LAX

  The day had started with the usual routine. More harassing the retreating occupiers, more building fortifications and more shuffling their positions. The elevated ones, the vampires, had assured them that their release from mortality was near. This meant different things for the various different dogma’s that dominated the new religion of death. Some were fatalist, believing their glorious death to be imminent. They reveled in the favor this would courie with the dark gods in the afterlife. Others believed in more material goals, such as elevation to immortality alongside their vampiric masters.

  Gomorrah Nacht Arahmanue, reborn from his previous life as an insurance salesman and having shed his previous given name of “Tim”, looked out over the sandy beach. His line of trenches was manned by the vampires most specially chosen of acolytes. This he had been assured of. Theirs was the most holy and, as he had been personally assured, important task of meeting the enemy head on. To draw first blood.

  He did not know anyone that had been placed in his unit. They came from many different walks of life. But none of that mattered, for they had all been reborn in the darkness. Some of them seemed nervous and resented the task they been chosen for. He took every opportunity to assure them of their pure purpose. To his chagrin, there were some who continued to doubt. One had pointed out that they were all going to die. They were a single-use battalion, and their lives would be wasted on this beach. With the permission of their thrall overseer, Gomorrah had been given the honor of executing that one himself for his blasphemy.

  Some would die, sure. That was what war was wasn’t it? It was what he saw on TV. Of course it would be a burden. A burden he would bare happily for his dark queen. He could imagine himself slaying the slaves of light with one hand while praising the Black Sun with another, his comrades-at-arms beside him as he lead the charge. He could see it as clear as if it were already happening.

  The day started off momentous with him leading the morning blood sacrifice. A beautiful ritual where they sacrificed the cowards who tried to flee. The gods demanded that blood flow. And he would see to the task everyday with relish, for he hated those who tried to flee from fate and inevitability. Oh, it would be a blessed day!

  Then the radios went silent.

  He didn’t pay it any mind at first. Some of the thralls seem distressed by the development, but when he asked, they simply turned him away and told him to mind his place on the line. He did not doubt, for he was just a mortal, and they were annointed.

  Then the sky erupted. And Gomorrah witnessed the coming of the light.

  Hornet

  Commander Meuller swayed from side to side with the roll of the waves, the armored hull of his tank, Schnell II, wrapped around him like knight’s armor. Outside, the Fourth Armored “Serpent Crusher’s” sat in anticipation. Their engines were already running, filling the space with the deafening noise and exhaust stink of diesel turbines. His own tanks were the spearhead, with him in the first row of four to hit the beach. Behind them were the infantry in their Armored Fighting Vehicles, and behind them the logistics platoon and ammo carriers.

  For Mueller this was also a significant day. His division had withdrawn from the city only months prior with, in his opinion, their tail between their legs. The Vanguard was supposed to be the ones sacrificing themselves for humanities future, to beat back the darkness. The last he had seen of L.A was the burning tank of an innocent man with a future still yet to be lived. Since then, the image of the flaming wreck had been a source of resolve. But right now his mind wasn’t on the poor decisions that had lead to the city falling to the enemy. That was in the past and he could not change it. His mind’s eye was solely focused on the challenge that lay before him.

  At the recommendation of his XO and the unanimous agreement of the rank-and-file, their Shoguns had been up-armored. A weapon system was placed in every place they could fit one and extra armor plating on the side and tops of their vehicles. Unfortunately, weight limits were a limiting factor. They reasoned that ambushed from elevated positions and sidestreets would be their biggest concern. You didn’t need extra frontal or rear armor unless you were too stupid to shoot first at an enemy that was right in front of you or dumb enough to let them get behind you. If you were that stupid, you didn’t belong with the Serpent Crushers.

  Meuller took one more look out into the expansive chasm of the ship’s vehicle bay and closed the hatch. Once safely secured inside his commander’s seat, with his gunner next to him and driver out front, he addressed the unit.

  “This is Crusher Actual. You know my standard, you know the plan. Clear the beach as fast as possible and we make the enemy pay.” He let the words hang for a brief pause. “There is only forward. Crusher Actual out.”

  An explosion rocked the Hornet. At first, he thought it was a close call, but sirens sounded and he saw crewman running to and fro in the catwalks overhead. It had been a direct hit on the superstructure.

  The tank commander briefly flicked his radio to the command frequency and cautiously checked comms with the Ground-Commander. He received a garbled reply, but it was unmistakably the voice of Reinstead himself. His tone was pained and breathing heavy.

  “Ten seconds. Don’t wait. Go as soon as the ramp drops.” He ordered.

  Meuller didn’t have time to acknowledge. As soon as the transmission ended, the ramp dropped. It opened up to a scene from hell. Smoke filled the air. Fires raged on the scarred sandy beach and green field that lay before them. The acrid stench of jet exhaust and napalm filled the air. Explosive shockwaves rolled over the land. Cannon fire and explosions erupted against the armored forward hull of the landing craft.

  “Forward!” he shouted.

  The Shoguns rolled forward down the ramp and onto the beach. They wasted no time in getting clear of the ship, which was attracting heavy fire. In addition, the more ground they cleared, the more forces could be poured from the expansive opening and multiply return fire against their entrenched enemy.

  Meuller realized just how far the Hornet had made it up the beach. There were four consecutive trench lines in the vampiric forces outermost defenses. The Hornet flat-bottomed hull had breached straight through three of them when it came ashore at high speed. The shipboard close-in weapons systems added their song of rapid-fire to the mix, some firing almost directly down at the defenders.

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  The fourth line lay directly in the path of the Crusher’s tanks. Infantry poked their heads up from their dug-in positions to take shots with high-caliber rifles and anti-tank rockets.

  “Driver forward, full-speed, straddle that trench!”

  The driver responded in the affirmative and the big death machine lurched forward.

  Mueller took control of the unmanned turrets on top of Shogun; one heavy machinegun and one 30mm short-barreled cannon. He engaged their automated targeting sequences and they swept the trench like a broom, keeping the enemy suppressed.

  Just as the Shogun crested the elevated earthmound to cross the trench, a cultist exposed himself, an RPG on his shoulder. The machineguns couldn’t depress low enough to engage him.

  “Driver, infantry, front. Tracks!”

  The driver goosed the engine and the tank slammed down on the cultist, crushing him under several dozen tons of machine. There were more on either side vehicle, hiding in the trench. The driver didn’t need orders. He pivoted the vehicle back and forth using neutral steering. The tracks churned mud and sand as efficiently as a bulldozer. Anyone not crushed was buried alive.

  The sea of armor broke out onto the LAX grounds like a herd of wild beasts. Nothing in the initial line could stop them. Looking out over the airport, Mueller saw the devastation of the initial bombardment. The runways were cratered by shellfire from a Sky-Carrier. The burning wrecks of abandoned jet aircraft littered the tarmac.

  He was about to order his tanks into a line-abreast formation to cover a leapfrogging advance towards the far end of the airport when the tank beside him exploded in spectacular fashion. He had never seen anything like it. From somewhere unseen, a white jet of plasma lashed out and struck the vehicle dead on the bow, where it’s hull armor was thickest. The tank erupted into a ball of fire and molten metal.

  “Who’s got eyes? Where’d that come from?” One of tankers shouted over the radio.

  Barrels swept the horizon, looking for the field gun.

  Another plasma bolt speared across the field, slamming into an advancing AFV just as its rear ramp dropped to disgorge infantry. The unfortunate vehicle’s forward hull vanished in a flash of white heat. Infantry spilled from the troop bay already burning. The disciplined ones hit the deck, rolling in the sand as their squadmates smothered the flames. others panicked and burned where they stood.

  A hard return, right at the edge of detection range. Fixed. Low profile. It was a well-selected position.

  “Contact,” came the call over battlenet. “Artillery piece. East side of the field. Sidestreet, tucked behind a vehicle barricade.”

  Mueller didn’t raise his voice.

  “Crusher elements, this is Crusher Actual. Execute lethal smoke, lethal smoke, front. Grid as marked. Over.”

  Acknowledgements snapped back in sequence.

  “Crusher One, roger.”

  “Crusher Two, roger.”

  “Crusher Three, copy lethal.”

  The distinction mattered. Mueller wasn't only aiming for obscuration. He wanted to burn the position out. This was white phosphorus.

  Twelve turrets slewed in unison. Breeches cycled. The tanks fired.

  One after another, 152mm shells slammed into the street, bursting low and wide. Burning chemicals rolled outward in a crawling cloud, clinging to wreckage, pavement, and anything unfortunate enough to be alive beneath it. Mueller prepared to call in an airstrike, but his Tactical Air Controller was ahead of him, anticipating the order.

  “Cry Havoc, Cry Havoc, this is Crusher Two-Two, fire mission, over.”

  “Crusher Two-Two, Cry Havoc, go ahead.”

  “Request immediate suppression. Grid Lima–Alpha three-six-three-two. Entrenched plasma gun in urban defilade. Authenticate Whiskey-Charlie-One. Over.”

  A brief pause. Then,

  “Crusher Two-Two, Cry Havoc copies all. Authentication good. Nine rounds, HE, battery fire for effect. Shot out in ten seconds. Standby. Over.”

  “Crusher Two-Two copies. Standing by.”

  The first round hit dead center. The rest walked the grid with brutal precision.

  When the smoke cleared, the gun emplacement was gone. The buildings flanking it were gone. The sidestreet itself looked erased—flattened into indistinguishable rubble, as if nothing had ever occupied the space.

  Silence lingered for a beat on the net. Then someone couldn’t help themselves.

  “Target neutralized,” a tanker said, followed by a sharp, satisfied whoop quickly drowned out by laughter and clipped acknowledgements as discipline reasserted itself.

  Mueller let it pass.

  “Crusher Actual. Maintain momentum. Push forward.”

  Agamemnon’s Command Post, Downtown L.A., In the lee of Nyx Tower.

  The ancient vampire observed the cities defense with a calculating gaze. The enemy had landed in the Pasadena neighborhoods and at LAX. The outer defensive perimeter had not been picked apart expertly, it had been completely melted like wax thrown into an inferno. Some of the battalions were completely annihilated while on the highway during the Vanguard’s opening airstrike, their burning vehicles now littered the roads and choked logistics. The anti-aircraft defenses in every sector except for downtown itself had been reduced to only token gestures of defiance. His communications were now only through runners, signal lights and the occasional flare.

  This was exactly as planned.

  The outer defenses were manned by the most dedicated and ardent of vampiric supporters. The troops in these formations were die-hard fanatics who would never give an inch. They would die where they stood while putting up the defiance to the enemy as possible. Good. These formations were not reliable. As fanatics, they posed a political threat. If they ever realized what they were fighting for, or if the ruling masters ever did something not inline with their narrow interpretations of the cult of vampirism, they would rebel. A such, they would eventually need to be liquidated. Better now while a common enemy had their attention and in a position where he didn’t have to lift a finger.

  Their deaths provided him with valuable intelligence on the enemy deployment and what equipment they had brought with them, while also forcing the Vanguard to expend valuable munitions that they might have otherwise saved for harder targets. And while they fought and willingly threw themselves infront of the guns of his enemies, his primary T1 forces would be able to redeploy to better defensive positions.

  A new defensive line to the north had been created along the I-5 and I-10 freeways. There, the hulks of abandoned vehicles and storage containers were stacked into an insurmountable wall and the land beyond seeded with mines. With his best soldiers and equipment manning it, they would exact a high toll on the attacking force.

  To the south, he engaged in a more dynamic battle. The long straight roads here were ideal for an attacking enemy to thrust into the heart of downtown. So here is where he took personal interest in coordinating the maneuver forces he had arranged. Like a conductor, or some might describe a knife fighter, he rapidly countered the moves of the Terra Vanguard commander as he assaulted down the streets. As a result, the fight here was much more intense.

  Eventually, the Vanguard would be forced to withdraw with heavy casualties, or be delayed until Queen Persephone could finish her ritual. Both sides only needed to succeed once.

  His pupil approached him. Apprehensively, he asked, “My lord, absolve me of my ignorance, but won’t the enemy simply get frustrated with this line of approach and bomb the tower? We have seen what their Sky-Carriers can do.”

  “Never fear, Mr. Cohen. The air defenses in downtown are too strong. Lord Strigoi,” His eyes flicked up to the demon dragon that clung to the side of the tower. “and the laser interception system given to us by our generous benefactors in the American government will prevent any such strike. Which I calculate they will not attempt anyways. They need to ensure Persephone dies. That is the point of all of this.” He gestured broadly at the raging battlefront. “And they will have to come in person. Because not their jets nor their long-range munitions can penetrate this deeply into the storm. And they wouldn’t dare risk one of their precious sky-carriers.”