Anthony DeCosmo - Fusion

“Captain,” Trevor steadied his legs as the tremble in the decks subsided. “Where are you going with this?”

“To the bottom, Trevor,” he admitted with a sense of determination. “If the Newport News is going to be my tomb, then that damn thing is coming with us. And if it is tied in to Voggoth then he’ll think you’re dead. That might just buy you some time.”

“There has to be another way. You’ve got a lot of men on this boat.”

“A nice chunk of them were in the engine room and the decks below. If that thing is loose, I’m guessing there aren’t a whole lot left. The guys up here will be coming with you. As for me, well, it’s been a good career but since the world went to hell my biggest contribution to the war has been playing taxi. Now maybe I can do something a little more important.”

“Captain…”

Farway ignored Trevor and ordered, “Bridge crew, abandon ship. Planesman, rig for crash dive then get up on the weather deck. XO, break out those RIBs and anything else you can grab then get the hell out of here.”

Captain Farway stood atop the sail-or conning tower-and watched the two rigid-hulled inflatable boats speed away from the Newport News as fast as their small engines could carry them. He took solace in noting the calm seas. With a little luck the boats would make landfall at the rendezvous point about a day later than originally scheduled, depending on how well the men paddled once their fuel ran dry.

The career naval officer gazed at a morning sun hanging above the eastern horizon where it shared the sky with a crescent-shaped band of powdery white clouds. He filled his lungs with the salty but fresh air; always a shock after breathing the stale, super-scrubbed oxygen of his boat.

“A beautiful morning,” he spoke to no one.

The Captain vacated the sail, closed the hatch behind, and returned to the empty bridge. The lights still blinked, monitors still monitored, and the computers continued their routines and software programs all aimed at keeping the Newport News operating at peak efficiency. He wondered exactly how long the sub could manage without a human crew. It scared him-or saddened him-that the answer might be ‘a long time.’

Bong.

Something hammered against the stern bulkhead. The heavy metal there dented-a little.

Farway hurried to the helm and wound the boat’s engines to all ahead full. He then moved fast to the dive station. Out of habit he activated the ‘dive’ alarm. It echoed through an empty boat.

BONG- creak…

A second impact. The water tight door bent further.

Captain Farway grabbed hold of an overhead rail with one hand while working the controls with the other. The forward ballast tanks flooded fast and the nose of the Newport News tilted down-down-down. The hull moaned. The sound of water whooshing by outside created a roar through the control room. Debris fell and rolled and smashed. Momentum built.

Above and behind him, the bulkhead bent and ripped off its hinges with one final push from the invader. Ignoring gravity, the assassin literally poured into the control room and clung to the tilted floor like a blob of muddy water-a horrible thing of eyes and mouths and tendrils. A terrible rotting smell accompanied it and Farway-already forced to turn away from the sickening sight-felt his stomach knot further from the malicious odor.

It made a noise-a gurgling-crying noise as it filled the aft half of the compartment. Inside its rippling skin writhed forms that might be the faces and souls of those already consumed.

Farway reached to activate the rear ballast tanks but hesitated. The sight-the smell-too much for his mind to comprehend.

The monstrosity poured across the bridge leaving an acidic, slimy trail behind as it clung to the sloping floor. A dozen mouths worked open at the sight of fresh prey.

Captain Farway hung precariously with one hand still holding a rail and his feet propped under a console. He produced his side arm, put the barrel under his chin, and pulled the trigger a moment before enveloped by a worse fate.

The black hull of the Newport News sunk into the lightless depths of the Atlantic, making for the bottom at top speed.

General Jerry Shepherd sighed a huff of frustration and leaned over and into the tank’s open hatch. He saw a cramped compartment with tiny stools, a computerized work station, and an array of pedals, periscopes, joysticks, and levers. In other words, a chaotic jumble of technology shoved together into a tiny hole made to fit a crew of four in a space that would be cramped for two.

A drop of sweat fell from his cheek and splashed on the metal floor below.

“What are you doing down there?”

Captain William Rheimmer-son of council member Eva Rheimmer-had himself twisted in an ungodly fashion as he accessed a maintenance panel in a corner of the crew cab.

“There’s a problem with hydraulics,” the young officer answered.

“Captain, you’ve got an entire column of some dozen tanks held up for one bum system and we are less than two miles from Highway 135,” as if to accentuate that point, a distant sound like thunder-but they knew it not to be thunder-rumbled across the fields of golden grain surrounding the halted tank column. “You see, we’re at what they call the stagin’ area, Captain and we’ve got about another hour until we got to hit them.”

Shepherd projected confidence but he kept a myriad of doubts to himself.

The first doubt had to do with General Rhodes’ ability to break free from the ring of encirclement. His’ 3 ^ rd Mechanized division remained trapped in Halstead after abandoning their transport train. The last communique indicated a dire shortage of ammunition but a surplus of wounded.

The second doubt worried Shepherd to an even greater extent. Three days had passed since The Order decapitated a fair number of high ranking Imperial officers. Before that strike, forging a relief force from a collection of widely dispersed units seemed a difficult task. Now it appeared impossible.

After the destruction wrought at Kansas City, Pittsburgh, and Harveys Lake, Shepherd managed to re-route elements of the 10 ^ th brigade from Rheimmer’s 3 ^ rd Armored Division of New Jersey to Kansas City as well as pieces of the re-named “Stonewall’s Calvary Brigade”, the centerpiece of what remained of the 2 ^ nd Mechanized Division of Virginia.

He knew it would not be enough. He needed that extra piece in place to the north, air support, and a hell of a lot of luck; all items The Empire appeared desperately short of in recent weeks.

One other concern loomed in the back of Shep’s mind where he hid it away so as to not face it. The Order had executed a rather effective decapitation strike against The Empire’s leadership. A reasonable man would assume they also tried to hit Trevor Stone on his way to Europe.

Point was-to Shep’s way of thinking-just hours after that strike, K9s all across The Empire deserted their posts, ignoring the call of handlers. The vast majority of the dogs-Trevor’s ‘Grenadiers’ as dubbed by Stonewall McAllister years before-no longer followed commands.

That had never happened before. Even when Trevor went to another universe-even when Trevor had been thought killed but was really imprisoned by The Order-even during those times the dogs remained loyal and in tune with their masters; better trained from birth than any dog had any right to be.