The missiles flew straight and true. The alien vessel either did not know that death fast approached or lacked any countermeasures. Ross, watching through telescopic lenses, yelled, "First one is a hit…it's smoking. Wait…second hit. And the third. Damn, that Got em! They're in pieces, no chance of survivors."
The blip disappeared from the scope. Jon visualized chunks of debris twisting and falling to the wilderness below.
Cheers erupted around the bridge but not from Jon Brewer. He knew what had happened. He knew the damage had already been done.
The General left the radar station and returned to the Brain area. Woody Ross did not cheer, either. In fact, he absolutely scowled as one finger pressed an earpiece tight.
"What? What is it?"
"Communication from Ray Roos. Trevor Stone is dead."
10. Wrath
The forty-acre tract of land called Highland Beach jutted out into the Chesapeake Bay a few miles southeast of Annapolis. The tiny municipality originated as a getaway for affluent blacks from the Washington D.C. area in the early 20 ^ th Century. That unique identity had been fairly diluted by the time Armageddon and Hivvan occupation arrived. Many of the resort homes and businesses burned to ashes during those dark years prior to liberation.
On top of the ruins, The Empire built the Southern Command facility to help prosecute the war against the Hivvans. From there, General Jerry Shepherd had directed tens of thousands of human forces, armored columns, and air assets against the lizard-like aliens until breaking the enemy's back at Atlanta.
As the war moved west, the Southern Command morphed from active headquarters to communication station and training facility.
For Nina Forest and the Dark Wolves, the vertical landing pads and communications office off Bay Drive served as a muster point prior to missions. They would usually catch an Eagle or a chopper from there and fly either to a larger airport or a dreadnought. The flattened rubble to the north of the facility also provided grounds for tactical training and weapons ranges.
When news surfaced mid-afternoon that Trevor had been badly wounded during an alien assassination attempt, Captain Nina Forest followed her first instinct and gathered her gear, caught a bus from her apartment complex to the transportation hub on Douglas Avenue at Highland Beach, then jogged passed the beach to the old Southern Command buildings.
The entire process-from saying goodbye to Denise to walking in the front doors at the center-lasted half an hour. Yet in that time, things changed drastically.
Nina, a duffle bag thrown over one shoulder and her M-4 cradled on the other, staggered away from the building after learning that nothing more remained to be done.
She moved along the shaded sidewalk with the plan of returning to the transportation hub. On the far side of the short beach the gentle waters of the Chesapeake lapped to shore. A series of rotting wood posts marched out into the surf, all that remained of a dock washed away long before Highland Beach burned.
A small park with rusty playground equipment stood vacant under a warm afternoon sun. Charred branches and logs lay in circles around the rim of the park. Nina knew that kids-kids like Denise and her boyfriend Jake-came here at night to build campfires.
Her legs weakened. Nina accepted the invitation of an empty bench and sat facing the swooshing waters.
It came at her unexpectedly: a powerful, unstoppable surge of sadness forming a horrible rock of despair in her stomach and sending a quiver across her body. She dropped her bag with a thump on the sand at the edge of the beach and set the M-4 down. A breeze carrying the scent of salt blew by and seagulls cawed over the water oblivious to the tragedy of the day.
Trevor Stone had died after suffering a direct hit from an energy weapon. He had been dead, in fact, before arriving at the hospital but Dr. Maple explained to the press that he had wanted to exhaust every avenue of treatment before abandoning hope.
Nina's face fell into her hands. Her breath came in labored gasps. Her eyes squeezed shut.
Nina Forest wept not only for the loss of a great leader but for something more. Something personal. She did not know what or why, but as she absorbed the news of Trevor's death she felt she lost a part of herself.
– Gordon Knox lived in many places over the course of his life. From the Watergate hotel in Washington D.C., to the American embassy in South Korea to Camp Pennsylvania, Kuwait, Knox had toured his share of living spaces in locales both exotic and dull.
Nonetheless, if asked where he called home, Knox's answer would be Miami, Florida. He had lived his first twelve years in South Florida before his father's military assignments led the family elsewhere. He moved there again during the early 90s as part of his 'job'. And while he returned to the greater D.C. area prior to the invasion, his heart lingered in Dade County.
Unfortunately for Knox, his post-Armageddon position as Director of Intelligence meant residing in northeastern Pennsylvania. However, he found a slice of home a mere fifteen miles from the lakeside estate: a one-story Mediterranean style house with a glass-enclosed lanai complete with heated pool, pastel colors, ceiling fans and lots of glass. Whoever built this home in the old world shared Gordon's love of all things Floridian.
The place sat on an acre in a secluded valley among a cluster of mini-mansions, most only partially constructed when Armageddon hit and all currently unoccupied, hence earning his neighborhood the nickname of "Knoxtown."
On the day Trevor Stone died, a malaise overcame The Empire. Those in the larger cities gathered around televisions hypnotized by repeating video of their slain leader. In the smaller towns, the local gathering spots (from bars to churches) filled with groups who spoke in hushed whispers and waited to see what would come next.
That malaise infected Gordon, too. He returned to Knoxtown and took a front row seat to sunset on the lanai with a dusty bottle of Makers Mark bourbon. He could have felt sorry for himself. He could have wondered what would become of him without Trevor. Yet nothing like that entered his mind. As Gordon came to grips with the loss of Stone, he came to understand one thing above all else: he had lost a friend. So he sat there, eyes fixed on sunset, glass in hand, and a tear running down his cheek. — General Thomas Prescott exited a Blackhawk helicopter at LAX and boarded an armor-plated Humvee. His motorcade worked its way to the coast as late afternoon turned toward evening.
While all appeared quiet, Prescott kept in close contact with Brewer and the military council in an attempt to prepare for any contingency, particularly the notion that the assassination served as a preamble for an attack.
Nevertheless, he was quite unprepared for what he saw along the streets of California. People-not all, but some-stood on those streets and cheered, pumping their fists and waving special edition newspapers announcing EMPEROR DEAD!
For a moment-one quick and fleeting moment-Prescott felt the urge to stop the convoy and let bullets fly. Who were these people to cheer the death of the person who had pulled humanity from the brink of extinction?
That moment passed as Prescott remembered that, to some of these people, Trevor Stone would not be remembered as hero or a leader, but as a conqueror. General Thomas Prescott's motorcade drove for his beachfront headquarters where he would guard the Pacific Coast. -
Jorge Benjamin Stone, dressed in blue race car pajamas, stood straight and still alongside his small bed, staring at his mother. In his arms he held a well-worn stuffed bunny-an Easter gift from Jon Brewer many years ago-partially wrapped in a red and white blanket. Ashley hovered nearby, waiting for a reaction. Jorge
turned away, crawled into bed, and pulled the blankets over his eyes. — A STATEMENT FROM EVAN GODFREY, PRESIDENT OF THE IMPERIAL SENATE FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE, ALL MEDIA OUTLETS