Citadel City

  The command center was bustling with activity and the operation hadn’t even begun. Aurelian advised the commander of Phase 1, Sky-Admiral Kincade, on target prioritization and contingencies. As an inquisitor, Aurelian would not be in command of troops, but he would be the only constant across the three-phase operation. Kincade, tall and regally British, would command the decapitation strike and the follow-up assaults on enemy infrastructure. Once the ground campaign began, Ground-Commander Reinstead would take the reins.

  The inquisitor was particularly worried about the one point on which the entire operation hinged. It required deploying Federov’s experimental Whirlwind Battalion deep into contested territory, at the end of a very long and uncertain supply line.

  He looked up from a map when several tripwires were called out. Everyone was in assault position. They just needed the green light. Sky-Admiral Kincade gave Whirlwind their go-ahead.

  “Command to Whirlwind Actual, you are greenlight. Execute, execute, execute!”

  The Texas Panhandle

  If you couldn’t be invisible, then the next best thing was being partially invisible. The massive cargo jets carrying Whirlwind were stealthy. Their hulls were coated in black-grey radar-absorbent material and angled to deflect radar pulses rather than return a signature to opposing forces. But these aircraft were big. They looked more like manta rays than the bloated whale-shape of traditional cargo planes. Flat and elegant flying wings, they were powered by eight engines; four integrated into each wing.

  The cargo bay was wide enough to accommodate two light armored vehicles side by side, and several deep.

  An aircraft like that couldn’t be completely stealthy. So instead, they spoofed their signature, masquerading as civilian-operated Boeing 747s registered to a shell company created by ISR. Ostensibly, they were on a cargo run from Brazil to Canada. But as they passed over the Texas Panhandle, they dropped altitude until they were flying mere feet off the deck.

  It was anticipated they’d be seen as they briefly descended to extremely low altitude over the most barren section of desert Operations and Planning could find. It was assessed that any claims would be easily dismissed as UFO sightings due to the aircrafts’ strange shape.

  The loadmaster stood on a catwalk overlooking his cargo bay and the vehicles inside. Wind whipped around the compartment, threatening to suck anything unsecured out of the open cargo doors. He waited for the signal from the pilots that they were over the drop zone. His hand hovered over a green button.

  The pilot announced, “Go for drop.”

  The loadmaster called out with delight, “Drop in 5… 4… 3—alright everybody get the fuck out!” He smashed the green button.

  Chutes deployed on the two rear-most vehicles. They were dragged out on skids, and as soon as they cleared the door, heavy towing straps pulled the next two into the open. By the time the bay was clear, six LAVs, a fuel truck, a flatbed, two reconnaissance cars, and a high-speed mortar carrier were falling straight down onto the desert sand. As soon as both aircraft were empty, they shut their doors and began clawing their way back into the sky.

  The sky was on fire. Bright red flames of unnatural origin, as tall as skyscrapers, lit up the horizon with all the force of a crashing sun. Smoke rolled across the land. Great pools and geysers of blood erupted from the ground, swallowing cities whole. Large, calamari-like tentacles jutted from the pools, tipped with barbs and poison sacks. They lashed out at everything that moved. A terrible scream reverberated across the entire Earth as mankind was swallowed by unimaginable horrors.

  Perelli opened his eyes and jerked his head up, immediately regretting it. His helmet slammed into the top of the LAV’s troop compartment.

  “Damn, you were out, Ensign. Slept through an entire high-speed drop,” Milo said.

  Small fires danced at the edge of Perelli’s vision, but when he turned to look at them, they vanished. He took a deep breath and climbed out of the LAV.

  The dropped vehicles were in disarray, having just landed. Rifles worked quickly to clear them of their drop skids, which were already being buried along with the drag chutes. The faster crews were fully powered up and shifting into convoy formation.

  Thankfully, there wasn’t much for him to do in the way of leadership. Everyone’s roles had already been hashed out ahead of time. Nobody needed direction. He popped his ballistic mask, feeling the urge to spit out a bitter taste but his mouth was dry. Instead, he took a drink from his hydration bladder.

  Despite the strange start, he found his bearings quickly. The convoy needed to form up and head south toward the town of Wheeler.

  Their target lay there.

  Night in the desert was cold. The biting wind didn’t help. Perelli found himself activating the heating function in his armor which had been seldom used in the mostly warm climates he had fought in, with the notable exception of Russia.

  Whirlwind had dug in at a pre-determined position, well away from their target. Though close enough to observe it through optics. The communications hub was a large structure, more akin to a full-scale complex. It stood out like a sore thumb in the empty desert expanse. The exterior lights were red-tinted. Very little traffic was ever seen coming or going. No one was ever spotted walking outside. It wasn’t tapped into the local grid either. All the signs pointed to a suspicious operation.

  According to the captured vampire, that “operation” was the central hub for all communications within North America, and a checkpoint for all incoming and outgoing data from the continent. Stealth would be critical. Any premature engagement might give its operators enough time to wipe their files clean.

  Twelve LAVs, two fuel trucks, two flatbeds, four reconnaissance cars, and two high-speed mortar carriers were now dug into deep-earth revetments. EMCON and strict light discipline were in effect.

  BMC Noble looked out over the black, rocky desert. “I’ve done some shady shit during my time with SOCOM, but I’ve never invaded my own country before. Your boss must’ve cut quite the deal with El Presidente to greenlight this.”

  Federov shrugged, reviewing the assault plan with the other officers. The open door of the command LAV cast a dim glow over their faces. “That’s why you’re here. To answer to your president. We didn’t exactly tell Congress or the U.N. about this... or El Presidente.”

  There was a brief disturbance as two Rifles crawled over the earthworks, dragging a heavy cable behind them—two of Olsen’s people.

  “Jammer array’s in place, sir,” one reported. “Just gotta get the console set up.” They got to work connecting the cable to the command rig.

  In a nearby foxhole, Alpha Team and a member of the attached INTERPOL squad kept watch, weapons resting quietly at the edge of their little hole.

  The German operator nodded toward the rest of the team and asked Kurt, who now wore the patch of a Rifle Third-Class, marking his full qualifications. “So, the big guy’s a Confederate. The quiet one’s a Samurai. What’s your… background?”

  Kurt didn’t take his eyes off his optic. “Not your concern.”

  Lieutenant Spier, US Army, looked over the assault plans with concern but also curiosity. He had largely been hands-off in leading of the INTERPOL mission, deferring to Vanguard leadership on expectations. That was as much deliberate as it was necessity. The INTERPOL mission was thought up by some spook thinktank that he couldn't even pronounce the name of. But him and several soldiers of varying nationalities were very conveniently sourced from NATO countries at the behest of the United States to, ostensibly, "provide oversight and input" on the Vanguard's transnational operations. But the other secret reason, one he suspected the Vanguard had already become aware of, was to spy on them. This proved as challenging and downright impossible as their advisor, Amelie Wagner, had warned. So, he shifted his attention.

  Instead, he focused on learning everything he could from how the Vanguard operated, and provided genuine tactical input that he believed would be helpful. To his credit and a little bit of an inflation of his ego, the Vanguard's special operations commander had taken on some of his suggestions. But what he saw from the Vanguard frightened him.

  This was supposed to be a stealth mission. If he had been planning it, he would have taken a mere two squads, maybe a whole platoon if pulling security was a big concern. He would have inserted via HALO parachute jump and crawled on their bellies for several miles across open desert to reach the enemy facility. MQ-9s and maybe an AC-130 for air support. They would then infiltrate with suppressed weapons and quickly be about their task before the enemy knew they were there.

  What the Terra Vanguard had done was aerially insert an entire combined arms motorized company's worth of men and equipment. They then intended to cut off enemy wireless connectivity, and roll up to the front door with guns blazing. Their timetable was exceedingly fast. Their Striker-Commander planned to move fast enough to cross the terrain, blow a hole in the facility, kill everything in their way and ransack the enemy's data before said enemy could erase said data. Which was wildly ambitious by US Army standards, but according to every officer on the mission, it was more than doable. Their reconnaissance Ensign even remarked that such a plan was even a little slow by his standards.

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  He carefully packed a double-pouch of ZYN in his lip and prepared for a hot night in the cold desert.

  Tetsu dutifully stood guard behind the long barrel of his machinegun. As he looked out over the desert, his sensors picked up an anomaly.

  "Report: Possible movement. Bearing 1-2-7. Distance 3-5-0."

  Kurt shifted his attention in that direction. He didn't see anything. He keyed his radio.

  "Saber Three, request you direct Big Eyes on sector 5. Possible movement. Over."

  "Copy." Came the terse reply. The optics on the LAV's 50mm turret rotated independently.

  After several seconds a report, "Negative contact, Alpha. Nothing on sensors."

  Kurt looked over at Tetsu. "Do we need to recalibrate you, big guy?" he said, tired.

  Tetsu didn't look away from the bearing he called out. "Negative. Movement spotted. High confidence. Request to open fire." His grip tightened on the machinegun.

  "Woah, negative! Hold!" More serious, Kurt took a harder look.

  He strained himself trying to see what the one frame saw but no one else could.

  A gust of wind crawled across the plains just as the moonlight was exposed by a cloud. Suddenly, the target filled his scope just as an incoming shot from a sniper pinged off of his helmet. Kurt was sent reeling back into the foxhole. All hell broke loose

  "Contact front! 200 yards! Unknown hostiles!" He shouted over the battlenet.

  Tetsu opened fire, sending long streams of tracers into the night. His fire was returned tenfold. The night erupted with the raucous sound of a gun battle.

  Perelli turned away from the command LAV and his conversation with Olsen when gunfire erupted, only to see someone standing over at the top of the revetment. Not a Rifle. The shape moved down the revetment like liquid shadow, illuminated by the night sky.

  The junior officer's voice caught in his throat—he raised his rifle, but too late. The figure vanished in a blur, a smear of blackness faster than thought, and reappeared behind one of the mortar carriers. A flash of talons shimmered beneath the moonlight.

  Perelli was fast enough to push Olsen out of the way just as claws swiped at his neck, only to burrow themselves in the armor. The two men tag-teamed their assailant between them with blunt strikes from their HR-15s. Finally, Perelli stabbed upwards with his knife and gutted the vampire from stem-to-stern.

  The line erupted into chaos. Urgent calls were sent over the net, but not without order.

  "We're under attack!", "They're in my formation!" and "Contact, contact!" was heard from every unit.

  The desert night turned blinding white as the Whirlwind Battalion’s perimeter erupted with automatic fire, rocket trails, and the thunder of twin mortars firing wildly into the darkness. Machineguns and autocannons belched steel and fire as they awakened, sweeping in arcs that chewed through brush and flesh alike. But more shadows emerged from the sand, as if the Earth itself were disgorging them.

  Vampires. Their eyes caught the muzzle flashes like mirrors, reflecting red and horrible.

  Perelli turned and saw the flash of fangs coming down on him—then a Kilo-classes hand punched through the vampire’s torso, his synth muscles humming with torque. He crushed the creature’s spine and hurled it out of the hole. Black blood sprayed the sand like paint.

  More were coming.

  “They’re inside the wire!” someone shouted. “They’re inside the wire!”

  Missile trails arced skyward. A grenade landed in the trench engulfing two of Olsen’s Rifles in fire. The air shimmered with kinetic heat and screams. The smell of scorched metal, vaporized flesh, and ozone stung everyone’s nostrils.

  At the far end of the formation, a fuel truck burst into flames. A vampire, coated in bone armor, had driven a spear through its chassis and ignited the tank with a spark from its own gauntlets. The fireball lit up the desert for miles.

  Federov’s voice was calm even amid the chaos. “Hold fast! Interlock sectors! Fire by bounding arcs!” His eyes narrowed as he gripped his sidearm. Two assailants charged him. With a quickdraw and two .50 caliber booms they dropped dead before him.

  Spier ducked as a round zipped past the side of his head, hitting the ground behind him. The snipers were growing eager as their own positions were quickly being found by LAVs who unleashed 50mm proximity-fused explosives on them.

  Kurt was frantically trying to stem the bleeding from a neck wound on the German operator. His helmet was cracked, and blood ran freely down one side of his face.

  “Alpha’s position is being overrun!” Kurt called into the battlenet, urgent but firm. “Alpha is being overrun, we need support!”

  From inside his hole, Milo lurched forward; going from 0-100 instantly as he went from sleep to being ready to kill. A figure appeared at the top of their hole.

  Milo was the first to intercept the creature as it dropped from above, landing in the trench like a wolf into a chicken coop. The vampire snarled—face grotesquely inhuman, jaw dislocated to reveal fangs far too long. It lunged.

  Milo backpedaled and blocked with the stock of his rifle. The vampire hissed and clawed, its strength monstrous. Milo grunted and rolled, pushing it into the wall of the foxhole as—

  Snikt!

  Tora emerged from the shadows behind Milo like a ghost. He said nothing, didn’t even grunt. His rifle was held low, bayonet extended like a spear. In one precise movement, he drove it into the vampire’s lower jaw and pulled the trigger. Its head was blown clean off and then the rest of the body crumpled.

  A thrall landed behind them.

  Tora spun, sidestepped its swipe, and drove the bayonet through its side and out the other. He twisted the blade violently, pulling it free with a wet crunch. Its screech was silenced by Milo, who dumped .30-06 rounds into its chest at point blank.

  Nearby, Kurt was kneeling over the German operator, blood pouring from a jagged bite in his shoulder. Kurt’s gloves were soaked, his voice sharp with focus as he pulled a trauma pack open.

  “Stay with me. Bleeding’s bad but not arterial. Tetsu, we need time!”

  The machinegun overhead thundered in reply.

  "Copy. Activating accelerated kill protocol." He said with odd enthusiasm.

  Tetsu’s heavy weapon roared across the rim of the foxhole, brass clattering around his mechanical feet. Tracers lit the night, slashing into charging figures; thralls and turned men whose eyes glowed faint yellow. They exploded in red mist as the machinegun carved a wide swath of death across the desert floor.

  “Report: Line holding. Hostiles thinning at range,” came the flat, mechanical voice. “Switching barrel.”

  Another vampire dropped in behind Tora; this one faster, leaner. It seized his weapon and drove him into the dirt. The bayonet scraped off its ribs. Its jaw unhinged to bite down—

  Milo drew his sidearm and pressed it under the creature’s armpit. he unleashed three rounds from the old revolver.

  It shrieked and collapsed. Tora, unflinching, rolled it off and stood back up in one motion, wiping blood from his cheek with the back of his glove. He finished it off with a stab to the heart.

  “Tetsu, what's our window?” Kurt barked, yanking gauze tight on the German’s shoulder.

  “Window open. Sending it.”

  The gun chattered again, echoing like thunder across the flatland. Smoke and blood painted the foxhole walls.

  Suddenly, the air shimmered with a sound like shattering glass. One of the LAVs detonated inward as if crushed by an invisible hand and collapsed like a soda can under pressure. Something else had entered the fight. A massive humanoid figure stalked through the smoke, crackling with psionic energy, trailing a cloak made of various dead animals.

  “Engaging!” Tetsu identified with robotic urgency. “Psychic-augmented adversary. Target priority one!”

  “Negative! Do not engage! Fall back to secondary position!” Federov shouted, even as he fired a burst at a vampire that landed mere feet from him, threatening the command post.

  Perelli dragged a wounded comrade by the collar, his gloves slick with blood. "Sir, they snuck right up on us Advise: Withdraw and regroup!”

  Then, suddenly—clarion horns.

  From the east, just as the Vanguard’s position was becoming untenable, headlights pierced the dark. Dozens of them. Pickup trucks and horseback riders. Flying homemade flags, welded steel armor plates, and mounted .50 cals. From them poured armed civilians in ballistic gear and cowboy hats. Despite their cobbled-together nature, they formed disciplined firing lines on Whirlwind's flank. Militia.

  The lead truck bore a cannon; an old 105mm howitzer retrofitted into a mobile fire platform. Behind it, came men and women shouting war cries, firing with unmatched aggression.

  “Let's go, Texas!”

  The militia hit the vampires in the flank like a tidal wave of heat and fury. A vampire screeched and leapt, only to be hit midair with a flechette round the size of a soda can. It disintegrated.

  One of the vampires turned to retreat only to be run over by an ATV, its driver cackling. “Take that you corpo motherfucker!” The driver was almost pulled off by the vampire but just as it reached up to slay him with its claws, it was domed by a round from an HR-15.

  Perelli returned to the line only to be jumped by another shadowy figure. Caught by surprise, his HR-15 was knocked from his hands. He drew his knife once again and swung the holy blade in wide arcs. The vampire dropped and swept his feet out from under him with a blindingly fast quick. The vampire went for the knife and the two rolled across the ground, vying for position.

  The knife found its way between them and Perelli's back was pressed up against the earthworks. The vampire was far stronger, it turned the knife against him and was inches from slicing his neck. It smiled wickedly, waiting for blood to be drawn.

  But before the blade could slice into Perelli's flesh, the vampire was struck in the side of the head by the butt of a rifle. A large man kicked it against the wall beside Perelli with his riding boot and stuck the muzzle of his rifle in its face. A .45-70 slammed home. The large cartridge was deafeningly loud. The vampire's face was bloodied, but it didn't die. Perelli's savior simply worked the lever and rapidly shot it four more times. By the last round his assailant's face had been caved in. The body slumped over.

  A brown leather riding glove, heavily worn, was extended to Perelli. "They don't die quick, do they?" It's owner said.

  Perelli took the hand and was hauled up. He came face to face with a strange cowboy. He looked straight out of a western except for his FAST helmet and plate carrier.

  In seconds, the balance shifted. The militia drove straight into the enemy. The fighting remained unorganized, but the Vanguard reestablished fire superiority again. Whirlwind was given breathing room and the close-quarters assault turned into a standard gun battle beneath the stars.

  Spier stared in disbelief as a rancher wielding a flamethrower advanced like it was World War I.

  “This can’t be real,” he muttered.

  Perelli addressed the stranger. "Who are you people?" he asked, incredulous.

  The cowboy extended his hand again. "Panhandle Militia. 1st Cavalry." he said proudly. His accent was southern and thick. "I'm Colonel Poole, US Marine Corps, retired. I'm the commanding officer of this outfit. We sure are glad to see you guys."

  Federov approached, slide locked to the rear on his pistol and blood all over him. Not his own. "Where in hell did you come from?"

  "Oh! We been watchin' ya. Saw you land earlier today." he gestured in the direction of the vampire comm hub. "We hoped you were goin' after them Nyx Dynamics boys. They moved in a few years ago, said they'd bring jobs." he spit on the sand. "Lotta bull that was. Soon as they showed up, people been disappearing. And there ain't nothin' we could do about it. They bought out the cops and the county. So we formed this here militia."

  "How'd you find us?" Perelli asked.

  Someone else spoke up, an old Texan with a thick white beard. Thin as a beanstalk. "I did. I track UFOs. Saw you land. Thought you were gub'ment. So I told the boys when I's seein' you. 'S it true y'all're aliens? I ain't lookin' ta get probed."

  Colonel Poole waved him away. "That's Willy. Don' mind him. He's... crazy. Point is, we figured you were goin' for that Nyx facility. And we want in."

  Perelli wanted to protest bringing in civilians, but when he looked at Federov, the big commander was rubbing his hands together giddily.

  "Of course." His thick Slavic accent contrasting badly with the Texans. "Can your men coordinate well enough to ride in an assault formation?"

  Poole shrugged, unsure what he was saying. "Only a few got DUIs."

  Federov's expectations were somewhat tempered by that statement, but he was no less excited. "Ehh, just stay behind my LAVs and don't shoot at anything with red and black camouflage."

  He pivoted on his heel and barked into the battlenet. “Whirlwind! Regroup! Counterattack forward! We. Go. Now!” he cried.