probably abandoned by the Witiko. If lucky, he might find one or two Stingray cruisers there for the taking.
Beyond the airport rose rough mountains. On the far side of those mountains, the Carmel Valley Ranch resort where, according to aerial surveillance, nearly fifteen hundred hard core California soldiers dug in.
Stonewall had already held dealings with that lot. They had stopped his advance outside of Stockton last week, inflicting a fair number of casualties and, according to eyewitness reports, executed a squad of his engineers who had taken a wrong turn into enemy territory. 'Looks like we’re clear,' Duda said enthusiastically. 'Yes,' Stonewall lamented. 'On to the next battle.' — 'They surrendered about an hour ago,' General Prescott explained from the front passenger seat of the moving Humvee. 'After Bogart broke their front lines they pulled back near Rainbow Lagoon to try and protect access to Interstate Seven-Ten. We used Bragg’s Blackhawks to land units and some light arty behind them at the harbor. They gave up the ghost after that.'
Trevor listened to Prescott but kept his eyes focused out the window. He saw crowds of California civilians daring to move outside now that the guns had stopped. They did not know that the man who led The Empire sped by as part of a motorcade. Even if they did, their attention focused on the dead bodies, broken machines, and damaged buildings left from the battle for Long Beach.
A Chinook flew low overhead, no doubt ferrying more infantry forward to secure the newly taken prize. Further off, a cloud rose from atop Signal Hill on the north side of town where earlier that morning a bombing run reduced Cooperative artillery to a pile of melted iron.
Closer, they passed a Humvee driving slowly along East Ocean Boulevard broadcasting, 'All Witiko are ordered to report to the processing station at the Hilton near the old Trade Center. Failure to comply will result in forcible arrest.'
Soon, Trevor knew, the Hunter/Killer teams and their K9s would enter the city and sniff out alien hideaways. Doors would be smashed. Witiko children and their parents would be forced into custody prior to being shipped across country for a one-way trip through the runes.
He felt bad about what was to come, but not guilty. No one invited the Witiko to Earth. The fact that they had bargained their way to power in California with the help of human accomplices changed nothing.
Trevor glanced to his right. Resort homes, condominiums, hotels, and shops came and went. When he looked out the window to his left, his heartbeat changed to heavy, fast thumps.
The Pacific Ocean. Trevor held a hand to the window, as if trying to touch the sparkling blue waters on the far side of a brilliant white beach.
Ten years of war replayed in his mind. He saw those first battles in northeast Pennsylvania, when his army could be counted on two hands. Then four years of skirmishes and local battles to expand across the state and into neighboring regions. After that came the Hivvan War; a raging combined-arms fight across the south until the entire Mid-Atlantic region as well as the heart of Dixie had been wrested from the invaders.
The march to the Mississippi and the problems in Ohio; the re-settling of the new American frontier, crossing the Rockies and into the Northwest, and now the Pacific.
He knew the war to liberate humanity would rage for decades more with battles in the jungles of South America, the deserts of the Middle East, the plains of the Ukraine, the frozen tundra of Scandinavia, and across the vast expanse of Asia. That's what waited for Trevor, his children, and their children. Yet today-right now-they achieved a milestone. 'Stop the car.' The Humvee escorts pulled to the curb outside a mansion surrounded by palm trees identified as the 'Long Beach Museum.'
'Sir? What is it?'
Trevor did not answer Prescott. He opened the door and stepped outside the armored cabin. A fresh morning breeze carried the scent of salt and a hint of blowing sand. Seagulls cackled over the beach. The sun shot in behind him, casting shadows across the sand but with a strength that hinted at a hot day to come.
With a dozen soldiers scrambling to form a protective cocoon around him, Trevor cut behind the museum, walked through the garden that once hosted the finest weddings in all Long Beach, marched across a small parking lot, and stepped onto the sand.
The deserted beach stretched little more than one hundred feet wide, much thinner than the beaches further to the south and puny compared to the one in the backyard of his summer house in New Jersey.
With Tyr at his side, he walked to where land met ocean. Low waves curled and crashed then flowed in. A few inches of water brushed against Trevor’s boot, lapping over the top and tickling the bottom of his pant leg.
He felt the heavy weight the Old Man had placed on his shoulders. A weight that demanded Trevor think in the most focused of terms: victory at all costs. For the sake of generations to come and for the sake of those whose memories gave Trevor the skills and perspective to lead, he could think of nothing other than total victory. He could not afford the luxury of the moral high ground or the release of passing the baton of command to others.
Yet for a few moments he stood on that beach in the face of the Pacific Ocean and felt a sense of accomplishment. The weight still bore down, but with what had once been the continental United States now under one banner that weight shed a pound or two.
Tyr walked forward and sniffed the remains of a white cap as it rolled in. The spray tickled the dog’s nose. Tyr sneezed and retreated a step. Trevor knelt and held his hand to the water, letting the chilly flow wash over his fingers. Only his canine companion saw the tears in his eyes. — The Carmel Valley Ranch resort sat on four-hundred acres surrounded by the forested slopes of the Santa Lucia Mountains. The golf course, the pavilions, the luxury cottages…all fell dark beneath the shadow of the Chrysaor.
Captain Kristy Kaufman, her hair sculptured into a small bun and her black uniform perfectly pressed, stood on the bridge hooked into her ship as the 'brain.' The ship's infrared sensors displayed on one of the many monitors at her control station, illuminating the body heat of California hold outs dug deep into the buildings and brush of the resort.
General Stonewall McAllister's voice spoke into her ear from his forward position on Carmel Valley Road: 'I have attempted to convince them that their position is untenable, but they refuse to listen. Therefore, Captain, I must ask that you undertake a most distasteful task.'
'I understand, General. Are you sure the civilians are out? Any innocent bystanders-'
'Yes, I know. At this point, I believe we have done all we can possibly do, and I would much rather not lose any more of my division when your services are so readily available.'
'I understand,' she replied. 'Your officers have confirmed forward positions with my tactical station, so I believe we're ready to go.'
'I guess I should say 'happy hunting,' but somehow those words taste rancid right now.'
Kristy knew what the General meant. She only wished the fools holding out in the Carmel Valley Ranch Resort knew. Almost in response to her thought, through her video feeds she saw the trail of a portable anti-air missile fire up from the enemy position. A moment later the war head explode, barely scratching the undercarriage of the Chrysaor.
She spoke her orders aloud for the crew to hear but her fingers did most of the work.
'Charging the Belly Boppers to twenty-percent. Energy dispersal pattern set tight.'
A digitalized readout reflected the amount of power to be turned into destructive energy. The Chrysaor's energy weapons had come from the seed of alien rifles taken during the battle for Wilkes-Barre that first winter of the invasion, and utilized the same principle when it came to power: the more the weapons charged, the greater the destruction to the target.
Kristy had served as the Chrysaor's captain since its christening six months ago. Now she would see through the purpose for her ship. With Cooperative units falling apart across the country, their leadership dead, and their Witiko allies surrendering in droves to Internal Security, the battle at Carmel Valley seemed likely to be the last.
At least she hoped so. To visit this type of destruction upon any enemy-particularly a human one-required a reason. A good reason.
'Weapons charged. Burst pattern confirmed. Target area locked. Firing.'
Death came in two massive blobs of incinerating energy hitting the ground and splashing out in glowing waves. The beautiful bungalows fell apart like sandcastles in a tornado and acres of forest charred and fell as if discarded matchsticks.
Having ordered the attack, General McAllister felt obligated to ride in with the first wave of infantry to secure the area, although he knew 'securing' would mean little more than sweeping up the ashes. As he approached on horseback, he realized there may not even be ashes remaining.
