. I did it, I made it into space—real space. While there were thousands in the Space Force, very few had reached the upper atmosphere as she had, let alone into orbit. In fact, none that she was aware of other than those in the Thor crew. We are the first up here, but we won’t be the last. Pride swelled in her chest.

There were some housekeeping tasks they had to do, but most of the crew savored their view of Earth. They strapped in once more as the command module separated from Thor, then turned around and docked. Then came the firing of the thrusters to put the station into a spin. Gravity returned, more with each rotation. There was a few moments of slight vertigo as it started, but nothing that Georgia couldn’t handle.

At the edge of her field of vision, she saw a small bolt spinning inside the cabin. As the gravity increased, it bumped the hull and remained there. She wondered what the bolt was for and where it had come from. I’m just thankful it wasn’t something important. Picking it up, she handed it to Commander Nelson who only smiled. “It happens more than you might think. Stuff gets dropped during the construction of these things and somehow works its way out during the launch. It’s nothing to be concerned about.”

They made their way into the living quarters portion of the module. One of the soft-sided storage cases had broken free during the launch. Its contents of food packages had spilled, but other than that, everything seemed fine. Johnston and Niemynski made their way to the corridor that ran along the length of the barrel’s firing coils for the Thor to the Gunnery and Piloting module. Once there, she ran through the checklists to make sure that the weapon was operational. It took an hour, but she was pleased that everything seemed to be operational.

When she returned to the living module, she was greeted by Commander Nelson, whom she reported the weapon’s status to. “Good. That leaves us with only one glitch.”

Normally hearing the word “glitch” was not too disturbing. Being in space, any glitch could potentially be deadly.

“What’s the problem, sir?” Webb asked.

“One solar panel is stuck. It’s only showing as one-third deployed. We need to initiate an EVA to see if it can be fully extended.”

“What if it can’t?” Webb pressed.

“We can still fly, but it will limit energy usage. Firing Mjölnir will be possible but the interval between shots will be hours instead of minutes.”

Georgia didn’t like the sound of that. The interval between firing could leave Thor exposed to counterattack.

Niemynski raised his hand. “I’ll do the EVA, sir.”

“I wasn’t looking for volunteers, but I accept your offer,” Nelson replied. Georgia knew it wouldn’t be easy. Being in the station when it was spinning gave you gravity. Going outside, the forces that held you in place inside tried to throw you off outside. Nelson reduced that risk with his next sentence. “We will use the thrusters to kill our spin. That should make it easier for you, AJ.”

The living module had a single airlock for exterior access. Niemynski put on his EVA suit and gathered a standard Alpha kit of tools. Georgia floated about, watching him cycle the airlock and float out.

No one had a good view of him externally other than Commander Nelson who tracked him from the monitors in the command module. The entire process took an hour. Georgia heard metal-on-metal scraping outside, confirming that AJ was working on the issue. Finally it was Nelson who broadcast the news, “He’s got the panel out!” Once he came back aboard, Niemynski was congratulated by everyone.

Commander Nelson looked at them all as Niemynski took off his EVA suit. “Well folks, every flight I’ve made has had something go wrong. It’s almost a NASA tradition. Let’s hope that was our only hiccup on this mission.” It was a sentiment that Georgia agreed with.

When it came time for her shift to go to sleep, she found it nearly impossible. It wasn’t the slightly lighter gravity or the cocoon-like sleeping bag. It was the fact that she was in space. Her whole life had been dedicated to getting where she was. The Russians had cheated her, then the Fish. She had begun to wonder if it would ever happen. Now that she was there, the excitement was hard to shake off. She felt proud, even if it was a pride that no one else other than her crewmates would understand.

I did it despite everything that got thrown at me.

* * *

By her fourth shift in the gunnery seat of Thor, things had become routine. Sensors were not detecting signs of any unauthorized craft. Looking through the targeting scope, she could see the dot of the International Space Station when it passed near their position. It had been shut down for human occupancy after the Russo-Bratva War, though some experiments still operated on it. After the war, international cooperation to keep the station operating had fallen apart. Seeing it was strangely reassuring.

She spent her shift with her face planted on the forehead and chin pad of the targeting system as the display showed her Earth, and digitally tagged all operating satellites. The day before, she saw a flicker of light, only for a moment. Radar had not come back with a target signature. When she showed the vid to Commander Nelson, he had no explanation. That had been her only moment of excitement.

I hope this isn’t what the next nine months will be like.

On hour eight, she saw it again, this time in another position over the Midwest United States. A momentary flicker. Toggling on the radar, she got nothing back. “I have another sighting of that light, Commander.”

Nelson’s voice came on her headset. “Anything on radar?”

“Negative.” She squinted and saw it again, a distinct white dot. “Got him again, at grid fourteen; twenty, six. Niemynski, request adjusting our aim at grid fourteen.”

“Adjusting,” James replied. The targeting system compensated for the move, but she now had the grid directly in her sighting range.

Commander Nelson moved up beside her, activating the secondary display and playing back what she saw. “Nothing on radar though. I wonder if it is some sort of stealth tech.”

“The Russians used that during the war,” she said. “We would get intermittent signals from orbiting targets then. This is not painting at all.”

She could feel Nelson’s presence at her side. “Nothing on our identified roster. It could be space junk, something rogue.”

“If it was, we should be getting a radar signature.”

“True. Get the coordinates. Let’s see if it moves. I want a detailed plot of its position, speed, orbital profile, the works.”

“Yes sir,” she replied coolly. A part of her wanted it to be something the Fish had in orbit. Georgia was antsy to unleash the power of the big weapon.

“I’m going to get on the horn with mission control and see if they have any thoughts about what it is.”

“The Fish may have made it to avoid detection. I mean seriously, radar is antique tech,” she added as she tried to spot the light again.

“True enough. Let’s rule out what it isn’t. Then we can determine how and when to respond.”

“If it’s Fish, with brute force.”

Nelson chuckled. “On that, we can all agree. Good work on spotting it, Johnston.”

Georgia leaned in on the targeting scope.

If you are a little bird the Fish put up here, I am looking forward to blowing you to bits.

Chapter nineteen

Firebase Benatar, New Bern, North Carolina, the Eastern Front, the United States

The tiny forested area where Thun and Sparky’s Whoop Ass had been posted had dramatically changed its appearance over the last few weeks. Engineering vehicles had been brought in, plowing defensive positions. Some transportable reinforced shelters were set up. One group of engineers ventured out into the no man’s land between where the Fish had come from and the tiny firebase and had run plumbing from the rest area out to the outpost. The engineers had crafted crude wooden barricades with sharpened poles designed to impale another attack. Trenches were dug and fields of fire cleared for the armor.

Ammo, fuel, potable water, all were brought in, pointing to a much longer stay. Concrete road barriers were brought in to provide the infantry with hard cover. Captain Briggs finally announced they were designated as Firebase Benatar. Thun understood the reference to the oldies band, but many of the younger crews were confused by the reference.

Kids. They have no idea what good music is. Pat Benatar was a goddess of rock back during my parent’s childhood.

The infantry had gotten the unsavory task of gathering up the dead aliens and burning them in bonfires. While it very much smelled like chicken cooking, the smoke had an unpleasant effect if you breathed enough of it: projectile vomiting. Sparks had learned it the hard way, along with roughly half of the firebase. After that, the infantry moved their burning and cleanup operations far to the rear and downwind from the base.

There hadn’t been much for them to do after the cleanup from the battle. One thing was clear. For the time being, they were not going on the offensive. Everything looked defensive to Thun, which he was oddly comfortable with. Sparks had questioned it, but that was Sparky’s mode of operation, to question the decision of their superiors. “Why have us come all of the way here and dig in? Shouldn’t we be driving in on the Fish?” Thun knew that if the orders came to go on the offensive, his gunner would be questioning those just as vigorously.

Sergeant Thun didn’t question strategy. It helped to know it, but it was unnecessary. His universe was fairly small, limited to his command/driver’s seat in the Schwarzkopf, the infantry he could carry into battle, and his gunner. When there was a battle, his world expanded out to the range of his main gun. It was a small world, a chaotic one at times, yet comforting.

If the brass wants us here, well, we’re here.

Sparks was the opposite. He was a man in quest of context. He always had to know the why’s and what’s of life. Why are we here? What are we supposed to do here? How will this help us win the fight? In Thun’s thinking, Sparks was trying to understand officers because he probably wanted to be one at some point.

I’m not sure why he wants that burden. This war is chewing through officers faster than NCOs. All he has to do to get promoted is not die. If things keep on the way they are going, he could end up being a general by next Christmas.

Chasing after promotions was a waste of time.

Being a tanker was what he was all about. He and Sparks had placed second at Armor Week competition three years before. His gunner wanted to go back the following years, but Thun had been against it. “We should let others get a shot at the competition,” was his justification. Sparks hated that. It wasn’t enough for him to compete; he wanted to win.

They kept close to the Whoop Ass in their downtime. It was less about regulations and more about the knowledge that the Fish were nearby. There was no way to know for sure when the aliens would strike again. Everyone felt it was an inevitability, though it wasn’t spoken about much, at least by the more seasoned veterans. The younger replacements were clamoring for their first tastes of combat.

The best cure for that is for them to get into battle.

After over two weeks of digging in with no signs of the enemy, Thun thought they might get the order to move out, to go and poke the bear, so to speak. That ended as he sat on the troop compartment, his back against the turret.

“Contact!” came the call over the speaker system.

Thun and Sparks scrambled to the front of the tanks, throwing the hatches up and to the side, then sliding into their seats. Daniel got his headset on first, then turned over the Schwarz’s thundering engine, followed with the communications system. “Whoop Ass is online,” he called out for the local battlespace commander.

“Roger that. We have contacts to the northeast at the edge of the wood line.”

“You got that, Sparky?”

The turret rotated in the direction, which was all the response Thun needed.

“Check your primary,” Sparks replied.

As he looked at it, Thun was surprised. Hovering just at the top of the bare trees in the distance were three objects. At first, they looked like transparent balloons of some sort. Zooming out, he got a better idea of their size. They were easily fifty meters long, twenty meters wide. Below them, dangling down, were long rope-like tendrils, that seemed to waver in the light winter breeze.

“Are those jellyfish?” Thun muttered.

“Last time I checked, jellyfish don’t fly. Those things are hovering. And they look more like Portuguese men-of-war than jellyfish.”

Goddamn Fish. They always manage to come up with a curve ball.

“Relay that feed to BS command,” Thun ordered.

“Already on it. Five to one they are shitting bricks right now.”

“Let’s hope we don’t join them in that exercise.”

The three objects hovered above the trees for several minutes, unmoving. That alone made his nerves itch. The Fish didn’t do things for fun.

“What do you think they are for?” Sparky asked.

“Whatever it is, it can’t be good.”

“We don’t have anti-air systems here in the base,” Sparks grumbled.

That much was true. The Fish had never shown any interests in putting anything in the air.

Well, that’s just fucking dandy.

Thun toggled to the battlespace commander. “BS Command, we have enemy air objects in view. Permission to fire on them.” His request was no doubt one of many that the battlespace commander was receiving. It was always best to kill the enemy from as far away as possible.

“Stand by for authorization,” came back the disembodied voice.

“He seems calm,” Sparky said.

“He’s fifteen miles from here,” Thun reminded him. “It’s easy to be calm when it’s not your ass on the line.”

“They’re moving!” Sparks called out a few moments later.

Thun looked at the aliens as they began to deliberately move towards their position. They were not fast, but were moving faster than he would have imagined possible. Their tendrils hovered just above the ground level, drifting slightly behind them. Thun switched to the command channel. “Lieutenant Rodriguez, request permission to fire on these things.”

There was a pause, which Thun hated.

This is a new species. They aren’t sure what to do.

“Sparky, power the rail gun and bring it to bear on that first balloon-thing.”

“No arguments from me,” he said as Thun heard the turret adjust angle and the rail gun barrel elevate.

“Permission granted,” Rodriguez’s voice came back. “All units, open fire.”

“Light him up,” Thun said to his gunner. Sparks obliged almost instantly. The rail gun hummed as the capacitors topped off, then came the gentle rock and whoosh of the round, followed with a crack of it going hypersonic after clearing the barrel.

Several rounds hit the lead balloon, puncturing it and going out the other side. The holes sizzled orange from the round’s heat. He wanted to rejoice, thinking that the large bag of the jellyfish would simply deflate, but it didn’t. There were little dips, but it seemed to still be a controlled descent. In fact, it looked to be accelerating towards Firebase Benatar.

“What the fuck?” Sparky said.

“It must be compartmentalized. Switch to missiles,” Thun said, his muscles tense. More rounds sliced through the airborne jellyfish as if it wasn’t there. Other conventional cannon rounds, high explosive, fired through the lead alien and the ones behind them. None detonated on contact with the Fish, but simply punched through, exploding in the distant tree line.

Sparky fired a lone missile, which flew through the alien as if were nothing more than tissue paper. A large flap of the skin, now torn by several rounds, whipped behind it as it closed the distance. It was a dull gray, flapping like a cloth. Thun then saw the change in its altitude. It lowered, its tendrils dragging on the ground, coming right at them. As he stared, he could see something inside, near the lower portion of the alien, inside the bulbous body. It was red and orange, an oblong shape. Perhaps some sort of vital organ.

“Sparky, you see that thing inside of the alien?”

“Where?”

“Inside the bag, near where the tendrils come out.”

“Yeah, I see something.”

“Can you hit it?”

Thun heard the rail gun elevate. “Too high. Back us up and I can.”

“No can do,” Thun replied. The firebase was filled with infantry, gear and not a lot of maneuver room.

We never planned on dealing with an assault from the air. Damn it!

Thun had no idea what the aliens could do, but he felt somewhat safer in their AFV. The infantry were dug in, but that might not provide them cover from an aerial attack. He toggled the channel for Corporal McCoy. “Corporal, I’m dropping the rear hatch. Have your squad haul ass and get in here.”

McCoy’s voice was crisp and tense. “Alright, on the move.”

Thun hit the release for the rear hatch on the Schwarzkopf.

“The missiles are no good,” Sparks said.

“Let’s see if it likes bullets any better.”

Sparks unleashed the machine gun in the turret, controlling aim and fire from his gunner’s seat. Thun could see the tracers stitched across the front of the jellyfish. Some sort of transparent fluid squirted from one area hit, but other than that, it was hard to see what damage the gunfire was doing. The other two aliens fanned out to the flanks of the lead jellyfish and were now taking fire themselves.

“All aboard, Sergeant,” McCoy signaled. “Closing the rear hatch now.”

It’s almost on top of us! He saw the Bull Moose assigned to the platoon step out from the trees, leaning backwards. The large laser flashed, barely a flicker. It couldn’t miss, not a target that large, but from what Thun could see, the shot did no more damage than the rail gun.

The Man-of-War flew overhead, its semi-opaqueness casting a dull shadow over the Whoop Ass. “Button up tight,” he commanded, and both he and Sparks sealed the hatches over them. Outside, he heard a hissing sound, loud enough to penetrate the AFV.

What the hell are they doing?

The battlespace channel spoke up. “All personnel, take cover!”

Looking out through the front visor, Thun saw a fine powdery substance drift down and start to accumulate. “What is this shit?” Sparks asked.

“It can’t be good.”

The voice of the battlespace commander came on. “Assume NBC attack. Repeat, this is a chemical attack.” He switched over the air circulation and vent controls. He heard a metallic thunk as the systems engaged.

Thun watched out the side viewport on the hatch as one tendril dragged along next to him, hitting Teasley’s Buford MBT. Sparks flew, where it hit, arcs of energy that danced along the hull of the Buford, searing the paint and leaving ugly blackened scars. The armored vehicles were designed to weather EMPs but it was something that no one had put to the test. He hit the button on the screen that got him direct comms to the Buford.

“Teasley, are you alright?”

No sound came back.

“Teasley!”

Silence came back to him.

“You think they’re dead?” Sparks asked.

“Probably just comms failure.” He knew his voice didn’t speak with assurance. There were no assurances for this.

Overhead, he heard a roar of fighter jets, coming in low and fast. The purring of their cannons echoed around and above him. Bits of pine boughs and handfuls of needles rained down on the Whoop Ass, stirring the dust that was still there from the jellyfish. He heard the cracking of wood, like a tree falling down, somewhere behind the Schwarz, thudding to the ground.

What is happening out there?

“BS Command, what is going on out there?”

“Air support just neutralized the aliens. We are still evaluating the situation. Follow NBC protocols.” His voice paused. “Alert,” he transmitted to everyone under his control. “We have enemy movement to the north. All units engage.”

Thun looked over and saw a mix of Frogs and Crabs moving right at Firebase Benatar.

Well, this sucks.

“Sparky…”

“I heard, I’m on it.”

“Aim for the Crabs. Give them a rail-round enema.”

“With pleasure,” his gunner replied as the capacitors of the rail gun hummed to life. Thun wondered how many vehicles had been damaged like Teasley’s, but there wasn’t time to check the monitor.

“Firing,” Sparks said. The rail gun hummed then whooshed. The crack of the round was strangely reassuring as it sped into a Crab. Crabs could be tough, but not tough enough to resist being slammed into by a metallic slug moving that fast. The round hit near the torso’s base, tearing through the entire length of the alien, spraying guts and gore out behind it.

Machine guns from the operational armor tore into the Frogs, mowing down dozens of them in a heartbeat. Sparky fired another round from the rail gun, rocking the Schwarzkopf back with a tug as the round tore downrange. It was impossible to see the round, but the plume of superheated gas from the barrel pointed downrange and he could see the ripples in the air as the projectile severed off a tail from an advancing Crab. The creature curled up, convulsing violently from the impact, which was satisfying to watch.

Thun saw one Crab’s raised torso simply explode in a blast of hot steam and gore—no doubt a hit from the Bull Moose’s large laser. Climbing over its collapsing body was a Boss, dark as midnight, its chest etched with a glowing green. Behind it loomed dozens of Frogs, springing erratically, grunting together.

The Bull Moose unleashed three of its heavy shoulder-mounted rockets, two of which slammed into the Boss. The other detonated amid the Frogs, sending a spray of oily blood and body parts flailing skyward. The Boss tipped backwards, falling, as the Frogs swarmed past him.

“BS, be advised the enemy is on our line left of my position,” Thun broadcasted. “Sparky, to the left.”

“On it,” he said, firing two rockets from the turret at the Frogs as they sprang onto the concrete barriers, spitting their deadly venom into the lines. Whoop Ass’s rockets blasted close to a dozen of the Frogs, but more simply leaped up and penetrated the lines.

It was then that the big Boss stood back up. Part of its black sharkskin-like hide was peeled back on one shoulder from the rockets, but it was still operational, still deadly. It raised its good arm at the Bull Moose and unleashed a cutter beam. The high-pressure water staggered the Bull Moose, twisting it in place as armor plates went flying off. The Boss advanced as it fired, unrelenting.

“Sparky… time to get some.”

“Copy that,” he drawled as the capacitors charged. “I’m gonna zap this guy hard.” The turret’s targeting system for rail gun was far more accurate than the missile subsystem.

The rail gun discharged, the plume from the barrel flashed at the same time the projectile hit the side of the Boss under the armpit. It passed through his body with an explosion of pressurized fluid going off like a secondary explosion. The alien’s torso was nearly cut in half, the upper portion hanging on by a thick armored flap of skin on the back. The Boss fell over hard, crushing two Frogs in the process.

“Nice shooting.”

“Yeah, fuck that guy.”

The Bull Moose banged off a power shell and crouched, using its large laser to blast a searing hole through the ranks of the advancing Frogs, popping them in flash-heated explosions. Machine guns joined in, mowing down the aliens. Then the guns fell silent. Dust from the aerial attack, stirred by the battle, drifted in the air.

The battlespace commander’s voice came on. “All forces, remain buttoned up. We are going to need full decontamination. Do not move about. This powder is deadly. Full NBC protocols remain in effect.”

“What the hell is going on?” Sparky asked.

McCoy’s voice joined in. “Hey, what’s the word from you guys? We’re getting tossed around like a grenade with a pulled pin back here.”

“The Fish upped their game,” Thun replied.

“Well, that sucks.”

Thun was just thankful he had gotten McCoy and his squad aboard the Whoop Ass before the powder had fallen. “If everything stayed the same, we’d run out of things to bitch about.”

Chapter twenty

Operation Bockscar—281-C, the USS Proteus, East of the Vance Seamount, Pacific Ocean

Chief Petty Officer Viktor Langman stood by the docking ring that allowed him to board his Hammerhead. His eyes fixated on the controls as his mind thought about the mission. There was no shortage of pressure being a Trident pilot. This, though, was different. A tension escalated to new levels.

On this mission, he’d be carrying a nuclear bomb.

It was a highly modified W88 warhead, a thermonuclear nuke with a yield of around 480 kilotons. During the briefing onshore, the engineer assured him it could withstand the pressure at the depth his Trident would be operating in, and that it was “virtually impossible” for the nuke to go off without the proper codes. It was the word “virtually” that bothered Langman. The only thing that kept him from asking for clarification to that point was the fact that if the bomb went off while he was in range of it, he was going to be dead instantly.

There were three rigs that would be carrying the bombs into the Vance seamount and the alien colony there. Another six were poised to provide cover, should the Fish decide to move against them. The non-bomb carriers would also deploy sonic decoys, to mislead the enemy, lure them away from the alien habitat. The subs were on station and would provide assistance if needed.

A Navy psychologist had met with him prior to the mission, apparently to determine if he had any qualms about deploying a nuclear bomb against the aliens. For Langman, it was a strange line of questioning. “My entire life has been war. I have seen far too many innocent people dying. I might feel bad about killing humans with a nuclear weapon but these are not humans. They are aliens, almost as ruthless as the Russians. They started this fight. If this will force them to stop, I’m all in favor of it.” Apparently his answer was acceptable because within an hour he had received his orders for Operation Bockscar.

“Nervous?” Captain Castillo asked from behind him, shattering his concentration.

“Would it help?” Langman responded.

“Well, if it makes you feel any better, I’m nervous. Carrying that kind of ordnance is a bit nerve-wracking.”

“I hear that phrase often, ‘If it makes you feel better.’ Americans love such lines. When I came to this country, it was hard to wade through all the twisting you have done to your own language. I have never understood that phrase. How can your nervousness make me feel better.”

“Sometimes it helps to know that you are not alone.”

That made sense, and Langman gave the captain of the Proteus a nod. “I accept your fears in the spirit they are intended.”

“We are about twenty minutes from your debarkation point,” Captain Castillo said. “From there, you have a two-mile trip in, and two miles back. We just got word that one of the subs, the Wayfarer, has developed ballast control problems and had to abort.”

Langman nodded at the news. That would mean they only had two nukes to deploy. It is me and Commander Greenwood left to do this job. “I take it we are still a go.”

“Yes. We are still within the mission parameters.”

“Good. I prefer to go through with this.” He had mentally prepared himself for the operation. Pausing it would mean losing that edge. Langman’s experience was that once he had committed himself to something, he had to see it through. The Navy psychologist he met with had said it was a compulsive behavior. Until now, he had never thought of it that way. Completion was something he had always strived for. This mission was no different from any other aspect of his life.

“I know we’ve briefed on this,” Castillo said, “but is there anything else you need from me?”

“Just a ride home,” he said, checking the pressure then starting the open cycle on the hatch.

“We’ll be ready for you,” the captain assured him.

Langman opened the rear hatch on his Hammerhead then pulled and twisted himself inside. He sealed the rear hatch and initiated the startup procedure. Green lights illuminated the interior of his cockpit, a sign that everything was operational. Captain Castillo sealed the subside hatch, with a dull metal clank behind him. Viktor manually tightened his restraint strap after the auto system did so, making it more snug than usual. Then raised his left arm where the nuclear weapon was attached. To his nervous relief it was still there.

For a moment, a Scripture came to mind. “When you go to war against your enemies and see horses and chariots and an army greater than yours, do not be afraid of them…” The Fish were formidable, but today he was going to deliver a nasty punch, payback for what they had done to millions of people.

This is retribution, it is vengeance, and I am the tool of its delivery.

Langman reached up to his suit’s breast pocket and pulled out his battered knit cap. He pulled it on over his head, and with it came a sense that he was not entirely alone, that somehow his father was still with him.

He pulled his right arm out of the control sleeve and toggled on the communications system. “Comms check,” he said as he pulled on the headset over his cap.

“We read you five by five, Cossack,” Lieutenant Norris replied.

“Undocking in three, two, one—” he cycled the maglock and the Hammerhead pulled away from the Proteus.

“We show you clear,” Norris signaled.

“Copy that,” he said, throttling his thrusters to a hover mode, bringing the Hammerhead to a more upright position. “Debarking now.”

“Good luck and Godspeed, Cossack.”

Langman angled the Hammerhead in a slow bank, activating his running lights. “This is Cossack to Bockscar Commander. I am free to navigate.”

“Decoy drones have been deployed. Fang and Hocus Pocus are on your flanks.” Langman had to trust his word; he wasn’t about to trigger his active sonar to confirm. Even with their dull crimson running lights, at that depth, he could not see them unless they were much closer.

“What is the word on Commander Greenwood?” he signaled, wondering if the other Trident carrying a nuke had made it this far.

“Sharkskin pushed off three minutes ago,” came back the word, using Greenwood’s call sign. “You are go for deployment of your package.”

“Confirmed,” Langman replied as he slowly throttled the thrusters of his Hammerhead to a cruising speed. It took some adjustment to get down just above the floor of the seabed. The Trident suit aligned to the nav display on the preset course. Once he was locked in, he angled for the far waypoint. He had his hands ready to take manual control at any moment, if he had to. The suit leaned more forward than usual, pulling to the left, no doubt from the additional weight and the changes to his center of gravity. It required some manual adjustments to the Trident’s stance, a little trial and error, but nothing he couldn’t handle. It took a full five minutes to get the right trim as the suit continued on its path.

Two tiny yellow dots showed the positions of Fang and Hocus Pocus off to his flank. It was assuring, but in the darkness, it was hard to feel genuine comfort. Every shadow, every strange rock formation took on a menacing appearance. Viktor felt the headband of the knit hat get warm and realized he was sweating. It was nerves, as much as he didn’t want to admit it. At the end of his training, the weapons officer said, “You will be one of the first Americans to deploy a nuclear weapon since the bombing of Nagasaki.” That had stuck with Langman, it echoed constantly with him as he made sure the suit stayed on course.

Finally he was on target. Taking manual control, he brought the suit to hover mode, kicking up a little silt from the ocean floor. There was nothing around him but blackness. Somewhere, not far up ahead, was an alien colony. Adjusting the shoulder thrusters, he lowered the Hammerhead to the seabed, his feet finding stone to give him a solid footing.

“Bockscar Commander, I am on target.”

“Roger that. Deploy the package,” came the voice in his headset.

Squatting slightly, he extended his left arm, then used the right hand controls of the suit to activate the release. The entire suit shifted as the bomb momentarily disconnected, until he caught the handle with his right hand. Bending as much as the Trident could, he lowered it to the seafloor, putting it next to a piece of ancient volcanic rock that poked through the silt. With his right forefinger he opened the arming plate and depressed the illuminated green button. It turned red and pulsated steadily, almost matching his heartbeat thundering in his ears.

“Package is armed,” he said standing upright.

“We have the signal. You are clear to return to your ship.”

Langman had already engaged his thrusters and turned the Hammerhead about. The silt obscured his last view of the weapon, though he could still see the pulsating red light. He locked in the coordinates of the Proteus and throttled the thrusters to full.

I want as much distance as possible between me and that bomb.

* * *

Viktor made it back, successfully docking and boarding the Proteus. Lieutenant Shults greeted him, helping him seal the docking mechanism to hold the suit in place. “How did it go?”

“That remains to be seen,” Langman replied, taking off his knit cap and storing it in his thermal suit. “Did Sharkskin make it back alright?” He wondered if his nuke was the only one that had gotten placed.

“I heard them say he was docking now,” Shults replied. It was somehow reassuring that he had not been the only one to complete the mission.

“Are we secure back there?” came the voice of Captain Castillo over the intercom.

Shults reached the intercom control. “All aboard and locked down, sir.”

The Proteus made a steep turn, accelerating hard. Langman had to reach up to the hull to steady himself. Once he found his center of gravity, he made his way to the bridge. Castillo sat in the raised center chair, overlooking the helmsman. When he spied Viktor, he turned. “Are you alright?”

Langman nodded. “Any sign of our friends?”

Castillo shook his head. “Both packages are still armed. I think they went for our drone-bait.”

The voice of the Bockscar commander came over the speakers. “All ships are out of the blast zone. Thirty seconds to detonation.”

“Helm, angle the rings down to maximum. Comms, bring up the rear camera,” Castillo ordered. Langman saw the rear view, nothing but the propulsion rings and darkness.

The captain stirred in his seat. “All hands, brace for concussion in twenty seconds,” he transmitted. From his training, there was going to be a shock wave, but it would likely not be too violent at this range. Still, Castillo was taking no chances.

The Bockscar commander began the final countdown. “Ten, nine, eight, seven, six…” Viktor found himself wringing his hands which were wet with perspiration. He grabbed the back of the captain’s seat, just in case the experts were wrong.

“… three, two, one.”

There was a brilliant flash on the primary screen, as if the sun itself had arrived in the blackness of the Vance seamount. It was white-hot, a single distorted shape looking like a sunrise at first, then forming into a sphere of red light.

The bubble, easily a kilometer in size, extended outward, expanding as the sea was vaporized by the nuclear reaction. Then it wavered, starting to collapse inward. A few moments later, it expanded again. The pulsating action of expansion and collapse continued for four cycles as the incredible pressures underwater fought the raging nuclear blast.

Then came the shock wave. It wasn’t dangerously violent, but the Proteus rocked, with the rear of the ship rising hard. He held onto Castillo’s seat.

As the ship leveled out, he saw the bubble had collapsed in on itself. Instead of a single massive orb of crimson light, now it was thousands of them, rising upward towards the surface. It was a magnificent and terrifying sight for him. No one on the bridge spoke, their eyes were transfixed on the images from behind them, hypnotized by the savage power they… no, he, had unleashed.

“This is Bockscar Command to all boats. You are clear to connect to your support ships and head home. Well done.”

A cheer went up, led by a howl from Lieutenant Norris at the weapons station. “Take that, you bastards!” Ensign Danielle called from the helm, raising her fist upward in defiance. Viktor wasn’t sure how he felt. He was numb, drained both physically and mentally by what he had done.

“Excellent work,” Castillo said, extending his hand.

Langman shook it, still unable to form words.

“Are you alright, Chief?”

It took a moment, but he managed a nod. “I thought I would be happy about this.”

“You should be,” the captain replied. “You just dealt the enemy a colossal blow. They deserved it, each and every one of them.”

“I know,” Langman managed. “A part of me wants to celebrate. Another part of me is trying to process this. I never thought in my life I would hold such power, that I would strike back at my enemies like this. You dream of it, you create little fantasies about how it will be. But when you see it, it feels as if a part of you is lost too.”

“I think I understand. You deserve to enjoy the moment. You’ve saved a lot of lives as a result of what you did. You may have even shortened the war. Chief, you’re likely to get a promotion out of this.”

A promotion? he thought. I was just a deliveryman. He tried to do what that Navy psychologist had told him to do, think of himself as simply doing a necessary job, but that wasn’t working for him. The truth was something that was going to take some time to process. I have waged genocide, just like when the Russians invaded my homeland. Am I one of the good guys still, or am I now just another person that justifies mass slaughter? He tempered those thoughts quickly understanding that these were not people. They were alien invaders who were waging their own war of genocide. They started this. All I am doing is playing according to the rules that they have created.

Langman looked away from the main viewscreen and back toward the engineering bulkhead. Hesitating, he wiped his hand across his cheek. He thought there was a tear there, but it was nothing.

Of course I’m not crying over this. I have saved lives by planting that bomb!

Chapter twenty-one

Manhattan AIZ, New York, the Eastern Front, the United States

Detective O’Malley rapped on the door of the third-story apartment and waited. They had been clearing the building for most of the day and he was hopeful they might finish before nightfall. It had been slim pickings in terms of food that had been recovered. Someone had already jimmied many of the doors and had beat his unit from pilfering the food.

The recovered goods in terms of jewelry was a different matter. Esposito had found a stash of expensive Tiffany items between a mattress and box spring. That had been a pleasant rarity. Hazel had discovered a .44 auto magnum, fully engraved with ivory handles. It was magnificent and Hazel had replaced his service sidearm with it. O’Malley had been unimpressed.

A gun like that is more cannon than pistol. Unless you have experience with that kind of kick, it is only going to be good at point-blank range.

What added to the tension of the moment was the erratic sounds of battle echoing in the streets and off buildings. The fighting was close, which was why the Army had requested them to clear the structures. Explosions rattled glass in windows and made plaster shed dust when they went off. The Army was giving up this block by tomorrow. If anyone was going to be leaving, they needed to be moving, now.

“NYPD,” he said, rapping on the door again. The fact that this door had not been pried open was a hint that it was possibly occupied.

“Go away,” came a male voice from the other side of the door.

O’Malley shook his head. Squatters… always defiant, he thought. He should respect them, living right on the front lines, but he didn’t. Because they are here, me and my people have to be here.

“Look, you have to evacuate,” he replied using his most commanding tone of voice.

“We are staying here.”

We, so he’s not alone.

“Look, your building is about to be behind the front lines. We need to get you folks out of here.”

“We’re doing just fine,” the man replied.

Why do they all say that?

“I understand how you feel. But you can’t stay. The Fish will kill you, or worse. We are here to get you to safety.”

There were murmurs behind the door, muffled voices, the loudest of which was female. O’Malley’s experience told him that could be good or bad. God only knows what these people have been through. After a few long minutes, he heard the male voice, this time close to the door. “Okay, I am opening the door.” A series of metallic clicks and snaps as at least four locks were turned, then finally the door opened.

What hit the detective first was the smell from the apartment, the almost overpowering stench of feces, urine, and human body odor all comingling and stabbing at his nostrils. He winced at the stench and didn’t bother to hide it.

The man was in his forties. His yellow body-sweat-stained shirt hung on him loosely, an indication of how much weight he’d lost. He had a beard that was dark and oily. His wife wore her black hair back in a tight bun. Her dress showed countless stains. She held the hand of an emaciated child, who stood barefooted, looking at the detective with an almost zombie-like gaze. The lack of running water and food had not been kind to these people.

“I am Kai, Kai Sebastian,” the man said, holding a sawed-off shotgun in his skinny fingers. “This is my wife, Galadriel, and our daughter, Taylor.”

He gave them a nod of acknowledgement. “I’m Detective O’Malley. Look, Mr. Sebastian, we need to get you folks out of here. The Fish have been pushing through this block. No doubt you’ve heard the gunfire.” As if to make his point, a machine gun fired a burst from a block or so away. Its purr was far from reassuring.

“We don’t have anywhere to go,” Galadriel said. “So we stayed.”

“I appreciate that, ma’am, but the time has come for you to go.” His eyes fell on a large kitchen bowl behind them that had been used as a chamber pot. “You need to gather what you think you need and we will get you to safety.” He motioned his squad who entered the room. They took Mrs. Sabastian to the bedrooms and hastily started packing.

Kai Sebastian stood there, almost as if none of the activity behind him was happening. “I thought it was the smart move… you know, to stay here. The streets were clogged with people panicking. We saw the reports of people being robbed on their way out of the city. I thought it would be better if we stayed put. I thought that the aliens would be pushed out. When they weren’t, we just stayed here in the building.”

It was something that O’Malley had heard before, too many times. “I understand,” he said, lying to him. To the hardened detective, it made far more sense to get away from the danger than try and live in it.

“We broke into other apartments for food,” Sebastian confessed.

“That’s alright. We aren’t here to arrest you.”

His wife and daughter came out and his squad was carrying two roller bags of luggage. Narvaez rolled his eyes when O’Malley exchanged glances with him.

They had at least gotten shoes on the little girl.

Finding the people and getting them to safety were two different things. He activated his shoulder mic. “Alright, we need to get these three out to the north. Narvaez and Richards, you get on the balconies and get eyes looking down. The rest of you, let’s get them down to the ground floor. Hold up there until we give the go-signal that the coast is clear.” A close explosion went off, making the building and his entire body throb from the reverberations.

O’Malley remained topside with his people. He preferred to be on top of any situation that might unfold. As his people and the Sabastian’s moved out, his eyes looked over the apartment. At one time, it had been a classy place, he was sure of that. The marble countertops and other décor pieces spoke to that. Now it was a mess. Clothing was everywhere, thrown about. The couch had been moved so that it could easily be placed in front of the door. The television, probably once the center of focus in the room, had a film of dust on it. It is amazing how things slide when people are cut off from water and power.

His squad deployed silently, both in this apartment and one further down the hallway. O’Malley got word that the team had gotten the citizens down to the ground floor and were waiting for his signal.

“Chief,” came the voice of Narvaez over the comms system. “I think I just saw something.”

O’Malley went to the sliding glass door that led from the apartment to the balcony where Sergeant Narvaez laid. The sergeant’s NYPD ballcap poked out from under his black tactical helmet and he adjusted his aim of his AR-15. O’Malley crouched down as he came onto the balcony, crawling up next to Narvaez, squinting to see what the sergeant was aiming at.

“Talk to me, Narvaez,” he whispered as he lay on his stomach to try to get the same view. A stiff late winter breeze stung at his cheeks, carrying with it the familiar aroma of garbage from the street below.

“Across the street,” he pointed to his left where his rifle was aimed, “the gray building. Go down to the street level, look at the alley next to the tan structure.”

Following the verbal cues, O’Malley still saw nothing. “I’ve got nothing.”

“Something is down here, just out of line of sight.”

“What is down there?”

“A Crab. I’m pretty sure. Lighting sucks. I spotted him ducking in there.”

“You’re pretty sure? Either you saw a Crab or you didn’t.”

“It looked like a claw poking out for a minute. It didn’t exactly step out and let me snap a photo.”

O’Malley hated Fish sightings. Finding Fish—that complicated things. They had to be dealt with, there was no way around that. He toggled his shoulder mic. “Richards, you have an angle. Checking at street level, any sign of the Fish near that alley to the west?”

Patrolman Richards was on a balcony five apartments down. “Yeah boss, I just picked them up. I don’t have a clear image but there are silhouettes in the alley and they don’t look human. I can start shooting them if you want.”

It shouldn’t have been tempting, but it was. If Narvaez made the wrong call, it could very well be humans in that alley. Shooting people trying to kill him was easy to justify. Ordering his people to blindly fire at targets that were not confirmed could result in human deaths, and those would be chalked up to incompetence or cowardice. O’Malley was many things, but not those two classifications.

The problem was that the Fish were behind them, in the path of their way out. The front lines were to the south of the apartment, and this possible sighting was to the north. It happened far too often in Manhattan, courtesy of flooded subway tunnels and the sewer system.

“Esposito, you’re down on the street level. You have any eyes-on?” he called over their tiny comms network.

“Negative, sir.”

“Sir,” Narvaez spoke up. “Can you signal the Army, see if they see anything?”

O’Malley suppressed a chuckle. The military was a short ways away fighting its own battle. Even if I get through to them, and that’s a stretch, we are low on their priorities, he thought.

“That’s wishful thinking. We are going to have to handle this ourselves. Esposito,” he broadcast. “Any way to move through the buildings, get past that alleyway down on the left without being seen?”

“No can do. Not unless you want to go out the back side.”

Towards the battle—hell no.

His mind flipped through the list of undesirable options. His priority was to get these people out of here alive. The choices were fairly limited, given that he wasn’t sure if it was aliens in the alleyway. It took two seconds for him to arrive at a plan. “Here’s what we’re going to do. Hazel, you’re the fastest. I want you to cross quickly, get to that alley, and chuck in a flashbang, then haul your skinny ass back to us. That should get a reaction that tells us if it is Fish or humans, or just shadows in that alley. If it’s the Fish, we catch them in the street as they emerge. Everyone got that?”

The conformations came quickly over their network. “Alright, everyone get ready. Hazel, you start your run… now!”

On the street below, Hazel sprinted across, weaving between parked cars and two that were abandoned on the pavement. He slammed his body against the building on the far side, got his wind, then darted to the edge of the alley. Hazel threw the flashbang and was already on his way back when it went off with a resounding crack-boom.

Two blue-gray Crabs burst out through the smoke into the street with speed that surprised O’Malley. His people opened up instantly, with gunfire and grenades. The explosions threw bits of masonry and pavement in every direction. One Crab raised its claw and fired at his people below the detective on the ground floor with what looked like an acid sprayer. Its partner scampered over the cars that clogged the street, moving towards their position.

O’Malley aimed his own AR-15 at the head of the firing Crab. He could see that his shots hit, the carapace rippled under the impact and he thought he saw at least one round penetrate. The shots from the balconies got its attention. The upper torso of the creature leaned back and it leveled its claw towards the balcony where Richards was firing from.

“Richards, pull back!” he called, not even wasting time with the mic.

Richards got to his knees when the acid spray splattered the deck. The officer toppled over, halfway in and out of the sliding glass doorway as O’Malley emptied his magazine at the Crab. Another explosion went off from a grenade as the detective ran through the apartment and into the hall, heading for the apartment Richards was in. He got there, whipping the door open and almost tripping over something on the rug that covered the marble flooring as he stumbled to the doorway.

Richards was smoking from the acid, lying face-down, half in and out of the balcony. His rear armor was a pool of goo, melted away through to the flesh. His butt and back of his thighs had caught the worst of it. The corrosive was still burning deep, right to the bones and beyond. Blood from opened vessels pooled all around his legs. Experience told the detective that much blood was not something someone could recover from. He wasn’t breathing, O’Malley didn’t even bother to check for a pulse, the wounds were far too grievous. The smell of the acid still burning through his flesh stung at the detective’s nostrils, making him turn his head away from the fallen officer. Richards was dead, beyond any chance of saving.

Suddenly he felt a warmth on his right foot.

Damn, I stepped in some of it!

O’Malley hopped into the room, falling into a chair as he tried to remove his boot. He got it off and checked the bottom of his foot as shots still rang out below. There were ugly blisters there but no penetration. Looking at his boot, he saw a penny-sized hole in it, still smoldering slightly from the chemical reaction. In frustration, he threw his boot across the room.

Outside, he heard the boom of a shotgun going off, no doubt that Mr. Sebastian had joined in the firefight. He ran back to Narvaez’s position with a limping motion courtesy of the missing boot. When he got there, he saw the officer still firing, a growing pool of spent brass covering the balcony floor, a haze of smoke from the street below and the firing AR-15 lingering in the air.

Looking down, he saw one dead Crab sprawled on top of the cars, its weight denting in the roofs of the vehicles it was on. It was laid out as if it were on a chef’s cutting board, awaiting the knife—its claws open and spread, its tail fully uncoiled and flat. The remaining Crab was advancing over another set of cars. Pushing off with its tail, it looked as if it was about to charge when it suddenly collapsed. The tail unwound, flopping to the street, twitching at the tip.

The gunfire slowed to a trickle, then stopped.

“Are you good?” he asked of Narvaez, who nodded in response.

“How’s Richards?”

O’Malley shook his head. It was impossible to form words. There had been losses to the squad before, but not recently. For him, it felt personal, as if it had been something he had done wrong that had cost Richards his life. There was no way for him to not take it as a failure on his part, though he couldn’t imagine what he could have done differently.

My people count on me, and now one of them is dead. That’s not something I can just ignore.

O’Malley rallied his focus, turning it to the rest of his people, praying that none of them had been killed in the action. Reaching up, he activated his mic. “Status check, how are we doing?”

“Christie got a little splatter burn on his leg, otherwise we are good as are the citizens,” came back Hazel’s voice. “I think we got through this okay.”

No, we did not.

“Richards is down,” he finally said the words to let the rest of his squad know. “I’m going to need some help up here to move the body.” The acid that the Fish fired lingered for a long time. The lack of urgency in his voice told the members of his squad just how serious the situation was.

Narvaez rose to his feet, checking his weapon one more time before slinging it over his shoulder. “Chief, do you know you only have one boot on?”

“Shut the fuck up,” O’Malley growled in response. “Grab your shit and get over to where Richards is. Watch were you walk,” he snarled back.

O’Malley entered the apartment and made his way to the bedroom, looking for a replacement for his missing boot, silently hoping that Mr. Sebastian was the same size shoe as he was.

We are not out of this yet. We still have to get those civvies to safety.

Chapter twenty-two

Bergan, Jersey City, New Jersey, the Eastern Front, the United States

Lieutenant Colonel Harris had a chiseled expression that was made even more menacing by the pink scar that ran from the edge of his hairline, down his jaw, to his chin. Lieutenant Cordova had only met him once before, when he had piloted his Rattlesnake up to her once before the start of a mission, just to check on her and her people. Now she was facing him across a folding table in an abandoned school classroom that had been appropriated by the Army. His gaze penetrated her deeper than any alien spiker shot.

Harris’s role was rumored to be a hardline officer, the kind of man you sent in to unfuck something. He had risen through the ranks. He was not known for his patience. The colonel sent Harris in to be the blunt object that pummeled problems into things that worked. The fact that he was there to meet with her was not a good sign.

It felt as if the last two weeks of her life were crumbling around her. She had been given duty in the kitchen, overseeing inventory control. For Bianca it had been humiliating.

I’m an ASHUR pilot. I belong in the cockpit, not counting containers of dry milk.

The Royal Flush was still in the repair bay, waiting for replacement parts. Walstead and Dunn were alive. Walstead was recovering locally in a rear area hospital facility. When she had visited him, he seemed appreciative and looked as if he were going to make a full recovery.

Sergeant Dunn was a different matter. They had evacced him to a hospital in Illinois. The report she had gotten was that his spinal damage had been extensive. They assured her that the new treatments they had for spinal injuries, with nano-neuro stitching and a stem bio-gel, would give him a good chance at a full recovery. It was of little solace. For the time being, he was floating vertical in a vat of blue KREX solution which aided dramatically in reducing the recovery time. Until he was out of the goo, he was not able to vid with her, and Cordova wondered if he was even going to want to after the debacle in The Heights.

She stood at attention in front of Harris as he read his digipad. When he acknowledged her, it was cold. “Take a seat, Lieutenant.”

Bianca pulled out the folding chair and sat in it. The icy lieutenant colonel returned his eyes to his pad for a full two minutes, saying nothing. She could feel the tiny beads of perspiration starting to form at her hairline.

When he lifted his eyes to her for the second time, she noticed that they were gray, seeming to scan her face for every detail. “I take it you know why you are here.”

“Actually, sir, I was not told.” When she got the orders to report to Harris, she wasn’t sure why. A part of her hoped it would be to get reassigned to a new squad.

“We need to have a frank discussion about Operation Private Dancer, 106-J.”

She felt her face redden with the mention of her last mission. “Very well, sir.”

“I read your BDA and the footage of the fight from your rig, as well as battlespace command,” he said firmly. “I would like to hear your assessment of what happened.”

“Sir, it is all in my after-action report and BDA.”

“Is it? I’d really like to hear, in your words, what happened.”

She drew a deep breath then began. “We were patrolling the Paterson Plank Road in The Heights. It was a road cut into a steep hillside. Our left flank was a granite rise, three or four stories high, covered with vines and brush. It seemed impassible. The road dropped off steeply. We got word of possible Fish activity. I sent out a GRD to give us better eyes on the situation.”

Cordova paused. “They came at us from on-high and from below. A Class II led the attack. We got overwhelmed.” She wanted to talk about the casualties, but struggled to say those words.

The lieutenant colonel leaned forward slightly in his seat, resting his elbows on the table. “That was almost verbatim from your after-action report. I’d like to know why you didn’t deploy pocket drones or stop your advance and properly reconnoiter the situation.” His words came with an accusation… that she had done something wrong.

“I didn’t think it was necessary at the time. If you’ve seen the footage, you know that the ground was pretty steep, almost impassible in spots.”

“Battlespace command said they spotted possible enemy activity.”

“Which is why I sent out our Greyhound.”

“Why not exercise some caution… hold up, get a better picture of the situation?”

“I didn’t deem that kind of caution as required.”

“What about now, in hindsight?”

She hated that question and felt her jaw clench slightly. “I didn’t think the Fish would hit us there. No one did.”

“So you disregarded basic tactical doctrine and continued to advance, smack-dab into an ambush.”

“I didn’t do anything wrong,” she said with a hint of anger in her voice that she instantly regretted. “My luck just ran out.”

“Luck,” Harris said, letting the word hang between them. “Luck is something that is welcomed but not relied on in the battlespace.”

“You weren’t there, sir. I have a lot of experience fighting the Fish.”

“Yes, you have,” he said leaning back in his seat. “I took the liberty of reviewing the vid logs of your missions. In Op Purple Rain, you jumped on top of a Cthuga in Hoboken. In Op Ripsaw, you took on two Crabs alone with your Hornet so your people could flank them, on ground where that was almost impossible. There are others in your records; quite a few in fact. All show a remarkable disregard for established tactics while taking unnecessary risks.”

Bianca came to the realization that the conversation was far more serious than she had thought it was when she had been summoned. “Sir, you are an ASHUR pilot yourself. You know that pilots have a wide discretion on deployment with their assigned unit.”

“Lieutenant, don’t presume to lecture me about ASHUR use in battle. Yes, you have a fairly broad judgement as to your tactical use of your rig. Having said that, you seem to have pushed that beyond the limit. I’ve been in a lot of combat situations, including against Cthugas. I never considered jumping on top of one.”

“It worked,” she said proudly.

“If it hadn’t, you and your rig would have been out of action, leaving your squad facing an enemy without your firepower or leadership. Just because it worked doesn’t make it the right call.”

Bianca said nothing in response, realizing that everything she was saying was being thrown back at her with an Army-level venom. Harris pressed on after a few moments. “Do you at least acknowledge that you should have done a better recon of that roadway?”

“No. At the time, I thought I had it covered with a GRD.”

Harris shook his head. “Wrong answer, Lieutenant. You are an ASHUR pilot. That rig is not your personal plaything. It costs over a million dollars of the taxpayers’ money, not to mention the costs to train you to use it correctly. As a pilot, you have an obligation to learn from your experiences and make changes to be better.”

She remembered that last line, almost word for word, from her ASHUR training. “I was getting better. You say you’ve reviewed my missions. Until Private Dancer, we had minimal injuries in my squad and an outstanding success rate, better than most ASHUR pilots.”

“What do you attribute that to?”

“My ability as a pilot.”

“That’s interesting. In talking to the two survivors of your last mission, they talked a lot about you embracing that fact that you were some sort of good luck charm.”

That caught her off guard. Part of it was that she didn’t think Dunn or Walstead would have said that to Harris, but they clearly had. Worse, there was a ring of truth in what he was saying. She reined in her frustration, taking a moment to gather herself in a calmer tone of voice. “That was something that we joked about. It was something to keep our morale up, that’s all.” Only a sliver of what she said was the truth.

“Let me tell you a story,” Harris said, keeping his gray eyes locked on hers. “My brother-in-law considered himself lucky. Hell, he was to a certain extent. When he went to the state fair, he won every game he tried, even that damn ring toss. The guy had a knack for that stuff.”

Harris leaned a little more forward. “He would hit the casinos with a hundred bucks and walk out with thousands. I even started to wonder if he was cheating, he did so well. One day though, his streak just died. He started to lose. Common sense said that he should have stopped when he started losing. The problem was he still believed he was lucky. The losses added up, but he kept on pushing it because he thought luck was sitting on his shoulder. He kept pushing it until he was in debt to the tune of hundred thousand bucks. He had mortgaged his house, sold his car, and kept digging his hole deeper. In the process, he lost his family.”

It was a folksy tale, but Bianca didn’t see the relevance. “I appreciate the story, but I don’t think it applies here.”

“Really? Your call sign is Blackjack. Your rig is called Royal Flush. Don’t sit in that chair and try to convince me you didn’t take actions based on some twisted-ass perception of luck. Remember, I’ve talked to the two survivors of your unit.”

“That was just to keep the morale of the squad up.”

“Bullshit. You thought you were oozing with good luck. When the luck didn’t show, it cost you ninety percent of your squad and left your rig in a heap.”

Her mind tried to grasp a new reality. Is he right? Did I think I was invulnerable—unable to lose? Was it my fault that the squad got wiped out? She had been able to keep any sense of guilt in check. The verbal barrage from the lieutenant colonel eroded that mental defense, though not completely. I did what I thought was right. But what if he’s right and I’m wrong? Her only defense was to cling to the notion that she would do the same thing again, given the conditions.

“Sir, all things considered, I think we were fortunate to get away with three survivors, given the surprise and strength of the enemy.”

“On that, we can agree. The issue at hand isn’t how many survived, it was how the lieutenant in command ignored tactical doctrine and led her people into an ambush in the first place.”

Bianca felt as if she were on trial where the verdict had already been rendered.

This isn’t fair—none of it!

Her thoughts coalesced around herself in that moment. “Sir, am I being court-martialed?”

“That is an option I have at my discretion,” he replied coolly. “Certainly the dead members of your squad and their families deserve some answers other than, ‘killed while protecting their nation.’”

Even if that is the truth? she thought.

“Do I need a lawyer?”

The lieutenant colonel sat upright. “Frankly, Lieutenant Cordova, I would normally push for a court-martial. But that means pulling officers off of the front lines for something that, quite frankly, doesn’t advance the war effort. Besides, you owe the US Army for all of the training you’ve had. Having you rot away at Leavenworth would not help the war effort one bit.”

So I will not be court-martialed. There was some relief with that, but she refused to let it show in her face. “So I can return to active duty then?”

For the first time in their meeting, the grizzled officer cracked the thinnest of smiles. “No, I don’t think so.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I have a responsibility to make sure that the officers we have in the field are the right people for the job. In your case, I’m not convinced. You don’t seem to understand your failings in this entire matter. For me that is a grave concern.”

“It won’t happen again,” she replied.

“Good words, but I need more. I’m faced with two options for you. One, reassignment to a noncombat role. The other is send you back to Campbell to be retrained.”

Both options were horrible. Cordova’s jaw dropped. “Sir, I am an ASHUR pilot. I belong in the cockpit, on the front lines. Sending me to the rear is a waste of talent.”

“I am fully aware of your qualifications. The thing is, I’m not persuaded that you really understand just how badly you screwed up. Putting you back on the front lines, with no disciplinary action, it just sends the wrong message to the other officers. Word has gotten out about your ambush. While I can assign a squad under you, you’d be facing a lot of questioning of your orders. None of this is good for the overall morale of my command.”

“Going back to ASHUR training at Fort Campbell… sir… it would be humiliating. I am already certified as a pilot.”

“I know. I also know you need to be refreshed in combined arms tactics, patrol protocols, recon, and a host of other things.”

“Everyone will know that I am there being punished,” she said in a low tone.

“Probably. You’ve already told me you don’t want a rear area assignment. If you want to keep your seat in a rig, going back to Campbell might just be the right course of action.”

She had never heard of anyone being sent back for retraining, which added to her concerns. If I do this, I will be looked at as a failure. I’m not. I did some great things. I can’t believe I’m being punished for one patrol like this.

“This seems extreme, sir,” was all she managed to reply.

“Frankly, Lieutenant Cordova, I don’t care how you feel about it. There’s a war on. I’m already kicking myself in the ass for not catching you as a potential problem earlier. But this isn’t about me, it’s about you. I’ve already talked through the options with the colonel and he agrees. You have talent, but you need to adhere to how we are fighting this war.”

“I promise, it won’t happen again.”

“I’m glad to hear that. It doesn’t change a thing. You’ve got two choices as I see it: take on new duties in the rear or go back to Campbell and relearn.”

“Is it possible for me to think this over?”

“No,” Harris replied, shaking his head. “I’ve already burned and churned enough time on this. You have your options, Lieutenant. What is your decision?”

Pure rage swelled within her. This is wrong. He’s forcing me to choose between two horrible options. Her mind tried to picture which was worse, being a pilot stripped of her rig, counting bags of potatoes, or facing the humiliation of having to retrain as a pilot all over again.

I passed training once. Doing it again should be easy. Besides, if I do it, I will get to continue to pilot an ASHUR.

“I prefer going back to school at Fort Campbell,” she stated.

“Good. They have a class starting in a week.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Harris shook his head. “You shouldn’t thank me. There’s a reason most pilots don’t go through the training to qualify on different rigs. It was hard enough the first time for most of us. Doing it twice, well, that’s a bitch. I expect you to go and figure out what you did wrong. I want you to come back and not make the same mistakes twice. Understood?”

“Completely, sir.”

“Good. In the meantime, I’m going to grant you three days’ leave before you go there, a chance to clear your head. Something tells me you are going to need it.”

Chapter twenty-three

Extra Terrestrial Task Force (ETF) HQ, DIA Intelligence Annex, the Penetrator, Los Alamos, New Mexico, the United States

Dr. Tong climbed into the Mako Trident suit, sliding into the pilot’s saddle. She plugged in her engineering analyzer and dumped down the suit’s internal diagnostic feed into the handheld unit. Looking forward, through the tall, oblong viewport, she wished that just once they would let the engineers actually try their hand at piloting a suit. She drew a long breath as her unit did its work, staring at the engineering bay where the Mako hung.

Just once I’d like to have this kind of power in my hands, she pondered to herself. No one would ever mess with me. I would be invincible.

Her feelings were rooted in her current plight. She felt like a pawn, at the hands of the people attempting to blackmail her and by the federal government. Her Chinese blackmailers were putting her into an impossible position: choosing to betray the United States to save her family. The CIA, FBI, and DHS wanted her to play along with the people threatening her, hoping to learn more about their network.

The unit in her hand chirped, and she validated that the download was complete. Unplugging it, she took one more second to look through the viewport, then twisted her body around to slide out of the Mako. It took some flexing to get through the hatch and onto the rolling stairs. Coming down, when she came onto the floor, she came face to face with Commander Kent Warner, her supervisor. Warner was a legend. There had been some shallow-water ASHURs, but it was Warner’s leadership of the DARPA team that had led to rapid development of the deep-water attack capabilities of the Gorgon ships and the Trident suits.

“How’s it going, Ming?” he asked.

“We are still crunching the numbers from that last test run. Preliminary indications are positive.”

“The thruster control issues have been resolved?”

She held up her unit. “I’ll know once I run these numbers.”

“Good. If we can check that problem off, we can have the pilot plant crank out a few of these for sea tests.”

Ming had a swell of pride. The Mako, like all of the Trident suits, had its quirks. Fixing them fast was something new for the Navy and DARPA. The war had changed how fast R&D was done and how quickly things were put in the field for deployment. Commander Warner had driven those changes, and in turn, had given them some much needed breathing room in the fight against the Fish.

“It will only take a few minutes to confirm.”

“Before you do that, I need you and your people to report to the auditorium. There’s an announcement being made in a few minutes and I think you need to hear it firsthand.” Before she could press for more information, Warner had moved on to talk to someone else.

Dr. Tong told her people to head to the auditorium and walked down with them. One engineer, Maci Mansur, from her own alma mater, MIT, leaned in. “What do you think this is about?”

“I have no idea, Maci,” she replied, though she had the same question rattling around in her head as well. “Probably just an update on some war news, or maybe word that Detroit is producing rigs for us finally.”

“I don’t know,” Maci said, rounding a corner to a wider hallway that led to the auditorium. When she entered, she saw that it was already packed. She and Maci made their way down the second to the last row, near the center, grabbing seats there.

All that was on the stage was a single podium with the insignia for the ETF. Everyone was talking, filling the air with a dull murmur of voices. The seat was uncomfortable and she hoped that this was not some meeting over some pointless administrative thing.

I have actual work to do. If this is another discussion about the timesheet system, I will walk out, she thought.

Two people appeared on the stage. One she knew well, Colonel Slade. He stood at the edge of the stage in his dress uniform. The older portly man in a suit walked to the podium and wrapped his hands around the edges. The moment he arrived, the room went silent.

“Good day,” his voice boomed over the sound system. “We haven’t had a chance to connect yet, but I have been looking forward to this. I am Artemis Wilson, director of the CIA and as of two weeks ago, the new director of the ETF.” Wilson paused to let that fact sink in. Ming’s eyes darted to Colonel Slade whose face took on a pinkish hue as Wilson made his announcement.

“I wonder why they have removed the colonel?” Maci whispered. Ming ignored the query and focused on the new director.

“I didn’t want to waste your time with a memo to make that announcement. Besides, there were some transition issues that needed to be addressed, mostly informing Congress of the changes and preparing for the media. Now, none of this reflects negatively on Colonel Slade. In fact, he was remaining here as my right-hand man, deputy director.” Wilson cast his eyes over at Slade who gave him a single nod of acknowledgement.

“I bet there’s more to that story,” Maci muttered.

“I bet you’re right,” Ming softly replied.

Wilson finished a sip from a bottle of water, then continued. “I also didn’t want to meet with you until a little operation we had underway was successfully completed. Six days ago, two Trident suits, designed by many of the people in this room, delivered two special packages at the Vance Seamount. Intelligence had discovered an alien colony there during a previous reconnaissance mission. The work that you fine people did has given us a victory. You are to be congratulated.

“The packages they delivered were thermonuclear warheads, modified for operation at those extreme depths. The devices were detonated. Our most recent check of the blast site shows that the entire alien habitat system there was destroyed.”

As he paused, a wave of muttering broke out. A handful of people clapped, and that number grew, but it wasn’t the majority of the scientists and engineers gathered there. A few people whooped out loud, but most of the audience was stunned. Ming was sure they were feeling the same thing she was. It was one thing to work on a project during a war, knowing it would be used to kill. It was something else to hear about those killings and know you were responsible in some way for them. What she felt in that moment was twinge of guilt. Not a lot, these were aliens that had been killed, invaders that had killed millions. Her guilt was smothered quickly with a feeling of dread.

How are they going to respond to what we did?

Director Wilson seemed to bask in the moment, she could see the pure joy on his face. “The President in the next few days will be making the American people and the rest of the world aware of what we did, thanks to your help. You should all be proud of this accomplishment.”

Dr. Tong had always thought of the Trident suits as individual warriors. It had never occurred to her that they would be used to deliver weapons of mass destruction. The concept took her several long seconds to fully process.

Director Wilson still beamed at the podium. “I am sure you all have a few questions. I’d be happy to take a few of them.”

Hands darted skyward in the auditorium.

He pointed to one person quickly. “You there, you are?”

“Maurice Vale,” the man said. “Will there be any organizational changes with you taking over leadership?”

Ming winced. That was clearly a planted question. She had seen that before in town hall sessions. Men like Wilson don’t like surprises, so they seeded the audience with friendlies that would ask them prepared questions.

“Well, Mr. Vale, there’s going to be a few changes, but they will be coming out slowly, spread out over time. No one here has to worry about their job or anything. Having come from the CIA, I assure you, I will be bringing in more resources as a result of these new responsibilities.”

Pete Roland stood up, not waiting to be called on. “I’m Doctor Roland, advanced weapons. Sir, what kind of response are we anticipating from the Fish? I think we all remember what happened in Murmansk when the Russians used a nuke.”

Wilson shifted on his feet, clearly not prepared for that question. “Well, doctor, let me say this much, without violating national security. Our attack caught the enemy unprepared, just as they caught us. So far, we have seen no indication of their taking action. I think it’s safe to say, we caught them with their pants down.”

Pride. She heard it in his words. There’s a reason it is one of the deadly sins, she contemplated. Men like him always are proud of the carnage they cause, mostly because the blowback never seem to come to them. Her eyes went over to the silent Colonel Slade in the wings.

Maci Mansur was doing the same. “I bet that is why the colonel isn’t in charge. He never would have gone for that kind of move, dropping a nuke on their doorstep,” she muttered as Wilson took another planted question.

“You’re right about that,” she whispered back. “I trust Slade. I don’t trust a guy whose previous job was in intelligence. Slade was the only person who saw the threat, not the CIA. I bet that played into his change of role.”

“Well, this Wilson guy is in charge now,” Maci said. Then she reached into her breast pocket. “I almost forgot. Somebody left his in my office, but it has your name on it.”

She held a box that looked like it was for a pen or some other small object. She took it in her hand and recognized the font as coming from the people that were blackmailing her. Of course they left it in Maci’s office, they had to know mine had cameras on it. The white cardboard box was light in her hand.

“Thanks, Maci,” she replied.

Two hours later…

Ming sat nervously in Heather Taylor’s office as the security team finished their check for fingerprints on the box and its content. They had used their handheld scanners on the box at every angle. Their portable vacc system had extracted some DNA, but it would most likely be hers and Maci’s—she knew that the people she was dealing with were smart enough to make sure they didn’t leave the feds any sort of evidence.

The contents were an old-school flash drive, an antique of sorts. After Gray Monday, flash drives had fallen out of style. They had been replaced with data cubes, fully encrypted. Computers had USB ports, mostly for connecting peripherals. The agents had opened the drive up to make sure there was nothing hidden inside.

More disturbing was the note that was inside.

Mako Specifications—Drop Instructions to Follow

You have 48 hours

“Why the old tech flash drive?” Ming asked.

Taylor picked it up and looked it over carefully. “Old-school tech is harder to track. Data cubes have a lot of traceable data. Flash drives are nothing more than a memory chip.”

Commander Warner was also in the room, standing, with his arms crossed. “Do we just give them the stats on the Mako?”

Taylor shook her head. “Oh, no. They will have people that will analyze the data, looking for us to give them bogus specs. We have to approach this carefully.”

“I know you are both focused on maintaining security, but my family is at risk here,” Ming fired off.

Taylor’s face told her she understood Ming’s concerns. “Dr. Tong, you have to understand, we are talking national security here and a potentially hostile foreign government. Worse, this is further proof that there is a mole at the ETF. That had to be how they got this box to Miss Mansur.” Taylor turned to Warner. “Is it possible for us to create a set of specifications for the Mako that are fake? Nothing that reveals our most secret data, but something that would pass muster for anyone checking the tolerances and specifications.”

“It is possible. We can cut and paste some stuff, but we’d have to really get creative on how we doctored the specifications so they might suffice with a real engineer.”

Ming jumped in. “A good starting place might be the version one specs. They all look good, but there were a dozen or so flaws we fixed since then. They passed muster with us at one point, we didn’t find the other flaws until testing.”

Warner nodded. “That’s a good idea. Even so, we need to extract our power supply data and put in something more conventional. We can also pull out the weapons systems, make them referenced as separate files. It might be enough to fool them, but I’d need to have at least two engineers working on this to fudge this enough so we aren’t giving away the farm if this stuff falls into the wrong hands.”

“I can do it,” Ming offered.

“I’m sure you can,” Taylor said. “The problem is you are the target of these attempted penetration. We need to have some distance between you and these tweaked specifications.”

“I don’t understand…”

Commander Warner spoke up. “She’s trying to be delicate, Ming. What she’s avoiding saying is that because you are the target, you’re a security risk.”

“You’re kidding, right? I came to you!” She shot a fast glance at Taylor. “I have been up-front with this from the beginning.”

“That’s true. But from an intel perspective, we lost two FBI agents as a result of this so far. That means we have to tread lightly.”

Her head whipped back to face Commander Warner. “You still trust me, don’t you?”

“Of course I do,” he replied. “This isn’t about trust. It’s about risk. I will assign two people to the task. I won’t tell them what this is for. We will get this done. The sooner we comply, the sooner the intelligence folks can arrest these people, and we can move on with our work.”

Warner said all the right things. Regardless, Ming felt helpless.

I have not done anything wrong, but people have died anyway. My family is in jeopardy simply because I work here. None of this is fair!

“I hate this. I’m being used. I have always been a loyal American. I lived my life within my boundaries… I always have done what is right. Now I feel like you can’t trust me. Worse, people are dead because of me. I just don’t want my family to be added to that list.” Her voice rang with desperation and frustration.

“Dr. Tong,” Taylor replied in a soothing voice. “None of us want any harm to come to you or your family members. We also don’t want any harm to come to our country.”

“We are not at war with China,” she replied, almost wishing she hadn’t said the words as they left her lips.

“That is true,” Taylor continued. “Not now. That doesn’t mean that China is our ally. Not that long ago they sank an American task force over the Taiwan issue. While they are not an immediate threat, there will be a time when this war is over and we find ourselves facing them. Giving them classified material is something that could come back and bite us.”

“I know,” she said in a deeper tone, just above a whisper. “I—I just feel like if we cross these people, they will take it out on my family.”

Warner nodded. “I’d probably feel the same way you would, Ming. In cases like this, you have to trust the experts. They have dealt with these kinds of things before. I’ve worked with a lot of spooks and special operators over the years. They are all professionals. They know this business.”

“That doesn’t change how I feel.”

“I know,” Taylor said. “There’s nothing I can say that is going to make you feel safe or assure you that everything is okay. Director Wilson has been personally briefed on your case, if that helps. We are going to do whatever we have to in order to keep you and your family safe.”

Despite Taylor’s words of assurance, Ming didn’t feel safe. If anything, she felt as if she were a pawn in a very high stakes game. She had played chess a few times in her life, and she noted that the pawns were always expendable, always the first to fall.

Chapter twenty-four

Northeast Headquarters

Broadway, Seattle, Washington, the Western Front, the United States

Master Sergeant Cain had never been a fan of Washington State. In his memory, it was wet and cold, and as he watched the technicians start the unloading of his pods and the ASHURs in them, he could tell that his memories were still accurate. A misting drizzle came down, wetting his gray crew cut hair, dampening his cigar to the point that it only served for visual effect.

He was glad that they were able to get up to the Seattle area to put the Fox Hunters to the test. With the change of command of the ETF, he had been worried that his project might be shelved. That was the way of bureaucracies. Colonel Slade had come to him personally and assured him that the Fox Hunters were still viable. While he appreciated the opportunity, it frustrated him to see Slade booted downstairs.

The colonel put on a positive face when talking about it…claiming that he was still in a position to contribute to the mission of the ETF. Those were words, hollow ones in Cain’s mind. Slade couldn’t hide the expression of a beaten man. His cheeks seemed to sag a little, and his voice was softer than Cain had remembered it.

Goddamn paper-pushers in DC, he thought. They took the one officer that was getting things done and kicked him in the ass.

As the large metallic pods were winched down, he saw his team watching anxiously. When the last one came down, Cain barked out, “Alright, let’s get these moved into the shelter. I want a full systems and gear check in two hours.” He moved over to Zimm, his tech, whom he’d brought with him on the project. “Look, Zimm, this is old gear. Go over it twice if you have to.”

“Of course,” he replied.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw an officer, a major from his shoulder insignia that he barely made out from under the collar of his trench coat. “Master Sergeant,” the officer snapped. “Who are you, and what are you doing here?”

Cain saluted him. “Adam Cain, attached to the ETF.”

“Ah yes,” he said with a fake little grin. “That’s right. You are some sort of sniper unit. I’m Major Poynter, executive to Colonel Hansen who commands this piece of battlespace.”

Executive officers fell into several buckets in Cain’s mind. One was the good ones, who actually understood their role, cared about their people, and smoothed over rough areas to get the job done. Then came the QCCFs, the quasi-controlled clusterfucks. They wanted to be full-blown colonels, but were not equipped for it and made a point of demonstrating their incompetence at every turn. The final bucket was the mind-numbing bureaucrats who found ways to grind everything to a halt while they searched for the right form. It remained to be seen where Major Poynter fell.

“Yessir. We are here to test our rebuilt rigs against the Foxes, to see if taking them out impairs the Fish’s ability to fight.”

“I read the request. Why don’t you follow me, Sergeant? We’ll go to my office and talk about this.”

There was something in the major’s tone that didn’t purely ring of cooperation. “Very well, sir.” He followed the major to the tent that had been staked in the Home Depot parking lot. There were dozens of tents and hard shell temporary structures in the parking lot. These were augmented by container units, Hesco barriers, and a small fleet of vehicles. The moist air hung heavy with the aroma of diesel fuel and oil.

The major’s tent was small, wedged in between two larger ones. Cain entered, pulling the flap down behind him. Poynter gestured to the small folding table and collapsible chairs that served as his office. Adam took a seat, which squeaked as he sat down.

“I was surprised that you hadn’t checked in upon your arrival, Sergeant.”

“I informed the duty officer at the gate. I didn’t want our gear sitting on a truck for hours while I tracked you down. I had every intent of checking in.” Cain was already starting to get a read on Poynter, and it wasn’t positive.

“I saw your orders. I have to say, it’s a blessing having you show up here. Having sniper rigs here is something that will really boost our operations.”

“Major, we are here to test a simple concept. If we waste the Foxes, we think that will hinder or cripple coordination with the other Fish.”

“It is novel. And these ASHURs of yours, they are gen-one hardware?”

“Highly modified gen-one rigs, yes. Calling them gen ones is not really fair. We’ve outfitted them with the latest in armor, they have a different targeting system, and we beefed up the hydraulics and power systems. Add on the Trinity sniper rifle, and these are some fairly sophisticated pieces of battleware.”

“Wonderful,” the major said, grinning broadly. “I’d like to discuss what units we can place your snipers in.”

There it was, the major’s ploy. This twatwad wants to spread us out, seed us into his units.

“Major, my opord is specific about the use of our team. We are to go out, kill a bunch of Foxes, and see what the impact of that is on their behavior. My people are not for you to augment your existing units. We go out together, we come back together.”

“Sergeant Cain, these are not your people. They are the Army’s. The way you are looking at deploying them is wasteful. You would have a far greater impact putting your sniper teams in with units already forward deployed. It would save lives and you could still kill all the Foxes you want out there.”

Cain could see the conflict that was emerging, and deep down, he was savoring the argument. “Major, with all due respect, some of my people are not Army. I’ve got Jarheads and a Sky Cop in the unit. They report to me and I report to Colonel Slade at the ETF. He cut my opord with a specific intent I mind, and I aim to fulfill those orders. The Fox Hunters should be attached as a whole to one of your units. We will eradicate your Fox problem, and if we are right, they will be victorious. If you simply look at the orders—”

Poynter cut him off. “I’ve seen the orders, Sergeant.” He stressed his rank as if that would intimidate Cain. It was a dud round as far as the sergeant major was concerned. Poynter pushed on. “You are going into my battlespace. There are operational concerns here you may not fully understand. You can’t just waltz in here and deploy as you see fit. Flexibility is what you should demonstrate, not annoyance. You’ll get your data. I’m just talking about deploying your people a little differently than you had planned.”

It would be easy to go along with the major, but easy was a road that was rarely traveled by Cain. He had formed an opinion of the officer quickly.

This is his first war. He’s been promoted during peacetime because he was a schmoozer, an ass-kisser of the highest order. He works in the shadows of troops that are out there doing their job and of a colonel who has given him an assignment where he can do the least amount of damage. Adam savored his assessment of the major for a moment before responding.

“Sir, I intend to follow my orders as written.”

“Then it comes down to a matter of rank,” Poynter said, the edges of his lips rising slightly.

“Yes. I will have my colonel call your colonel and the two of them will get this situation clarified.” It took a lot of restraint for Cain to not swear. He saw the major as a speedbump, and little more.

Why waste perfectly good curses on a man that couldn’t get a piece of ass if the hooker died and willed it to him?

“When these orders came in, I took some time to look you up. You have a reputation.”

“I assure you, Major, it is well earned,” Cain said, allowing himself a grin of pride.

“Well, here we have a chain of command. Opords get altered. I would think that someone with your alleged experience understood that.”

Alleged? That word triggered Cain’s temper. “I think you should assume that my experience is well-earned. I’ve pissed on more battlefields than you’ve read about in books. We aren’t here to chit-chat about which of us has what authority or more expertise in battle, because deep down, we both know the answer to that. You are not going to get control of my team to use as you see fit. I built this unit, I trained them for specific operations. Changing that and redeploying them for missions they were not trained for would present a risk, and not you, or any other officer, is going to take my people and put them in danger to make a point. It’s not going to happen.”

“You are insubordinate, Sergeant,” Poynter snapped, his grin erased by Cain’s blunt words. “I remind you, you are addressing a superior officer.”

“I’m well aware of what I’m doing,” Cain replied. “I’d go so far as to say I’m the only person in this tent that is.” He sharply rose to his feet, and the major followed suit.

“I will send the MPs down and have you detained for this. Then I’m going to deploy your people as they should be.”

“If you’re sending the MPs, I’d advise having them bring along some medics and stretchers. My people are not likely to take your orders—contradicting orders from their chain of command—lying down. May I remind you, we have ASHURs and attitudes, and that is a combination that I doubt you can counter.”

“You’ll get busted in rank for this,” the major threatened.

Cain chuckled. “That’s the best you’ve got? I’ve been busted before, more than once. If you think that is a threat, you did not study my personnel file very well. If you will excuse me, I have work to do.” He saluted quickly, leaving Poynter stunned.

Three hours later…

The MPs never showed, which didn’t surprise Cain. He worked with his Hunters, checking their rigs, getting the tech bays set up, testing their weapons. His perscomp went off and he saw the incoming call was from Colonel Slade. Walking to a corner of the temporary building where they were setting up, he opened the channel and saw Slade’s face looking intently at him.

“Word is you arrived,” the colonel said. “You didn’t waste any time ingratiating yourself with the local command.”

“I’m not sure I’d use that word to describe it. In my view, it was more like me climbing up some dipshit officer’s ass with a Gustav. For the record, Major Malfunction wants to split us up, deviate from your orders. I didn’t feel the need to be delicate with his little feelings.”

Slade smiled, cutting what little tension there was. “Yeah, he was throwing a four-star tizzy fit. He was punching way above his weight class. I talked to his bird, and he understands what we are doing and set the major straight.”

“Thank you, Colonel.”

“You have a knack for stomping on toes.”

“Only those that stick out their feet and try to trip me.”

“Major Poynter is most likely pissed off by me going over his head,” Slade replied. “I have been assured he will work with you. My advice, though, watch him. Most officers hate it when some NCO gets the better of them. There’s a bit of humiliation that brings out the worst of them.”

“That’s been my experience as well. I appreciate the advice, though.”

“I have a lot riding on this mission. If our people are right, this could change our tactical doctrine, give our forces an edge. If possible, if you can avoid making any officers look stupid, it would be appreciated.”

“Understood, Colonel.” It was one thing to insult a lone idiot officer. If you ran around doing it with a lot of them, your credibility could be shot. I did what was necessary, and now I need to move on. Message received.

“Get to the Major, make nice, and get out there and work your magic.”

“Sir, we will stomp the earth and kick some Fox ass.”

“I expect nothing less.” With that, the vid image flickered off.

Five hours later…

The accommodations that Major Poynter arranged were, at best, adequate. They were dry, though the humidity and wetness from the mist made Cain feel as if he had just come out of a sauna. He had cleaned up in a lukewarm shower, and just getting into a clean set of clothing helped his attitude. Major Malfunction had given him a nasty glare when he had seen him, but nothing else.

His thong is in a wad still. He’s not used to having an NCO get the better of him.

He was bunked down with Falto which was fine by him. Falto was proving to be one of his best pupils. She would have been something during the last war. There was an icy precision to her movements. Falto was unshakable. Once, on the firing range, he had popped a paper bag next to her as she fired. She still hit the target almost dead-on.

She’s seen parts of this war I can only imagine… as a POW and firing up in Greenland.

As he pulled on his pants, he saw a large envelope on his cot, which had been concealed by his change of clothing. He pulled the manila envelope out and saw his name on it. “Who dropped this off?” he asked Falto.

“A private, pulling postal duty from the look of it. Why?”

“I never get mail,” he said, tearing the envelope open. One advantage to making the Army home—no bills, no junk mail. Cain didn’t owe anything because he didn’t have anything. It made his private life fairly uncomplicated. The Army provided for him in every way. Whatever mementos he had in life were long gone.

Inside the envelope was a letter and a small ziplock bag. Pulling it out, he saw a half-melted California driver’s license, an earring, a ring, and a locket. He recognized the ring right away. Memories flooded forward in his mind.

I was on leave, got it at a pawn shop. It was the biggest diamond I could afford.

For a few moments he stared at the ziplock bag, then set it down on his cot and read the letter.

He read parts of it out loud, in a murmur, forgetting for a moment that Falto was in the tent. “Enclosed are the personal effects of your wife and daughter, Julie and Amy. We return these to you during this time of mourning.”

He dropped the letter on the cot and picked up the bag. I don’t recognize the locket or the earring. That ring… Jules had to have been wearing it. A sad smile rose to his face. I knew she still loved me. Otherwise she wouldn’t have had it on, he thought, doing his best to suppress the wave of emotion that swamped him.

It had been a few days since he had thought of his wife and daughter. The intervals between those memories were getting farther apart. Now, with this letter, ripples of sadness and memory launched an all-out assault on Cain’s mind. When the emotions hit him, Adam did what he always did, fought them, pushing them deep down in his soul. This time was different though; the feelings, the memories, they fought back.

Adam fondled the ring through the plastic for a long moment, staring at it. Touching it, turning it through the plastic, conjured memories of Jules and Amy. A Christmas, he couldn’t remember which one, surged to the fore. We had our rough times, Jules, but we also had some great ones. The driver’s license was deformed but he could see Amy’s holographic image on it. It hit him then just how few images he had of his daughter.

“You okay, Sergeant?” Falto asked from over his shoulder.

“Yeah,” he managed. “They found some personal effects of my wife and daughter.”

Falto took a step towards him. “I didn’t know you were married. LeMacks said he heard you were divorced.”

Cain hated that word. “Divorced—that’s just paperwork. What we had was something more. We were going to get back together. Now that can’t happen. I lost her,” he said, still caressing the bag’s contents. “I tried to get them to come to DC where I could protect them. Jules wouldn’t listen though. She could be damned stubborn.”

“Where were they?”

“La. Jules refused to leave home. Amy—Amy was more like me than either of us would admit. We had rough patches. Jules and I were separated for a while.” Cain never admitted they were divorced and wasn’t about to start now. Jules wanted the divorce, but I believed we were going to be together again. “My wife stomped the ground hard. I didn’t deserve her, but no one could deny our love.”

“I’m sorry for your loss. I can only imagine what that feels like,” Falto said. Cain knew better. Falto had talked to him in depth about her time as a POW. She lost people she cared about and parts of her body. She knew.

“Do you want to be alone?” she asked.

Do I?

“No, that’s not necessary. I have the rest of my life to be by myself.”

“You’re never really alone,” Falto said, putting her hand on his shoulder. “That’s one of the things that being in the Army or the Corps pounds into you. You lost one family, but one is eternal.”

Cain nodded, struggling to find the right words. That alone was a rarity, one that he embraced with silence as he put the bag in his duffle, making sure it was secure.

Jules and Amy aren’t really gone, not if I remember them.

He embraced that thought as his new reality.

Cycle IV – 15 March 2041

Extra Terrestrial Task Force (ETF) HQ, DIA Intelligence Annex, the Penetrator, Los Alamos, New Mexico, the United States

Dr. Willow Sanchez stood before the review board and could feel the wetness in her palms. She admitted that she had broken the rules in regards to AI and promised to not do it again. A part of her hoped that might be enough to sate the review board. It wasn’t.

Now they want to know about my research.

She shifted her weight on her feet as the six-person board studied the materials she had submitted. While Dr. Schrivener sat on the board, at the far right end of the table that was perpendicular to where she stood, she was the only friendly face.

“Your research into this, as you call it, ‘totem,’ is a bit unorthodox,” Dr. Jurrin stated coldly.

“Communications with animal and fish species native to Earth has been something that humans have tried for centuries, with no luck. We are dealing with a species that, as far as we know, has no common frame of reference with us. It requires some out of the box approaches,” Willow responded. She did what she could to not sound defensive, but it took conscious effort.

“In fact,” Dr. Galston said from his seat, “there is nothing you have uncovered that points to this macabre killing site as a form of communication.”

“Concrete evidence? No. If you look at the images, it is posed, very specifically. The strange growth that came out of one of the victims has to be for a purpose. Otherwise, why arrange the dead in this manner?”

“What we are trying to understand is why you are so convinced this is a message of some sort,” Dr. Dunning spoke from his seat next to Dr. Schrivener. “And if it is communications, does it warrant us giving you authorization to modify an existing AI to probe it further?”

She drew a long breath before speaking. “That was why I wanted to modify the AI. This has the hallmarks of a totem. Totems have many meanings. As of yet, this is the only known instance of this kind of mutilation and presentation of the dead. That makes it significant.”

“What of this life form that was growing out of… this,” Galston asked, hesitating on what to call the remains of Mr. Niverson.

“It is alive. We are preserving it in a special seawater solution. It has stopped growing, but does show signs of life. Currently we are treating it as dormant, as if it were hibernating.”

“What is it for?” the portly Dr. Gall asked, clearing his throat afterwards. “One must wonder why they left it.”

“Unknown,” Dr. Schrivener responded. “Our analysis of the tendrils under it show complex nerve endings. It seems to have a head at the top, no eyes though.”

“If it has a purpose, what is it?” Galston asked.

“Unknown,” Willow replied. “Every other life form that we have encountered has had a purpose. We simply do not know what this thing’s function is.”

Galston and Dunning muttered to each other, just below her earshot, then turned their attention back to her. “This could all be a great waste of time and effort,” Dunning said.

She hated to admit that the older scientist was right, but that was a distinct possibility.

I know in my heart this is special, that it means something, she thought.

“Dr. Dunning, you may be right. You may also be wrong. We have no idea what any of this was about. The fact that it exists at all means something. The aliens are not known for wasteful tasks. They sent one of their race to do what it did in Florida for a reason. Yes, it could be a waste of time, but for me, this is something we must at least explore. That is part of the charter of the ETF, isn’t it?”

Dr. Jurrin looked down the table both ways, getting nods from everyone other than Galston who shook his head as if to discard her request without speaking. Jurrin then turned to her. “Dr. Sanchez, you have our permission to alter the AI for your tasks. You must, however, follow protocols. That means we review your code changes before they are implemented. Understood?”

Willow nodded quickly. “Completely.”

“If you learn anything, I’d love to see the results as soon as you do,” Dr. Jurrin said.

Willow held her smile in check. Now all I have to do is pray that the AI we have can decipher what it is that the aliens were thinking when they left that for us.

NOAA, Seattle, Washington, the Western Front, the United States

Dr. Teaera Adam pointed to the seismic monitor, her long purple fingernail stabbing the screen. “Three seconds,” she said to her colleague, Dr. Morton.

Then it flared, a spike on a wave line, lasting for eighteen seconds, just as she predicted.

“Whoa.” Morton frowned at the screen. “What is it?”

“Some sort of deep ultrasonic burst off of the Mendocino Subduction Zone, approximately at one hundred and twenty degrees west longitude, thirty-eight degrees north latitude. We’ve lost so many buoys since the war started, I can’t get a better fix than that.”

“And the signal repeats?”

“Yes—and intensifies in duration and strength. Right now, they are coming at forty-eight minute intervals. According the curve I’ve plotted, the next one will be in forty-six minutes, twenty-two seconds, and will last twenty seconds.”

“What are the estimated decibel levels at the source?”

Dr Adam checked the readings. “This has to be a mistake. I mean, factoring in the depth, filtering for temperature and salinity, the model shows this at near two-thousand decibels.”

“That’s impossible. Could it be an equipment malfunction?” Morton asked.

Teaera shook her head, her bright pink hair twisting as she did. “No chance. We are getting it on three buoys and the bounce-back is registering on eight more further out to sea. That was how I was able to get a fix on its origin as close as I did.”

“What do you think it is?”

“I do not know,” she replied. “Whatever it is, it’s not something we are doing, nor is it registering as anything we have on record as a natural event. That only leaves one option in my book.”

“The Fish.”

“Yeah.”

“To what end?”

“If I knew that, I wouldn’t be working a government job, I’d be making real money. It can’t be good news.”

“Because of the triple threat.”

“Duh,” she said, spinning a pen between her fingers as she thought. The Mendocino triple junction was where three tectonic plates came together, undersea fault lines that were incredibly close to where she was getting as the source of the signal. “Whatever it is, the place they have chosen to have this thing happening can’t be a coincidence.”

“Do we even have a protocol for something like this? I mean, if we detected a tidal wave warning, we sound the alarms. This isn’t that. This is something else.”

“That’s why I called you in,” she quipped. “My job is to monitor for anomalies. Well, this is one. Your job is to let the people in charge know about it.”

“I can’t just ring the White House with this. I mean, we don’t even have a contact there. Same with the DoD.”

I’m glad I didn’t interview for his job when it was posted, she thought. “How about the ETF? Maybe they have some insights.”

“I don’t even know anyone there.”

“I suggest you start checking the net for contacts. The next burst is coming soon. It’s building up to something, but damned if I know what.”

“Shit,” Morton spat as he turned and sprinted to his office.

Teaera looked at the screen again. Her father was a Navy man and could curse with the best of them, as she learned later in life. He always kept it G-rated in front of her as a kid.

What would he say? “What in the name of Poseidon’s toilet is going on here?” Yeah, that sounds like him.

She only wished she knew the answer.

Bell Gardens, Los Angeles AIZ, California, the United States

Cassidy Chen lay on her stomach, the gravel from the roof grinding into the gaps in her body armor. It took a little repositioning that made her comfortable and gave good lines of sight. Given the solar panels on the roof of Lavanderia, the dry cleaning shop she was poised on the roof of, she was still cramped. At her side, Antonio was lying flat, surveying the abandoned cars for possible targets.

The intersection of Florence and Garfield was well known to her and the rest of Colton’s Cutthroats. Many of the surrounding buildings were already in ruins thanks to the war. Antonio had chosen it because the roads there provided good fields of fire. The dust was caked in her nose, and she blew hard, wiping it on her sleeve. It was the airborne remains of a once proud city, pulverized concrete and the ash of burned garbage and plastic. Now and then she could smell it, but for the most part, the persistent stench wasn’t noticeable.

“I’ve got movement,” Antonio said in a low tone as he glared through his enhanced binoculars. “To your right. I make it a hundred and forty-two yards.” The range laser in his binoculars flickered red in the dust, just for a moment.

Cassidy shifted, adjusting the scope. “I see a Fox standing on a Hyundai.” A year ago, such a statement would have sounded ridiculous. Now it was the norm. “Right, ten feet, then back from there—in the parking lot of the In-and-Out.”

Once more she adjusted, then saw it, a Boss. They were brutish figures, beyond menacing. She had seen a few tear apart ASHURs in a fight. Their strange joints allowed them to move their bodies and limbs so as to be killing machines in any direction. “I’ve got him.”

“You got a very light breeze coming at you,” Antonio whispered. “Probably no more than five miles per hour.”

“Got it,” she said, adjusting her scope. All she could see was the upper body of the Boss. It seemed to look around, surveying the area. She saw a flicker of color, a light purple, from the body etching that covered its torso. No one knew what the colors meant, if anything. Purples were rare though, that much she did know.

“Loading the magic bullet,” she said, pulling it from its padded pouch and carefully inserting it into the rifle and chambering it. She didn’t have to watch what she was doing, her weapon was a part of her.

As she aimed, she heard Antonio whisper, “Watch your breathing…”

“I know,” she half-growled. “This isn’t my first time, you know.”

“It’s just sometimes, you don’t release your breath.”

She wanted to argue with him, but he was right. CC drew a long breath, keeping the crosshairs on the Boss, then slowly exhaled. She squeezed the trigger slowly, almost unnoticeably. Then came the crack.

The round hit the slope of what could be defined as a neck for the Boss. They really didn’t have them, but to her, it was the best description. The round didn’t look like it had penetrated, but she did see a white whiff of powder or smoke from the hit. The alien snapped, turning her direction. CC could make out its crimson eye slot and for a moment, it felt as if it were looking right through her scope back at her.

“You got him,” Antonio said.

“Yeah. Is that a good thing?” She watched as the Boss seemed to reach up with its big clawed hand to its neck, as if it were scraping off a pesky insect. Its claws dragged down the thick hide skin, which was a behavior Cassidy had never seen. “I think all I did was piss him off. I can put another round in him.” CC loaded a standard round in the chamber, not waiting for confirmation.

“Hang on,” Antonio advised. “They wanted to see if that Quaran stuff worked. You start hitting him with more shit, that messes with their results.”

“We’d better do something, that Fox is looking around for the source of that shot.”

She adjusted her stance slightly and brought the Boss into her sights. Its demeanor had changed. It was now thrashing about, clawing hard at its hide in the area she hit. There was a tremor that seemed to make it throb in her sights.

Something is happening, that much is for sure.

“He isn’t liking our little surprise,” Antonio said with a light hint of glee.

The Boss fell over, its body locked in spasms as it crunched in the hood of a Kia in its descent, the metal buckling and moaning as it fell. The convulsions consumed the Boss. The violent tremors went on for another few moments, then the ebony creature stopped all movement.

CC braced herself. Taking down a Boss might garner a counterattack. If the Fish were anything, it was vicious. Her eyes swept the Hyundai where she saw the Fox. It looked at the fallen Boss, then it seemed to stiffen, standing more rigid and upright than she had seen before.

Pushing off with its enormous arms, it sprang down, heading westward.

“That Fox is leaving,” she said with amazement. “We can’t be that lucky.”

“I have eyes on a Crab—same thing, it was like it got some sort of message and took off,” Antonio said.

“I’ve never seen them turn tail and run,” she muttered, rising off of the roof and clearing her weapon.

Gio came up beside her, having just climbed up on the roof. “I saw that Boss drop—nice shooting, Little Doll.”

Cassidy nodded as she slung her weapon. Bending down, she picked up the Barbie doll she carried with her. She had modified it over the course of a few nights. Gone was the hot pink outfit it came with; CC had outfitted it like her. She had cut up some pieces of plastic to make armor. They had broken into a hobby store and gotten paints too. The Barbie was a militia member, probably the only one of its kind. Ever since she had dressed the doll, she brought it with her, often setting it up when she was in a position. It wasn’t playing, it was something else, something she didn’t have a word for. The doll made her feel good, which made no sense to anyone other than her. Carefully she placed it in her ruck.

“Was that a doll?” Gio said, grinning broadly. “You have a doll, Little Doll?”

Cassidy moved fast, swinging her rifle around and jamming the barrel into his gut. “Watch your words, Gio,” she warned.

Antonio reached over and moved the barrel away. “Hey, no pointing guns at the friendlies.”

“It’s cleared.”

“I don’t care. You know the rules.”

Gio chuckled, no doubt preparing to pick on her again, but Antonio stepped over towards him, towering over his shorter friend. “Hey. You want to say something funny or stupid right now? Don’t.”

Gio’s grin faded and CC turned towards the ladder down. “Alright—I’ll let it go,” he said.

Antonio let her climb down first. “Gio, get the truck. We need to haul that Boss back. Make sure everyone wears their protective gear until you get the body wrapped.”

“Gotcha.”

“Little Doll,” Antonio continued when he reached the bottom. “Good shooting.”

“Thank you. I wonder what was going on with the Fish?”

“Not our headache. I’ll let the battlespace commander know though.”

She followed him toward the rest of the unit, thinking to herself. It’s weird to see them fleeing. I thought for sure they were going to rush us.

The White House, Washington DC, the United States

President Bobrow sat behind the Resolute Desk as he spoke. His hands lay flat on the desktop, as if he was drawing power from it. He knew he had to appear firm in the announcement. There had been so much bad news, some good news would be welcomed.

“Good evening,” he started, his eyes locked on the teleprompter over the camera. “It feels that, lately, every time I come on to speak to you, the American people, that I have come asking for sacrifice or bearing grim news. Tonight, my message is different. It is one of hope, and proof of our resolve.

“Several days ago, we delivered a devastating blow to our enemies. Our elite underwater combat units learned of the location of an alien colony off the west coast. Under my expressed orders, two of our Trident suits delivered nuclear weapons near that base. While I cringe at the thought of using nuclear weapons, we have long held that they act as a deterrent in war. In this case, it was an easy decision. We did not instigate this conflict. It was brought onto our shores.

“The devices were detonated and we believe we wiped out that colony.”

Pausing to let the victory sink in, the President then continued. “We did not go about this decision lightly but did so because our enemy is relentless. As Commander-in-Chief, it is my duty to protect the United States using every means at my disposal.

“This victory is not mine to savor, but belongs to all of you. Those of you dislocated from your homes, those that have enlisted in the war effort, those of you who willingly accept rationing, and those of you working in the factories. Most importantly, this is a victory for the brave men and women of our armed forces who are fighting for the survival of our nation. To them, and all of you, thank you for your sacrifices and your perseverance. May God see us through these dark times to even greater victories. This destruction, while regretful for the weapons used, most likely has saved thousands of lives.

“Keep doing what you are doing. Through your hard efforts, this successful strike against our foes was possible. Thank you all.”

Chapter twenty-five

Extra Terrestrial Task Force (ETF) HQ, DIA Intelligence Annex, the Penetrator, Los Alamos, New Mexico, the United States

Colonel Slade sat at the far end of the oblong table, opposite of Director Wilson. It felt like he was being forced to sit with the children at Thanksgiving, shuffled off far from the seat he once held. There was no doubt in his mind that it was deliberate. He glared at his name tent and mulled over its placement.

He wants to distance himself from me in the eyes of everyone here.

It was a minor slight, but one on a growing list. His lost parking spot, the new tiny office that he had been sentenced to, the meetings where his name had been cut from the invitees list—changes all designed to infuriate him to the point of resigning. Slade had been warned about the ploy, and refused to play the game.

If he thinks that I’m going to just up and disappear, he’s wrong. I helped build this place and these teams. This is where I belong. If he demotes me to janitor, I’m staying right here because this is a place where I can make a difference.

Wilson had shuffled the leadership in several areas, especially in intelligence analysis, replacing military personnel with CIA staff. A few people complained to him, but Slade had taken the high road and urged patience and calm. Deep down he knew it was risky to shake up teams in the middle of a war. He assumed Wilson didn’t fully trust the military leaders in the ETF. This is typical Washington bullshit. He’s simply solidifying his position. Unless he’s careful, he’ll drive a wedge between our work here and the military who need it.

The purpose of the meeting wasn’t clear, but it was a spur-of-the-moment affair. Ashe sat in his seat as the department heads filtered in. A few, like Doctors Jurrin and Schrivener, General Rainer, and Heather Taylor, gave him a nod, acknowledging him. Rainer had happened to be at the ETF when the meeting was called, for better or worse. Senator Carwell was on view vidcast, on a wall monitor, his face larger than life, hovering behind Wilson. The last man sliding into the room was Commander Warner, who gave him a quick wave as he slid into his chair.

The others did not acknowledge him. Slade understood their lack of recognition of his presence. They are worried about their own departments. No one wants to end up like me, sidelined and cast aside. He didn’t fault them for that. It was understandable.

“Let’s get going,” Director Wilson said. “What is this nonsense from NOAA?”

Dr. Jurrin shifted in his seat. “A few hours ago, a NOAA seismic monitoring center picked up a pulsation in the Mendocino Subduction Zone off the Pacific coast. It is growing in intensity and interval. At present, we don’t know what it is, other than we have no record of such an event in our records. These sounds are off the charts, literally.”

“Which means the Fish are behind it,” General Rainer stated flatly.

“Unknown at this time,” Dr. Jurrin replied. “However, that is the hypothesis we are operating under.”

“Well, it’s not us,” the director said. “I don’t need hypotheses. I need answers. If this is the Fish, what are they up to?”

Dr. Jurrin started a rather long description of where the sound was originating. Tectonic plates led to earthquakes, which led to tidal waves. There were maps, graphs, diagrams of the sonic wave. Ashe listened intensely, cupping his coffee in both hands, taking hot sips every so often.

“So they are doing something with the plates?” Director Wilson asked.

Dr. Jurrin shrugged. “Unknown. We don’t have hard data to work with other than the location, sir.”

“Is it possible they are triggering some sort of seismic event?” Taylor asked.

“Even a nuclear bomb couldn’t trigger an earthquake, or so our top geologists have told me. Hurricanes have caused some stress before, but even then, it was incredibly minor. The technology doesn’t exist to trigger an event.”

“Or so we believe,” Ashe muttered just before taking a sip.

“What was that?” Wilson asked, glaring down the length of the conference table.

Ashe put his DIA emblazoned coffee mug on a coaster, then raised his gaze to meet the man that had seized his job. “I said, or so we believe. The tech base for the Fish is something we don’t fully understand or comprehend. To be blunt, we have no idea what they are or are not capable of.” He made sure his tone was not condescending to feed Wilson’s temper.

“So, Deputy Director Slade, what would you do?” Wilson countered. He stressed Ashe’s new title, as if he hammering a nail in a coffin.

“I think we should alert the Navy and all military commands along the west coast that there is a chance, however slight, of a seismic event.”

“Based on what? A hypothesis?” Wilson countered. “If we issue alerts every time something comes up, we would be a laughingstock. You need to think about our credibility here.”

General Rainer spoke up. “The question we should be focused on is if our people are at risk.”

“Well, Jurrin,” Wilson asked, turning his gaze to the lead scientist. “Can you tell us that or not?”

The doctor shook his head. “Sir, you come from the intelligence field. You know we can’t be definite or not when it comes to the dangers of this. There are too many unknowns.”

“How about a percentage?” Wilson pressed. “You scientists love numbers, slap one on this. What is the percentage of this being something devastating?”

Jurrin’s face went crimson as he struggled to find the right words. “It isn’t that easy. I wish it was, but it’s not. It may be a danger, but for all we know, it could be some sort of deep-sea mining operation they are running. We lack anything tangible to base a percentage off of.”

“What about getting eyes on what they are doing? Can we dispatch one of these Gorgon subs to the area?” Wilson’s change of tact was noted.

When he doesn’t get what he wants with one hole, he stops and digs a new one. Interesting…

General Rainer shifted in his seat. “I can check with the Navy, but given where this spot is, it won’t be something that is fast.”

Rainer shot a glance at Warner who spoke up. “The general is right. I saw the current deployment of our Gorgons. It will be days before we can get a sub on station.”

Slade didn’t like that idea. “I am not sure that is a good idea. We just destroyed one of their colonies. If this is the Fish, and I believe there’s good reason to believe so, they will be prepared—they will expect us to come to investigate.” He took another comforting sip of his coffee, bracing for the rebuttal.

Dr. Jurrin cut in. “Based on the reduction of the intervals of the sounds, we don’t have days.”

General Rainer reentered the fray. “There have been a number of scattered reports over the last few days of the Fish falling back, ceding us territory. A significant piece of Los Angeles has been vacated. The same has occurred in Oregon too.”

Wilson leaped back in. “Couldn’t that be caused by the destruction of their colony?”

“I suppose that is possible,” Rainer replied. “I’d rather error on the side of caution. If there is something brewing out in the Pacific, I want my field commanders to get a heads-up on it now, rather than later.”

“What would you tell them?” Wilson asked.

“Something may be happening, something dramatic. It could be a major counterattack, or it could be a new form of alien weapon, we don’t know. If they’re smart, they’ll find good ground in case this thing goes south.” He cast his gaze to Slade, who gave him a single nod in response.

“And if nothing happens?” Wilson pressed.

“There’s never any harm in being prepared.”

“What about the civilians along the coast?” Senator Carwell asked. “If we are going to warn the military, shouldn’t we warn the civilians, too?”

The director did not turn to face the senator that loomed behind him. “What would we tell them that we haven’t done a hundred times already? We’ve told people along the coasts to evacuate. Despite the fighting and the destruction, hundreds of thousands or more have refused to leave. Telling them again, with no additional details, will simply fall of deaf ears.”

Slade understood the dilemma. People had refused to flee, despite everything that was told to them. A part of him understood it. Some were so attached to their home and feared the unknowns of relocation, they simply stayed put. Others remained to fight… FF’ers, Freedom Fighters. Whatever their reason or justification, they survived in harm’s way.

His focus was on Wilson. The former DIA analyst emerged in Ashe’s mind. His powers of observation and reasoning came to the forefront. There was an attitude with the older man that Slade carefully observed. It is almost as if he’s saying they are bringing this on themselves. That wasn’t necessarily the case. There is a disregard in this man when it comes to others. It’s part of who he is.

“What about the President?” Slade casually said. “Maybe we should give him a heads-up.”

Wilson flinched at the suggestion. “And tell him what? That the Fish are making sounds in the ocean? We don’t know anything beyond that. I’ve known the President for years. The last thing Bobrow wants is incomplete information.”

There it is—the nepotism. With Wilson, he’s afraid of making the wrong call. Maybe that is where I failed when I had that job. I should have made those kinds of connections. He looked over at the new director and gave him a single nod as a response.

“So it’s decided, we alert the military that something is happening off the west coast,” Wilson said, drawing the discussion to an abrupt end. He moved as if he were about to stand, but General Rainer cut him off. “Do we have any additional word on these flying Portuguese Man-of-War things?”

Dr. Schrivener spoke up. “We have tagged them as Class XVIs. They hit positions from North Carolina all the way to Florida. Our teams were there for the cleanup and decontamination. They are comprised of thousands a small pockets filled with a lighter-than-air gas, we presume to be helium. That compartmentalization of their airbags is why shooting them down takes so many hits to be effective.”

“What about that toxin they were filled with?” Rainer pressed.

“It was a fungus, specifically a spore. Our initial analysis shows it to be an organic form of fentanyl, bonded to the fungus. Exposure, even minor, is equivalent to a drug overdose. While we have several treatments for it, the real problem comes with the fungus growing and releasing more spores. It allows this deadly fungus to spread, with spores that are fine, airborne, and deadly. In most of the hit areas, we have had to burn the infestation out. Units that have been hit have to undergo extensive decontamination.”

“Have we devised a means of shooting them down?” Carwell asked.

Schrivener shook her head. “Not yet, sir.”

Commander Warner weighed in. “From the initial reports, our rockets and missiles pass right through them. There’s nothing for them to lock on to or hit that is hard enough to detonate. We have a DARPA team looking to incorporate a proximity fuse into the LAWs rockets in hopes that might address the issue. We are still a ways from having working prototypes to test.”

Wilson weighed in. “Why haven’t we seen these in the south or west coasts?”

Ashe decided it was his time to speak up again. “Our analysis of the Greenland ship and the battle that followed points to the aliens having independent colonies. While they share things such as genetic codes for their warrior species, they also seem to operate independently. Based on that, we may assume that only the colony off of the southeastern coast currently is employing them. That could change at any time.”

“What you have is just a working theory,” Wilson interjected.

“That is correct, Director,” he replied. Wilson’s title left a bitter taste in his mouth, one he quickly flushed with a sip of warm coffee. “Our picture of the aliens grows daily.”

“These damn things were a surprise. I have a unit from the 67th Armor Regiment that suffered twenty-eight dead, and twice that number are still recovering after a few of these things were blasted over their heads. Not to mention the personnel needed for decon work. We had to abandon a perfectly good firebase as a result of this bullshit,” Rainer growled.

Schrivener jumped back in. “Looking at their attack, they are like Cthugas, in that they are suicide, one-shot weapons. Their use of a fungus is akin to the use of chemical weapons. The fact that these spores grow and reproduce shows that the Fish intend their use as an aerial denial weapon.”

“Do we have something to counter them?” Rainer asked.

“Shooting them down simply changes where they contaminate. We have found that bleach kills the spores from reproducing, which is useful in preventing their spread. In terms of the spore’s toxicity, right now, we don’t have something that neutralizes them.”

“Goddamn, a fungus,” the general muttered. “Every time I feel like we have a grasp on these bastards, they come up with a new way to kill us.”

“Their adaptability is a powerful weapon,” Slade said. “We are getting better at matching their pace, but we are still playing catch up.”

“We will get better. We need to keep them on the defense. We were lucky to find that colony we destroyed. If we continue to press, take out their colonies, hopefully they will get tired of the attrition and leave,” Wilson said.

For Slade, it was wishful thinking by the director. He’s going to learn over time the reality of the Fish. Based on the embryos recovered from Greenland, they could produce replacements quickly, where it took years for humans to mature enough to be useful in combat. Schrivener looked over at him, as if to get his permission to speak, but Slade made a small head shaking gesture back. Wilson has been told the reality previously. It is his show now. Still, he had to offer his opinion. “Director, with all due respect, we have not seen evidence that attrition will stop the aliens. The mission in Greenland has shown they can grow replacement troops much faster than we can. Attrition may not be the key to victory.”

Wilson tried to conceal his ire, but the hint of pink in his cheeks betrayed him. “Thank you. I think you should give my thinking time to play out. We scored a pretty significant victory in taking out that colony. They didn’t respond like they did in Russia when nukes were deployed, as you had cautioned about,” he said, letting his dig scrape across Slade’s unshaken expression. “My intel resources seem to think that this approach is best.”

Slade saw that reasoning wasn’t going to work. “Yes sir,” he replied.

He enjoyed that far too much. We still don’t know what is going on in the Pacific with these sonic pulses.

The meeting continued for another hour, with Slade remaining silent, relying on his cooling coffee to grant him solace. When it finally broke up, Ashe waited as the attendees shuffled out. Only Commander Warner lingered. When the room emptied, Warner walked over to him. “You were remarkably quiet. Are you okay, sir?”

“I’m fine.”

“Will all due respect—bullshit,” Warner said.

“The President has put Wilson in charge of the ETF. My job is to provide him the support he needs.”

Warner crossed his arms. “Sir, you created this team. These are your people.”

“I’m still here, despite what Wilson may want.”

“He doesn’t know the Fish the way you do.”

“At some point in our military careers, we have superiors that are less than desirable. Our job isn’t to make their lives hell, it’s to help them be better. For now, that’s my job.” Slade picked up his coffee cup and started for the door.

“It’s just not right—what they did to you,” Warner said as he walked away.

Ashe turned to him and smiled. “Thank you, Kent. I really do appreciate it. His taking over wasn’t about right and wrong. It was politics. I didn’t play the game, and now Wilson’s in charge.”

With that, he walked out of the room in search of the coffee maker.

Chapter twenty-six

Thor, Earth Orbital Track 311

Georgia Johnston could not shake the pressure she felt as she took the gunnery controls of Mjölnir. Since her initial detection of an alien object in orbit, they had located two others. NASA and the Space Force had held a powwow on shooting at them, one that none of the crew of Thor had been invited to. The decision had come an hour ago. Destroy the enemy targets.

She and Niemynski had just come on shift when Commander Nelson informed the crew. For her, it only seemed fair—she had been the one to spot the alien object in the first place. Still, she and Niemynski both had grim expressions on their faces as Nelson leaned in between them.

“Tagging targets now: alpha, bravo, and charlie,” Niemynski said from his seat.

Nelson’s voice was crisp as he spoke. “Alright, people, battle stations.”

“Targets on plot,” she said, checking the targeting screen which showed the alien objects. “Pilot, transfer controls to gunnery.”

“Transferring maneuvering controls. She’s all yours, Georgia,” Niemynski replied. The green light indicating her control came on.

It’s all mine to screw up at this point, she thought as she lightly touched the control yoke to confirm that she did indeed have control. Thor moved, just slightly, to her will.

Georgia gently adjusted Thor’s aim, bringing the alpha target onto her targeting screen. “Going for alpha first,” she whispered, her head against the padded brace in front of the targeting screen. She zoomed in on the target, adjusting the rail gun platform so that it was dead-on aimed. “Locking target,” came from her lips as she hit the target lock button. The display showed a series of bright emerald concentric circles zooming in on the target and the image flickered green. She knew the target in the aiming reticle was an AI illusion. Thor was spinning on its axis to generate gravity. If it was a direct camera view, she would have been nauseated by the spin. Still, the image she saw, stabilized by the targeting system, seemed real enough to her.

“Charging capacitors.” As she depressed the button for the charge, she could hear a humming sound that seemed to resonate through the ship.

“Powering the primary coils,” she said as her finger stabbed the button. The humming took on a higher pitch as the power build up cycled.

She glanced at the weapons status board for the Mjölnir rail gun and confirmed that a round had loaded as soon as the primary coils fully charged.

Squinting at the targeting screen one more time, she saw that alpha had not moved. Behind her, she could feel the presence of Commander Nelson. He wasn’t saying anything, which meant she hadn’t missed a step.

Her jaw clenched, she said, “Firing.” Her finger squeezed the firing trigger with her right hand as her left drifted to the weapons release button.

Mjölnir made a quick deep whoomp as the entire Thor assembly shot backwards. Georgia lurched forward in her seat, her shoulders and crotch digging into the restraining straps. Then came the firing of the stabilizing thrusters, tossing her back in the padded seat. The speed of the shot was impossible to see, as was the hit itself. She barely kept the target in sight as it splattered and sped away, right into the Earth’s upper atmosphere where the bits and pieces of it turned orange as they burned away on reentry.

“Alpha is hit and destroyed,” she reported.

“Whoo-hoo!” Niemynski called out. “Nice shooting there, Tex!”

“Good work,” Nelson said, and she felt his hand come down on her shoulder for reassurance.

That is six, she thought. My kill record is untouchable. Let’s make it seven and eight.

Georgia licked her lips, then spoke as she adjusted the aim of Mjölnir. “Adjusting to target bravo.” She drifted the targeting screen onto the computer-generated image of the alien target.

The firing sequence was identical to that of her first shot. Georgia intensely duplicated every action, and the result was the same. She barely saw the hit, only the results as the bravo target and the rail gun round hit the atmosphere and flickered as they burned up. “Bravo is history,” she said.

That’s seven!

The weapons platform’s thrusters fired, acting to maintain the weapon’s relative position.

Niemynski didn’t cheer this time. Instead, his voice sounded concerned. “Charlie is on the move, moving out of geosynchronous orbit and going evasive.”

She tried to find it on her targeting scope, zooming out for a broader view, but it was already making for the far side of the planet. “I’ve got no joy on charlie,” she said, disappointed.

“We’ve done plenty already,” Nelson replied. “Webb, send to Capcom, two targets engaged and destroyed. One fleeing our zone.”

Ursula confirmed his order and Georgia began to ease her tension down. “At least we know for sure that the gun works,” she muttered.

Ursula’s voice came back. “Capcom confirms. They send their congratulations.”

It was hard to conceal her pride, so Johnston didn’t. She unleashed a broad smile. That’s right, Fishies, you aren’t the only ones that can go into the space. What do you think about that?

“Returning maneuvering control,” she said, toggling the flight control back to AJ.

“The board shows green, but since this is our first firing, we need to do an inspection. Webb, I need you to prepare for an external check. Go ahead and suit up,” Nelson said.

Georgia remained in her seat, strapped in. Baker’s voice came in her headset. “Nice shooting there. Any chance of us switching seats? I’d like to get a chance at some payback as well.”

“Luck of the draw,” she said. “If you get baddies on the screen during your shift, you have my permission to destroy them.”

“Um,” came Niemynski’s voice in her headset. “I am picking up a new target, coming from Earth. Putting on the plot board now.”

She glared at the targeting screen and saw it. It wasn’t huge, like the ship she had shot down in Greenland, but it was similar in shape—like that of a trilobite, only this one was flatter, and seemed to head towards Thor. There was a ripple around its profile, a distortion wave of some sort, just like the one she had she had shot down. No doubt it was part of its propulsion mechanism.

“Course on that object?” Nelson barked.

Niemynski’s tone was an octave lower when he responded. “Collison course.”

“All hands, we have incoming. Return to battle stations,” Nelson ordered. “Johnston, can you take it out?”

She nodded, more out of instinct. “Let me try.”

“Transferring maneuvering controls,” Niemynski said. “Georgia, it’s your game now.”

The tension was back, with triple cappuccinos. “I have the ball,” she muttered as she adjusted the targeting scope. The object was getting larger in her sights and maneuvering. Every time she felt like she was about to get a lock, it seemed to sense it and move just enough so that the targeting system couldn’t lock on it. “It’s moving too much for a solid lock,” she said through her gritted teeth.

“Charging capacitors,” she muttered as she struggled to keep the approaching alien ship in her sights. “Powering the primary coils.” She didn’t even hear their throbbing around her, all that mattered was the ship.

“Come on…” whispered Nelson behind her. “Splatter that Fish.”

She felt the sweat on her brow as she continued to adjust the angle of Mjölnir. She zoomed into the maximum and the image of the ship dominated her entire screen as it drifted to her right. Georgia anticipated its next move, down and to the left, and drifted the targeting reticle to where she expected it to move. If I screw this up, we could be toast. Her left hand pressed the weapons release button as her pointer finger on her right had secured its place on the trigger.

Wait until you see it start its move…

There!

It started to juke slightly, almost right where she had thought it would. “Firing!” she said, squeezing the trigger. She couldn’t see the round fire but saw the impact. The round struck the right side of the alien craft, ripping off a massive piece of the craft, sending the rest of it spinning violently.

“Freaking sweet!” Niemynski called out.

Georgia didn’t have time to respond. She saw the danger, now spinning, still heading towards Thor. “Collision alert!” she snapped. The ripple flickered off the damaged ship, but the bulk of it loomed even larger on her targeting screen.

There was no time to wait for orders. She activated the maneuvering thrusters and tried to angle the weapons platform away from the approaching target. There were two seconds’ time, as she struggled to maneuver out of the way, and in that narrow window, she knew it was impossible to avoid impact.

The impact was violent, throwing her in her seat. Her head hit the pad above the targeting screen hard and she heard the ugly sound of metal moaning. The lights went off for a moment as she felt the safety harness dig into her crotch. Dizziness hit her, followed by a wave of hot sweaty nausea as the lights flickered back on. Warning klaxons went off as a sea of crimson lights stabbed at her eyes, demanding attention. Some alerts buzzed, others beeped, and none of them were good sounds in space. There was pressure hitting her body, pushing down on her as if someone was sitting on her lap, making it hard to breathe. Georgia expected a loss of atmosphere in that moment and knew if it came, she would be dead in moments.

That decompression didn’t come.

Her head throbbed as she tried to focus her eyes, which was proving difficult, on the screens to see what had happened. Thor was in a spin, on top of its gravitational rotation, that much was clear. How bad of a spin was difficult to see. Her eyes fluttered as she fought the tunneling of her vision.

If I black out, I’m as good as dead, along with everyone else. Her grit alone kept her conscious.

Only a few damage indicators were still emerald, most were crimson, a few were amber. There wasn’t time to do an assessment. I need to kill these spin forces now. Her fingers trembled as she punched the program up to kill the gravitational roll. She executed it and felt a jerk, a sign that something was happening. Georgia simply assumed it was the thrusters doing their job.

She went manual with the maneuvering controls to attempt to fight the yaw that Thor was trapped in. The tunneling of her vision lessened, hopefully because of her actions, as she tried to time the firing of the thrusters to kill the yaw rate. It was tempting to try a radical adjustment, but she did not know what condition the platform was in, only that it was bad.

Best to do this slowly and carefully and not create other problems.

The pressure on her body seemed to lift a little as she delicately fired the thrusters. Georgia realized that at least one or more of the thrusters were offline according to her maneuver screen. That changed when and how much she fired them to try to kill the potentially deadly yaw. It took minutes, how many, she wasn’t sure, to where she felt like she had gotten the platform somewhat stable. The spin-gravity was gone, but so was the dangerous spin. Once she was satisfied that the ship was no longer entirely out of control, she hit the reset on the master alarm, killing the beeping, buzzing, and warning klaxon. For a moment, a strange silence gripped her.

Her heart pounded in her ears as she called out, “Commander, James!” A moan reached her, but she was unsure as to the source.

Georgia was torn. Damage control was important, but so were the members of her team. In that instant, she opted to try to help her crew. The alien ship can’t do much more damage than it’s already done. Unbuckling her harness, she adjusted to the near zero-g and pulled herself from her seat.

Droplets of blood were floating and splattered across the walls of the chamber. The source seemed to be Commander Nelson. His unconscious form hovered near the back of her seat, a nasty cut on his brow oozing blood that floated in thick globs in the air. He looked pale, dangerously so. Reaching up, she tried to get a pulse from him, but there was none.

Shit!

The moan from the maneuver station came from Niemynski, and that demanded her attention.

Getting over to him, he was half-conscious, his eyes closed. There was a red spot on the left side of his brow where he had hit something. The center of it was already starting to bruise. His right arm didn’t look right. There was something in the way he held it and the strange angle told her it was broken.

“James, stick with me,” she said, carefully pulling him out of his seat. His restraining harness was already off, which was probably how he had gotten injured in the first place.

“Son of a bitch,” he muttered as his eyes opened. “I don’t know what hurts more, my brain or my arm.”

“Your arm looks broken,” she said, pivoting him slightly in front of her.

“What about the rest of the crew?”

She instantly felt horrible, she should have checked their health indicators. Johnston pulled herself back to her station and pulled up the life signs indicator. Nelson showed as dead, as did Baker. There was still a life sign coming from Ursula, which was encouraging. Toggling the comms channel, she adjusted her own wireless headset.

“Webb, Webb, can you hear me?”

There was no response.

For all I know the comms system is damaged.

With lightning efficiency, she pulled up the ship’s status indicator and for the first time saw the extent of the damage. The three-dimensional model of Thor was a wireframe, spinning on the screen. It was an ugly image as the ship’s systems attempted to visually show the damaged systems that were listed in a long set of columns at the bottom of the display.

The living quarters had borne the brunt of the collision. It was fully depressurized.

If that’s the case, how is Webb still alive? Then she remembered, Webb had been prepping for an EVA after the first attacks to do a visual inspection of the exterior. Maybe she’s in her suit.

Thor’s primary fuel cells were toast from what she could tell. The big batteries were what was giving the ship power at this time, but that couldn’t last forever. A power check showed that one of the solar panels was off line, but the other was still producing some juice—which was a blessing. There was a gash along the side of the platform, one that had clearly taken out two of the maneuvering thrusters.

Pulling up the external cameras, the view was worse than the damage display. A third of the cameras didn’t work, one was now aimed pointlessly into the darkness of space. The remaining ones showed the full extent of the collision.

The life support module looked like a mobile home that had been tossed by a tornado. The metal was twisted from the collision. A bit of the alien object had snagged on the hull and was torn off still there, frozen stiff. It reminded her of hamburger with thick fibers in it—pinkish in color. Some sort of gas was venting from the life support section, but from her controls, she couldn’t tell for sure what it was. Her initial assessment was that it was likely coming from one of the batteries, but that was, at best, an educated guess.

The capsule that they had come in was gone. It had been docked with the life habitat that was now in ruins. She was tempting to go to one of the viewing ports to look for it, but by now, it was likely miles away. Seeing it would not make things better, if anything, it would only serve to make her feel worse.

NASA—I need to let them know what happened! Pulling up the communications system was another source of depression. The antenna array was gone. With a camera she saw it was stuck in one of the solar panels bent and twisted from being torn free. Internal comms was down as well. There’s no calling for help.

I need to focus on the priorities. There was nothing she could do for the dead crewmen. If she was incredibly lucky, she’d have time to mourn for them later. For now, survival was the key. I need to power down nonessential systems, stretch the battery life as long as possible. Her fingers flew over the controls, shutting down the systems that Thor didn’t need.

Next priority was air. She checked the systems and cringed. Half of the atmospheric generators were offline. There were two still working in the gunnery and piloting module. Georgia tried to remember their training about what they could produce and support.

If it’s just James and me, we should be okay. A lot will depend on if I can find Ursula. If we do recover her, that might be pushing it.

Moving away from the display, she returned to Niemynski. “How bad is it?” he asked as he saw her float up next to him.

“I got the Fish, he got us. The living module is gone. Baker and Nelson are dead. Ursula is alive but I don’t know where she is.”

“Shit,” he said, closing his eyes for a moment to gather his thoughts. “Have you tried calling for help?”

“No dice. Comms are down.”

“Well, that sucks.”

“We have power and air.”

“What about food and water?”

“That was all in the habitat,” she replied glumly.

“What about the capsule?”

“Gone.”

He sighed, which then made him wince in pain. She could see the waves of it wash over his face, hot and red. The bruise on his forehead looked worse. “You killed the grav spin.”

“No choice, I needed to get control, it was the only way.”

Niemynski nodded in understanding. “Alright, you need to get out the medkit and set my arm. With us being in zero g, I’m going to run the risk of blood clots. There’s a solution of blood thinner in the kit. You’ll need to hit me with it. Hopefully, we can delay an aneurism or heart attack.”

“Hopefully.” Her voice sounded exhausted as he had presented new dangers.

“Don’t worry,” James said, forcing a grin through his pain. “I’m not going anywhere yet.”

“We are kinda fucked,” she replied flatly.

“Maybe. Maybe not. We are going to have to get MacGyver on this though.”

“What’s a MacGyver?”

“It’s an old TV series. My dad raved about it. The guy could solve any problem with bubble gum, a toothpick, and a piece of wire. We’re both pretty creative people—we’ll figure something out.”

“I hate to break it to you, but even if this MacGyver guy was alive, he is 310 miles away, straight down.”

“NASA will eventually look up and see what happened to us.”

“True. But we can’t rely on them for a rescue. If we are going to get out of this, it’s all on us.” As she spoke those words, she realized just how determined she was to get through their situation alive.

Chapter twenty-seven

Firebase Benatar II, New Bern, North Carolina, the Eastern Front, the United States

Sergeant First Class Daniel Thun stood next to the Whoop Ass and looked off in the distance where the decontamination teams were setting the last fires in what had been Firebase Benatar. The stench of bleach had been prevalent for days, stinging his nostrils everywhere he went. It made the normally crappy Army food taste a little worse, which was something that Thun had thought impossible. The smoke from the fires, the burning pines that had been felled by the engineers, was an ugly black grave marker against the dark purple storm cloud that filled the sky.

A lot of good people had died with the aerial chemical attack on the firebase. Thun had Corporal McCoy’s support squad get into the AFV and sealed it just before the attack. A lot of infantry had not been as lucky. It only took a speck or two of that dust hitting bare skin to trigger a reaction. Thun had heard stories of the convulsions and the deaths that followed.

After the attack, they had fallen back, spreading more of the deadly dust in the process. NBC specialists had showed up, scrubbing down the vehicles and personnel. It took a few days for them to figure out what the dust was, some sort of deadly fungus. A few days after the attack, thousands of mushrooms started to grow, white in color, in the remains of their former firebase. The pines died, their needles turning brown and dropping. Then came the bleach teams, hosing it all down. They burned what was left.

They had built a new firebase, two miles to the west. Dubbed Benatar II, it was on a wooded hilltop with steeper slopes. It had a creek south of it, a source of some water, which was a plus. Once more the engineers had showed up and fortified the hilltop. This time there were some differences. Logs were brought in and top cover was erected and covered with dirt, giving the troops and vehicles some cover if the flying aliens showed up again. It wasn’t perfect, but it was more than what they had before.

“I wouldn’t want to be downwind of that smoke,” Sparks said as he moved up beside him.

“I’m shocked the Army didn’t wait until it was blowing in our direction,” Thun replied.

“I found something I thought you’d like,” Sparks spoke. Reaching behind him, he pulled out a white mushroom.

Thun responded in a moment of panic. He hit Sparks’s hand, knocking it to the ground, while jumping back away from him. “What the fuck!”

Sparky laughed. “It’s just a regular ’shroom, with some white paint,” he chuckled. “You should’ve seen your face.”

“Damn it, Sparky, that wasn’t funny.”

“I disagree,” he said, wiping the tears from his eyes. “From where I stood, it was a riot.”

“You better bury that thing,” Thun said, his eyes darting to the fake alien mushroom on the ground. “If an officer sees it, we will be undergoing full decontam all over again.”

“Good point,” Sparky replied, digging one of his heels into the ground, pushing the white mushroom in and covering it with dirt. “Silly question, but why do you think they launched that attack on us?”

“We were their guinea pigs, I suppose. They did kill a lot of good people and force us out of our position.”

“I don’t like someone or something fucking with me.”

“For a guy that just tried to trick me with a toxic mushroom, that’s a strange comment.”

“Oh, I’m all about screwing with other people. This is different. What they did was lethal. They tried to kill us all and not in a way where we could shoot back.”

That was something Thun understood. He preferred a fight, a chance to win. That wasn’t what the Fish had done. “I hear you.”

“You think they are going to come at us again?”

Thun nodded. “I do. It’s just a matter of time.”

Lieutenant Rodriguez briskly walked up to them, and as they turned and saw them, both flashed him a fast salute. “You need to get mounted up.”

“Trouble, sir?” Thun asked.

“The Air Force says we have enemy movement in our general direction. A lot of enemy movement.”

“What are we looking at?” Sparks asked.

“It’s a regular Fish-fest. You name it, they are massing it.” He turned to face Thun squarely. “Mount up, load up your infantry, seal up good and tight. If we don’t get any indication of another aerial attack, deploy them. We are going to need every bit of firepower we have. This is going to be a bloody one, I think.”

Thun nodded and he and Sparks climbed aboard the Schwarzkopf. Once he slid his narrow frame into the driver’s seat, he pulled on his comms set. “McCoy, load up. Trouble is heading this way. If they don’t send any of those jellyfish, I’ll have you deploy.”

“Yes, Sergeant. Much appreciated,” he heard in his headset. Thun lowered the rear ramp as both he and Sparks closed their top hatches and latched them tight. It took a few minutes for the infantry to grab kit and muster. Once their infantry was loaded, he heard the rear ramp closing and locking shut behind him.

“We’re all aboard,” McCoy said. “What are we facing?”

“Unknown at this time,” was Thun’s response as he powered up the Whoop Ass. The sound of the engine starting was reassuring, though he was at a loss as to why.

“Battlespace Command, this is Whoop Ass, we are loaded and armed,” he said into the mic.

“This is Battlespace Command. Confirmed, Whoop Ass.”

Identical responses came from the other vehicles in the company. Boomer off to his left and Reliant both signaled their readiness on his flanks. Boomer was a hulking Buford MBT, and even through their armor, he could hear their engine rumble to life.

At least I’m in good company.

His eyes fell on the tactical display which he zoomed out. There was a sea of tiny crimson dots in the distance, off to the north and east. They were not bright red, indicating that they were being tagged by Air Force drones. The software didn’t designate the types of enemies, unlike when it came to human targets. It didn’t matter to Thun—there were a lot of aliens out there, moving in the distant line of woods.

“Please tell me that you are seeing this?” Sparks queried.

“Yeah, I see it.”

“Why do you think they have such a hard-on for us?”

“That’s easy,” Thun replied. “We’re here.”

Thun’s eyes darted to his viewport on the hatch of the Schwarz, squinting to see the movement in the distance. He didn’t see the enemy, but the sensor feeds told him they were out there. They will come fast and en masse, he was sure of that.

We have a good position, on the high ground with good solid cover. Hopefully that will give us an edge.

In the distance, he saw the large pines seem to wave, shaking as if violently caught in a sudden wind. There was no breeze driving the movement, it was the enemy. Then he saw them, Frogs, Crabs, Bosses, Dillos, and a few large Turtles. They emerged from cover and seemed to be forming up into smaller groups, a mix of Fish.

Captain Briggs’s voice came over the open channel. “Alright, kiddos, you’ve got plenty of targets. Bufords, go with your flechette rounds, go for the bigger bad boys. The rest of you wait until they are optimal. Hold your ground and wipe these bastards out.”

The Buford tanks didn’t need further prompting, their rail guns hummed and fired. Their flechette rounds separated into twenty razor-thin needle projectiles that hit at the far range, chewing holes in the ranks of the enemy. At least one Boss toppled over from a hit.

“I can hit them with our machine guns at this range,” Sparks offered.

“You heard Briggs, wait.”

The wait was not long. The moment that the long range rail guns fired, the alien forces surged out of the woods.

Holy shitballs, that is a lot of Fish! Thun thought. He heard the rumble of the charging Bosses and Turtles first, then felt the low vibration under his Schwarzkopf as they surged towards Benatar II. Adding to it was the unified grunting of the Frogs that filled the air.

“I think it’s time for some of the gunny shit you do,” Thun said as he saw the charging line.

“Sending the love,” Sparks replied. “Firing flechette round.” The capacitors hummed in the rail gun, then came the tug and whine as the weapon fired. There wasn’t a lot for Thun to do in the driver’s seat other than watch the carnage unfolding in front of him.

The rail gun cut through the air so fast, all he could see was the ripple between his fighting vehicle and the target. The long slender flechettes, accelerated to hypersonic speeds, clipped one of the hulking Turtles on its side. They tore its flesh, furrowing deep and out the back. Their speed was such that the impact caused burns on the creature, punching through some armor plates, blasting others off. Bits of flesh rained down on the advancing aliens, who seemed to ignore the gore.

The capacitors hummed above and behind Thun as Sparks auto-loaded another round. “I’ve only got three more of these flechette rounds. After that it’s HE, then anti-tank.”

“Work your magic, Sparky.”

“I always do.” He fired another round as Thun toggled the comms channel.

“Battlespace Command, any sign of flying jellyfish?”

“Negative on that,” came the tense voice. “Feel free to deploy your infantry.”

Thun switched to the AFV’s internal channel. “Alright McCoy, you and your boys need to get out and bring the pain.”

“Took the arm off that Boss!” Sparks called out. “Aw shit, he’s getting back up.”

Something hit the front armor of the Schwarzkopf, rocking the vehicle hard. It was something that Thun had felt before, one of the large alien spiker projectiles. His damage display didn’t show anything hurt by the hit, but was a reminder of how dangerous those things were. Looking through the hatch visor, he saw as the Fish line was a little thinner, but still rushing forward. Explosions went off as they came into rocket range. The LAW’s rockets were more like drones than dummy rockets—they tore into the larger creatures. Some were clearly anti-personnel, devouring swaths of Frogs and Dillos in their thunderous explosions.

Sparks fired off one of their rockets to join the chorus, followed a moment later with another blast from the rail gun. This time he saw the plume from the superheated air flash out from the barrel as it rocked the Whoop Ass back.

McCoy’s machine gun spat short bursts downrange. Its tracers merged with a half-dozen others. The Fish began to move evasively, especially the Frogs that jumped in erratic, side-to-side patterns. A pair of sonic blasts tore through the space between the warring forces, washing through Benatar II. They made the AFV around him seem to throb under the vibrations. Thun heard things rattling around in the rear compartment, shaken loose by the attack. His own brain pounded against his skull, making him break off his viewing to deal with the sudden headache. Pine needles and boughs rained down on the Schwarzkopf and the waves brought dust and debris peppering the vehicle.

He felt a wetness above his lip and touched it with his glove.

Blood… that damn thing gave me a bloody nose. He wiped the gore off his glove and glanced over at the tactical display. What he saw was frightening. Off to the left, the Fish were almost to the edge of the firebase. In front of him, they were closing fast as well.

Another pair of rockets whooshed out of the turret rack above him, one slamming into an already injured Turtle, wrapping the creature in a plume of orange and red flames as it exploded. The alien skidded into the ground, making a short trench as it fell. The other rocket narrowly missed the fallen alien, exploding in the distance.

Sparks brought the machine gun into play and put it on autonomous mode while he fired a HE round, throwing Frogs and Dillos into the air. The machine gun’s auto-targeting squirted out quick bursts, tearing into the ranks of the front line. Some of the Frogs were felled quickly, only to rise back up, dragging their limp and savaged limbs.

A spray of acid stabbed out from a Boss into the front of the Whoop Ass. Shit! It hit the thick front armor and through the visor, he could see the wisps of fumes rising from the spray. Sparks saw it too, sending another round into the Boss that had dared to fire at them. The blast threw the hulking alien back, its arms flailing inhumanly around behind it, attempting to cushion its fall. It landed on two Frogs, crushing them. Water sprayed from a damaged leg, almost like an open fire hydrant in terms of force.

“Good shooting, Sparky,” Thun said.

“They are going to be on top of us pretty soon,” Sparks said. “Any of that acid shit leaking in?”

Thun checked down by his extended legs, but there was no sign of it. “Not yet.” The purr of the machine gun was punctured with the whine and boom of the rail gun firing again.

Switching to the BS command channel, Thun checked the tactical display as another sonic attack made the Schwarzkopf rumble around him. “Battlespace Command, this is Whoop Ass. What’s the plan here?”

“Hold your ground,” replied the terse voice of the commander.

Thun switched to speak to Lieutenant Rodriguez. “This is Sergeant Thun. Sir, we are just sitting here as targets. Permission to advance.”

“Sergeant, you know the drill.”

“Sir, trust me, this will break them up.”

There was a momentary pause as another heavy needler round slammed into the Whoop Ass, this time into the turret with a crunch.

“Whatever you’re going to do, I’d suggest we do it quick,” Sparks snapped.

Rodriguez’s voice came back. “Authorized.”

“Thun, drive like you stole this bitch,” Sparky added.

“McCoy,” he signaled his infantry support. “We are advancing.”

“We will try to keep ’em off you,” McCoy replied.

Thun revved the engine and switched to Lieutenant Parmele’s Buford at his side, “Boomer, this is Whoop Ass, time to plow the road. On a three count, we charge right at the Boss and Turtle out there. Drive over anything that gets in your path. We need to break them up.”

“Copy that. I hate sitting here taking this shit.”

“Three, two, one, let’s rock!”

The Schwarz and Buford climbed the berms in front of them, throwing dirt and logs as they plowed through. Both vehicles fired at what was becoming point-blank range. The machine gun in Thun’s turret was no longer firing in short bursts, the spray was long and deadly. He aimed for the Boss off to his right and angled the fast-moving AFV right at the target, with Parmele heading for the charging Turtle. In that moment, the Boss became the center of his universe, his viewscreen filled with the alien.

A missile went off near the alien, and he saw several squirts of high-pressure water shoot out of its legs. It paused its charge and seemed to pull its ebony skin over the hole, ceasing the leaks. The machine gun locked onto it, the bullets making the creature’s hide ripple as they absorbed the impacts.

McCoy’s infantry was blazing away with their weapons, their pop-crack sounds and the blasts from grenades told him they were behind him, providing what protection they could.

No doubt the Fish hadn’t expected us to charge at them from a fixed position.

Thun swerved sharp, tossing himself hard in his seat, slamming into four Frogs that were in front of him. He heard the crunching as they spat at his AFV but the Schwarz didn’t even bounce driving over them. As he turned towards the Boss, the looming alien raised its arm. A vein-like growth on its arm surged and a spray of gray goo came at him, hitting the front right side near where Sparks sat.

“Sparks—!” he called out.

“Oh, this fucker is dead. One round AP.”

The capacitor hummed and discharged a few milliseconds later. Thun was only fifty feet away, preparing to slam into the alien. The tug of the weapon and the flash of the plasma plume flared out, jabbing towards the creature.

The sabot from the round hit and simultaneously exploded the Boss into a mist of gray and light bluish goo. One arm went flying, spinning wildly in the air like a tree limb, skidding and rolling among the dead. The rest of the alien was thrown back or obliterated by the impact. The few bits of body parts that lay about threw out a steam-like mist, no doubt from the heat of the sabot round hitting its target. Thun didn’t have time to enjoy its fall. He wheeled the Schwarzkopf into a cluster of Dillos, plastering them under his treads.

His eyes caught a Crab that was at the firebase edge. Its claws grabbed the log berms and tossed them aside, then it sprayed a cloud of toxic bio-agent into the position. He rushed right at it, coming up from its rear left flank. There was no hesitation; he plowed the Whoop Ass into the Crab.

It flipped on the impact and this time he felt the Schwarz rise as it drove over the creature, the Crab cracking and splattering. He didn’t have to look, he knew it was dead, and that death came with an instant rush of satisfaction. Thun sped on, checking his tactical display for more enemies. The pickings were thankfully thinning.

He twisted the left tread control backwards, and the right one forward, turning the AFV to the left, hitting two more Frogs in the process. The machine gun’s hum was slowing, sputtering, no doubt slowing the rate of fire to allow the barrel some cooling. In that moment, Thun felt a little lonely out among the alien dead that he was turning into a paste as he drove over them. Then he spotted the Boomer’s Buford, with three Frogs climbing on top of it.

“Sparky, can you assist the LT?”

“Slow us and I’ll go manual.”

He slowed the Schwarz down to a crawl as Sparks fired short aimed bursts at each one of the Frogs. The bullets shredded their flesh. One was almost cut in half, yet its claws were still active, still grappling with the turret of the Buford. Another single shot to the head ended that.

“Thanks, Whoop Ass,” came Parmele’s weary voice.

Using the external cameras, Thun swept the battlespace around his AFV, looking for targets. There were dozens of wounded Frogs, all still attempting to drag themselves towards the firebase. The infantry sprayed down the Dillos that hadn’t reached their positions yet, splattering their remains everywhere. In one spot there were three Crabs, piled almost one on top of the other.

How in the name of hell did that happen? he wondered in amazement.

He turned the AFV in place to face the direction the enemy had come from, squishing the dead enemy as he did so. There was no sign of the Fish coming for a second wave, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t possible. His machine gun stopped altogether as he trained eyes on and searched for another target.

“We are low on ammo,” Sparks said in an exhausted voice.

“That just means we did our job.”

“Damn, that’s a lot of dead Fish.”

It was hard to argue with Sparks on that point. Something told Thun this wasn’t over, a nagging feeling that tugged at his adrenaline-fueled focus.

They’ve hit us before, they’ll do it again. That’s probably why they put us out here in the middle of nothing. We are holding their attention here, sucking away force from New Bern.

He didn’t like the strategy, because it painted a big target on his company of the Death Dealers. “I’m heading back to the barn. We need to check how much damage we’ve taken and reload.”

“Works for me. I earned my month’s pay today.”

“We both did.”

Thun slowly drove the Schwarzkopf back to the battered position of Firebase Benatar II. Some of McCoy’s wounded were being carried out on stretchers to the field hospital, a pair of container units near the center of the fortified position. As he parked, Thun stopped and wiped the sweat from his brow. A rumble filled the air, and he tensed up, looking out for an alien source. A flicker of lightning filled the sky in the distance and a sheet of rain advanced across the sea of dead alien flesh towards his position. Thun relaxed once more, hoping that the storm would wash away some of the carnage out in the fire zone.

Chapter twenty-eight

Naval Station, San Diego, California, the Western Front

Chief Petty Officer Viktor Langman stood next to Commander Lawrence Greenwood and, seeing how rigid the taller man was, stood more erect himself. Greenwood seemed more at ease. His face had an almost recruiting poster quality to it. Even his mustache seemed perfect. Langman was older than the navy officer, far more weathered in appearance. It didn’t bother him in the least. Langman had more ribbons, years of experience, and scars on his body to account for where he had been in life.

Behind the pair of them was the Proteus and the Amphitrite, the Gorgon ship Greenwood had been associated with. The ships had been pulled out of the water and had been in an inspection warehouse. After deep missions, the ships had to be carefully checked and scanned for any minor imperfection that might lead to a problem. Today, they had been brought out for the photo op. Both crews flanked Langman and Greenwood. The crews were getting Presidential Unit Citations.

Greenwood leaned sideways to keep his voice from traveling. “I hate these things.”

“You’re not alone, Commander.”

“I don’t think of myself as a hero,” he whispered. “I felt like an Amazon delivery drone.”

That was enough to elicit a silent chuckle from Langman. “These medals aren’t about us,” he said. “It’s for everyone else.” It was a lesson he had learned long ago. He reached down to his pants pocket and patted the contents once. His battered old knit hat was still there.

For me, that is more important than any medal I’ve ever received. That hat is the story of my life, more than this Christmas tree of ribbons I wear.

Admiral Coffey stood at the podium off to their left, watching the holographic teleprompter that had been brought out. “Three weeks ago, the crews of these two vessels undertook one of the most dangerous missions of the war so far. They did what their nation demanded, they took the fight to our enemy.

“Commander Lawrence Greenwood and Chief Petty Officer Viktor Langman, piloting Trident suits, the pinnacle of our technology, working in the darkest depths of the Pacific, delivered two nuclear weapons to one of the alien colonies. Their bravery and daring dealt a devastating blow to these invaders. Because of them, the colony was destroyed.”

Viktor suppressed the urge to wince. Greenwood is right; we were glorified delivery men. Still, as he looked at the base personnel, all assembled in their pristine white uniforms, he knew they needed a victory. The Navy has been getting its ass handed to them on a silver platter since the start of the war. Hawaii, Guam, off of Los Angeles, they had all been naval defeats.

“Both of these undersea warriors could have been killed. They were operating in an environment that most people can only imagine. They carried the ultimate weapons of destruction, the power of nuclear destruction, weapons we have used as a last resort. Yet, they prevailed.”

“So,” Admiral Coffey said, “by order of the Chief of Naval Operations, it is my distinct pleasure to present to these pilots the Navy Cross.” He turned to them, and his aide moved beside him, handing him the medals.

The admiral pinned the medals on them, shaking their hands as he did. “Chief,” he said in a low tone to Langman, “you’re the first Coast Guardsman to receive this medal in decades.”

“Thank you, sir,” was all he could reply.

When he finished, Coffee looked at both men and saluted. Viktor returned the honor. The moment that he did, the applause erupted from the audience. Greenwood extended his hand to Viktor, who shook it hard. As the two men turned, the cameras snapped and clicked, capturing the images. It wasn’t something he relished, but was instead something that he was required to do. Reaching up, he tugged at his dress collar that felt like it was cutting into his neck.

The reception that followed was something he had hoped to slip out of early, but couldn’t. A quick taste told him that the punch lacked alcohol, which was disappointing. The Navy had provided cold beers, but that wasn’t the drink that Langman preferred. He liked his booze stiff and burning, the way alcohol was meant to be. The food was fair, light snacks. Eyeing the raw broccoli, he wondered how people could eat it that way. He had been to enough of these kinds of events as a participant to not have his expectations set too high. People came up to him to shake his hand, congratulate him, a sea of strange faces that he acknowledged.

One conversation stood out, though. He introduced himself as Titus Hill, but Langman pointed out that it wasn’t necessary. Hill’s reputation was well known as the captain of the Pegasus, one of the Gorgon ships that had rescued POWs months earlier.

“Chief, are you going to be okay?” Hill asked him in a low tone of voice.

“What do you mean, sir?”

“Look, all of this pomp and ceremony is fine for some people. I won’t diminish what you did. By the same token, if it were me, this would weigh pretty heavy on my conscience.”

It was something that Langman didn’t talk about, but it was a thought that had gnawed at him, waking him several times in the night since the mission. “If it had been humans, it might bother me. But these were Fish, sir. They started this war. All I did was help hurt them, badly.” While he said the words, he knew deep down that it did bother him.

Hill nodded. “You’re a better man than me. Taking nukes down to the enemy, that’s pretty extreme. Yeah, they are aliens, but if were me, I’d be wondering about how many I killed, or if I set something in motion that I might live to regret.”

Langman bit his lower lip for a moment, then continued. “I won’t tell you I haven’t thought about it. I enlisted in the Coast Guard. It wasn’t our job to deliver weapons of mass destruction. In many respects, the Guard is defensive in nature. What I did down there,” he nodded toward the west where the Pacific loomed through the windows of the officers mess where the party was being held, “that wasn’t defensive at all. I was made a killer. Now the Fish, they deserved to feel some pain, but it does eat at me.”

Hill cracked a crooked smile. “That only makes you human, which is a good thing. I’d be worried if you didn’t feel something. I spoke with Greenwood and he was embracing his inner hero. Payback for Task Force Iron Bottom—that kind of thing. I get it, he’s an officer on the rise now, so he’s clinching on tight to the official line, that this was a great thing. You struck me as someone with a deeper sense of self-awareness. I could see it in your face during the ceremony.”

“It’s the difference in age and experience.”

“Is it?”

Langman wasn’t sure how to respond. “When you become numb to killing, even the Fish, well, you can lose who you are. I’m not that man. I had my fill in my youth of killing at the hands of the Russians in my homeland.”

Hill seemed to understand. “As someone who got showered with medals and citations, I understand a little about how you feel. If you need someone to talk to, don’t hesitate to reach out to me.”

“Thank you, Captain.”

Hill walked away, and for the first time at the reception, he was left alone. Viktor moved over by the window that gave a decent view of the Pacific a few blocks away. A few minutes earlier, he had hoped for that feeling, but after his brief conversation with Hill, he had been left with his thoughts about the morality of his mission.

How many aliens was I responsible for killing?

He doubted there would ever be a number proffered. He wondered if there were innocent Fish. Everything he had seen so far was combatants. There were reports of laborers and scientists, but he had never seen them.

I wonder, do they have families like we do?

He mentally backed away from that line of thinking. Getting close to that question made him wonder if he had slaughtered “innocent” aliens. For Langman, it was easier to think of them as all guilty for this war against mankind.

Staring out to the west, the sun was mostly obscured by clouds. The rays of light that penetrated lit up the clouds with an orange to pinkish hue. The view was strangely calming. Glancing over at Commander Greenwood, he saw a young woman wrap her arm around his waist as he regaled a group of officers with an animated story, no doubt of him dropping off the nuke. Viktor’s eyes fell to her left hand, and he saw the wedding ring on it.

It’s probably his wife. It is great that the Navy let her on-base for the ceremony.

They had extended an offer to him to have guests, but Langman didn’t have family. He had crews, and the crew of the Proteus was there, mingling with the other officers. During his career there had been a few crews, and the casual work friends, but not anyone that he considered a true friend. They were comrades at best.

That meant there was no one for him to invite, no one to cheer for him. Turning to the setting sun, he stared out at the distant ocean. He wondered if he should have dated and remarried after the loss of his wife and children.

She would have told me to move on, to find someone else. That’s not who I am. She was my true love. No one could fill that place that was missing in his soul, so he had never bothered to try.

Of course, there was more to it than that. Losing his family in the fighting in Ukraine had hardened Viktor. Having another new family meant that he might have to face the risk of losing them, too. I did that once in my life. I cannot tolerate going through that again, he thought. Being alone was a defense mechanism, protection from having his heart and soul shattered twice in his lifetime.

Once more, he reached up and tugged at his shirt collar, sure that it was rubbing his skin raw. All I have to do is to make it through to the end of this party, then I can get into duty clothes. Maybe that was why he liked being a Trident pilot. Down there, I am alone. I don’t have to interact with others beyond my crew. As he stood there, he wished he had brought a flask of bourbon or vodka with him, if only to make the time pass faster.

Glancing down at the Navy Cross, he lifted it up with one hand to get a better view. The blue and white ribbon was pristine. It weighed more than the other medals he had received in his career. Most of those were for life-saving bravery, even a combat award for fighting cartel smugglers.

When they came up with this medal, I am sure they never thought that it would be given out for fighting aliens.

He let the medal fall against his chest and turned his eyes back to the ocean. For a few moments, the bustle of the party seemed to fade away. Checking his watch, he saw there was still another hour to go. Across the base, where the ceremony had been held, the Proteus and the Amphitrite had already been taken back to their warehouses for inspection. Chairs were being folded up, bunting taken down.

Something caught his eye. A flock of seagulls came in from the water, heading right over the building he was in. They weren’t flying like gulls usually did, casually loping and gliding. It was almost as if they were in a panic. Then he saw more of them, also flying away from the shoreline as fast as they could propel themselves.

Viktor had seen that behavior twice in his life, usually with the approach of a squall and a hurricane. As his eyes swept the skyline, there was no indication of an approaching storm. If it was to the east, the gulls wouldn’t have flown towards it. Something wasn’t right. Shifting on his feet nervously, he felt like he had to say something to someone, but he wasn’t sure what he could tell them. I can’t just tell them that the seagulls are flying weirdly.

Admiral Coffey moved alongside of him. “Beautiful view, isn’t it? It makes me long for when this war is over and I can take my little sailboat back out.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You’re not much of a socializer, are you, Chief?”

“Not really.”

“Me either,” Coffey confessed. “This… this is all about the PR. What you and Greenwood accomplished, it was a victory we needed, when we needed it. People need to have hope.”

Viktor nodded. “That is understood.”

The admiral sighed and continued to look towards the sea. “What you did took a hell of a lot of guts. You should be proud of what you accomplished.”

“I killed a lot of our enemies. I am coming to terms with that. It’s not as easy as I initially thought.”

Suddenly the admiral’s gaze narrowed. “What the hell is that?”

Langman looked out. “What is it?”

“The sun is almost on the horizon, it’s happening too fast.”

Looking out, he saw it. The sun was dipping below the horizon, hours before it should. Alert klaxons came to life throughout the base. Then it hit him. The sun wasn’t setting—the sea was rising!

“Everyone!” Admiral Coffey barked out. “We need to move and get to a hardened building—now!”

Chapter twenty-nine

The Garment District, Manhattan AIZ, New York, the Eastern Front, the United States

The war had not been kind to the Garment District. Several old and distinct buildings that Detective Kenyon O’Malley admired over the years had been blown up or had burned in a series of fires that had raged there during the start of the alien invasion. It was sad to see the ground floor businesses gutted by looters. The expensive upstairs apartments were mostly empty, and it was his job to make sure they were.

According to the Army, they were planning a push through the Garment District, a counteroffensive that would change the nature of the war in Manhattan. O’Malley had heard it before, far too many times. “We are on a peninsula here. We can push them to the water, but the water flanks us.” While he understood the determination to hold on to the city, deep down he wished someone would realize the futility of fighting there and order a withdrawal.

They can’t though. Losing Manhattan would be too big of a loss, too much for the civilians to deal with. They will keep feeding more troops in here in the hope that the Fish will get frustrated and leave.

The detective was surprised that he had gotten a replacement for Richards. Patrolman Paul Bailey was fresh out of College Point in Queens. He had put Bailey under the wing of Sergeant Narvaez to show him the ropes. In reality, Narvaez was keeping the kid sheltered, not letting him in yet on the unit’s pilfering other than for food. While Narvaez said Bailey seemed okay, it was too early to have him in on the more nefarious aspects of the squad.

As he looked around the apartment that he was clearing, O’Malley found himself longing for the days of old. The holo-entertainment unit was covered with a film of dust. There was a hyper-convection oven on the island, also covered in dust. Looking at the room, he realized he couldn’t remember the last time he had come to a place he could call home, put his feet up, cracked a cold beer, and mindlessly watched a football game. He hated going to his own apartment after the divorce. Since the war started, he rarely went there other than to crash in the bed. No longer did you have friends over, nor were there good times. The people that lived in the apartment he stood in were long gone. They had shed everything they held unimportant and were either dead or far away.

Rummaging through the kitchenette, he found two packages of dehydrated peas that hadn’t expired, which he tucked into his bag. They weren’t keepers for him; he’d always hated peas. He’d donate these to the church for distribution. A check of the bedroom showed the rush with which the occupants left, clothing thrown all over the bed and floor, drawers rummaged through. In one, he found a box of ammunition, which he also pocketed. Like so many other places he had cleared, this little apartment only served as a reminder of the panic after the aliens came ashore.

Two loud bangs roared down the hall, shaking him from his malaise. He came back out into the hallway, weapon drawn, eyeing the corridor where the rest of his squad was working. Slowly, he reached up and toggled his mic. “Who’s shooting and where?”

Hazel’s voice came on. “Down in 502. You better get down here.”

Lowering his weapon, he moved quickly down the hall. When he reached apartment 502 the smell of gunpowder greeted him as he entered. The layout of the place was almost identical to the one he had been in, with only the kitchenette and island placed differently. Hazel was near the single bedroom and pointed his gun towards it.

“What happened?” O’Malley demanded.

“Talk to Christie,” was all Hazel said.

Moving into the room he was greeted with a massive fresh blood spray that covered one wall and soaked a curtain. Tiny bits of pinkish flesh, brain, were mixed with the blood, slowly yielding to gravity and sliding down the wall’s horrific surface. Whoever the victim was, his face was missing as was the back of his head. From the hint of feces in the air, the victim had shit himself, probably post-mortem. It was far too common of an occurrence.

Christie was trembling, attempting to light a cigarette but fumbling with the lighter.

“You mind telling me what the fuck happened here?” O’Malley demanded.

Corporal Esposito took a step forward. “Boss, we were in here checking for stuff. We found a stash.” She gestured to a drawer tossed on the bed. There was money, some coins in little plastic cases, the glimmer of gold.

Esposito continued. “This guy stepped out of the closet. He said it was his… told us he would look the other way if we just left him alone. Christie got nervous. The guy said he knew we were looting, but he’d forget it if we just left. Christie just shot him.”

Damn it! Kenyon mentally cursed. “Christie, what were you thinking?”

Fear pulled at the edges of Christie’s face as he pulled the shaking unlit cigarette from his mouth. “He caught us. The dude was going to talk. I could see it in his face. He was going to squeal.” As O’Malley watched Christie, he saw the fear… not of the dead man, but for what might follow.

Kenyon’s temper flared. Christie had overreacted. In a moment of panic, he had murdered an innocent civilian. He reached up and slapped Christie across the face hard, with enough force to make him stagger back. “Christie, you are a dumb shit, you know that?”

The patrolman’s face shook up and down. “He was going to talk,” was all he could offer in his own defense. His voice was teetering on being a sob as he spoke.

“I know what you did. You panicked. Now you’ve implicated all of us in your stupidity.”

“I thought—”

“Shut up! You weren’t thinking, that’s part of the problem. This is the action of a putz. You are so stupid you probably think Dr. Pepper is a cardiologist. You murdered someone. Think about that. This guy wasn’t armed, he wasn’t a threat. If they ever reopen Riker’s, they will lock you up with guys that can’t wait to ass-fuck a cop out of revenge. It might be more merciful for me to shoot you myself.”

His words made the officer’s red face go to a deeper shade of crimson. Snot trickled out of one nostril, which Christie wiped on his glove. Hazel spoke up. “O’Malley—”

Kenyon snapped around on Hazel. “You keep your mouth shut, Walker. This is between me and dribble-dick here.” Hazel raised his hands at the wrists and backed up a step. Glancing around, he saw that Patrolman Bailey had come into the room. The kid had not seen dead bodies yet, and his mouth hung open as he looked at the blood and brains on the wall. That’s just fucking great… now the kid needs to be sucked into this. O’Malley’s day had gone from bad to worse.

For a few moments, nothing was said. O’Malley wanted the silence to work a little on Christie. He didn’t speak, which was smarter than he gave him credit for. “Now I have to figure out what to do about this clusterfuck you dumped on the team.”

Mentally, the detective went over his options. Turning over Christie to his superiors was never an option. He had thrown out the insinuation to strike some fear into the patrolman. Christie needed to be shaken up after what he had done. It was one thing to shoot someone that was a threat, that was shooting at you. It was another to blast someone who had caught you thieving.

O’Malley had been in such an instance years ago, before the arrival of the Fish. It was a drug dealer that had seen a fellow officer pocket a packet of coke. That had not been head shots, but instead was in his chest. The younger Kenyon had seen how the other officers had moved and acted, almost as if it was some sort of standard procedure. He had never seen the report on the incident, but based on the staging of the scene, he knew what had been written.

I had enough sense to not ask any question back then. Hopefully, these guys will do the same thing, he thought.

“Alright. Here’s what we are going to do. “Narvaez, dig out one of the guns you’ve confiscated, wipe it clean and put it next to his hand.”

Narvaez did what he said, placing a .357 on the floor a few inches from the victim’s right hand. O’Malley pulled out his digital camera that was tied to his report pad, and took several photos of the victim and the gore. He was careful to make sure that the loot on the bed was not in any of his images. When he finished, he pocketed the camera and turned to Christie. “Here’s what happened. Christie entered this room, and the suspect emerged from the closet holding a gun on him. Christie fired in defense, killing the perp. Understood?”

Everyone in the squad gave him a nod of assurance, except Bailey, who was a little more pale than he had been before, his eyes wide open, still fixated on the dead body. He could see a bit of terror in the faces of the other members of the squad, not of the Fish, but of him. Bailey wavered for a moment, and Kenyon wondered if he was going to pass out. Instead, he leaned over near the door and threw up. The splattering sound of his vomit hitting the carpeting was not as nearly disgusting as the smell.

While everyone else winced and moved to block their noses, O’Malley walked over and pulled Bailey out of the bedroom to the living area. He wrapped his arm around the young patrolman’s shoulders. “Are you okay, kid?”

Bailey nodded, pulling out a microfiber rag and wiping his mouth. The color was coming back to his face, which O’Malley took as a good sign. “I’m sorry, sir. I’ve never seen a dead man before.”

“Yeah—it can do that to you. Look, what we did back there—with the gun and all—you understand that, don’t you?”

The young man nodded. “Self-defense.”

“I know it’s not on the up-and-up, and I’m sorry that you had to see that. We didn’t have much of a choice. Christie fucked up. If we report this for what it was, there would be a long investigation. He’d get convicted, sent to jail upstate, where he’d probably be killed. Cops don’t last long in prison. That’s not justice, not for a momentary bad call. I need to make sure you fully comprehend what I am saying.”

It took a moment, but Bailey nodded. “My uncle was a cop. He’s told me about stuff like this. I just never thought I’d see it my first week on the job.”

He comes from a cop family—that’s a plus. “Where did your uncle serve?”

“Eighty-third precinct.”

“Brooklyn. I spent some time over there when I was in homicide.”

“He was before your time, I think.”

“What was his name?”

“Hollister, Hollister Pritchett. He’s my mom’s brother.”

“I think I met him,” O’Malley lied. Lies came easier now. “Good man. I think he’d understand what we did here.”

Bailey nodded. “I just—it’s wrong. I mean, you know that.”

“I know what is wrong is losing Christie when we are in the middle of a war. Part of being a cop sometimes is to look for the greater good. Like when we take food from abandoned places and get it out to the people who are starving. Is it right that we take it? Legally, no. But what we are doing is for those that need what we recover.”

“I guess so.”

“Good. When you are part of a squad, we are family. When someone fucks up, we take care of it. Like a family, we protect our own. Part of that is knowing not to talk. What you saw in there isn’t something that you can tell anybody about, not your mom, not your uncle, nobody. What happened in there was that Christie got surprised by someone hiding in the room, someone with a gun. He protected himself. That is the reality of what happened there. If anyone asks, that is what you say you heard. You weren’t in the room when the shooting took place. When you came in, you saw a dead man with a gun. Nothing more or less.”

Bailey nodded quickly. “I saw nothing. I just heard shots, came in, saw a body.”

“And a gun.”

“And a gun,” the young man repeated.

“Good. You are going to make your uncle damn proud of you,” he said, lifting his arm off and patting the kid on the back. “You stick with us, and we will take care of you. Those people back in that bedroom, they are your family when you are in a war zone. The relationships you have with them may determine just how long you survive here.” O’Malley said all of the right things to pull at Bailey, to twist him into being a member of the squad. It was happening faster than he had expected it would, but necessity, driven by Christie’s idiocy, had forced the matter. As he glanced into the eyes of the young man, he could see that he wasn’t going to talk.

“I won’t let you down, sir.”

“Good.” Kenyon smiled in response. “Go on in there and help them wrap up that victim so we can get him out of here.”

As he watched Bailey return to the bedroom, O’Malley found himself still angry. It wasn’t directed as much at Christie as it was at himself. That kid just wanted to be a cop. I now made him an accessory to a murder, he thought. The detective knew that at some point, the kid would be drawn into the looting as well. It was inevitable.

By the same token, it felt unavoidable. Being a cop in New York had changed, and not for the better. We are having to shoot rioters who just want a hot meal. We are scavenging to stay alive. The Army is using us for their shit jobs. This job used to be about law and order. Now… now it’s just about maintaining your sanity.

O’Malley didn’t like what things had become, what he had become, but like Paul Bailey, there was a feeling that it was something that could not be stopped, that it was preordained. He was pissed at himself for what he had drawn the young man into.

I’ve corrupted him. Once you do that, there’s no going back. I made him a dirty cop, and he doesn’t even know it yet. One day he will look back at this day and know this is where he changed.

Checking his watch, he winced. “Hurry it up, people. We have four more floors to clear. I don’t want to spend the night in this place, not with a dead man.” He rubbed the stubble of gray beard growth on his face and looked out the window to the building across the street. Gone was the bustle of the city, replaced with erratic gunfire and the occasional echoing rumble of explosions off in the distance.

I miss the car horns honking the most, that and the smell of the street vendors’ food.

O’Malley drew a deep breath and sighed. I wonder if we can ever get back that New York, the one I remember…

Chapter thirty

Arnold Air Force Base, Tullahoma, Tennessee, the United States

Bianca Cordova stepped through the perimeter gate and waved her hand to Kym. The early evening darkness obscured her sights of home. Through the smell of aviation exhaust, she smelled clean air, a rarity given where she had been posted.

This is home. For now, this is where I belong.

Kym’s bright red Subaru Wanderer was poised in the pickup lane outside of Arnold AFB where she had flown into. Kym popped the rear hatch the moment she saw Bianca. Cordova tossed in her lone ruck, closed the hatch, and climbed in. Before she could utter a word, Kym hugged her. “Look at you, Ms. ASHUR pilot, all dressed up. With the war on, I didn’t expect to see you for a while.”

“Thanks for the pickup,” she replied as she buckled in. She had taken up her CO’s offer of a few days’ leave before reporting back for training in Kentucky. She didn’t want to go home, not under these circumstances, but there was nowhere else to go. Having Kym pick her up was easier than a direct discussion with her parents.

Kym Croom had been Bianca’s best friend since elementary school. They had even gone to the same college, until Kym had transferred. Their childhood had been one of sleepovers, double-dates, proms, and sororities. Kym was an emotional safe port in Bianca’s mind. She was someone she could open up to honestly.

It had been tempting to have her parents pick her up, but Bianca wanted a chance to ease back into the civilian world, even if it was just for a few days. Having Kym drive her was the best choice. Kym would listen, be encouraging, be the friend she needed at that moment.

Kym was clearly excited at seeing her, which was assuring. “From your last message, you were in the thick of the fighting. Is it as bad as the news says?”

“I have no idea what the media puts out on the net. We don’t get a lot of time to follow the news buzz. What I can tell you is that it is bad, worse than what most folks can imagine.” Memories of her squad fighting in New Jersey rushed to the forefront of her mind. With those memories came the shame and humiliation. She shut down for a few long moments, not able to form words.

Kym sensed it, though not the source. “You okay? I’m sorry if I brought something up that was too terrible.”

Terrible was the right word for it. There was no denying that. What was worse was how the Army was reacting to it.

It’s like they don’t think I feel guilty enough about what happened.

She felt horrible about what had gone down, the incredible loss of life. The Army was compounding the pain she felt by blaming her.

“You have nothing you need to feel sorry about. Some stuff went down when I was up in Jersey. A lot of people got killed. The Army is laying the blame on me. They are sending me back for training. It was that or be put up in front of a court martial.”

For a moment, Kym said nothing, she simply drove. When she finally spoke, her inquiry hit Bianca like a Boss punching her Hornet. “Were you at fault?”

“I was in command.”

“That wasn’t what I asked.”

“Maybe—I don’t know. I did things that had worked before. This time they didn’t. I lost a lot of good people.” She was struggling to keep the guilt at bay.

Kym didn’t speak, but simply changed lanes and continued to drive. A full minute passed, and finally Bianca spoke up. “You aren’t saying anything.”

“I know,” she said in a deeper tone of voice. “I’m trying to figure out if you want me to tell you what I think, or if I should tell you the truth.”

Her words caught Bianca off guard. “You’re my best friend. I want the truth.”

Kym hit her turn signal and exited to a rest area off of the two-lane highway. She angled the Wanderer into a lonely spot, then powered down the car. “I have been your friend for as long as I can remember. But if you screwed up, maybe you should have faced a court-martial. It seems like you are getting off pretty light.”

“How can you say that? You weren’t there.”

“You’re right,” Kym countered. “But my older brother Tim, he’s in the service right now—in the infantry. And if his lieutenant had screwed up and gotten him killed, I’d be looking for a pound of flesh from the person responsible.”

“I did my job,” Bianca said, reeling from Kym’s words.

She’s never talked to me like this.

“Maybe you should have done more. Look, I don’t know all the details. I do know you, though. Every time you had adversity in your life, your parents have found a way around it. This is the Army, so now you have to face what you did. This might just be good for you.”

“What do you mean, my parents have found ways around problems in my life?” Anger gave her focus, driving her into a verbal counterattack.

“Oh come on. Remember sixth grade science? You were failing. You blamed the teacher. You said he had it out for you. He didn’t. You just didn’t study hard enough. Your mom went to the principal and got you changed to another class. Then there was your advanced reading. If I remember correctly, your parents went to the school board and tried to get the teacher fired because you were getting bad grades. They did the same thing your sophomore year in college with sociology.”

Bianca was flabbergasted with the receipts that Kym had thrown down before her. “You’re getting it all wrong. You’re distorting the facts. Mr. Phelps had it out for me. Everyone knew that.”

“No. That’s the story you told, but I was there, remember? We all played along with your version of it because none of us wanted to lose you as a friend. The reality is that we all knew the truth. My mom told me about how you got on the field hockey team—that your dad paid the coach to get you on the team so you could get a varsity letter. He thought it would help your college application.”

“That’s not true!”

Is it? Cordova had always assumed she had gotten on the team based on her merits. She suddenly realized that it was possible that her father had bribed her way on the team. I had never played field hockey before that… Oh my God, he must have done it! Shame, embarrassment, and anger all swirled in her head.

“It is true, and deep down you know it,” Kym responded. “Things have always come easy for you. You dated the captain of the football team senior year, you were on the Homecoming court, everything always seemed to just fall into your lap. The things that didn’t, well, your mommy and daddy fixed them for you behind the scenes.”

Bianca struggled for words. Her mind raced with a maelstrom of thoughts. Is it possible that my entire life is a lie? Maybe I haven’t been lucky, maybe it was all just people pulling the strings for me. In that moment, she felt nothing but anger towards Kym for saying what she had. “You’re just jealous. You’ve always been that way.”

Kym cracked a thin smile. “Jealous? I don’t think so. Our little circle all knew that at some point in your life, you’d be forced to face the music. I’m sorry about whatever happened to you in the fighting, but the time has come for you to own up to who you really are and accept some responsibility.”

“I am. I’m taking the humiliating route. I’m going back to be retrained.”

“Good. Some humility might do you good,” Kym said.

“Why are you being so horrible? I thought we were best friends.”

“We are. If we weren’t good friends, I would have hugged you and told you it wasn’t your fault. We’re both adults now. For the first time ever, I’m actually acting like a real friend. I’m telling you what you need to hear, not what you’d like to.”

Bianca’s mind reeled. It wasn’t just that it was something she had not expected, it was the emotional pain that it caused. One aspect of the pain was the deeply suppressed knowledge that Kym might be right. When I went off to school, my parents insisted they could afford it. I knew they could, but I was determined to do it on my own. Maybe it was because I didn’t want their interference. She knew that their financial control gave them control over her life. Cordova had gotten a minor in military studies so that she could afford school. It was an act that had infuriated her parents, but thanks to ROTC, she had joined as an officer. She had always seen her actions framed as a matter of being independent, but in reality, now she saw that she was trying to get away from her parents’ meddling. “Maybe you’re right. You don’t have to be so damned rotten about it.”

“Like I said,” Kym stated firmly. “My brother is in the service. If my choice is your feelings or the lives of other brothers that might serve under you, then I will side with them.” There was a ring in her words, one of pure honor.

“I did what was right—I know that,” Bianca struggled to say.

“You know you were in the wrong. Otherwise why come home? Why go through retraining? If you are so sure that what you did was right, then face the court-martial, state your case.”

Again, her verbal salvo dug deep into Cordova’s emotional hide. I took the easy way out. I knew I had not followed doctrine, she mentally acknowledged. She looked at Kym long and hard, their eyes locking onto each other perhaps for the first time in their lives. “I thought I was doing the right thing.”

“And because of that, people died,” Kym replied, spiking her point home hard. “Maybe you should get out here.”

Kym’s rejection stung in the corners of her eyes. “Maybe I should.” She opened the door, glancing back at Kym, who simply looked forward. The rear hatch popped and Bianca moved behind the car and pulled out her ruck. As she stepped away, Kym backed up and pulled out, leaving her standing alone in the driveway of the rest area.

It was tempting to call a ride service, but Bianca didn’t want that. Instead, she dialed her mother, who asked no questions other than where she was. She stood in the lobby, looking at the map of Tennessee. The tourist brochures in the rack under it were now obsolete… tourism was dead, given the invasion. While Tennessee was behind the enemy lines, she found herself wondering for how long.

Her mother pulled in thirty minutes later and Bianca got in the SUV. “I thought Kym was going to pick you up.”

“We had an argument,” was all Bianca could manage on the subject.

“Well, I’ll get you home. Your father and I will take you out for a decent dinner. You’ve lost a lot of weight. Are you okay?” The SUV started on the highway.

“We don’t have to go out to dinner.”

“Well dear, I haven’t prepared anything. We’ll go to Emilio’s. That was always one of your favorites.”

“Mom,” she started firmly. “Is it true that Dad paid the coach so that I could be on the field hockey team?”

The question clearly caught her mother off guard. “Honey—I—what makes you ask that?”

“Please, just answer the question.”

“Your father and I thought it best. It would help your application for college to have a sporting event. None of that matters now. That was years ago.”

“If it didn’t matter, why didn’t you tell me?”

“Bianca, is this what you and Kym were arguing about, something silly that happened so long ago?”

“How many times did you have me transferred to different teachers?”

Her mother was clearly stunned at the accusation. “I did what every mother that loves her child would have done.”

Her words hung in the air, dead between the two of them.

Kym was right.

Her mother continued on. “We’ll get you home so you can change, then we can go over to the club for dinner.” In that moment, she realized she didn’t remember the last time her mother had cooked a meal for her.

“Why do I need to change?” she said, glancing down at her dress uniform.

“Well honey, you’re home now. You don’t need to be wearing your uniform in public.”

Bianca felt her fists clench with her mother’s words. “Are you embarrassed that I am in the military?”

Her mother’s cheeks picked up a hint of pink from her accusation. “We could never be embarrassed by you. It’s just that it isn’t necessary to wear all of that at the club. This is a chance for you to relax. Let your hair down for a while.”

Bianca knew her mother would never say the words out loud, but was sure that she was ashamed of her career choices.

I’m not like Kym, going off to some glamorous marketing job. She doesn’t want their friends to see me in my uniform because it would somehow lower their social status… that’s what this is all about.

This was not the homecoming she had been looking forward to. Between Kym’s splash of reality and her mother’s denial of it, Bianca felt hot, angry, and sick to her stomach. As she looked out at the headlights of passing cars, a new perspective hit her hard.

I don’t belong here. This isn’t my home anymore. My friends—family—things have changed. I’ve probably changed too. I can’t go back in time.

In that moment, she knew that the one place that she did belong was the Army. It was a place that she had made her own. Somehow she had messed that up, though she still struggled to cope with that concept. Staying in Nashville was not going to fix her problems. If anything, it might make them worse.

“Mom, turn around, take me back to Arnold please,” she said flatly.

“Why? Is it the club? We can go wherever you like. Your father just thought that you would like—”

“It’s not the club. It’s something else. I need to get back.” As she spoke the words, she realized that it was the right decision.

“We had plans for the week, dear.”

“You had plans. You and Dad. I didn’t. I thought coming home was going to help me get my head screwed on straight. It’s not. I need to get back, move on to my next assignment at Fort Campbell.”

“But you didn’t even see your father,” her mother pleaded.

“Tell Daddy I love him. But I need to get back.”

“Why don’t you just stay for the night? You might feel different in the morning.”

“I don’t want to feel different in the morning!” she snapped. “I love you, and I’m sorry, but I made some mistakes. I need to try to fix them. Staying here is only going to make things worse for me.”

“Honey, we have made plans.”

“No, Mom,” she said. “I’m leaving. The solutions I need aren’t here in Nashville. They are in the Army. That’s my home now.”

“But your father hasn’t even seen you.”

“He’ll understand—he has to. If you don’t turn the car around, I’ll just get out and walk back, or call for a ride. I’m not going home with you, though.”

Her mother’s tears began to flow, and she sniffled as she made a U-turn. “I don’t know what the Army has done to you.”

“They gave me a purpose. Somehow I mucked that up. I need to find a way to resolve what I did.”

“I can’t believe you’re doing this to us!” her mother sobbed.

“That’s the whole point, Mom. This isn’t about you and Dad; it’s about me.”

The car went quiet, aside from her mom sniffling. Bianca didn’t talk on the ride back to Arnold AFB. Her mind was on what Kym had said and how true it had been, and on how she was going to have to cancel her leave and go to Fort Campbell early. A part of her still didn’t think she had done anything wrong when it came to the death of her squad, but that feeling was fading. Replacing it was a sense that maybe she had blundered.

If that’s the case, I’m not sure that training alone can fix what happened, but it is the best place to start.

Chapter thirty-one

Extra Terrestrial Task Force (ETF) HQ, DIA Intelligence Annex, the Penetrator, Los Alamos, New Mexico, the United States

For over a week, Dr. Ming Tong carried the flash drive. The note had showed that she had forty-eight hours to get the Mako specifications, which she had done diligently. Commander Warner had done a great job in overseeing the changes to the specs, so that they would be of minimal value. She had expected quick instructions, but they hadn’t come. Slowly she came to realize that the forty-eight-hour window was designed to reduce the amount of time she might have to make a false duplicate set.

The antiquated flash drive had become a bit of an obsession for her. When she went to meetings, Ming discovered her hand in her pocket, holding it. At her small apartment, she put it in a dish next to her bed—sometimes waking up in the middle of the night and turning on the light just to see if it was still there. She would pause while walking the hallways mid-stride, patting her pocket to make sure she still had it. It was her albatross, an anchor, a tangible reminder that she was not really free. Someone else was calling the shots.

This morning was the same as others. She got up early after a restless night of sleep, showered, and went to work. At the coffee station she pulled down her ceramic cup, white with the logo of the ETF and her name stenciled on it, and moved it to the station for the sweet nectar that gave her energy. It was then she spotted the scrap of paper in the cup’s bottom, only a second before the rush of scalding-hot caffeinated life-juice hit it.

Unfolding it, the words jarred her from semi-awake to amped up:

1640 Riverside Drive, Santa Fe

One hour

Tell no one

The font was the same as the other notes, crude, old-fashioned, and blunt. Panic gripped her tightly. She patted her pocket to make sure the drive was there, carefully set down the mug, and left. Ming wanted to call Heather Taylor, but knew that doing so might be risky. DHS and the FBI are following me, monitoring my activities… or so they said. They will track me, they must be. Walking out to the still dark parking lot, she passed coworkers, avoiding eye contact. Any one of them could be the person who left that note in my mug. Her heart was banging in her ears as she hit the start button and plugged in the address on her car’s nav system.

She was nervous; her left leg was quaking as she followed the directions to Santa Fe. Ming hated the feeling of powerlessness. The impotence of her plight was amplified by the sense that she was alone. The assurances from DHS and the FBI had not spared two of their agents their lives. At one point, she heard rotors overhead and leaned forward to try to spot it. Only then did she see the KTRC news drone, illuminated by the rising sun. If they are tracking me from the air, I won’t hear it. They will do it at an altitude no one would spot them. She tried to convince herself that the government was tracking her movements, but there was a part of her that didn’t believe it.

She reached Riverside Drive fifty-five minutes after finding the note in her coffee mug. The sun was finally up enough to make it possible to read the addresses. The neighborhood was new, probably built only a few years earlier. It took a while to reach 1640 and when she did, she found a low ranch-style home, modern in its lines, stark white with black trim.

Ming got out of her car and stood in front of the home, contemplating going inside. There were no lights on, no signs of activity. She walked towards the house apprehensively, wary that she was being observed by both the people blackmailing her and, hopefully, the authorities. As she approached the house, she saw that its security doorbell light was off, as were the cameras that covered the walkway. On the front porch was a package that had been delivered, but no one had picked it up. No one is at home.

On the brass door knocker was another note, neatly folded, tucked under the clapper.

Pretend to put the drive under the doormat

Drive to 9 Bywater Street

Five minutes

Reaching into her pants pocket, she felt the drive, but did not pull it out. Bending down, she lifted the doormat and made the appropriate gesture as if she were placing the drive there. This is all to throw off anyone following me. She had seen such things in spy holofilms. Now she was living one.

Ming briskly walked back to her car and plugged in the Bywater street address, some five miles away. As she drove, she realized she was gripping the steering wheel so tight that it was making her fingers ache. It took a moment to force herself to relax her grasp. Following the driving prompts, she came on a dark side street. As she slowed the car, she saw an overpass in the distance, shaded from the rising sun. It wasn’t a pleasant neighborhood, more of an old commercial area that had been allowed to be run down. Most of the buildings had their windows boarded up. Bits of litter were sprinkled on the sidewalks.

Stopping in front of 9 Bywater Street, she saw the building had been sprayed a light brown, probably a few years ago. It may have been a storefront, with apartments above it. Now it was just a structure, probably another link in a chain of locations they might send her. Ming parked her car and got out.

The double doors were not just closed, they were chained and padlocked shut. There was some litter on the doorsill, but no note. Ming looked around, almost fanatically, but could find nothing. Then, behind her, on the sidewalk, she heard the light hum of an electric motor.

The mobile delivery drone parked itself some five feet from her. At first, she ignored it. Drones of this type were common in the streets of every city before the war. This one looked like most others, complete with the graffiti and random stickers people had adorned it with. She sidestepped a few feet to the right, but the device rolled along with her, as if it were attached with some invisible leash. Looking up and down the street, she only saw a distant overpass, with another pair of drones idling in the shade of the street above. It was in that moment that she realized that the delivery bot at her feet was meant for her. They must have hacked control of it or purchased it specifically for this purpose.

Ming opened the sealed top of the mobile delivery drone and saw a Shaq pizza box inside. Breakfast pizzas had become quite popular, so seeing a drone out in the morning hours was not be unheard of. Reaching down, she opened the lid, expecting to be greeted with the heat and aroma of a pizza. Instead, she saw a note.

Leave the drive. Close the lid.

She fumbled with her pocket, searching for the drive, half fearing she had lost it. Then, in a fold of her pants, she found it. She gently put it in the box, closed the lid, then sealed the drone. It seemed to know what to do, scurrying off to the underpass, mingling with the other drones. It’s a shell game. They can’t see the drones from the air under the street. She tried to memorize the graffiti on the side of the drone as it left, in case she had to identify it later.

The trio of drones mixed and seemed to scurry around for a few minutes, then each took off in a different direction. There was a temptation to follow the one she had placed the drive in, but she knew better.

It’s not my job to catch these guys. That is the role of the FBI and DHS.

Driving back to work, she felt her body tremble, realizing it was her nerves and adrenaline. I need to talk to Ms. Taylor, let her know what happened. They had to be following me. No doubt they are already tracking those drones. When she reentered the office, she went straight to meet with Heather Taylor, telling her everything that had happened. She was rambling off details so fast, her words were on the verge of blurring together. Taylor got her a cup of coffee and told her to relax.

“Were they following me? Did they catch them?” Ming pressed.

“It doesn’t work that way, Dr. Tong,” Taylor told her. “When you work with law enforcement in these kinds of cases, it tends to be a one-way street. I will contact them and I am sure they will interview you. In the meantime, go back to your work. I am sure that our people are on top of this.”

Ming followed her suggestion. Sitting at her desk, she activated the holoscreen with a sweep of her hand in the air, but simply stared at the log on. Her mind was a jumble of thoughts and emotions.

How can they think I can just return to work?

Staring at the projection in the air over her desk, she finally activated her retina scan and logged in. After that, she didn’t do anything else for an hour. The system logged her off for inactivity several times as she thought about her family members, wondering if their ploy had worked.

That afternoon she was pulled into a secured conference room with two DHS officers. They went over her story, four times, each time slightly twisting their questions, either probing for deception or attempting to get at some detail she had overlooked. It was grueling and Ming felt exhausted.

As they finished up, she asked, “Were you able to track the drive?”

The older agent’s face betrayed nothing. “We’ll let you know if we need anything else, Dr. Tong. In the meantime, return to your work and obviously talk about this with no one.”

Eight days later…

Sleep was elusive to Ming Tong after she had been forced into the role of a delivery person for the agents that were blackmailing her. Work was her only solace; it gave her a mental focus on something other than the uncomfortable position she found herself in. Even then, she felt like a zombie, merely shambling between assignments and tasks, not enthusiastic. Worse, she knew that even work was not safe. Someone in the ETF was a traitor, or was being extorted into working for the Chinese as well. Neither option gave her comfort. There was a constant nagging feeling that someone was watching her, always.

When she went home, she locked the door to her apartment and huddled under a blanket with her alma mater, MIT, logo on it. Hallmark movies filled her nights… happy people, true love, and mindless characters that she did not have to overthink.

Ming was walking to her kitchen when she heard a noise outside of her door. The sound wasn’t a knock. It was as if someone bumped the door. She moved to the door and looked at the small security screen there. Whoever it was had departed, quickly. At the base of her door was a bundle of some sort.

Nervously, she opened the door, visually checking the hallway again, then turned to the bundle. It looked as if it were a black washcloth, tied at both ends with a piece of twine. Bending down, Ming picked it up, closed the door, and locked it once more.

She did not know what was in the bundle, but was sure that it had been dropped off by her tormentors. No one else had a reason to leave a package, nor was she expecting anything. Walking to the couch, she sat down, putting the cloth bundle on her lap.

Should I call Ms. Taylor? No. If they have my place under surveillance, they must know someone dropped it off.

The dull brown twine was easy to untie. Slowly, she unrolled the parcel. There was something pale there, and a hint of blood.

Her eyes flared open as she realized it was a human finger.

It had been cut off at the knuckle. From what she saw, it was old, with wrinkles. Oh God… no! Squirming in her seat, she almost dumped it on the floor. Then she saw it, a flicker of gold. There was a ring on the finger. Leaning in, she saw it and a memory flashed. This was her grandmother’s!

Under the severed finger was a simple note:

The data you sent us was manipulated.

You made this happen.

Next time do exactly what we order,

or you will receive more of your loved ones.

Tremors swept through her as she stared at the finger and the ring.

I did what the government wanted, and now my grandmother has paid the price. From now on, I need to find my own path, or everyone I care about will end up dead.

Chapter thirty-two

Seattle AIZ, Baker Sector, Capitol Hill, Washington, the Western Front, the United States

Cain lay flat on the roof of the office building, wishing that the afternoon sun would burn through and warm him a little. Above him was the dark purple-gray skies, the dismal hallmark of Seattle. Below him was a war zone extending south and west to the bay. The optics of his Eagle-S were far better than the enhanced binoculars he was used to. His gaze drank in every detail below, looking for changes, movement, anything that might help. Cain could sense WO Morgan at his side, no doubt doing exactly what he was doing—looking for Foxes to kill.

The only good thing about being in Seattle is that it didn’t stink like so many other major cities. Yes, there was rotting garbage, but the breezes that came in from Puget Sound brought with them the sea air. It swept away the usual stench, almost making up for the constant rain showers.

The defense of Seattle had been a disaster from the word go. Some of it was not unexpected. The Army and Navy were rushing forces into a city at the exact time the civilian population was fleeing. The clogging of the roads was a nightmare and the steep slopes of Seattle’s natural terrain made for a haphazard defense. Things were not helped by General Koalman, whose level of ineptitude proved to be spectacular. With his armored support bogged down, he rushed in infantry and ASHURs down from Highway 99 into Queen Anne, only to get them driven back with no way to get back up the slopes to the rest of the relief force.

The Fish had used the natural waterways of the Puget Sound to their advantage. The high ground at Magnolia Bluff was cut off entirely, with the aliens securing the flats of the Interbay after a pitched battle that lasted for a full day. Belltown and downtown Seattle had been lost in a matter of hours. Counterattacks stalled the Fish to a certain extent, but Koalman’s use of the Air Force and their bombs had turned many avenues that could be used for counterattack into nothing but impassible rubble. Pockets of Magnolia Bluff and Queen Anne were still in human hands, surrounded by alien forces.

The Pentagon, in what Cain considered a rare moment of intelligence, had sacked Koalman and had sent in newly minted General Hollifield. The man who had been responsible for stabilizing Los Angeles worked the same magic in the clusterfuck that Seattle had been turned into, but it took months. In the meantime, there had been lost neighborhoods and plenty of near disasters.

From his position, he could see the Space Needle poking skyward still. Amazon had spent a ton of cash to rebuild it ten years earlier when structural problems had been found. For Cain, it was just a building that made for a convenient icon to help him orient where his team needed to apply their firepower.

Major Malfunction Poynter had assigned his force to a unit from the Seventh Infantry Division. One brigade had been diverted to Los Angeles but the rest of the division were in Seattle and had been from the start of the fighting. The platoon he had been coordinating with was with the Seventeenth Infantry Regiment, the Buffalos. The first platoon, under Lieutenant Ledwon, were out there, below his current position, huddled in several buildings, their eyes feeding the battlespace feed that Cain was also occasionally looking at.

Adam felt his left hip joint ache, and shifted his body subtly, so as to not generate sound or motion that the enemy might detect. I never used to get these kinds of aches. The refit gen-one ASHUR suit felt like a part of him, but he also was not seduced by that feeling. Metal grating on the roofing material might generate just enough noise to screw up what he was doing. While they were on a combat assignment, he also knew that his role as a teacher was something he would never shake with his Fox Hunters.

“I’ve got my target in sight,” Cooper’s voice came in a low whisper.

“Fox Two is hovering at Summit and Republican, looking kinda anxious,” came back Falto’s faint voice.

“We should be seeing three, if not four,” Cain said. “Anybody have eyes on our others?” His eyes darted to the tiny battlespace feed screen in his helmet, but saw nothing pointing to a target.

“Nothing down here,” came back LeMacks. “I can reposition.”

“Hold up,” Cain commanded. “Moving around might spook the other Foxes.”

We have two under the gun right now. We can take them out, but damn it, I want that other Fox if it’s out there.

“Tatanka,” he activated the channel for Lieutenant Ledwon. “Check your BS feed. We have two in sights. Any joy from your people?”

Ledwon’s gravelly voice came back. “We have undetermined movement down the block in the Finn Building, fifth floor, northwest corner. Damned reflective glass is preventing confirmation. Sending you the ping on target now.” It lit up on his tactical display.

Cain analyzed its position and his people’s. “Serrano, you should be able to see it.”

“Going thermal,” Serrano whispered back. For a few moments, there was silence, then he spoke again. “Tagging Fox Three.”

Cain cracked a grin. They had done this three times before, and both times the Fish patrols had retreated without their Fox support.

Time to fuck some Fish.

“Alright, let’s ruin their day. We take them out in unison.” Experience had already taught him that killing them one at a time made them react.

Somehow these bastards are communicating with each other. They know when one of them goes down.

Cain checked his battlespace feed one more time. “On the count of three. Three, two, one, fire.” The thunk-whoosh of the liquid gas rifle’s discharge echoed throughout the Capitol Hill buildings. The weapons didn’t make a great deal of noise, but the cracking sound of the sabots bursting out was distinct. A few birds fluttered away from a nearby building with the sound.

“Got mine,” Serrano said.

Cooper spoke up, “One dead Fox here.”

“Mine’s missing a head,” Falto replied.

Cain grinned. “Alright, Tatanka, they are all yours.”

Ledwon issued quick orders for his people to advance. The sound of gunfire erupted down the side streets.

“Fox Hunters, we’ve got overwatch,” he said, pulling his own Trinity rifle forward.

Off to his side, he heard Morgan speak up. “Crab on the move.” His rifle cracked off a shot. “Tagged him.”

Cain shifted to the target as it moved up the street towards them, one of its legs dragging behind it, leaving a smear on the street, courtesy of Morgan’s shot. His display gave him wind speed and direction, and he factored it into his own shot. The liquid-gas rifle was snugged tight to the shoulder of his Eagle-S as he squeezed the trigger.

The thunk and whoosh came as did the kick. He couldn’t see the round, only the air being cut by the sabot as it stabbed into the raised torso of the Crab, bursting out the back side. The creature stopped mid-stride, clearly stunned by the damage it had taken. Cain did the flush on the chamber as he loaded another round.

Falto beat him to it.

Now that the Crab was unmoving, her shot from the next roof over finished the job, hitting it in its maw, blowing out the back of its head as Ledwon’s people emerged, firing in short bursts to make sure that the Crab was indeed dead. There was no question in Cain’s mind, they had devastated it.

The remaining Fish suddenly adjusted their path to the south, skirting where they had been hit. Adam was a little surprised. They aren’t falling back, just shifting to part of the AIZ that is in their control.

“Looks like they are bugging out,” Ledwon called from his position on the street.

Cain evaluated the battlespace feed to make sure. “Brass Balls confirms.”

Their mission had been a short one, to blunt alien probes in a three-block area of Capitol Hill. They had done that. There was something that was bothering Cain, though. In the past, the Fish had retreated when their Fox support had been hit. Not this time.

What are these bastards up to now?

Two hours later…

The Fox Hunters huddled in a storage container that had been converted to a meeting room. It had been placed in a parking structure that the Army had commandeered as part of their HQ. They were almost all jovial and celebrating, with the exceptions being Falto and Serrano. No matter how their missions went, those two were always serious. It was something that Adam understood and appreciated. They have seen a lot of the war already. I get it. They understand that at any minute things can turn to shit. Still, a part of him wished they could allow themselves even a few minutes of happiness.

There were a few reasons for the Hunters to be happy, which was why he had pulled them together for the after-action briefing. Cain had sprung for the beers, which had taken some craftiness on his part, slipping a crisp twenty-dollar bill to an E4 in supply. The beer was shit, way too much hops, way too little flavor. But it was cold and that helped make it go down easier.

As his people enjoyed their reward, Cain moved to the far end of the room and cleared his throat. “Alright, Fox Hunters, gather round.” His people responded, forming a semicircle with Adam in the center.

“Excellent work out there today,” he began. “We had good fields of fire. Stewart, your lower position was excellent as well. The buildings can help or hurt us with the wind. Your rigs’ sensors will not pick up the crosswinds where the space opens up. I think you all did a good job in factoring that in.”

“Even Cooper?” Franz asked.

Cain’s grin broadened. “Yeah, even Cooper.” As much as he would never admit it, Cooper was growing on him. Not a lot. It was more like a dog wanting acceptance from an owner that refuses to show it. Cooper had been the brunt of a lot of abuse, all rightfully earned. Adam had seen it a hundred times before. Peer pressure could either get you to straighten your shit out, or you give up and move on. To almost everyone’s surprise, Terry Cooper had risen to the challenge. Adam knew why, too. Falto had been coaching him, encouraging him, bringing him along.

The NCOs are what is going to get us through this war. Officers are a dime a dozen. The NCOs are the head of everything, he thought.

“I sent our patrol reports down to the ETF. Colonel Slade wants you all to know he’s proud of you. We now know we can get an edge on the Fish. Taking out their Foxes helps. We’ve seen it on the missions where we’ve engaged.”

“Damn right!” called out LeMacks, hoisting his beer in the air. The rest of the Fox Hunters did the same, and a cheer rose, filling the container unit. Cain understood the comradery of it all. It was the heart and soul of the military. Regardless of the branch of origin of his Hunters, they all shared the same bond of battle. In his people’s case, they had all suffered grievous losses and had risen above them.

He took a swig of his own beer, then continued. “This isn’t just about sticking it to the Fish. This is about each one of you proving that you still can contribute to the war effort. The military wanted to put you on the sidelines, but you have demonstrated what is inside each and every one of you, a certified killing machine.”

Those words brought even bigger smiles and cheers. Even the usually rigid Falto cracked a grin. Cain was proud, almost father-like, of his Hunters. “As of this mission, every one of you has taken out a Fox. I reached out to an old friend of mine posted in Virginia, and he did some grunt work to get these.” Cain plunged his hand into his pants pocket and felt the tufts of fur. He held short of pulling them out, as he talked.

“When we formed this unit, it was supposed to be a short-term assignment. We were testing a theory. Nobody would give us front line gear, so we got creative. The nerdoids back at the ETF helped us, but even they weren’t sure this would work. We had busted-up old equipment and busted-up warriors, and we showed them all what you were capable of.”

Clenching his fist, he pulled out the white, brown, and red tufts of fur, holding them out in front of his Fox Hunters. Zimm had hot-glued safety pins to each of them. The military loved traditions and symbols, which provided its members a unified history. For Cain, he saw customs and rituals that the military did as a glue, a bond that helped keep them together. It was only fitting that he had his own for the Fox Hunters. “These are the tails of real foxes. We have all gotten our kills, bled the enemies, hurt their ability to coordinate their efforts. What we did here for the last few days will help the entire war effort. You have earned these tokens of what you have accomplished. You are all now true Fox Hunters.”

He motioned for them to step forward, and with each one, he pinned the fox’s tail on their chests. They were proud. He could feel it emanating from each one of his people. In Cain’s mind, he knew they had good reason to be.

The military discarded these fighters; they didn’t see a use for them. We have proven more than taking out the Foxes can confuse the enemy. We have proven that warriors seen as washed up still have a role to play in this war.

Adam finished his beer and got another. It was good to hear laughter around him. It was strange, but such a simple sound had become rare since the start of the war. Even the usually stiff Cain smiled, clanging beer bottles with Cooper, giving him a single nod of approval.

As he set the empty beer bottle down, he heard a sound, a rumble. At first he thought it was thunder, but that vibration rose from his feet and into his legs. Everyone in the container froze for a moment, not sure of what it was.

“Earthquake,” he said. Having been stationed in California, he had experienced them before. This one didn’t stop though; it seemed to gain in intensity for a few long moments. His beer bottle toppled over, along with several others, shattering on the floor. The quake slowly subsided, but for Cain it didn’t seem right. This has to be the longest quake I’ve ever been in.

There was noise outside of their little party, voices, the quick sounds of human panic. Cain moved to the door and opened it, almost hitting someone running past the container. The clouds were clearing now, but he felt a breeze, not blowing in from the sea, but towards it. Moving out he saw others in the HQ, moving to the west, pointing off into the distance.

What in the Sam Hell is going on?

Adam moved out to the edge of the parking structure to see what everyone was looking at. It took some positioning, but he got a view out to the Puget Sound. For a moment, he couldn’t process what was wrong, but then he saw it. The water was receding, quickly, leaving the abandoned ferries suddenly listing in the mud where there had been water before.

Alarms went off, klaxons blaring all around him. These were not military sirens, these were different.

Tidal wave alert!

Cain wheeled to his people. “Tidal wave! Get down to the tech bays, get your rigs up to the higher levels!”

For a moment, no one moved, they were stunned. Cain didn’t wait, he started to move and with him, the others did the same.

“Is this for real?” Stewart asked, as they sprinted to the stairs.

Another quake went off, a little less than the first one, but enough to almost make Adam stumble as he cleared the steps two at a time. When they reached the ground floor, there were more stunned personnel, staring mindlessly out towards Puget Sound.

“Zimm,” he barked, moving to his rig. His terrified tech turned in place, focused on him. “We’re getting to the upper floors,” he called out over the sounds of the warning sirens. “Get this gear in motion, get everything up to the top levels.” Cain slid into his ASHUR. He flicked on the power up sequence. The Eagle-S came to life around him as he pulled the front plate into place and latched it down. It wasn’t as snug as he wanted, but there wasn’t time for niceties. Zimm popped the restraining straps from the pod and Cain stepped out.

“Right behind you, Sergeant,” Zimm said without question, closing up the pod and bringing over the mover to get it in motion.

Cain started to run for the ramps up to the upper floors. His Fox Hunters followed him. He could hear and feel the thud of their footpads hitting the concrete as they ran. He got to the roof level, and turned to the west, half hoping that the alerts were not needed.

He saw it, a long hump, out to sea. It was tall, almost as if it was at the same level he and his people were. It seemed to be moving, but slower than he expected.

Shit me! That is going to destroy Seattle! We’re on high ground. Let’s hope it’s high enough.

The wave came in, hitting the outer edges of the sound, washing over the land masses as if they didn’t exist. It wasn’t what he pictured for a tidal wave. Time seemed to slow and he was mesmerized by the spectacle. The trees along the Alaska Way Green Belt simply disappeared, as if sucked down by the water. It didn’t look at all like how Hollywood portrayed tidal waves. This one hit and went through buildings across the whole width of Belltown, exploding them eastward under the force of the water. From what he could see, the wave was moving around fifty miles per hour, and nothing seemed to slow it. It churned, a brown creamed coffee-like appearance with bits of debris frothing as it rolled right towards Capitol Hill.

The wave crested Magnolia Bluff, blasting right over the top of the rise. As the wave passed the hill, he could see the shells of a few buildings managed to remain standing, though most were obliterated entirely. Queen Anne fared better, with the water sparing the peak of the high ground structures, but the shape of the geography and the force of the wave seemed to channel the water, making the wave higher.

The wind slammed into his rig, this time coming from the leading edge of the tidal wave. Seattle proper was slammed, and now he could hear the roar of the wave and the crashing destruction of the buildings that dared to resist the wall of water. The parking structure throbbed around him. Cain felt like he should be issuing orders, but what could he do? They were as high up as they could get. Behind him, he heard the rush of troops and equipment from the lower levels, now all scrambling to get up where he and his Fox Hunters stood.

The wave was almost as high as where he stood.

The ugly roiling surge smashed into Capitol Hill. A tall building to his right disintegrated at the base and fell, with the water flow consuming it. The water seemed to drop as it hit the neighborhood. It slammed into the parking structure’s lower levels, and the swaying building moved like a surfboard. The water came up three stories high, but seemed to wane at that height, the thunderous sound seeming to ebb.

For a moment, the universe stood still. The water was everywhere around them. Buildings were still standing in the surrounding blocks, but the water hit with such force that their windows shattered as the buildings twisted under the tidal forces. The smell of the sea was replaced with a grittier stink, a strange mix of plaster dust and churned soil.

Then, in a surreal shift that played havoc with his sense of motion, the water reversed, drawing back to the sound. The churning sound was all around him as the tidal wave rushed back towards the sea, dragging with it the ruins and rubble of Seattle. Long abandoned cars bobbed along for the ride, twisting and rolling as the wave withdrew. Adam checked behind him and saw the techs, led by Zimm, positioning the ASHUR pods near the center of the parking deck. Several hundreds of others from HQ swarmed the top of the parking deck and the one across the street, praying they were high enough to survive.

Cain let out an inaudible sigh of relief as he watched the muddy waters recede.

“I can’t believe it,” Falto broadcast on their tactical channel.

Suddenly there was another rumble, this one less side-to-side as up and down. It was an earthquake, but it was something much more. A blast went off, like a thousand artillery rounds going off at once in the distance. Through the low clouds, he saw a flicker of orange and crimson over Mt. Rainer as the volcano erupted.

“Holy shitballs!” LeMacks broadcast. “What the hell just happened?”

Cain looked at the dark cloud spewing skyward from Mt. Rainer and he watched in awe for a moment. The wave, the volcano. This was not a natural disaster.

Now we know why they were fighting to take all of the high ground positions over the last week or so. They knew this was coming because they were making it happen.

“The Fish just upped their game. Payback for us nuking them.”

“What do we do now?” Morgan asked, stunned by the events.

“We prepare for battle,” Cain said. “We do what we were meant to do—fight. This isn’t the end, it’s the start of something else.”

What that was, Adam Cain couldn’t say. The one thing that he knew for sure—things were about the change, probably for the worse.

It’s up to men like me to face whatever that is, just like it has always fallen on us.

AUTHOR & CREATOR

About the Author

Blaine Pardoe is a New York Times bestselling and award-winning author. He has been an author and designer in the gaming industry since 1985. He has written countless sourcebooks for games including the Star Trek RPG, Space 1889, the Robotech RPG, BattleTech/MechWarrior, Twilight 2000, Renegade Legion, and Leviathans. He has authored numerous science fiction novels in the BattleTech/MechWarrior universe. His political thriller, Blue Dawn, was an Amazon bestseller in its category. Outside of the gaming industry, he is an accomplished historian and bestselling author in the military history, business management, and true crime genres. He has twice won awards from the Military Writers Society of America and was awarded the Harriet Quimby Award from the Michigan Aviation Hall of Fame for his contributions to aviation history. He has been a guest speaker at the US National Archives, the Smithsonian, and at the US Naval Academy.

About the Creator

Brent Evans is a long-time illustrator and an award-winning art director, as an artist and noted game line developer. He has been freelancing since 1987 and worked in many genres including political cartoons, comics, and children’s books. In 2005, he was hired by gaming visionary Jordan Weisman to work on several games, and immediately distinguished himself as one of the core illustrators for the BattleTech franchise. His creative design and project management style inspired his elevation to Senior Art Director in 2009 for many legendary gaming franchises including BattleTech, Shadowrun, D&D’s Dragonfire, the Valiant RPG, among others. From 2017–2019, he took on the additional role as line developer leading the overhaul of the BattleTech product line, catapulting the brand into the industry-leading global success that it enjoys today. Of Brent, it is said that his “superpower” is the ability to recruit and develop creative talent.

Additionally, Brent is a graduate of and serves as a board member for the Game Design & Development program for the University of Washington.