Jon used his glasses to gauge the enemy. The tree line on the western dike that had obstructed his view of the opposing force just hours before was long-gone, replaced by a smoldering pile of toppled timber and hundreds of stubborn trunks of various sizes all warped and melted by the crossfire.
“Bragg, do you copy? Jimmy, come in!”
The constant roar of explosions and flying ordnance forced Jon to scream into his radio.
A barely audible voice responded, “Copy that. Give me targets.”
An exploding ball hit the pavement of Front Street in an eruption of concrete and dirt. The resulting fallout caused Jon to duck his head for the briefest of moments; even his determination must succumb to reflex.
The spotter Eagle had long ago been swept from the air, therefore target acquisition came from more conventional means.
“On your map,” Jon consulted his own as he estimated the target area, “in the fields west of CR-346. I count three batteries. The damn things are killing us.”
Captain Jimmy Bragg was a veteran of Five Armies, having been the first to spot the approaching Roachbots before the battle and then later his Apache had been knocked down by the Chaktaw at the same time as Nina’s.
As he had during that battle eleven years ago and throughout his career in Trevor’s army, Jimmy Bragg answered Jon’s call with a military stoicism that bellied the suicide mission he undertook: “Roger that, General. We’re heading in.”
Another explosion, this time to Jon’s right. An already-overturned Humvee disintegrated into pieces of metal and rubber. He watched with detached fascination as one tire spun high into the air. Several more glowing spheres whizzed past the tire with indifference just as it reached maximum height. It seemed to pause there before deciding to accept the invitation of gravity.
At that moment a new roar rumbled across the battlefield: a trio of Apache helicopters flying ungodly low and roaring over his head like thunder incarnate. He saw the determined pilots-dead men already-grimly guiding their birds of prey out and over the river. They banked hard south, flying over a pair of capsized barges. The undercarriages of the helicopters nearly skimmed the water. Then, at the right moment, they swerved west again, rose above the riverbank, and launched Hellfire missiles. The contrails from the rockets gave the impression of warheads traveling on ropes of smoke. That smoke obscured Jon’s view of the gunships.
A moment later came a brilliant flash followed first by the sound of screeching metal rotors and then the heavy splash of a helicopter falling into the river.
Bragg’s voice ignored the casualty as he radioed, “Targets hit. All three batteries out of action. We’re pulling-“
The choppers emerged from the smoke heading east with their noses down. Flames raged from the rear of one of the helos, creeping forward to the cockpit like yellow fingers grasping prey.
An explosion to Jon’s left sent more shrapnel his direction. He ducked behind the protection of the concrete foundation out of instinct. A second later his eyes saw Bragg’s cockpit engulfed. The burning helicopter crashed into the east-side bank of the Mississippi.
Three more Spooks flew in from the west aiming for the last escaping Apache. A soldier in a forward fox hole launched a shoulder-fired Stinger. The warhead hit and destroyed one of the Spooks as it crossed the water. But the other two drones found their mark, one slamming the chopper portside and inducing a spin, the other hitting the canopy head-on. The collision sent a dead pilot’s body away from the airframe while the rest of the Apache crashed somewhere behind the front lines.
The battle did not afford Jon time for prayer. Voggoth answered with aerial thunder of his own. A flight of five of Hammerhead bombers swept down from the storm clouds and disintegrated overhead thanks to Patriot batteries. Hundreds of bomblets dropped along the waterfront.
The detonations traveled from north to south. One of the 14 ^ th Mechanized Infantry Brigades’ Bradley Fighting Vehicles suffered a direct hit, as did a trench full of soldiers stationed not-quite-under the raised highway that led to the remains of the Quincy Memorial Bridge. Jon saw body parts and rifles thrown out from there.
He crouched in a corner of the basement and spoke into his radio.
“Cassy! What is your status?”
General Cassy Simms took cover behind an overturned car at an intersection across from the Quincy Junior High School, nearly one mile from the river but no less a part of the action.
Several squads of her cavalry ringed the school firing bullets and lobbing grenades at the robotic Commandos held up inside; the ones who had dropped in from the sky an hour before in an attempt to create a second front or, perhaps, to silence the artillery batteries around Washington Park.
Not far from her position behind the toppled car smoldered two piles of metal that had recently been one of Voggoth’s favorite storm troops. Near that inhuman creature lay a young man no more than twenty sprawled on the pavement in a pool of red a silent Calico 960 just beyond the reach of his cold fingers.
She looked away from the body.
“Jon,” she answered the radio call above the sound of exchanging fire. “We’ve contained the airborne troops but it will be a while before we can mop them up.”
“Great,” his voice lacked the enthusiasm the word might otherwise convey. “Bragg’s flight just took out their arty batteries. I don’t think we’re going to have to worry about those damned balls again for a while.”
“That’s great-“ she stopped as an enemy round ricocheted off the road a few feet away. Cassy tried again, “That’s great. Give Jimmy a big thanks for me.”
The pause on the other end of the radio told the story.
Cassy regrouped her thoughts and transmitted, “Anyway, we’ve got this buttoned up, but, I mean, that doesn’t mean he won’t just drop more of these things in here somewhere else to try and get at Shep’s guns.”
“Say again, I missed that. Goddamn dive-bombing Spook just hit the wall here. What’d you say?”
She heard a cry for ‘medic’ from somewhere away from Jon’s radio.
“I said-oh, shit!”
One of the flying blob-like Chariots swept in from the residential neighborhood to the south. Its side gun spat a series of blasts. Cassy heard cries from her men; the gun certainly found its mark.
She grabbed her rifle and darted across the intersection yelling into the radio to her own people at the command center, “We need AA over at the school right now!” She glanced at the street sign as she ran. “That’s 14 ^ th and Main. Mobile AA stat!”
The Chariot exploded. Half-organic, half-metal pieces-few larger than a breadbox-fell on school grounds. The craft’s destruction took everyone-robotic and human-by surprise.
Cassy looked to the sky where Voggoth’s machine had hovered two seconds before. As she did, a shadow blocked out the sun, approaching from the east.
“General Brewer,” she transmitted. “The Chrysaor is here.”
And damn glad to see you, Kristy.
Two Abrams tanks pin-wheeled through the sky carried on the Leviathan’s supersonic breath like row boats on a mega tsunami. Below and around the flying tanks the strip malls, townhouses, and commercial buildings along Vandeventer Avenue changed from solid structures into grains of debris as the northward-bound gust obliterated the 10 ^ th Armored Brigade’s thrust into The Order’s flank.
The wind faded, leaving behind a handful of standing walls, wrecked vehicles, and seemingly sand-blasted roadways all covered in a dune of dirt and dust. The Leviathan stood straight and towered over the St. Louis skyline once again. Around its feet scrambled hundreds of the mutated mechanical monsters that had once been living, breathing Feranites. Voggoth’s slaves raced north into what remained of the Turner Park area to seek out and slaughter any surviving infantry while the main force resumed its eastward march around Interstate 64.
Woody “Bear” Ross observed the annihilation of his counter attack from one of the concrete vomitories of Busch Stadium. The tall buildings of down town partially obstructed his view of the carnage, but the sound of raging wind, the sight of an apocalyptic dust storm, and the radioed screams provided ample evidence of failure.