Trevor studied the woman: vacant expression, her long black hair unkempt, bags under her eyes, chewed nails on fidgeting fingers. "Anita, what’s going on?" Her tired eyes widened as if forcing attentiveness. "Nothing. I’m fine. Omar is over reacting." "Over reacting? No, no, when have you been home last? When have you slept?" "I sleep. I catch an hour or two at the lab." Trevor jumped in, "Maybe you’re pushing yourself too hard. What’s going on?"
"I’m not pushing too hard! Damn it, just leave me alone. I’m close to something, Trevor. I’m close. We’re making breakthroughs."
He contradicted, "I’ve seen nothing new out of Red Rock in a while."
"You can’t put everything in a report. Some of it…some if it…"
Omar pleaded, "You see! She is exhausted. She is not even thinking straight."
Anita rebounded, "I’m on to something, Trevor. Do you hear me? I’m on to something. Those…those…" her eyes glazed as her mind drifted back to the underground corridors and labs and containment cells at Red Rock. "…those things from Voggoth’s realm…I’m getting a feel for them… something to them…something… familiar." "She is talking nonsense! Trevor, you must do something." "Yes," Stone agreed. "Anita, take the next week off." She reacted as if stung by electricity. "No! I have important work to do."
"It can wait," he ordered. "And if you can’t pull yourself away from your work to take a week with your family, then I’m going to place you on forced medical leave and make you go see a counselor or something. Got it?"
She slammed her mouth shut so fast the two men heard teeth click. Her eyes flared with anger for a long moment, to the point that Trevor felt uncomfortable. Then that anger faded. She placed a hand to her head and closed her eyes. "I’m…I’m sorry. Yes, you’re right. I need…I could use a break." Omar put an arm around his wife. Trevor said, "I’m ordering relaxation and family time." Omar smiled. "One of your better orders, I must be saying."
4. Invasion
Few aircraft appeared less aerodynamic than an Eagle shuttle. The front featured a pointy capsule with a thin window. To rear, a pair of engine baffles pushing hydrogen-generated thrust.
Like many of humanity's tools in the war, the Eagles came to Earth with one of the invaders and had been adapted for man's use thanks to the engineering genius of Omar Nehru.
Trevor occupied one of the two seats in the cockpit, the other manned by his personal pilot, Rick Hauser.
Hauser wore a pair of bulky goggles that tricked his eyes into thinking that he was the craft, not merely a passenger inside; a fusing of pilot and ship like nothing any human had experienced before.
While Hauser flew, Trevor stared out the cockpit window thinking about the coming battle now that The Cooperative had ignored his ultimatum.
Through that window he saw the ultimate example of confiscated alien equipment aiding the human cause. Thanks to the same anti-gravity technology that kept the Eagles aloft, the dreadnought Excalibur hung in the air two thousand feet above the blue waters of massive Walker Lake, Nevada just east of the Sierra Nevada Mountains.
The Excalibur presented an aggressive profile. The rounded lip at the bow of the rectangular behemoth marked the start of a flat top. The ‘tower’ section dominated the rear third, one side a gigantic aircraft hangar, on the other-to stern-terraced levels peppered with launch pads, gun barrels, antenna, observation windows, and more. A squat dome on the tower housed the bridge, or the ship's "brain."
Hauser eased the Eagle to a landing pad with little noise from the smooth engines. The shuttle turned and lowered with so little fuss that Trevor could imagine he road an elevator.
After touching down, the pad descended and the morning sun disappeared as a protective bulkhead shut overhead. Bright white lights illuminated a hangar complete with fuel hoses, technicians in gray coveralls, and a greasy floor. Had it been full of Chevrolets, it could pass for a corner garage. Trevor unbuckled his safety harness and stood. Before leaving he said to Hauser, "You’re briefed, right?" "Yes sir," the pilot answered. "We’ll be on standby if you need us."
As Trevor exited the cockpit and walked through Eagle One’s passenger compartment, his eyes darted to the specialized equipment that had replaced one row of seating. That equipment included two lockers holding special combat suits rigged to a charging station. There was also a weapons rack stocked with plasma rifles stolen from Duass infantrymen, a human-made M-4 carbine, a Chaktaw rail gun, and several pistols. Each held special meaning to Trevor and each offered a different way to kill.
A ramp extended from the ship's sliding side door to the floor of the bay. Tyr, who had been sleeping at the rear of the shuttle, trotted ahead and down the ramp.
The smell of grease and the sounds of tools and chatter filled the hangar. A water hose extended to refuel the hydrogen-powered shuttle.
Trevor entered the standby room. Rows of chairs, a large television, and plentiful storage compartments of spare parts, uniforms, fire suits, and other emergency gear lined the walls. There he met Woody "Bear" Ross, a one-time professional linebacker turned artillery commander by Stonewall McAllister and now the Excalibur's first officer. Trevor asked, "Anything?" The black man with the bull dog jowls usually spoke in a booming voice. This time, however, his voice sounded soft and sorry. "No, sir. I think they’re resolved to fight."
Trevor closed his eyes for a moment, took a deep breath, then exhaled slowly, letting all the reluctance and doubt and questions dissipate. He opened his eyes and hardened his jaw. "Launch the invasion." — Trevor stood on the crescent-shaped bridge of the Excalibur. Ahead of him stretched a gray wall with rectangular windows offering a breathtaking view of thousands of feet of flight deck reaching toward the bow.
Under those windows and along the outer walls sat workstations with computer screens, microphones, and electronic displays. In front of each of those stations labored technicians in black and gray coveralls, most with communicator headsets.
Every one busied themselves with checks and re-checks, status updates and reports. Yet, despite the intensity of their work, those busy technicians served as redundant cogs in a system controlled by a solitary individual.
Jon Brewer acted as the Excalibur’s ‘brain’ that morning. His station dominated the center of the control room on a slightly raised platform surrounded by handrails with a Captain’s chair waiting behind for those moments that allowed for rest.
He stood in a cone of colorful touch screens hanging from the ceiling with angled keyboards mounted in arm’s reach. He wore a headset combining a microphone with a visor that worked similar to the Eagles' Nav goggles and he carried a small electronic device that acted one part pointer and one part computer mouse.
All of the ship’s functions funneled through the 'brain.' Jon could control them directly or quickly delegate to any station on the bridge. To serve as the ‘brain’ of a dreadnought required quick reflexes and a thorough understanding of the ship's workings. Trevor fixed his eyes on the sky beyond the windows while the bridge crew shouted and discussed and hurried to war. "Alert five, Aardvarks and F-15s in the pipe." "Holding at angel two." "Grav-pult green, ready to smack." The chatter mixed and raised to a crescendo…and stopped. Trevor realized the crew waited for him. He turned to Jon. The brain removed his goggles and asked, "Go or no-go?" Humanity's Emperor shut his eyes.
After more than a year of preparation, months of negotiation, and hours of trepidation, the time had come. The decision rested on Trevor Stone’s shoulders. He could pull them away from the precipice if he chose. He could re-open negotiations. He could try to persuade.
Or he could continue the war he seemed cursed to fight. The war that served as his purpose, according to the Old Man.