Los Angeles

  It is debatable whether the City of Angels was better off after the battle. The cascade and the large-scale scouring of the traitor legion by the Terra Vanguard had left the city with wide war-torn swathes in some of its most vital areas. With the police force having to be rebuilt from the ground up, law enforcement fell to National Guard units and uniformed military personnel patrolled the streets; creating a dystopian image.

  On the bright side, crime was down as most of the organized crime families had been killed or scattered into the wind by various means. Amongst the rubble, a quiet peace had taken hold of the city.

  For Commander Mueller, it was officially a job well done. But as the Serpent Crushers began their withdrawal, the atmosphere was more lukewarm.

  His armored column rolled down I-105 enroute to LAX, where the beach beyond hosted the beachhead established by the fast amphibious landing ship they had arrived on. The Vanguard vehicles were escorted by American Marine units at the head and rear of the convoy. They formed a long stretch of tanks, supply trucks and support vehicles.

  Citizens of the city had gathered on either side of the highway, spectating their withdrawal. Some cheered, but most simply watched with cold and neutral stares. But nobody threw rocks or shouted at them, so Mueller considered that a positive enough reaction. His men had had no issues from the locals during their stay. Though, that was most likely due to the shock of what had happened. A major city had been lain siege to by a literal demon and an army of mutated humans. There was more than a little mental trauma to go around.

  As his Shogun MBT passed an intersection, an American M1A2 Abrams pulled away from its station along their route and came alongside Mueller on his left. A familiar face poked his torso out of the commander's hatch and pointed to his helmet.

  Mueller switched his radio to the shared frequency that had been agreed upon between the Vanguard and the US military units in the city.

  "What can I do for you Captain Anderson?" Mueller asked the Marine, a jovial tone in his voice. The two men had worked closely during the scouring of the remnants of the vampiric forces and had developed a significant mutual respect.

  His counterpart returned, "Simply wishing you happy trails, Commander. It's been an honor."

  Mueller was looking slightly down at his counterpart, as the Shogun had a taller profile than the Abrams, but the American tank was slightly fatter than the chunky Vanguard vehicle due its modifications. Anderson's Abrams was outfitted with a full TUSK II skirt of fat explosive-reactive armor tiles and ablative armor panels.

  "The honor's all mine, Captain. Please extend my thanks to your battalion. And good look luck with your new daughter."

  "Thank you, I will. About that book you were talking about..."

  "Yes, historians weren't able to catalogue our actions in detail that day with so much happening. Though I applaud their efforts. Napoleon fought brilliantly, but his artillery was his centerpiece and without it we were free to maneuver. IV Corps rolled up his right flank handily."

  The Captain found the whole conversation surreal. As a student of history himself, he found every exchange with the vanguard riveting. "I see."

  The two tanks came up to an intersection just before LAX. The gates of the Vanguard forward operating base were in sight.

  Mueller saluted. "I suppose this is farewell, Captain. Hopefully next time we meet, it's under better circumstances."

  Mueller tapped his intercom mic to tell his driver to speed up, but just as he did so, the ground erupted around the two vehicles.

  As they crossed over a series of steam vents, an explosion detonated beneath them. The entire street heaved upwards from the explosive mass. The convoy was immediately thrown into disarray. Muller's 80-ton vehicle was lifted several feet into the air. The explosion was concentrated beneath his and Anderson's tanks. Fire and shockwaves rolled over him.

  What spectators that were gathered were sent running. Those that were close by were killed instantly.

  Mueller's tank slammed down, facing the opposite direction it had been. He had to recover after falling to the turret floor. Fire singed his coveralls. Blood flowed freely from several knocked out teeth and a broken nose.

  The Shogun was disabled. The hull had survived and his crew reported in, rattled but no major injuries. Both tracks were thrown and the remote weapons station had been ripped from its mount atop the turret. A massive blast mark left black streaks along the entire left side of the tank. But what was more horrifying was everything beyond his own vehicle.

  On pure instinct, he climbed up and resumed his position in the commander's seat. When he looked outside, he saw a horrific scene.

  The air was thick with smoke and dust. Bodies littered the street. Captain Anderson's Abrams was shattered. The hull had clearly been breached directly beneath the turret, which had been lifted off of the hull and now lie half-on half-off of the vehicle. The ammunition in the stowage rack at the rear of the turret cooked off, a bright geyser of flame shot upwards like a roman candle.

  No one had survived.

  Salvo Island

  From his high perch, the radioman observed the main highway out of Citadel City. The wide road hugged the coast and passed several facilities as it stretched northward, including the old Orbital Launch Vehicle Building.

  Through a pair of binoculars, he spotted an escorted convoy leaving the west gate. The vehicle in the middle bore a five-star flag on the front quarter panel. With raised eyebrows, he took a sip of coffee and spun around in his chair. A sign reading ON AIR glowed against the glass window. He queued up a new song on the station’s transmitter and spoke into his mic.

  With a slick tone, he announced, “For some of you, this is a moldy oldie—for others, it’s future funk. Regardless, this one goes out to the secret squirrels doing secret squirrel things in the OLVB.”

  The first twang of Chuck Berry’s guitar rolled through the airwaves.

  “Ridin’ along in my automobile...”

  Lieutenant Olsen suddenly straightened in his chair at the sound of the music. He immediately stuck his head out of his office door and shouted into the high bay with urgency, “Brass!”

  The raucous gathering of Rifles in the wide-open center of Whirlwind’s hangar immediately descended into chaos as soldiers scrambled to hide their illicit activity—gambling on a horse tug-of-war.

  After returning from Italy, the ice had broken between the troops of various backgrounds that made up the specialized unit. A soldier from the U.N. contingency had remarked that he felt “as strong as a horse.” R2C Marcus had overheard him and said, “Yeah, right.” Given the hyper-competitive nature of special forces, a competition was arranged. A horse, sourced from somewhere no one could quite determine, was brought in, and the two men engaged in a tug-of-war against it. A simple line of tape marked the center on the deck. The horse would win by dragging the soldier across it; the operator would win by pulling the horse across the line. Whoever did it fastest was the victor.

  The assault trooper had completed the task in one minute and forty-eight seconds. And then, right in the middle of Gunnery Sergeant Schroeder’s attempt, the music started; a secret signal that a high-ranking member of the chain of command was en route to the OLVB.

  Stolen story; please report.

  They quickly hid the table set up for currency exchange. The foreign troopers had contributed various currencies of dubious exchange rates. The Terra Vanguard, however, had no official currency. in the early days, Rifles exchanged ammunition, but as operations ramped up and the army’s full capabilities came online, shorting one’s ammo supply quickly proved unwise. The substitute? Seashells.

  Naturally, seashells washed up on the archipelago’s shores all the time, but the ones considered unique or beautiful quickly became highly sought after. And so, seashells became the unofficial currency exchanged within the Vanguard. A great big pile of them now sat on the table as Rifles bet on who they thought would win.

  The shouts of encouragement and excitement at the competition quickly shifted to shouts of panic and “Go, go, go!”—though they lost none of their enthusiasm.

  A Chief Rifle ran up to Olsen as he worked to round up the men.

  “Sir, the horse! Where are we gonna hide the horse?”

  “What horse?” Olsen said, standing right next to the Palomino.

  The music came to a stop as the convoy pulled into the expansive concrete pad outside the building. Leader-Commander Tambor stepped out, followed by his loyal aide, Camilla, along with Striker-Commander Federov and Commander Waller.

  When they entered the hangar, a spotless formation greeted them. The unit’s four JOs, including Perelli and Olsen, stood at the front, while their men lined up in perfect formation behind them. The unit’s special aviation branch, logistics, and vehicle corps were also present.

  Tambor squinted, immediately suspicious. “Something smells like horseshit.” His eyes locked onto Marcus and Gunny Schroeder. “Why are those two men sweatier than a pig at a luau?”

  “It’s hot today, sir,” Perelli offered.

  Tambor shrugged. “Fair enough.” He failed to notice the horse suspended in a sling several dozen feet above them, held aloft by Tetsu, who strained against the frame bearing the weight.

  Tambor addressed the formation.

  “I apologize for the intrusion, gentlemen,” he began. “I wanted to personally thank you for your efforts under Monte Cassino. Thanks to the troops under Lieutenant Olsen and Ensign Perelli’s command, we have captured a vampire who has given us significant insights into the enemy’s operations.”

  He made eye contact with Perelli and nodded in appreciation. For a moment, Perelli’s pride eclipsed his hatred for the vampire, Vespera. His resentment over being ordered not to kill her had not abated with time as expected. But at least Federov hadn’t been wrong about the value of taking her alive.

  Tambor continued, “Lieutenant Junior Grade Olsen’s team also managed to kill a mindflayer—the first we’ve encountered in the wild.” He turned to the U.N. team. “My condolences for the loss of your comrade. We’ve made arrangements for an award and a stipend for his family.”

  A Royal Marine spoke up, "He died on his feet. That’s all we could ask."

  “Unfortunately, I’ve also come on business. That vampire gave us everything. You’ve no doubt seen the increased activity at Stingray. We are preparing for a global offensive.” He paused to let the weight of the revelation sink in. “All four sky-carriers will deploy at once, alongside the surface action fleet, the submarine flotilla, high-range bombers, and amphibious groups. Together, they’ll strike targets on every continent simultaneously.”

  The Rifles hung on his every word, awestruck.

  “But first, I need you boys to go out again. I know you just got back, but we can’t afford to be half-assed with this.”

  “Just give us the FRAGORD, sir. We’ll demo the target,” Olsen said, beaming.

  Tambor smiled, appreciating the enthusiasm. He held up a finger towards Olsen. “Captured, not destroyed. We need up-to-date intelligence on Queen Persephone’s whereabouts, and I need it obtained discreetly. She was supposed to be in that bunker under Monte Cassino. Now we have no idea where she is. You’ll be briefed in detail by your commanders,” he said, motioning to Waller and Federov, “but your objective is an enemy communications hub. You’re to get the absolute latest on their disposition. That information could be the difference between ending this war tomorrow—or slogging through it for years.”

  “What exotic locale are we invading next, sir?”

  “You’re going to Amarillo, Texas.”

  On his way out of the building, after a short ceremony presenting awards to various personnel, mainly Perelli, BMC Noble, and a posthumous award for gallantry to the Royal Marine, Tambor turned to Olsen and Perelli.

  "That was smart, men."

  Olsen and Perelli shared a confused look.

  "Having the radio DJ play specific music to warn you that I was coming so your men could hide their gambling on horse tug-of-war, and then using your Kilo-class to hide the horse in the rafters."

  Both JOs cringed, caught and expecting an ass-chewing.

  The Leader-Commander put his cap on and smiled. "Have your men ready for the next op. I want you to beat the brakes of these leeches." He walked off back towards his staff car.

  Both men straightened and nodded, ready to accept any tasking that came their way.

  Citadel City

  And number one met number two as Tycho entered the Quartermaster’s office. The Quartermaster, much more enthused by the Over-Commander’s visit than the Striker-Commander’s, quickly straightened in his chair and cleared a few loose objects from his desk.

  Tycho took a seat across from him. “You received my note?” he asked.

  The Quartermaster nodded. “Yes, sir.” He clicked a button, and the shades drew closed. The door locked, and a white-noise generator started—ensuring the integrity of the matter they were about to discuss.

  “I must admit, I did not expect you in person,” the Quartermaster said.

  “This matter is of such importance,” Tycho told him. “What did you find?”

  The Quartermaster turned one of his monitors so that Tycho could see it. He typed in a few commands until only one line item was displayed. He took a deep breath.

  “Okay, so—the uranium core Whirlwind discovered. Its life starts here.” He pointed to a data entry. “It was requisitioned from the Helsing Gate several years ago, during the founding. It was picked up by automated truck #045-B, a specialized radioactive material transport. The material was slated for the strategic energy reserve and was to be stored on-site at the Verde nuclear reactor. The uranium was transported there, where it was logged as received and stored in fuel bunker #6. It was the last deposit. There it remained for two years. The bunker is remotely monitored and was never opened after that. According to my records,” he looked directly at Tycho, “it was still there as of last week. So I sent someone to check on it. He found the core exactly where it should be—except it wasn’t the right uranium. Thankfully, my man was smart. He took a sample, and we had it analyzed. The half-life decay was different, meaning it’s an entirely different core sitting where ours should be.

  "Now, I control all uranium requisitions personally, and they’re all accounted for. So, we did some digging and the false core was traced back to the Soviet Union. They made it and then lost it in 1989.”

  “Someone must have bought it during the collapse of the Union?”

  “Probably. But here it is, in our inventory.”

  “So where did ours go? How did it get into the hands of vampires? And how did we end up the proud owners of a Soviet nuclear core?” Tycho said, wryly.

  “That’s where the trail goes cold. I have no data after that point.” He shook his head.

  Tycho pursed his lips while he thought. “But not as cold as it could be.” He got up to leave. “Thank you, Quartermaster. Your efforts have been invaluable.”

  He nodded. “Anytime, Commander.”

  Los Angeles

  A leather-gloved hand reached for the night sky, as if to grasp the stars. It's owner focused on a specific cluster, around which he clenched his fist tightly.

  "I feel it. He is so close. Closer than I ever thought I would experience. It took all of his power to create me... so many hundreds of years ago. I never thought he wound see fit to reunite me with his embrace after failing him. Imprisoned by those traitors-" he snarled, "-in my own court. I got to see this entire miserable world from the inside of a cell. Captured by a dozen different nation states, only to be entombed in Egypt, awoken and enslaved by the Reich, 'appropriated' by the British and then stolen by the Soviet KGB, only to be stolen by the Americans. Verminous creatures, these humans."

  His black trench coat fluttered in the wind. He turned to look at his companion. "And then left to languish in a CIA blacksite by my kin for 30 years." he said with a sour look that shifted quickly. "But... your Queen has seen fit to free me."

  Through his entire speech, Dmitry remained silent with a neutral expression.

  The old vampire continued. "She is smarter than she looks."

  Dmiutry raised an eyebrow.

  "She is not a military mind. She was correct to summon me. This 'Terra Vanguard' would surely see you all burned if not for some dire intervention. But like all human armies, it will ebb. We just need to help it along." He took a breath. "The attack was carried out to my specifications?"

  Dmitry nodded.

  "Good..." he looked a nearby trio of vampire lieutenants. "Now escalate. Attacks round the clock. Like we discussed. Drive-bys, IEDs, snipers, but NO DIRECT ACTION. This must be seen as an organic insurgency by the locals against an occupying force. No random slaughter of civilians either... actually, no direct attacks on civilians but do make sure plenty get caught in the crossfire. An army with the might of the Vanguard can't be beaten by an opposite force; atleast, not one of this Earth. Their morale must be broken internally."

  The vampire aides immediately began making phone calls. Dmitry looked at them wearily.

  The old one gestured to them. "I don't understand this nu-custom you youngbloods are so obsessed with. Back in my day, I just made more vampires. None of this 'thrall' business. Sure, they're harder to control, but so much more capable. Certainly as the Black Sun has grown closer he has seen fit to make more of you, so I don't understand the hesitation."

  He clasped his hands behind his back. "One week. That's how long we continue this... terror? No. Liberation campaign. We keep up the pressure and eventually someone will do something stupid. Accidentally shoot a civilian on camera maybe. Then the U.S will force them out and also be forced to withdraw their own forces. Then the city will be ready for our little project to take shape. Mark this day, my comrade. It all changes tonight"