Trevor particularly admired a twenty-foot interactive diorama depicting the collapse of Washington D.C. during the invasion a decade ago. The display included a two-inch replica Skip Beetle outside the Pentagon and toy-sized Hivvan Battlebarges advancing along Pennsylvania Avenue. A narrator stoically relayed information such as, 'the Texas delegation turned the Hart office building into a modern Alamo where they survived for three weeks,' and 'the junior Senator from New York fell victim to a Crawling Tube Worm inside the Capitol Building.'
Dante accompanied Trevor for most of the morning, but as lunch neared the Internal Security Director broke away from the main group to visit the Tambourine Monitoring Center. That station collated information from the smaller stations up and down the east coast that stood as an electronic fence protecting against attack from the Atlantic.
An hour later, Trevor boarded the helicopter and departed from Capitol Hill crossing the Potomac on course for Evan Godfrey's estate outside of McLean, Virginia.
Trevor glanced across the aisle at Ray Roos. The man's usually thin face appeared a little more drawn that day; a tad pale, maybe.
'You okay, Ray?'
Roos answered, 'Yes sir, just fine thank you. Guess I don't like it too much in D.C. with all these Senators walkin' around and all.'
'I know what you mean,' said Trevor as he glanced out one of the portals to view the scrolling streets, expressways, and-the further they flew-woodlands and gentle hills.
While Washington had been cleansed and pacified, most of the homes in the metropolitan area and suburbs remained empty. In fact, in terms of population Washington ranked behind Miami, Pittsburgh, and Philadelphia, although D.C. did surpass New York in residents.
The helicopter overflew a cluster of softball fields, making Trevor think of baseball and how Jorgie neared Little League age. He thought about all the other 'ages' Jorgie would soon see, and how many already passed by.
Trevor knew he was not the father he wanted to be. He loved his boy greatly and he tried to spend time with his kid. If home, he would tuck JB to bed, often times reading him a book or telling stories from the war (edited to not incur mommy's wrath). He would wrap the same stuffed bunny in the same little blanket every night, and while that might sound silly, it had become an important ritual to both Trevor and his son.
JB's eighth birthday party had gone well, exactly the type of get together they needed in the wake of Stonewall's death. The Nehrus, Knox, Dante, and of course the Brewers attended, not to mention hordes of children including Catherine Brewer. JB's favorite gift came from Jerry Shepherd: a Feranite war cloth; essentially woven threads painted in bright colors to symbolize a chief's great victories. For Trevor, it served to remind that a band of Red Hand nomads remained at large in the Midwest.
'We'll, looks like we've arrived, sir,' Ray said as the helicopter descended.
Godfrey lived in a colonial-style home nearly as large as Trevor's lakeside mansion. The red brick appeared recently re-pointed and three sharp gables gave it a taste of Victorian style.
The Sikorsky lowered to the finely manicured lawn behind the home, a yard large enough to accommodate one of those softball fields Trevor spotted during the flight.
Trevor saw no cameras or reporters, but that had been the case all day. The itinerary called for no media before or during their get together. Presumably, when finished, the two would address the media together in a dramatic showing of solidarity and mutual respect.
The helicopter landed. The rotors powered down. Trevor glanced out the window, noting Evan and several I.S. guards standing at the rear of the home near a colorful garden of red, orange, and yellow. Still, no sign of cameras. Whatever political trap Evan planned to spring would either not need the media or could wait until they addressed the reporters after lunch.
Or, a part of Trevor suggested, maybe Evan is really reaching out here. 'Sir, this way,' Roos directed Trevor to the exit. 'You sure you're okay, Ray? You don't look so good.' 'Fine, sir.'
Tyr went first, Trevor and Roos followed with four bodyguards not far behind. Evan approached Trevor wearing a big grin; so big and so forced it could only be phony.
Trevor glanced to his left and noticed the beautiful but simple design of the Godfrey mansion. Not quite as flashy as Trevor would expect from a man so concerned about image. He then looked to his right and surveyed the open expanse of well-kept lawn surrounded by forest.
'Trevor, I'm very glad you could come.'
The two met half way.
'How could I refuse such an invitation. Besides, Dante Jones twisted my arm. He seems to think that I have misjudged you all these years.'
Evan's phony grin changed, a little. His teeth flashed; his eyes narrowed.
'Yes, Trevor. You have misjudged me.'
A low, electric humming that Trevor recognized as the quiet engines of an Eagle transport drifted to his ears, pulling his attention to the rear of the yard. From there flew in-low and fast-one of The Empire's white Eagle transports.
The sudden appearance of the shuttle startled Trevor for only an instant. He had anticipated a political trap and was only surprised that no cameras played to capture whatever grand embarrassment the President of the Senate planned for The Emperor.
The ship landed and the passenger compartment opened. Out poured men in white and red body armor with full face plates-no, not men. Aliens. Centurians or, as they had been nicknamed during the battle of Wilkes-Barre, 'Redcoats,' the original owners of the Eagle shuttles.
In a flash, Trevor understood that an extraterrestrial assault team landed in Evan's back yard. It took Tyr even less time to smell the threat.
The dog charged as the attackers fired their first volley. While those energy blasts missed the K9, the shots did hit the ground next to The Emperor and the Senator. The explosive impact sent both of the men first into the air, then onto the beautiful green grass. Trevor's head hit hard, but he remained conscious.
He heard small arms fire as well as the crackle of energy bursts. Trevor felt a hand haul him up, expecting it to be Roos, but it was a member of the estate detachment. The man pulled an Mp5 machine gun and returned fire while struggling to drag Trevor to cover.
Trevor should have come to his senses and acted, but the sight he saw in Evan Godfrey's yard confused him. He saw alien plasma bursts firing into the air and into the ground; not really hitting anything. He saw Tyr rip into the arm of one of the Redcoats, but the alien reacted sluggishly, as if not feeling the pain. He spotted Godfrey cowering on the ground, arms over his head. He saw some of his escort firing at the attackers, knocking at least two of the dozen aliens to the ground with solid hits. He saw other I.S. agents firing at… firing at other I.S. agents.
'To the chopper!' Shouted the guard holding Trevor's arm.
Something streaked by Trevor. Something hot. Then he felt a warm liquid splash on his cheek. That liquid came from the man dragging him toward the helicopter; blood from his head. The hot thing had been a bullet fired by another I.S. agent, one from the estate, a short man with gray hair who held his pistol steady in both hands for the best possible aim.
Tyr bolted at that gray-haired agent, clamping down on the short man's arm. With his free hand, the agent blasted the Norwegian Elkhound, exploding the skull of Trevor's friend.
Another energy bolt hit at Trevor's feet, sending him rolling. He looked up and saw that while almost the entire security detail had died, the majority of the Redcoat aliens remained alive but stood still with their rifles held aloft but not firing, not advancing. Trevor pulled himself to a sitting position and called, 'Evan! Are you okay?' Ray Roos cast a shadow over Trevor and pointed a gun at his boss saying, 'He's fine, but you're dead.' The gun fired. Trevor felt a hot sensation in his chest and his limbs went numb… — Chaos.
'Confirm that message. Confirm it, NOW!'
General Jon Brewer stood on the bridge of the Excalibur alongside the command station where Woody 'Bear' Ross operated as the 'brain' of the ship.
'Message confirmed from D.C. Station,' Ross replied in his booming voice. 'All friendly air traffic is grounded. The contact is not responding to hails.'
Jon yelled the obvious order, 'Intercept it, goddamn it! Intercept!'
The Excalibur's main engines increased to maximum thrust, propelling the massive vessel over the Virginia
