Free The Battle for Terra Two by Stephen Ames Berry Page A

"it is we few, we valiant few, who hold back the long night.
    "Sardon, coordinate with Erich. Erich, call in those air strikes."
    "No need to worry about a sweep now," said John, watching Boston burn.
    "Napalm. Those bastards used napalm."
    Heather hadn't believed it at first, none of them had, watching from the fort as the bombers roared in, dumped their loads, then veered inland—not until the hungry flames began licking skyward. Only well after midnight had the last wave winged homeward. By then the beaches were packed, aristocracy and outcasts all fleeing the wind-whipped walls of flame.
    Heather had sent their too-few choppers to ferry out as many as possible, but after a dozen trips the heat and wild downdrafts had forced them back. The thousands left on the beaches now streamed across the sand of low tide, seeking the water's safety.
    "Firestorm!" John pointed to where three great fires had now joined. Trebled, the flames lanced thousands of feet into the air, greedily sucking in oxygen. A small gale raced over the island, bringing fresh sea air to feed the flames. Even this far from the city they could feel the heat as the firestorm danced howling to the water's edge, snuffing out life, choking the outgoing tide with twisted open-mouthed bodies.
    Jorge came running up with a note from the commwatch. Putting down her binoculars, Heather read it, passing it to John.
    "Who's Bull?"
    "Lords of Darkness," she said as they turned from Boston's pyre and walked down the stairs to the parade ground. "They're the black gang in the city. Tough. Basic command structure, good leadership, decent weapons. They're Cuban-backed, supplied by Quevara's DGI. It looks like Aldridge mauled them, falling back on Copley."
    "Roxbury's a charnel house now," said John. "Where are they?"
    "Well away from the fire. Blue Hills, maybe. They've got choppers."
    "The man wants to talk. Let's talk."
    Aldridge looked up at the board, then back to the G2 reports. "Something's wrong, Erich," he said, ignoring the ongoing bustle of evacuation: boxes of hastily gathered documents, computer disks, code books, small arms, all being hustled outside.
    It was a classical Aldridge understatement. The napalm had burned off the ganger attacks, at the cost of two firestorms now converging on the enclaves.
    The Army choppers had arrived as the bombers left, following a closing corridor between the flames. Evacuation was under way, with troops ordering residents to staging areas soon littered with forced castoffs: video recorders, leather luggage, miniature stereo-TVs, microcomputers.
    General Wyvern, the Army commander, was half listening to Aldridge. He had a problem: there wasn't enough transport to move all the evacuees in time. His men would mutiny before giving up their spaces. Panic and friendly machine-gun fire would sweep the staging areas long before the flames. By dawn, many of the best and brightest would be ash.
    "How can something be wrong, Colonel?" said Wyvern. "You gas and burn one of our principal cities, killing thousands. You lose most of your command. Why don't you just shoot yourself and save Frederick the trouble?"
    "See, Erich," Aldridge continued, ignoring the general,
    "no Vipers." He tapped the action reports. "Not a sign of the largest, best-trained, best-led gang. Nor, within the past four hours, of the Lords. Where are they?" He stared at the situation board, mind far from the noise and confusion of the CP.
    "Site Y, Erich!" He snapped a finger. "It's Harrison and that renegade MacKenzie. They're after Maximus. Get us a chopper!" he ordered, heading for the door.
    "Hold it, Aldridge!" General Wyvern's hand dropped to his .45. "What the hell are you doing? Deserting in the face of the enemy?" He made no effort to lower his voice.
    Aldridge turned. "I remind you, General, that I hold extralegal authority. I'm not subject to your orders. As for the enemy, I am rushing to meet him, while you, sir, remain to contend with mere chaos.
    "Good