Anthony DeCosmo - Fusion

At the final meeting exactly one week ago, Trevor suggested his power over the K9s came from nature itself; a sort of built-in defense against the invaders. Shepherd did not know about that, but he trusted his eyes. The K9s helped save mankind from day one and even though the war grew into battles between planes and tanks, the grenadiers still served a valuable role in security, hunting, reconnaissance, and rescue.

To lose them-now…

“Sir, did you hear me?”

“What? Huh?”

“General Shepherd, take a look at this.”

Shep removed his cowboy hat, carefully lowered himself down the open hatch into the cramped quarters next to the very German-looking kid who had grown up working on Eva Rheimmer’s farm.

“Look at this,” and Rheimmer pointed toward a mess of liquid and tubes behind an open panel. “I think I need a whole new unit.”

Shepherd repeated a saying he had heard at one time or another from just about every old-world veteran serving in the post-Armageddon army: “Haven’t you heard, Captain, this is the new army.”

“Sir?”

“Abandon this bucket of bolts. There ain’t any replacement parts coming. We’re out here all alone with one job to do and we’ve got to do it fast then haul-ass away before we get stomped. We can’t hold up for one tank.”

Shep sounded convincing despite knowing how desperately they needed each and every piece of equipment, particularly armor.

A sound of galloping horses pulled the general’s attention away from the discussion of tank repair. He raised his head and shoulders out the hatch. To the west the amber fields continued on toward the horizon where the Interstate waited along with an entrenched enemy army. Artillery and small arms fire carried over the distance to his ears.

The fields also stretched to the east but the treads of a dozen tanks, several up-armored Humvees hauling short-range artillery, and a trio of APCs had torn scars across that otherwise serene landscape. Men sat in the shade of their vehicles eating protein bars, swigging canteens, and grabbing a few minutes of sleep.

Five riders approached with General Cassy Simms leading the way. Shep had sent her north to Newton City-County airport to make contact with one of the key elements of that haphazard relief force gathering to try and save Rhodes.

“General, sir,” Cassy pulled her mount to a stop alongside the injured tank.

“Cassy. What say you? Was the airport usable?”

She answered, “Yes, General, the airport is still in good shape,” but he could tell by how she refused to look directly at him that good news would not be the order of the day.

“And..?”

“And, well, the Chinooks ferried in the 12 ^ th Engineering Brigade.”

Shep-looking one part prairie dog with his head and shoulders poking from the open hatch-gaped at General Simms. Her horse neighed. An explosion far off to the west drifted across the open fields.

She said, “About two hundred men on the tarmac with land mines, a mobile bridge-builder, one reinforced earth-mover, and a bunch of Hummers.”

“12 ^ th — Engineering — brigade…”

“Apparently they flew more than a dozen sorties to get all the equipment in. They had to hang the earthmover and the bridge from a special winch underneath the Shit-Hooks.”

General Shepherd narrowed his eyes and his mouth turned down at the edges.

He repeated again, “12 ^ th goddamn Engineering brigade? Engineering? Who the hell screwed the pooch on this one? That was supposed to be elements of 13 ^ th brigade! How the hell did they eff this up?”

But Shepherd knew the answer. Woody Ross had recently been named commander of the 4 ^ th Mechanized Division, parent unit to the both the 12 ^ th Engineering and 13 ^ th Mechanized Brigades. Ross, in turn, had been a part of the even larger 3 ^ rd Corps, which was now commander-less with the death of Casey Fink during The Order’s raid three days before.

Confusion. Misinterpreted orders. Incomplete communications. The type of things that occur when you have a sudden and unexpected change in leadership. The type of things The Order hoped for when they sent their assassins.

Shepherd pulled himself into a sitting position atop the cupola. He wiped the sweat from his brow with his black uniform sleeve and replaced his cowboy hat.

Cassy’s news signed General Rhodes’ death warrant. The Order’s main force complete with Leviathan would hit the Newtown area before the end of the day. Just as bad, in order to buy time to muster a relief force, The Empire had thrown dozens of sorties at Voggoth’s approaching army. It had worked; the enemy slowed their advance, but at the cost of at least a dozen fixed-wing aircraft, not to mention valuable ordnance and aviation fuel.

Combined with Shep’s column of armor, Cassy’s cavalry, and an eclectic collection of helicopter gunships waiting for the strike, the added light artillery and infantry units from the 13 ^ th brigade might have been enough to punch a hole in the enemy’s eastern lines running north to south along Highway 135 and free the 4,000 men under Rhodes’ command.

Not now. A communication mix-up caused by holes in the chain of command turned his desperate counter-attack into a suicide mission and no matter how much he wished otherwise, Shepherd saw no choice other to abandon the trapped men to their fate.

“Pull your cavalry back,” he ordered Simms. “Send word for those Shit-Hooks to turn around and pick up the Engineering brigade. Hell, might as well have them mine the airport while they’re there.”

“But, sir, what about General Rhodes?”

“Cassy, what do you want to do? Try and take on that pocket with what we’ve got? I’ve got shit here. Even with the 13 ^ th it was a crap shoot. Without them it’s not possible. I’m not going to throw away these boys for nothing. Phil is-well, General Rhodes is a lost cause.”

“Sir…”

“Cassy, don’t make me go sayin’ it again because it tasted pretty damn bad the first time.”

“No, sir,” her voice rose to a near shout, “Look.” And she pointed to the east.

He looked first to his column of vehicles. He saw the men waking from their naps, dropping their canteens and chow, and moving away from the cool shadows of their rides into the sunbaked fields to behold something further behind.

To General Jerry Shepherd, it appeared as if the horizon actually moved; like ripples in water as a wave curls toward the beach. That wave kept coming, pouring over the trampled fields, secondary roads, and farm house ruins strewn about the plains.

He kept his eyes east and climbed from the cupola until standing on the deck of the disabled Abrams tank. Captain Rheimmer poked his head out.

“What’s going on?”

For a moment Jerry Shepherd worried that The Order managed to deploy one of their pseudo-biological weapons to their rear; that his rescue mission had become a trap. His heart raced. The sweat already pouring from his forehead due to the heat doubled.

The swarm came without end. A tremble shook the ground and did not stop. A drone filled the air as the stampede closed.

Soldiers climbed aboard their armored vehicles; some drew their weapons but no one fired as they realized what approached.

Shepherd’s mouth fell open. He yanked off his hat and held it against his chest. In a moment of total awe he gasped, “Oh-oh God.”

They came seemingly without end, a gigantic horde of dogs: the Grenadier warriors who had saved Trevor’s life in the early days, done his bidding at New Winnabow, and now marched as one great army, side by side, packed in columns. Forget individual breeds; that did not matter. Claws and fangs rumbling forward as if one horrible beast.

The march of the Grenadiers reached the armored column and gently parted in the right places to flow around the men and machines. Shepherd watched them pass and realized that of all the onlookers, Cassy Simms’ horses appeared most at ease.