Strategic Bombing Historiographical Paper (2006)

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So remember when I said I had reading list?  Well, I can do even better than that–I have an entire historiographical paper about the Allied Bombing Campaign in World War II.  It’s a bit dated (I wrote it back in 2006), but the end notes and bibliography have more than enough things to get a person started.

Warning:  This is a paper.  So if you’re planning on reading it in one go, the little counter on the bottom tells me this thing is over 11,000 words long.  Plan accordingly.

 

 

 

 

Destruction From The Heavens:

A Historiographical Examination of the United States Army Air Force’s Bombing Campaign Against Nazi Germany

 

by

 James Young

20 April, 2006

 

 

 

 


Introduction

            Noted military analysts James F. Dunnigan and Albert Nofi, in their book Dirty Little Secrets of World War II, justifiably dubbed their subject conflict “the most enormous human drama in history.”[1]  Taking place in or around all six of the world’s inhabitable continents, involving naval battles on all of its oceans, and with military and political consequences that continue to the present day, this conflict has had a direct or indirect influence on every human being alive since 1939.  Begun with a madman’s aggression, containing the epitome of man’s inhumanity to man, and concluded with the sun’s power let loose with the atomic pyres of Hiroshima and Nagasaki, the Second World War saw numerous examples of humanity’s bravery, cowardice, and cruelty to his fellow man.  Many of these instances took place within controversial campaigns conducted both by the Allied and Axis Powers, as both sides conducted their mortal struggle for victory.

Prominent amongst these campaigns is the Combined Bomber Offensive against Nazi Germany, Great Britain and America’s attempt to render Nazi Germany prostrate via airpower.  The breadth and depth of the Royal Air Force’s (RAF’s) effort has led to an extensive and diverse historiography.  Unfortunately, this historiography is divided on the start date of the RAF’s dedicated attacks, making it difficult to conduct a truly effective study.  In addition, the RAF’s actions, unrepentant emphasis on “area bombing,” and lack of documentation comparable to the United States Strategic Bombing Survey (USSBS) make any attempt to provide even a partial historiographical survey a labor on par with a full doctoral thesis or mass-market book project.[2]  Taking place at night, with targets that were both morally and physically ambiguous, Bomber Command’s efforts remain emotionally charged to the present day, with names such as Dresden and Hamburg mentioned nearly as often as Auschwitz and Dachau in the detailing of World War II’s horrors.

In contrast, the United States Army Air Force’s (USAAF’s) campaign is relatively tidy and clearly defined, if only slightly less controversial.  Conceived in the Interwar Period (1919-1939), American air doctrine was a mix of European (e.g., Douhet and Trenchard) and domestic (e.g., Billy Mitchell) theorists combined with American technological prowess (e.g., Norden bombsight) and self-confidence.  Taught primarily at the Air Corps Tactical School located at Maxwell Field in Montgomery Alabama, USAAF doctrine emphasized the superiority of the four-engined bomber over likely opposition.  Bombers, it was believed, flew too fast for contemporary interceptors to catch and too high for anti-aircraft artillery (AAA, or “flak”) to hit.  These machines’ crews, all but invincible from enemy interference, were expected to place their bombs on critical enemy nodes such as transportation centers, bridges and, most importantly, the industry that supplied and maintained ground forces.  Rather than facing the horrors of an attritional ground war, 1930’s USAAF leadership taught that America’s aircraft would knock any likely opponents out of a major conflict with a few well-placed salvoes of high-explosive delivered in mass daylight raids.[3]

America’s entry into World War II brought an opportunity for this doctrine to be executed against Nazi Germany.  Utilizing Great Britain as its primary base, the USAAF organized the 8th Air Force to place doctrine into practice.  Despite the cautionary warnings of their RAF counterparts, themselves roughly handled in a little over two years of offensive daylight operations, the USAAF believed its pair of four-engined bombers, the B-17 Flying Fortress and B-24 Liberator, were equipped with sufficient firepower to look after themselves.  This view had some merit, as the most common British four-engined bombers, the Stirling, Halifax, and Lancaster were lightly armored and carried eight or nine rifle caliber machine guns in order to maximize their bomb load.[4]  In contrast, both the Flying Fortress and Liberator carried ten to thirteen heavy machine guns, heavy armor, and flew higher and faster than their British counterparts.  Although both American aircraft carried a much smaller bombload than the RAF aircraft, USAAF leaders believed that this was offset by their increased accuracy by operating in daylight conditions and by using the Norden bombsight.[5]

As this survey will show, this campaign’s numerous issues remain contentious.  However, there are many facts that are not in dispute and these will be recounted here.  The United States Army Air Corps began carrying out daylight raids beginning with the August 17, 1943 attack on Rouen, France.  This raid, carried out in daylight, was the beginning of twenty-two months of unremitting aerial combat, culminating with an April 25, 1945 raid on Pilsen, Czechoslovakia.  During this period, in accordance with USAAF doctrine, technological development, and moral considerations the 8th and 15th Air Forces conducted numerous raids against Nazi Germany’s critical infrastructure.  From the dozen aircraft that penetrated Occupied France to Rouen, the American raids grew in strength to great thousand bomber hammer blows falling the length of Germany by 1945.  Combined, the two units flew hundreds of missions, dropped over 1.5 million tons of bombs and, combined with their RAF compatriots, thoroughly wrecked Nazi Germany’s major cities and industrial infrastructure.[6]

In the course of delivering this wholesale destruction, the 8th “lost 26,000 men, representing a loss rate of 12.4 percent…the highest casualty rate of any of the US armed forces in the Second World War.”[7]  Combined with the 15th Air Force’s roughly 16,000 losses, the more than 42,000 dead and missing represented over 10% of the United States’ military losses in World War II.  In monetary terms, the USAAF’s bombing campaign cost America over six billion 1945 dollars in airframe costs and expenditures alone, with infrastructure, personnel, and other costs adding much more to this total.[8]  As if such loss expressed in raw numbers were not terrible enough, there remains the additional human costs incurred whenever a nation loses a large number of men whose intelligence, drive, and idealism were the primary reason they found themselves first in the USAAF, then in the skies over Nazi Germany, and finally falling to earth in blazing, shattered aircraft.  In order to bring war to Nazi Germany and her populace, America paid an extensive price in blood and treasure both before and after the first U.S. Army ground soldier set foot in occupied Europe.  Such a massive investment, even without the moral ramifications of dropping ordnance on nominal non-combatants, was almost certain to generate a large degree of study and examination.  This began almost immediately after World War II with the USSBS and continues via general publications to the present day.  These works fall into four broad areas of focus: effectiveness of the campaign as a whole; effects of American bombing on cities and civilians; German defensive countermeasures and their efficacy; and historical studies of specific units (e.g., the 8th Air Force) and aircraft (e.g., the B-17 bomber).

A few representative works should help the reader understand the general parameters of these fields.  An example of a book that addresses the American bombing campaign specifically is Stewart Halsey Ross’s Strategic Bombing by the United States in World War II, while a work that addresses it within the larger framework of World War II aerial warfare is Walter J. Boyne’s Clash of Wings.[9]  Herman Knell’s To Destroy A City and A.C. Grayling’s Among the Dead Cities are two examples of works that focus on the campaign’s effects on German urban centers.[10]  The German fighter force, the Jagdwaffe, has inspired several works that cover its various personalities and equipment, with Michael Spick’s The Luftwaffe Fighter Aces and Trevor J. Constable & Colonel Raymond F. Toliver’s Horrido! comprising some of this subject’s best works.[11]  As for the ground complement of the Reich’s defenses, Edward B. Westermann’s Flak: German Anti-Aircraft Defenses, 1914-1945 is the only English language volume that focuses primarily on this topic.[12]  Finally, there remains a large number of books that focus on specific units, with the 8th Air Force as a whole being represented the most heavily.  For the Allies, the venerable B-17 has the most aircraft-specific texts devoted to it, while the ubiquitous Me-109 has received the most interest amongst those airframes piloted by the Jagdflieger.

Overall, all four types of texts share several critical flaws.  First, they utilize different metrics to define success or failure when discussing the USAAF daylight offensive.  At best, these manipulations of German and American data are a brilliant example of Mark Twain’s famous commentary on statistics and untruths.[13]  At worst, they are extremely poor instances of authors allowing their personal bias to overcome their scholarly responsibilities.  This bias, either for or against the American bombing campaign specifically or Allied bombing as a whole, is the second major defect in the current historiography.  Advocates of bombing usually fall prey to the third failing, an overemphasis on the American bombing campaign’s effect on the Jagdwaffe in particular and the Luftwaffe as a whole from January 1944 to May 1945.  More importantly, both sides share the fourth major defect of these works, that of stating an unequivocal moral position without adequately addressing or disproving the ethical arguments of the opposing side.

The USAAF’s Campaign In General Histories

            Texts which address the USAAF’s campaign against Germany as part of a larger history of World War II prominently display all four of these flaws.  This larger group, in turn, can be divided into two sub-groups.  The first of these, published prior to 1976, were prepared without knowledge of the Allies’ cryptographical success against the German’s Enigma codes, commonly known as Ultra.  As such, they usually give American leadership a relatively easy time for costly missions such as Ploesti, Regensburg, and Schweinfurt.  An example of this phenomenon can be found in Edward Jablonski’s Tragic Victories, one of many works produced by this author.[14]  In the introduction, Jablonski states “[g]reat plans were devised, carried out with incredible valor, and then…discovered [not to have] quite worked out as planned.”[15]  Jablonski’s further discussion of the great travails of 1943 then proceeds to emphasize the tremendous virtues of the Allied aircrews with nary a mention of their leaders’ cold-blooded decision to send them into growing fighter defenses even with full knowledge of the Germans’ strength.[16]

Despite the fact that the 8th Air Force’s aircrews understood that theirs was a dangerous business, it is unlikely that many of them would have regarded their superiors’ callousness in the same sanguine manner of Jablonski.  Utilizing aggressive, stirring prose, Jablonski portrays these costly and bloody raids as partial successes, in each case pointing out that the countermeasures required of the Germans were “almost equally effective” to direct hits.[17]  In reality, as ULTRA made painfully aware to the American and British leaders, the effect of all the 1943 raids was far from that commonly accepted at the time or before the full ULTRA intercepts were made available.  Jablonski and his contemporaries, through no fault of their own, were making historically inaccurate assumption based upon faulty Allied data.  Unfortunately, this makes use of their works far from optimal for most historians.

Making these works still less suitable for current use is their overwhelming bias in favor of the Allied bombing campaign as a whole.  In his first Airwar volume, Terror From the Sky, Jablonski begins to lay the groundwork for his relentless drumbeat of justification for the ensuing mayhem that would descend on Germany courtesy of the USAAF and RAF.[18]  First, on page 17, Jablonski outlines a list of names that would come “to stand for…fiery desolation from the air” that ends with London.[19]  Making allowances for Jablonski’s knowledge that he was planning on producing three more works on the Second World War’s aerial combat, the fact remains that his ending with London, especially at the end of a section on the Luftwaffe’s destruction of Guernica, clearly indicates a pro-Allied bias in his work.  This is made more manifest by the amount of time devoted to discussing the human impacts of the German raids on England during the Battle of Britain and subsequent Blitz versus the near-celebratory tone given to the detailing of German and Japanese catastrophes such as Hamburg, Dresden, and Tokyo.  Jablonski, by virtue of his decision-making, seems to indicate the death of a young bride at a British hat factory was far more important than the extermination of over 50,000 Germans within the Hamburg firestorm.[20]  Jablonski is unapologetic in his bias, going so far as to entitle one of his chapters “Reap the Whirlwind,” a reference to an earlier alliteration to the Germans having “sewn the wind” with their attacks on Great Britain.[21]  Arguments such as these, in addition to being poorly constructed, do little to advance scholarly discussion of the American and British campaigns.

Works written after 1976 that address the campaign as part of the larger war effort correct many of the mistakes made by Jablonski and his contemporaries, however.  The post-ULTRA authors, for the most part, acknowledge the grave errors made by the 8th Air Force’s commanders from 1943 to 1944.  Richard Overy gives these mistakes the fairest treatment, stating that the American aerial commanders had “ignored Clausewitz at their own peril” in determining to strike at German industry without first making a concerted effort to reduce the defending forces, specifically the Jagdwaffe.[22]  Stephen Budiansky expounds on this error in his work Air Power, pointing out that American commanders such as General Carl Spaatz “inhabit[ed] a fantasyland” with regards to their beliefs on 8th Air Force crews effectiveness in the face of enemy fire and acceptance of “outlandish claims by B-17 gunners” with regards to destruction of Jagdwaffe fighters.[23]  Having delivered this rather forceful broadside, Budiansky then proceeds to outline the numerous errors committed by the USAAF hierarchy, such as delaying drop tanks for escort fighters, as well as the necessity of changing both doctrine and leaders in order to make the 8th Air Force much more effective.[24]

The assessment of this increased effectiveness, however, still lacks a single working metric.  Budiansky discusses the increased accuracy of the 8th Air Force towards the end of 1944 and into 1945 (with accompanying chart) as well as the effect of the oil shortage on the Wermacht as a whole and the likely effects if such an oil offensive had been begun earlier. [25]  Overy similarly addresses the oil but also discusses the effects of the campaign on Axis morale, German industrial output, and the Combined Bombing Offensive’s general effect on the conduct of the war.[26]  Boyne also discusses the impact of the American (later joined by the RAF) emphasis on oil production, yet does not conclude this argument in the same forceful manner of Overy and Budiansky.  All three men discuss a myriad of percentages, numbers, and tonnages, but the reader must often make the extrapolatory leap to understand that this was perhaps a vindication of the pre-war emphasis on precision bombing.

Even with the marked improvement on the pre-ULTRA works, post-ULTRA books still demonstrate a clear bias towards American (and by extension, Allied) efforts.  This becomes apparent through their clinical treatment of the German populace as well as their overemphasis on the USAAF’s daylight fighters’ effectiveness.  Boyne and Budiansky dehumanize the tremendous suffering that the Combined Bombing Offensive wrought upon the average German civilian, with Budiansky’s inadvertent comparison of killing sheep and civilians particularly unfortunate.[27]  Overy is far more humane, pointing out the grinding morale degradation caused by Allied bombing as a whole, with the unremitting pressure placed upon the German populace by the RAF and USAAF combined being almost palpable in his description.[28]  Unfortunately, the preponderance of general histories, both on World War II as a whole or aerial combat therein, lean more towards Boyne and Budiansky than Overy.  Perrett’s Winged Victory makes few mentions of German civilians, while works such as James L. Stokesbury’s A Short History of World War II presents these dead as faceless numbers with the exception of Hamburg and Dresden’s unfortunate denizens.[29]  It would appear, in most general histories, that a German citizen had to be caught in the howling maw of a firestorm in order to be worthy of close examination.

Under the Tonnage: The German Populace’s Experience

            This error is more than compensated for in those works that focus on the plight of German civilians.  Bridging the gap between the mainly technological focus of those books already examined and those which concentrate almost wholly on the German populace are the aforementioned work by Stewart Ross and Conrad Crane’s Bombs, Cities, and Civilians: American Airpower Strategy In World War II.  Both works, while ostensibly focused on the American bombing campaign, spend as much time discussing the effect American bombing had on civilians, both German and Japanese, as in discussing the technical means by which such bombing was delivered.

Of the two, Crane’s book is far more objective, as he carefully details the development of American doctrine, the attitude of the USAAF’s leaders and their military and civilian leadership, the American populace, and American airmen.  Crane follows this with a discussion of the hardware of the American campaign, concentrating first on bombing aids then on the bombs themselves.  Throughout he displays the gradual erosion of USAAF concerns with regards to civilian casualties, culminating with the easy acceptance of blind-bombing via radar through cloud cover in Europe and subsequent area bombings in Japan.  The reader is left with the sense that the USAAF came into World War II full of idealism and a general desire to carve out Germany’s industrial heart with a minimum of what later leaders would euphemistically call “collateral damage.”  Unfortunately, as Crane shows, this idealism was quickly fatally compromised.  First, through their tacit acceptance of British area attacks, to the point where USAAF leadership “continually discouraged any public criticism of British obliteration raids,” America’s military leaders fully condoned the actions of their rather more ruthless ally.[30]  Second, by making a distinction between raids on German-occupied countries and Germany itself in several directives, the USAAF implied that it was not overly concerned with those German civilians that ended up under bombs which missed their target.[31]  Lastly, as Crane neatly summarizes, the “attitudes of American leaders towards the bombing of urban areas were affected to varying degrees by concerns for ethics, efficiency, and public relations.”[32]  American bomber commanders, confronted by the growing lists of casualties and under pressure to end the war, likely did not overly concern themselves with dead citizens of the Reich be they factory worker, woman, elderly, or even child.

They did not, however, seek to murder these individuals wholesale, either.  It is on this very important point that historian Stewart Halsey Ross’s work immediately founders.  Strategic Bombing by the United States in World War II: The Myths and the Facts casts the USAAF leadership as a gathered band of homicidal men bent on establishing a separate air force on the bones of Germany and Japan’s civilians.  In contrast, Ross casts Adolf Hitler and, by extension, Nazi Germany as a nation that regularly abided by the treaties it signed.  Strategic Bombing notes that “Hitler proposed in 1935 and again a year later a universal agreement that aerial bombardment should be restricted to a zone of military operations,” then follows this with an observation that the RAF refused as such an agreement would conflict with its nascent bomber doctrine.[33]  Ross also ensures the reader is aware that the reader is aware that Adolf Hitler was the first leader to respond to President Franklin Roosevelt’s call for a public declaration against the bombing of civilian targets in 1939.  Finally, he portrays Great Britain as the builder of “the most aggressive fleet of big bombers in Europe” while simultaneously emphasizing Germany’s “tactical” bombers, thus implying that Britain’s air marshals, like their USAAF counterparts, sacrificed the possibility of a clean, sanitary air war on the altar of decisive aerial bombardment.[34]

Ross culls these facts from official documents, unit histories, and previous completed works.  As with the remaining statistics, quotations, and excerpts that compose his argument, they seem quite sound in isolation and build a credible case if taken alone.  Unfortunately, the untidy remainder of World War II serves to completely undermine this carefully constructed argument.  Hitler’s subsequent conduct at Munich in 1938 and the ultimate outcome of the Maximov-Ribbentrop treaty are but two of the myriad examples of the Nazis’ duplicity, thus making any 1935 diplomatic overture highly suspect.  With regards to civilian targets, even if one discounted the Condor Legion’s assault on the Spanish town of Guernica in 1936, the fact remains that German Stukas were likely strafing fleeing Polish refugees even as the Fuhrer was positively responding to Roosevelt’s request.  While these actions could be attributed to a few overzealous Luftwaffe pilots, the subsequent bombings of Warsaw, Rotterdam, and London clearly indicates that such actions were not an anomaly.  Finally, the Battle of Britain shows that the Luftwaffe’s bombes, while “tactical” in conception, were readily applied to strategic tasks at a whim.  These facts are readily available to the casual student of World War II history, and their omission indicates that Ross may have sacrificed accuracy in the interest of bolstering his argument.

Unfortunately for students of the Allied Bomber Offensive, such bias appears to be the norm for works concentrating on German civilians’ fate during World War II.  Amateur historian Herman Knell, author of To Destroy A City, examines the American and British offensive from an altogether different perspective than the other authors studied—that of a “dehoused” survivor.  This experience, as well as Wurzburg Germany’s relative anonymity in other books dealing with the American and British offensives, appear to be the main impetus behind the completion of To Destroy a City.  In the introduction, Knell recounts that Wurzburg is one of the “three most ravished cities in Europe” at the end of World War II.[35]  This lists exclusion of non-German cities makes it somewhat suspect, but Knell supports this controversial statement with the observation that “U.S. and British bombing surveys prepared after World War II tell us that…Wurzburg [was]…89 percent destroyed.”[36]  Having provided this evidence, however, Knell does not subsequently discuss what these percentages truly entails, leaving scholars with the task of finding his source or using contextual clues to determine just what exactly this statement means.

Such contextual aids are few and far between in Knell’s work.  Instead, To Destroy A City clearly suffers from the haphazard research that went into its construction.  Knell, a fair writer, is a poor organizer.  His first one hundred seventeen pages discuss the historiography of the World War II bombing campaigns in general, an autobiographical introduction of the author’s situation in May 1945 and subsequent decision to investigate the Allied Bombing Campaign against both Germany and Japan, Wurzburg’s general worth as a military target, the raids upon that city, the development of aerial bombing strategy from before World War I through the end of World War II, and short biographical sketches of key bombing leaders up until 1945.  In and of themselves, most of these subjects have required complete books for proper, objective treatment, and Knell’s book suffers from attempting to simplistically cover them in the allotted space, especially when he does so in a manner guaranteed to cause chronological disorientation.  The recounting of these subjects do not support Knell’s contention, recounted on pages 11-13, that he is attempting to correct or avoid previous historical biases.  It is somewhat dishonest to state that it is “far more important to understand why [bombing] happened than to point a finger and pillorize people and events” then use words such as “executioner” to describe Allied aerial commanders and “mass executions” to describe bombing raids on German cities.[37]  Even though he subsequently softens this language to the more euphemistic “practitioners”, Knell clearly indicates his disgust with the entire campaign by stating “nobody should ever call [Allied commanders] heroes.”[38]

Although such a way of thinking is understandable from a person who suffered first hand from Allied bombardment, like Ross’s work it ignores critical facts.  The American and British commanders fully believed that their actions would, if not lead to victory outright, greatly shorten the war.  With the experience of World War I within their living memory, most of these men sought to avoid the bloodshed and generational decimation of ground warfare.  In addition, these men had watched the Luftwaffe pummel several civilian targets, to include numerous English cities, without remorse or mercy.  Although, unlike Ross, Knell does not excuse or exclude his countrymen’s aerial actions, he does not adequately address the effect these raids had on the Allied leadership’s feelings towards the German populace.  This omission is only partially balanced by Knell’s acknowledgment of the difficulties experienced by American and British aircrews in flying through German defenses to deliver their loads, and is one of the work’s critical failings.[39]

Similarly significant is Knell’s incorrect appraisal of the state of aerial technology during World War II.  On pages 220-221, the author attempts to build a case that Sir Arthur “Bomber” Harris willfully chose to ignore the capabilities of the Mosquito bomber in order to continue delivering large quantities of inaccurately aimed high-explosive.[40]  That these raids did indeed cause “heinous losses of innocent civilians” is indisputable, yet similarly irrefutable is the fact that the Mosquito capabilities described by Knell applied to the unarmed reconnaissance version flying at high altitude.[41]  In addition, the examples cited within To Destroy A City required a level of training, bravery, and luck that was all but unsustainable in large numbers, especially by an almost exhausted RAF.   Those strikes which were made required a “long spell of working up” and, while spectacular, were arguably not cost effective.[42]  Finally, Knell also ignores the lethality of German defenses.  In each of the cases cited by Knell, the targets struck with such precision were poorly defended, with relatively few automatic cannons or the dreaded ’88.’  In contrast, most of German industry lay within dense flak belts, the depth of which would have to be transitioned during ingress and egress.  More importantly, the Mosquito’s survivability lay in both its high speed and the time required for German fighters to climb to altitude.  At low level, the Fw-190 and late-model Bf-109s were quite capable of overtaking a clean Mosquito, much less one carrying a significant warload.  As with his over concentration on the strafing exploits of American fighter-bombers, Knell’s decision to utilize a few ill-chosen examples in an attempt to bolster a particular argument is a rather large flaw in an otherwise creditable work.  Although non-fatal, such a mistake serves to make the remainder of the work unfortunately suspect and of only broad, general use in scholarly study.

In contrast, British philosopher A.C. Grayling’s work Among the Dead Cities: The History and Moral Legacy of the WW II Bombing of Civilians in Germany and Japan, is of only general use for historians.  Despite its subtitle, it quickly becomes evident that Grayling’s work is oriented more towards a philosophical examination of the American and British campaigns rather than a general history.  Among the Dead Cities postulates that the Combined Bomber Offensive’s implications were justifiably “obscured by the fact that a much larger and more important moral matter occupied the mental horizon of the post-war world, and quite rightly so—the Holocaust.”[43]  Grayling then proceeds to lay out three pressing reasons why these issues must be immediately addressed.  First, “the descendants of the bombed have begun to raise their voices and ask questions about the experience of their parents and grandparents,” that is, contemporary German and Japanese citizens are starting to question the necessity of their forebears’ travails.  Second, “history has got to be got right before it distorts into legend and diminishes into over-simplification, which is always what happens when events slip into a too distant past.”  Lastly, Grayling believes an examination of Allied area bombing can lead to a “proper understanding…of how peoples and states can and should behave in time of conflict.”[44]

These reasons are all sound and solid reasons for a frank, open discussion of American and British efforts to utilize airpower to knock Germany out of the war.  Grayling seems adequately spurred by them to present his central thesis that, yes, the Allied Combined Offensive was indeed a war crime.  Immediately aware of the his opponents’ primary arguments, Grayling utilizes the bulk of his introduction to disproving the theory that Nazi Germany’s evil fully justified any and all means used to destroy it.  This frontal assault begins on page six with the following passage:

 

Nothing in this book should be taken as any form of revisionist apology for Nazism and its frightful atrocities, or Japanese militarism and its aggressions, even if the conclusion is that German and Japanese civilians suffered wrongs.  A mature [emphasis mine] perspective on the Second World War should by now enable us to distinguish between these two quite different points.[45]

 

Grayling follows this initial barrage with several examples that further illuminate his line of thought, followed by a seemingly obligatory statement in which he makes it “emphatically clear” that he is not attacking the wartime service of the RAF and USAAF bomber crews, only merely stating that they may have been involved “in the commission of wrongs.”[46]  Grayling attempts to dispel the almost certain bitter feelings his statements are sure to cause with a bit of autobiographical frivolity that seems to mitigate veterans’ ire by recounting his love for their aircraft and service.[47]  Finally, Grayling lays out the component of his central question and gives a rough outline, the overall effect of which is to make the reader receptive to both his historical question and central argument.

The crux of Grayling’s argument is that, yes indeed, American and British bombing raids were full-fledged war crimes and thus, by extension and derivative from his own presented examples, Allied aircrew were war criminals.  It is upon this moralistic rock that Grayling’s work, founders rapidly.  For four chapters, Among the Dead Cities concisely outlines the American and British bombing offensives, provides a vivid recounting of German experiences underneath American and British bombs, and conducts a brilliant expose on the mindset of leaders both for and against wholesale bombing.  Having laid his historical and technological groundwork, Grayling then builds his moral superstructure by clarifying exactly the “‘wrong’ at stake” utilizing just war theory.[48]

Rather than relying on this, however, Grayling makes his first major mistake in stating that the Allies’ behavior postwar, both in the persecution of Axis leaders and the wording of the Geneva Convention of 1949, served as a “retrospective indictment of the practices” carried out during World War II.[49]  Having leaped onto this metaphorically thin ice, Grayling proceeds to stomp on its surface by stating “[t]he moral culpability of area bombing was so well recognised during and immediately after the war that when at last an effort was made to arrive at a firm and binding statement of the laws of war, it was explicitly outlawed by them.”[50]  Grayling then launches a whirlwind assault that encompasses fellow historians (Robin Neilland’s Bomber War is particularly roughly handled), Allied wartime decisions and, most importantly, the morality of the leaders who decided upon the implementations of their superiors.  In the final chapter, aptly entitled “Judgment,” Grayling wraps up his argument by equating American and British bombing attacks with various terrorist actions, culminating with a reference to Hamburg and Hiroshima being equivalent to the September 11th terrorist attacks.[51]

Like Knell, Grayling’s argument begins to unravel in the face the technological limitations of World War II.  First, Grayling attempts to split a moralistic hair, stating that that “precision-bombing efforts against industry, transport, power and military targets” would have sufficed to prevent Germany’s full industrial capacity from reaching the Wermacht in the field.[52] This statement, echoing Knell’s reliance on a massive number of Mosquito bombers ranging across Germany, likewise ignores the state of aerial ordnance delivery available in World War II.  As Budiansky illustrated in Air Power, cited above, the USAAF was only able to begin placing a large percentage of their bombs within 2,000 feet of a target in the latter part of 1944.  In turn, even this rather limited accuracy was dependent on two conditions.  The first was USAAF air superiority, a condition not truly met until a combination of long-ranged escort fighters, rapidly declining German pilot skill, and a lack of fuel eviscerated the German Jagdwaffe (a process to be examined in more detail below).  The second condition, seldom seen thanks to capricious Central European weather and German passive defense measures, was good visibility.  In short, Grayling’s hypothetical campaign would have required the ideal sought by air power enthusiasts during the interwar period: an supine enemy and cooperative Mother Nature.

It is at this point that Grayling’s attempt to shave a fine distinction falls apart.  Grayling states unequivocally that bombing directed in daylight against industry is decisive and, not being specifically designated as ‘area bombing,’ morally acceptable.   However, even if the ideal conditions had existed with far more regularity than actually occurred, 70% of ordnance landing within 2,000 feet of a target still leaves 30% landing outside this circle.  Thus, a 1,000 aircraft raid carrying a common load of six 500-lb. bombs apiece would drop 1800 pieces of ordnance at random throughout occupied Europe and the Third Reich.  The ultimate destinations of this “outside group” cannot be fully known, as the statistics treat weapons jettisoned by aborting bombers over the English Channel and those which landed at 2,500 feet from the aiming point equally.  What is known, however, is that aerial ordnance was quite efficient in killing exposed personnel both at the point of impact and at relatively long distances through fragmentary and secondary effects.  Grayling, in adapting this particular aspect of the argument, appears to state that German civilian deaths were appropriate as long as the “good intentions” of precision aiming were there.  This approach is simplistic at best, as a German civilian killed on accident or through the misfortune of having his farmhouse located within “danger close” range of a German arms factory is just as dead as one whose housing block was the proposed aiming point.

Grayling does not attempt to address this flaw in his argument, instead moving immediately into a detailed examination of the February 1945 attack on Dresden.  As with most historians that utilize this German city as an example of the Allies’ utter immorality in their bombing offensive, Grayling manages to establish several critical points.  First, he adroitly points out Dresden’s cultural importance, contrasting its inclusion on the approved target list with Secretary of War Henry Stimson’s decision to exclude Kyoto, Japan from the list of suitable atomic bomb targets.  Second, he emphasizes Bomber Command’s desire to inflict pain on the German populace and intimidate the Russians, stating that “calculation involved in using civilian lives and the precipitates of history to make a gesture in a game of diplomatic politics is breathtaking.”  This charge is made in conjunction with the oft-repeated statement “that one of the main motives for the atom-bomb attacks on Hiroshima and Nagasaki was to demonstrate to the Russians the superiority in weaponry that the United States had attained,” thus implicitly equating Dresden’s attack to the two ill-fated Japanese cities.  Lastly, Grayling points out that the city was “known to be full of tens of thousands of refugees fleeing the approach of Soviet troops,” thus completing the common litany of “reasons not to bomb [Dresden].”[53]

Unfortunately for Grayling, this emphasis on Dresden and effort to intertwine it with the final assault on Japan exposes his central thesis to pointed, valid counterarguments.  By presenting no primary source for his allegation regarding the reasoning behind the dropping of two atomic bombs, Grayling allows it to be readily discarded even without recourse to contrary evidence.  Furthermore, the mentioning of two cities’ whose fate in large part was due to the fanatical, unreasoning resistance of a tyrannical leadership leaves open the possibility that the political and conditions leading to Dresden’s immolation were similar if not identical.  In his emphasis on the refugees fleeing Soviet troops, Bomber Command’s aiming point, and the horrific outcome of the raid makes several critical omissions which address these geopolitical factors all the more glaring.  Like Hiroshima and Nagasaki, Dresden was a major city within one of history’s most oppressive, notorious regimes.  To portray it as an innocent, defenseless victim of a savage Allied assault is to ignore the defensive plans of Army Group Center, the offensive plans of the Red Army, or the simple fact that World War II bombing art did not allow for the pinpoint ordnance delivery common to modern aerial warfare.[54]  Finally, and most importantly, the extension of this line of reasoning places most of the onus for Dresden’s agony on the Allies rather than its proper place on the Nazi leadership that began a war of aggression than refused to surrender when clearly beaten.

This tendency to understate the Axis leaderships crimes is best exemplified by Grayling’s dismissive statement that “even if all the arguments of the defenders of area bombing are correct…[a]rea bombing was neither necessary nor proportional, and it was neither of these things by quite a long way.”[55]  While strong in delivery, this passage and its companions are relatively weak in factual support.  It is quite easy, sixty years on, to state that the Allies handled Germany (and Japan), a bit roughly and with disproportionate force.  However, this ignores several well-known historical facts.  Whereas Grayling is quick to point out that the Allies heaviest blows fell once the Axis tide was clearly receding, he neglects to point out that this was also the period of the heaviest losses among both USAAF and RAF bomber crews.  In addition, as illustrated in the works previously surveyed, the Jagdwaffe and flak units were still inflicting casualties up to the final day of the war.  On the ground, the Wermacht continued to strenuously resist British and American advances to the Elbe, while the fanatical resistance offered in defense of Berlin has been well documented by able historians such as Cornelius Ryan, Max Hastings, and Antony Beevor.  It is a bit idealistic to expect the Allies to cease launching bombing missions, much less large-scale ones, in the face of determined aerial and ground opposition.

Most importantly, however, to state that the Allies’ efforts were disproportional, and not by a small margin, is to utterly ignore German conduct throughout the war.  Japanese excesses against Prisoners of War (POWs) has often led Western sources to speak highly of the Wermacht’s treatment of the same.  Unfortunately, this ignores the excesses conducted against the Red Army in the East.  More importantly, Nazi ideological beliefs turned the Eastern Front into a “racial conflict of the most savage kind in which any methods, criminal or otherwise, were sanctioned.”[56]  Given carte blanche, the German soldier raped, pillaged, and burned in a campaign that resulted in the death of over 12 million Soviet civilians.[57]  On the German Home Front, the Nazis implemented the Final Solution, and proceeded to utilize the methods of industrialization to gas, shoot, or work to death millions of Slavs, gypsies, Jews, and other humans considered “sub-human.”  That this process, despite the precious resources its implementation consumed, continued literally until advancing Allied forces pushed open the camp gates indicates the depths of the Third Reich’s depravity.

It is unlikely that the Nazis’ victims, not to mention the USAAF airmen who became casualties during these final raids, would agree with Grayling’s glib assessment that the Allies hands were only less dirty than those of the Nazis by a matter of degrees.[58]  In just war theory, proportionality is the belief that wars’ ultimate goals and aims must be proportional to the costs involved.[59]  The objective of the USAAF Bombing Campaign, and the Combined Bomber Offensive of which it was an integral part, was the destruction of a homicidal, racist, and tyrannical regime that had plunged the entire world into a conflict that killed over 78 million people.[60]  Together, the USAAF and RAF are believed to have killed 593,000 German civilians, that is .76% of this total.[61]  While this may not fit into Grayling’s opinion of what is proportional, it clearly fits into just war’s theory of this concept and thus renders his central argument unsupportable.

The German Defenses

            Less morally ambiguous than discussions of the relative worth of German civilians’ lives versus those of the Third Reich’s victims, however, is the examination of Nazi Germany’s defense and the soldiers that manned them.  These works, especially those produced during the Cold War, tend to avoid taking moralistic positions, focusing narrowly on how the Luftwaffe conducted its defense of the greater Reich.  Westermann’s Flak is the only English language text that attempts to portray the men and women who manned the Reich’s anti-aircraft batteries as anything but anonymous secondary actors ineffectively attempting to stem the ever growing tide of American and British bombers.  Its uniqueness precludes its use in the examination of trends, and thus it will not be further discussed herein.

In contrast to their flak comrades, German fighter pilots (Jagdflieger) have individually and collectively been the subject of dozens English-language texts.  Most of these books treat the Jagdflieger with great respect, with noted aviation historian Michael Spick’s sentiment that “[a]lthough the cause for which they had fought was tarnished, their honor was redeemed by the luster of their deeds” being representative of general sentiment.[62]  The USAAF’s daylight offensive, directly engaging a Jagdwaffe already overcommitted in the Mediterranean and Eastern Europe, is widely acknowledged as the instrument which destroyed the German fighter arm.  Used to engaging much smaller single and twin-engined aircraft at low and medium altitude, the arrival of the much larger Liberators and Fortresses was a sharp shock.  Spick, once again, provides the most concise elucidation of this phenomenon, pointing out the effect the bombers’ size and defensive fire had on the pilots who conducted these initial interceptions.[63]  General Adolf Galland, the Luftwaffe’s chief of fighters, reinforces this point in his autobiography, The First and the Last.  On page 151, Galland equates the Jagdflieger’s initial encounters with these aircraft to an infantryman’s first encounter with enemy tanks, with his pilots having to overcome their “shyness of the [bombers]” in order to discover their “vulnerable points.”[64]  As noted by Spick, Galland, and several other authors, this process was fraught with dangers due to the American bombers’ dense formations and heavy armament.  Moreover, this process was left to tactical units rather than being driven by a centralized Jagdwaffe process of experimentation utilizing captured airframes.  While ultimately successful, with aces (Experten) from Jagdeschwader (JG) 2 devising the successful head-on assault, this methodology exposed a critical operational failing on the part of Galland and his subordinate staff.[65]

Such operational failings were fairly common and, when coupled with the strategic errors made by the Third Reich all but guaranteed the Jagdwaffe’s eventual destruction.  The historiography, much like that of the Wermacht as a whole, places most of the blame for these errors on Hitler and Hermann Goring, chief of the Luftwaffe.  First, by engaging on multiple fronts, the Nazi hierarchy ensured that what strength it did have would be divided into several parts.  Second, by stubbornly insisting on the continued development and production of offensive weapons despite the Third Reich’s clearly declining fortunes, Hitler ensured that the Jagdwaffe fought at a constant numerical disadvantage from mid-1943 on.  Finally, and most importantly, the aerial equivalent of Hitler’s “not one step backward” philosophy is consistently cited in the historiography as an unmitigated disaster for the Reich’s fighter pilots.

This last point is so central to the historiographical trend that it requires detailed examination.  According to surviving senior Jagdwaffe officers, in 1942 Hitler and Goring decreed that all American bombers would be subject to continuous attack from ingress into the airspace of occupied Europe.  This was directly contrary to Galland’s suggestion, which was a more prudent strategy of concentrated Luftwaffe fighter attacks for a single large interception near the borders of Germany.[66]  The initial effect of the Fuhrer’s directive was the frittering away of the Jagdwaffe’s strength in a series of attritional battles through late 1943.  It is true that the relentless attacks inflicted painful losses on the USAAF’s bomber units, and the historiography is quite clear that from January to October 1943 the Jagdwaffe won “a series of substantial tactical victories,” forcing the Eighth Air Force to temporarily halt deep penetrations into Germany.[67] However, American production and manpower meant that these losses were replaceable.  In contrast, the steady toll taken by bomber gunners, accidents, and occasional clash with escorting fighters initiated a slow, steady seeping away of the German fighter arm’s effectiveness.[68]  The cost in both Experten (aces) and neophytes was quite high, and it made those victories achieved  both transitory and Pyrrhic.  From January to April 1944, the introduction of larger drop-tanks, longer-ranged fighters, and far more aggressive American tactics transformed the constant hemorrhaging of 1943 into full-scale arterial bleeding that proved ultimately fatal.[69]  Despite the introduction of advanced jet fighters, themselves arguably delayed by Hitler’s intransigence, those works focusing on the Jagdwaffe are clear that the battles of 1944 ensured the German fighter arm was a spent force.

This focus on the interference of the Nazi High Command, differences in production outcomes, and sheer numbers of Allied fighters results in several critical gaps.  First, there is an overemphasis on the potential impact of the Me-262 at the expense of other, more viable aircraft. Galland is the first to propagate this myth, as the last portion of his autobiography concentrates heavily on the “lost opportunities” this fighter provided as well as his own experiences operating it.[70]  Although Galland’s thoughts are heartfelt, they are also disproved rather readily.  Spick provides the most concise detailing of the Me-262’s many flaws, namely that it required a long runway, accelerated poorly, had extremely poor fuel economy, and was critically vulnerable on takeoff and landing.[71]  In addition to these tactical concerns, the Me-262’s airframe itself required an excessive amount of strategic materials, the powerplant was unreliable, and it required a level of skill that was quite beyond that being turned out by the German flight schools by 1944.[72]  Combined, these factors would likely have prevented the Me-262 from being the war winner Galland and others have proclaimed it would have been.

This overemphasis obscures the fact that the Jagdwaffe had many alternatives at hand that, with a more forceful effort by Galland, may have actually had reasonable impact during the critical period of the American Bombing Campaign.  The Focke-Wulf 190, an excellent successor to the Bf-109, was never given priority of production over that “much older and less attractive design [that had] many shortcomings.”[73]  Although its initial variants were not well-suited for combat over 24,000 feet, later models were quite capable of holding their own against even the most modern Allied aircraft.  In addition, various other airframes that would have been better suited to indifferently trained neophytes reached the prototype stage yet were never produced in favor of continuously updating the 109.  Even given the 109’s sterling combat record, it is a clear indicator of Galland’s and Goring’s misunderstanding of technological progress that they believed an airframe first flown in 1935 was still a viable contender in 1943.  The latter is rightfully pilloried for his hand in this travesty—the former is not.

Galland is similarly excused in the historiography for failing to vigorously examine his likely need for more pilots prior to the crisis of 1944.  In this he is not alone, as the historiography is generally unclear on what individual or individuals was largely responsible for the development of a fighter pilot training program.  Also left unexplained is the reasoning for the non-inclusion of combat veterans in such a program.  Throughout World War II, the RAF, USAAF, and Red Air Force each had a rotational policy that gave their pilots a rest after a certain operational period.  These policies paid great dividends in allowing the passage of lessons learned from combat veterans to trainees during their advanced flight courses, ensuring that these individuals then arrived at their commands with at least a theory of how aerial combat should unfold.

The Jagdwaffe’s rotational policy, on the other hand, was virtually non-existent.  Almost invariably, Experten flew until seriously injured, imprisoned, or killed in combat.  Generally, the historiography gives a pass to Galland on this issue, noting that Germany’s strategic situation precluded the rotation of trained leaders to training commands.  Such statements, given the greater efficiency numerous veterans’ imparted to Allied training programs, are only tenuously supportable.  Although it is true that Germany was hard-pressed by December 1943, this does not sufficiently explain what the Luftwaffe’s fighter command was doing from September 1939 until that date.  The historiography gives little indication that Galland, upon assuming command of the Jagdwaffe in November 1941, did little to correct the errors of his predecessors in this regard.  It is apparent that Galland was an extremely brave man placed in a rather untenable position by Hitler and Goring.  Unfortunately, the works on the Jagdwaffe make clear that Galland’s focus on the day-to-day operation of his fighter groups, their tactics, and his pilots’ well-being prevented him from engaging long-term concerns with the same vigor he applied to attacking his aerial opponents.

A large part of Galland’s inaction may be attributed to combat fatigue, the final gap in the historiography of the Jagdwaffe.  There are limited references to demoralization and fatigue among the German defenders in secondary sources, and the overwhelming strain of the Allied assault is even more prevalent in the available primary sources. [74]  The high concentration and technical skills required for World War II aerial combat are extensively recognized, as are the effects of extended psychological stress on the mental, physical functions which are necessary to efficiently execute these tasks.  Yet, despite the two factors, no readily-available English language psychological study has been made of Jagdwaffe (and flak) personnel to date, an inexplicable gap.  With the high casualties suffered by the Jagdflieger as well as the passing of many World War II veterans in the intervening years since the end of that conflict, it may be impossible to ever completely fill this gap, but unit and oral histories may provide a necessary foundation for an attempt to be made.

Unit, Airframe and Oral Histories

            Such histories form a large part of fourth part of the historiography, that of subject-specific histories.  On the Allied side, such histories tend to be myopic, sacrificing a greater understanding of the war’s strategic context in favor of a narrow examination of a particular organization’s experience in the air war.  The majority of these histories focus on the Eighth Air Force, with the two most common examples being the nearly identically-titled The Mighty Eighth: Units, Men, and Machines (A History of the US 8th Army Air Force) by British aviation author Roger A. Freeman and military historian Gerald Astor’s The Mighty Eighth: The Air War in Europe as Told by the Men Who Fought It.[75]  Although most of the World War II press and subsequent histories seem to support the subtitle of Astor’s work, the 15th Air Force was decisively engaged in attacking the southern portion of the Reich from November 1943.  Despite the importance of their attacks, especially those against Nazi Germany’s oil supply, there are no commonly available histories solely devoted to the 15th’s exploits.  Nor is this lack of representation unique to the 15th, as it occurs for most of the Eighth’s subordinate commands.  There are few widely published bomber group unit histories, reducing the men and machines that constituted the Eighth’s primary reason for being to relatively anonymity.  In contrast, the 56th, 4th, and 364th Fighter Groups alone are each the subject of at least one book, while the 8th’s myriad aces are the subject of numerous autobiographies and composite works.

This overrepresentation of fighter pilots skews their relative importance to the overall conduct of the American Bombing Campaign.  Similarly skewed is the importance of the B-17 Flying Fortress, as it is the airframe that is most commonly represented in print and pictures that discuss the 8th Air Force.  Martin Caidin’s Flying Forts, Jablonski’s Flying Fortress, and Freeman’s B-17 Fortress at War are but a small sample of the large number of books devoted to the Boeing bomber.[76]  The B-24 Liberator, on the other hand, has had few books written on it, with Stephen Ambrose’s The Wild Blue being the most recent.[77]  A similar situation, however, does not exist with regards to the American fighters, however, as each of the primary escort fighters (P-38, P-47, and P-51) each have a similar number of works devoted to their operational use.

The number of Jagdwaffe general histories is relatively small.  To date, there is only one comprehensive, English language history in existence, the rarity of which makes its acquisition fiscally prohibitive for libraries and private individuals alike.  Likewise, there are few in-depth unit histories that cover the entire operational life of a single Jagdwaffe unit from the beginning to the end of the Second World War.  Aviation author Donald L. Caldwell’s JG 26 is the best example of all these, being both extensively researched and well written, and the dearth of Luftwaffe war records and rapidly declining number of veterans makes it unlikely to be equaled.[78]  However, the Jagdwaffe’s chaotic personnel policies make this less of a historical gap than it would first appear.  Experten were regularly transferred between units due to their own injuries or to fill command positions left vacant by a fellow pilot’s relief, disablement, or death.  Units, in turn, were often detached for service on another front, resulting in some Jagdeschwader having subordinate Gruppen simultaneously located on all three major German war fronts.  Consequently, books on the Jagdwaffe, unlike the overwhelming majority of those on their Allied counterparts, are often forced to explain the larger strategic picture in order to avoid confusing readers.

Unfortunately, concentration on the Experten has led to the lionization of their primary mount, the Bf-109, at the expense of the Fw-190 and its pilots.  The majority of these books also fail to mention the Bf-109’s creeping obsolescence.  In addition, there remains little information on the various anonymous pilots that composed the bulk of the Jagdwaffe.  Although large numbers of these pilots did not survive their first missions, there is likely a significant number of them whose scores would have made them quite famous had they been born in one of the Allied nations.  Lastly, there are few sources which detail the training methodology, pilot equipment, or daily operations of the Jagdwaffe as a whole.  The early success, decline, and ultimate failure of the Luftwaffe in its entirety is clearly connected to the fate of its fighter arm, and it is a subject that deserves further study.

Conclusion

            Such further study is outside the scope of this paper, which has focused on the available rather than potential historiography and its gaps.  As the examination has shown, the USAAF campaign can be defined in many ways.  Those works sympathetic to its conduct portray it as a limited success whose achievements far outweigh the collateral damage it caused.  Its opponents decry it as a clear violation of just war theory that was brought about by various base desires for revenge, an independent Air Force, and/or cold-blooded indifference to the civilians it fell upon or the young men forced to carry it out.  Such a debate will fruitlessly continue until one or more of the faults currently inherent in the historiography is addressed.  Historians from both sides must agree on a common degree of metrics, as a discussion of the relative merits inherent in oranges’ and apples’ can only be resolved on personal bias.  Although the complete elimination of such bias is, of course, impossible, by relying on these established measurements much of the current moral reproach and polemic speech would be removed from what should be dispassionate analysis.  In addition, such statistics would allow the examination of both defenders and attackers and allow for an all-encompassing examination of the campaign’s effect on the Wermacht’s conduct of the war, with emphasis on the Luftwaffe in general and Jagdwaffe in particular.  Finally, all of these steps would allow professional historians from both sides to actually hear and digest opposing viewpoints, thus allowing for a greater understanding of the Allied Bombing Campaign and Second World War as a whole.  With active participants disappearing at prodigious rates, the importance of accomplishing this has never been greater even as the time to do so grows ever shorter.

 

BIBLIOGRAPHY

(Books in Bold were not used in text preparation but are included for information purposes.)

Ambrose, Stephen E.. The Wild Blue. New York: Simon and Schuster, 2001.

 

Astor, Gerald.  The Mighty Eighth: The Air War in Europe as Told by the Men Who Fought It. New York: Dell Books, 1997.

Biddle, Tami Davis.  Rhetoric and Reality in Air Warfare. Princeton, NJ: Princeton             University Press, 2002.

Boyne, Walter J.  Clash of Wings: Air Power in World War II.  New York: Simon and Schuster, 1994.

Budiansky, Stephen.  Air Power: The Men, Machines, and Ideas That Revolutionized War, From Kitty Hawk to Gulf War II.  New York: Viking Books, 2004.

Caidin, Martin.  Flying Forts: The B-17 in World War II.  New York: Ballantine Books, 1969.

________.  Me-109: Willy Messerschmitt’s Peerless Fighter.  New York: Ballantine Books,  1968.

Caldwell, Donald L.. JG26.  New York: Orion Books, 1991.

Christopher, Paul.  The Ethics of War and Peace: An Introduction to Legal and Moral Issues. Englewood, NJ: Prentice Hall, 1994.

Constable, Trevor J. and Raymond F. Toliver, Colonel, USAF (ret.).  Horrido!: Fighter Aces of the Luftwaffe.  New York: Ballantine Books, 1968.

Crane, Conrad C.  Bombs, Cities, and Civilians: American Airpower Strategy in World War II.Lawrence, KS: University Press of Kansas, 1993.

Dunnigan, James and Albert A. Nofi.  Dirty Little Secrets of World War II: Military Information No One Told You About the Greatest, Most Terrible War In History.  New York:  Quill, 1994.

Ethell, Jeffrey and Dr. Alfred Price.  Target Berlin: Mission 250, 6 March, 1944.  London:      Jane’s, 1981.  Reprint, Mechanicsburg, PA: Stackpole Books, 2002.

Freeman, Roger A.  The Mighty Eighth: Units, Men, and Machines (A History of the US 8th             Army Air Force.  Garden City, NY: Doubleday and Company, Inc., 1970.

________.  B-17 Fortress At War.  New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1977.

Galland, Adolf.  The First and the Last.  Bantam War Book Ed., 3rd Printing.  New York: Bantam  Books, 1982.

Grayling, A.C.  Among the Dead Cities: The History and Moral Legacy of WWII Bombing of             Civilians in Germany and Japan. (Advance Reading Copy) New York: Walker &             Company, 2006.

Gunston, Bill and Tony Wood.  Hitler’s Luftwaffe: A Pictorial History and Technical             Encyclopedia of Hitler’s Air Power in World War II.  London: Salamander Books, 1977.           Reprint, New York: Crescent Books, 1979.

Hammel, Eric.  Aces Against Germany.  New York: Pocket Books, 1993.

Hinchliffe, Peter.  The Other Battle: Luftwaffe Night Fighter Aces Versus Bomber CommandEdison, N.J.: Castle Books, 2001.

Isby, David C., ed..  Fighting the Bombers: The Luftwaffe’s Struggle Against the Allied Bomber Offensive.  Mechanicsburg, PA: Stackpole Books, 2003.

Jablonski, Edward.  Airwar: Tragic Victories.  Garden City, New York: Doubleday & Company, Inc., 1971.

________.  Airwar: Terror From the Sky.  Garden City, New York: Doubleday & Company,             Inc., 1971.

________.  Airwar: Wings of Fire.  Garden City, New York: Doubleday & Company, Inc., 1971.

________.  Flying Fortress.  Garden City, New York: Doubleday & Company, Inc., 1965.

Jacobs, W.A..  “Operation Overlord.”  In Case Studies in the Achievement of Air Superiority, Benjamin Franklin Cooling, 270-322. Washington, D.C.: Center For Air Force History, 1994.

Johnson, Robert S., with Martin Caidin.  Thunderbolt!.  New York: Ballantine Books,             1958.

Knell, Herman.  To Destroy a City: Strategic Bombing and Its Human Consequences in World War II. Cambridge, MA: Perseus Books Group, 2003.

Macksey, Kenneth.  Military Errors of World War II.  London: Arms and Armour, 1987.              Reprint, Edison, NJ: Castle Books, 2003.

McFarland, Stephen L. and Wesley Phillips Newton.  “The American Strategic Air Offensive Against Germany in World War Two.”  In Case Studies in Strategic Bombardment, ed. R. Cargill Hill, 183-252.  Washington, D.C.: Center For Air Force History, 1998.

Mondey, David.  The Hamlyn Concise Guide to British Aircraft of World War II.  London: The Hamlyn Publishing Group Limited, 1982.

________.  American Aircraft of World War II.  London: The Hamlyn Publishing Group Limited, Reprint, London: Chancellor Press, 1996.

Musciano, Walter A.  Messerschmitt Aces.  New York: Arco Publishing, Inc., 1982.

Nalty, Bernard C., John F. Shiner, and George M. Watson.  With Courage: The U.S. Army Air Forces in World War II.  Washington, D.C.: Air Force History & Museums Program,        1994.

Neilland, Robert.  The Bomber War: The Allied Air Offensive Against Nazi Germany.  New             York: The Overlook Press, 2001.

Overy, Richard J.  Why the Allies Won.  New York: W.W. Norton & Company, 1995.

Perrett, Geoffrey.  Winged Victory: The Army Air Forces in World War II. New York: Random House, 1993.

Richard, Denis.  The Hardest Victory: RAF Bomber Command in the Second World WarLondon: W.W. Norton & Company, 1994.

Ross, Stewart Halsey.  Strategic Bombing by the United States in World War II: The Myths and the Facts. Jefferson, NC: McFarland & Company, Inc., 2003.

Sims, Edward H..  American Aces.  New York: Ballantine Books, 1958.

________.  The Greatest Aces.  New York: Ballantine Books, 1967.

Spick, Michael.  The Luftwaffe Fighter Aces: The Jagdflieger and Their Combat Tactics and             Techniques. New York: Ballantine Books, 1996.

________.  The Ace Factor.  New York: Avon Books, 1988.

________.  Allied Fighter Aces of World War II.  Mechanicsburg, PA: Stackpole Books,             1997.

Steinhoff, Johanne.  Messerschmitts Over Sicily.  Mechanicsburg, PA: Stackpole Books, 2004.

Stokesbury, James L..  A Short History of World War II.  New York: William Morrow and             Company, Inc., 1980.

Taylor, Frederick.  Dresden: Tuesday, February 13, 1945.  New York: HarperCollins, 2004.

United States Army.  “Strategic Air Victory in Europe Special Issue (July 1945).”  In Impact: The      Army Air Force’s “Confidential” Picture History of World      War II in Eight Books, Vol. 7. Harrisburg, PA: Historical Times, Inc., 1980.

Westermann, Edward B..  Flak: German Anti-Aircraft Defenses, 1914-1945.  Lawrence, KS:             University Press of Kansas, 2001.

Williamson, Murray.  Strategy For Defeat: The Luftwaffe 1933-1945. Maxwell AFB, AL: Air             University Press, 1983.

               [1] James F. Dunnigan and Albert A. Nofi, Dirty Little Secrets of World War II: Military Information No One Told You About the Greatest, Most Terrible War in History (New York: Quill, 1994), 11.

               [2] There are several excellent single-volume works that discuss the RAF’s campaign, such as Denis Richards’s The Hardest Victory: RAF Bomber Command in the Second World War (London: W.W. Norton & Company, 1994) and Peter Hinchliffe’s The Other Battle: Luftwaffe Night Aces Versus Bomber Command (Edison, NJ: Castle Books, 2001).

               [3] Geoffrey Perrett, Winged Victory: The Army Air Forces in World War II (New York: Random House, 1993), 15-32, 50-52, and 121-132.

               [4] David Mondey, The Hamlyn Concise Guide to British Aircraft of World War II (London: The Hamlyn Publishing Group Limited, 1982), 28-32 (Lancaster), 127-131 (Halifax), and 189-192 (Stirling).

               [5] David Mondey, American Aircraft of World War II (London: The Hamlyn Publishing Group Limited, 1982; reprint, London: Chancellor Press, 1996), 20-27 (Fortress) and 48-55 (Liberator).

               [6] Dunnigan and Nofi, Dirty Little Secrets, 192-209.

               [7] Robin Neillans, The Bomber War: The Allied Air Offensive Against Nazi Germany (New York: The Overlook Press, 2001), 379.

               [8] Impact: The Army Air Force’s “Confidential” Picture History of World War II In Eight Books, vol. 7, “Strategic Air Victory In Europe Special Issue”, July 1945 (Harrisburg, PA: Historical Times, Inc., 1980), 57 and 60.

               [9] Stewart Halsey Ross, Strategic Bombing by the United States in World War II: The Myths and the Facts (Jefferson, N.C.: McFarland & Company, Inc., 2003) and Walter J. Boyne Clash of Wings: Air Power in World War II (New York: Simon & Schuster, 1994).

               [10] Herman Knell, To Destroy a City: Strategic Bombing and Its Human Consequences in World War II (Cambridge, MA: Perseus Books Group, 2003) and A.C. Grayling, Among the Dead Cities: The History and Moral Legacy of the WWII Bombing of Civilians in Germany and Japan, Advance Reading Copy (New York: Walker & Company, 2006).

               [11] Michael Spick, The Luftwaffe Fighter Aces: The Jagdflieger and Their Combat Tactics and Techniques (New York: Ballantine Books, 1996) and Trevor J. Constable and Raymond F. Toliver, Colonel, USAF (ret.) Horrido! (New York: Ballantine Books, 1968).

               [12] Edward B. Westermann, Flak: German Anti-Aircraft Defenses, 1914-1945 (Lawrence, KS: University Press of Kansas, 2001).

               [13] “There are three kinds of lies: lies, damned lies, and statistics.”

               [14] Edward Jablonski, Airwar: Tragic Victories (Garden City, NY: Doubleday & Company, Inc., 1971).

               [15] Ibid., vi.

               [16] Kenneth Macksey, Military Errors of World War (London: Arms and Armour, 1987; reprint, Edison, NJ: Castle Books, 2003), 162-166.

               [17] Jablonski, Airwar: Tragic Victories, 182.

               [18] Edward Jablonski, Airwar: Terror From the Sky (Garden City, NY: Doubleday & Company, Inc., 1971).

               [19] Ibid., 17.

               [20] Ibid., 115; and Edward Jablonski, Airwar: Wings of Fire (Garden City, NY: Doubleday & Company, Inc., 1971), 41.

               [21] Jablonski, Airwar: Terror From the Sky, 148 and Airwar: Wings of Fire, 36-46.

               [22] Richard Overy, Why the Allies Won (New York: W.W. Norton & Company, 1995), 122.

               [23] Stephen Budiansky, Air Power: The Men, Machines, and Ideas That Revolutionized War, From Kitty Hawk to Gulf War II (New York: Viking Books, 2004), 324.

               [24] Ibid., 325-330.

               [25] Budiansky, Air Power, 327-329

               [26] Overy, Why the Allies Won, 127-133.

               [27] Budiansky, Air Power, 319.

               [28] Overy, Why the Allies Won, 131-133.

               [29] James L. Stokesbury, A Short History of World War II (New York: William Morrow and Company, Inc., 1980), 284-287.

               [30] Conrad C. Crane, Bombs, Cities, and Civilians: American Airpower Strategy in World War II (Lawrence, KS:  University Press of Kansas, 1993), 43.

               [31] Ibid..

               [32] Ibid., 46.

               [33] Ross, Strategic Bombing, 32.

               [34] Ibid., 30.

               [35] Knell, To Destroy A City, 1-2.

               [36] Ibid., 1.

               [37] Ibid., 13 and 69.

               [38] Ibid, 70.

               [39] Ibid., 304-306.

               [40] Ibid., 220.

               [41] Ibid..

               [42] Mondey, British Aircraft, 79.

               [43] Grayling, Among the Dead Cities, 2.

               [44] Ibid., 1-2.

               [45] Ibid., 6.

               [46] Ibid., 7-8.

               [47] Ibid., 9-10.

               [48] Ibid., 209-229.

               [49] Ibid., 229.

               [50] Ibid., 234.  Grayling’s comments refer to the 1949 Geneva Convention.

               [51] Ibid., 278.

               [52] Ibid., 259.

               [53] Ibid., 260-265.

               [54] Frederick Taylor, Dresden: Tuesday, February 13, 1945 (New York, HarperCollins, 2004), 391-392.

               [55] Ibid., 265.

               [56] Overy, Why the Allies Won, 303.

               [57] Dunnigan and Nofi, Dirty Little Secrets, 51.

               [58] Grayling, Among the Dead Cities, 280.

               [59] Paul Christopher, The Ethics of War and Peace: An Introduction to Legal and Moral Issues (Englewood Cliffs, NJ: Prentice Hall, 1994), 89.  This version of the work is that used for Military Philosophy at the United States Military Academy, West Point, NY.

               [60] Dunnigan and Nofi, Dirty Little Secrets, 49.

               [61] Ibid., 54.

               [62] Spick, Luftwaffe Fighter Aces, 2.

               [63] Ibid., 141-143.

               [64] Adolf Galland, The First and the Last, Bantam War Book Edition, 3rd Printing, (New York: Bantam Books, 1982), 151.

               [65] Spick, Luftwaffe Fighter Aces, 143.

               [66] Generalmajor Hans-Detlef Herhuth von Rohden, “Reich Air Defense in World War II: A Strategic-Tactical Survey,” Fighting the Bombers: The Luftwaffe’s Struggle Against the Allied Bomber Offensive, David C. Isby, ed., (Mechanicsburg, PA: Stackpole Books, 2003), 26-27.

               [67] Williamson Murray, Strategy For Defeat: The Lutwaffe 1933-1945 (Maxwell AFB, AL: Air University Press, 1983), 225.

               [68] W.A. Jacobs, “Operation Overlord,” Case Studies in the Achievement of Air Superiority, Benjamin Franklin Cooling, ed., (Washington, D.C.: Center for Air Force History, 1994), 297-299.

               [69] Stephen L. McFarland and Wesley Phillips Newton, “The American Strategic Air Offensive Against Germany in World War Two,” Case Studies in Strategic Bombardment, R. Cargill Hill, ed., (Washington, D.C.: Center for Air Force History, 1998), 209-215.

               [70] Galland, First, 272-291.

               [71] Spick, Luftwaffe Fighter Aces, 208-209.

               [72] Budiansky, Air Power, 358.

               [73] Bill Gunston and Tony Wood, Hitler’s Luftwaffe: A Pictorial History and Technical Encyclopedia of Hitler’s Air Power in World War II (London: Salamander Books, 1977; reprint, New York: Crescent Books, 1979), 166.

               [74] An example of the former can be found on pg. 99 of  Jeffrey Ethell and Dr. Alfred Price’s Target Berlin: Mission 250, 6 March 1944 (London: Jane’s, 1981; reprint, Mechanicsburg, PA: Stackpole Books, 2002), while a good primary source for the latter phenomenon is Johannes Steinhoff’s Messerschmitts Over Sicily (Mechanicsburg, PA: Stackpole Books, 2004).

               [75] Gerald Astor, The Mighty Eighth: The Air War in Europe as Told by the Men Who Fought It (New York: Dell Books, 1997) and Roger A. Freeman, The Mighty Eighth: Units, Men, and Machines (A History of the US 8th Army Air Force) (Garden City, NY: Doubleday and Company, Inc., 1970).

               [76] Martin Caidin, Flying Forts: The B-17 in World War II (New York: Ballantine Books, 1969), Roger A. Freeman, B-17 Fortress At War (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1977), and Edward Jablonski, Flying Fortress (Garden City, NY: Doubleday and Company, Inc., 1965).

               [77] Stephen E. Ambrose, The Wild Blue (New York: Simon and Schuster, 2001).

               [78] Donald L. Caldwell, JG 26 (New York: Orion Books, 1991).

B-Sides and Outtakes–Armageddon Dawn Part VIII (Conclusion)

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Epilogue

 

C.C.D.F.S. Emancipation

1455 Confederation Common Time

30  June, 2011

 

“I’m telling you right now, you little weasel, this is it!  No more kids!” a woman said as Eric entered the medical ward.  The woman was leaning up in the bed nursing her newborn infant, brown curly hair about shoulder length down her shoulders.

“Julie, we’ve got to start repopulating,” her husband, a short, stocky man named David said.

“Let me put this in terms you can understand, Mr. West Point Man,” the woman replied.  “There will be no more sex for you until one of us gets fixed.  Three is enough, especially when they’re all boys.”

“Don’t you want a little girl that can grow up to be as beautiful as her mother?” Dave asked sweetly.

“No, and flattery isn’t going to get you laid.”

Eric shook his head.  Julie Donze had to be the most stubborn woman he knew.  After receiving her Doctorate in Mechanical Engineering from University of Missouri, Rolla, she had been set up with Dave by some crazy friend of hers.  Dave had been an Army officer, a veteran of Iraqi Freedom and Crescent Justice, the war with Saudi Arabia.  Neither one of them knew the ultimate fate of their friend, but the survivor’s rolls were still being compiled across the Confederation Fleet.

“Hey Dave, Julie,” Eric said, moving past the bed.

“Eric,” Dave said, then turned back to his wife and child.

Eric continued walking down the nearly empty medical bay.  There hadn’t been many wounded during the final evacuation, and what there had been had been quickly fixed up by the Dominionites medical nanobots.  Only four other beds besides Julie’s were filled, two of them with expectant mothers.  For all their medical technology, the Dominionites couldn’t speed up the labor process.  One more bed was filled with a vacant-eyed psychotic casualty, the stress having finally made the man snap.

It was the occupant of the fourth bed that Eric was interested in.  Lying flat on her stomach while the nanobots continued to work on her back, Jessica Banner had not regained consciousness since her injury.  The doctors had run out of ideas, but then had heard she was somehow known to a Star Colonel Eric Walthers, apparently her only close friend that had survived Earth’s demise.  Upon further review, the doctors had realized that it was Eric ‘Lightning Rider’ Walthers, Hero of Earth that the bedraggled members of 1st Shock Brigade had been referring to in the aftermath of their own personal Little Big Horn.  The one that had killed the Crown Prince and personally rode a Griffinfull of assault troops into the ground, then recovered from the heart of the explosion to charge his badly damaged mecha into a flank assault of Praetorian Guards.  Apparently he had even survived that despite several eyewitness accounts that stated his mecha had exploded, starting the galaxy’s largest dead man’s switch.

The actual truth was a bit less heroic.  The Praetorians had fixed the majority of the 6th and 7th Shock, their massive advantage in numbers being somewhat helpful.  If Eric hadn’t destroyed the third Griffin, the battle would have been lost.  As it was, a Praetorian detachment had been hustling towards his still active transponder, expecting to avenge their Crown Prince’s death, when Karin had arrived on the scene with a scratch detachment of Powell’s from the 2-70th Armor led by Jason.  Utterly outclassed, the men from the 2-70th had fought and died bravely, allowing Jack enough time to shift forces to deal with the threat.  With the Praetorians in a temporary retreat to await reinforcements, reinforcements that were already burning into the Earth’s atmosphere, Karin and Jack had extricated Eric from the wrecked Nikita.

With the enemy closing, Karin had made a snap decision.  Working quickly, she had attached Eric’s transponder to her own mecha.  She had given Jack a direct order to find Jessica, dead or alive, and given him the required information.  Then, kissing the unconscious Eric goodbye, she had revved her hovertank up to its maximum speed and headed north, away from the Praetorian landing site.  Predictably, the movement had the desired effect, the Praetorian and the incoming vessels starting to give chase.  Karin had met her end, her Grizzly shattered under a tidal wave of battle armor.

Her death left Jack to carry out her last order, and quickly.  Jack had found Jessica almost bled out, but had stabilized her.  Spinal injuries were relative child’s play for the Dominionites, and she was expected to make a full physical recovery.  With both Eric and Jessica strapped to the stop of his mecha in its hovertank mode, Jack had hauled ass back to Fort Riley.  The last ship, the Valhalla, had been just preparing to take off when he pulled onboard.  Lighting off her propulsion units, the Valhalla was followed out of orbit by General Connelly’s ship, the delay for the latter caused by a detour to Washington, D.C..  General Connelly was always a man of his word.

Not that it particularly mattered.  With the destruction of Eric’s transponder, a massive time bomb had begun ticking.  General Connelly had directed the Tectal to surreptiously place anti-matter warheads on the Earth’s major faultlines during their recovery operations.  Triggered by the destruction of Eric’s transponder, the bombs simultaneously triggered forty-eight hours after the destruction of Eric’s transponder.  The result had gone much like General Connelly had expected.  Earth was no more.

With a heavy sigh Eric sat down in front of Jessica’s bed.  He had just come out of the body and fender shop himself two days before.  It took awhile to get used to alien technology.  Reaching out, he stroked Jessica’s hair.  Tears began to run down his face as he looked at her sleeping.

“You know, you really need to wake up,” he said softly, sobbing.  “You don’t need any more beauty sleep.”

“You said that yesterday and the day before,” Jessica replied softly.  “A girl gets tired of hearing the same lines over and over again.”

Eric nearly jumped out of his seat in joy, suddenly unable to speak.  Jessica’s next words stopped the celebration.

“The first day, I thought I was in heaven,” Jessica said.  “To hear your voice again…it was one of the most powerful emotions I’ve ever had.  Then I realized that I was still alive, and I suddenly didn’t want to be anymore.”

Rolling over, Jessica met Eric’s eyes, her face set.

“I don’t know what’s happened to you for the past six years.  I don’t care.  I never want to speak to you again, Eric.  Ever.  Go back to wherever the hell you’ve been and stay there.  Leave me alone.”

Feeling as if he had been sucker punched, Eric stood up.  Taking one last look at Jessica, he turned and headed for the door.

***

So for those of you who read this far, what’d you think?  I’ve always debated going back to this universe and fleshing things out.  I will say that I got about another 10,000 words into a longer version of this, but stopped when I realized that it really did seem like I was channeling John Ringo plus had grad school to worry about.

I’ll be honest–I didn’t want to end the story so abruptly, especially after introducing new characters.  At the time, it was being written for short story markets.  Since I submitted it, I’ve come to realize that it’s really a full novel trying to wear a novella’s outfit.  (“High waders!  Get your high waders here!”)  With the Vergassy, Usurper’s War, and Scythefall Universes all vying for time, this will likely stay somewhere in the back of the cupboard.  At any rate, hope you enjoyed.

B-Sides and Outtakes–Armageddon Dawn Part VII

Standard

West Point, NY

1330 Central Time

 

“Oh look, it’s the great General Connelly, gracing us with his presence,” General Michael Wallace slurred through the video screen from the Pentagon.  Behind him, General Connelly could see scenes of debauchery occurring that would have made a Roman blush.  At least Michael, an old West Point classmate of his, was still in uniform at he Universal Command Console, a video device installed in the Pentagon’s war room just the previous year.

“Michael, I need your help,” General Connelly said, letting his suit modulate his voice so that it was somewhat more suggestive.

“Oh no, Adam, that mind-control shit won’t work through the damn video monitor,” Michael slurred.  “We made sure of that real special, just for you.  So, try again!”

General Connelly inhaled, then exhaled.

“Michael, I’ve got units on the ground in Kansas getting ready to come to grips with these bastards,” General Connelly said, trying to put a positive spin on things.  “I need assets.”

“Oh, you mean you can’t get one of your great arks to help them out?  I mean, save the best and the brightest, screw the rest, right?!”  Michael’s eyes suddenly cleared up, the man reaching a moment of utter lucidity.  “Even men who have been with you for the last thirty-five years.”

“Michael, you knew.  You knew everything the aliens had given us, and you let that stupid son-of-a-bitch screw over the country and the world.”

“Well as sure as there’s a pretty redhead captain underneath this table,” Michael said, a fierce grin on his face, “I’m not going to lift a finger to help someone who’s going to leave me to rot.  Oh no, actually, leave me to be eaten.”

“Dammit Michael, people are going to die,” Connelly replied.  “We have lost here, but you can help make it less of a loss.”

“Oh, and just why would I want to do that?” Michael asked.  “I mean, I’m figuring we can keep doing everything that we’re doing here until either we run out of supplies or I start hearing alien footsteps upstairs.”

“And then what, Michael?” Connelly asked.  “You going to try and negotiate with them?”

“No, actually I’m going to take this .45 right here on the table,” Michael said, reaching for the pistol.  “Then I’m going to shoot old Samantha here in the head, then myself.”

“Hey!” a muffled voice said from underneath the table.  A head of long red hair popped into view, a quite stunning captain in a state of relative undress struggling to stand up.  “No one said anything about shooting me in the head,” she slurred.  “You’ll mess up my makeup.”

Oh my God, Connelly thought.  Perhaps there’s a reason our race is about to be nearly exterminated.  He thought of several of the older members of the TEC, men and women of the World War II generation.  He suddenly found himself wishing that the Dominionites had come sixty years earlier.  He played his last card.

“Michael…” he started.

“Oh, this oughtta be good.  Are you going to talk to me about Mom, Apple Pie, and how I need to save the flower of America youth?” Michael asked.  “Well, guess what, I’ve got the flower right here, don’t I Samantha?”  With that, Michael kissed the woman who looked a full ten years younger than his youngest daughter.

“I can make it quick,” Connelly said shortly.

“Huh?” Michael asked, suitably distracted by Samantha’s wandering hands.

“I said I can make it quick, you bastard,” Connelly said.  Not that it’ll be any quicker than a whole shitload of other people.

“Oh?  And how is Wünderkinder Connelly going to make it quick?” Michael asked, holding Samantha off for a second.

“I’ll blow you off the face of the planet,” Connelly said.  “You shoot yourself with that .45, especially in your condition, you’re going to screw it up.  Orionans will eat you with half your jaw missing as well as completely whole.”

For a moment, Connelly didn’t think he had reached the other man.  Samantha leaned back in for a kiss, obscuring his view as she moved suggestively onto Michael’s lap.  Connelly found himself wanting to head for the shower and wash himself off just for seeing what was going on.

“How’s dying instantly sound to you, baby?” Michael asked, stopping Samantha from moving.  Samantha looked at him with a pout, then nodded her head.  Connelly averted his eyes as she got off his lap, then turned back to face the man he had once called a close friend.

“I hope you burn in Hell for what you’ve done, Adam,” Michael said somberly.  “You’ve got a deal.  I don’t want to feel a thing.”

“Done.  When?”

“I don’t care, you bastard.  I don’t ever want to talk to you again after you tell me what you want me to do.”

Connelly nodded.

“I need every unit you have in the Colorado area.”

 

Atchinson Kansas

1530 Local

 

“Mommy, will Jesus be mad at me for lying to you about drinking my milk?” Pauline Banner asked, the five-year old’s eyes starting to droop.

Jessica Erin Banner, nee Fowler, felt her heart lurch, the butterflies of fear and loathing flying up from her stomach again.  She felt her control on her emotions slipping, the fingernails of her mind starting to scratch down the cliff face of insanity with the enormity of what she and her husband had just done.

“Why don’t you ask him here in a little bit, huh Pumpkin?” she heard herself answer, brushing her curly blonde hair away from her face.

“How will we find you and Daddy in heaven, Mommy?” Pauline continued, desperately fighting off sleep now.  I’m glad I didn’t give her more, Jessica thought, a tear starting to roll down her cheek.  Her brother, Jeffrey, was already drifted off, having little or no chance against the narcotic laced bottle of formula.  Looking over at the towel-headed toddler, his blonde hair a mess upon his head, thumb securely locked in his mouth, she almost leaped up screaming from beside Pauline’s bed.

No, dammit, no, she thought.  If I’m going to murder my children I’ll be damned if I’m not going to sit here and spend every last moment I can with them.

            “Where’s Daddy, Mommy?” Pauline asked, fighting sleep.

“Daddy’s right here,” her husband, Arie Banner said, his face flush from having run into the house from outside.  Fighting down his own emotions, he rushed over to Jeffrey’s crib, lifting the toddler out and hugging him to his chest.  Visibly relieved, the man sat down next to Jessica and Pauline, wrapping his arms around them both.

“Honey, remember that song we always sing in Sunday School?” Arie said, realizing that Pauline was going to fight the drugs her mother had put in her porridge every step of the way.  C’mon honey, you need to go to sleep, he thought.  Don’t fight it.

            “J…Jesus Loves Me?” Pauline asked, sounding like a record being played far too slow.

“Yes,” Jessica said, just stopping from sobbing out the answer.  “Why don’t you sing it for us?”

“Jesus…loves me…this…I…” Pauline started, then went unconscious.  Checking her eyes, Jessica realized that her daughter would never sing for her again.  Looking down at the child’s light brown complexion and long, unruly black hair, she suddenly couldn’t hold back the emotions anymore.  Her body wracked with sobs, she watched as her daughter’s breathing slowed, then stopped for the last time.  Arie squeezed her hard, his tears falling on her shoulder as he began to weep also.

“It was for the best,” he said.  “She’s with her father now, and soon you and I will be with them again.”

There was a long, painful silence as the two of them sat with the bodies of their children.  It had been Arie’s idea after hearing General Connelly’s broadcast.  A devout Protestant, Arie believed that suicide was a sin, with eternal damnation as its reward.  Murder, however, was forgivable, far more so than leaving his wife and children to be killed by monsters.

Jessica had met Arie at a religious retreat three weeks before she had gone out to visit Eric in Washington.  The two of them had become fast friends, the Dutchman being quick with a joke or witty comment throughout the retreat.  A brilliant architect, the Arie was a self-made millionaire that had designed buildings in Europe, Asia, and South America.  Four weeks later, when the Air Force chaplain and two officers had shown up at her parents’ house in the middle of her bridal shower, Arie had been the first person there to comfort her.  Not two weeks later, she had found out that she was pregnant with Eric’s child, a traumatic event in and of itself.  Arie had been her rock through it all, and after a long courtship the two had been wed in a quiet ceremony in Wichita.

Now, six years later, as she stared down at the cold bodies of her children with Armageddon at hand, she wondered if she even believed in God anymore.

“We have to bury them,” Arie said.  “Quickly, before those monsters get here.”

Jessica nodded numbly, scooping up her daughter.  She would have started kindergarten next year, she thought.  Pauline had shown all indications of being tall, like both her parents.  Now she would never be anything.

There was the sound of thunder in the distance, and Jessica looked out the window at a bright, clear sky.

What is going on? she thought.

 

Colorado

1620 Local

 

It was inarguably the largest dogfight to ever take place over North America.  Outside of World War II, it was the largest dogfight to take place in the entire world.  A special medal, forged out of precious metals and rare gems, would be struck by the Confederation government to commemorate the day.  The few that survived it would wear it would pride, it entitling the wearer to the finest drink in any establishment on Barren.

Like most battles, it would have its share of mythology.  The number of Orionan fighters present would grow as time went on and the few participants exited stage left.  The courage and bravery of the NORAD fighters, private planes and, in a couple of bizarre cases, large airliners present would grow with the telling and retelling of the story.  Like a macabre morality tale whose lesson was unclear, the Walther’s Last Stand would become so famous that it would eclipse all other tales of bravery that occurred on that day, making it impossible for historians to tell the myth from the reality.

 

“Dammit!” Eric muttered, watching as two more Sparrowhawks exploded under a hail of rail gun slugs from the plodding Griffins.  The war machines were moving at a stately fifty miles per hour, the better to give their gunners a stable platform from which to fire.  Humanity had entered the fray with over five hundred aircraft counting his mecha.  Less than seventy-five, counting the fifty remaining mecha, were still present.

On the Orionan side, there were no fighters remaining.  As predicted, once Eric turned his transponder back on the fighters had been like sharks after a wounded whale.  Unfortunately for the Orionans, this whale had had friends lurking in the wings and just waiting for them to get out of support range from the Griffins.  The dead pilots over Hawaii had been avenged in spades.

That had left the Griffins, those spectacularly equipped engines of doom.  Whereas the fighters had been heavily armed, the Griffins had carried more collective airborne firepower than an entire USAF fighter wing.  What they had not counted on was nukes coming into play, which was all right because Eric had been unaware that nukes were in play until an F-16 with a 100kt bomb strapped to its belly had gone hurtling by him into the fray.  There had been just enough time to call out warnings before a rail gun blotted the fighter out of the sky, tripping the deadman switch the ingenious pilot had rigged up.

One of the Griffins had been destroyed outright, the blast snapping it in half and sending it to Earth with debris and Orionans streaming out behind.  Another Griffin had been so badly damaged it had headed down towards Denver, spewing out battle armor as it went.  That particular event sucked for Denver, but it had given Eric a limited amount of hope that they just might get the last of the civilians out of Fort Riley.  Looking at his watch, he realized that the time to disengage was rapidly drawing near.

“Colonel Walthers, they’re accelerating!” someone shouted.

“Crap!” Eric said, pulling up just out of range of the main batteries.  It was true, the Griffins were picking up speed and turning to take an angle towards Fort Riley.  Looking down at his combat display, he realized that he was almost out of railgun ammunition.  His defensive computer was sounding a constant warning tone, indicating that he was low on shield power and needed to exit the battle to recharge.  If he was that low on power, it meant that there was no chance he’d get an effective charge on most of his energy weapons.

“Jack, how much battle armor can you fight?!” he asked over the direct comlink.  To his front, two Canadian CF-18s flamed out and fell out of the sky, their pilots ejecting.

“Eric, you know the answer to that one!  I can’t fight the Praetorians without another battalion of tanks!”

Out of options, and now those people are going to be dead anyway, Eric thought.  He realized that the Griffins were starting to pass six hundred miles per hour, and most of the conventional Human fighters were running out of fuel trying to catch them.

“Jack, listen to me—you know what happens if this mecha gets destroyed.  Start falling back towards the ships!”

“Eric, what are you going to do?” Karin broke in from her mecha.  Her Grizzly was located with the rear guard, ensuring no leakers flanked the 6th Shock.

“I’m going to ride the lightning,” he muttered, watching as another pair of conventional fighters fell out of the sky.  “Computer, no power to shields, all to propulsion and energy lance.”

“Estimate a…” Olivia began.

“I said sound like my mother, not be her!” Eric shouted, shoving his throttles forward and climbing.

The shift of power was like goosing his mecha with an atomic blast.  He shot upwards, gaining ten thousand feet with such quickness it would have made an ICBM envious.  Rolling inverted, he arced his fighter down towards the rapidly advancing Griffin, choosing the right hand of the Orionan assault vessels.

Time to come to papa, he thought, passing double the speed of sound as he descended like a black streak out of the sky.  The Griffin’s guns opened fire on his fast moving mecha, but he had chosen his arc for a reason.  In space, the Griffin could easily roll to maintain heavy fire in any direction.  In atmosphere, such a maneuver was dicey, to say the least.  While it seemed as if every gun in the world was shooting at him, in reality the ship’s hull protected him from most its fire.

Not so from the lead Griffin.  He felt a rail gun slug slam into his aircraft’s fuselage, the armor ablating back to disappear in his slipstream.  Out of the corner of his eye he watched the lead Griffin start to turn to expose its entire broadside to him, causing his target to slow to avoid a collision.

“Oh shit…pull up Eric, pull up!” he dimly heard Jack say.  Ignoring him, he looked at his indicator for the energy lance.  A flashing 100% was in his field of view, then the Griffin was impossibly close, too close to pull out.

“Transform!” Eric said, his voice utterly calm.

No one had attempted what he was about to.  Mecha that transformed in the middle of firefights tended to make wonderful targets, as they were unable to use any of their weaponry or shields.  Eric had no need for either, but the sheer force of slipstream would have ripped anything but a Phoenix to shreds.  Not that it was an easy move by any means for his mecha, the scream of tortured metal indicating that he would not be transforming back to fighter anytime soon.  With a tortured whine, his repulsor’s kicked in, and that was when the g-forces nearly blacked him out.

He came to just as his mecha impacted, slamming so hard into the decking that his head bounced around the canopy, causing him to bite a portion of his tongue.  Blood filled his mouth, and he was forced to spit it out into the cockpit.  Moving his arms in the control straps, he pressed up to his feet, feeling the Griffin shuddering underneath him.  Turning, he found himself looking into the armored viewport at the Orionan captain and his bridge crew.  The tall aliens were scrambling, several of them pointing at his mecha as he hovered in the slip stream.

“Power levels dropping.  Power levels dropping,” Olivia sighed in his ear.  He raised his mecha’s right arm, pointing the closed fist at the viewport.

“Lance ready!” Eric barked.  Just above his mecha’s gripping hand, a small circular device swirled open.  There was an unearthly purple glow, a field of condensed anti-matter swirling within its containment field.  Realizing the danger, a crewman clawed for his sidearm, preparing to attempt to shoot Eric through the viewport.  Behind him, it was déjà vu for those Praetorian gunners that could see him, his mecha in the exact same posture as when he had killed Argnor.  Before any of them could fire, Eric gave his final command.

“Engage lance!”

The energy lance was an experimental attempt to focus anti-matter and plasma in a combined beam.  The first attempt had vaporized a continent on Dinotilia, a significant emotional event for a species with a hive mind.  Once the shock and horror had been erased, the Dinotilians had managed to create a beam for ten milliseconds, long enough to cut two scientists and six sections of massive battleship armor in half.  Eric’s lance was the fortieth attempt, and Argnor’s death had been its first operational use.  Much like his current situation, desperation had eased his fears.

There was no armor that could withstand the lance.  Limited by safety protocols to fifty meters in penetration, the lance shot from Eric’s arm through the bridge into the forward battle armor bay.  Whipping his arm to the right and left, Eric used the full three seconds of lance power to utterly immolate the bridge and with it the attitude and altitude controls.  With a whine, the Phoenix shut down, automatically sensing a ferrous metal and magnetizing itself to hang on.

Eric’s reply to Jack had been apt.  As the Griffin descended from the heavens, he indeed found himself riding the lightning, a 225,000 metric ton bolt of it.  Cursing at the top of his lungs, he did the quick mental math of how long it would take the vessel to fall from their 25,000 feet perch.  He didn’t like the numbers, and they began to get worse as the Griffin accelerated towards the ground.

“Power reset.  Computer reset.  Analyzing battlespa…” Olivia started to say.

“Shut the Hell up, all power to thrusters!”

With a clunk, the Phoenix released itself.  Eric had a horrible moment as he watched the length of the Griffin hurtle past him, projections a blur on either side of his mecha as he got clear.  Wth a terrible clarity, he realized the ship was twisting, its hull swinging towards him like a bat as it tumbled and accelerated out of control.  A startled Orionan gunner’s face was the last thing he saw as he managed to steer clear, his left arm being ripped off by the vessel’s extreme stern.  The blow spun his fighter around, away from what he knew was coming next as he continued to fall.  Spying a depression, he accelerated his mecha towards it.

“Opaque and get us down!” he screamed in terror, knowing he was a dead man.

Amazingly, the Griffin’s fusion bottles did not explode.  Orionan safety protocols had always accounted for collisions with solid objects or other ships, and they performed as advertised in the current situation.  The anti-matter warheads on the one thousand suits of battlearmor, however, did not.

 

Arie cocked the rifle, taking careful aim at the back of his wife’s head.  Jessica was kneeling in her grave, having made her peace with Jesus and cleansed her soul.  The contrails and explosions of the battle were clearly visible, the massive Griffins stark agains the sky thirty miles away.  The nuclear explosion over Denver had occurred just as they were finishing putting the dirt in Pauline’s grave.

“Honey, I love you,” he sobbed.  “Oh God, I can’t.”

“Think of the images Connelly showed all of us,” Jessica said quietly, not turning around.  She knew her husband, and knew that he would never be able to shoot her as he looked into her eyes, no matter what the cost of his hesitation.

Arie took a deep breath, then brought the rifle up.  An avid hunter, he knew exactly what the .30-.06 would do to his beautiful wife’s head.  Reconsidering, he lowered the rifle, then started to take the slack out of the trigger.  May God forgive me, he thought.

In the next instant, he got a chance to ask his Maker himself.  The anti-matter warheads did not explode as one concerted blast, which was fortunate as they would have excavated a significant portion of Kansas and Colorado.  What they did do is explode and fling debris for several dozen miles, to include the massive portion of armor that neatly cleaved Arie’s left side off on its way over Jessica’s head.  The impact both spun Arie’s corpse and caused him to fire the rifle, the sound lost in the roar of the explosion.

The bullet slammed into Jessica’s back, snapping her lower spine.  Hit hard, she pitched forward, stunned by the sound wave that passed overhead.  The world went black.

B-Sides and Outtakes: Armageddon Dawn Part VI

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Chapter 3

 

Pacific Ocean

1200 Kansas Time

 

The first hostile alien vessel to enter Earth’s atmosphere, a Griffin-class assault lander, penetrated the atmosphere at a point two hundred miles to the west of the International Date Line.  As a result, the official Day the Earth ended would be 26 June, 2011.  Hitting the Earth’s atmosphere at several times the speed of sound, the lead vessel was quickly joined by its three consorts, the large arrowhead-shaped vessels’ bows burning bright enough to lighten up the pre-dawn sky.  A full five miles long, two miles deep, and half mile wide, the Griffins were so named because they doubled as both an aerial combatant and a fearsome indirect fire support apparatus.  Normally, a size of Earth received the gentle attentions of ten such vessels, but Kwirh’s violent counterattack had seen to it that reinforcements would be a little bit longer in coming.

The collective sonic boom from their passage made many Christians who heard it, those few who were still thinking of religion at that moment, to think of the book of Revelation and the sounding of the final trumpet.  To those who were able to look up into the sky, the four bright fiery trails seemed to signify the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse and the beginning of the end.  Across the Pacific, that largest of Earth’s oceans, men and women began to fall to their knees and pray, beseeching their gods for deliverance.

All four ships were detecting a single bright strobe, the source of the signal that had so impudently insulted their sovereign Lord and God of their existence, Emperor Krognar.  In the three trail vessels, a thousand each Orionan shock troopers in their brilliantly scarlet power armor waited, nestled in the drop chutes that led vertically through the vessel’s keels.  They did not care of numbers—the fact that this planet had not raised its shields the instant their fleet came into system or fired any defensive weapons at their incoming vessels indicated that it was technologically stagnant, its population literally easy meat.

Many of their leaders, those that had survived the numerous cauldrons of nameless battles across the stars against the TEC found themselves sickened with disgust that a race from such a backwards planet had managed to give them a handful of bitter defeats.  While King Pyhrrus of Greece was unknown to them, the term Pyhrric Victory would have easily described at least another dozen of the occasions where they had faced the tasty, two-legged beings from this world beneath them.  No matter, according to the life scans busily scrolling across their screens, there would soon be enough food to wash away the foul taste of bile that rose past their two tongues.  In many cases, their faces broke into feral grins, their vaguely feline features and four-inch teeth making them look like evil Cheshire Cats.  If, of course, the Cheshire Cat had had orange-tinged scales, not fur, been fifteen feet tall, had a pair of long, curled horns, and walked on two legs with cloven hooves.

Aboard the fourth vessel, only five hundred larger suits awaited in their drop chutes.  Overall black, a black that had been described as so dark it seemed to swallow one’s soul, nevermind all the surrounding light, the power armor had scarlet shoulder armor attachments, the extra bulk making them look like malicious interstellar linebackers.  These Orionans were all that remained of the Praetorian Guard, Argnor’s personal bodyguards that had failed in their mission.  Krognar, upon hearing of his son’s death, had forbade the Praetorians from committing suicide, the traditional Orionan response to failure.  Instead, he had decreed that the Praetorians would be allowed to end their lives once they had brought to account the Human responsible, a man who’s location continued to strobe near the center of the continent continuing its journey to darkness and the point where the final arks of humanity would lift off towards safety.

As the four ships continued down, down to around fifty thousand feet above the tranquil Pacific waters below, they slowed then almost stopped, detecting their first population center of over a million sentient beings.  Continuing to twenty thousand feet, the four ships continued their descent towards the islands of Hawaii, slowing even further as they reached the thicker air at lower altitude.  It was at that point the hulls of the vessels seemed to come alive, fragmenting in what appeared to be a sudden disintegration.  If any human had been present to lay eyes on the event, he or she might have cried out in exultation, thinking deliverance was at hand.

Those cries would have quickly turned to dismay as the fragments, flat flying wings nicknamed Boomerangs due to their distinctive shape, scurried away from their mother ships.  The Orionans, while disdaining to use fighters in the depth of space, were quite aware of the devastating effect airpower had within an atmosphere.  While far from sophisticated machines, the Boomerangs made up for their lesser technology with a truly devastating forward firepower and a truly robust level of armor.  Leveling off, the one hundred and twenty ‘Rangs headed off like a swarm of bats, arrowing straight towards the Hawaiian Island Chain.

Realizing the entry vector of the assault ships, General Connelly had ordered the evacuation vessels at the various Hawaii base complexes to immediately cease loading and retreat to the U.S. mainland.  He had only been forced to repeat his order twice, the second time threatening to kill the offending captains himself.  With tears in their eyes, screaming their impotent fury at Connelly through their data links, the five men and four women had complied, leaving thousands of trained military individuals to their fates.  Of the nine, four would commit suicide in the following years, still hearing the cries of those pitiful few they left behind in their ears.

Realizing that their last hope for getting off planet had left, scurrying off at high speed low over the Pacific, many of the remaining personnel resolved to defend their families.  The Griffins were closing far too quickly to have a hope of attempting to sail any ships from Pearl Harbor, but there were the roughly two hundred serviceable Navy, Marine, and Air Force combat aircraft stationed in the Hawaiian Islands.  As the Orionan fighters accelerated away from the Griffins, their pilots sighted the approaching human aircraft and howled their joy at opening the hunt.

Due to the limited introduction of retrofits by the United States Armed Forces as well as the basic level of Orionan technology, the mismatch was not as great as it could have been.  Instead of a modern jet fighter engaging a biplane, it was more a case of a 21st Century warplane engaging the early, much more primitive models flown at the closing stages of World War II.  While the Orionans had yet to develop an effective atmospheric laser, the devastating combination of rail guns, anti-matter missiles, and short-range plasma cannon was more than enough to stack the deck in their favor.

The fight took all of 45-minutes, broadcast live to the world.  Only slightly better than a massacre, it left the major cities of Hawaii in flames and all military power in the state broken.  For the Orionans, it cost twelve ‘Rangs.  Given that all the humans in Hawaii were now the property of the bypassing Griffins, it was a small price to prey.  Hawaii would continue to be a tourist mecca, except when these tourists returned it would be to gorge themselves on human flesh.

 

Fort Riley

1245 Local

 

Eric could hear the cries of shock and dismay from where he sat, his armor open so he could enjoy the breeze as it blew around him.  He could hear the buzz of the bees as they went about their business, and the rattle of small arms fire and the occasional boom of a main gun in the direction of Manhattan as the Reservists and Guard went about theirs.  Well, at least it was quick for most everyone around Pearl Harbor, he thought grimly.

Now wouldn’t it be ironic if we had some 50’s sci-fi movie shit go down and we find out the Orionans are allergic to bees or something? he thought.  We like evacuate the planet, come back, and find everyone we’re leaving behind alive, well, and really, really pissed off because we left them to face a bunch of psychopathic walking cat lizards?  Oh wait, let’s not forget rabidly carnivorous, and with an acquired taste for Human flesh.

            Someone nudged him in the back, causing him to jump and startle several nearby bees.  Looking up, shading his eyes, he saw Jack standing above him.  The man held two cups in his hands, extending one towards Eric.  In complete shock, Eric saw the logo familiar to anyone who had lived in the Puget Sound area for more than twenty-four hours.

“Holy shit!” Eric shouted, causing several nearby people to turn and look from where the last of the orderly queues were heading into the rear of the evacuation vessels.  One mother covered her child’s ears and favored Eric with a glare, a move so quaint it caused Eric to break out into laughter.  Stopping, he took a deep pull of the latte, savoring the Hazelnut.

“Okay, laughing at a woman who’s probably just left her entire home behind is probably not the smartest thing you ever did,” Jack said, seeing the woman staring hard at Eric as if memorizing his face.  “I think when we get to Barren someone’s going to get the ass-kicking of their life.”

“Right,” Eric scoffed.  “Hey, my name’s Eric!  Eric Walthers, Star Colonel, one each!” he turned and shouted to the woman.

Eric!” Jack said.  “Get a freakin’ grip.”  Eric turned and looked at Jack, a smile on his face.

“Oh yeah, get a grip my hovertank friend says.  You just don’t get it, do you?” Eric asked.  “This is it.  This is the last freakin’ cup of Starbucks I’ll ever have.  I’ll never see DisneyWorld again.  Never go for a midnight swim in the Pacific, as incredibly stupid as doing that is.  Nope, not Star Colonel Walthers, the most wanted man in the Universe—he just keeps getting the schlong!”

Jack was about to open his mouth, then closed it.  Pondering for a moment, he thought of a different tack.

“What do you think the Reservists are going to think when they see these ships lift off?” Jack asked, the small arms fire at the main gates picking up again.  General Connelly had made the call not to inform the men that they were to be abandoned, realizing that it was absolutely critical that the gates to the post be held to the last possible moment.  Eric found himself stunned once more at the utter cold-bloodedness of his commander, but there was a reason he had been tapped to lead the TEC and it hadn’t been his sparkling personality.

Bet POTUS is regretting that decision right now, Eric thought.  If not, he will be really, really soon.  While Colorado Springs wasn’t a major population center, it was probably pretty high on the Orionan target list thanks to NORAD.  Only the nearby presence of Denver would probably delay the inevitable.  The Orionans’ tremendous appetite for fine dining, which they considered the Humans, usually colored their decisions.

“I’ll be sure to ask them,” Eric replied sarcastically.  He saw Karin striding up behind Jack and nodded towards her as he drank the last of his latte, trying to make the movement seem casual.

“You haven’t told Karin yet, have you?” Jack asked quietly, not seeing the signal or realizing the Dominionite woman was right behind him.  Eric winced, mentally wishing that his friend knew when to shut up.

“Told Karin what?” the Dominionite asked, her features calm and imperturbable as always.  She held a bundle of dandelions in her hand, the yellow flowers strangely quaint for a woman decked out in her armor.

“Who gave you the flowers?” Eric joked, attempting to change the subject.  “Point him out so I can go kick his ass.”

“Your feeble attempts at distraction never work with your own females, what makes you think it would work with me?” Karin asked flatly.  “Tell me what?”

“I asked you a question first,” Eric replied.  Dominionites hated it when Humans were utterly illogical, almost to the point of homicidal rage.  Given that a completely irate Dominionite was going to be the end result any way one sliced it, Eric figured he might as well go for broke.

Karin took a deep breath, her eyes starting to deepen in hue, then suddenly caught herself.

“I have been watching a great deal of human interaction today, Eric,” Karin said, her voice approaching the Dominionite standard for humor.  “While I have always thought your race bizarre despite individuals being completely, as you say, loveable, I never realized the complete range of your species emotions and communication techniques until this morning.  From your sheepishness when I admitted we coupled, and quite enjoyably, last night to the strange female child that handed me these flowers ‘because I looked sad’, I have seen much.”

Eric realized he was screwed.  Dominionites were not happy unless they had someone in what his old wrestling coach had called the “old hucklebuck”, completely helpless and in a world of hurt.  If Karin was happy, that meant the hammer was coming down.

“So, I recognize your tactic for what it is, an attempt to make me upset so that you may avoid telling me whatever it is you have neglected to tell me.  I laud your efforts.”

Eric looked over to find Jack, and found much to his surprise that his friend had disappeared from beside him.  Typical, he thought.

“General Connelly has asked me to be the last pilot off Earth,” Eric said quietly.  “I was going to wait until your mecha was stowed, then tell you.”  Better to tell you a half truth than a whole lie, he thought to himself.

Karin turned towards him, her eyes literally flashing so brightly it looked like summer lightning.  In times of extreme emotions, Dominionites generated a minor static electricity field throughout their body, manifested in their eyes and at the tips of their limbs.  Touching one at such a time was like grabbing onto an old joy buzzer, slightly tingly and very surprising.  Needless to say, it made cross-species relationships rather interesting, and more than once Eric had been glad he didn’t have a pacemaker or undiagnosed heart murmur.

Okay, not the time to think about sex, he thought, Karin’s hands balled into fists.

“If I had told you the information that I was about to share with you,” Karin spat out, “I would think that you would be staying behind to die with your former love.”

“What?!” Eric asked, shocked.

“The woman who still owns a part of your heart, no matter how much you try to fight it,” Karin said, her voice low and angry.  “The one you refuse to find so that you can finally end your relationship in your mind.”

Eric was shocked once more.  His face obviously showed it because Karin favored him with a slight mocking look, the equivalent of a full sneer with humans.

“What, you didn’t think after one of your years of marriage that I would not know you so well, Eric Walthers of Topeka?  For the first year you were with the Confederation you thought of little else, even telling my uncle that you wished you had never been flying the day we came to your world,” Karin thundered.  Eric started backing up, a mistake as it caused Karin to cover the distance between them in two steps.

“Oh, I hated you, and what I considered your pathetic whining.  You killed my bethrothed, albeit through is own arrogance and stupidity, and you had the audacity to complain about unrequited love?  You have no idea how often you flirted with the Dark One while in the middle of your self-pity.”

“Karin, you know I did not intend to kill Qatran,” Eric stammered, never having seen his wife so angry.  “The collision…”

“Do you really think, after six years, that I still have feelings for him?  He was arrogant, the marriage was arranged, and you would never have rammed his fighter on purpose—until today you were never so determined to die.  But can you say the same about this Jessica person?”

“She’s as good as dead, honey,” Eric replied, starting to wave Karin’s concern away.  Karin reached out and snatched his hand, her eyes locking with his.

“I will not allow you to take the easy route out, Eric,” Karin snapped.  “You wish to allow the Dark One to choose what woman you shall spend your life with because you lack the courage to do so yourself.  This is cowardly, and I have never known you to be a coward.”

“What difference does it make?” Eric asked.  “General Connelly…”

“Put out very strict rules regarding who could be taken.  I have done the work you would not,” Karin said fiercely.  “Her DNA is of a superior strand.”

“How do you…?” Eric asked, his eyes suddenly widening.

“Foolish Human, you of all people should realize how bad I am when truly determined,” Karin replied, her voice low and primal.  “You will have to decide, not Death.  I will go get her myself if I have to.”

“What?!  Are you insane, the entire Orionan Fleet is getting ready to begin bombarding this planet, the world is such complete chaos they are having to shoot down people at the gates to this post, and you are talking to me about going to find an individual?!”

Karin’s comment was interrupted by the sound of a couple hundred screams from the direction of the Potemkin, four hundred yards to their south.  Simultaneously, Eric heard the screech of his communications speakers and realized that the last of the civilians had been loaded.  Karin released him, her look clearly telling him that their conversation was not over.  As he sprung for his armor, he saw Jack sprinting towards him from the Wizard of Oz, cycling his helmet back as he came.  Eric finished slipping on his suit and cycling his helmet on just as his friend reached him.

What he saw was not good by half.  Thank you, Murphy, may I please have another? Eric thought, the weight of the world suddenly heavy on his shoulders.  The Potemkin, one of the first vessels loaded with over two thousand family members, had just suffered a critical powerplant failure.  The vessel wasn’t going anywhere for at least three hours.  In three hours, the Orionans would be over the Earth’s horizon and able to engage the vessel as the attempted to take off.  While fighting one Griffin was a fair fight for the evacuation ship, four was far from it.

“Olivia, General Connelly, priority line, right fuckin’ now!” Eric barked to his suit.

“Swear word count now at…” his mother’s voice, recorded from the Birthday CD she had made for his 15th Birthday, started to chide him.  Eric had been trying to improve his temper and command presence as befitting his promotion to Commander of 1st Brigade.  As several of his now subordinate leaders had pointed out, Colonels and above didn’t swear every other word—it started to make people believe the situation was worse than it actually was.

“Olivia, now!” Eric said desperately.

A moment later, General Connelly’s visage appeared in mid-air in front of Eric.  The screams and cries from the Potemkin were growing louder, then suddenly ceased as her captain got on the intercom.

“Sir, we have a problem,” Eric said, then quickly recounted his issue.  Connelly looked as if Eric had struck him, seemingly aging five years in a matter of seconds.  I wonder when the last time he slept was, Eric thought to himself.

“Star Colonel, you need to leave the vessel,” Connelly said tiredly.  “Get the other four out of there.”

“What?!  Sir, I will not…”

“Dammit Eric, it’s only two thousand people.  We are talking the deaths of billions in a matter of hours.  The Heart of Orion just folded out of system with half of the Orionan Fleet.  You know what that means, don’t you?”

Eric felt as if the bottom had dropped out of his stomach.  He physically staggered, then looked up at both Jack and Karin.  Their faces were similarly shocked, Jack’s a total and complete pale.

“We killed Krognar, and now whomever was next in line of succession…” Eric began.

“Is preparing to take possession of this planet, yes.  It will be a blood orgy the likes of which the world has never seen, and what remains of the Orionan Fleet is closing with you as we speak.”

Eric closed his eyes, suddenly absolutely aware of every smell and sensation around him.  It would be the last time he felt Earth’s gravity beneath his feet, saw the rolling green plains of Kansas in front of him.  The Orionan Prophecy had come to pass—Earth had caused the fall of the House of Krognar.  The remainder of the Prophecy, however, spoke of the blue green planet being swallowed in a tremendous orgy of flame, its ashes to be scattered to the solar winds.  The Orionans were big into prophecies, almost as big as they were into eating.  The new Emperor had probably sent away all but those who were most in his favor, the better to dine on the delicacy that was mankind.

Time to run as if the Devil himself was behind me, Eric thought, then stopped.  No, I’m tired of running.

“Sir, if we leave these people, we’re not better than our former leaders,” Eric said firmly.  “First Brigade will buy ourselves time.”

General Connelly’s face colored as if he was going to override Eric, then he stopped.  Sighing heavily, seeing the determination on Eric’s face, he nodded.

“Sir, I’ll need additional elements,” Eric said, doing the calculations in his head.

“No,” Connelly replied.  “You want to play Jim Bowie, I’m going to play Sam Houston.  You fight with what you have there with you, at Riley.  Uplink me your plan.”

“Why?  So you can talk about how brave I was at my eulogy?” Eric asked bitterly.  “Or so you know which way no to run.”

Connelly’s face was set in stone as he looked into Eric’s eyes.

“I will ignore those last remarks and chalk them up to stress, Star Colonel.  Do you have the package?”

“Yes, I have your damn package, it’s aboard Nikita,” Eric replied, referring to his mecha’s nickname.

“Good.  I am rerouting the Hawaiian ships to your location.  Get the rest of the ships out of there, now.”

“Wilco,” Eric said, not quick enough to catch Connelly as he disappeared.

“Karin, I need Commander Wallaby here now,” Eric said, turning to his wife.  Karin nodded, heading towards the Shangri-La.  Jack looked at him, shaking his head.

“Eric, this is insane,” he said darkly.  “You, especially you, cannot be risked in combat right now.”

Eric looked back toward the Potemkin, its hatches opening to allow people to file out from its sides.

“I’m not leaving anyone here, Jack.  Go see to your men.”

“Dammit, I don’t feel like getting blown to smithereens because you’ve got a hero complex,” Jack said, not moving.  Eric turned to look at him.

“Jack, Amy’s on that boat,” Eric replied.  “You want to leave her here?  You want to tell Jason that you left his freakin wife to die?

“Fuck you, Eric,” Jack said fiercely, tears in his eyes.  With that, he turned to go get his battalion ready.

B-Sides and Outtakes “Armageddon Dawn”–Part V

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Things are tracking along nicely with the end of the world.  By this point if you’re dropping in with no background, strongly suggest you start back here .  Welcome all TOPCON and Time Eddy visitors–hope that you enjoy your visit!

Fort Riley, Kansas

 1000 Local (1100 Eastern)

 

Putting off their characteristic whine, the last of Jason’s fourteen M-9 Powells settled down off of their hoverfans, the thirty-ton tanks’ bulk raising a puff of dust as it settled down heavily onto the Kansas dirt.  Jason turned away from the settling tank back towards main post, now able to hear the rhythmic rumbling of a battalion’s worth of M-1A2SEP main battle moving up from the motorpools to the south.

So hard to believe a force so powerful for this planet is the equivalent of horse and lance for the stars, Jason thought to himself.  There was a low whine coming from the east, gradually building to a crescendo.  Although I think this is about to be reinforced, he thought.

With a flash, the rises to the east of Fort Riley suddenly became alive with movement as the 6th Shock Battalion, 1st Brigade, 1st Mecha Division, Terran Expeditionary Corps, crested the intervening terrain in a charge that took Jason’s breath away.  Moving at over one hundred miles an hour, seventy-five hovertanks weighing in excess of seventy tons apiece hurtled over the terrain towards Fort Riley.  At a silent signal, all seventy-five hovertanks suddenly came to a dead stop.  At another signal, the vehicles transformed into bipedal mecha, their main guns becoming the end of their left arm, the missile launchers usually mounted abreast their turrets swiveling to flank the “head” of their cockpit.

“Danger, inbound unidentified…” Jack’s helmet indicator began to intone, the Powell’s internal sensors detecting airborne targets via satellite feed.

The rest of the warning was drowned out by the ear-splitting roar of engines, as over a hundred aircraft thundered overhead from east to west, flying a perfect Vs upon Vs formation.  The aircraft, all hailing from the 5th Mecha Dragoons, came in various shapes and sizes.  The two most numerous ones were the Sparrowhawk, a mecha that resembled a tailless cranked delta-wing when in fighter mode, and the Kestrel, fighters that bore a marked resemblance to the American F-15 Eagle yet with swept wings.  Like their hovertank brethren, the aircraft stopped on a dime without signal, the exhaust of their retro-thrusters visible in the humid Kansas air, then transformed into hovering two-legged war machines that sat at altitude, their engines suddenly silent as they hung on repulsors.

“Sir, let me just state how utterly amazing a moment this is,” his gunner, and longtime Japanimation fan Sergeant Clark Blackwell said.  Turning, Jason could see the man standing with tears in his eyes, staring reverentially up at the now descending mecha like they were descending Playboy bunnies.

Too bad he doesn’t know what I do, which is those things are the only thing that can stand on the same battlefield as our soon to be opponents, Jason thought.  Which means that it’s a good thing we’re just here for crowd control, and will be on those damn evacuation ships in a jiffy.

            As Jason watched, one of the former hovertanks strode towards him.  Beside him, Blackwell was almost beside himself in joy, seeing the war machine start to get closer.  The mecha stood just over twenty feet tall and twelve feet wide, the seventy tons moving forward with a measured stride.  While all mecha could move forward using repulsorlifts and thrusters, both of those systems took about twice the energy as simply utilizing the “musculature circuitry”, yet another good enough translation, in the legs.  Unless a mecha had to be somewhere very, very quickly during a fight, it made more sense to divert power to the weaponry systems and shielding, especially in the face of an Orionan ground assault.

The particular mecha in question was a Grizzly, or so Jason’s mind suddenly told him in a flash of cognition that made him a little dizzy.  Jack said the mind flash takes a little bit getting used to, he thought.  Colored in all black with a gold trim, a roaring stylized lion’s visage in the center of the cockpit canopy, the Grizzly was the command mecha for the “Golden Lions”, the 6th Battalion’s nickname bestowed upon them by their first commander, the late Lieutenant Colonel Ajax McCarthy .  One of two hovertank types in the CCDF, the Grizzly like its namesake was designed for close-in battles with the Orionan Horde.  Just over the horizon, near the turnoff for Manhattan proper, were the Woomera fire-support hovertanks of the 7th Battalion, the “Horsemen”.

As Jason watched, the canopy cleared from its opaque mode to reveal a single figure at the vehicle’s controls, obviously female by the contours of the battle armor.  Jason suddenly felt a gust of wind and looked behind and up, watching as the command mecha for the fighters, a Phoenix, descended from above his head and landed just expertly beside the other mecha as it stopped twenty yards short of Jason and Blackwell’s position.  The two massive plasma rifles that constituted the Phoenix’s main armament were retracted to their normal positions, the barrels pointed vertically into the sky behind each of the mecha’s shoulders.  Man, looks like the Japanimation folks got something right, Jason thought, not knowing that the Phoenix pilot had been the guiding force behind the prototype for the mecha.

“Okay, next to that whole threesome fantasy with Natalie Portman and Kirsten Dunst, I’m pretty much at a ten,” Blackwell breathed.  Jason turned and looked at the man, shaking his head.

“Okay Sergeant Blackwell, I’m going to have Top sedate you if you keep making comments like that,” Jason said.  Blackwell looked over at him, and Jason realized he could’ve told the man he would shoot him in both his kneecaps and he wouldn’t have cared.  The short, stocky African-American was in rapture, his brown eyes wider than dinner plates.

“Mecha.  Women mecha pilots.  Multiple types of mecha.  Sir, all we need now is some princess that needs rescuing and we are in Blackwell Heaven,” the NCO breathed.  Jason suddenly found himself thinking of Elvis groupies back in the Sixties, fully expecting Blackwell to scream and faint in a moment.  He turned to say something when the situation suddenly changed.

“You humans and your damsel in distress fantasies,” the walking hovertank boomed from hidden speakers, causing everyone within earshot to jump.  “Any female who finds herself in such a situation lacks the intelligence to be good breeding stock—why would you want to share your bloodline with hers?”

The voice coming from the mecha was obviously feminine, and imperious to boot.  With a hiss, the canopy opened, whipping from left to right as one complete unit.  With an almost feline grace, it’s pilot jumped out, dropping to the ground from a heigh that would have broken most humans’ legs, if not killed them outright.  The pilot hit with only a slight flexing of knees, then started striding over to where Jason and Blackwell were standing..

“Holy shit,” Blackwell said as the woman got closer.  She was easily six feet tall if not more, with broad, muscular hips that met at a narrow, waspy waist.  This waist then broadened back out as it moved up to her full chest and broad shoulders, the entire package moving without the gangly awkwardness of many tall women.  Reaching up, the woman touched the sides of her armor, the helmet portion flipping back then sliding into the back portion of the suit between her shoulders.  The face revealed was a deep, rich chocolate brown in complexion, the features soft and narrow.  If not for the completely sapphire blue eyes, the pilot would look like a beautiful human woman, stunning enough to be a supermodel.

“Okay, I’m going to go see Top now,” Blackwell breathed, captivated by the woman’s beauty.

“Might be a plan,” Jason observed quietly, set back himself.  He had once watched a documentary on ancient Egyptian queens like Cleopatra and Nefertiti that had described their beauty as being without description.  At the time he had scoffed, refusing to believe any woman could be that beautiful—a comment that had gotten a bucket of ice dumped on him and sent his chances of marital relations dropping so low they made Hell seem like Mount Everest.  While Kathy had eventually forgiven him after much flowers and chocolate, he had quietly continued to believe such descriptions were a bit excessive.

Yeah, well, looks like one learns something every day, he thought as the woman walked up to him.

“Jason, close your mouth, you’re drooling,” Jack said as he suddenly came up behind him.  Turning to the female pilot, his face grew hard and he brought his arm across his chest in a form of salute.

“Star Colonel Tobarakh, welcome to Earth,” Jack intoned, his voice low and dignified.  The pilot returned the salute, ending it with a short bow of her head.  Her features softening somewhat, which is to say they downgraded from polite glaciality to cold, she extended her hand towards Jason.

“Greetings Jason Mitchell of Fort Riley,” the pilot said.  “My name is Karin Tobarakh of Adjibouti, the planet of Dominion.”

Jason took the pro-offered hand, suddenly surprised by the strength of Karin’s grip and the nascent strength he felt behind it.  Sweet Jesus, she could crush my hand if she wanted to, he thought.  Jason had once shaken hands with a professional bodybuilder, four time winner of the World’s Strongest Man contest.  At the time he had believed that he would never shake hands with another person as powerful.  Obviously I was wrong about that one.

“Sir,” Jack said, saluting as the pilot of the figher mecha came up beside the woman and dropped his visor.  Jason was shocked to see the features of a human, the man returning the salute.

“Jack, you can stop that shit at anytime,” Eric replied, his voice weary.  Turning, he extended his hand and shook Jason’s.  “Star Colonel Eric Walthers, formerly of Topeka, Kansas.”

Jason sighed in relief, not realizing he had been holding his breath.

“Yeah, I know, it’s good to see a freakin’ human,” Eric said.  “No offense, honey,” he said quickly to the woman.  Karin raised one of her narrow eyebrows at Eric, the ghost of a smile crossing her face for the first time.

“I do not recall you complaining about me being a non-human when we coupled last night, Eric Walthers of Earth.”

There was an extremely awkward silence amongst the four individuals, Eric’s skin blushing as much as someone his shade could.  Karin looked at all three men, then shook her head.

“You humans are such prudes,” she said in her native tongue, utterly beguiling Jason.

“Dear, it’s not polite to discuss what happens between husband and wife in mixed company, especially when you have just met,” Eric replied softly in the same language.  Jason continued to look back and forth between the two of them, the flow of sounds utterly astounding him.  In a perverse reversal of the usual order of things, the family members and non-combatants being loaded on the ships had been the first in line for translator chips.  Space was unforgiving of mistakes, and all it took was someone not understanding that they were about to open a hatch to kill a shipful of people.

“This man finds me desirable, and I did not need a sensor array to tell that had I but offered his subordinate would have coupled with me right here.  Do you not want them to know that you have, and can continue to have, me?  Is our coupling not pleasing to you?”

“You know, I don’t think I need a translator to realize someone’s stepped in deep shit,” Jason said bemusedly.  Jack snickered, turning away to hide his grin.

“You have a mate, Jason of…Jason?” Karin asked, forcing herself to remember Human custom with names.

“Yes, yes he does,” Jack said quietly.  Jason turned and looked at him, then back at Karin.

“Yes, my wife, Amy,” Jason said.  There was a flash of recognition in Karin’s eyes, and she looked quickly back and forth between Jason and Jack.  Before she could say something potentially embarrassing, Jack held up his hand.

“Yes, my ex-girlfriend,” Jack said.  “And yes, I know on your world this would be cause for a blood match to the death.  There’s more than it would take to explain, Karin, let’s just leave it at that.”

“After the idiocy of your most prominent world leaders, nothing surprises me anymore,” Karin said with a shrug.  “My father provided them with various more efficient power sources, cures for diseases, and weapons technology that was several generations ahead of where you would have been normally at this time.”

“General Connelly has taken care of that problem,” Eric replied fiercely, his eyes lit with barely contained fury.

“I am afraid that their being consumed alive isn’t quite going to cut it,” Jason said, his voice heavy.  The enormity of what was going to happen had just started to sink in for him, and he hated himself for being incredibly glad that his and his entire immediate family’s seats on the last ships out of Dodge were guaranteed.  Although I’d love to see Mom’s face when the Tectal showed up at her doorstep, Jason thought with a grin.  The Tectal were the scouts of the CCDF, tall, elfin featured creatures with generally willowy builds and almost human eyes.  While no one could confirm it, according to Jack, most of the humans were reasonably certain the Tectals had been using Earth as a vacation spot off and on for several millennia.  Jason broke out of his reverie to see Jack staring at him.

“Thinking about Lucy when the Tectal shows up at the door?” Jack asked with a big grin.  Lucy Mitchell was enough of a Middle Earth fan that she had camped out for two days waiting on the first movie to be released.

“You know, Dad’s been dead for two years,” Jason observed.  “I think the poor bastard will be lucky if she doesn’t jump his bones right there in the living room.”

“Okay, that’s something most normal folks don’t think about their mother,” Eric said in shock.

“Look, I walked in on my parents when I was ten,” Jason said.  “They figured the cat was out of the bag at that point.  Made them happy—someone they could tell to take my brothers for a ‘long walk’ when Dad got back from the field.”

Jack whipped his head around in shock.

“So that’s why you were always coming by to get me so we could go to the park when our parents were stationed at Fort Lewis!”

“Uh, dude, it’s no big deal—how do you think they got Sarah?  Look’s like Dad got what he paid for with the vasectomy,” Jason said, alluding to the fact military personnel were given free medical care.

There discussion was broken up by the sound of several mecha powering up their weapons, then standing down.  All of htem looked up as far overhead, several contrails indicated the path of a squadron of positively outclassed F-15 Eagles.

“Why do military pilots continue to fly when they are assured of evacuation?  Did not General Connelly advise this planet of their impending doom just one hour ago?”

“Yes,” Eric said heavily.  “Some men are refusing to obey his orders, and are going to defend their families, their homes.”

“They would have more chance of stopping a comet or flying through a star,” Karin said flatly.  “They will be killed like…like flies against a windshield.”  Karin smiled, turning to Eric.  “A good use of your quaint sayings, yes?”

“Yeah, except those flies are our people,” Jason said heavily.  “And that windshield is heading for our planet.”

“You humans are technologically backwards, but you do not lack for courage,” Karin said, her voice touching on sadness.  “It is unfortunate that your leadership was so poor.”

“Yeah, well, it’s not like the average person knew.  There’s a reason they had everyone report to Area 51 prior to shipping out for Barren,” Eric said bitterly.  “Some of us involuntarily.”

“Speaking of your involuntary expulsion to somewhere over the rainbow, have you gotten in contact with Jesse?”  Jack asked, suddenly remembering the picture that Eric carried in his wallet.  Eric gave a short snort.

“What would be the point?” Eric asked, his voice melancholy.  “We were all reported dead, remember?  I even got to read my own obituary and the eulogy delivered by my best friend.  Dumb bastard still owes me the $500 I loaned him for his engagement ring.”

“I suppose you’re going to collect once we get to Barren?”

“No, I’m not.  He collided with a Saudi Tornado over Riyadh,” Eric said quietly.

“Why do you not contact her, Eric?” Karin asked.

The low warbling sound of the post tornado siren sounded off in the distance, cutting off the conversation.  Almost at the same time, there was the sound of several weapons being powered up all around them, the mecha moving to give each other space to align their weapons down I-70 towards the west.  Jason looked as the mecha brought their weapons to bear, then turned back just in time to see Jack, Eric, and Karin all cycle their helmets back over their head, the clear faceshields snapping into place.  All three of them had the same look of intense concentration on their face, speaking rapidly into their microphones.

“Jason, REDCON-1!” Jack snapped, a tinge of fear in his voice.  “Get your soldiers mounted up and back to the evacuation ships, now!”

“What?!  We don’t even have all the family members aboard the vessels yet!”

“Get moving, dammit!  You guys cannot stand in this fight!”

Jason cursed at his friend, then ran back towards A-66, his fourteen M-9s already spooling up.  Thank God Hitchcock is naturally paranoid, Jason thought.  Hopping up on his tank’s front skirt, he felt the Powell shift and lift off the ground.  Sliding into his commander’s station, he plugged up his CVC.

“Okay Apache Five, what’s up?” he asked.

“Sir, I have no clue but Hammer 6 just told us to go to REDCON-1,” Hitchcock replied.  The battalion commander was a huge sci-fi buff, and since the Powell was a hovertank the new battalion nickname had been too good to pass up.  Colonel Donovan had drawn the line at adding the full nickname, citing copyright laws.

“Funny, that’s the second time I’ve heard that.  What’s up?”

“It looks like someone kicked off the aliens’ plans early, because apparently all Hell is breaking loose out in space.”

 

C.C.D.F.S. Huntress

Luna Orbit

1025 Kansas Time

 

“Sir, the enemy is advancing!”

“In the immortal words of Star Colonel Walthers, ‘No shit, really’?!” Kwirh growled.  “Could I get a coherent report?”

“The enemy fleet is beginning to collapse towards Terra, Star Admiral,” Star Colonel Anastasia “Ice Princess” Zdhanov, Third Fleet’s intelligence chief, intoned from her station.  A former Russian spy, Ana was the stereotypical Russian female of that profession-tall, brunette, and beautiful.  The last often distracted men from realizing that she had one of the highest IQs ever recorded, usually to someone’s great dismay when she sank a knife in their exposed back.  Next to Eric, she had been one of the quickest to grasp the nuances and intricacies of space combat and intergalactic warfare.  She had found a niche on Kwirh’s Dominionite dominated staff, accepted quickly due to her cold-blooded military mind and amazing ability to analyze enemy actions.

“I must say, that plan worked all too well,” Kwirh rumbled.

“What exactly did Star Colonel Walthers say in his message?” Ana asked.  She had been sleeping when the message had been beamed utilizing usual Orionan protocols.

“He stated that Argnor had begged for his life before he killed him, then described the great joy he found in shoving his energy lance into his loins.  Finally, he stated how the Crown Prince’s meat was so tainted, his fighting skills so poor, that it had not even been worth consuming, which was why left it for the Tauran crows to feast upon it.”

“So basically insulting all three of the Orionans’ tenets of bravery, fighting skill, and purity of body.  Yep, we’re fighing to the death today,” Ana said, swiveling back around to look at her screen.  She self-consciously pulled her skirt down, brushing her bangs from in front of her eyes.  Had she been on one of the human-crewed vessels, the movement would have distracted every male on the bridge and probably led to a collision with a solid planetary body.  On the bridge of the Huntress, it led to every member of the bridge tightening down their restraints and doublechecking their environmental suits.  If the Ice Princess was nervous, things were very bad.

“Sir, the Illustrious reports all fighters deployed, requesting further orders.”

“Tell her and the rest of the carriers to get the hell out of here after launching their fighters,” Kwirh responded.  Thank God we finished retrofitting hyperdrives on all of the small craft last month during the Mourning Lull, Kwirh thought.  The Orionans had taken six months to bury Argnor, holding a festival of bloodsports, feasting, and combats to determine who would now succeed Krognar.  Given the reports of the intensive combats, it was amazing that any of the Orionan nobility had survived to make the journey to Earth.  There had been no reports on whom had won the right of succession, the news that the Orionans were beginning their general offensive with an attack on Earth superseding all other news.

Illustrious acknowledges and wishes us Godspeed.”

“You humans are so quaint with both your naming conventions and your wishes for good luck,” Kwirh said to Ana, shaking his head.  “Especially with your continued clinging to theology.”

“We have evidence of our God’s works,” Ana said stiffly.  A strictly practicing Eastern Orthodox, she found the Dominionites logical disdain for God disturbing, one of the few downsides to being on the Huntress’s bridge.

“Where is your God now, Ana?” Kwirh asked.

“Almost all religions have a portion of their main tome that deals with the final battle between Good and Evil on Earth,” Ana replied.  “Krognar’s visage is close enough to the common perception of Satan that an argument could be made this is the Day of Judgment, and the Orionans are God’s punishment for our sins.”

“Fighters making contact.”

“Well, if this is so, then I hope your God decides to make himself manifest in our favor, and soon.”

“We will see,” Ana replied quietly.

 

Depictions of fanciful space combat were as numerous as there were sentient cultures.  While the swirling, whirling dogfights that were a staple of atmospheric warfare were almost impossible in space due to the crushing influences of inertia at just barely sublight speeds, Confederation inertial dampeners had made things far more closer than they had been ten thousand years ago the last time that the Orionans and CCDF had met.  Given the crushing advantage in size and numbers enjoyed by the Orionans, it was only their overwhelming advantage in fighters and technology that allowed the CCDF to contest space against the Orionan Fleet.

For their part, the Orionans had tried various ways to counter this advantage, everything from converting vessels up to cruiser size into massive flak batteries to simply filling the mass drivers aboard their vessels with debris and flinging this like a massive shotgun towards the swarm of CCDF fighters.  So far, nothing had consistently worked, especially against the heavily Earth-influenced Third Fleet.  It was just accepted that the CCDF small craft were going to get their licks in, but that eventually enough Orionan capital ships would push through as to make things a costly proposition.  As Ana regularly pointed out, the Orionans would have made marvelous Russians.

So it was far above Earth, as CCDF pilots flung themselves as the advancing Orionan Fleet with a tremendous fervor.  There were numerous examples of bravery that would go undocumented, with a great proportion of these being conducted by the beings whose blue green planet lay at the 3rd Fleet’s back.  In the end, the ferocity of the attack turned back a full third of the Orionan Fleet, several destroyers and even a few cruisers exploding from the stinging attentions of the attacking fighters.

But there was only so much the attack aircraft could do.  As the range closed, the CCDF battleline began engaging at long range with energy weapons, their superior technology giving the CCDF a full four minutes of uninterrupted fire as the Orionans passed the system’s asteroid belt.  With a tremendous explosion, a Gorgon-class battleship was the first capital ship to be destroyed on either side, its foolish captain having underestimated the amount of time it would take to close into Orionan weapons range.  With the majority of its power going to weapons instead of shields, the battleship’s hull was suddenly penetrated by a particle projector, the explosion taking a pair of escorting vessels along with it.

Then the Orionans were in extreme range, and the air between the two fleets suddenly came alive with mass driver slugs, plasma bolts, and anti-matter missiles.  On their side, the CCDF vessels began vectoring at an angle, employing the standard fleet tactic of cutting across the Orionan noses as they exchanged fire, culling a portion of the Orionan Fleet away on their way out of system.

The problem with standard tactics were that an opponent eventually caught on to them.  While Argnor had been the true guiding light for a renaissance of Orionan tactics, his changes had not died with him.  To the utter horror of several Third Fleet captains, the far side of the Orionan Fleet curled away from Earth and hurtled towards the rear of the Third Fleet, sloughing from in front of the nine Emperor-class battleships, so named because they were the flagships of the eight greatest noble houses of the Orionan Empire.  Only two of them, the Emperor’s own ship and that of the heir, were fully equipped with the massive laser that ran the length of the vessels’ keel.  This was a fortunate fact for the CCDF, as the Orionans also moved from in front of the vessels, a departure from usual practice where everything possible was done to protect the Emperor and the Crown Prince.

A moment later, it became blazingly obvious why the way had been cleared from in front of the two battleships.  The massive lasers from both ships fired, the azure bolts stabbing out towards the approaching Third Fleet.  Fortunately warships moved with a lot more agility than planets, and the human captains of the targeted ships had watched enough anime to know what it meant when lesser vessels cleared a path in front of flagships.

With panicked transmissions starting to come from his companion ships, it was at that moment Kwirh demonstrated why he was widely celebrated as the greatest of the CCDF Admirals.  Seeing a golden opportunity to end the war at a stroke, he barked his orders.  Utilizing their superior maneuverability gained by virtue of their smaller mass, and in quite a few cases the helpful hand of gravity, the Third Fleet reversed course and charged right down the throat of the onrushing Orionans, straight towards the advancing Empires.

It was brilliant and suicidal at the same time.  By charging into the Orionan Fleet, Kwirh limited the arcs of fire of most of the Orionan battleline while simultaneously putting the Emperor at risk.  Like a novice chess player suddenly confronted with a looming checkmate, the Orionan Fleet panicked.  Desperate to protect their Emperor, all order and formation disappeared.

It was at that moment that Kwirh played his hole card.  Raising on a massive plume of Lunar dust at the outer edges of the Orionan Fleet, the Fifth Squadron of the still forming Fourth Fleet rose from the light side of Earth’s moon.  Kwirh had slowly infiltrated the ships within the comings and goings of evacuation vessels and resupply ships, their transponders squawking false identity codes as they passed through the Third Fleet.  The security had not been for the sake of the Orionans, as there were no spies amongst the CCDF.  Instead, Kwirh had determined to stiffen his own fleet with the surprise, a move that seemed almost prescient given the current circumstances.

Under Admiral Arvid Thorsen, the Fifth Squadron was composed almost entirely of the oldest Terran exiles.  A former Norse Viking that had been saved from his shipwrecked vessel by the Dominionites over two millennia before, Arvid was one of the oldest Terran exiles.  Having sailed into battle under Eric the Red, been resurrected in what he considered to be Valhalla, and done battle amongst the stars for the previous millennia, Arvid had never truly shaken the trappings of his barbarian past.  Even now, his seat was covered with the furs of the wild bears of Barren, killed at close range with his traditional sword.

Thorsen’s flagship, the Eviscerator, was the newest of the Emasculator-class battleships.  Accompanied by her two slightly older sisters and six Victory class battlecruisers, the Eviscerator quickly closed in mortal combat with the nearest Emperor battleship.  With the Emasculators the CCDF had broken from its usual tradition of smaller, more maneuverable vessels.  While nowhere near the same bulk as an Emperor, the Emasculators were one and a half times larger than the Revenge-class, the next nearest CCDF battleship.  Most of that additional weight went to armament, as demonstrated with great violence to the Orionan Fleet.

While many beings would have attempted to continue their path and attempt to end the war, it was quickly apparent that the CCDF could attempt to kill Krognar or run, but not both.  As the Orionan Fleet reeled from the sudden assault, with the evacuation ships starting to lift off from Earth’s dark side, the call was made.

 

The Huntress shuddered, the impact whipping down her length.

“Shields down to forty-five percent, hull breach decks seven, eight, and nine!”

“Dammit, what was that?” Kwirh growled, turning to look at his sensors operator.

“Sir, we were engaged by the main laser of an Emperor-class battleship, the Star of Argnor from her identification code.  It was a glancing blow.”

“Remind me to strangle the Chief of Intelligence when I see her next,” Ana muttered.

Kwirh was about to retort when there was a massive explosion twenty miles off their port bow.  Looking, he recognized the bow section of the battleship Revenge tumbling crazily away from the blast.

“That was the main laser from the Heart of Orion,” the sensor operator said, his face as pale as a Dominionite’s ever got.  “She was hit dead on.”

“Do we have a clear line to that bastard yet?” Kwirh asked, seeing the Huntress’s viewports start to roll as she was brought around.

“Sir, we cannot…”

“I asked a question, damn you!” Kwirh roared.

“No…yes!” the sensor operator replied, as the battleship Emasculator blasted a pair of Orionan heavy cruisers out of the way.  The CCDF capital ship looked like she had been grabbed by a great beast and had pieces torn from her, flames clearly showing through her viewports.

“Ramming…” Kwirh began.  He did not get to finish as Emasculator, obviously seeing his plan, chose to steal his thunder.  Nimbly avoiding one of her Orionan counterparts, the CCDF battleship hurtled towards Krognar’s flagship.

“Sir, recommend that unless we are going to follow, we go with your original order and get the hell out of here,” Ana said.  “I’m willing to die, but I want it to have a purpose.”

The advancing Orionan Fleet had been thrown into disarray, and would take at least three or four hours to reform.  Looking at the threat display, Kwirh could see four assault ships arrowing for Earth, having made it through the cordon of the charging Fifth Squadron.

“Computer, losses?” Kwirh asked, even as Huntress’s main batteries flayed an Orionan destroyer starting a missile run.

“Twenty-five percent,” the computer replied.  “If we do not disengage the fleet in the next five minutes, the losses will be at least double.  The Orionans are beginning to recover.”

Looking up, Kwirh watched the last minutes of the CCDF battleship.  While the Heart of Orion’s shields had stopped the smaller ship’s charge cold, they had been sufficiently weakened to allow four of Emasculator’s heavy missiles to shoot through to arrow into the ship’s massive hull.  The Emperor’s life threatened, the Orionan Fleet was collapsing back towards the Huntress’s position.  The Emasculator erupted in a silent explosion, her fusion engines venting their fury in an explosion that took a pair of destroyers with her.

“Give that bastard our regards, let’s get the hell out of here,” Kwirh barked.  “Let General Connelly know he has company inbound, and that we are departing system.”

With a roar conducted through her hull, the Huntress disgorged her battery of twenty-six anti-matter missiles.  Each the size of a SLBM on Terra, the missiles had enough warhead power to split an unshielded planet in two.  Unfortunately, the Heart was very shielded, not to mention surrounded by a fleet that was willing to die to save their Emperor.  Four heavy cruisers and a pair of frigates made the ultimate sacrifice, putting their vessels in between the missiles and their intended target.  In the end, only two warheads passed through to explode against the flagship’s armor.  To the cheers of the bridge crew, the Heart lurched hard, spewing atmosphere and propulsion fuel as she turned away from the Huntress.

“That’ll teach them to try something new and leave the family jewels uncovered,” Ana muttered grimly.  Kwirh turned and looked at her.

“My translator must be reading incorrectly.  Did you just say family jewels?” Kwirh asked.  “Why do we care about jewelry at a time like this?”

Ana shook her head, looking out the viewport as the Huntress passed low over Luna, her passage stirring the space dust in the Sea of Tranquility.  Exhaling, she took one last look at Earth, receding behind them.  Turning to her sensors, she could see the first of the evacuation ships starting to take off from Earth’s darkside, away from the Orionan Fleet.  The four assault vessels continued to descend towards Earth, pursued by several remaining fighters.  There was a last furious exchange of fire, causing one of the assault vessels to begin spinning out of control and head towards the planet’s Southern Hemisphere at an angle that almost guaranteed it would hit the Earth as an uncontrollable mass, not a fully intact ship.  Realizing that there was little they could do inside the planet’s atmosphere in their space fighters, the last Third Fleet fighters pulled up and used Earth’s gravity to slingshot past the sun.  With several bright flashes, they were gone.

“Jump in five, four, three, two…”

With a bright flash, the Huntress entered hyperspace, the remainder of the Third Fleet jumping out with her.  Earth’s final hours had officially begun.

B-Sides and Outtakes– “Armageddon Dawn”–Part III

Standard

Part III continues.  If you’ve just started following this blog, Part I can be found here.

Weather Mountain, VA

0800 Local (0700 Central)

“Sir, they’re all here,” Star-Colonel Sir Conrad Bradstock, Knight of the Bath to Queen Elizabeth I, said quietly.  The Englishman was massive, especially when one considered the average height of men in the 16th Century, his original time.  His beard, a flaming red, was trimmed in a sharp-pointed goatee, while his head was shaven completely bald.  Cool, blue eyes stared out from a narrow face, eyes that had obviously seen far too much even before his vessel had been sunk while raiding the Spanish Main.  Bradstock and the ten surviving members of his crew had been plucked from the Caribbean for “research purposes” by the Confederation Science Directorate in 1585.  Like many of Earth’s expatriates, the overwhelming majority of whom had gotten in position to be abducted/saved due to their adventurous nature, his mind had been open enough to accept the existence of aliens and their technological marvels.

“Who was the last to arrive?” CINC-TEC and Hero of the Confederation, Star General Adam Baines Connelly, asked.  A tall, broad-shouldered man, Adam looked like someone who had definitely lived a long and eventful life.  Like many men who assumed flag rank in the United States Army, he had been a combat veteran, in his case four times over, getting to see Panama, Desert Storm, Afghanistan, and Iraqi Freedom.  Unlike the vast majority of his peers, Adam had never forgotten what it meant to be a young junior officer, and he had always been a champion for soldier’s rights.

The latter was a large part of the reason why he had had only had two stars despite his stirling record—Adam had never been one to go along just to get along, not when it meant young men and women might die.  With all three of his sons joining the military shortly after he had made flag rank, Adam had had first-hand knowledge of the anguished worrying parents faced.  The past six years had made him even more aware of those horrors.

“President Nazarofa just arrived from Moscow five minutes ago,” Conrad replied.  “Seems that he wanted to give Spetznaz time to get a special reaction force in place.”

“Did they link up with the Special Forces and Rangers that are already outside?”

“Yes, and it brings the forces outside to a grand total of five hundred and seventy-five special ops folks waiting for the signal to attack this facility and seize or kill all twenty of us.”

Adam shook his head.  Even after seeing first hand that TEC’s personal battle suits were immune to normal small arms fire, President John Rutledge was trying to double cross him.  Fortunately for the soldiers outside, Adam had no intentions of wasting a resource so precious as highly-trained and motivated elite troops, especially when the universe’s largest supply of humanity was about to take a huge hit.

That old saying about people being the most precious resource was never so true, Adam thought.

“Have any of our people been sighted yet?”

Conrad snorted.

“Sir, if the Orionans cannot spot the bloody Tectals ninety percent of the time, why would this batch of idiots have a chance?”

Looking at Conrad’s lips, Adam once more marveled at the translator chip’s ability to adapt to dialects, local accents, and quaint phrases.  He had once heard Conrad speak without the translator chip in, back in the early days when its constant low vibration against his inner ear had occasionally bothered him.  The Queen’s English had certainly changed over the years, and that old saying about American versus English only made things worse.  While his Chief of Staff could, with great effort, speak discernible American, he was far more comfortable speaking in his native, anachronistic English.

“I was hoping that they were at least in rudimentary battle suits by now.  We had started experimenting with that technology when I left!”

“Well, apparently that program got cut, according to the records you had me review.  Seems like your fair leaders didn’t quite take the threat seriously enough, they were more concerned with lining their own pockets.”

“Bastards,” General Connelly said fiercely.  He fought the desire to go two levels up and start blazing away with the plasma pistol that resided in his battlesuit’s internal hip holster.  My son and over a million other humans are dead, and for what? he asked himself.  So the idiots in the next room can have gotten themselves fat off of cheap power and miracle cure patents?

            “Sir, it won’t do any good to go up there and kill every single one of them,” Star Colonel Jack Halwac, “Black Knight Six”, muttered lowly.  Halwac was a former member of the Special Air Service hostage rescue team and Adam’s chief of Special Operations.  “It won’t bring any of our dead back, and it certainly won’t give the spooks time to finish hacking all of the military and civilian communications networks.”

Adam took a deep breath and got control of his emotions.

“We need to do something about him,” he said, gesturing towards the far corner where the unconscious Presidential Chief of Staff lay, “before we open the door,” Adam said.  He was glad that they had disabled the four hidden cameras located inside the small office they had commandeered for the conference with Kwirh and Eric.

President John Rutledge, the 44th or 45th man to hold the office, depending on how one counted, had demanded that at least one representative from his government be present during his communication with Kwirh.  Laughing at how the presence of American soldiers outside the command post made the man far braver than he had been three days before in the Lincoln bedroom, Adam had agreed.  Emad Mahoney, Ph.D., had not been aware of First Contact, having been selected by Rutledge as an attempt to create diversity in his cabinet.  In their limited interaction, Adam had actually found the former Yale professor to be very competent and professional—which was the only reason he was still breathing.

“I’ll stay with him,” Halwac said.  “That’ll keep me out of the room and able to coordinate things without distractions.”

“Good enough.  Keep feeding Conrad with the status—the minute we’ve got control of those command and civilian nets, we’re ending this circus.  Time’s awastin’.”

“Wilco,” Halwac replied, turning away from the door.  His suit’s holocamera began projecting a high-detail map of the area within six kilometers of Weather Mountain on the far wall, with TEC and Earth troop positions marked.  As Conrad and Adam turned towards the door, they could hear him starting to give commands and ask for updates from the TEC Special Ops forces grouped around the facility.

The two men opened the door and quickly slipped through it, their bulk preventing the two Secret Service men outside from getting a clear look in before they closed the door.

“Where’s Dr. Mahoney?” the younger of the two men asked, his hand subconsciously drifting towards the pistol at his waist.  Adam and Conrad both moved to clear each other’s arcs of fire, the movement smooth and unhurried.

“He is still inside monitoring our communication as President Rutledge asked,” Conrad snapped.  “Is there a problem?” he asked, his Enlish accent thickening with the rise of his anger.

“Yeah, we were told that he was to accompany you back to the main briefing room,” the younger agent said.  His hand was clearly on his weapon now, eyes defiantly meeting Conrad’s as he started stepping forward.

“I think the orders on how many men were allowed into that room were quite clear, Agent Dawson,” Adam said sharply to the older agent.  Thank God we’ve already hacked the Secret Service agent database, he thought to himself, his suit having presented the requisite image onto his retina.  While some officers, specifically Eric Walthers, had refused the insertion of the nanites that allowed him to seamlessly join with his suit, Adam had found the ability to have information overlain directly onto his eyeball quite helpful on numerous occasions.

Taken aback that Adam knew his name, Agent Dawson put a hand on his younger companion’s arms.

“Dan, ‘Silverfish’ was quite clear that we were not to interfere with these men in any way,” Dawson said, using the codename for Secret Service Director Donald Townshend.

‘Dan’ was clearly not happy about his partner’s decision, unaware just how close to a violent and sudden death he was.  Conrad had come from an era where killing men up close and personal with one’s bare hands was often a necessity.  Given the power that his battle suit gave him, and the generally foul mood he was in, he would have probably made Dan swallow the pistol if he had drawn it.  Proving his relative inexperience with dangerous men, the young agent gave Conrad a final glare before letting his hand drop off of his weapon.

“Follow us,” the young man snapped.

“Or?” Conrad asked, his blood definitely up.

“Colonel Bradstock,” Adam barked in reproach, then turned to Dawson.  “Lead on, gentlemen.”

It was a short trip to Weather Mountain’s main briefing room, an indoor ampitheatre that allowed the briefing of up to one hundred individuals in four separate blocks, with each block consisting of  plush seats arranged in five rows of five seats with a small table in front of them.  The doorway to the room opened just to the right of the main podium, with a second exit between the tops of the middle two rows.  As Adam and Conrad walked into the room, they could see that the room was packed with the core G-8 nations’ heads of state and their primary military staff.  The two Secret Service agents peeled off, making a beeline for Director Townshend.  Conrad split off from Adam, heading for the far corner of the room.

Taking a look around, Adam mentally counted security personnel, coming up with a count of twenty leaning in various states of readiness against the walls.  The largest contingent were the six Secret Service agents that stood alert and ready, their hands resting not-so-casually on their sidearms, their eyes locked on Adam as he walked up to the podium, followed by the four Russian Spetznaz members that stood with suspiciously bulky attaché cases at their feet.  After those men the honors were about even, the remaining six countries having one or two men apiece.

“General, we are all here,” President John Rutledge stated, his tone imperious.  Adam could see the man was trying to convey the impression that he was in charge of the situation, and not someone who owed his existence to the simple fact that he was momentarily more useful alive than dead.

I can just imagine the panic if the news had hit that some ‘alien’ had shown up in the White House and ripped the President limb from limb after subduing his Secret Service guards.  Adam had been inches away from crushing the man’s windpipe from sheer fury less than twenty-four hours before, and it was only how much harder it would have made his life that stopped him.  Now, as Rutledge spoke to him like he was some junior private, he felt his pulse quickening the color starting to rise to his face.

“Sir, the codes,” he heard Conrad murmur, the sound completely inaudible to everyone else in the room.  Looking across at the Englishman, he nodded, then turned to face the gathered group.  Purposefully delaying, he scanned the room, then focused back on Rutledge.  Utilizing his retina, he brought up an overlay that allowed him to scan the man’s pulse and brain activity, ensuring that he would be able to tell when POTUS was telling the truth.

We humans really missed the boat on nano-technology.

The Confederation, as per most governments that had been around forever, had done research on its various member races, as well as the lesser developed races that inhabited its sector of space.  There were several trends that it had found in the more advanced races, namely that most of them had avoided having a great worldwide war—it tended to kill off many great minds.  That Humanity had had two, and been on the brink of a third, was actually quite sad—apparently mankind had missed out on its great chance to cure many of its diseases when the European powers had lost their collective minds in 1914, then all but ended that chance when accounts were settled twenty years later.  When the smartest minds of a generation died screaming in some muddy field or blown to pieces in mid-air, it severely diluted the available talent pool.  Looking at the gathered group of men and a pair of women in front of him, Connelly could suddenly understand how these great disasters had happened.

Now because of these idiots a disaster of epic proportions is upon us.  Where did we go so  wrong?

Rutledge cleared his throat, causing Adam to turn and regard him with dead eyes.  As he watched, the man’s pulse began to increase, fear and anger both fighting to be released.  As far as Adam was concerned, the fact that Rutledge was now President of the United States (POTUS) had changed since he had left made no difference—he had renounced his old long before when he became a member of the Confederation Fleet.  The fact that Rutledge had basically lucked into the office didn’t help matters any.

A relatively unknown diplomat who had risen to Assistant Secretary of State, Rutledge had become acting Secretary of State in late 2005 after the sudden death of his predecessor in a helicopter crash.  After a bruising confirmation hearing, he had finally been confirmed as Secretary of State on September 5, 2006.  Six days later, with the deaths of the President and Vice President in New York, Senate and House majority leaders at the Flight 93 crash site, and President Pro Tem of the Senate at his home residence had placed him in the Oval Office through sheer good fortune.  If Rutledge had not come down with the measles two days after his confirmation hearing, he would have been with the President and Vice President in New York for the five-year anniversary ceremonies.  As it was, the Islamic Revolutionary Brigade had attacked Rutledge’s home in the mistaken belief that he was home instead of at the local hospital.

Thrust into the breach, President Rutledge had been firm and resolute in the days following the shattering attack on America.  Even as the fallout from New York’s warhead was still contaminating the Atlantic, he had mobilized all of America’s armed forces in invoked the NATO charter, demanding that the Alliance’s allies fulfill their agreements and mobilize themselves.  When the money trail led back to the Saudi Royal House, the retribution had been swift and terrible.  Like many wars, it had quickly spread, with most of the Middle East becoming embroiled on one side or the other.  In the end, both Holy Cities of Islam had been turned into rubble, Tel Aviv and Tehran had both been destroyed on the nuclear pyre, and the Islamic Republic of Pakistan had been absorbed by India.  The worldwide death toll had approached that of World War II, and a U.N.-overseen government oversaw the administration of a region that had formerly included the countries of Iran, Iraq, and Saudi Arabia.

Unfortunately, all of this had made it nearly impossible to release the information about what Rutledge had perceived as the far more distant threat of the Orionan Empire.  Or at least that was Rutledge’s justification according to the interrogation Adam had subjected him to the night before.  Of course, according to Rutledge, the fact that all the leaders in the room had become insanely rich off patents was sheer coincidence.  While his predecessor owned a portion of the blame for Earth’s current state, having had the First Contact information over a year, it was Rutledge who had made the bulk of the decisions of what information was released and when.  Adam fully intended to see him pay for that.

They will never know what opportunity they squandered, Adam thought, the time stretching out as he continued to stare harshly into Rutledge’s eyes.  Grudgingly, he began.

“I will assume that you have all read the provided briefing packets, so I will not pause to explain anything,” Adam said, his tone making it perfectly clear that he did not intend to answer questions.  “At this time, the CCDF Third Fleet is in Lunar orbit with six hundred and fifty-five combat vessels.  Of these, only sixty, twenty-five battleships, a single battlecruiser, and thirty-four carriers are considered capital vessels.”

“Excuse me, what is the difference between these ships?” Prime Minister Tonya Yeldham asked. A stunningly beautiful woman, Yeldham was the youngest Prime Minister in British history, her brains and ruthlessness matching her beauty.  She had only been in office for two years, and there had been some discussion on whether or not she should face the same fate as the remainder of the individuals in the room.  Star Colonel Halwac, who had known the woman through mutual friends, had argued most strenuously in her defense.

In the end, it had been Conrad who had made the most damning discovery. Having examined the world’s financial records, he had pointed out that Yeldham had made plenty of money by investing in the “breakthrough technologies” market.  While Conrad believed it was probably a case of realizing that her life was in real danger if she spoke up or spilled the beans, the fact remained that Yeldham had not taken a stand for the good of humanity.  That meant she shared the guilt of all those present.

“That is also in your information packet, as well as the packets of your staff,” Adam snapped.  “If your military leadership has failed to keep you informed, that is not my issue.”

Before Prime Minister Yeldham or anyone else could reply, Adam touched the wrist of his suit.  A hologram of the Sol system appeared in mid-air approximately five feet in front of him, from the sun itself to Pluto manifesting itself just a few inches in front of President Rutledge.  POTUS jumped backwards as a comet headed towards his eye, the tail turning to brush towards his nose as the holograms went into motion.  The gathered ships of the Third Fleet burst into life as brilliant blue dots, looking like a swarm of locusts near Luna and Earth.

“Arriving in system are the advanced waves of the Orionan Fleet, here at Pluto’s orbit.”  As Adam continued, several bright red dots appeared just a few feet in front of the President to the right of Pluto.  The dots continued to grow, as his suit fed in the live feed from the battlecruiser Huntress, flagship of the Third Fleet.  As they watched the red dots continued to grow, already clearly outnumbering the blue, with more appearing slowly but steadily as they spoke.

“At present the Orionan Fleet consists of twenty-nine battleships, to include six of their massive Emperor-class battleships.  For Prime Minister Yeldham and the rest of you who seem to think that this is just a bad B movie, I will show you the difference between those vessels and the Huntress, flagship of the Third Fleet.”

First appeared a Nimitz-class aircraft carrier, still the largest warships on Earth by a large margin.  The vessel’s dimensions were flashed on the screen, along with its complement and aircraft capacity.  Adam gave a moment for the familiar ship to sink in, then with another touch of a button displayed the Huntress.  The Earth carrier was dwarfed, the Huntress more than six times her length, three times her width at the beam.  The battlecruiser’s weapon armaments scrolled by, with the yield of her numerous weapons being presented in terms, such as kiloton and Megaton, that each and every man and woman in the room could understand.

“With one salvo of her energy main battery, the Huntress expends more energy than the combined nuclear arsenals of the United States and Russia combined,” Adam intoned flatly.  “With her advanced shielding, shooting the world’s current weapons at her would be like throwing spitballs at the side of a brick wall.”  He looked directly at General Joseph Reilly, the Chairman of the U.S. Joint Chiefs of Staff.

“That includes the prototype weapons being developed in Nevada or those issued in small numbers to America’s Armed Forces.”

There were several gasps of consternation at that revelation, as only Great Britain had been aware of the United States’ attempts to develop next generation weapons.  A few years before, Adam would have taken pleasure in dropping that particular turd in the punch bowl.  Now, however, as he watched looks of shock and anger cross everyone’s face except for Prime Minister Yeldham and Chairman Xian Qing Hsiao.  Looking at the Chinese Chairman, Adam realized that the man had known about the U.S. Deep Black projects.

Always knew the Chinese had us more penetrated than a two-dollar whore when a carrier comes to town.  No matter, makes this end game a whole lot easier.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, please, let us be calm and set our differences aside in the face of this greater threat,” Rutledge said, staring daggers at Adam the whole time.

“While all of this is well and good, Connelly,” General Reilly snapped, “I don’t see how it affects us one bit.  That’s a friendly vessel, is it not?”

“Yes, it is, or at least it will remain so unless someone gets a brilliant idea like trying to appeal for mercy from the Orionans,” Adam said, once again looking directly at President Rutledge.  Unknown to POTUS, Adam had bugged the White House five ways to Sunday on his way to the Lincoln Bedroom.  One of the options that had been placed forward, especially in light of Adam’s obvious hostility, had been an attempt to kill Adam and then launch a salvo of the world’s nuclear missiles at the Third Fleet in an attempt to gain good faith with the Orionans.  Reilly had been the primary advocate of this plan, further demonstrating the lack of mental capacity and imagination in most modern flag officers.

You would think a major theater war would have leavened out some of the idiots, Adam thought.  But apparently they’re all still stuck at Corps and below while these idiots finish out their time.  No matter.

“But you are correct, General Reilly.  Here is the enemy’s flagship, the Emperor-class battleship, the Heart of Orion.”

Cued by his voice, Adam’s suit displayed a representation of an Emperor-class battleship compared to the Huntress.  There were several sharp intakes of breath and a couple of whimpers, as the Orionan flagship was clearly two times the size of the CCDF battlecruiser.  The statistics began scrolling in mid-air, starting with lesser weapons and their locations.  Adam continued talking.

“The presence of the Orion indicates Emperor Krognan himself has come to oversee the destruction of this planet.  You should all be familiar with Emperor Krognan from your packets.”

Provided you read them, which many of you obviously didn’t or you wouldn’t be so shocked by the information being presented.  If I had known that we needed to evacuate the planet, much less how little time we had to do it, I probably wouldn’t have bothered with you idiots.  

“General Connelly according to your reports this Emperor-class battleship is armed with what you termed an ‘extinction level event’-generating laser in the bow of the vessel,”  General Reilly stated, his tone clearly indicating that he had had a seemingly brilliant epiphany.

“Yes, it does,” Adam replied evenly.

“Okay, then pardon my asking, but why aren’t we all dead already?” Reilly asked.  “It would seem that it makes little sense to invade a planet when you can just blow it up with damn Death Star lasers from these ten battleships, once they all arrive?”

Adam looked at Reilly.  The man’s haughty voice and posture had finally broken through is last reserve of patience.

“Because, you fucking idiot, as I pointed out in that same report, there are only two battleships armed with the laser, one of which had its laser disabled at the Battle of Taurus IV.  Now, if you wish to continue asking stupid questions and wasting precious time, please, go ahead.”

Reilly stared daggers at Adam, getting ready to make a retort when the President waved him silent.  Reilly was a political animal, and Connelly had always hated men who used the uniform as a way to gain power and prestige.  While the man had ostensibly demonstrated great bravery in Desert Storm, Connelly knew that his Distinguished Flying Cross had more to do with his four-star father’s friends looking out for him than any particularly brave thing Reilly had done.

That’s all right, because we’ll be getting ready to see how brave you are in a little while, Adam thought.

“Five minutes,” Conrad muttered into his ear, nearly making him jump.  “They’ve used some of the technology Lihr gave them for encryption, it’s costing us a bit of time.  By the way, a live audio feed has been established to the commandos outside.  When the President says Rubicon, it’s a code word for them to start this dance.”

Adam waggled his fingers to let Conrad know he had heard him as he looked at Rutledge.

“What is their plan, General?” the President asked, his voice clearly indicating he didn’t care about Connelly and Reilly’s personal disdain for one another.  Adam changed the scale of the hologram, zooming in to Neptune’s orbit.  Earth appeared just in front of the podium, the Third Fleet arranged in its probably formation.  The Orionan Fleet in all of its glory advanced into view just in front of the President’s face, the vessels’ drives glowing like small dots of light.

“Once the Orionan Fleet is completely deployed, the assault will begin.  The bad news is, the Orionan Fleet won’t stand off at several thousand kilometers and attempt to pound the planet into slag.”

“How is that bad news?” POTUS asked, his eyes wide and nostrils flaring.

“Because it means every man, woman, and child still on this planet when the Orionans make planetfall, which they will do because we’re not sacrificing the Confederation’s best vessels for an indefensible ball of dust,” Adam sneered, “will serve as food for a blood feast the likes the Orionan Emperor has probably never seen.”

There were several sharp intakes of breaths and one half scream as the import of what Adam was saying sunk in.  He watched as Rutledge’s face went white with shock, and he suddenly realized just what the price of his duplicity was.

Yes you dumb bastard, come to grips with what I’ve known for the past three hours, Adam thought with white hot fury.  This is what your greed, ignorance, and incompetence hath wrought.

“Given the slow transition to the evacuation and the utter lack of available shipping, we estimate the final death toll will be in excess of five billion,” Adam continued, the tempo of his voice hammering the point home.  “Getting the billion people off the planet is going to take a Herculanean effort, as Admiral Tobarakh’s fleet is not equipped for planetary defense and the only way we are able to evacuate what we can is by relay trips to the nearest systems.”

There was stunned silence in the room as everyone realized that one in six people had been handed a death sentence.  Everything that they had ever known in their lives, the great cities of makind, all of its treasures, everything was about to be erased by a horde of aliens most of them had only become aware of in the last couple of years.  The Eiffel Tower, the Taj Mahal, the Pyramids, their own residences and loved ones—all gone.  Adam watched as all the emotions played across everyone’s faces and was surprised that none of them dropped dead of a sudden heart attack.  Turning back to Rutledge, he locked eyes with POTUS, making no effort to hide the emotions going through his mind.

Yes, you stupid bastard, you are most responsible for this, you and that idiot still probably circling the upper atmosphere.

“So this race of super aliens was unable to realize they just might need more shipping to evacuate six billion people?” Reilly asked.  “Maybe we are helping the wrong side.”

Adam looked at the man, utterly disgusted.

“They weren’t expecting a bunch of ignorant sons-a-bitches like you to sit on over two thousand years worth of advancement for the last five years, or turn it for your own personal profits,” Adam seethed.  He was about to say more when Rutledge interrupted him.

“Why…why aren’t the Orionans attempting to surround the entire planet and bag your fleet also?” POTUS finished, gesturing at the hologram in front of him.

“Sir, space ships are vulnerable for about two minutes when coming out of hyperspace,” Adam said, reigning in his tone in response to the actually semi-intelligent question.  “Also, coming out into the middle of a Solar System is a capability that’s still beyond the Orionans—they tend to get smacked by planets when they try it.  Finally, if the Orionan Fleet attempted to come out behind the fleet Admiral Tobarakh would probably clean their clocks for them, defeating them in detail.”

“So why doesn’t he do that now?” Reilly broke in.  Everyone in the room could hear the silent question on Tobarakh’s bravery in his voice.

“Because we can evacuate the planet or fight a fleet action, not both,” General Connelly replied as if explaining things to a child.  “If the Third Fleet moves out to start engaging, that leaves Earth undefended.  Unless there’s something I’ve missed, we don’t have enough forces to defend this planet should the Orionans get any elements past the Third Fleet and onto planet—hence the evacuation.”

“Why aren’t you people doing more to get other ships here?” POTUS asked, his voice starting to indicate his panic.

Just like a politician—looking for blame rather than realizing it’s his own damn fault, Adam thought.  His disgust at the state of the planet, i.e. only slightly from whence he had left, was overwhelming.  Adam had realized immediately that everyone responsible for what had happened had had to be removed.  Given the disaster that was about to befall his species, the solution that was starting to come into his mind was going to be poetic justice.

This is the longest five minutes in the world.

“Because there are is a large segment of the Confederation that has been against the inclusion of any Humans at all, much less with weapons, since Admiral Lihr exchanged his life to give us a fighting chance.  Those same species are not going to disrupt their own defensive efforts, economies, or lives to save a bunch of ignorant savages who were given what they worked thousands of years for on a platter.”

“Why not?” POTUS asked angrily.  “Six years was far too short a time to prepare the country, much less the world for interstellar warfare.”

Adam looked at POTUS in stunned amazement.  The man actually believes that, he thought.  Nevermind the fact that an entire corps of men and women from our planet were trained and combat capable within six months.  The performance of the Terran Expeditionary Corps had been a stunning surprise for the Confederation, even more so for the Orionans.  The Dominionite Battle Computers had predicted that the Corps would fail in its first three missions, with around twenty-five percent losses despite facing the second-tier units of the Orion Empire.  It had been half right, as the initial losses had been prohibitive.  But once Adam, Eric, and other members of the Corps had been given a say in the design process for their equipment, things had improved remarkably.

“Because idiotic statements like that seemingly validate that we are closer to our own evolution forebearers swinging in trees than those races that have been around since dinosaurs roamed this planet.”  Adam shut off the hologram and began looking around the room, meeting the eyes of every leader present.  His voice began to rise, aided by the suit’s electronics to become ever louder.

“Because in half a year roughly two million men and women learned to do what you have said was impossible in six.  Some of those men and women haven’t even seen inventions as rudimentary as indoor plumbing in their lives, but yet were able to grasp concepts that apparently were beyond the best and brightest men in this room.”

Adam’s voice was approaching the level of some construction tools, causing some people to begin reaching to cover their ears, his words piercing into their skulls.  He deliberately cut his volume, making everyone concentrate on his next statement.

“Finally, because most of the rest of the Confederation figures it will take the Orionan Horde six months to finish gnawing the last bit of sinew from the last human left alive on this world, and the war effort could really use that six months.”

There was a stunned silence as everyone contemplated exactly what Adam was saying.

“When will our evacuation ship be arriving?” Prime Minister Yeldham asked, her voice trembling.

It’s done.”

Sweet Jesus, could it have taken any longer?! Adam thought, allowing the tension to ratchet up in the room.  He looked up in Yolanda’s big blue eyes, and realized the woman knew.  While many of the men in the room were used to being powerful, and were arrogant enough to believe that nothing untoward could happen tot hem, Yolanda had first came to fame through the entertainment industry.  In pulling her file, Adam had seen just some of the bad things that had happened to her, both as a child and an adult.  For a brief moment he felt a pang of sympathy, right up until the point he remembered the violent deaths of some of the TEC’s first members.  His heart hardened, and his smile grew broader.

“There will be no evacuation ships for anyone in this room,” Adam said with barely contained relish.  “You have been weighed, measured, and found wanting.”

The room erupted into chaos, as the most powerful leaders in the world suddenly found themselves instantly converted into another category—victim.

Adam never heard the code word, and was never even sure it was given after his statement.  What he did see was Director Townshend starting to go for his service piece and the Russians’ attaché cases flying open, submachine guns and short-barreled automatic rifles in hand.  All of the action appeared to be in slow motion as his suit automatically injected him with pseudo-adrenaline and simultaneously raised his personal shield and armored helmet, the latter irising out and around his head.

“Black Knight Six, execute,” Adam barked, just as the Russians opened fire.

In the end, it was a very short fight.  General Connelly’s men had all been fighting literally larger and better enemies for the past six years, and they were interlinked with his combat suit’s sensors.  Even as the first rounds were spouting from the submachine guns, the dozen soldiers of the Rakkasans, his own personal guard contingent, were taking down the six men guarding the entrance to the room.  The men were vaporized where they stood, not even aware they were about to die as the Rakkasans seemingly appeared right in front of them.

Conrad put on a first hand demonstration on the overwhelming technology disadvantage Earth was now at.  The target of three of the Russians, their bullets crossing the intervening space in seconds, Conrad received twelve hits of various calibers, six of them instantly fatal if they had pierced his armor.  Of course, that would have required them achieving a speed ten times that of sound, the maximum kinetic rating on his personal shield, and then having sufficient energy to penetrate the suit itself.  When compared to rail guns, laser weapons, and anti-matter warheads, gunpowder proplled bullets were about as dangerous as a feather pillow.  The suit’s shield functioned exactly as advertised, absorbing the bullets’ energies and stopping them completely cold ten inches from Conrad’s face.  Conrad watched them stop and deform right in front of his eyes, the slugs dropping to the floor.

“Holy shit,” Townshend said, his expletive answered by the Russians just before the distinctive buzzzzzsnap! of a plasma bolts from the doorway turned the upper half their torsos into crimson steam with the dinstinctive.  Then suddenly the room was silent, as  fired a high-pitched sonic blaster wave into the room.  Specially modulated for the human brain, the sound wave knocked everyone in the room not encased in shielding as unconscious as if they had been hit with a giant tire iron.  In a pair of cases, the Prime Minister of Canada and a Secret Service agent blissfully passing instantaneously beyond the veil.  But for every other man and woman in the room, the device worked as Adam had planned it, knocking them into a deep and senseless slumber.

After making one last check to ensure the room was clear of opposition, Adam dropped his shield and helmet.  Turning, he looked at Halwac, who’s helmet remained upright, his eyes seemingly intently focused on the faceshield of his helmet.  Somewhere far off in the shelter, Adam heard the thud of several explosions, and knew that someone had found some heavy weaponry amongst the to use against the TEC forces.

“Jack, anyone who’s still resisting can have their spaces filled by other people,” Adam said, intending to make Halwac’s job easier.  “We don’t have time to be nice about this, we’ve got the codes, let’s get the Hell out of here.”

Halwac nodded, issuing commands into his facemike.  There were several louder explosions, the entire Weather Mountain Complex shaking with them and dust falling from the ceiling.

“Of course, that doesn’t mean bring this whole place down on us, either,” Adam said drily.

“Wasn’t us,” Halwac replied, his face suddenly relaxing.  With a whir, his helmet irised back into the shoulders of his suit.  “People should really be careful about playing with rocket launchers around ammunition—backblast is a killer.”

Adam winced.  Since one of the first places Halwac had intended to seize was the armory, he could see what had happened in his mind’s eye.  Someone had probably attempted to use a rocket launcher from within the confines of the armory, either not realizing or recalling that a jet of superheated gas exited out the rear of most anti-tank weapons.  The resultant fire had ignited ammunition, and blown the person, the armory, and several other people to kingdom come.

“Losses?” Adam asked, sighing heavily.

“None,” Halwac replied.  “First Battalion is still battling the Rangers and Spetznaz outside, but they should be able to secure the facility momentarily.”

“Commo?”

“There was one short signal that we couldn’t jam, but after we put a rail gun through the commo room, that solved that problem.”

“Grand.  Any idea what it said?”

“No Sir, none.  But we have the codes, just waiting on your go signal.”

Adam looked at his watch.  Time was precious, but he wanted to make sure he struck the right tone with the broadcast he was about to make.  ‘Sorry folks, you’re all going to be lunch meat’, probably won’t do much good.

            “How long until the first batch of ships are loaded?”

“The latest will be Russia, and that should be complete in one hour and forty-five minutes.”

“Two hours, we go live and in color world.  Meeting with all brigade and above commanders in one hour and forty-five via holo-network.”

“Understood, Sir,” Conrad said, nodding to Halwac.

“Inform Admiral Tobarakh and request that he listen in,” Adam said wearily, running a hand over his close cropped hair.  “Until the meeting, tell all commanders they may interact with local officialdom at their own discretion.”

“Already done, Sir,” Conrad replied.

“Is that why you let those jokers get their shots off?” Adam asked.

“Actually, yes,” Conrad replied.  “Figured about the point you called General Reilly an idiot it was time to issue orders.  Speaking of which?”  Conrad gave a meaningful glance towards the slumped bodies littering the room.

“I thought of that while I was speaking.  Let me tell you my plan.”

B-Sides and Outtakes– “Armageddon Dawn”–Part I

Standard

It was 2003.  For two years, I had been working on this great idea for a story where aliens come to Earth, seeking humanity’s help in dealing with a rabid, angry race of cat-lizards that enjoyed eating intelligent species’ flesh and soul.  Having been at peace for thousands of years, the friendly aliens had no idea how to make war, and thus needed Mankind to save their highly advanced asses.  Why, it was going to be an epic blend of battle armor, mecha, desperation, and…

*from the peanut gallery*  “Hey man, this sounds just like John Ringo’s Legacy of the Aldenata series!”

Yeah, thanks for that.  Guess who had never heard of John Ringo before he put the first chapter of this in the Baen Slush Pile?  *points both of his thumbs inward* This guy.

To say I was pissed is an understatement.  I mean, John Ringo’s an awesome guy in person, but at this point all I knew was that not only had he beat me to the punch, he’d KILLED IT.  Seriously, go read the Posleen Series, starting with A Hymn Before Battle.  I have never been simultaneously thrilled and sick at the same time.

At any rate, the story was mostly done, minus some polishing.  So I still tried to truncate it and send it to some markets.  No dice.  Indeed, this is the story that got the famous, “Your character sounds kind of white…” comment.  Yeaaah.

Anyway, seeing as this will likely never be published…you guessed it, I’m sharing it here with you all.  Everything is still copyrighted to me.  I’d also like to think I’ve gotten slightly better at this writing thing since the early 2000s.  However, if you’re looking for a complete arc rather than snippets, l present to you…

Armageddon Dawn

Chapter 1: Arrivals

 

Topeka, Kansas

0400 Local

June 25, 2011

 

“Colonel Walthers, the Orionans are here,” Star Admiral Kwirh Tobarakh’s hologram intoned solemnly.  Projected into an image barely six inches tall, Kwirh looked almost human, specifically like someone who would be easily lost amongst the population of Sub-Saharan Africa.  Of course, given that the image was one fourteenth his normal size, that was understandable.  While humans and Dominionites had 99.2% commonality of DNA, there were some minor yet striking differences, namely that the Dominionites’s eyes were completely irised, giving the impression of jewels emplaced in their dark faces.  In Kwirh’s case, the pale blue organs stared out like a pair of sapphire searchlights in a field of black.

“Dammit, they’re over three days early!  We don’t have enough time to evacuate everyone!” Colonel Eric Walthers replied, his voice almost frantic.  He looked at his watch, the beat-up Timex telling him that he hadn’t somehow fallen asleep for forty-eight hours.

Oh God, there goes our orderly evacuationThe one we haven’t officially begun yet.

He looked down US 75, watching the long line of vehicles stretching towards his Phoenix-class mecha from Topeka and behind it towards the evacuation ships sitting like massive beached whales on the Forbes Field tarmac.  His bipedal war machine, looking all the world like a malevolent linebacker, stood just outside the Gate F entrance, and so far the vehicles had been moving by him at a fairly steady clip since the prepared news announcement that had been made the night before.

That “extras” excuse was a stroke of genius by Karin, Eric thought to himself.  His wife, Major Karin Towalsva, was rather shrewd for a Dominionite.  Realizing that telling the greater Topeka Metro area carnivorous aliens would be arriving within the next ninety-six hours to consume every person they could get their hands on probably wasn’t the best plan, Eric had polled his colleagues for ideas.  Karin had come up with the idea of putting out an open casting call for at least fifty thousand or so “extras” to take part in a global disaster movie.  The fact that his wife had even been watching Earth movies, much less figured out the intricacies of casting, had completely floored Eric.  But hey, she’s a Dominionite—just because they’re the Confederation’s muscle doesn’t mean they’re stupid.

The remainder of Eric’s 1st Shock Brigade, Terran Expeditionary Corps, was scattered in a loose perimeter around Topeka.  Several of his subordinate leaders had not agreed with trying to keep the whole brigade under wraps, thinking that the more people who knew about the aliens the better.  As a member of a minority, Eric was well aware how ignorant some human beings could be.  While the thought of some ignorant rednecks getting in a fight with a Dominionite was enough to bring a smile to his face, Eric had made the call to try and keep humans and aliens as separated as possible until someone of higher rank figured out how they wanted to announce things.

A former United States Air Force officer, Eric had been the first human to encounter the Dominionites, flying a Homeland Security patrol when the aliens had made planetfall a little less than years before.  Eric had played defensive end for the Air Force Academy, being named All-WAC his graduating year in 2004.  Standing three inches over six feet, Eric was often confused for a shorter-than-average Dominionite by other members of the Centauri Confederation, his lighter skin and shorter height distinguishing features of aliens from Dominion’s Southern Hemisphere.

Another individual’s hologram popped up just above his other knee, the projector besides his head whirring softly as it added the second image.  The Phoenix was intended as a command mecha, which meant that the projector could present up to six images into Eric’s cockpit.  While Eric appreciated the efforts of the Dinotilians, a hive mind race that provided most of the Centauri Confederation’s technology, he had found that any more than three images projected in the cockpit at one time made him feel like he was trying to listen to everyone in a crowded elevator.

“Kwirh, how long can you prevent the Orionans from making planetfall?” General Adam Connelly, head of the Terran Expeditionary Corps, asked.  Kwirh’s response was a humorless laugh.

“Human, your race has killed the Crown Prince of the Orion Empire.  Even if I had every warship in the Centauri Confederation here I probably would not abe able to prevent the Orionans from making planetfall,” Kwirh said.  “I would just be able to make it prohibitively costly.”

“Dammit Kwirh, you know what I am asking!” General Connelly replied heatedly.  “Argnor’s dead, and good riddance to the bastard.  Now tell me how many of my people you are willing to save.”

Eric closed his eyes in agony, realizing that the largest the number could be was a little over a billion.  By my hand, I have killed over five billion people, he thought.  But General Connelly is right—Argnor had to die.

“The battle computer states that with a loss of thirty percent of this fleet, the best in the Confederation, I can buy you four hours once the Orionans attack.  For another ten percent, the most I am willing to risk, I can give you five hours,” Kwirh replied.

The Dominion Battle Computer was an innovation that was barely a hundred years old, conceived shortly after the beginning of the Second Orion War.  The Dominionites had always excelled at single combat, dueling being the preferred method of settling disputes in Dominionite society.  Unfortunately, at the beginning of the Orion War, they had been found to be generally inept at large-scale battles.  While individual and even groups of Dominionites had made the fall of each system very costly for the Orionans, in all but a few exceptions they had still lost the systems for the Confederation.

After horrendous losses, the kind that made World War II’s Eastern Front battles look like minor incidents, too minor for even the local news, the Dominionites had devised factors that helped them judge how an engagement would go before it was fought.  After a dozens of battles against the Orionans that had led to a steady retreat through Centauri Confederation space, the Confederation’s finest minds had devised programs that used these factors to present various courses of action and their likely result.  Battle Computers were seldom wrong, and when they were their errors had been on the side of caution, something no commander would really argue with.

The Battle Computers had initially led to several decisive victories, the bloody noses causing the Orionans to pause in their slow but steady gobbling of Centauri Confederation systems.  That respite had allowed the Confederation to begin fielding more advanced systems and gradually regaining a warrior spirit among its races.  It was the length of time this last process was going to take, with the bulk of losses in the meantime falling unevenly upon the Dominionites, that had led to controversial decision to contact Humanity, that race of warlike savages that was still nominally protected by Confederation laws and treaties after many centuries of abuse.  Eric still found it sickening to realize how many great mythological stories had basis in alien visits before the Confederation’s Congress had put a moratorium on such events.

Nothing like finding out werewolves do exist, they just don’t shift shape.  Gotta love holographic projections.  The Lupinians had been publicly censured by the Confederation Congress after their transgressions had come to light, the offending aliens banished to the Confederation prison planet of Hades.  Upon initially hearing the name, Eric had thought his translation chip had malfunctioned.  Then the TEC had been tasked with holding it against the Orionan Fourth Offensive,  the Confederation’s prisoners being formed into an emergency corps in exchange for general amnesty.  One visit to the planet had helped him rediscover Christianity, as he had absolutely no desire to spend eternity in the place.  The Battle Computer’s had factored in the prisoners’ almost suicidal resolve in its calculations and accurately predicted the Confederation victory, futher validating its analysis of “soft” military factors such as morale or leadership.

Unfortunately, it had been a Pyhrric victory, as it was during the climax of the battle for Hades that Eric had killed Argnor, the Crown Prince of the Orion Empire.  While it had given the Confederation a six-month respite, it was also the reason the Orionan Fleet was currently folding out of hyperspace near Pluto with grim resolve and murder on their mind.  This would have been a problem if Earth had been a fully developed Confederation planet, but at least they would have likely caused such bloody losses that they might have stopped the war right there.

So, when Kwirh said he was likely to lose a third of his fleet, that meant over a hundred warships were going to be turned into debris while keeping the Orionans from landing and simultaneously keeping a corridor open for the evacuation ships’ withdrawal.  Looking at the Star Admiral, Eric could see the wheels turning behind his blue eyes.  Kwirh had been one of the exceptions in the early dark days of the Second Orionan War, having a handle on large group tactics before his first engagement with the Orionans, and came from a family of foremost Dominionite strategicians.  ‘Before you duel a Tobarakh, hug a star—it will be less painful’ was an ancient Dominionite proverb, one of many apt ones that came from that particular race.

“Five hours gives us an additional three hundred million people,” Eric said.  “Although it’s going to get ugly once we inform most of this planet they get to be food in the larder.”

“How many ships do you avoid losing if you do not attempt to stop Griffins from making planetfall?” General Connelly asked.

Kwirh started to laugh, the sound extremely strange coming from a Dominion.

“You can’t seriously be expecting to fight the Praetorian Guard!” Kwirh barked, his teeth flashing against his dark face. Narrowing his eyes, he looked into the his holocamera.

“Your species has squandered the six years graced to it by my brother.  You have as much chance versus the Orionans as your historic knights on horseback would against your world’s current weaponry, and I do not wish to sacrifice valuable ships on a forlorn hope.”

General Connelly returned Kwirh’s hard look with interest.

“Even knights get lucky, especially if they can bait the enemy with the most wanted Human in at least half the galaxy,” Connelly replied.  “The Orionans know Eric’s transponder code and mecha.  They will land on this planet to kill him if he is still here in thirty-one hours.”

“No, Emperor Krognan will utilize the Heart of Orion to blast Eric and the continent he’s standing on from beyond your satellite’s orbit once he arrives!  Even if he doesn’t, what do you hope to accomplish?”

“Argnor would do that, Kwirh, which is why Eric killed him when he had the chance.  Krognan is a bereaved parent and an Orionan Emperor with no current heir.  Not only does he want Eric freakin’ alive so he can watch this planet razed to its mantle, blasting him to atoms would likely be perceived as an act of fear.  Nothing is more likely to start a civil war than appearing weak in the face of an inferior race without a current heir to the throne.”

“You argue using your species’ logic, not Orionans’!  What better way to demonstrate his power than to utterly destroy the slug that killed his child?”

“Kwirh, regardless of who is right, we need more time.  You know each ten humans we save will give us at least four good fighters, if not more.”

“Yes, in a few years!  Is this worth risking the life of the greatest fighter in the Confederation and vessels that will take years to replace?!”

“I’m in,” Eric said, cutting off Kwirh before the Admiral could respond.  “Get me the most likely link to that bastard, and let’s get this on.”

There was a moment of silence as Kwirh regarded him.  Finally, with a barely perceptible nod, he signaled his affirmation.

“Just in case Kwirh is right, Eric, where is Jack?” General Connelly asked, referring to the ranking battalion commander in Eric’s 1st Shock Brigade.

“Fort Riley, on personal business,” Eric replied.  “Which is good, because he can start getting folks to move their families onto post.  We’re going to have to shift more evacuation ships there from Kansas City to get all of the troops and their families out of there, and we’re going to need the National Guard to set up a perimeter.”

“What are you planning on telling the governor?” General Connelly asked.

“I’ll tell Governor Ralls it’s time for triage, as we’re probably going to hosting the entire Praetorian Guard right here in Kansas.  Good land for follow the leader, it’ll take them some time to trap me on the plains.  The rest of the Corps should be able to get off planet with the survivors just as Praetorian Guards are catching up with me.  Once the evacuation ships are clear, I’ll make a break for it.”

            I hope I at least sound convincing.

“Eric, I don’t think…” Kwirh started to say, his features softening.

“Admiral, we are spending lives arguing,” Eric barked, cutting his uncle-in-law off.  Most Dominionites appeared so cold and logical they made icebergs look like the center of the sun.  Personally Eric did not think that comparison was severe enough.  His wife was considered a hothead among her people, and Eric thought she was a bonified ice princess even if he loved her.  If Kwirh was showing concern for Eric, it meant that the shit was really about to hit the fan.

“What of your current duties in Topeka?” Kwirh asked.

“Karin can handle overseeing the filling of these ships, I have a message to prepare.  With your permission, gentlemen?” Eric said.

“Good enough, Eric.  Good luck, we’ve got some work to do here at Mount Weather anyway.”

Eric nodded at the last comment,  terminating his transmission.  Looking out his cockpit canopy at the lightening sky, he suddenly realized that this would probably be many people’s last full day of life.  The world’s governments, informed rather bluntly of the evacuation plan by General Connelly, had initiated an immediate news blackout.  The local networks, those that had not been peremptorily cut off, had either put out just enough news to make people believe it was all a big hoax or, like Topeka, made some noise about it all being a Hollywood production.  Many people would be dead within forty-eight hours and never know the real reason why.

Oh my God…Jessica!

Pulling out his wallet, he flipped it open.  It was a picture of a much younger, especially in the eyes, Eric in his dress blues.  Leaning into him was a beautiful woman with a beautiful girl-next-door face, her green eyes bright and lively even in the picture.  Her curly, dirty-blonde hair ran to the middle of her back, held together at her shoulder by an ornate jade brooch that had once belonged to Eric’s great-grandmother.  Standing just a couple of inches beneath him in the flat pumps she was wearing, the woman had a wry smile on her face.  Even six years later Eric got the sense the only reason he had survived through the photos was the presence of the photographer and the irrefutable proof that the pictures would have provided to the police.

Although Jessica Erin Fowler had known Eric for over ten years, he had always had a knack for pulling things over on her.  The pictures had been a complete surprise to her, taking place during her two-week visit to him at McChord Air Force Base just outside of Seattle, Washington.  It had been one of many, the final one coming when Eric proposed to her in the middle of the United Airlines concourse to the applause of the gathered flight crew and passengers.  Stunned, Jessica had broken down into tears as she looked down at him.  Eric had taken the tears to be a bad thing until she had finally choked out a happy yes and embraced him.

Thought that was the end of almost ten years of friendship, Eric thought, feeling the tears welling up again.  Who would’ve thought me getting abducted by aliens would actually take care of that?

The two of them had been best friends throughout High School in the 501 School District right there in good ol’ Topeka.  Jessica had been co-captain of the cheerleading squad their last three years at High School, while Eric had played football, basketball, and baseball all four years.  The two of them had found themselves together on so many long bus trips that it was almost inevitable that they had become fast friends, almost like brother and sister by the time they graduated High School.  For whatever reason, despite the their friends’ advice to the contrary, both of them had made great efforts to keep their relationship platonic.  While there had been a few instances when they had rubbed right up against that fine line of remaining “just friends”, ultimately neither one of them had been willing to risk the friendship.  Their ability to remain just friends had provided a hidden strength to their relationship that neither one of them had realized until both of them had experienced particularly rough relationships their final years in college, he at the Air Force Academy, she at the University of Colorado in Boulder.

For Eric, it had been a fellow cadet who had added so many ripped up hearts to her showcase she was nicknamed the Black Widow.  Veronica Delovega, a.k.a. V.D., had seemed like a perfectly normal woman when they had started dating his Firstie year.  A year behind him, she had ripped his heart out in a particularly brutal and callous manner that had nearly convinced him to swear off women for life.  Sleeping with one of Eric’s best friends at a party less than two days after the couple had broken up hadn’t helped matters any.  Fortunately it had happened during football season, and Eric had been able to excise his anger in the remaining four games of the season, culminating with a devastating game against Notre Dame, a performance so powerful that it had actually led to his being drafted in the sixth round of the NFL Draft.  Aware of the problems in Eric’s personal life, members of the Air Force football team had made Veronica the honorary MVP for the football season that ended with a resounding Aloha Bowl victory.

In Jessica’s case, it had meant an emotionally and, in the end, physically abusive boyfriend named Gareth Osborne.  That relationship had ended when Eric had come by for a surprise visit to find Gareth choking her.  Eric had nearly beaten Gareth to death, Jessica’s desperate pleas the only things that had stopped him from finishing the job.  Fortunately for Eric, the responding officer had been a former victim of domestic abuse herself.  Taking one look at the bruises on Jessica’s neck and the rather large mouse growing over her eye, the cop had given thirty seconds to get out of her sight before she would be forced to arrest him.  In the end, Eric’s beating had been so savage that Gareth’s vision had been permanently impaired in his right eye.

When Gareth had awoken from a week-long coma, he had threatened to press charges against Eric.  Before the cops could be summoned to take his statement Jessica had quietly informed him Colorado’s domestic abuse laws were far worse than the charges for simple battery and assault, and they just loved woman beaters in prison.  Furthermore, since she was the only witness and not inclined to testify on his behalf, it would be his word against Eric’s who threw the first punch.  Finally, he could find what little remained of his stuff down at the local landfill, and if Eric or she ever saw him again, someone would be dead.  Since Gareth was now half-blind and the first fight hadn’t exactly gone well, Jessica doubted it would be Eric.  In her case, should Gareth be foolish enough to violate the restraining order that was in the process of being worked by a local woman’s rights attorney, Jessica would be sure to shoot him in a sensitive area that would likely result in his bleeding to death.  With that last promise, Jessica had left the hospital and never seen Gareth again.  No charges had been filed in the case, a change of heart that had left the police utterly baffled.

Surprisingly, Jessica and Eric had then awkwardly avoided each other for the next six months.  Jessica had seen something horrible in her old friend, his thrashing of Garety so cold-blooded it had been an almost scientific demolition once Eric had established his dominance.  For his part, Eric had been utterly disgusted that a girl as smart and beautiful as Jessica had allowed herself to be treated in such a manner and simultaneously stunned at the depths of his savagery.  While they had exchanged infrequent e-mails, both of them had always been too busy to talk on the phone or meet in person when Eric came home to Topeka for a short leave.  Eric had finally decided to end the sidestepping when Jessica had found herself out in Spokane, Washington for a job interview.

With her Masters Degree in Structural Engineering, Jessica had been interviewed by Prometheus Construction, a newly created construction company.  Its owner a financial contemporary of Bill Gates, Prometheus had won the bidding for a contract to construct additional military housing in Yakima, Washington for units formerly based in Europe that were moving back to the United States  Her mother Cindy, ever the meddler, had given Eric Jessica’s flight information and even sprung for the flowers he had carried with him when he had met her at the Spokane airport.  The only way Jessica had gotten rid of him was to promise to come back out to visit in the next couple of months whether she got the job or not.  When she had come out in July 2004, it had been the best two weeks in both their lives.

Looking back, one would think that I would be used to Fate screwing me by now, he thought sardonically.  But no, every time is just like the freakin’ first time.  Why should the fact that I will be responsible for killing over eighty percent of the world’s population be any different?

Eric had been in the middle of planning their wedding when he had been tapped to fly a Homeland Security mission with Major Abigail Davies, a new section leader.  Taking off from McChord on a routine patrol on August 12, 2004, the two of them had been vectored out over the Pacific to identify an unidentified contact closing rapidly with the Puget sound area.  Twenty minutes later, Davies and Eric were both aboard an alien craft and a member of the Dominionite royalty had been killed in an air-to-air collision with Eric’s aircraft.  A week later, after being trapped in enforced quarantine at Area 51, Eric had found himself an unwilling astronaut and his wedding plans on permanent hold.

Even six years later and in the midst of a marriage  to another…being he deeply, truly loved the what might have been tore him apart.  He loved Karin, his “Little Warrior Princess” as he liked to call her.  Of course, calling a woman that was less than an inch shorter than him and stronger than most NFL lineman little was a bit of a stretch.  Gotta love a woman from a  world that has two and a half times Earth gravity, Eric thought.  The nickname had arisen from the first time the two of them had met, when Karin had attempted to introduce Eric’s face to her fist, and he had introduced her to the wonders of aikido.

Ever since then, Karin and he’s relationship had been as stormy as his with Jessica’s had been stable, and the last thing he wanted was to complicate things.  Dominionites took a very, very dim view of adultery.  If a spouse even suspected an improper relationship, they could challenge the other party to a fight to the death.  The other party got to choose the weapons, and Dominionite custom was to have the duel take place before sunset on the third day.  That didn’t leave a lot of time for training if, for example, the other party happened to be a former cheerleader who had great difficulties with smooshing spiders, much less killing another sentient being.

Which is why I haven’t looked Jessica  upLooks like I’m not going to get the chance.  The thought of Earth’s now rapidly impending doom suddenly had tears running out of his eyes.  Tired of fighting it, Eric gave in to his emotions and wept for a good three minutes.  Unlike most of his gender, he had realized long before that sometimes holding in the pain had a far worse effect on his efficiency than just letting it out.  If my wife was Human, I’d probably be considered “sensitive”.

That sensitivity had come from an early realization that one had to let emotions and hurt out, or go insane.  Getting orphaned on one’s sixteen birthday tended to do that to a person.  In a freak accident, a semi-trailer full of gasoline had suffered a brake failure while trying to make the 21st Street exit off of I-470.  Occurring at five in the morning, the flaming wreck should have only been unfortunate for the driver of the semi.  However, since Assistant District Attorney Donald and Dr. Ophelia Walthers had decided to surprise Eric with a used car for his birthday, they had stopped and picked up some breakfast as well as the car that morning.  As a result, they had the intense misfortune to be consumed in the resultant fireball.  Four million dollars worth of settlement money and life insurance had not even come close to replacing his parents.  Jessica had been there for him during that time period to, making him think of her again.

For some folks the hits just keep on coming, he thought fiercely, taking a deep breath.  Not that money’s going to do anyone much good in about forty-eight hours.  Looks like Bill Gates gets to keep that “Earth’s richest human” title forever.   Shaking his head, Eric decided he had done enough crying, it was a luxury he could no longer afford.  Starting to think of the taunting message he would be beaming up to Emperor Krognar, he utilized the Phoenix’s internal medical functions to remove the evidence that he had been crying from his eyes.

Never let them see you sweat, he thought.

“Opaque mode,” he ordered.  The canopy immediately shaded, turning the cockpit into a dark cocoon.  Taking a deep breath, Eric looked directly into the holocamera and pressed the activation button on his control stick.  He allowed his features to become hard and unforgiving, a look that Gareth and a few select others could have testified was not a good tiding.

“Greetings Emperor Krognan,” Eric intoned.  “I wanted to welcome you to Earth and recognize your intense stupidity for coming to a planet that your own prophets have told you will lead to the fall of your line.  Since it is apparent where your son’s lack of brains was hereditary, let me outline a few of his other faults for you.”