Sky-Carrier Cry Havoc

  The lower decks of the ship were alive with frantic activity. Though the primary mission of the carrier was to insert Whirlwind, she still carried a large number of ground units in her fat holds. They were expediently loaded into their Kestrels and dropped towards L.A. Several decks above them, the flight deck was a steady cadence of activity. Racks of bombs were shuttled up through ordnance elevators from the magazines and directly into the holds of waiting jets. From there, the Screechers waited patiently for refueling before being catapulted out of the hangar deck and into the sky to face the enemy once again. And above them, the guns and missile tubes, only having recently gone silent after exiting the primary bombardment phase, they still flung the occasional cruise missile or gunnery fire mission as the sky-carrier closed range to her target.

  Perelli had felt the high-pitched whine of one of them launching from deep in the bowels of the ship. As he walked down the cavernous landing hold, he looked to his right, where one of the VTOL launches on the side of the ship was open while a Foxhound came in to land. He could see the missile’s contrail as it dashed over the horizon to eviscerate something in a fiery explosion.

  To his left, he saw munitions trailers being backed onto a kestrel. There was shouting from every angle. It was like the ship itself was alive. He breathed the acetylene and exhaust-filled air. It burned. He could have put his helmet on to filter it but he did not. He found it motivating.

  He came up on Whirwind’s assembly area. Twelve Light Armor vehicles were arrayed in rows. Large parachutes had been tightly packed to their roofs. Crews were going about their final checks. Since most of Whirlwind had been left behind in Texas and couldn’t reform with the bulk of the unit on the Havoc, the vehicles were scrounged together last second, and their crews were entirely volunteer. The vehicles were stripped of all nonessentials, both crew and equipment. They were stripped of their spare parts kits, most of their ammunition and even their fire-fighting systems. The armored hulks were an improvised and expendable one-way drop pod. And not just the vehicles, but the entirety of Whirlwind that would be going. Survival was not guaranteed or expected.

  Despite this, the little ad-hoc airborne armored element had already developed a sense of identity. Neatly stenciled on the front left quarter panel of each vehicle in white lettering was a new battlecry: “Wheels First into Hell”.

  “Hey boss!” Milo greeted him as he approached their assembly area.

  Perelli wanted to greet his old friend warmly but immediately noticed the state of his kit and frowned. The R1C was slinging a light machinegun. Rows of yellow-tipped incendiary ammunition in belts adorned his pack. Two of the new rocket pistols sat in thigh holsters. A frightening number of grenades wreathed his vest.

  “How many times have I told you to stick to your regulation loadout?” he said, suddenly feeling exasperated. Despite Milo’s exhausting nature, it was a welcome feeling. He felt like an R1C again.

  “What?” Milo looked down like he had a stain on his armor. Either oblivious to the overabundance of firepower or choosing not to notice it.

  Tora came from behind the vehicle, drawn by the conversation.

  Perelli quickly prompted him. “Tora, please tell the Rifle First-Class what is wrong with his kit?”

  “Damn, using my Christian name.” Milo joked.

  The samurai looked at him confused, then turned to study Milo more closely. When he did, Perelli saw the sword swinging from his pack. It was a long katana in a lovingly maintained wood sheathe. Of all the deadly tools of destruction the Vanguard had produced, it never made any swords during its time in existence. Nothing bigger than a bayonet and certainly not any katanas. Tora must have been forging the blade in his freetime with materials he managed to procure through his own resourcefulness.

  “Damn it.” Perelli muttered rubbing the bridge of his nose in frustration. “Wait a minute, I have an NCO for this.” he thought.

  “Weber get out here!” he called out, figuring the German was near.

  Perelli’s blood pressure increased when he appeared.

  Both the CR and R3C Schaft who was with him had duct-taped anti-personnel mines to their chests. They wisely kept their mouths shut.

  “Ok, who else thinks my OP-plan was a suggestion?” Perelli said, aggravated.

  The assault troopers Wilhelm, Waters and Marcus appeared. Marcus had traded his light machinegun for an even bigger rotary cannon. A usually vehicle-mounted tri-barrel .50 cal hung heavily from a chest rig. Wilhelm had forgone his machinegun entirely to rely on his grenade launcher. But none of the rounds in his rig indicated explosives. They were a mix of chemical gas and 40mm flechette bee-hive rounds.

  From behind him, Perelli heard someone laughing. It was Lieutenant Olsen.

  “Go easy on them, Mike.” He said. “This is a one-way job after all. And we’re not getting a resupply. We’re going to need all the firepower and sharp things we can get our hands on.” before Perelli could argue, the LT had turned him around. “I’ve managed to find some volunteers, what with the loss of our frames and half the unit still being flown in from Texas. He could use the help.”

  In front of them was a gaggle of Rifles with airborne patches. Some looked tired and worn, some were in brand new equipment. They all looked pissed.

  “The remnants of the Stormriders.” Olsen explained. “Some of these guys were part of the half that rotated before the raid on the vampire’s tower. Some of them were the few survivors that they managed to pickup when it all went sideways.”

  Their leader spoke up, a Chief-Rifle with a leathery and distinctly South-American face. “Lead element, 1st Airborne. Stormriders.”

  Perelli remembered their unit as the one that saved him in the first Battle of Los Angeles, right before he’d had his soul nearly ripped from his still-living body. He owed these men more than his life.

  “Glad to have you.” Perelli said. “You were told that survival is not expected?”

  The officer shrugged, “When is it ever? We just want payback.”

  Perelli smirked slightly. “This is the place to get it.”

  “I hope you don’t mind us getting in on that action.” Another voice said. This time it was Lieutenant Spier and the remaining NATO troopers. Their armor wasn’t painted white anymore. It was the muddled digi-camo of the Vanguard. Black and grey for urban operations. They bore no U.N. markings. Instead, each of their flags were proudly displayed on the sides of their helmets.

  Perelli pursed his lips, uncertain he wanted the troopers to come. At this point, he’d trust them with his life the same as any Terra Vanguard Rifle. He was already impressed when they didn’t voluntarily end their mission after the brutal tunnel fighting in D.C. The problem was they were fundamentally different. No one in the Vanguard had a future. They were supposed to die, as they had before. These men were of this generation. They still had futures, lives to live, families. He grimly noticed BMC Noble was no longer among them.

  Perelli began to protest but was overridden by the arrival of their fearless leader. The hulking form of Federov joined them.

  “Glad to be having you, soldiers.” the Striker-Commander said. “You tied the Polack to his rack?”

  “Yes, sir. Sergeant Krakowski won’t be joining us. Despite his insistence” Spier reported.

  “Good. I’m not a fan of leaving orphans in my wake.” Federov grimaced. He turned to the rest of them. “Last chance to back out, the rest of you.”

  “We don’t leave operations half-finished.” Spier smirked. His troopers all nodded behind him.

  The overhead lights flashed red. An alarm sounded throughout the bay. It was followed by an announcement.

  “Ship is on final approach to dropzone! Ground forces man your vehicles! All ship’s force personnel to action stations!”

  The big slav turned to Perelli. “Some parting words before we step off, mister Perelli?”

  The marksman didn’t like being placed on the spot unprepared, but he knew by now to always expect the unexpected from Federov in every respect.

  He kept his tone even and sharp. He looked them all in the eye as he spoke.

  “It ends here. Survival is negotiable, victory is not. They have sown the wind. Now, they reap the Whirlwind. Tooth and nail!”

  “Tooth and nail!” They all repeated the Freikorps battlecry, despite their many different and varied backgrounds before joining Whirlwind.

  The Rifles broke and quickly loaded the last of their equipment while diligently performing final checks on their own rigs

  The Bridge

  The Cry Havoc crested the mountains north of Los Angeles with escort fighters on her flanks. A hell of fire and smoke greeted her. The storm-wracked sky was a maze of missile contrails as projectiles flew in every direction. Each one was punctuated by an explosion. The rain had stopped, but a thick smog now clung to the lower city. In it, the flashes of muzzle fire could be seen lighting up the streets and buildings like fireworks.

  The armored corps pressed its invasion from the southwest, having moved far beyond the beach. They now dueled with the best the vampires could muster. This included their vast stores of Nyx Dynamics weaponry and the best-trained thralls. The occasional vampire also made its presence known. They charged into the Vanguard line to slaughter any soldier that let their guard down for less than a second. The quick solution to these often super-powered immortals was to treat them like tanks. Never engage them with less than a platoon’s worth of troopers. If they got too close, retreat and isolate them, then draw them into heavy-weapons envelope. If one just happened to sink its fangs into your neck, then take one for the team and detonate whatever explosives you happened to have on you.

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  It was urban warfare at its most intense. Vehicles and soldiers from both sides were fed into the breach as fast as they could be replaced. In the wake of their violent clashes, only ruin was left.

  Sky-Captain Van Kilmer observed the battlefield as her carrier approached. She watched as a Screecher, one from Havoc’s own flight groups, notched an incoming surface-to-air missile. The pilot maneuvered expertly, rolling his aircraft and diving towards the deck. His airframe slipped between buildings, only a hundred feet off the deck. Despite the extremis maneuver, he still loosed his own volley of seeker missiles on a series of targets down in the war-torn streets. But just as he pulled up to get clear, a burst of AAA from a concealed position intersected his path. The jet was peppered from nose to rudders. The stricken jet nosed over and hit the side of a building in a brilliant yellow fireball.

  Her jaw tightened.

  As soon as they were over the edge of the urban sprawl and into the clouds, a storm of fire greeted them. Flak came in thick and heavy alongside volleys of surface-to-air missiles. The armored belly took the brunt of their impacts. Her own close-in guns lashed out in long bursts of fire that intercepted the missiles and larger shells. Her electronic countermeasures blinded incoming radar-guided missiles and even managed to commandeer some, turning the telephone-pole sized SAMs back on the crew that launched them.

  The entire ship rocked and shuddered from the shells that got through. The Sky-Captain had to grip a railing to keep from falling over. Her determined crew gripped their work stations. She overheard some words exchanged by the helm and throttleman.

  “Feel like I’m flying over Berlin again.” One muttered.

  “Hmph, feels like I’m over London.”

  Alarm bells began to sound as the carrier absorbed the punishment.

  “Emergency report! Fire! Class Charlie and Bravo fires reported in the lower decks. Forward machinery space and storeroom number five! Hoses eight, ten and twenty-seven routed. Firemain is pressurized and holding. No impact to combat operations.”

  Kilmer cringed. Those spaces were for ancillary equipment, nothing important was located there. But the forward machinery space was close to the ammunition elevator for the number 1 turret. If the fire was allowed to spread or get too hot, it could hamper the flow of ammunition to the gun. It might even cause secondary detonations if they weren’t careful. She just had to trust her crew. Which she did. She had drilled them extensively for just such a battle.

  Her blood pumped vigorously through her veins. This was the kind of battle she had been preparing for. The kind Cry Havoc was built for. It was about time.

  The contact manager reported, “Ma’am that dragon has taken off. Reciprocal bearing. It’s coming at us head-on.”

  “All callsigns. Execute Lightning Rod Protocol. Distract, distract, distract. Keep it off the Havoc. Over.”

  Kilmer watched them scatter, formation breaking cleanly as they accelerated through the transonic into full Mach. Missile plumes flared orange, streaking toward the dragon and bursting into expanding clouds of fragmentation. Two closed to gun range, cannons hammering.

  It made no difference.

  The creature ignored the impacts entirely, shedding debris and flame as if swatting insects. Its attention never wavered. It was coming straight for the Havoc.

  “All engines, ahead flank,” Kilmer ordered. “Make ramming speed.”

  The throttleman responded instantly.

  “Conn, engineering. Answering all-ahead flank on all engines. Reactor at operational limit.”

  “Hold it there,” Kilmer said. “Helm, steady course. Keep the contact dead ahead.”

  “Aye, ma’am,” the helm replied, eyes locked forward.

  As it grew closer, its details became clearer. It had a long body with a chest that narrowed towards it hind quarters. It’s head was bulbous and its jaws were like that of a Gulper eel. Rows of blackened teeth were arrayed inside. A single monocular eye, glowing with a blue-green ethereal light, sat atop its head. Its wingspan was twice as wide as the carrier’s width and tipped with bat-like claws.

  Kilmer glanced sideways at the only scared-looking Rifle on the bridge; the yeoman recording the deck logs. He looked back at her with uncertainty. She smiled at him.

  “Log bird strike.”

  The dragon smashed against the bow of the carrier like a bird against an oncoming semitruck. Its chest was pulverized by the impact and its wings wrapped around the front of the carrier, unable to break free.

  “Captain, that thing’s still alive!” The OOD pointed out.

  A clawed wingtip reached over the bow and hooked into the top deck. A massive head reared up. It’s cyclops eye peered over the main guns into the bridge. The bridge crew all froze, theirs hands hovering over their stations. The demon opened its massive maw to reveal its wicked teeth. Flames gathered in the back of its throat.

  Kilmer didn’t flinch. She stared straight back, calm and ramrod straight against the storm.

  “Fire main battery."

  The number 1 and 2 turrets fired with all barrels. Eighteen-inch projectiles exploded against the dragon’s face. Flesh and bone sloughed off the side of its head as it recoiled from the impact, its neck snapping to an impossible angle.

  It was all for naught. Slowly, its face began to reform and return to normal. Flesh grew over the open wound and filled in the section blown off by Havoc’s guns. With an angry look it focused back in in the bridge crew. It began to claw its way topside, its hooked appendages cutting gashes in the hull.

  Perelli felt something hit the carrier. Shrapnel was being funneled up through the open dock that the LAVs were about to drop out of. The first row of vehicles was already backed up to the very edge. He could hear bits of metal ping off of the armor.

  The driver looked over his shoulder at his compliment of passengers. Perelli recognized nervousness.

  “Everything good, driver?” he asked.

  “Aye.” he nodded. “Just ponderin' fate, sir. I like being in the armored corps.”

  Perelli nodded.

  “But I flew ninety-eight missions in the war.” He didn’t specify which. “I hated every minute of it.”

  The LAV was backed up right to the lip of the opening. Its rear tires hung just at precipice.

  “Rapid fire, all guns.” Sky-Captain Kilmer ordered.

  The forward 18-inch guns thundered as they worked to remove the dragon clinging to the bow. Only every third round impacted, with most flying harmlessly over the dragon’s head, the guns unable to depress low enough.

  The demon wisely kept its head low. Kilmer watched with disgust as the bulbous head began to swell with something in its mouth. She expected a torrent of fire. Instead, it threw up bile. A viscous black liquid coated the carriers bow and ran down its length. The Sky-Captain’s first thought was about how her beautifully painted carrier was now marred and tarnished. It infuriated her.

  From the black liquid arose skeletal warriors carrying their obsidian blades. They rose from the muck like corpses from the grave. Their powerful movements resisted the windshear as they crawled along the carriers skin. They began to pour into the open wounds left by their bearers claws. Like ants, they swarmed in.

  Kilmer shouted at the OOD. “Time to get Whirlwind off. Drop now!”

  The officer quickly gave the order. “Greenlight! Drop, drop, drop!”

  Meanwhile, Kilmer slammed a hand down on the comms panel and sent over the ship’s announcing circuit, “Repel boarders! Repel boarders! All hands to arms!”

  Agamemnon’s Command Post

  “Yes, just like that. Excellent speed. Send 1st Platoon’s overseer my compliments. Their armor will be reeling from that one.” Agamemnon spoke giddily while peering through his binoculars. The Second Battle of Los Angeles played out before him.

  Beside him various lieutenants relayed his very specific commands to the defense forces. He was a conductor of the symphony of death as he directed his forces against the Vanguard.

  He stepped from the edge of his elevated perch that overlooked the burning coastline to admire the chorus of destruction before him.

  “Lovely show, M’Lord.” Cohen told him.

  Agamemnon bowed. “All in the wrist.” he joked.

  A staffer called out. “Incoming from the North! Enemy Sky-carrier on heading for Nyx Tower!”

  Agamemnon spun on his heel to peer at the tower behind him. In the distance he saw the monolithic flying carrier enter his AA envelope. To his satisfaction, the big target was saturated and raked with anti-aircraft fire. The Lord Strigoi closed to intercept.

  Then he began to grow nervous. The carrier was coming in awfully fast.

  The big demon dragon smash into carrier’s bow, having had no effect on slowing it.

  “They’re going to fly into the tower!” Cohen shouted.

  All eyes in the command center were on the ship as it closed at breakneck speed. Trailing smoke, it passed just scant feet over the top of the buildings communication mast. The entire structure seemed to bend in the bow wave created by the immense carrier flying overhead.

  When it passed by, everyone breathed a sigh of relief. Except Agamemnon. He spotted objects trailing in its wake.

  “What have they planned?” He muttered.

  His eyes widened with realization. A trail of twelve armored vehicles were falling in parachutes on a controlled path directly towards the building. Some AA batteries were firing, but they were few in number, having spent their magazines engaging the carrier. The crews were caught reloading.

  Cohen urged his lord, “Sir, we must send reinforcements, they’re going for the Queen!” His hand was already bringing a radio transmitter to his lips.

  Agamemnon’s hand shot out to stop him. The Lieutenant froze.

  “No!" Agamemnon hissed. "That… won’t be necessary.” he added more lowly.

  The rest of the command staff had stopped to leer at the exchange. He shot them a deadly look and they quickly returned to minding their own stations.

  Cogs turned within his mind. Either two things would happen: The Terra Vanguard fails to stop Persephones ritual, and none of this matters; OR the Vanguard kills her. While that would be a setback, it would all to his benefit. With the clairvoyant Queen out of the way, the Black Sun would have no choice but to elevate him back to his original status. Additionally, the troublesome AI was still within the tower. If the Vanguard destroyed it, that was one more political opponent out of his way.

  He bid Cohen to put the radio down. Confused, the disciple did.

  “The tin soldiers will be enough to protect our Queen. And the elite guard troopers with them. This is a futile gesture. Pay it no mind.” he told him.

  Cohen was puzzled. “But my Lord, those are sure to be stormtroopers of the highest caliber. We need to send our Queen help.”

  Agamemnon glared at him with fiery eyes. “You doubt my strategic orders?” he challenged the man.

  Cohen knew very well what happened to anyone who doubted the supreme tactical mind of the ancient vampire.

  “O-of course not." Cohen bowed. "As you command.”

  The LAV swayed with the wind as the driver struggled to manipulate the parachute’s stabilizers and keep them on track. The hastily assembled airfoil was simply a combination of several personal parachutes thrown together with a makeshift control assembly fabricated by the carrier’s technicians. It was clumsy and slow to maneuver. But all the driver/pilot had to do was drift in a straight line.

  Tracer fire erupted from the high porches and balconies of the tower. Rounds pinged off of the armored hulls.

  “Something I find funny.” Federov said aloud in the troop compartment of his LAV. “I created this unit with stealth at its center. Now here we are, balls out, dropping tanks into the side of a skyscraper.”

  He laughed deeply. Everyone else joined in, but with nervous apprehension.

  In Perelli’s LAV, he white-knuckle gripped the overhead. It didn’t help that he had patched into the vehicle’s sensors. In his HUD, he saw the thousands of feet beneath them and the guns that were tracking them. An LAV off their bow took a heavy shell directly to the belly. It continued on course, but trailing smoke and fire. He couldn’t tell if anyone had survived the hit.

  Then an explosion rocked their makeshift drop-pod/airborne coffin.

  He heard the driver curse. The LAV began to drift off course quickly, at a rate that they would miss the tower entirely.

  “Something wrong?” Perelli asked.

  The driver was already out of his seat and climbing into the turret.

  “They shot away our control strings! Trying something else.”

  He grabbed the controls and rotated the turret so it was pointing 90 degrees to port. He pulled the trigger and the gun thumped out 30mm shells into empty air.

  Perelli was wondering if the man had lost it until he realized they had altered course back to the tower.

  The driver continued rotating the turret around and firing the cannon so that the recoil would steady them on course. The vehicle swung wildly, but now it was sure to hit its mark. A feeling of weightlessness gripped all those onboard. One of the riders popped open his ballistic mask and hurled his breakfast onto the deck.

  The Lieutenant was going to call their driver brilliant, but he realized they were approaching with no way to slow down. They were going to hit the side of the building at almost 80 miles per hour. The glass and steel structure loomed large, accelerating towards them as surely as if they were in free fall towards the pavement.

  “Everybody brace!”