Smoke rose across the air strip and from many of the perimeter buildings and hangers. Two large cargo jets lay in pieces across the runway. Several smaller aircraft-all in various states of loading and preparation-had suffered substantial damage. A pool of aviation fuel burned steadily around the remains of a busted tank.
“Ah, Christ, this is bad,” Fink shook his head.
Trevor blocked out the screams of the injured scattered around the tarmac and told Casey, “You need to get this air strip up and running again. Fast.”
As terrible as the damage appeared, the first question revolved around the runways. How badly had they been hit? Trevor spied about a dozen craters pot marking the base’s air strips.
The second question involved aircraft. Two major planes lost, several more would require significant repair. But most of the reinforced hangers appeared intact. They should be; they had been designed with the B1-B Lance Bomber in mind back in the early 80s. While the B1s had been transferred away long before the invasion, the facilities to protect those Cold War aircraft remained and had certainly protected several aircraft from this strike.
“Sir,” Fink struggled with a way to phrase what he wanted to say. “Sir, I, well I’ll get on this. But if we’re in bombing range now that means they could hit us with anything. I think, well, I think you need to get out of the hot zone.”
Trevor did not respond as something caught his eye. More specifically, a flash of white fur moving between some of the left over dead buildings a hundred yards away. There he saw a familiar sight, albeit one he had seen less and less this past year.
A white wolf.
He mumbled, “I have to-I have to go,” and started along a path that led beyond the communications center toward the stretch of abandoned and burned buildings. Soldiers tried to follow, but Trevor raised a hand and Hauser reinforced the order by shaking his head. Hauser had come to know that on occasion The Emperor left to convene with unknown forces; a truth rarely spoken aloud but one the inner circle accepted.
The Rottweilers, however, remained in escort, following their master amid the cluster of buildings that had been destroyed a decade before when the alien forces first came to Earth. He led them through a blasted door frame and followed the wolf as it moved across what had once been an ornate reception area but only broken furniture and decaying walls remained.
Trevor followed down a corridor and into a wide round conference room. Rows of auditorium chairs arranged in a half circle faced toward an open area; no doubt a one-time briefing room for mission planning or training. The only light filtered in through a bank of partially broken but not completely smashed windows on the east wall that looked out upon a thick tangle of bushes and small trees.
The wolf sat at the feet of the Old Man who wore a black vest over a plain white shirt and a pair of faded blue jeans while sitting casually upon a dilapidated table that appeared far too weak to hold any weight. As Trevor had come to know, however, the mystical old man with the wrinkled cheeks, thin messy hair, and gray stubble did not exist in his world; not as he might think. Stone guessed him to be projection of a kind, for he left no footprints nor did his footfalls make any sound.
It had been the Old Man who eleven years prior had met Richard Stone in the woods outside his home and warned of his mission to survive, fight, and sacrifice for the good of mankind. It had been the Old Man who broke Trevor’s heart with the news that he and Nina Forest could not be together and the horrifying revelation that Stone’s mission revolved around one thing: murdering all the alien creatures on his planet.
Trevor suspected his hand in many things, including helping Trevor return from a parallel Earth and, before that, cluing humanity in on the existence of the runes; strange pillars that shut off alien reinforcements and provided a means to return the invaders to their home worlds.
Indeed, it seemed to Trevor that his benefactor had gone to great lengths to overcome several obstacles-apparently unfair ones-placed in humanity’s path by Voggoth.
Still, just last year the Old Man had happily suggested that Trevor and The Empire appeared certain to win on this Earth; one of many parallel Earths where each of the major species faced an onslaught. Things changed drastically since then. The Old Man rarely visited and did little more than bark encouragement at Trevor before dismissing him.
Unlike times past, the sight of the Old Man did not encourage Trevor or fill him with questions. Instead, he found himself annoyed at having been called away for what would certainly be pointless dialogue while a score of his soldiers lay dying on the airfield.
“Hey, Trevor! About time we had a little powwow, dontchya think?”
The Old Man’s seemingly jovial tone came as a surprise. Trevor approached between the rows of neglected seats while the Rottweilers remained behind guarding the door.
“What do you want now?”
In years past he would have craved a chance to pick the Old Man’s brain, despite being told on numerous occasions not to ask questions. Then, in the years since his return from that alternate Earth, Trevor had found comfort with the old-timer because he might be-whatever his true nature-the only entity in the universe that could understand Trevor’s plight.
“Now is that a way to go talkin’ to your ol’ pal? C’mon now, Trevvy, let’s sit down and you can tell me all ‘bout your plans to finish up the job you got here.”
Trevor stopped midway and cocked his head to one side.
“Huh? Finish up the job? What are you talkin’ about?”
“You gone crazy or sometin’ since the last time we chatted? Why I’m talkin’ ‘bout you kickin’ all the alien interlopers off this rock. Or have you decided to take an early re-tire-mint?”
The Old Man might well have suggested Trevor fly to the moon. Talk of kicking the aliens off the Earth sounded equally as out of place, considering the situation. After the invasion of California by The Order’s war machines, thoughts of victory had turned to thoughts of survival. Surely the Old Man knew as much?
“I think you’ve finally started to go senile. Do you know what’s happening out there?”
The Old Man had always known the situation, as if he watched the whole play unfold from some astrological balcony. Sometimes he knew the situation better than Trevor.
“What’s that, Trevvy? A little setback gotchya down?”
“Set back? Set back? Oh, my God, you’ve gone off the deep end.”
“Now, wait now, I hear what you’re saying. Okay,” the Old Man smiled, but it seemed an unsure smile. “You do have some problems, Trev. Better check your flanks. You got company comin’. Now I’m not supposed to be sharin’ that bit of info,” the mysterious entity winked, “but you and me have been known to push the old envelope of them rules now and again, right?”
“What are you-what are you saying? Does Voggoth have more forces coming at us?”
“Voggoth? You worryin’ your head about Voggoth? Sounds like you got those priorities of yours all messed up,” Trevor sensed a tone of desperation in the Old Man’s voice; something he had not heard since the time the Old Man had found out that Trevor loved Nina Forest. “He might have thrown a few monkey wrenches into things before and whatnot, but with all the shit you’ve got going he ain’t nothing but a footnote. You need to be watching out for the real problems maybe-hmmm…,” the Old Man leaned forward to whisper a secret he should not share, “…the Geryons and the Centurians. Maybe even them Chaktaw fellas, if you get my meaning.”
“What? Listen, I don’t know how long you’ve been napping but right now Voggoth is the only thing I’m worried about. He’s got-“
“Voggoth ain’t nothing! He’s insignificant! A token force! Just here to watch and keep us on our collective toes!” The sound of the Old Man shouting-a hysterical shout-knocked Trevor off balance. He had never seen such a reaction from his benefactor. This appeared more like…