Simms. Her horse neighed. An explosion far off to the west drifted across the open fields.
She said, “About two hundred men on the tarmac with land mines, a mobile bridge-builder, one reinforced earth-mover, and a bunch of Hummers.”
“12 ^ th — Engineering — brigade…”
“Apparently they flew more than a dozen sorties to get all the equipment in. They had to hang the earthmover and the bridge from a special winch underneath the Shit-Hooks.”
General Shepherd narrowed his eyes and his mouth turned down at the edges.
He repeated again, “12 ^ th goddamn Engineering brigade? Engineering? Who the hell screwed the pooch on this one? That was supposed to be elements of 13 ^ th brigade! How the hell did they eff this up?”
But Shepherd knew the answer. Woody Ross had recently been named commander of the 4 ^ th Mechanized Division, parent unit to the both the 12 ^ th Engineering and 13 ^ th Mechanized Brigades. Ross, in turn, had been a part of the even larger 3 ^ rd Corps, which was now commander-less with the death of Casey Fink during The Order’s raid three days before.
Confusion. Misinterpreted orders. Incomplete communications. The type of things that occur when you have a sudden and unexpected change in leadership. The type of things The Order hoped for when they sent their assassins.
Shepherd pulled himself into a sitting position atop the cupola. He wiped the sweat from his brow with his black uniform sleeve and replaced his cowboy hat.
Cassy’s news signed General Rhodes’ death warrant. The Order’s main force complete with Leviathan would hit the Newtown area before the end of the day. Just as bad, in order to buy time to muster a relief force, The Empire had thrown dozens of sorties at Voggoth’s approaching army. It had worked; the enemy slowed their advance, but at the cost of at least a dozen fixed-wing aircraft, not to mention valuable ordnance and aviation fuel.
Combined with Shep’s column of armor, Cassy’s cavalry, and an eclectic collection of helicopter gunships waiting for the strike, the added light artillery and infantry units from the 13 ^ th brigade might have been enough to punch a hole in the enemy’s eastern lines running north to south along Highway 135 and free the 4,000 men under Rhodes’ command.
Not now. A communication mix-up caused by holes in the chain of command turned his desperate counter- attack into a suicide mission and no matter how much he wished otherwise, Shepherd saw no choice other to abandon the trapped men to their fate.
“Pull your cavalry back,” he ordered Simms. “Send word for those Shit-Hooks to turn around and pick up the Engineering brigade. Hell, might as well have them mine the airport while they’re there.”
“But, sir, what about General Rhodes?”
“Cassy, what do you want to do? Try and take on that pocket with what we’ve got? I’ve got shit here. Even with the 13 ^ th it was a crap shoot. Without them it’s not possible. I’m not going to throw away these boys for nothing. Phil is-well, General Rhodes is a lost cause.”
“Sir…”
“Cassy, don’t make me go sayin’ it again because it tasted pretty damn bad the first time.”
“No, sir,” her voice rose to a near shout, “Look.” And she pointed to the east.
He looked first to his column of vehicles. He saw the men waking from their naps, dropping their canteens and chow, and moving away from the cool shadows of their rides into the sunbaked fields to behold something further behind.
To General Jerry Shepherd, it appeared as if the horizon actually moved; like ripples in water as a wave curls toward the beach. That wave kept coming, pouring over the trampled fields, secondary roads, and farm house ruins strewn about the plains.
He kept his eyes east and climbed from the cupola until standing on the deck of the disabled Abrams tank. Captain Rheimmer poked his head out.
“What’s going on?”
For a moment Jerry Shepherd worried that The Order managed to deploy one of their pseudo-biological weapons to their rear; that his rescue mission had become a trap. His heart raced. The sweat already pouring from his forehead due to the heat doubled.
The swarm came without end. A tremble shook the ground and did not stop. A drone filled the air as the stampede closed.
Soldiers climbed aboard their armored vehicles; some drew their weapons but no one fired as they realized what approached.
Shepherd’s mouth fell open. He yanked off his hat and held it against his chest. In a moment of total awe he gasped, “Oh-oh God.”
They came seemingly without end, a gigantic horde of dogs: the Grenadier warriors who had saved Trevor’s life in the early days, done his bidding at New Winnabow, and now marched as one great army, side by side, packed in columns. Forget individual breeds; that did not matter. Claws and fangs rumbling forward as if one horrible beast.
The march of the Grenadiers reached the armored column and gently parted in the right places to flow around the men and machines. Shepherd watched them pass and realized that of all the onlookers, Cassy Simms’ horses appeared most at ease.
Nature’s attempt to protect its own.
Those words from Trevor’s attempt at an explanation forced their way into Shepherd’s thoughts, cutting through the wonder-and yes-the fear. He felt as if he stood in front of a tornado, or watched a volcano erupt, or felt the ground shake from an Earthquake.
Only nature can do something this big. Trevor had sent the K9s to enforce his will at New Winnabow, but now nature sent a hundred thousand canines to do its bidding.
The constant pounding of paws into the ground generated clouds of dust and created a roar that made it nearly impossible to speak, but Shep heard General Simms’ panicked cry, “What is going on! What is this?”
General Jerry Shepherd saw it clearly at that point. The K9s served as nature’s anti-bodies. Never in history had Earth’s ecosystem been invaded by an outside force. Indeed, not only an outside force but one led by Voggoth and his Order, the antithesis of life.
Nature moved to counter the threat; a threat to the entire body of the planet. Somehow these Grenadiers- these anti-bodies-connected to Trevor via the genetic chain on which he served as a link.
Throughout history, dogs demonstrated sensitivity to human feelings, as evident in breeds ranging from care dogs to seeing eye dogs to guard dogs. Armageddon had grown that sensitivity to the point that the dogs were born better trained than ever thought possible.
And what have the K9s sensed of late from their human masters?
Desperation. Fear. All of it focused on Voggoth’s advancing legions.
One last great mustering of power. The war would be humanity’s to win or lose, but the fantastic Grenadiers offered one final contribution. The only type of contribution they could make in a conflict that had grown into air power and armor and artillery: a deluge aimed at The Order’s lines surrounding General Rhodes’ trapped unit.
They continued to come, stretching from horizon in the east to horizon in the west. Easily a hundred thousand four-legged warriors.
“Cassy!”
General Simms kept her glazed eyes on the Grenadier army as its tail end passed.
“General Simms!”
“What? Huh?”
“Get to your cavalry. Saddle up. I’m going to call in air support and give Rhodes the heads up. We have to move. Now!”
“What are you talking about? What’s going on?”
For the first time in days, General Shepherd smiled in a cocky grin. He thought of their old departed friend Stonewall McAllister and answered in words that might have come from that gallant gentleman’s vocabulary. “We’ve got a battle to fight, General. And it’s going to be glorious.”
A line of twenty alien turrets stood alongside Highway 135 mirroring the telephone poles sharing that stretch of road. They reached as tall as a street light and resembled the upper half of the letter ‘S’ in design with steel-like
