The two spoke on the grounds of a long-abandoned Royal Navy base that recently found new purpose.
After exchanging pleasantries, Trevor dove straight into the matter, “We’re getting near the deadline.”
“Yes,” Alexander agreed as they walked toward the ocean side of the base. “I have received word that many of the others have already departed for the rendezvous.”
“What about the round table at Camelot?”
Alexander assured in a light-hearted tone that belied his usually serious personality, “I told you last year that everyone would accept the proposal. You need to learn to relax.”
Stone stopped walking, considered, and said, “You know what? In a way this part scares me more than the fighting did. There is an opportunity here, Alexander. I don’t want to blow it. But yeah, once all this is done I’ll relax.”
“Do not get your hopes up. I know human nature. If you’re looking for a storybook ending, you are likely to be disappointed. Besides, nothing ever really ends. Things simply move to a new stage.”
Trevor realized that therein lay the difference between himself and Alexander. He-Trevor-felt born for Armageddon. The three gifts-his sense of responsibility-his very genetics-all groomed for this one fight. Alexander came from a different breed. More pragmatic, perhaps. Not as hasty. Not as driven. Better suited for the long haul.
The world will belong to people like him, now.
Trevor asked, “Where is Armand? Is he coming with us?”
“No. He and Cai are getting married and taking care of southern France for the meantime.”
“Good for him. Do you think he can make the switch back to being ‘just a guy’?”
After a laugh Alexander answered, “I do not think Armand was ever ‘just a guy’. Besides, there is much work left to be done. Lots of nasty things out there that will need to be hunted down, even after the main forces have departed. Voggoth’s pets, the Witiko bases-much more blood will be shed for years to come.”
“Alexander, are you trying to cheer me up?”
The Englishman grunted at Trevor’s sarcasm.
The sight at the docks changed the conversation.
Alexander told Trevor, “About half of the original crew remains onboard. They helped us keep lines of communication open between England and the continent during the worst of times. The remaining officers and surviving sailors of your submarine-the Newport News — have volunteered to serve onboard for the return journey.”
Trevor eyed the magnificent ship from stem to stern. As he did, a stalwart British Captain descended the gang plank. Trevor saw this veteran of the sea as a spiritual brother to Farway; the man who had brought him to Europe a year before and whose sacrifice had bought vital time.
The Captain acknowledged Alexander with a nod and then spoke to Trevor, “It would be an honor, sir.”
“The honor will be all mine.”
Enthusiasm and energy returned to the lakeside estate. Vehicles drove the perimeter road; administrative personnel walked the grounds-even a handful of young K9s served human masters again.
An Eagle transport left the landing pad, ferrying away a Hivvan representative under the escort of Internal security.
In the basement of the mansion at the conference table surrounded by televisions and communications gear, Jon met with Jerry Shepherd, Gordon Knox, and Eva Rheimmer on the topic of logistics: the logistics of transportation and seed corn for the families returning to their homes west of the Mississippi; the logistics of aviation fuel and rail lines for the alien passengers traversing the land in search of the way home; the logistics of bullets and guns for the highly-active Hunter-Killer teams taking to the wilderness in search of monsters.
Jon rubbed his eyes and answered Gordon Knox yet again, “It has been eight months since we saw any sign of a farm or any of The Order’s organized facilities.”
“We have to be sure. You heard the lizard-“
“Hivvan,” Jon corrected as he fought the daily battle of hearts and minds.
“You heard the Hivvan,” Gordon sneered as he accepted Jon’s correction. “One of their air patrols saw a Goat Walker in St. Thomas.”
Shepherd chimed in, “Them things sure ain’t a picnic, but they’re not exactly what I’d call organized forces. The way Anita has it figured, they’re just animals from some older race that got warped into Voggoth’s pets when he got the better of em’. We’re going to be finding them for a long time, but they can’t reproduce so there’s only so many out there.”
“We have to be sure,” Gordon insisted as he did at each meeting, albeit with a little less urgency each time. “It only takes one farm for Voggoth to start building an army again.”
“Gordon, we will never be sure, unless we find something. Until then, we keep our guard up. Omar’s re-starting the dreadnought program and we’ve got a shitload of intel from the other races.”
“One big happy family,” Gordon said with a sardonic smile. “Of course, tell that to the Centurian officer and his regiment that has refused to surrender. Then there’s that group of Duass who slaughtered their Internal Security escort and disappeared into the Louisiana swamps. Like I said, one big happy-“
“It’s not perfect,” Brewer interrupted. “There are also a hundred stories of our people taking revenge out on aliens. Cassy’s cavalry found about a dozen dead Hivvans refugees murdered and skinned just five miles from this mansion. But that’s not the point. Like you always said, we have to tough things out. In this case, we have to tough out the small things so that the big picture doesn’t get screwed up.”
Eva-wanting to move the discussion toward the important matter of food production-egged on Gordon with the question, “Aren’t you going away for vacation soon?”
Gordon-fully understanding her concern for what it was-tilted his head and offered a smirk that doubled for a popular phrase ending in ‘you’ as he answered, “Yes. We leave tomorrow. Thank you very much, Eva.”
The phone buzzed.
“I’ll grab that since there’s nothing going on down here other than a whole bunch of circles being run.”
Shep eschewed the tabletop phone and walked over to one mounted on the wall beneath the stairs. The others took up the issue of re-invigorating fields poisoned by Voggoth’s version of farms, which sucked the nutrients from the ground exchanging barren wasteland in place of fertile plain.
“Jon,” Shepherd called and held up the receiver. “It’s coastal security.”
Brewer left the table and accepted the phone.
“Yes? When-how soon-okay, we’re on our way.”
He hung the receiver harder than he realized; the result of a jolt of energy delivered by the message.
“We need a transport right away.”
“We’re we heading?” Shep asked.
“New York.”
Nina Forest drifted along the short hall in her apartment. Denise and Jake left just minutes before after having spent a belated Mother’s Day in Annapolis. Nina had been thinking about the class she was scheduled to teach later that summer at the academy when the television-left on in hopes of catching a weather forecast-grabbed her ear.
An excited anchorman reported, “We are getting some news from New York City right now-one of our reporters is in the city taping a story on the re-opening of the Statue of Liberty after hundreds of volunteers spent the last month repairing missile damage. Apparently there is a bigger story developing right now. Our reporter is describing it as the most amazing sight she’s seen in a decade. We’re trying to re-establish phone contact and hope to have an update here in a moment.”
Nina knew.
Her wait was over.
During the initial invasion, New York City became infested with alien pack animals gorging and vicious monsters from Voggoth’s realm inflicting horror and pain. Law enforcement as well as neighborhood street gangs battled to survive against an estimated 200,000 extraterrestrial creatures; most hungry and dangerous. The strict fire arms prohibitions in the city, however, made civilians easy targets.