Beyond Armageddon: Book 03 - Parallels (49 page)

"Yes. I’m going to play tennis. Doubles in fact. Doubles with the Captain of the Washington garrison, one of Jim Hutch’s top men in the labor guild, and the Director of the company that services all the military’s telecommunications."

            Godfrey smiled to his wife then walked out the door.

            He had a match to play.

---

            Stonewall McAllister pushed his steed at a fast, anxious gallop across an open field with a dozen riders from his command post following including Captain Kristy Kaufman, dressed in a stylish bomber jacket and riding boots.

            She maneuvered her horse closer to his and shouted over the sound of drumming horse hooves, "Still no contact from the depot, General!"

            Kristy referred to the supply depot at Ft. Campbell. No one had heard from or received re-supply from the depot in over twenty-four hours.

            Fortunately, Army Group Center had not encountered any enemy armies during their sweep of western Kentucky and Tennessee. Operations remained of a "rural and urban pacification" nature, a job they had performed successfully in places such as Murfreesboro, Bowling Green, Nashville and Hopkinsville.

            Nonetheless, the soldiers required food, rifles needed bullets, and vehicles ran dry if not fueled. Even a brief interruption of supply created difficulties, but the lack of communication turned the situation from curious to alarming.

            In addition to his army, Stonewall's responsibilities included thousands of humans found in isolated camps and villages uncovered during the trek through the Smokey Mountains. The topography of that part of the world had been hospitable to human survivors in that it provided good cover and defendable positions.

Those survivors embraced the expanding Empire, particularly when penicillin and antibiotics rolled into town. But those medicines and more could not roll into town if the supply depot at Ft. Campbell—pre-war home of the 101
^st
"Screaming Eagles"-- did not answer their radio.

It irked the General to an even greater degree that he believed that the problem most likely lay not with an alien attack, but negligence. Ft. Campbell’s operation depended on Internal Security because the supply depot there was not purely military in nature; it had been established to service population centers in Clarksville and Oak Grove.

At the time of its opening, the idea of using I.S. to staff the depot sounded good because it freed Army Group Center's logistical people for other duties, a decision he now regretted.

From what Stonewall saw in recent weeks, Internal Security lost their focus; their drive. The glue that was Trevor Stone was losing its adhesion, and the I.S. branch appeared to be the first part to peel away from the whole.

            A four-lane road surrounded on both sides by muddy grass and slightly-frosted barrier trees led into Fort Campbell. As it approached the base, the road split off leaving a big, triangle-shaped yard lined with shrubs to welcome newcomers. At the far end of that yard stood a large, three story white building with a parking lot.

            Stonewall’s cavalry stopped at the tip of that triangle. Garret McAllister dismounted and retrieved his field glasses. The rest of the troop readied their carbines and waited for orders.

            The white building that served as the heart of the supply depot was surrounded. Several of the vehicles in the parking lot had been stomped and smashed. What worried Stonewall was that those cars were not leftovers from the early days of Armageddon; they were military Humvees and cargo trucks.

            "The depot is not deserted," he reported. "I note movement inside the building. Getting to them, however, may prove difficult."

Stonewall referred to the six extraterrestrial monsters besieging the compound. They resembled armadillos the size of cement trucks with nasty snouts like crocodile jaws. A protective shell covered their bodies and spiked balls hung at the end of long tails.

            Kristy Kaufman said, "If I may quote the General, sir, you did say this would only be a 'quick ride' to the depot to 'set those idiots straight'. Therefore, sir, we failed to bring along any anti-armor weaponry."

            "Yes, Captain Kaufman, those words are mine," in a whisper he continued, "much to my regret." His voice rose again and he told her to, "consult our radio and see what assets might be lurking about."

One of the creatures smashed yet another hole in another wall with its wrecking-ball like tail. A second stood on its hind legs and took several steps toward the building and tried to bite a second-floor window.

            Beyond the Armored Mammoths, Stonewall spotted several fatigue-wearing persons daring looks out the window. He then swept his binoculars across the parking lot, examining the vehicles crushed by the creatures. He shared an observation with everyone in earshot, "That explains how we came to this point. I do not discern a single Internal Security vehicle among the wreckage."

            Kaufman continued a radio conversation she had started a moment ago on the General's orders, "Understood, standing by," and then said to McAllister, "I.S. pull out?"

            "Apparently so," he responded. "No doubt absconding with their supply of heavy weapons, leaving behind clerical staff and accountants with small arms."

            "That's desertion, sir. They should be hung," Kaufman answered but a voice on the radio pulled her attention away.

            Stonewall spoke as much to himself as anyone else, "Desertion? That is a word nearly unheard of in recent years. But these are not normal circumstances. I fear a dangerous divide is growing between the military and Internal Security, given the current political climate."

            Kaufman broke in with good news, "Today must be our lucky day, General."

Stonewall mused, "I was certain I had used up my allotment of lucky days in Georgia last year. Do tell, Captain."

            "T-A-C is directing an AC-130 our way. Puff is on his way back from knocking out a nest of Spider Ants outside of Roaring Spring."

            "Splendid! See if Puff the Magic Dragon would be so kind as to hunt down and blast our fleeing Internal Security agents. No doubt they are somewhere east of here on 71."

            "I assume that is a jest, General."

            "I would hope so, yes, but we will see how things develop in the days ahead."

            Fifteen minutes later, a large plane circled overhead, its engines creating a sound like thunder filling the sky and nearly shaking the ground. The AC-130 Specter Gunship banked hard and opened fire from the heavy cannon stationed in its side. The shells did to the Mammoths what they had done in the old world to tanks and armored vehicles; ripped them to shreds, while leaving the building untouched.

When the nasty work completed and the gunship flew away, Stonewall led his group forward much to the delight of the besieged staffers who had endured hours of virtual captivity. Their radios and radio operators, it was learned, had been destroyed by the initial charge of the over sized hostiles.

General McAllister noted that while this may have seemed as if it were merely another battle in the post-Armageddon world, the negligence that had forced the fight may have made it something more ominous.

            A sign of things to come.

---

            General William Hoth stood outside of the Union Terminal building, a 1930’s vintage art deco railway station converted into the Cincinnati Museum Center back in the days when history and social studies held enough interest to draw nearly a million annual visitors.

Of course the goodies inside had long ago been looted or destroyed. Instead, the museum now hosted technicians and maps and communications gear, having undergone yet another transformation, this time into a hastily-constructed command post.

This newly-opened post and the old structure it occupied stood on the southern stretch of Cincinnati with the Ohio River and the Kentucky border a short distance away. In other words, near the heart of what had once been the third-most populated city in the state of Ohio.

As recently as twenty-four hours ago, reconnaissance assured that Cincinnati remained a well-populated metropolis, but populated by Mutants, Rollers, and Goat-Walkers. Furthermore, three more Roachbot slaughterhouses existed within the city limits.

Yet General Hoth now stood on the southwestern side of the city, having gained control of the entire metropolis at the expense of one Bradley vehicle crew incinerated when a rookie Apache pilot mistook them for a Roachbot.

            Somehow, the entire population of Hostiles within the city limits of Cincinnati had disappeared in a matter of hours, without a trace. When his tanks rolled into town, they faced no opposition.

            Just…gone.
Poof.

            The General had never seen anything like it.

            No…he corrected himself. In point of fact, not only had he seen something just like it long ago, he had experienced a similar disappearing act himself.

            The hostile forces of Cincinnati had been plucked from the Earth in the same fashion that the human ark riders of early Armageddon had been snatched from highways and baseball parks.

            In the years since the invasion, those missing humans began showing up, just as Hoth himself had reappeared on the grounds of West Point.

            "So the question is," Hoth spoke aloud to no one. "Where—or perhaps even 'when'—have these things gone?"

---

            Dante Jones—Chief of Internal Security--sat alone in the conference room in the basement of the estate. Brewer had left mere moments before after asking—actually shouting—a series of questions and accusations.

Why are we having these problems with Internal Security? Get your people in line. Stonewall nearly got killed out there yesterday! This isn’t the first incident!

Dante's responses?

It’s not just I.S., everyone is confused. I can’t control every last station commander. This won’t be the last incident, either, unless you start telling people who is in charge around here because it sure as Hell isn't Trevor Stone!

            In truth, Dante was not sure what he could do, or even what he should do. After all, could he blame the people for wanting answers? Did Brewer and Knox actually believe the whole 'secret mission' story would work indefinitely?

            With Trevor gone, Dante felt his loyalties pulled in several directions. Yes, he felt obligated to maintain the cover story due to his membership on the military council. Yet he felt a responsibility to the Senate, the body to whom Trevor himself had given oversight of I.S.

            He placed a hand over his eyes and sighed.

"You okay, boss?"

The voice startled Dante.

            "Oh, man, Ray, shit you scared me."

            Ray Roos—Chief of the I.S. detachment for the estate grounds—joined his superior officer in the conference room.

            "Sorry ‘bout that. You a little jumpy? Sure you are. Heck, we all are these days."

            Ray stood alongside the table and waited for an invitation. Dante motioned to one of the empty chairs. Roos placed his Mp5 machine gun on the table top and relaxed.

            Dante said, "We had another security unit abandon a post yesterday. They walked away from a supply depot in Tennessee. Some people got killed because of it."

            Roos said, "Well, if I can speak my mind, I don’t like the idea of our boys holding sway over some of them depots that are further out. That’s the army’s job don’t you think? I think so."

            "You know the drill, Ray. Internal Security gets whatever shit jobs the military doesn’t want. But we never had guys walk away from posts like this before. You know what I mean."

            Roos nodded. "I know. But a lot of our guys haven’t been doing policing for a long time. You know that. Of course you do. With the big fella…" Roos hesitated as he tried to pick the right words. "With the big fella…off somewhere, well, you probably noticed that things are slipping up real good like. Yessir. You have noticed that."

"Hard not to notice, Ray. Trevor went running off and now we got to clean up the mess."

Roos cocked a finger toward Dante but in a friendly, casual way.

            "Say, weren’t you and Trevor buddies before ‘all this’? You were, right?"

            Jones answered ‘yes’ with the nod of his head.

"What was he like before the whole shootin' match got turned downside-up?"

            Jones grew a hint of a smile. "Trevor? He was a good guy. He always treated people pretty much the same. He was the type of guy you could count on to keep his word and all."

            "So, you could see this whole thing coming with him being the big leader and all? Sort of natural-born?"

            Dante laughed. "Are you kidding? He was a care salesman, man. Look, he was definitely not mister take-charge. I mean, when we were in high school I had to lead him around or the guy was like socially, lost. See, couldn’t really even talk to girls. Didn’t know what he was going to do with his life. I mean, he was a good guy but he was lost half the time."