“You can ride with me if you like, General.”
“No sir, thanks all the same. I need to make sure we get out of this.”
“I understand,” Stone said. “Fall back to Rye and then start east. We’re all headed for the Mississippi now, but it’s a mess. The Phillipan is holding them off but we’re not going to get much separation. I don’t know how long the rail lines will hold. Don’t get cut off, General.”
“I’ll do my best, sir.”
General William Hoth stood inside the ‘brain’ of the Phillipan. With the blast doors closed, artificial light flickered across the crescent-shaped bridge. With no view, the room felt isolated and alone. A bunker mentality, perhaps.
A round black scorch mark on the bulkhead protecting the bridge windows served as one reminder that much more existed-and threatened-from beyond that room. A second indicator came in the form of banks of flashing lights on the various duty stations around the bridge.
The technicians fielded incoming communications from weapons ports, engineering, medics, and damage control teams.
Hoth knew it all from his position, but even the advanced interfaces, displays, and intuitive controls could not keep the information deluge from overloading his attention. He allowed the bridge techs to dispatch the appropriate assistance to the various parts of the vessel while he concentrated on the tactical situation.
Besides, it served no purpose to focus on damage to any systems other than weapons. Hoth knew that sooner or later that damage would drown the ship’s ability to fight; to stay aloft. He needed to concentrate not on saving the Phillipan, but in causing as much harm to the enemy as possible.
Distant rumbles and faint tremors spoke of another strike by the storm of Spooks or from the guns of the blob-ish Chariot ships buzzing around the mighty dreadnought. Like piranha, they bit in small bites but in great number.
Incoming data told Hoth that only a handful of The Empire’s jet planes remained in the local air space, most of those fighting for their own survival and not capable of giving his vessel any sort of cover. But that same data told Hoth that The Order had given full priority to that airspace, and not the ground below.
Images from cameras mounted on the superstructure showed a growing line of separation between the retreating tanks, APCs, and trucks of the human army and the slithering, rolling, and hovering machines of destruction from Voggoth’s realm. Indeed, the toppled bodies of the two dead Leviathans created a barrier of sorts at the mouth of the mountain pass.
As he surveyed the ground below he spotted one of the coral-like platforms maneuver through that barrier. Hoth tapped a touch screen and a missile shot from the Phillipan’s undercarriage, twisted, turned, and then slammed into the artillery platform. The blast knocked the vehicle sideways and birthed a fire in its belly.
The radar warned of another wave of Spooks. It seemed The Order had prepared well for this battle.
An order from one of the bridge crew to a damage control team caught Hoth’s attention as a copy of the message flashed across his screen. He quickly pushed the ‘countermand’ icon.
“Sir! We need that team in engineering: main thrusters are off-line!”
Hoth re-routed the damage control party with a series of inputs that fed a broadcast to the computerized announcement system. Somewhere far below on one of the lower levels that small team of mechanics and engineers received new instructions to forget engineering and move toward the bow; toward the energy pools and firing mechanisms that fed the ‘bopper’ guns.
The general never felt compelled to explain any of his orders. Nonetheless, he felt it important-and fair to his crew-to paint a clear picture of the situation.
He spoke from the ‘brain’ module loud enough for all to hear, “We don’t need engines anymore. We need weapons and the anti-grav generators. All maintenance teams and services are to be held ready until they’re needed for those two systems. Our boys on the ground are counting on us to hold the line for a while. We’re not going anywhere.”
His crew did not gasp. The helmsman did not panic. The weapons officers and technicians remained focused on their consoles. A shake passed through the bridge as if to punctuate the point yet they took it in stride.
That pleased William Hoth, who had spent his entire life-both pre-and post-Armageddon-following orders and fighting. It seemed no small measure of his discipline and his focus had rubbed off on those who followed him.
No one saw, but for the briefest of moments a very warm and genuine smile of pride for his people flashed on the general’s face. While it would be the last battle of his military career, he also knew it would be the finest.
The Phillipan held a while longer.
Onboard Eagle One as it flew away from the battle, General Casey and Trevor monitored radio messages from the front.
Rhodes had managed to break off his attack and appeared destined to escape with nearly half of his force intact. Getting them from Rye to the Mississippi would prove a greater trick.
The main forces around Wetmore faired even better, in terms of their retreat. Hoth succeeded in blocking the onslaught by making a massive choke point in the Rockies formed in part by a wall of dead invaders. The remaining Leviathan had retreated west in order to avoid the Phillipan’s main batteries. Nonetheless, the day remained a defeat; just not the final defeat.
The video feed offered a telescopic look at the burning dreadnought. Even on the grainy image Trevor saw the deformed engine baffles, scorch marks along the sides, and flakes of bulkhead peeling away from the constant burst of explosions across the vessel. No doubt several infernos burned unchecked within the hull of the great ship.
“She’s still afloat, sir,” Casey said. Trevor thought he detected a hint of hope in the general’s voice. “We’ve disengaged, sir.”
“For now, yes,” Trevor answered. “But The Order is going to break through before this day is done. And then it’s going to become a race east. With the shape we’re in it might take a week to get behind the lines at the Mississippi. I’ll bet Voggoth won’t let us go quietly, either. He’ll be harassing us all the way trying to keep us from re-forming defense lines.”
“How much time do you think we have?”
Trevor answered, “That depends on Hoth.”
Late that afternoon, a Spook-guided missile, three times normal size, knocked out the Phillipan’s top side main batteries. A storm of ground-based anti-air fire managed to penetrate the hull and rupture several important power nodes a short while later.
An orange glow of fire burning across the flight deck complimented the orange glow of twilight as the sun set to the west. The flames from the giant air ship lit the landscape around Wetmore in a surreal amber glow.
By this point all smart munitions had been exhausted, leaving anti-air shells and handfuls of gravity bombs in the dreadnought’s arsenal. The Order sensed the weakness and made one last push through the pass.
It took two more hours to finish the job completely. Chunks of hull the size of buildings fell from the ship; gaping holes grew in the superstructure; and eventually the tower collapsed upon itself rupturing the bridge and tilting the entire burning ship on its axis.
Then the grav-generators failed one by one. The front third of the vessel split and fell to Earth where it crushed more than a hundred enemy troops. The rear section crumbled as the structural stress became too much even for the SteelPlus spine of the ship.
Eventually all power-even the self-contained back up units on the generators themselves-failed. The pieces fell and joined the mountain of debris between the pass through the Rockies and what remained of Wetmore, Colorado.
The Order’s soldiers-including the remaining, giant Leviathan-marched tentatively from the cover of the mountains and into the open. No enemy forces remained to oppose them.