She spoke her orders aloud for the crew to hear but her fingers did most of the work.
"Charging the Belly Boppers to twenty-percent. Energy dispersal pattern set tight."
A digitalized readout reflected the amount of power to be turned into destructive energy. The Chrysaor's energy weapons had come from the seed of alien rifles taken during the battle for Wilkes-Barre that first winter of the invasion, and utilized the same principle when it came to power: the more the weapons charged, the greater the destruction to the target.
Kristy had served as the Chrysaor's captain since its christening six months ago. Now she would see through the purpose for her ship. With Cooperative units falling apart across the country, their leadership dead, and their Witiko allies surrendering in droves to Internal Security, the battle at Carmel Valley seemed likely to be the last.
At least she hoped so. To visit this type of destruction upon any enemy-particularly a human one-required a reason. A good reason.
"Weapons charged. Burst pattern confirmed. Target area locked. Firing."
Death came in two massive blobs of incinerating energy hitting the ground and splashing out in glowing waves. The beautiful bungalows fell apart like sandcastles in a tornado and acres of forest charred and fell as if discarded matchsticks.
Having ordered the attack, General McAllister felt obligated to ride in with the first wave of infantry to secure the area, although he knew 'securing' would mean little more than sweeping up the ashes. As he approached on horseback, he realized there may not even be ashes remaining.
Small fires erupted from secondary explosions and a dirty haze hung over the target area. No walls remained intact. Ash and dirt fluttered on the wind like a warped ticker-tape parade in celebration of Lucifer. The temperature rose to nearly one-hundred degrees as the ground radiated residual heat from the energy weapon.
"Oh my," the General gasped as he surveyed the destruction.
He maneuvered his horse to the circular pavement that had once led to the main entrance, the pieces of which now rested in a smoldering pile. McAllister directed his horse at a slow trot, his sword jingled as he moved.
Such a complete victory should have elicited celebration, but these had been humans.
A breeze blew in and pushed some of the smoke off, revealing acres of green turned black and brown. Flames flickered in the distance. Puffs of smoke rose from heaps of leveled buildings. Far away, a tree line at the base of a hill marked the limit of the Chrysaor's fury, a line between destroyed woods and healthy forest.
Gunfire reverberated through the smoky air. Benny Duda galloped to the General's position. He held a radio to his ear until he stood alongside Stonewall's horse.
"Sir, we've got survivors up on the east ridge taking pot shots at us. Must've been out of the blast radius but Kaufman says she can't spot them on the infrared, too much residual heat from the boppers."
"Very well, Benjamin," Stonewall said. "Let's get over there and root them out."
At that moment, the leather reigns fell from General McAllister's hands, he slumped forward, and pin wheeled off the saddle, landing hard on the charred-black ground. A sharp pop slapped the air. Benny Duda watched, confused over what he just saw while the General's escort dismounted with carbines drawn. "Sniper! Sniper!" "Gen…General..?" Benny eased from the saddle. Stonewall rolled over on his back. Benny knelt and lifted the General's head. In the distance, more gun fire erupted. More shouts.
"Oh dear," Stonewall stared toward the sky as if trying to find the blue on the far side of the debris cloud. "Benjamin, I believe I have been shot."
A red stain pushed through the heavy fabric of the Old Mist colored uniform Garrett McAllister dressed in since the day Armageddon chased away the alcoholic in favor of a noble, courageous gentlemen.
A soldier shouted, "Medic!"
Benny Duda sobbed, "You'll…you'll be okay."
"Ben…," he licked his lips. "Benny, please do give my sword to Trevor Stone. Per-perhaps it can still serve him in some capacity. There is so much left to do."
Stonewall reached up with one gloved hand. Benny grabbed tight.
"Hold on…hold on, General."
"It's okay, Benny. It's okay. I have," he coughed. His eyes closed for a moment, then opened wide again. "I believe I have…paid my penance. My family…my family will be waiting for me. I expect I shall do much better this time."
"General… please…"
"Yes…I can see them now…"
7. Requiem
Eagle One sat amidst the ruins of the Carmel Valley Ranch Resort a few hours after the death of Stonewall. His soldiers-the shock finally setting in-shuffled across the smoky wasteland like zombies.
Captain Benny Duda walked up the ramp and met Trevor inside the passenger module of the transport.
"Sir, it was the General's wish that I present you with his sword. He felt that you may yet have some use for it."
Trevor stared at the brass hand guard and pommel of the weapon. Benny held it across both hands with his palms up and his head bowed.
"Benny…I'm sorry."
"The General wished you to have this," Duda repeated.
Trevor sensed that Benny Duda wanted to ask if the missile strike on L.A. might have cost Stonewall his life. He wanted to know if the destiny Trevor Stone served really demanded that men fight other men.
As he felt the cool metal in his hand, Trevor realized how much time had passed since he visited Stonewall. During the early days of Armageddon, he and Garrett often conversed. As the group of survivors grew into "The Empire," Stonewall became a distant leader out in the battlefields fighting the war Trevor directed.
Trevor realized how much he would miss General Stonewall McAllister as he placed his friend's sword on the rack of weapons aboard Eagle One so that he would never forget the troubled, eccentric gentleman who had become a legend.
– The cherry blossoms no longer bloomed in Washington D.C., having been the preferred snack of alien herbivores in the years between the collapse of the United States government and The Empire's liberation of the city.
It would not have mattered. Even the bursts of color and sweet scent of cherry trees could not chase away the gloom coating the town on the afternoon of May 1 ^ st.
Despite the successful end of the California war and regardless of the bright spring day, the crowds along the national mall gathered in great sadness to bid farewell to the most beloved General in man's army.
A horse-drawn cart carried Garrett McAllister's coffin to the stairs of the refurbished Capitol building. Draped over his last vessel was a black flag featuring a hand holding a sword in angry defiance of the alien invaders.
Washington hosted thousands of mourners coming from across the emancipated lands, as far as Miami to the south and Maine to the north. Such a relatively small gathering would have barely caught the attention of the old media back in times when demonstrators by the hundreds of thousands would sometimes mass in the streets of Washington. However, in terms of the new world, some ten thousand onlookers seemed like a mass of humanity.
Canine Grenadiers flanked the route, their noses and ears scanning for threats. Behind the funeral cart followed the larger-than-life figures who held the reigns of The Empire, but who somehow looked very small in comparison to the image of the fallen General.
Trevor held one of his wife's hands as they walked, his blond-haired eight-year-old son held her other hand. To their sides and behind trailed the council including the Brewers, Omar Nehru, Dr. Maple, Dante Jones, Eva Rheimmer, and Brett Stanton as well as General Shepherd and Ray Roos who served as Trevor's personal Chief of Security.