Planet Genocide I (Galaxies Collide Book 3) (22 page)

The warship commander’s eyes widened in surprise, a brief smile crossing his scaled lips as he stared at the console in front on him. The Trevakian battleship powered towards him, Morgon fighters raking its hull as flames and explosions ripped through the outer corridors of the vessel, the warning lights beginning to flash across the Morgon command deck as the oncoming vessel increased speed, its automatic lasers spewing fire at the attacking fighters.

Standing bolt upright, he shrieked instructions, the bridge crew clicking on the screens before them frantically as the enormous vessel began to gradually rise and turn. Torpedoes smashed against the Trevakian front hull, bursts of eruptions and fireballs jarring the stricken vessel, the engines increasing power as the ship altered course, compensating for the Morgon manoeuvre.

Shrieks of alarm filled the Morgon bridge, the commander striding across the shining floor and pushing one of his controllers roughly away, the engineer falling to the floor as his superior flicked numerous icons at once, the ship banking more severely in space as the smaller Trevakian vessel neared its target.

More torpedoes smacked against the hull, the sister warship banking sharply and launching all of its available forward missiles, the bright lights flashing through space and impacting the unprotected sides of the Trevakian vessel. Flames poured through all the decks as the ship lost integrity, explosions tearing through the hull and lower engine rooms as the vessel twisted, its hull pierced further by more torpedoes.

The vast explosion tore through dark space, incinerating and destroying the pursuing Morgon fighters as the Warships shuddered from the space distortion and debris. Defensive lasers tore through the upper atmosphere, targeting the larger debris parts of the Trevakian vessel, shattered and spinning into the darkness.

As the warships gradually regained their orbit, the Morgon commander sighed, lowering himself into his wide seat in irritation, a victory kill snatched from his grasp by the obstinacy and grim determination of the enemy Trevakian Vice-Admiral. Signals were transmitted through space, the confirmation of the destruction of two Trevakian fleet vessels sent by encrypted message format to the dark and cloaked Morgon Space Station orbiting Zaxon B.

The Morgon commander glanced down at his screen once more, several icons flashing as requests were received from across the two large ships, his armoured hand hesitating over the console before granting the permission required. The outer orbit was secure, he would continue with is mission.

From the green glowing landing bays, several hundred small vessels slowly emerged, the dropships and transports banking sharply and falling at high speed towards the planet’s surface, the glow of the atmosphere sweeping across their hulls as they progressed downwards. Their cargo bays were full of troops, the black and camouflaged armoured soldiers strapped into their seats and clenching their weapons as the small craft bounced on turbulence and high energy fields in the lower atmosphere.

Dispersing across the planet, the small ships gradually assumed formations as they sped towards their predetermined landing zones, the occupants checking their assault rifles and acid guns, several armed with new model sniper and explosive round weapons.

Above in space, the lines of troops emerged from side corridors, impatiently awaiting the return of the small craft. Most stared at the large diagrams and posters on the shining rear walls of the loading bays, the intricate and detailed colour images displaying the armour and anatomies of both Trevakian and human bodies, several indicators of where the weaker areas were to target.

Another smaller diagram was not overlooked, glowing eyes absorbing the information, a hungry gurgling anticipation passing through the formation…the image explaining and suggesting the more edible body parts of a human being’s frame.

USAF Senior Airman Don ‘Triggerman’ Braxham lead the fifteen ‘F’ series fighters as they swept towards upper Manhattan, the jets behind closing formation as they reduced altitude, now just over five hundred metres from the suburbs below. Buildings shot past beneath, the Senior Airman glancing over his shoulder and wincing, the jets behind unable to hold the gaining Morgon black craft.

Jets of laser high energy scythed past, the black fighter pilots tensing as three American fighters disintegrated to their front, their own craft smashing through flying debris as the stricken craft plunged onto buildings and highways below on either side of the river. Flames shot upwards as cars and vans were tossed into the air, the explosions rocking buildings and incinerating pedestrians as the lasers crackled above, high energy pouring from the gun muzzles.

The potent pure energy tore through building structures, offices and apartment blocks toppling as the immense heat engulfed their structures, the people inside simply combusting or being buried beneath falling shattered masonry and brick.

Two more American jets peeled away, their engines burning brightly as fuselage was ripped from their hulls. One spun onto the right bank, the high explosion and subsequent billowing black smoke swirling as Morgon craft swept through it from the west. The second stricken fighter hit the river bank, flames pouring over the walls as the jet fuel ignited, the road engulfed in fire as cars smashed against each other, the remains of the plane crashing through restaurant and shop windows.

Don ‘Triggerman’ Braxham was pouring in sweat, his knuckles white as he gripped the controls, the explosions behind tearing through his command. Increasing speed, he dropped the fighter nose further, the jet now only one hundred metres above the river as the remaining flight behind followed his lead. Shooting over Croton Bay, the town of Sleepy Hollow flashing past on the left, he glanced nervously around through the cockpit windows, smoke plumes rising to the east as fires began to rage out of control, his eyes straining as he realised they could no longer carry on the mission, two further large explosions behind indicating he was nearly at half fighter strength.

In the distance, the skyscrapers were looming, several burning out of control as black smoke rose above central Manhattan. He stiffened, the lights flashing on his display, the jets of flame sweeping northwards towards them as he jerked the stick back instinctively. The missiles swept underneath, re-targeting on the planes behind as another three imploded, panic beginning to rise up the Senior Airman’s spine as his jet soared over the first high buildings, two Morgon craft now targeting him directly as the bright lights shot underneath his fighter.

Moving after the ‘F’ Series fighter, the Morgon pilots grimaced, the other jets peeling away in defeat as other black fighters chased their prey across the New York skyline. Braxham thrust the stick forward again, the fighter engine roaring as it descended rapidly, the jet sweeping one hundred metres over Central Park, the two black craft matching his manoeuvre. His heart racing, the Senior Airman gritted his teeth, flipping the jet in its side and sweeping into 7
th
Avenue, the tall buildings shooting past above his canopy as windscreens and windows shattered below.

Terrified pedestrians and drivers slammed their hands across their ears as the mechanical screams of the Morgon fighters bounced off the walls, eardrums perforating and glass from upper windows showering the people below as the craft tore through Time Square.

Don ‘Triggerman’ Braxham was grinning with the heightened adrenalin and terror, his flight uniform soaked in sweat as the jet swept southwards, the Morgons on his tail. Laser fire tore up the streets below, cars thrown into the air before him as he winced, then the jet jolted, flames pouring from its rear fuselage as it began to rise. The pilot’s mouth opening in a scream as he glimpsed the building ahead, the wing clipping the side as the jet flipped over, his eyes staring at the oncoming tarmac, the impact too quick for it to register.

The fireball rose upwards, the Morgon fighters sweeping to the east and west and banking hard to return to the north. The USAF fighter bounced and smashed through the stationary cars, a line of burning carnage as explosions tore against the side buildings. The last eruption was where the molten remains came to rest, the junction of Greenwich Avenue, black acrid smoke pouring upwards as the inferno behind the fighter burnt out of control, the explosion heard some streets to the south.

NYPD Police Officer Davis Michael spun round, the plume of black smoke spiralling upwards as the sound waves from the explosions reached them at the World Trade Centre. The rain fell amongst the virtually gridlocked cars, army Humvees nudging along the wide pavements as drivers simply deserted their vehicles, running to the north as inhuman shrieks of hatred echoed across the walls from the south.

Then a distant rumble, the police officers and assembled National Guard staring southwards as Gatling guns were prepared once more, the rain beginning to pelt down, water droplets bouncing from the tarmac below. Davis glanced upwards into the falling liquid, four USAF jets powering overhead, their engines screaming as black craft flashed after them, bright lights sweeping from their wings, one of the US fighters puffing smoke and beginning to descend slowly to the south behind the buildings, the enemy planes screeching after the surviving grey fighters.

The screeching of metal echoed towards them, the sounds of cars and vehicles being forcibly pushed to the side, the US soldiers and marines dropping behind their makeshift barricades and staring out nervously, their rifles raised. People were running past, their screams chilling the soldiers as panic spread further, car horns blaring to the north. The screeching continued, the defending men and women staring towards the source of the sound, the wide lanes of West Street.

Distant figures could be seen emerging from Greenwich Street, the black and camouflaged armour seeming to surge forward half crouched, the cracks of gunfire and screams of the injured becoming fainter as the screeches got louder. Then Davis’s head moved forward, his eyes staring as he glimpsed the strange metal upright object, then more behind, the metal structures standing at differing levels.

The police officer shook his head, staring once more as gunfire chattered to the east and south, the rain falling heavily as he gasped, the legs of the metal structure stepping forward. The first was approximately two stories high, some behind one and two stories, the dark helmets of the crews above sitting in cylindrical armoured cockpits moving from side to side as they surveyed the burning lower city.

As he stared in horror, the helmets disappeared, blast shields rising to cover the upper compartment as electrical static seemed to crackle below some of the hulls. Bullets zipped past, the soldiers and police officer ducking back as snipers opened fire, several screams behind as soldiers fell, the shattering of a Humvee windscreen as the drivers face exploded, blood pumping across the wide bonnet as his head bounced violently forward.

Davis stared into the eyes of the army commander some five metres away, the man clearly shocked as he ducked back down, ‘What the hell are those things?’

The roar of shrieks filled the air, the Morgon armoured soldiers rising up and charging across the streets and lower ground. The Americans soldiers rose up, the Gatling guns lowering and whirring as bullets and tracers spewed towards the advancing infantry. Cars ignited and exploded, the first wave of armoured infantry shuddering as the high velocity bullets poured through their armour, half the line falling as the sniper fire began to claim marines and national guardsmen, most shot through the head.

Davis grasped the female soldier, her body shaking as he lunged back towards the rear of one of the Humvees, his older partner screaming as bullets whipped through the air above them. Ducking behind the vehicle, the dust and debris swirling around them, Davis stole a glance out, the massive walkers beginning to near the defensive positions as the lower guns crackled, high energy bolts searing though the forward barricades, a Humvee exploding to the right. Then he saw the lower walkers, their guns powering as the muzzles smouldered green smoke, his breath almost caught, ‘Run!’

The glass crunched beneath their boots, their bodies running at half crouch as splintered glass and smoke engulfed them, the acid and laser guns sweeping the defensive positions in unison as black infantry poured forward, their assault rifles firing continuously. Terrified and blood curdling screams filled the air, the shock waves from eruptions unsteadying them as they ran forward, terrified soldiers and police officers running with pedestrians with all the energy they could muster, the shrieks and screams behind complimented by the clanking of the metal feet of the walkers on the wet tarmac.

Blasts of hot air as the lasers swept through nearby walls and cars, the heat almost searing their skin as they ran, the rain pelting down from above, singing and evaporating as it fell on the red hot impact points on cement and metal. Choking dust billowed across their bodies as explosions rocked the buildings on either side, Morgon fighters strafing the streets as a vicious air battle for survival continued north of the city.

Running up Greenwich Street, Davis stole a glance back, his eyes widening as he saw the silhouettes of the walkers behind, sparks flying off their hulls and blast shields as the lasers fired from side to side, the black armoured infantry accompanying their armour northwards. He clenched the female soldier’s uniform tighter, his partner jogging behind as he shouted frantically, ‘We head for the Holland Tunnel…it’s the nearest way out now…’ They dodged between stationary cars, the bumpers virtually touching between some before the small group started running on the crowded sidewalk.

The older policeman behind was gasping, his words barely audible, ‘What about the piers on the river…there might be a boat?’

Davis looked round once more, his chest heaving, ‘I am not going anywhere near the water…would you?’ He ducked, a flash of fire a block behind them throwing bodies into the air as flames swept upwards, the gas mains punctured, his eyes widening further in virtual panic as explosions ripped across the tarmac, ‘Keep going!’

As the light dulled across the sky, high powered engines warmed on the taxiways of a military airstrip to the north west, the ‘A’ Series ground attack jets and large propped aircraft taxiing out onto the rain drenched tarmac. Canadian fighter jets swept into land and refuel on the runways, the entire fighter strength of North America being prepared for a final penultimate battle for the east coast…and perhaps even the future of mankind.