standby if you need us.'

As Trevor exited the cockpit and walked through Eagle One’s passenger compartment, his eyes darted to the specialized equipment that had replaced one row of seating. That equipment included two lockers holding special combat suits rigged to a charging station. There was also a weapons rack stocked with plasma rifles stolen from Duass infantrymen, a human-made M-4 carbine, a Chaktaw rail gun, and several pistols. Each held special meaning to Trevor and each offered a different way to kill.

A ramp extended from the ship's sliding side door to the floor of the bay. Tyr, who had been sleeping at the rear of the shuttle, trotted ahead and down the ramp.

The smell of grease and the sounds of tools and chatter filled the hangar. A water hose extended to refuel the hydrogen-powered shuttle.

Trevor entered the standby room. Rows of chairs, a large television, and plentiful storage compartments of spare parts, uniforms, fire suits, and other emergency gear lined the walls. There he met Woody 'Bear' Ross, a one-time professional linebacker turned artillery commander by Stonewall McAllister and now the Excalibur's first officer. Trevor asked, 'Anything?' The black man with the bull dog jowls usually spoke in a booming voice. This time, however, his voice sounded soft and sorry. 'No, sir. I think they’re resolved to fight.'

Trevor closed his eyes for a moment, took a deep breath, then exhaled slowly, letting all the reluctance and doubt and questions dissipate. He opened his eyes and hardened his jaw. 'Launch the invasion.' — Trevor stood on the crescent-shaped bridge of the Excalibur. Ahead of him stretched a gray wall with rectangular windows offering a breathtaking view of thousands of feet of flight deck reaching toward the bow.

Under those windows and along the outer walls sat workstations with computer screens, microphones, and electronic displays. In front of each of those stations labored technicians in black and gray coveralls, most with communicator headsets.

Every one busied themselves with checks and re-checks, status updates and reports. Yet, despite the intensity of their work, those busy technicians served as redundant cogs in a system controlled by a solitary individual.

Jon Brewer acted as the Excalibur’s ‘brain’ that morning. His station dominated the center of the control room on a slightly raised platform surrounded by handrails with a Captain’s chair waiting behind for those moments that allowed for rest.

He stood in a cone of colorful touch screens hanging from the ceiling with angled keyboards mounted in arm’s reach. He wore a headset combining a microphone with a visor that worked similar to the Eagles' Nav goggles and he carried a small electronic device that acted one part pointer and one part computer mouse.

All of the ship’s functions funneled through the 'brain.' Jon could control them directly or quickly delegate to any station on the bridge. To serve as the ‘brain’ of a dreadnought required quick reflexes and a thorough understanding of the ship's workings. Trevor fixed his eyes on the sky beyond the windows while the bridge crew shouted and discussed and hurried to war. 'Alert five, Aardvarks and F-15s in the pipe.' 'Holding at angel two.' 'Grav-pult green, ready to smack.' The chatter mixed and raised to a crescendo…and stopped. Trevor realized the crew waited for him. He turned to Jon. The brain removed his goggles and asked, 'Go or no-go?' Humanity's Emperor shut his eyes.

After more than a year of preparation, months of negotiation, and hours of trepidation, the time had come. The decision rested on Trevor Stone’s shoulders. He could pull them away from the precipice if he chose. He could re-open negotiations. He could try to persuade.

Or he could continue the war he seemed cursed to fight. The war that served as his purpose, according to the Old Man.

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

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

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

'Attack.'

The chatter returned twofold

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'Aardvarks, in the pipe.'

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

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

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

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

'That’s great, Billy.'

'No, Dash-One, I mean it. Clear.'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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