Citadel City

  Data streamed in like a firehose. Terabytes poured across the control room’s monitors in a storm of scrolling text, diagrams, and thermal satellite captures. Even Aurelian, who had expected a significant dump from the Panhandle raid, was caught off guard by the sheer volume.

  Analytical teams scrambled to process intel as filters were overwhelmed. Triage protocols initiated automatically: data was sorted by relevancy, timestamp, and operational priority.

  But Aurelian only wanted one thing: Where was Persephone?

  Luckily, the vampires were arrogant. No encryption, no obfuscation. The files weren’t even compressed. It was as if they believed their networks invincible. Which was fundamentally true. If Whirlwind hadn't captured Vespera they'd never have been able to get this data at all. He cut through the noise like a scalpel, letting tertiary data be handled by others. He followed logistical chatter that read less like requisitions and more like the entitled demands of aristocrats.

  And there it was.

  Her name.

  He snapped his fingers at a technician, urgently getting heir attention. “Input these coordinates: Four degrees, three minutes north, one hundred eighteen degrees, fifteen minutes, thirty-three seconds west.”

  The map zoomed.

  Los Angeles.

  The Wilshire Grand. The tallest tower in the city. A site they had swept months ago. Aurelian’s brow furrowed. ISR had cleared it. The insurgency there was supposed to be human. Aurelian couldn't believe his eyes. It was the one place on the entire planet they didn't expect to find her. The city had been scoured. There was an intense insurgency there now, but by his examination it was home grown. Not vampiric. There were no pre-arranged targets in the entirety of SoCal. None at all. The nearest were in Tijuana, Mexico.

  Kincade was watching him closely. He tapped the display. “No kill units in the vicinity. I’ve got one understrength airborne battalion, leftover from the L.A. incident, the Storm Riders.”

  Aurelian sucked in air between his teeth. He’d have preferred a Freikorps unit. But there wasn’t time. the nearest was in Mexico. It would take hours to redeploy them. Persephone was a keystone. She could not be allowed to slip away.

  “Send them. All of them. Warn Whitty: no prisoners. Shoot to kill. This one does not come back alive. Warn him. He will take casualties. But do whatever it costs to see her dead.”

  Kincade nodded and adjusted his battle order.

  Los Angeles

  Whitaker walked out to a waiting gunship; his command bird. He studied the target profile in his flash priority orders. He never thought he'd get an order like this. Today was going to be a bloody day.

  A digital dossier floated in his HUD—Target: Persephone. Priority Alpha. Risk Level: Catastrophic.

  He grinned.

  It was a suicide mission. And yet, the order had come. No hesitation. No backup. Just him and his Storm Riders. He welcomed the opportunity, honored even.

  Along the runway, LAX’s main terminal had gone quiet under an emergency ground stop. Foxhounds spooled up all along the section of LAX tarmac that had become the Storm Riders temporary home. Rifles ran to their respective craft and quickly boarded. Some throwing themselves aboard as the pilots began to lift off. It was an all points scramble. Safety pins were ripped from munitions that hung heavily from their hardpoints. In a wild frenzy, the airborne were off.

  “Let's go, Storm Riders!” Whitaker barked over comms.

  The Italian Alps

  "I miss L.A. It was warm there." Gunman complained, lying in a bank of snow, his adaptive armor concealing him so perfectly in the white that he was invisible. Only the black barrel of his 20mm sniper rifle, though some would call it an anti-tank gun, stuck out from his concealed position.

  Next to him his spotter, Vogel, quipped, "You big baby. You miss your tan?" His tone mocking.

  "Ya, man. What good are these guns if I can't wear'em?" he retorted, flexing his huge muscles. "Anyway, I'm green."

  "Ja, ja. Hold your fire. Team 2 doesn't have eyes on the secondary yet." Vogel looked through his own scope. They were watching a large stone castle. The getaway of some bigshot celebrity, a recruiter for the Blood Lions Clan. The castle appeared to be of 12th century construction but had many alterations to fit modern comforts. Things such as solar panels, TV antennas, large glass windows and central heating.

  The sniper team was focused on one such window that lead to a living room. They could clearly see their target sprawled out on a couch while a female approached him with a bottle of wine and two glasses, a seductive sashay to her step.

  "Target?" Gunman asked.

  "Nein. She's just a mistress. Not in on it. The accountant is. His car just pulled up. Get ready." Vogel informed him.

  Gunman turned the crank to cock the weapon, the exceptionally heavy bolt requiring such a mechanism.

  "Well, she's gonna be real surprised when I paint the room with loverboy."

  Somewhere off the coast of Saudi Arabia

  The MV Samiri bobbed quietly alongside two other tankers. At first glance, it was a typical oil fleet. But its manifest was a lie. Below decks, crates of high-caliber rifles, vampire-sealed biotoxins, and other weaponry sat in disguised crates submerged in shallow pools of crude oil.

  Beneath the waves, divers moved in silence.

  R1C Saito moved with fluid grace along the keel, micro-thrusters on her arms propelling her between hulls. She paused at rib joints, secured limpet mines with magnetic clamps, and synced each charge to a central frequency. Her team moved in unison, the black and white orca patterns of their slim and hydrodynamic armor rarely caught the dim lights that penetrated the surface.

  Each vessel was marked. Each would vanish in a coordinated bloom of hydrocarbon fire and steel.

  Saito’s voice crackled softly over the dive-net: “Final placement complete. Pulling back for detonation window. Forty-five seconds. Get clear. Get clear.”

  And just like that, they disappeared into the depths.

  The Caribbean

  The warm waters of the Caribbean pleasantly reflected the midday sun. They were parted softly by the bulbous bow of a luxury cruise liner as it coasted leisurely through the Lesser Antilles. On the upper decks, the ship’s passengers, cult initiates dressed in red robes, gathered to hear the indoctrinating words of their recruiters. Some more deeply within the vessel learned to ply a new trade as soldiers of the clans. Lieutenants and thralls moved among them, observing, recording, judging. This ship was in actuality a floating temple and training ground.

  But deep beneath the waves, a silent killer of a different kind stalked them.

  Vanguard submarine Ningyo observed her starboard side profile through her periscopes.

  Inside the control room, a cold red hue bathed the crew in light as the steel hull glided at periscope depth.

  “Conn, Sonar. Regained contact bearing zero-four-two. Range... 10 nautical miles. Faint, steady screw pattern—civilian cruise liner. Matches profile: MV Ethereal Bliss. Designate Sierra-3.”

  “Mark,” said the Captain.

  The contact manager keyed in a series of commands. “Target confirmed."

  “Attention in control. Firing point procedures. Sierra-3 cruise ship. Tubes three, four and six. Short range. No backups.” ordered the Captain.

  The Weapons Officer responded crisply. “Tubes three, four and six, aye”

  A flurry of reports were made.

  "Solution, ready!"

  "Tubes, ready!"

  "Weapons, ready!"

  "Ready in all respects!"

  The hum of hydraulics was the only sound as the outer doors on the torpedo tubes opened and Mark-72A super-heavy weight torpedos slid into launch position.

  “Match bearings.” the Captain said.

  The sub adjusted its depth and heading with a subtle shudder. Through the periscope, the sleek hull of the cruise ship loomed, hapless and unaware.

  “Conn, Fire Control. Weapons will impact amidships. Detonation zone aligned with lower engineering deck and cargo.”

  “Very well,” the Captain said softly, almost reverently. “Let’s see what the abyss thinks of their god.”

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  He raised his hand, readying to give the order to shoot.

  China

  "Do you think we're being overly violent?" Asked a plainclothes ISR agent, the only illumination coming from the multi-color neon lights of downtown Shanghai.

  "Huh?" His partner stopped. A thrall with a bag over its head was restrained by his tight grasp on the back of its neck. Its feet struggled to maintain purchase on the concrete platform as its captor forced it to stand just barely over the edge. Beyond it lay train tracks.

  "I'm just saying, doesn't this seem a bit gruesome?"

  His partner shook his head. "This guys a politician. We can't just mag dump him and be done with it. It has to look like an accident."

  "Just feels unsporting is all." He argued

  "Never fret. This guy was selling drugs to kids for the Triad before getting picked up by the vamps and used as a political proxy." His partner pointed out. "People get eaten by escalators all the time here. No one's gonna bat an eye when someone gets tri-sected by highspeed rail."

  With that, he let go and the thrall fell onto the rails just as a passenger train zoomed past the platform at 80mph. There was not even enough time for him to scream.

  The ISR agent dusted off his hands turned around to face their witness. He tipped his ballcap. "Pleasure working with you Inspector Huang."

  The Chinese man bowed, barely creasing his perfectly ironed police uniform. "Thank you. This city is safer because of you."

  Saudi Arabia

  The thunder of HR-15 rifle fire cracked through the desert, only to be swallowed by a howling sandstorm. Wind washed across the dunes, flinging sheets of sand like ocean surf over combatants.

  “Get to the transport! Protect the hostages!” a Freikorpsman barked, sliding to a stop and dropping to a knee. His rifle came up, braced tight, muzzle aimed back at the fortress they’d just escaped. High on its walls, heavy machine guns chattered into the darkness, their tracers crisscrossing in the air.

  He and his partner returned fire with practiced bursts.

  Past them ran a ragged line of civilians, barefoot and broken, draped in tattered cloth and desperation on their faces. Some held their hands over their heads. Others clutched at each other, stumbling blindly through the chaos, guided only by the voices of the Rifles.

  “Idh-hab hunaak, amaan! Idh-hab hunaak, amaan!” the Freikorpsman shouted in Arabic, voice hoarse. Go that way! Safety!

  The shapes of pursuers emerged in the haze. Shadows with rifles, firing wildly. Rounds cracked past the retreating column. The Freikorps stepped into the line of fire, armor plates catching the worst of it. Still they moved, leapfrogging in tight, disciplined bounds. One team laid down suppressive fire while the other pulled back, inching closer to the waiting Foxhound transports at the perimeter.

  Then, a blur in the sand.

  A vampire slipped through the storm and into the hostages like a shadow in the night. Gun in hand, he used the civilians as shields, firing a compact submachine gun at the Freikorps.

  “K-9! Get at him!” the lieutenant roared.

  One of the Riflemen knelt beside two figures, one flesh and blood, the other steel and servo.

  “Mahi, Alpha Two-Zero,” he commanded. “Sic ’em!”

  The German Shepherd launched forward, a streak of fur and fury, jetting across the sand like a missile loosed from the rail. Behind it, the robotic quadruped followed, mechanical limbs pumping with rapid precision, but it couldn’t match muscle and instinct.

  Mahi’s armor glinted under the stormlight, goggles shielding her eyes as she closed in. With a snarl she leapt, titanium-reinforced fangs locking around the vampire’s throat. The undead creature thrashed, but Mahi dragged him off of his feet and into the sand.

  The vampire wasn’t dead but he was separated from the hostages.

  Alpha Two-Zero came up next. The machine sprinted in, vaulting over fallen bodies, and slammed down on the vampire’s chest, pinning it. From the robotic dog's back rose a compact auto-cannon rig, its muzzle extended forward and fired at point-blank, removing the vampire's face.

  Australia

  The Screechers swept westward in a lazy orbit, twin contrails curling through the thick air. Visibility unlimited.

  A formation of three long-range bombers had broken off from the massive formation that initially departed Salvo. They were headed for another subterranean complex in Australia's Northern Territory. Each carried an exceptionally heavy Deep Boring High-Explosive Penetrator munition designed to excavate and demolish such complexes.

  Bush tracked their transponders on his radar as they proceeded into Australia airspace. Nothing opposed their bomb run.

  A contact blinked into being on Bush’s rear scope. He regarded it curiously before recognizing the faint return. Only a second passed before a proximity warning shrieked through his headset.

  “Two-One, it's behind you! Two o’clock, low!” Reyes snapped.

  On instinct alone Bush snapped the jet into a break turn, dumping speed and pushing hard left. The inertial dampeners whined. G-forces punched at his chest as the jet screamed through the maneuver.

  His HUD filled with static for a heartbeat—and then the object appeared. Gloss-black, obsidian-smooth, and wingless. It had a blunt head with rounded edges and tapered off towards the tail, like a torpedo. It hovered, no visible means of propulsion, no engine glow, no control surfaces. It looked like it was hovering in mid air.

  Then it moved.

  Straight at him.

  “Fox One!” Bush shouted, launching a radar-guided missile as the alien object charged. The homing radar on the missile wasn't likely to maintain connect, so he aided by painting it with his Screecher's power powerful unit. Despite his efforts, the missile surged forward then spiraled off wildly, losing lock.

  “Missile spoofed! It’s jamming—whatever this thing is, it’s actively spoofing my radar!”

  “Two-One, I’ve got tone! Fox Two!” Reyes cried, firing an infrared missile. The heatseeker screamed toward the target only for the UFO to tilt ninety degrees, as if reorienting gravity, and vanish in a pulse of violet light. The missile passed harmlessly through where it had been.

  “Never have I ever.” she remarked, incredulous.

  “Reyes! Defensive break—” Bush never finished.

  The UFO reappeared at 6 O'clock high. And it dove.

  His Screecher’s systems went haywire—panels dimmed, re-lit, then fuzzed again. RWR spiked. The HUD blinked out and back, showing data with corrupted alphanumerics.

  Bush rolled inverted and punched the throttle, climbing and rolling to keep the enemy in sight. The jet's afterburners spit fire.

  “Two-One, it's locked on you! I’m trying to flank—no joy! Can’t get tone!”

  Bush fought to stay out of its kill cone. It wasn’t flying—it was jumping, teleporting from vector to vector with no transition. But it had one weakness—its reaction to proximity. Every time he got close, it moved.

  So he baited it.

  He throttled back and let it approach. His jet trembled under proximity interference. Even the mechanical components seemed upset by proximity to the thing. One warning light after another flared. But Bush didn’t flinch.

  He waited.

  And then—snap roll.

  He flipped up and over, belly to belly with the object, and hit the gun trigger.

  VZZZZT. The 20mm cannon belched.

  Twenty millimeter tracer rounds crossed the space between them, some bouncing, some vanishing, until one stream struck home. The UFO flared—an arc of distorted geometry rippling across its surface. It began to spiral wildly

  Bush watched, stunned, as its form collapsed in on itself—folding like origami made of light and velocity. Pieces shorn off in unnatural ways, not breaking but unraveling like several sheets of paper. Debris coated Bush. The largest piece blew right through his left wing, ripping it off.

  “Splash! Splash! Target down!” Reyes called.

  Bush didn’t answer.

  His cockpit filled with red lights. Fire warnings. Avionics failing. Fly-by-wire gone haywire. Controls sluggish. Fuel bleeding out. His jet died with him in it.

  “Magic Two-One is hit. Ejecting—mark!”

  A second later, the canopy blew, and Bush punched out into the stratosphere.

  Behind him, the Screecher tumbled into the blue Pacific, breaking up on its way down.

  New York La Guardia Airport

  "Look, I don't know what's going on. I'm getting conflicting orders from up, down, left, right and center. TSA says don't do anything. Homeland says go in and arrest them. For some reason Space Force called me and said let them go. City says they're sending a SWAT team and that we're gonna kill them. But I have seen nothing like a plan and I can't get a hold of anyone who's actually in charge of this cluster fuck." Sergeant Jacobson, NYPD, looking over his shoulder at the massive and ominous Terra Vanguard jet parked on the taxiway behind him.

  A line of police squad cars and security vehicles blocked it from being able to move. But they kept a cautious distance. No contact had been made with the aircraft since it attempted to leave. The sergeant addressed his county commissioner over the phone as they attempted to figure out what was going on. The seemed the entire country and government had gone haywire.

  Axton Tambor looked out of the window on his mobile command jet at a line of security vehicles that blocked their path and prevented them from leaving. This was the expected outcome. And it was hardly of consequence. The plan was in motion and more capable individuals who weren't on the jet with him were executing it. The Leader-Commander was simply not needed. That was how it was supposed to be.

  Camila updated him. "Early reports are good. Phase 1 is nearly complete. Kincade has given some units permission to proceed to Phase 2 early. Phase 3 remains on schedule."

  "Nearly?" Tambor questioned.

  "Some units report heavier resistance than anticipated and logistical issues. It would seem the necrologic pillar Whirlwind found was not the only such structure. Some units have found themselves inundated with rescued prisoners and hostage situations. We have had two negative developments, however."

  "Elaborate."

  "One small issue with a Screecher over the Australian coast. They encountered a UFO. Object was shot down with the loss of one of ours. Pilot's been rescued. Defining Moment is on station. Her captain has taken the liberty of recovering the UFO wreckage as well."

  Tambor frowned. He was plenty intrigued by this development but eh strategic situation mandated it take a backseat. "I suppose that crisis will have to wait for tomorrow. What else?"

  "Washington D.C." She said and showed him on the big screen that overlooked the conference room. It was footage from a news chopper. Tall pillars of black smoke rose over the skyline. "Attempted coup is in progress. It has the potential to spill over into a civil war. Vampire loyalists have assaulted the West Wing of the White House and Capitol Hill. The situation is confused, but it seems to be a more chaotic version of L.A. There's reports of fighting in the streets and widespread mayhem. We've lost contact with ISR on the ground."

  "Is the President still alive?" he asked. Though his demeanor was calm, this development worried him.

  "Unknown." Camila said. "We don't have any units in the vicinity to respond. All friendlies on the East Coast are engaged. Infact, the only unemployed unit in North America is Whirlwind."

  Gears turned in Tambor's head, and in a split second he had an answer. "And us."

  "Uh, yes, sir." Camila answered stoically, assuming he was being humorous. But the longer the two stared at eachother she realized he wasn't.

  "Inform Federov. Tell him to use skyhook. Bring everyone he can. We'll meet him over D.C." Tambor then grinned, "And Tell the pilot, he has permission to take off."

  Camila frowned, "Sir, we are confined here." She pointed out.

  "Tell him the runway is optional."

  The beleaguered sergeant spun around to the sound of engine's spooling up.

  "What in the hell are they doing?" He said to no one in particular. He held up a radio. "Vanguard aircraft, you do not have permission to taxi or takeoff. Shut down now!"

  There was no response. The aircraft proceeded forward only a couple feet and stopped. Suddenly there was the whine of hydraulic actuators. The aircrafts six engines, four on the wings and two mounted to the tail, began to recess upwards into the wings. Once in line they all began to tilt upwards, their giant fanblades pointing skywards with exhaust nozzles vectored down towards the tarmac.

  The whirl of jets reached a deafening crescendo. The wind whipped at the officers surrounding the airplane.

  No one could believe what they were seeing. A jet the size of a 747 began to lift off, vertically.

  Only a few dozen feet off the ground, the engines articulated slightly forward and aircraft proceeded over the police line. Officers ran for cover. Anything not nailed down was gone with the jetwash. Squad cars were pushed sideways by the powerful rip current created by such massive engines.

  Sergeant Jacobson watched, mouth agape as the craft proceeded skyward.

  "So, who do we tell that they escaped?" An officer behind him asked. "... Do we even report that they escaped?"