been witness to the mass cremation in California City. Now he was eighty miles south of there, belly down on a hill, looking west as the sun rose behind him. The HOLLYWOOD sign had been rebuilt many times over hundreds of years. The first five letters still stood off to his right. The others had been destroyed during the invasion. But that was the least of the damage.
Los Angeles, Hollywood, Beverly Hills, Pasadena, Alhambra, Monterey Park, and Montebello were history. And there, at the very center of a blackened crater, was an enormous starship. So large it would never be able to lift off. Foley assumed that the vessel had been intentionally sacrificed to provide the Ramanthians with an instant fortress.
The ship had a black, slightly iridescent skin that shimmered in the early-morning light. Artificial lighting crackled around it from time to time, killing any bird unfortunate enough to venture close and suggesting that the ship’s defensive screens were still operational.
Dirt ramps had been constructed so that hover vehicles could drive up into what had originally been the vessel’s launch bay, and all manner of prefab structures had been set up around the brooding globe. As Foley swept his glasses across them, he saw what looked like supply dumps, temporary mess halls, and rows of perfectly spaced troop habs.
The whole thing was more than impressive. It was terrifying. Because there, right in front of him, was the very core of the Ramanthian presence on Earth. And to touch it was to die. But that was exactly what he and thousands of others were about to do. Not because they had any real hope of conquering the beast, but in order to throw a scare into the invaders and get them to rush reinforcements into the area. Reinforcements from places like California City.
During the process, Foley hoped to kill a lot of Ramanthians-while suffering as few casualties as possible. And this time he had been careful to seek advice from key subordinates and plan for every imaginable scenario. Or so he hoped.
Foley and his security detail were all clad in precious ghost camos, which, along with some other specialized gear, had been shipped in for the occasion. They were covered with special netting that was designed to conceal both their heat signatures and a certain amount of electromagnetic activity.
Would the special-ops gear work? Foley hoped so as the radio reports began to come in. Each voice represented a group of resistance fighters, some of whom were at war with each other for one reason or another but had agreed to a temporary truce in order to participate in what promised to be the first really important attack on the Ramanthians.
They weren’t aware of the real purpose behind the attack, however, and Foley felt guilty about that, even though security demanded that only a few people be in on the secret. Still, Foley told himself as the calls came in, we’re going to kick some Ramanthian ass, and that’s for sure.
Most of the groups were made up of civilians, which meant that they weren’t that big on military radio procedure. “This is Commander Marcos,” a booming voice said. “The Conquis-tadores are ready.”
“This is the Hammer,” another chimed in. “We’re ready to fall. Over.”
“The Rats are in position,” a female voice said. “Just say the word.”
And so it went until more than a dozen groups had reported in. Then it was Foley’s turn. “This is Shoshone One. I promised you a surprise, and it’s on the way. Keep your heads down. Over.”
What followed was a long, agonizing three minutes, during which nothing happened and all sorts of negative scenarios ran through Foley’s mind. What if the whole thing had been called off for some reason? Or some sort of technical glitch had occurred?
The possibilities ate at him, and he was just about to place a hypercom call when a clap of thunder was heard. Seconds later, the incoming missile struck the Ramanthian ship dead on and exploded. Shields flared, and some of the energy was dispersed, but the explosion was powerful enough to scorch the ship’s skin.
The capability had been there all along of course. Because if the Confederacy could send supply drones through hyperspace, it could send missiles, too; but it had been reluctant to do so, knowing that the slightest miscalculation could result in collateral damage. And even if each weapon landed on target, everyone knew that the bugs would react by placing hostages in and around any installation that might be worthy of an intersystem missile.
But now, with a one-of-a-kind strategic opportunity in the offing, Foley had requested and been granted an intersystem strike. There was another clap of thunder followed by a second hit. The missile struck the huge side hatch just as the bugs were starting to close it. The explosion slagged the door, scoured the vehicle park inside the warship, and triggered a series of loud booms. “This is Shoshone One,” Foley said over the radio. “So far so good. Stand by for one more. Once it hits, you will be free to attack. Over.”
Foley had requested nine missiles and been granted three, which, as Chien-Chu pointed out, cost five hundred million credits each and would require the Confederacy to sacrifice hyperdrives that otherwise could have been used in destroyer escorts or other ships of a similar size.
But all things considered, Foley was satisfied. Because even though he liked killing Ramanthians, the real prize lay elsewhere, and the completely unexpected attack would almost certainly have the desired effect.
The last missile missed the ship but fell in the middle of the encampment just east of it. The weapon went off with a brilliant flash and a resonant boom. Secondary explosions rattled like firecrackers, what looked like a firestorm swept hundreds of evenly spaced habs away, and at least a thousand bugs were killed. All things considered, that was better than a direct hit on the grounded vessel. Because, in spite of its size, the battleship’s weapons were designed for space battles. And there was no way to know where the incoming missiles were coming from and, therefore, no way to respond.
Smoke was pouring up into the air, and the destruction was still under way when the second phase of the attack began. Predictably enough, Ramanthian troops began to pour out of the ship like ants escaping a ravaged nest. Bloodthirsty resistance groups came after them. Some swept into the crater on light trucks with weapons blazing. Others, the Rats in particular, surfaced from Metro tunnels, which ran under the crater and were supposedly blocked off. All were supported by a wild assortment of aircraft that had been rolled out of their hiding places and launched for the occasion. Foley saw air cars with the word POLICE painted on the side, crop dusters, and even ultralights, all climbing, turning, and diving as they dropped hand grenades and homemade bombs on the aliens below.
But the battle was far from one-sided. The same aircraft were very vulnerable. And it wasn’t long before some of them were blown out of the air or simply shot to pieces.
The situation on the ground wasn’t much better. Brave though the resistance fighters might be, they were no match for heavily armored Ramanthian veterans, who were not only enraged by the sneak attack, but led by fanatical members of the Nira cult urging them to fight to the death. They met the humans and drove them back.
Foley put out a final message. “Shoshone One to all allied forces. Withdraw… I repeat, break contact and withdraw. A major battle was won here today. The Confederacy thanks you. Over.”
Then, having done all that a leader could, Foley threw the protective net off and stood. “Come on,” he said to the men and women around him. “There are wounded down there. Let’s collect as many of them as we can.”
CALIFORNIA CITY, CALIFORNIA
It was cold and dark-an early Thursday morning. Margaret was scared as Pete Sawyer led the resistance fighters up the dry channel toward the Ramanthian base. According to the reports from Foley, the attack on the ship had been a success. Heavy casualties had been inflicted on the bugs, and the aliens had been forced to bring in reinforcements from as far away as California City. In fact, a convoy estimated to include at least three hundred troops had departed late the day before. So assuming that the adjoining base had been sufficiently weakened, then a force of about fifty security people should be able to raid the crematorium without too much trouble. The problem, Margaret thought to herself, was the words “should be.”
The column stopped suddenly, and Margaret ran into the man in front of her. He swore, and she whispered, “Sorry.” Then the line was moving again with nothing but the glittering stars to light the way. Her husband, Charles, was out there somewhere, on Algeron probably, fighting a war of words. And Christine? Well, she had followed in her father’s footsteps, even if her methods had a tendency to raise eyebrows. Wouldn’t they be surprised, Margaret thought, to know that she was packing a pistol and part of an effort to raid a crematorium!
