Anthony DeCosmo - Fusion

Murmurs of agreement. None of the gathered officers relished the idea of being surrounded by The Order and each of them knew General Rhodes personally.

Casey Fink reported, “Bragg’s First Tactical Support Wing has gone into full operation; about one hundred sorties have been flown since last night focused mainly on…” he touched spots on the map, “enemy formations on 135. But you know how it is once Voggoth gets any type of bridgehead anywhere. It’s like trying to stamp out roaches with half a can of Raid.”

Cassy Simms volunteered, “Stonewall’s brigades can do it, sir. We can punch through and open a hole for Rhodes.”

Shepherd, his eyes on the map, answered, “I figured you’d say that, Cassy, but all your units aren’t up to the front yet. I think we’re going to have to mix and match brigades and units from just about everyone here, then see what we can get done.” He traced a line on the map and mused, “Ain’t it funny how things turn? Seems to me I recollect a situation like this a few years back, except then it was a bunch of Hivvans in a bag and we were the ones doing the trapping.”

Benny Duda-the young officer who had started his post-Armageddon military career as Stonewall McAllister’s bugler-spoke with acid in his tone, “Speaking of New Winnabow and all that, where is Trevor? Where is Brewer?”

Shepherd stood straight and glared at Duda. “You mean to say General Brewer, right?”

“Where’s he at?”

“After he gave you your orders, Captain, he headed back to the estate for a big get together. He’s expected out this way soon but right about now he’s trying his damnedest to hustle up some reinforcements for us. And to tell you straight, it isn’t your place to go asking about General Brewer like that.”

Duda’s freckle face remained stone cold. He said, “And Trevor? I thought he had taken to leading from the front these days.”

“Whoa, easy there, partner, Trevor is opening up a whole new front in this war and like I said, he don’t report to you, son.”

“I just think it’s funny that he high-tailed it back east after his plan at the Rockies went FUBAR. Just a thought.”

General Shepherd glanced around at the gathered officers and realized that there were still two camps among the officer corp: those whom Trevor had recruited to the estate, and those who had come there with Stonewall McAllister. Tension between the two camps flared now and then, but this was the first time in a long while that he found himself faced with such an obvious dividing line.

Indeed, Stonewall McAllister would never have sanctioned such division, but with his death easy to blame on Trevor’s overly aggressive actions in California that division had been greatly agitated.

He felt eyes turn to him. How would he handle the confrontation? Push too hard and Ross as well as Simms might come to Duda’s defense. Show weakness and command might break down.

Shepherd carefully removed his hat and set it atop the map.

“I’m going to give you that one, Benny, because I know how much Garrett meant to you. But so help me to God if I hear you say anything along those lines again, I’m going to drop you.”

Benny appeared ready to speak. His lips moved.

Woody “Bear” Ross growled, “Benny-shut it.”

The line that Shepherd could see so clearly a second before faded.

Casey jumped in, “What we need right now are SITREPS from each of you on your unit’s operational readiness. You’ve got two hours to report back here. Think about how close those units are and how quickly they can be assembled here.”

Shepherd kept his eyes locked on Benny Duda’s. The kid finally glanced away as Shep spoke, “We have to hit hard and fast. I’m not so much worried about arty but armor and vehicles are priority. Now let’s move.”

“Sir,” Ross interrupted as the briefing dispersed, “I haven’t got a unit. Still waiting on the Excalibur, sir.”

It seemed to Shep that Ross emphasized sir so as to emphasize his loyalty. He must have seen that line, too.

“You do now,” Casey Fink put a hand on one of Ross’ strong shoulders. “Marty Blue’s staff car was hit by an air strike this morning. 4 ^ th Mech is yours. Welcome to 3 ^ rd Corp, General Ross.”

Shepherd replaced the cowboy hat on his head and approached a water cooler on one end of the open tent. Ross and Casey began discussing the particulars of his new assignment with all sorts of paperwork to review; Duda sort of sulked, Cassy Simms examined the map.

Far overhead in the clear blue sky of mid-morning, a black and brown bird made its final circle over the camp. The Humvees and ambulances and squads of marching infantry and forklifts pushing along supply crates took no notice of the airborne voyeur.

No one watched as it stopped circling and flew toward the wooded picnic and camping area a few hundred feet to the southeast along the river bank. The strange, large bird dove toward hard and furious, its wings pulled taut against its body.

Faster and faster it fell not like a bird, but a missile. Its beak sunk into its skull in a mechanical, contracting motion. Its neck puffed thicker as if reinforced from within. And still it fell toward the Earth at a speed surpassing the natural pull of gravity.

Feathers-first one, then another, then in clumps-flaked away and fluttered in the wind. The ground came closer and closer; the creature continued to gain speed faster and faster.

What remained of its beak broke away revealing a shiny metal stake that glinted in the sunlight. The feathers fell off in fistfuls until-as it crashed through the tree tops-nothing remained of its avian costume. Instead, a cone-shaped metal vessel broke tree limbs and burrowed into the ground between two thick roots blasting dirt in a quiet explosion. Only its top end-a metal cylinder lined with pulsing emerald veins-remained above the surface.

The head of the cylinder rotated a half-turn and a small iris opened in its center. A second later, a sack exploded out in a gush from the container as if it were a dashboard airbag deploying in a crashing vehicle. The contents inside the brown and gray sack writhed and squirmed as the proper activation and growing sequence gave them mass and purpose.

Red lights glowed from inside the sack. Those lights pushed against their confinement like a horrific litter demanding to be born.

Jon Brewer exited the front of the mansion with his wife, Lori, at his side. He carried a briefcase and walked with the intention of boarding an Eagle transport waiting on the nearby landing pad. Around them, several K9s patrolled the grounds, guards stood ready at the main gate, a well-armed Humvee eased along the drive way, and Omar Nehru marched to meet them.

“What is this? I thought we were meeting?”

“Change of plans, Omar. You’ve got to come with me out to Pittsburgh.”

The group congregated on the lawn.

“Pittsburgh? I cannot be going to Pittsburgh. What of Anita?”

Lori assured, “I’ll keep an eye on her and we’ll put a nurse in the house twenty-four hours. I promise.”

“I don’t want promises,” Omar objected. “I am not going to Pittsburgh!”

“Look, Omar,” Jon struggled to keep understanding in his voice. “Brett pulled the Hercules in. He’s scavenging engine parts and anti-grav generators from it to shoehorn into the Excalibur.”

Omar angrily shot, “I have told Mr. Stanton not to do this on a number of occasions! The Excalibur’s anti-gravity generators were first-generation. The Hercules has a different type of generator! The two are not compatible and could create a dangerous electromagnetic feedback across the entire system!”

Jon insisted, “Brett says he’s worked that out. But I need you to eyeball it to see if he’s right.”