Dante answered for Trevor, "Hey, the guy is a human being. Last I heard, we were taking in anyone who wanted to come over."

  "Enough," Trevor brought the meeting to a close. As he spoke he made eye contact with everyone around the table. "Jon, you’ve been working on plans for this for months. Coordinate with the stuff Gordon has lined up and let’s get ready. I’m going to put together an ultimatum, we’ll give them a few days, then we take care of this. Now let’s get moving. There’s a lot to do."

  Everyone gathered their papers and faded off toward the steps leading from the basement.

  As he headed for the stairs, Trevor saw Anita Nehru and Omar standing in a corner talking. Or, at least, Omar talking and Anita not listening.

  Trevor drifted over and asked, "What’s going on?"

  Over the years, Trevor heard all manner of sarcasm from Omar as well as excitement, puzzlement, and terror. Yet he had never seen an expression of such desperation on the man’s face. Worse, Omar spoke without a hint of his usual accent, suggesting a great deal of worry.

  "It is Anita. She has not been home to see the family in three weeks. She has been working non-stop at Red Rock. She does not call. She does not tell us anything."

  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.

  Trevor saw the bodies of Chaktaw fighters dangling upside down from makeshift crosses on the wastelands outside the city of Thebes on a parallel Earth. He saw himself relishing the slaughter only to learn that he fought on the side of the invaders; that every victory he won there had furthered Voggoth’s cause.

  Could he be so sure that striking at the California Cooperative served man’s interest?

  Trevor did not find the truth behind his closed eyes, but he did find the answer. The only answer he knew. There had been a time when he had known that answer with surety. Now he spoke the answer because he did not know any other way.

  "Attack."

  The chatter returned twofold

  Jon issued orders through key strokes and voice commands. Shouts around the bridge echoed those orders: "Condition Red. Battle stations. Battle stations."

  "This is Air Boss; Brain says smack the fighters. Repeat, get my birds off the deck."

  "Roger that, priority smack on the MiGCAP, two by two."

  Far below, the flight deck exploded into organized chaos. Men in magnetic boots raced across the tarmac. Navigation lights flashed. Klaxons warned of an erupting storm.

  At the rear of the flat top beneath the cover of the mammoth hangar, two horizontal bulkheads slid open, each at the end of a long strip of white runway lines.

  Two F-15s rose from those holes and hovered a few feet above the deck in the grip of the ‘gravity catapult’. Painted on their tail fins was a feminine arm holding a bolt of lighting.

  From his observation point high above, the Air Boss ordered, "Dasher One, Mother says smack your ass."

  The first F-15 catapulted forward, thrown by a current of gravity ‘smacking’ it off the flight deck into the air ahead of the Excalibur. The stressful maneuver would not have been possible without substantial structural upgrades and a corresponding gravity ‘magnet’ situated inside the jet's fuselage.

  As it cleared the deck, Dasher One banked hard to the left just as the Excalibur ‘smacked’ Dasher Two along a parallel runway.

  Seconds later another pair of planes felt a smack from ‘Mother’ on their own asses. The process continued until six F-15s circled in a holding pattern around the dreadnought.

  "Aardvarks, in the pipe."

  The F-111 tactical fighter-bombers had received a new life in the post-Armageddon world after having been all but retired from the United States arsenal. Two of the green-painted flyers rose to the deck and then sprung forward, shaking and rattling from the intense g-forces until swooshing into the clouds overhead the Excalibur. Moments after, another pair of Aardvarks joined the fleet flying overhead. "Air Boss to Thunder and Lightning, you’re good to go, happy hunting." The escorts took point and led the bombers west toward California. — "Dasher One to Thunder and Lightning, snuggle up folks we’re hitting the dead zone, watch your scopes."

  The formation of fighters and bombers flew through a perfectly blue sky high above the jagged, white-capped peaks of the Sierra Nevada mountains. The steady drone of engines and the crackle of radio chatter presented the only distractions in a mission that began without a hitch.

  As per Dasher One’s orders, the pilots tightened formation as they entered the estimated zone of effect for The Cooperative’s "Stealth Field" generated out of Beale.

  "Dasher One, this is Dash Two, my scope is clear."

  "That’s great, Billy."

  "No, Dash-One, I mean it. Clear."

  The female weapons officer on board the lead F-111 joined the conversation, "Dasher Two, this is Dash Seven, I read you, I got a cold nose. Nothing. Not even us."

  The veteran pilot who went by the call-sign Dasher One understood.

  "Christ, you’re right. Nothing. Hang on. Excalibur, this is Thunder and Lightning, we have total black out on our scopes. Nothing on radar. Not even each other."

  Another voice joined the air waves from an F-15 pilot on the far side of the formation: "Dash One, this is Dash Six, look twelve o’clock, is that a contrail?"

  "Easy bubba, let’s see…" A flash broke the formation as Dash Six exploded in a ball of metal and fire. The concussion rocked the planes. "Charlie Foxtrot! All planes, activate ECM! TACAN this is Dasher One we’ve got incoming!" "Dash One, this is Two, more coming at twelve. Christ! There’s nothing on my scopes!"

  " Excalibur, this is flights Thunder and Lightning, we have incoming missiles but nothing on our scopes. Taking evasive action." The planes broke formation. Electronic counter measures tried to fool incoming missiles fired from unseen assailants. "Dasher One this is Dasher Four, executing Yo-Yo…" "Dash Two-Billy, punch it and do a barrel roll, maybe we can get ‘em to over shoot."

  The planes split and raced up, down, and off. Afterburners glowed hot; thrust plastered pilots into cockpit seats and strained both men and machine.

  One then two of the enemy shots missed, a third clipped off the wing of Dasher Ten, an F-111. As the bird spiraled toward the spiked mountains below, the cockpit assembly separated with the pilot and weapons officer inside. A chute deployed and it descended into the unknown. Dasher One and Two completed their maneuvers and re-aligned. The other F-15s and F-111s found formation again. "Bogey! Bogey!" "Electric Jets at twelve o’clock coming in fast!" "Hit the burners!"

  The Imperial planes followed Dasher One’s orders and created maximum thrust on their afterburners. The sudden jolt of speed surprised the enemy flight of four black F-16s, once known as ‘electric jets’ to old school aviators.

  The opposing fighters roared by in a blur. Streams of jet wash rocked the passing planes like boats caught in wakes.

  "Dash Two, take Thunder flight and hit your primary target. Dash three, take my wing, four and five you two are married. Swing around, it’s time to bump heads."

  "Dash One, that’s a negative, you’ve got no scopes."

  "Follow orders, Billy, I don’t need a scope to splash these pricks. You got your orders."

  Dasher One executed a high-g turn about and ordered, "Find their tailpipes and use the heaters. Thunder, get your asses in gear. Every one else, snuggle up to these bandits we want a knife fight in a phone booth here."

  The F-16s held a huge advantage not only in radar but also in maneuverability. Their only chance was to use heat-seeking Sidewinder missiles at close range. "Dasher One this is Dash Seven, roger that, tallyho." Four of the F-15s closed ranks and sought targets. The three remaining F-111s followed Dasher Two’s fighter to the west. — Trevor shifted uneasily aboard the bridge of the Excalibur as the radio chatter echoed through the control room.

  The first question of the day had been answered: the California Cooperative’s stealth field worked as advertised. Imperial jets in the zone lost their radar, rendering radar-locking munitions ineffective and blinding them to the enemy. The fight played over the radio. "Dash One, Fox Two." "Dash Four, you’ve got one on you six." "Heater found its mark! Sierra Hotel! Splash one bandit!" "Roger that Dash One, Bravo Zulu." "Dash Four, turn to your…" "Dash Four is down. Mother send a Helo, I’ve got one of my boys in trouble." "Dash One, this is Dash Five, negative, I didn’t see a chute. He didn’t get out, man." "Dash Three, Fox Two, missile away." "Christ. This is one fucked up fur ball. I can’t see shit on my scopes! How the Hell we supposed to fight these guys?" "I’m hit! This is Dash Three, I got-" Static. "Three? Three? What’s your status?" "Dasher One this is Dasher Five, three is gone away, no chute." "Flight leader, Dash Five here, bandits bugging east, tell Mother company's coming." "Dasher one, Fox Two! Missile track…shit…missed."

  " Excalibur to Lightning Flight, disengage." "Lightning lead to Mother, you got bad guys heading your way." —

  Dasher Two led the three Aardvarks low and fast over the sharp peaks of the Sierra Nevadas. Those peaks became less pronounced and more green than white as the target approached.

  Billy-the F-15 pilot-knew the target zone from photographs and computer mock-ups salvaged from Pentagon records and maps. The older pilots in his group-guys like Dasher One who had been flying before 'all this'-told stories of mission planning that involved detailed satellite imagery and real-time Intel.

  Must be nice.

  Alas, military satellites were unreliable and rarely accessible. No more GPS-guided munitions, at least for the time being. Throw in the interference of the Stealth Field and that meant laser-guided and even gravity-'dumb'-bombs. Of course, the whole point of Thunder flight was to take out that Stealth Field. The target should be easy enough to hit: a big three-sided building resembling a 1970's stereo speaker.

  "Thunder, we need altitude. Let's grab some sky."

  Each plane gained altitude. While this made them easier marks for the defenses at Beale, it also allowed the gunners on the Aardvarks to better target their quarry.

  "Dash Two this is Dash Seven, we're locked and loaded just get us to the party."

  "Roger that," he answered her voice. "Make it count."

  The old PAVE-PAWS facility sat three miles east of an airport. It came in to view as the mountains faded away, replaced by trench-like mounds of rolling earth.