entries for most.
He identified a pair of French-built Panhard AML armored cars with the fading remains of “U.N.” paint, one sporting a 90 millimeter barrel the other with dual 20 millimeter weapons for use as an anti-aircraft vehicle; three MOWAG Eagle military cars-based on American Hummer chassis-with what appeared to be anti-tank weapons mounted atop; four six-wheeled Finnish Sisu-Pasi amphibious armored personnel carriers, one of which sported some kind of homemade mortars; two Spanish Pegaso BMR APCs; and a dozen SUVs, some towing small artillery pieces and all hauling soldiers.
It occurred to Trevor that the vehicles ran on wheels, not treads. Alexander had left the Leopard tanks in the motor pool, choosing speed over outright firepower.
Their host led them to one of the half-dozen Sherpas at the rear of the convoy. The one they entered lacked a roof; the others brandished heavy machine guns.
Trevor noticed that Alexander kept closing and opening his one free hand (the other carried his ever-present clipboard) in a fist, repeatedly, as if exercising his fingers. He realized that the action came from nerves when Alexander said, “This had better pay off, Trevor. Even with your shipments our fuel resources are scarce. We have carefully shepherded them, preparing for our next offensive.”
“Yes, I’ve noticed. I see that civilians around here walk, use bikes, or ride horses. Very little vehicles.”
“We do not have access to those alien matter transformation machines you possess. Most of our petroleum resources came from Italian shale oil refined through Schwedt, Germany all the way over on the Polish border. Those facilities are still operating but the Duass and The Order have slowed our supply routes to a trickle. In other words-”
“In other words the gas we burn today may not be replaced for weeks, if ever.”
Alexander sat in the passenger seat, Trevor and Jorgie took the rear. A hard-nosed British Royal Marine slid behind the wheel and started the Renault truck. Meanwhile Hauser found a seat in one of the SUVs with a group of English soldiers who spoke his language.
The thump-thump-thump of helicopter blades pulled Trevor’s eyes skyward. Sunlight filtered through the trees in flickers. Rotating blades added to the strobe effect. As the convoy left the shade of the park he saw two helicopters circling overhead. The first was the green Eurocopter 135 transport that wore the iron cross of the German Bundeswehr. Trevor noted rocket pods affixed to the landing struts and an angry-looking soldier with a big gun leaning out an open side door.
The second bird impressed even more so: a 2-seat Tigre attack chopper wearing French colors.
“Look at it, Father!” Jorgie exclaimed excitedly. Certainly plastic soldiers on the table in the basement conference room back home could not compare to this experience.
The convoy picked up speed and moved quickly through Murol. Citizens hurried to the sidewalks and stared at the soldiers riding off to battle.
A skirmish line of Duass infantry hurried toward the eastern flank through overgrown brush and light forest to meet one end of the humans’ pincer movement. The sounds of the circling motorcycles echoed through the forest and grew louder-louder…
The attackers weaved through the trees aiming for the Duass encampment built on the highway. The smell of gasoline and the wake of dirt and rock tossed by the furious wheels made them seem like demons screaming out of Hell.
Alien soldiers fired. A shot knocked a rider from her saddle, breaking her neck around a thick, old tree and causing the motorcycle to split into front and back halves.
But the cavalry did not stop.
The heavy riders at the front pulled out their metal cylinders. In a series of smaller segments, those cylinders extended into metallic jousting lances twelve feet in length and anchored to the bars on their bikes.
First one then five of the alien fighters were impaled and then trampled. But the effect of the jousts-the sight of the devilish riders in heavy armor and wielding such a primitive and brutal weapon-caused more casualties from fear. The skirmish line broke apart. The motorcycles did not bother with them; they pushed toward the heart of the checkpoint; toward command and control.
That heart sat on the pavement of A75 1500 feet behind the front line and took the form of a trio of huts seemingly built from metal and a kind of glistening cardboard. Nearby, just to the west of the highway, were wooden racks filled with rectangular crates from which came the constant buzz and hum of insects; the equivalent of a Duass farm.
Several formations of alien infantry retreated from the front lines to protect the rear flank as the two pincers of bikers met behind the HQ and circled in toward the road.
A volley of plasma torched an entire squad of cavalry, leaving smoldering wheels and bloody leather behind.
A woman on the rear of a Suzuki super bike steadied her position with one hand on the driver’s waist while firing armor-piercing bullets from a Mach 10 in the other hand. She raked the enemy with bullets, killing three Duass and wounding several more.
One of the Duass fighters launched a large blob of energy from a shoulder-held tube. It hit one of the ATV’s. The vehicle burst into flames and the rider tumbled away.
A mounted soldier in red body armor sped toward one of the buildings and, with great balance, let go of his handle bars just long enough to yank pins from two grenades. He then bowled them forward, using his momentum to cause the explosives to bounce and roll into the structure. Just as the motorcycle veered away, the grenades exploded, knocking down a wall and sending two burning Duass running from the inferno and hollering an ungodly squealing noise.
Two bikers ditched their rides at the edge of the woods and quickly unpacked short-range motors. Several of the cavalry circled their position keeping the aliens at bay.
Armand communicated, “Second Phase. Everyone remember your assignments.”
Several dozen of the cavalry stopped their motored transport and dismounted, opening fire with rifles and carbines as well as tossing grenades.
The Duass rear area devolved into total chaos. Human bullets and alien plasma fired into, from and around the woods surrounding the base. Blasts of anti-personnel grenades tore apart three-legged aliens. Scorching balls of energy burned leather-clad humans. More soldiers left the front barricade to try and suppress the cavalry that had outflanked them.
Armand turned his Ducati sharply onto A75 and sped south directly toward the largest structure at the middle of the base. A pair of heavy cavalry crossed his path, one with a Duass body stuck on his lance. Bright laser-like blasts and red blurs of tracer shots crisscrossed the road in front of him.
He remained calm. Focused. Even as some of those plasma shots aimed for him.
Faster-faster…
Armand reached low on the right side of his 999 where several canisters were attached to his bike. He pulled pins.
He gripped the throttle tighter, revved it, and then yanked his wheel in a suicide turn. Armand lifted his ass from the saddle and kicked away, falling backward at over 60 miles per hour.
The motorcycle fell on its side and slid along A75 to the sound of screeching metal while sparks flew from the body armor worn by Armand as he slid behind the bike on his back, arms held wide to slow momentum. The friction of his padded suit stopped him far sooner than the cycle.
The Ducati-sparking and roaring and tires spinning futilely as it slid along the pavement-sent several Duass diving for cover as it impacted the headquarters building. The canisters-the fuel tank-they both explode and ripped the structure to pieces, killing several of the enemy both inside and out.
Armand moved nearly as fast as the blast wave. He rose to one knee and in the blink of an eye raised his right arm to knock off his helmet and, in the same motion, pull the FAMAS assault rifle from his shoulder.
Nearby Duass soldiers turned their attention to him while the rest of the battle raged behind on the road and to the forest to either side. The first plasma shot missed high of his head. The second bounced off the road to his right.
He did not panic. He did not hurry. On the bike, speed was life. With a rifle, aim was life. And dealt death.
He raised the sites to his eye and pulled the trigger. A bullet hit just above a bill. The duck dropped.
