Operation Green Lance, Day 1.
LCAC-115.
Killala Bay, Ireland.

Captain Joel Scott gripped his M4 Carbine as the sweat of anticipation began to form on his brow. Packed in tight next to him were the men of his unit, the 1st of 75th Army Rangers, who were doing their best to keep their balance as the amphibious assault ship bounced on the waves heading into the Ireland coast. The air was heavy with salt and the smell of burning diesel and munitions. At 36, Scott was the old man of his company, having served in four previous engagements dating back to Panama in 1989. This would be the first one against a metahuman threat, but he couldn't afford to show his nerves. He had served two previous tours with the Delta Force, earning his OCS commission while there, so pressure wasn't new to him. Over the years, he had earned a reputation of being the quintessential cool head under fire that was backed by several awards for valor, and the men were looking to him for inspiration and leadership. And although like any man, he had a healthy fear of dying, his greater fear was letting them down.

"Stand by! 30 seconds!" the LCAC skipper shouted. "God be with you!"

"Port side, stick! Starboard side, stick!" Scott barked as the engines of their APC roared to life. "Move fast, watch for borgs, and clear those murder holes!"

"Remember, one shot is not one kill!" SFC Fred Fredrickson reminded. A burly tough veteran, he had served with Scott during both Desert wars, Somalia and Kosovo. "Squeeze low bursts and make sure you put your man down. Watch that crossfire and don't let them get close!"

"When the borgs come out, I want to see plenty of beach between each man!" Scott continued. "Keep your buddy in sight and watch for stragglers! I'll see you on the beach!"

The LCAC came to a stop with a thud as the front ramp dropped and the first Bradley APCs rolled onto the sand. Almost immediately, the first wave was met by heavy laser fire coming from bunkers on the cliff tops. Scott cursed as he watched the first three APCs in front of him explode after being hit by heavy bursts of fire. Behind them, the deployment ramp dropped as several men managed to stagger out in various states of injury. Thank God they were diesel and not gasoline, he thought, but his relief was short-lived as Fredrickson's shout alerted him to a new threat.

"Incoming!" Fredrickson pointed. Above them and closing from the cliffs, several mid-sized flying craft dove out of the morning sun and began peppering the surviving men with more laser fire.

"Lancers!" Scott shouted, recalling the surveillance briefings. He turned to the APC driver. "Pull up and give those men some covering fire! Get ready to drop the ramp!"

"First wave isn't deployed sir!" the driver replied as the gunner squeezed off several bursts of the Bushmaster 25mm cannon, driving the Lancers back.

"That laser cannon's too strong for Bradley's! We're better off not presenting a big target!"

The driver nodded and dropped the rear deployment ramp. They were supposed to establish a beachhead first before the heavy armor rolled in, but what the Captain said made sense to him.

"Captain!" one of the sergeants shouted. "Where's the rallying point?"

Scott took a moment to scan the area. Below the fortifications were several sand dunes that might provide cover; lasers could only go straight. Just so long as the mutants didn't start chucking grenades, he told himself. "That dune," he pointed. "Let's go!"

Behind him, the members of the 1st company of Rangers spread out, making dashes forward under withering fire and explosions. As they reached the first dune, other APCs began to copy their example and deploy their men as the APCs did their best to provide covering fire with their Bushmaster 25mm cannons. Laser fire continued to pepper the ground, fusing the sand solid with each strike and killing each APC they hit. Scott watched the scene with a grim sense of despair as individual soldiers went down to nearby explosions and Elite's Lancer laser fire. The air was thick with smoke and the smell of burning flesh, and the sounds of gunfire were accompanied by the cries of wounded men.

At the down slope of the sand dune, Scott landed with a thud as men belly-flopped around him. He did a quick count; eighteen of the twenty-five men in his APC were here; the other seven were scattered elsewhere, possibly wounded, possibly dead. To one flank, he saw a group of Marines that made up the other component of the landing group. Upon seeing their group's relative cover, the platoon made the final dash, losing two of their people on the way in.

"Where's your CO?" Scott shouted under the din of gunfire.

"Went down with the APC, sir!" an SSG shouted back.

"Who's senior? Who's in charge?"

The gunnery sergeant looked around and shook his head. "You are, you're it sir!"

Christ, now a jarhead was calling him 'sir'; things must be even worse than he thought. At sea, Scott watched as two of the large LCAC ships suddenly sank. He blanched as he watched a set of large tentacles that reminded him of Jules Verne engage the landing craft; so much for the Navy pukes who had promised him they had secured the area. More worrisome was that the second wave of ships was supposed to carry most of the division's heavy armor, which meant they didn't have the tanks to help overrun the bunkers.

"We've got no armor, Sarge, unless your company made it before ours!" Scott said to the sergeant as he pointed out to the bay.

The sergeant shook his head rapidly. "No sir, ours went down with the second wave to the squiddies too!"

Scott nodded and turned to the sergeant carrying their company's radio next to him. "Get the fleet online! Tell them Kilo Bravo is not open and we need air support!" He then looked around the bunker as the sergeant relayed their message. The bunker was well placed; once you got past these dunes, there was nothing but rocks and cliffs facing them. Climbing those would be a chore under the best of times; doing it while under fire was a quick way to die. Still, the rocks seemed be resisting the laser fire better than their APC armor did, probably less energy conductive than the composites that made up the APC armor, which had been designed to resist bullets, mortar fire and tank shells.

"Captain, I have Arleigh Burke on the line! They're in contact with Air Command and they say they're going to chop us a squadron of Hogs, but they won't be able to get here for another twenty minutes!"

"All right, twenty minutes; we gotta buy some time!" Scott turned to the men next to him. "Drake, get that SAW set up, let's get some fire on that bunker! Allen, Burketts, Reilly, I want you on the backside of that cliff! Let's get some crossfire going! Sergeant, you have any smokes for that M40?"

"Yes sir, I do!" the Marine confirmed, loading a pair of smoke grenades into his under-slung launcher.

"Ready...covering fire!" Scott ordered as he and the rest of his platoon unloaded a fusillade of bullets onto the bunker position while the Marine launched two smoke grenades. When the air became cloudy, Scott gestured to his men. "Go, go, go!"

The three Rangers got up and ran under the cover of smoke as a hail of bullets limited the bunker's ability to see and retaliate. Nonetheless, laser fire continued to pepper the sand, following their tracks before getting cut off by the cliff wall. "Fredrickson, Mitchell, Evans, Jacobs, you're up! Second cliff, right side, ready...covering fire!" Scott ordered as another pair of smoke grenades followed bursts of automatic fire. Once the second team had reached their goal, Scott turned to the Marine next to him. "Barnes, right?" he asked glancing at the private's nametag.

"Yes sir!"

"You checked out on that Barrett you're carrying?"

"Wouldn't be much good if I wasn't sir!" Barnes acknowledged as he started to prep the massive .50 caliber sniper rifle.

Scott scanned the bunker with his binoculars as quickly as he could. Even with all the smoke, he was risking getting his head blown off doing this, but he had to be sure. According to the pre-mission briefing, the Elite's solders were highly hierarchical in organization. The Green Berets A-Teams who had already been in country a few days ago reported seeing units they dubbed 'Centurions' who seemed to be the unit field commanders and that individual initiative was pretty poor without them. There, he thought, then dropped back down below the sand dune.

"Barnes, you're looking for a tall robotic drone with a transparent head and a visible brain in the case," Scott explained as Barnes got into position. "He's the one standing in the middle left port, giving orders to the others. If you can take him out..."

"I got him, sir," Barnes confirmed coldly. "Semper Fi, motherf--"

The rest of the profanity was cut off as powerful Barrett rifle report cracked the landscape, sending the oversized bullet into the bunker view port, striking the Centurion through the chest. As the Elite's commander went down, the cybernetic humanoids inside the bunker looked at their leader with confusion and doubts.

"Good shot Barnes!" the sergeant nodded.

"Laser fire's slacking off," Scott observed. "Now's our chance!"

The Rangers and Marines surged forward in groups, moving under the cover of overlapping fire. The Lancers began to stagger back, uncertain how to respond and the Berserkers and Bushidos in the bunker attempted to fire back, but were unable coordinate their firing patterns.

Scott took position with the second group of Rangers alongside two of the Marines. Once their position was secure, he motioned to Fredrickson to lead the group behind him to the base of the cliff where the bunker was mounted. As the lead group headed to the base, the remaining units unleashed covering fire against the bunker. Once at the pillar of rock, the Rangers pulled out several demo charges and began applying them to several supports along the cliff. Once the last charge was completed, they rejoined the second team of Rangers.

"Fire in the hole!" Fredrickson shouted as the rest of the Rangers and Marines took cover. Pressing a radio detonator rewarded him with a powerful blast that sent rock shrapnel throughout the alcove. Above the cliff, the bunker shuddered and began to tremble with the blasts. Inside, the Berserkers and Bushidos scrambled out, as the platform became increasingly unstable.

"Open fire!" Scott ordered and the entire group of soldiers unleashed a mixture of bullets, grenades, and TOW anti-armor missiles against the oncoming cyborg humanoids. Most went down, though a small number of Beserkers managed to clamber over the cliff and out of the line of fire.

"Sir, I've got the Hogs on the comm!" the radio sergeant called.

Better late than never, Scott said to himself as he took the headset. "This is Bravo Company Commander! We're located 120 meters inland approximately 20 meters north of the bunker's base!"

Damn, the lead A-10 pilot thought as he watched the bunker's personnel evacuate up to the cliff. Whether it was the horror of the casualties or the amazement that any friendlies were still alive and actually pushing forward, he couldn't say which took his breath away more. "Roger Bravo, this is Flank Zero One, we have you in sight. I've got a column of big ugly ground pounders heading south, along with a group of medium flyers."

"Acknowledged Flank Zero One, you're clear to engage!"

"Roger that," the pilot replied, as the six planes went 'Master Arm' on their weapon systems. "Going hot guns on target."

"Let's get some," the wingman agreed.

The A-10s began their descent, unloading their powerful 30mm rotary cannons onto the retreating ground targets. The ground erupted with fire as the uranium-depleted shells scored hits on the retreating column of Elite soldiers. Back on the cliff, Scott breathed a sigh of fatigue and relief as the Elite's forces began to rout. Next to him, the younger soldiers began to cheer and several of them shook Scott's hands with congratulations and gratitude. Scott nodded, but his attentions were back to the sea and the beach, now stained dark red with blood as the once-peaceful coastline was now littered with the smoking funeral pyres of several APCs along with their crews and passengers. The cost of getting even this far had been considerable; several good men he had known were already gone. It would be a cost that would rise in the coming days.

United States Oval Office.
Washington, D.C.

George W Bush sat staring alternately at the teleprompter and the papers, in an Oval Office without any witnesses.  In a few moments, the entire United States and half the world would be his witness, but for these few moments, he wanted to be alone with God.  God had put him here, and with His strength Bush and the country would somehow make it through.

The few pages of hand-scratched notes had been transcribed for the teleprompter by Karen Hughes, his director for communications.  She had changed a few words, but it still had his stamp, and it was mercifully short.  He prayed he could deliver it with all the feeling it brought to his heart, and without any missteps.  Twice in practice he had said "posterior" instead of "posterity".  Win or lose, that was not how he wanted this speech to be remembered.

He breathed in, a deep, soul-searching breath, then pressed the button for the return of the crews, who set up swiftly.  Karen Hughes stood beside the camera, smiling with only a little concern.  The President was as prepared as she could make him.  The rest would come from within him.

She glanced at the feed from Times Square, where a crowd of various protesters, both anti-war and anti-Autocrat, were gathered with tourists and a contingent of Marines on leave.  The giant billboard was displaying Dan Rather as he counted down to the White House feed going live.

Here it began.

"Citizens and guests, at home and abroad.

"An ultimatum was delivered to the United States - and the World - by a man without a real name.  It was said ... It said... that we must abandon our friends, and abandon our own rights, or suffer the consequences of our defiance.

"Well, the United States is a defiant country.  We have defied tyrants since before we even WERE a country.  We fought our first war, a War of Independence, to free ourselves from the ravages of royalty.

"We fought our Greatest war, a war of brother against brother, to assure that those rights extended to EVERYONE , regardless of the circumstances of their birth and lineage.

"We cannot... We SHALL not... abandon the principles of our ancestors for our own comfort.

"We cannot... We SHALL not... abandon our friends in their time of need.

"We cannot... We SHALL not... abandon the birthright of our children and their children yet unborn... whom the forefathers would have called 'our Posterity.'

"We cannot... We SHALL not... abandon these things, because these things have been entrusted to us by our Creator, and they are not ours to give away.  And our Creator will not and shall not abandon us.  "

Bush gave a grim smile.  The professors at Yale would want that deleted from the history books, but that was their problem.  He looked down at the papers in his hands, feeling a moment's uncertainty and awe.

Why was it that he was the one to write and deliver this?  He turned a page, even though the teleprompter had the very same words.  Somehow the feel of the papers was comforting, binding him to the moment a half century before when Winston Churchill had made his famous "beaches" speech, or a century before that when Lincoln had surveyed the carnage at Gettysburg.

As the words sank in, Hughes gauged the responses of the camera crew, the only witnesses who hadn't already seen the speech several times.  At least the blonde was actually impressed.  And most of the crowd in Times Square was cheering, although she could see the occasional hardened leftist getting angry.  She motioned Bush to continue.

  "A wise man once said that the price of freedom was eternal vigilance.  Another once said that freedom's price must be paid again and again, refreshed with the blood of tyrants and of patriots.  The time has come to again pay that price.

"Less than an hour ago, American forces and our closest Allies began an assault to free Ireland from the control of the Royal Elite.  At best, many brave soldiers will die.

"Americans come from many places.  One in six Americans have blood that flowed through Ireland at one time or another.  Many have blood that paid for that soil again and again.  But that is not why we are going.

"Americans come from everywhere. There is no country on Earth that has not brought blood to America, enriching us with their dreams and their ingenuity, entrusting us with their hopes and their posterity.  They come, because in America you can live in Freedom.

"America stands for freedom.

"There is no country on Earth to whom we do not have a bond of blood.  And there is no country on Earth that we do not have the responsibility of supporting their freedom.

"When the world was slowly falling to a powerful Nazi tyranny, President Roosevelt stood fast.  And tyranny fell.

"When the world was slowly falling to a powerful Communist tyranny, President Ronald Reagan stood fast.  And tyranny fell.

"Now, when it seems the world again may fall to the powerful tyranny of that one man, it is time for us to AGAIN stand fast.  And tyranny WILL fall."

Bush paused, and took a drink from the glass of water on his desk, and spared a brief glance to his Bible.

"Tyranny WILL fall.

"But it will cost the blood of many.  I have begun this action, in conjunction with several countries that also believe in freedom, under my authority as Commander in Chief of the United States Armed Forces.

"However, I am calling on the Congress of the United States of America to convene an emergency session to discuss a formal declaration of war, unprecedented in our history.  A declaration against not a country, but a single man, known only by his assumed title.  Autocrat.

"This man has performed acts that truly example-fie the world evil.  His desecration of the persons and land of Ireland defy description.  That they constitute war crimes under every international convention goes without saying."

Hughes grimaced.  There was a little laughter among the crowd at Times Square, and she noticed some bills changing hands.  At least the mistakes had happened on an unimportant line.

Bush paused again, frowned and took a deep breath. Now for what they all referred to as the Jeffords clause.

"Therefore, I am also joining with several other countries to introduce a formal resolution in the United Nations.  All those countries which choose to ally themselves with Autocrat, regardless of their form of government, and indeed all those persons who freely choose to ally themselves with Autocrat, shall be deemed direct parties to those war crimes.

"Any countries or persons that have previously allied themselves with Autocrat will have 72 hours from the time of this announcement to publicly acknowledge their actions and renounce their allegiance to avoid this penalty.

"After that time, once we have achieved victory, all those who have given aid and comfort to this monster shall be brought to true justice.

"Citizens and guests, I ask all of you to join with me in praying for the safety of our friends and the return of peace, but more than that, for the return of freedom.  As Neville Chamberlain found out six decades ago, it is too precious a gift to be surrendered for a moment's comfort.  "

Hughes frowned.  She had changed that to 'abandoned' but he had changed it back.  Her version would have worked better with the tag line.

Bush put down the papers and stared for a moment at the camera, one of those faraway furrowed looks that the Democrats always thought looked confused rather than profound.

"We SHALL not abandon it.  And tyranny WILL fall."

Hughes checked the Times Square monitor.  The crowd had spontaneously erupted in applause and cheering.  Even the anti-war protesters seemed to be joining the spirit of the thing.

She motioned to cut the feed.  When the body bags started arriving, she hoped that they would remember the feeling they now had, that and it would hold them through the dark months ahead.  World War Two had lasted seven years, and the United States had been exhausted after only participating in the last four.  At best, this thing would drag on for several months and cost hundreds of thousands of lives.  And with Avatar gone over to the other side, only a miracle would cut that significantly.

She looked to where President Bush had his head bowed, oblivious to the camera crew, and not for the first time she wished she had his faith.

"This is CNN reporting live somewhere in the North Atlantic. I'm standing on the deck of the U.S.S. John Stennis where sometime around 6:00 am local time, American and British forces stormed the island of Ireland in what is being called the largest display of military power since Desert Storm, in an effort to retake the island following the surprise announcement made by the Royal Elite two weeks ago. Since that announcement, there have been numerous debates within the United Nations, but in a surprise decision, the Security Council voted unanimously to oppose the Elite's demands and to remove their forces from Ireland by any means necessary. I've been told that, in addition to the US and England, Russia, Canada, China and Australia have all deployed forces to the region and that the metahuman forces from around the world are joining forces in support of the effort to oppose the Elite's occupation. We're also being informed by our sources that earlier this morning, two regiments of airborne troops were dropped in to secure key locations within the country and are even now fighting mutant troops that stand with the Royal Elite. No word as of yet how our forces are doing, but we will be keeping our viewers informed. This is CNN, reporting from the North Atlantic."

Operation Green Lance, Day 2.
Forward Command Station.
Ballina, Ireland.

Scott entered the tent and saluted crisply. "Captain Scott reporting as ordered."

Inside, General Rodgers returned the salute and motioned him to come in. Scott didn't feel comfortable being in the presence of a four-star, mainly because he still looked like hell from having spent the morning at the Battalion Aid station. He knew that was mostly an empty fear as no officer worthy of the name was going to criticize the mud on his uniform under these circumstances, but old habits died hard.

"Captain Scott," Rodgers smiled and took the younger man's hand. "A pleasure to meet you. Looks like you guys got it really rough yesterday."

Scott nodded at the obvious comment, wondering where this was leading up to. "The squids were an unwelcome surprise, yes sir."

"Not the only ones, I'm afraid," Rodgers admitted. He then led Scott towards a table that had been set up with several map plates arranged. "The Navy says they've finally secured the bay of those squids and we're offloading 3rd ACR, 7th Light and the 26th MEU. The bad news is that last night's Airborne insertion got attacked by a bunch of flying bird ladies and some large flying humanoids firing laser cannons."

"We saw those too, sir." Scott pointed at the map plate carefully. "They had bunkers here, here, and here. The birds launch from concealed positions between these rocks, and stream out to these locations. We managed to flush them out from these three bunkers, but there are two more still holding out."

"I'm sure. So basically, the 82nd and the 101st are scattered all over hill and dale on this rock. We're in the process of trying to get contact with as many of them as we can, so we can get some support out to them. Also, the Air Force had a rough time last night. The Elite's got a bunch of big floating forts that are providing their people with logistical support along with the ability to move mass numbers of troops around the island. Unfortunately, the forts are protected by some kind of force field; they must have launched over a hundred Slammers along with a dozen Tomahawks and it's all they can do to scratch them."

"We saw that force field too, sir. It seems to be more vulnerable to multiple shot weapons than single shots. At least with the units we fought, the field seems to be rotating on and off."

"I'll pass that along. We do have some good news though. Sometime in the next couple days, several of those superheroes are going to deploy to take the fight into the Elite's main headquarters. We hope they can take the problem to the leadership. We also managed to destroy about half of the communication and radar stations they've built around the island and Delta Force managed to secure their main mutant-making facility so hopefully we won't be seeing more civilian victims."

"Any chance these people can be changed back?"

"We'll have to ask Autocrat when we drag his ass before the World Court. Quite frankly, I wouldn't count on it." Rodgers paused and gave a heavy sigh. No one in uniform liked killed needlessly and the fact that most of the mutant troops they were fighting were in fact innocent Irish people added ugly moral questions to the entire invasion. Words like 'ethic cleansing' and 'genocide' were bandied back and forth during the initial political discussions and several concessions had to be made to their Rules of Engagement before the US, England, Canadian and Russian troops were allowed to take action. Unrestricted warfare was out; which meant he couldn't make full use of the B-1Bs or MLRS artillery battalions. Every target had to be visually verified before bombing, which made it pain in the ass to conduct an air campaign. Worst of all, any civilian spotted was supposed to be retrieved alive regardless of the cost, which offered the opposition a huge opportunity to plant spies and hidden assassins among his troops. Finally, no weapons of mass destruction, though that suited Rodgers just fine, since he had no real desire to drop nukes. He shook his head and turned back to his subordinate. "How are your men taking it?"

"Could be better," Scott admitted. "We took about twenty, twenty-five percent casualties coming up the beach. What's left of Charlie Company is being folded into Alpha and Bravo to get us back to strength. The Elite's troops use a lot of slashing and penetration attacks, so Battalion Aid's getting all they can handle."

"We're med-evacing as many as we can back to the fleet. Our next step is to make a push into Athlone, where the 82nd were supposed to have dropped. We've lost contact with the unit commander, but satellite surveillance shows the town under siege, so we have hopes that we can still capture the town intact."

Scott nodded as he looked at the tabletop map. Athlone was located in the heart of Ireland and was one of the center hubs for the country's road and rail system. Capturing it intact would pave the way for rapid deployment of armored forces and enable the Allies to set up an ideal staging area to surge mobile warfare units. "What kind of support are we sending?"

"3rd ACR will take at least another couple of days to form up, so for starters, I want to deploy the 75th 1st battalion to escort 505th Engineering and 267th Supply to resupply and relieve the 82nd." Rodgers paused for a moment. "And I want you to lead that battalion."

Scott blinked and looked up. "Sir, I'm not qualified. Colonel MacIntyre's..."

"Colonel MacIntyre's dead, Captain," Rodgers interrupted bluntly. He then paused to give Scott a chance to regain his bearings. "He went down with the second wave of transports to those squids you saw. And Major Cantu is being med-evac'ed back to the fleet. Of the company commanders remaining, you've got the most experience, and, for what it's worth, Bob Cantu says you're the best he's got so you get the call."

There should have been more to say than that, but Scott knew when to keep his mouth shut. "Yes sir."

"Now, the 366th ACC has been tasked to clear the road to Roscommon, so overland resistance should be minimal. The Brits have some SAS teams scattered in the mountains near Clairmorris and Castlebar and the Green Berets set up an observation post near Charleston. We're sending them notice that you're enroute so you should be able to get some real-time intel from them."

"How about direct air support? The opposition has a lot of troops that are air-mobile."

"26th AirCav will be going with you, but I'll be honest. CINCLANT is stretched paper-thin right now. We're conducting five other beach landings at Dublin, Belfast, Galway, Cork and Derry. Also, Autocrat has made a public statement saying that if mankind doesn't surrender, he's going to send several of the Elite's fortresses to the countries against him and start blasting cities and converting more civilians into mutant slaves. Intelligence estimates they could reach Great Britain in less than an hour, and probably US and Russian airspace in less than ten hours. If they're able to establish beachheads in other countries and start converting civilians into more troops, then this thing will spiral into a worldwide epidemic. No one wants to be the first, but the UN Security Council agreed that if any of those fortresses breaks the twenty miles boundary, we'll have to stop them any means necessary. So we're basically up against the wall one way or another. If we take Athlone, we stand a good chance of coming out of this clean, not to mention saving the lives of thousands of civilians. If not, well, we may end up testing that climate changing theory those environmental people keep talking about."

"We'll stop them sir," Scott replied with more confidence than he felt.

General Rodgers nodded and acknowledged the younger man's vow. "Your country's counting on you and we're behind you. Make us proud."

Royal Elite Council Room.
Celestial Keep.

"... and our forces continue to hold out against the enemy at Cork and Derry," Constantine reported.

Autocrat nodded slowly as he observed the large monitor showing the Elite's progress on defeating the commoner's attempt to retake his island. Of course they were going to try; that was obvious. It was now his responsibility to slap them down like the disobedient children that they were. To show them just how useless their feeble forces were. So far, their mission had been met with only partial success. Although the Elite's force field technology had blunted their enemies' weapons from harming their fortresses, the mutant slaves were not performing as well as expected. This had been an unexpected setback; had he not provided them with enough power to defeat these puny commoners? What was a mere soldier compared to the power of the Spartan corps or Flamataur battalion? And yet, somehow, the military continued to gain ground. The worst surprise was the fall of Killala Bay. There, mere soldiers routed his forces, even without armored units. Of course, the mutants who had returned were suitably punished. Examples had to be made.

"And what of our forces near Athlone?"

"We have the town surrounded and sealed from any outside interference," Constantine replied confidently. "The town will soon be ours."

"It should have already been ours," Autocrat rumbled with impatience. "Did we not make our offer of leniency for their surrender?" A false offer both men knew, but surely the commoners could be fooled.

"They...um...told our field commander to...perform an anatomical impossibility," Constantine sweated.

"I see..." Autocrat replied as a rumble of power rippled through his helmet. "Then starve them out! Allow no one in or out of the town until they come begging for mercy!"

"Of course my lord."

"And what other assaults have we seen?"

"Our forces in Galway, Dublin and Belfast are being shelled by their Navy. We seem to have lost contact with our submerged units. In addition, amphibious craft have been sighted. It seems the commoners are planning another landing at one or more of these locations."

"We shall no longer tolerate their insubordination! Deploy the secondary fortresses to these locations and sink their puny ships to the bottom of the sea!"

"At once my lord!"

Operation Green Lance, Day 2.
U.S.S. Arleigh Burke, CTF-77.
North Atlantic Ocean.

"Radar contacts! Designate Raid-1, bearing three-four-niner, range four-six-zero miles, count one-four-zero contacts, course one-seven-five, speed 1200 knots!"

"Alright, light'em up!" the air operations officer ordered. Around him, guided missile banks activated and the ships began to shudder as missiles launched from the SM-2 SAM launchers. In the CIC, powerful computer guided radar systems tracked the inbound streaks and ordered the missiles to engage their targets.

"Here they come..." the ship's captain said quietly. Around him, the sounds of missile fire and quietly issued orders did the count. Out at sea, the warheads exploded within a hundred yards of their targets, destroying the opposing warheads. One hundred forty dropped to seventy, then sixty as the range closed to within a hundred miles. As the distance closed to twenty miles, chaff rockets began to fire from the destroyer formation, filling the air with millions of aluminized Mylar fragments that fluttered on the air. Several of the rockets began chasing radar ghosts and lost contact.

"Raid-1 still inbound, two-four contacts, range five miles and closing!" As the last few missiles continue to bear down on their individual targets, the final defensive weapons were now tracking their targets. The CIWS, 20mm Gattling guns, erupted with fire, exploding missiles as they got within two thousand yards. Aboard the missile frigates, the men braced themselves as the last few missiles converged on their targets. Across the carrier formation, several ships erupted with fire as missiles hit their targets, exploding and decimating dozens of sailors and equipment in their blast.

"Single impact, port side!" the operations officer reported.

"Damage report!" the captain ordered.

"Port side phalanx and launchers down! Casualties coming in!"

The ship's captain grimaced a silent curse at the floating monolith in the distance as he silently consoled the loss of his men. The rest of the carrier formation reported in with similar damage reports, with the carrier reporting no hits. The formation of missile destroyers had done their jobs; he would have to take comfort in that.

Operation Green Lance, Day 3.
Ranger 75th Regiment.
Clairemorris, Ireland.

Fredrickson watched his SAS counterparts with bemusement as they wolfed down MREs or "Meals Ready to Eat" which most soldiers considered three lies for the price of one. Although regarded with some disdain during peacetime, spending a week buried in foxholes could make anything taste good. Nearby, their regiment finished unloading the rest of the supplies they had brought along to resupply the surveillance teams in the field while the officers talked shop.

"A bloody shame you couldn't bring a pint or two," the platoon lieutenant quipped as he finished his meal. The paper waste would have to be buried later, which was perhaps the most mundane thing any of these men had done in the last six days.

"Not exactly what you'd want to be giving a surveillance team, Lieutenant," Scott noted.

The lieutenant shook his head lightly. Of course neither man would consider drinking on duty, but Americans could be so darned humorless about such things. "Well, we haven't had any contact for the last two days, but we did see what appeared to be an armored column of mutants heading southeast along that road," he replied and pointed at a major thoroughfare a mile north of their location.

"How many and what type?"

"If I remember my briefings correctly, I would estimate 250 Trolls and over a hundred Rock Trolls. They were flanked by several dozen flying horses that burned like fire."

"I think they've been dubbed 'Flamataur' by someone."

"Quite appropriate," the lieutenant nodded. "Anyway, these flamataurs were clearly the reconnaissance assets of this group. I would estimate the column's moving speed to be between thirty to forty miles per hour. The cavalry moves about double that. Fortunately, they don't seem to be watching their flanks very much. Wherever they're going, they're not looking for distractions."

"They're probably heading where we are. The 82nd was supposed to be dropped in Athlone two nights ago. We're tasked to relieve them. We've got one more stop with a Green Beret team outside Roscommon then we'll be heading straight in. Did they engage any targets?"

"Like bees on honey, sir," the lieutenant said as his voice wavered slightly. "They're like sharks; they charge right in, kill anything in their way. No fear, no hesitation; we watched them take apart an Irish militia team with claws and blades in under half a minute." The lieutenant shook his head, recalling the helplessness he and all his platoon felt watching a massacre none of them could have prevented or stopped. Although all these men had served in Ireland as a result of the 'troubles', none of them ever wanted it to come to this, and had defied orders to sneak out of their foxhole to retrieve the bodies for proper burial. What was left of them.

Scott nodded with understanding. "Well, that could be useful to know. Listen, we've been on the go for almost eighteen hours, and my men are a little beat. We're going to hole up just down that ridge for a few hours and move out after dark. If you guys need anything else, give us a holler. And Lieutenant; you take care of yourselves and after this is all over, I'll have that pint with you."

The lieutenant shook his head and smiled. "Captain, if we're still here after this is over, I plan on getting my men pretty damned drunk." All in all, it hadn't been a bad respite, and this captain seemed a decent chap. For an American anyway.

Operation Green Lance, Day 4.
Airborne 82nd Regiment.
Athlone, Ireland.

Sergeant Kevin Olsen couldn't remember the last time he was so tired. The mission was fairly typical for the Airborne: Drop in, take the town and await reinforcements. Unfortunately, some REMF decided that they couldn't take the time to secure the area of Surface-to-Air assets first, so what was supposed to be a routine drop turned into the nightmare of all drops.

To his credit, the Hercules C-130H pilot had done his best, as ground-based missiles streaked up through the night sky like laser beams, chopping their air support like wheat. Only the efforts of Britannia, the British member of the Sisters of Hope, kept the entire squad from being shot down. Even so, the pilot's desperate attempts to evade flak and missiles had scattered the drop across the entire mountainside and unfortunately the two Sisters couldn't stay around long enough for their forces to form up. Once on the ground, they were hounded and pursued by Spartans and Bushido mutants, who slashed through their disorganized ranks like butchers through meat. Their only consolidation was the overall poor strategy of their assaults. With no regard to their flanks or retreats, the surviving members of the 82nd finally managed to assemble by the river north of the town and established a beachhead, and retreating into the town after nearly eighteen hours of non-stop combat.

Once in the town, they managed to dig in and establish a zone of control that fended off the assaults for the next several hours, which had prompted the mutant leader to call for their surrender. Even with half their force decimated however, the last thing the surviving officers were going to do was to sully the reputation of the 82nd with such a ridiculous offer, and told them so on no uncertain terms.

Behind them, the surviving population of Athlone's residents huddled with mixed emotions. On the one hand, they were certainly relieved not to be captured and rounded up like many of their neighbors had been. However, the unending stress of combat, lack of supplies and old feelings of foreign resentment wore their nerves raw.

"How's it looking out there?"

Olsen turned and acknowledged Lieutenant Conners, the senior officer present who had survived the initial drop and scattering. "Quiet as a tomb, sir," he muttered, then on reflection, thought the simile might have been better left unsaid.

"Are they coming?"

The lieutenant turned around and faced Moira Grady, the woman who had been acting as their liaison. Behind her, several men who represented the senior merchants of the town looked on with concern. "Looks like it ma'am. Best batten down the hatches."

"We wanted to tell ye...no matter what...we're not going to give up. We've seen what those monsters have done to our countrymen. They'll not take us without a fight."

Conners nodded with Grady's resolve. Secretly, he had worried about the townspeople's resolve, but her words had settled it. "We'll hold 'em to the last man. You got my word."

"They're coming!" one of the corporals in the tower shouted. Around the town, bells rung out and men in makeshift bunkers braced themselves for the assault as the dust rose up from the horizon. It wouldn't be long now.

Centurion 527.150 nodded as his telepathic instructions went to the front line of Trolls. One hundred fifty strong -- they should be more than strong enough to break the mere mortals' barricades. They had been here too long; it was mere luck that they had made it into the town, but by doing so, they had sealed off any avenue for supplies or escape. Yes, they were well defended, but it would only be a matter of time and that time was now.

The troll phalanx surged forward, teeth and claws flashed and snarls erupted from their guttural voices. Any memories of their own countrymen were long ago banished; they served the Elite now. It would a glorious victory.

"What is that?" one of the Spartans asked as he gestured to the sky.

Centurion 527.150 looked and saw a line of streaks coming into the sky. They were numerous, and he frowned. What could they be? They were arcing now; and coming down to his troops. But that couldn't be, he thought. He was certain that all his opposition was trapped in the town. The realization hit him just as the entire plain erupted with fire and explosions.

The town rumbled with force as the first wave of opposition disappeared with smoke and fire. The phalanx broke and the lightly armored Spartans and Bushido shock troops dropped to the ground as shrapnel ripped through their ranks like razor blades. The more heavily armored Trolls sustained only minor injuries, but poor visibility had created confusion within their ranks and the shock of the explosions made it difficult to pay attention to the frantic telepathic instructions given by their Centurion.

"Holy shit, they're ours!" Conners exclaimed as he watched a second set of rocket trails erupt from the horizon.

"Goddamn sir, I think the Calvary's arrived!" Olsen shouted as his men erupted with cheers and prayers of relief.

"First volley away!" Fredrickson called into a walkie-talkie as he watched from a set of binoculars inside a forward Fox NBC scout vehicle. "Direct hit on first wave!"

"Proceed to second launch point and fire!" Scott ordered the Artillery Company. The Iraqi troops had called it 'Steel Rain'; the M270 MLRS was the one of the most sophisticated artillery systems in the world, capable of blanketing thirty acres of land within a range of twenty miles with explosive munitions. With a powerful on-board computer system and GPS, it was capable of directing fire with surgical precision, far more so than the artillery systems of yesteryear. "Any sign of any domeheads?"

"Negative sir," Fredrickson replied. "Too much smoke and debris to confirm."

Scott frowned and sent a signal to the awaiting M113 APCs and M939 5-Ton Trucks to start moving in men and supplies. He was actually bending the Rules of Engagement somewhat firing early on the column, but he was fairly certain that no civilians were going to be nestled within the charging brigade of Trolls and he didn't want to give away his position by having to recon the column directly. Doing so had caught the charging mutants off-guard, hitting their forces from two separate flanks. The Army's advanced IVIS allowed him to coordinate troop movements, something the mutants currently lacked. He had hoped that the Centurion leading this force would be caught within the barrage, but that was probably too much to hope for. That meant this retreat would be temporary at best.

Royal Elite Council Room.
Celestial Keep.

"What do you mean 'lost'?" Autocrat rumbled as Constantine did his best not to squirm. Already, alarms had gone off throughout the Celestial Keep; a large force of metahumans had dared to board his base. His first stratagem was to activate the base's formidable security systems, which separated the force into small groups, then to dispatch his followers to deal with the impudent fools. He did not have time for such trivialities such as the soldiers and mutants below.

"Centurion 527.150 reports that a large group of enemy troops have assaulted our forces from opposite flanks, forcing them to withdraw. He has requested additional forces to retake Athlone," Constantine said, hoping that Autocrat would hold true to the adage of not shooting the messenger of bad news.

"Have a force of Lancers standing by in the deployment room," Autocrat ordered grudgingly. "And have the Baroness and Mastodon deploy to the throne room; it's time we dealt with the Ensigns once and for all."

"I will pass your orders to them."

"I will send word to the world powers that my patience is at an end. Have fortresses 310 and 312 deploy to their final destinations. Inform them that we will no longer tolerate such disobedience. It's time for the endgame to begin."

"Of course, my lord. We will crush them."

"And as for you, I want you to lead the Yeoman to destroy the Canadian Shield. You will find them bumbling around in the secondary antechamber on the tertiary deck. I needn't remind you the price of failure."

"Of course not, my Lord," Constantine said with confidence. "Consider their fates your personal property."

Operation Green Lance, Day 4.
NORAD.
Cheyenne Mountain, Colorado.

"Westward movement detected!" the radar technician reported as tensions throughout the gigantic room increased a notch. On the large central screen, several pre-marked blips began to split apart and head to different directions.

"Plot it," the senior chief ordered.

"Mike-One is headed for London, ETA 90 minutes. Mike-Two is headed northeast, parabolic path to Moscow, ETA six hours. Mike-Three is heading west, projected destination, Washington DC. ETA eight hours."

The senior chief and the base commander both nodded as the latter picked up the Red telephone. It was time to kick things upstairs.

Operation Green Lance, Day 4.
Joint Chiefs of Staff, White House Situation Room.
Washington DC.

"Mr. President, NORAD and NMCC have both confirmed westward movement from one of the Elite strongholds. They estimate landfall in eight hours."

President George W Bush looked long and hard at the grim faces that turned his way. Historically, most new Presidents were accorded a 'honeymoon' with the American people; a chance to get their feet wet in what was certainly the most difficult and demanding job in the world, but Fate, the media and the Democrats had decided that was not to be.  First all that business with press uproars over trivial holdups on minor environmental initiatives.  Then the defection of Jeffords to the Democrats.  And now this.

The men before him were among the most experienced military men in the world; men with years of expertise and knowledge of warfare passed down from the harsh lessons learned from generations before, often at the price of blood and lives. They would advise, console, and no matter what, support their commander-in-chief. But in the end, one man would have to make the choice, and that choice was his.

"What about our forces in Ireland?"

"There is some good news there, Mr. President," Army General Eric Shinseki reported. "Our forces have breached the Elite's ground forces in Athlone. Once we've secured the town, we'll be able to conduct mobile warfare across the entire island. A few days after that, with a little luck, we'll have that island secured."

"But they haven't secured it yet."

"That's true, Mr. President," Shinseki admitted. "The next few hours will tell the tale."

The President looked at the man speculatively.  Something was wrong.  "What exactly is it that you are not telling me?"

General Shinseki squirmed slightly under the president's gaze.  He had earned his Ranger tab long ago, but he had never forgotten the lessons of being on the ground.  How could he put his hunch?  "Things are going too well, sir."

The President raised an eyebrow.

"We are beating the hell out of our most optimistic projections.  With the setbacks on the landings, and the enemy technological advancement, and even with a tiny country like Ireland it should have taken us weeks to get this far.  Instead, the Elite forces are performing like uncoordinated amateurs.  It's like, something has completely scrambled their strategic coordination.

"Something, or Someone."  President Bush closed his eyes and gave a moment of thanks.  Then he turned to the others for their reports.

The Navy and Air Force counterparts both made their reports, but the truth was, it all came down to ground forces. It was a timeless truth in warfare. There were two types of forces - infantry and those who supported infantry. Without them, there would be no way to guarantee the safety and protection of the country and he had just sworn an oath before God and the rest of the watching world 'to serve, protect, and defend the Constitution and the country' from threats such as this. The cost for such a task however, harkened back to the dark days of a mere generation ago when warheads hung like the Sword of Damocles over the heads of the entire world. And the key to unleash them stood behind him in the form of a Marine major who held a briefcase full of codes euphemistically called 'The Football'.

President Bush moved his hand slightly, to touch the Bible on the desk.  Rather than his personal Bible, it was itself a reminder of that prior era.  It was the Bible that both he and John Fitzgerald Kennedy had been sworn in on, a symbol of the dual duty and gravity of his position.  Duty, in the old phrase, to God and country.  He wondered briefly back to almost forty years before, when that other president had a similar situation to deal with.  But for Kennedy it had been a war of nerves, not a shooting war.  Bush knew that that same Bible had sat on Kennedy's desk through those dark days, and here it was again.

What would Jesus do?  The answer came to him in a heartbeat. Suffer the children unto me.  Jesus would protect the innocent.

He breathed in slowly, then let it out.  "Arm the links."

"The PALs sir?" General John P. Jumper of the United States Air Force had been born in Paris, Texas, a place not too far from Bush's own stomping grounds, culturally anyway.  Nevertheless, he didn't presume that his bond of heritage with the President gave him any psychic powers with the man.  This was one action that had to come as a clear and direct order.  While waiting for the confirmation, he glanced at the center of the table to the UID.  There was no detectable level of "Undue Influence" of any known type on any personnel in the area.

The President shook his head slightly, annoyed at having to remember technical terms at a time like this.  Then he realized the ambiguity of the motion, and nodded forcefully.  "Yes, that."

General Jumper returned the nod, picked up an STU-4 and dialed a specific number. "This is the National Command Authority, authorizing Permissionable Action Link activation, authorization code Bravo-Echo-Charlie-Oscar-Whiskey-Delta-Hotel-Foxtrot."

"We'll give them until the last minute," the President elaborated. "But one way or another, that fortress does not enter US airspace."

The Air Force general nodded again and added the instructions to the unseen voice on the other side. In Whiteman Air Force Base, Missouri, B-2 strategic bombers tanked up, did their final mid-air circuit and headed east. They would pick up F-22 fighter escorts already waiting for them at Andrews. The men in this room would not see the final conclusion to this exercise, but the repercussions would be felt around the world.

Operation Green Lance, Day 4.
Athlone, Ireland.

The introductions had been brief, but the sense of relief and confidence was a tangible thing as the Rangers deployed throughout the town and surrounding areas, augmenting their Airborne brethren in numbers, equipment and morale. Food and supplies were passed around as many of the soldiers and civilians had their first decent meal in days. Scott had hoped to meet with the Airborne senior commanders, only to find them missing in action.

"And that's the story, Captain," Conners reported. He was the Airborne's senior officer to survive the initial drop and subsequent battle action. "The drop scattered our sticks throughout the valley. It took pretty much all we had to get into the town the way we did."

"You did good, Conners," Scott assured. "The 3rd and the 26th are right behind us. In a couple days, they'll be so many tanks and guns here, the Monolith couldn't crack this place."

"Well, the tricky part's the couple days then."

"Yeah, I hear that." The officers walked into one of the larger houses remaining which had been turned into a makeshift headquarters, complete with maps, communications gear, and marked boards depicting Blue and Opposing Forces. "AirCav's ID'd a majority of their forces in the southern valley forming up. I figure we might have taken about twenty percent of their force back there, but the fist is still out there."

"Any ideas Captain?" The lieutenant felt a mixture of relief and guilt turning things over to Scott. The burden of responsibility was no longer his to worry about, though he did continue to feel some sense of duty to the promises he and his men had made to the people in this town.

"Well, we hit several skirmishes on the way here from Roscommon. They're strong, but not unbeatable. Their biggest weakness is their lack of any real training and a centralized command structure."

"A shame we couldn't just whistle up the Air Force. A couple dozen 16-Charlies dropping a bunch of J-SOWs would sure even things up."

"Well, I won't disagree with that. Unfortunately, the opposition's got a lot of SAM assets so air support's going to be dicey. I've got the 505th wiring the bridges around town, but we're really going to be short on ordinance to do the job right."

"Any chance we can get another supply drop?"

"I've got someone working..."

"Captain, radio," a corporal reported. "I've got CINCLANT on the horn. They say there are no assets they can send sooner than forty-eight hours. They've got the 3rd ACR and the 26th MEU coming, but they can't get here any sooner than that."

Scott turned to Conners. "Well, that answers that. We hold until they get here."

"Excuse me, gentlemen," Grady interrupted with several men behind her. "But, these men would like a word with ye."

Scott and Conners turned and nodded to their hosts. They were a mixture of older and younger men with diverse backgrounds. Their manner was somewhat reticent, but one of the older men stepped forward. "We just wanted to offer our gratitude for what you and yuir men have done so far. Ye can rest assured that we be wantin to fight with ye when the time comes."

"Well, it may come to that, sir," Scott admitted. He didn't like the idea of untrained irregulars fighting in a war, especially when mistakes could cost more than just their lives, but circumstances didn't allow the luxury of picking and choosing and he wanted to be honest with the man. "But I don't want you to worry about that. We're doing everything we can to ensure your safety."

"Well...." The man paused and looked at his comrades. Clearly he wanted to say something, but had doubts on the righteousness of whether he should, but need outweighed caution. "We hear ye be short on munitions."

"It could be better, but we can improvise a few things if we have..."

"Beggin yuir pardon Captain, but perhaps we can help ye in this..."

Operation Green Lance, Day 4.
H.M.S. Devonshire, Type 23 Frigate.
Irish Sea.

"Contact Captain," the radar technician declared. Around him, various surveillance and weapon stations came online and tracked the large flying fortress as it made its way across the Irish Sea.

The British captain took a moment to scan the radar screen, nodded and picked up the radio microphone. "Action stations. White Bishop to Black King, have sighted Elite Fortress headed towards England, requesting authorization to fire."

On the other side of the radio channel, senior military and political officials tensely looked at each other and nodded. "Black King to White Bishop, authorization granted, take the target out."

"Roger that," the captain acknowledged and turned to the crew. "Weapons authorized prepare to fire." Outside the CIC, several missile banks turned towards the incoming fortress and pulled their protective covers away. Inside the CIC, the weapons officer turned a set of keys, arming the warheads. "On my count...5...4...3...2...1...fire!"

Outside, the bank of missiles emptied the launcher, sending four Harpoon-class missiles streaking into the night sky. "Missiles away. Time to target, two minutes."

"Sir!" the radar technician interrupted. "Contact from the bandit! She's dropping objects in the water!"

The captain yanked the 1-MC off the hook and spoke quickly and tersely. "Now here this, all hands, torpedo, torpedo, torpedo." He turned to the helm, who was already anticipating the next order. "Come hard starboard, increase to flank."

"All ahead flank, coming right course two-zero-two!" Outside, the ship began to lean hard to the left as the wake behind it came to a boil.

"Tracking torpedo now, bearing two-eight-niner, closing fast. Impact sixty seconds!"

"Course now one-eight-zero!"

"Increase to full," the captain ordered.

"All ahead full!" the helmsman confirmed as the ship surged forward.

"Torpedo impact now eighty seconds!"

"Missiles still on course, time on target, one minute, twenty seconds."

"Launch decoys," the captain ordered.

Outside the ship, a set of tubes opened and fired several cans that began to spin and spew bubbles in the water. "Decoys away." As tense seconds ticked off, men throughout the ship sealed the bulkheads and braced for impact.

"Torpedoes still inbound, they punched right through the decoys."

"All hands, brace!" The order was punctuated by the shudder and shock of the torpedo's impact as a powerful explosion rocked the entire boat. Underwater, the screws came apart as the driveshafts' own momentum tore itself apart, causing secondary explosions in the engine room and flooding the rear compartments.

"Torpedo impact on the stern, we're taking on water!"

"Sir, missiles have impacted on target's force fields, minimal damage!"

"Copy all this to the Admiralty, urgent," the captain ordered. "Missiles ineffective, have sustained torpedo impact and sinking." He then picked up the 1-MC and announced, "All hands, this is the captain, abandon ship, repeat abandon ship."

Operation Green Lance, Day 4.
H.M.S. Invincible, British Aircraft Carrier.
Irish Sea.

"Right," the communications officer confirmed before hanging up and turning to the command staff behind him. "Negative impact on missiles, bandit is still coming." Outside, several flights of Sea Harrier SA2s lifted off the deck as two large Chinook SAR choppers lifted off and headed west to assist the Devonshire's crew.

"Well, it appears our American friends were correct in that assertion; very well, we'll do it the old-fashioned way." He lifted up the 1-MC and issued orders to the CAG. "This is the Captain, it appears that force field is blocking missile shots. Engage the target with guns."

Overhead, Captain John Patrick swore quietly along with several members of the air wing. Guns meant getting close and personal with the bogey rather than engaging from far away. But orders were orders and Patrick knew the fleet commander wouldn't have issued them without good reason. "Now hear this gentlemen, you heard the man. Switch all systems to guns and let's get close. Squadron 102, form up on my wing. Squadron 82, left flank, take out those thrusters."

On the bridge of the carrier, flag officers and enlisted alike watched the battle play out on the ship's radar and sensor systems. The screen did the count like some morbid gladiatorial game of death as the planes dropped off the monitor one by one to the fortress' defenses. The radio speakers provided the audio of men giving orders, calling out targets and the cries for help just before the sounds of static denoted another lost connection. Over the horizon, the carriers support ships launched missiles, doing what they could to support the effort. As the minutes and casualties dragged on however, the fortress' speed began to slow noticeably as the damage began to slowly mount.

"Target has decreased speed to subsonic and is losing altitude."

"Sink you bastard," the XO muttered under his breath as the captain nodded.

"Continue bombardment," the captain ordered. "Let's finish the job."

Operation Green Lance, Day 5.
Athlone, Ireland.

In the town of Athlone, activity was no less frantic as soldiers and townsman alike moved to secure supplies and positions for the imminent raid they were all expecting. Inside the command post, Scott, Fredrickson, Conners and several other lieutenants went over details with the town's senior men.

"Aye, that was old man O'Connell's farm," a town elder confirmed on a map. "That was before the bastards burned it to the ground, trying to starve us out."

"Well, it's flat ground now, which means there's no cover to move across," Conners grimaced. "If we do, they'll probably come after us."

"What are you thinking Captain? Artillery again?" Fredrickson asked.

"Naw, they won't fall for that a second time; at least, not the same way. They're sure to send out reconnaissance this time. Tell me sir, does that farm have any kind of irrigation system?"

"Well, sure; a very good one, in fact," the elder confirmed. "A fat lot of good it's going to do now though."

"It very well might, if O'Connell doesn't mind sacrificing it," Scott elaborated as he started to make marks on the map plates. As he did so, he constantly reminded himself what his goal was. He didn't have to defeat the enemy entirely; just hold them off for another two days. That meant a lot of sting and move warfare, but he didn't have the luxury of choosing the battlegrounds, since he couldn't leave the town. So he had to do his best to make the Elite's attempt to gain ground as slow and painful as possible. That meant denying the enemy intelligence and killing the enemy's commander if possible. He then turned to a walkie-talkie and called the Airborne troops he had sent along with some of the village elders. "How's it coming Olsen?"

"Our friends weren't kidding around, that's for sure," Sergeant Olsen voice cracked over the comm-link. "They've got a few hundred AKs, ammo, rockets and enough Composition-4 to blow up Parliament if you know what I mean."

"Well, I guess there really is a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow," Scott noted with a deceptively light tone. Behind him, several villagers looked at each other with meaningful looks and silently hoped they had not misjudged the man.

"Luck of the Irish, huh?" Fredrickson muttered as he looked at his hosts with no attempt to conceal what he really felt.

"Maybe," Scott admitted. "But C4 can do a lot if it's used right. How much Willie-Pete do we have?"

"Fifty, maybe sixty grenades I think. That and 26th's got some in their anti-personnel rockets."

"Start having the 26th unload them, they're not going to do much good against those Trolls anyway." He turned to the villagers. "OK, we're going to need as much gasoline or petrol as you can spare. We also need as many steel nuts and bolts as you've got."

"Nuts and bolts?" a villager asked with confusion. "As in hardware store nuts and bolts?"

"Yeah, those. I'm going to assume you probably don't have any 10.5 grain ball bearings, so we're going to improvise. Conners, get with Lieutenant Excelly with the 505th. Tell them we're going to need about...a dozen or so No. 2 caps." Scott went back to the map board and made some marks around the open plains that surrounded the town. "I want Alpha Company positioned on this ridge over the river leading to the lake, Bravo takes the southeast flank, and Charlie is our backup. Conners, who's your best sniper?"

"That'd be Corporal Hicks, Baker Company."

"OK, get him in that tower in the center of town with a thirty and about a thousand rounds. Tell him he's looking for a glass-domed robot with a brain in the case."

"Sure, but you don't figure they're going to bring their leader out near the town do you?" Conners asked skeptically.

"On their own, probably not. But they will once he loses his recon. I'm going to be taking Fox Company into that farm and we're going to set up our little surprise for them. Once they take the bait, we'll draw him out." Conners nodded but still looked doubtful. Under ordinary circumstances, Scott would have shared his reservations. Normally, the commander would probably be in the rear of the engagement, but he reminded himself what the SAS and Green Berets had told him, along with his own observations. The Elite commanders had their intelligence programmed into them, rather than acquiring from experience. That and they had a hell of lot of arrogance; they thought they were the kings of the hill and everything was going to go their way. They also tended to get frustrated and impatient when they didn't.

"So basically, chop their eyes, pull'em in the sack and then scorch'em?" Fredrickson noted. He had more experience in Scott's methodology and knew what to look for.

"That's the idea Fred; let's use that pompous attitude of theirs."

"What about us, Captain?" one of the elders asked. "Are ye be wanting us anywhere in this plan of yours?"

Scott hesitated for a few moments. He really didn't want civilians in the battlefield, but his men were really stretched thin. "I'd like most of your people in town, in case we have to fall back. Start passing around those AKs and LAWs. I'll have Lieutenant Mitchell coordinate with your people. If you've got a couple who know the land really well, I can assign them to some of the groups setting things up, but I have to stress that whoever goes follows orders from the company commander. If you have any doubts they can do that, then they're best advised to stay here."

The elder nodded. "I think we can find a few reliable fellows."

"Right." Scott then turned and faced the group. "OK, it's 6:00pm. Latest word from CINCLANT is the 3rd's expected in about eighteen hours, so no heroics. We give up land, but not blood. We're not here to beat them all by ourselves, so don't take any unnecessary risks. We're here to buy time, so make sure you have your escapes plotted. Dismissed." The assembled men filed out, leaving Scott and Fredrickson alone. "What's on your mind Fred?"

"Permission to speak freely sir," Fredrickson demurred.

"Always."

"Sir, it's not appropriate for you to lead Fox Company. You're still thinking like a company commander. But right now, until CINCLANT can get a flag officer here, you're the brigade commander. What's more, the citizens in town and the men are looking to you for leadership. One more rifle in that APC isn't going to make things easier. But one man here can make the difference."

"So you're asking me to stay behind while I send men into harm's way?"

"No one's questioning your guts sir. But the men need a leader with more smarts than guts. Your plan's going to need coordination and timing. Someone's got to call the shots and keep things going if the enemy doesn't act according to plan."

Scott sighed and spent several seconds considering what his old friend had told him. Fredrickson was right of course; but he didn't think making that choice would be so hard. Courage was easy when it was just your own life. It got a lot harder when you were responsible for the lives of your men and the population of the town. But ignoring his responsibility wasn't going to make it any easier. "Tell Lieutenant Mitchell he's in charge of Fox Company. I'll assign Sergeant Drake to coordinate with the townspeople."

"Aye-aye, sir," Fredrickson saluted and left Scott alone in the post. He looked at the maps and markers on the board, along with the reconnaissance photos taken by their Air Calvary. It was a good plan, he told himself. It should work. But it was an age-old truism: No plan survived first contact with the enemy.

Operation Green Lance, Day 5.
Admiral Ushakov, 1144.2 Kirov class missile cruiser.
Russian Northern Fleet.
North Sea, 90 miles west of Oslo.

Admiral Nikolai Alexeevich Golovin watched the fortress from over the horizon with controlled fear, which he quickly suppressed. A large part of his trepidation was tactical; damn the shortsighted cost-cutting bureaucrats for canceling the Kuznetsov! Were it not for those corrupt self-serving politicians, the new carrier flag ship CV Kuznetsov-1 would have deployed last year, but they decided that funding their dachas was more important.

So now, he was left with the rag-tag remnants of what was once a proud and mighty fleet, and this fleet of mostly draftee young boys fighting on outdated and aging ships were facing a threat that no one could have anticipated. Like most of the senior allied commanders, he had been warned that missiles would not stop this enemy and that the best weapons were individually, rapid firing weapons such as Vulcan Cannons or Gattling Guns. Unfortunately, without a proper aircraft carrier, his only air support was coming from his country's Air Force. And while he had no doubt that his comrades in the Air Force would do their best, hard cold reality dictated that their fuel endurance would prevent them from being able to take effective action until the fortress was over the continent, and that was unacceptable.

"61st IAP Air Regiment is converging on the target. Estimate engagement in 90 seconds."

"Have all ships lock onto the target and prepare to fire missiles. It may have force fields, but perhaps we can overwhelm them with the help of our pilots' efforts."

It took several seconds as radar and communications specialists relayed the commands and orders to the planes and other ships. Golovin nodded and smiled despite his earlier doubts. His countrymen, most of them only boys, were giving it their all. Regardless of the result, he was proud of their patriotism. If only their government was worthy of such trust.

"Admiral, 61st has engaged the enemy."

"All ships, fire missiles!"

The air around the fortress came alive as missile fire from the Russian Northern Fleet and Mig-29s from the 61st IAP Regiment assaulted the imposing giant like a swarm of angry bees. In response to the assault, several gun ports around the perimeter of the fortress began to open fire with laser beams, swatting the defenders like flies. The radio traffic became chaotic as orders competed with the sounds of explosions and cries of men. They found themselves unprepared against an enemy that threatened to widen a conflict that was already consuming the world.

Operation Green Lance, Day 5.
Athlone, Ireland.

Lieutenant Peter Mitchell's eyes narrowed as the farm building came into view. Surrounding him were the Rangers of Foxtrot Company, several members of the 82nd, a handful of young men from the village and an old man who had been identified as O'Connell. A six-year veteran, Mitchell was serving his third year with the Rangers, but this was his first time as a company commander in wartime. Like Scott, he knew he had to step up to the plate and do the job that was normally done by more senior officers. Unlike Scott, he never served as an enlisted man, opting for the Army ROTC while in college. A bespectacled bookish looking young man with a reputation of being an intellectual, he had surprised many drill instructors with his amazing endurance on long runs.

"Target in sight, Lieutenant," Sergeant Jacobs' voice crackled over the radio link.

"Acknowledged Sarge," Mitchell replied as his APC bounced on the dried and once-fertile farmland. He quietly flexed his fingers and hoped that the other members of the squad couldn't see his jitters. Whether it was a platoon, a company or a battalion, a commander always had to project an aura of confidence, regardless what he really felt. Even with men as experienced as the Rangers or the Airborne, who probably knew better, most of them were willing to give their commanders the benefit of the doubt as long as their commander made the effort. He wondered if Captain Scott was feeling the same doubts; he sure wasn't showing it. The men were all expressing great confidence in him, which had been a big factor in their success so far. But then, he was a mustang, so he had his experiences as an enlisted sergeant to draw from.

The lurch of the APC's stopping brought Mitchell out of his reverie and brought him back to reality. He turned to O'Connell and asked "Last chance sir, are you sure you're willing to do this?"

The old man shuddered and closed his eyes. The farm had been in his family for generations and it had broken his heart to evacuate when the Elite's forces decimated it days ago. The soldiers had been a mixed blessing. On the one hand, they had saved his family, his friends and the town he called home. But what they were asking now was a price he couldn't have imagined. In the end however, it came down to one thing: payback. "Yes...I'm ready. Do what you must."

Mitchell nodded and gave the orders to move out. As the soldiers deployed from the APCs, he found himself admiring O'Connell's resolve; clearly the decision hadn't been easy. Now it was up to him to make sure his sacrifice wasn't in vain. In the next few frantic minutes, groups of soldiers carried tanks of gasoline into what was left of the farm house as others began to plant the prepared satchels around the perimeter of the property. As expected, electricity had been cut off, so some of the Specialists ran power cabling into the house from one of the APC generators as Airborne soldiers kept careful watch over the horizon for incoming Elite forces. The plan would be sacrificing a perfectly good APC, but if it worked, the Elite would be losing a lot more.

Borisoglebsk, Delta IV-class SSBN.
Russian Northern Fleet.
100 meters below the North Sea, 65 miles west of Oslo.

"The battle goes poorly Captain," the XO reported as he listened in on the VLF radio channels. They were at the bottom end of being able to receive radio messages; any lower and they'd be restricted to ELF communications only.

"What is the enemy's position?" Captain Tupolov asked as he looked over the navigational charts on the flat table.

"Enemy continues south east and will be over the Norwegian coast in less than twenty minutes," the senior chief reported.

"Unlike the British and the Americans, we don't have the naval air assets to attack the fortress before it makes landfall," the XO noted coldly. "Our comrades in the Air Force will soon be running out of fuel. They cannot maintain this tempo of combat."

Tupolov grimaced as the bridge crew aboard the submarine looked at each other with doubts and fears. The news had already arrived to the Russian command staff on how the British had done against the first fortress. Although it was supposed to be kept from the enlisted men, there were no secrets aboard a ship at sea. Yeomen and radiomen had to take the messages to their commanders and talk inevitably came out. The initially tally from the British was staggering; seven missile cruisers, forty-seven Harrier SA2s and one of their much-vaunted aircraft carriers had paid the price to finally bring the behemoth down. And while none of the politicians would publicly admit it, to the man, the Russian crew knew that their ships and planes were no match for the British or the American fleets.

"Mr. Kamerov, take us to launch depth," Tupolov ordered his XO.

"Captain, what are you thinking?" the political officer asked fearfully, not wanting to know the answer.

"What we have to do to save the Motherland," Tupolov coldly replied. "If we cannot stop this fortress before it reaches Moscow, then what is happening in Ireland will soon be spread across Russia. And before I allow that to happen, I will do what I have to."

"Captain...think about what you're doing!" the political officer beseeched. "I agree that we may have to consider such options, but we cannot launch without approval from Moscow!"

"We don't have time, Yuri!" Kamerov snarled. "By the time we got approval, the fortress will be over land. And do you really want to explain to the Netherlands countries why we had to nuke their countries because of bureaucratic red-tape?" Goddamned zampolit couldn't even see past the end of this nose, even when the world was at stake!

"This is madness!" the political officer sweated. "You cannot be serious!"

"Yuri, your missile key, please," Tupolov ordered.

"I will not be a party to thi--!" The political officer's objection was cut short by the sound of a pistol being cocked from behind him.

"The Captain has given you an order, Yuri," the senior chief emphasized while holding a Russian 7.62-mm PSS pointed at the officer's head. There was several long seconds of silence as the tension in the bridge increased several notches.

"You will never command a submarine again, Comrade," the political officer replied coldly as he removed a small key from around his neck.

"If we live that long, I will gladly accept that fate," Tupolov acknowledged. After the political officer was led away, he turned to the rest of the bridge crew. "If any of you feel you cannot follow this course of action, you are free to leave. Nothing will be said and no one will think less of you." He waited for several seconds, half-expecting the bridge to be emptied. But he was a good captain and the rest of the crew could see the logic in his action, unorthodox though his method had been.

"60 meters and hovering, Captain," the helmsman recited, giving his implied reply along with the status update. "We're at launch depth and holding."

"Now hear this," Tupolov called into the submarine's intercom. "Stand by for SBN launch. We are going to take the enemy out and save the Motherland. Spin up missiles one and two, and prepared to fire." He didn't bother to mention that his orders were not an exercise. To do so under these circumstances would have been an insult to the men's intelligence and professionalism.

"Captain, I have a firing solution on the enemy," the weapons officer reported.

"Lock solution into the computer," Tupolov acknowledged. "Stand by to arm warheads." With that, he handed the political officer's missile key to Kamerov, who proceeded to insert it into the panel across the room. At the count of three, both men turned their keys, turning the tips of the missiles from hardened metal into weapons that the world had feared for the last sixty years. The rest would be an exercise in physics, but in a manner that no one could have anticipated.

Operation Green Lance, Day 5.
NORAD.
Cheyenne Mountain, Colorado.

"Missile launch--repeat, missile launch detected!"

All eyes in the nerve center of the North American Aerospace Defense instantly locked onto the real-time satellite display showing an unmistakable visual and audio signal denoting a submarine-launched missile. With the air battle against the Russians over the North Sea going poorly, there was only one possible payload on the missile.  Everyone who was watching had anticipated and dreaded this moment.

"Order Looking Glass to stand to maximum alert and stand by," Major General Sullivan ordered as his hands shook. Ten years ago, such a launch would have probably denoted the end of life on Earth. The good news, if he could call it that, was that no one here seriously thought that the Russians were really going to attack the U.S. right now, but as the saying went, there were no points for second place and Sullivan didn't get promoted to General by taking chances. He picked up the Red telephone and placed another call and hoped he wasn't Mankind's final messenger.

Operation Green Lance, Day 5.
NEACP.
Somewhere over the Appalachian Mountains.

President George W Bush nodded grimly as he and the Joint Chiefs listened to the latest development onboard the National Emergency Airborne Command Post. A converted Boeing 747, it afforded the best possible defense to the National Command Authority while enabling him to conduct a war. It wouldn't do the rest of the East Coast much good, but now wasn't the time for guilty feelings.

The onboard video screens provided a copy of the satellite imagery that tracked two Russian submarine-launched missiles converging on the target. The no-smoking signs were being ignored for the moment as members of the executive staff each did their individual best to keep calm under the worst of conditions. Next to the center chair, a speakerphone was active as several people listened to the response.

"No, Mr. President, I can assure you that we have not given any such order to release nuclear weapons," assured a disembodied voice whose accent didn't mask the tension on the on the other end of another intercontinental communications link.

"You'll forgive me if I have reason to doubt that, Mr. Putin."  By protocol, the President addressed himself to the Premier himself, rather than the nameless translator involved in the international communications process.

"Yes, I understand. But please realize that whoever has launched those missiles has done so without authority. We are in the process of identifying the culprit and will take appropriate measures."

Around the conference table, several military advisors did their best to avoid snorting with derision. Like that would make much difference. Even the new President, inexperienced though he may have been, immediately recognized the stupidity of such bureaucratic assurances. Still, such measures had been discussed in the emergency UN meeting not long ago. And with the air battle going poorly for the Russians, this move wasn't entirely unjustified. Tensions around the table began to wane as the missiles got closer and closer to the fortress; while a nuke was certainly drastic, no one around this table would object if the fortress was indeed the target. Diplomatic apologies could be couched later.

"What the...?" the communications specialist exclaimed as the screen went abruptly out and replaced with video snow.

"What happened to the picture?" one of the Joint Chiefs demanded.

"Something's fried the satellite feed to NORAD," the specialist explained.

"Mr. President, we've lost the feed here too sir," a disembodied voice from Cheyenne Mountain agreed. "Wait one, we have a KH-12 coming into range in a few minutes."

The screen flickered and blinked as the next satellite came into range. The faces around the table went pale as the picture came into view.

"Oh my dear God..." the President muttered. Before him was a massive explosion unlike anything seen before on Earth. The radius covered nearly fifty miles, including the coastlines of Norway, Sweden and Denmark."

"Reading heavy gamma radiation," a detached voice reported. It was a common defense mechanism when dealing with matters of horror. "We're not reading any unusual magnetic flux however."

"Mr. President, this is highly unusual for a nuclear event," a new voice reported. A quiet inquiry identified the voice as Dr. Lovell Parsons from the NEST. "Spectroscopic scanners aren't picking up any transuranic elements and the thermal signature is inconsistent with a multi-stage weapon of this type."

"Dr. Parsons, what the hell does that imply?" the President asked, relieving the rest of his staff from the need for a dumbed-down explanation.

"Mr. President, I can't be absolutely certain because the models we're dealing with are entirely theoretical up to this point. But it's my belief that what we're witnessing is not a nuclear detonation, but a matter-antimatter conversion event."

There was a long pause as each member of the assembly came to their conclusions, as each man's background would allow. "The fortress?"

"That would be my guess as well Mr. President."

"Thank you doctor." The President then turned to his staff, whose faces looked even more ashen than before. "What does this mean for us?"

"It means we'd better nuke that last one now before it gets any closer to the US!" Army General Eric Shinseki declared.

"There's no way we can be sure what will happen!" said General Jumper of the Air Force. "For all we know, the last one may have an explosion so big it may wipe out everything!"

"Dr. Parsons, is there any way to tell if the last fortress will have a similar effect?" the President asked.

"Unfortunately not," the disembodied voice replied. "Matter-antimatter is the purest form of matter-energy conversion known to science. Even a small amount of antimatter could result in an explosion that dwarfs anything we've seen. We're actually quite fortunate that the one in the Netherlands was as small as it was."

"That was small?" another disembodied voice exclaimed incredulously.  It was the first sound over Vice President Cheney's comm link in nearly an hour.

"Yes, Mr. Vice President. One kilogram of antimatter could, in theory, result in an explosive force of forty megatons. As for how big this last fortress would result, there's just no way to tell. It would depend on how much antimatter the fortress was holding. And if we were off by even ten grams in our estimates, the explosive radius could vary by several miles."

"And if the fortress has a lot? Say...a pound or so? What kind of damage would we be talking about?"

"That explosion represented about a pound, Mr President.  But according to intelligence estimates, these fortresses use antimatter for their operations as needed, and their configuration could accommodate production and storage of up to one hundred kilos at a time.  And if that storage were breached... it would be Armageddon, Mr. President. There's no other way to say it."

President Bush glanced reflexively at the Bible.  Having had a classical education, he could have phrased that statement a number of more appropriate ways.  It didn't matter, though - the storm of opinions was whirling around him now.

"Then we have to defeat the fortress with conventional weapons!" the Air Force general said. "The British proved it could be done!"

"Yes, but at the cost of their entire fleet!" Admiral Vern Clark of the United States Navy retorted. "Are we planning on sacrificing the entire Atlantic Fleet?"

"If the alternative is Armageddon...!"

"We don't know that!"

For several more seconds, voices shouted back and forth, all sides presenting arguments that were logical, passionate, and, in their own ways, correct. If the fortress didn't have a large antimatter reserve, then destroying it with a nuclear weapon was certainly safer. But if it did, then a nuke would result in far greater catastrophe. On the other hand, the fortresses had already demonstrated their abilities to defend themselves; engaging them with conventional weapons would surely results in the lost of thousands of servicemen and women. Finally, if the heroes and military could defeat the Elite's forces in Ireland and the Celestial Keep, then perhaps the fortress could be brought down on its own. But if they failed or were defeated, then not stopping the fortress would result in the death of millions of American citizens. Every choice was fraught with peril and any mistake would result in the death of thousands if not millions.

The President pondered every choice, all the while telling himself that he had wanted this position. He had to keep reminding himself to keep from shaking.

All his training and experience urged him to cut past the arguments to the basics.  It all hinged on the question of how much antimatter was in the approaching fortress.  He motioned for silence, then addressed the scientist.  "Dr Parsons, can the Protectorate give us an estimate of the amount of antimatter?"

"The Monolith has not responded to our request for a scan of the fortress, Mr. President.  It appears to be quite busy with something."

President Bush grunted a response, then corrected himself to give the scientist an audible acknowledgement.  He turned to the assembled advisors.

"Gentlemen. Right now, our forces in Ireland are holding out against the Elite's forces for control of that island's central city. In the Celestial Keep, metahuman heroes from around the world are gathered and fighting for our freedom. If they can defeat the Elite, then the fortress will be stopped once and for all, with no further loss. And if they have the faith and the courage to stand between us and the Elite, then we have to have faith in them. Any less would be unworthy of their trust and courage."

"What if our forces can't hold out?"

The President paused and nodded. Idealism was fine, but they all lived in the real world. They needed a backup plan, and a backup for the backup.  "The most likely case is that each fortress has the same size power plant.  So they should explode similarly.  Have Ghost Rider hold position one hundred miles off the coast. If the fortress crosses two hundred and fifty miles, then send in the Nimitz fleet. If the Nimitz can't stop it, then we'll do what we have to."

Operation Green Lance, Day 5.
Athlone, Ireland.

"Incoming!"

Mitchell snapped to attention as he picked up his walkie-talkie. "This is Mitchell, report!"

"Enemy recon forces in sight and closing! Count forty Flamataurs and eighty Lancers, estimated contact in ten minutes!"

"Alright, wrap it up guys, let's get out of here!" Mitchell ordered. Around him, Rangers and Airborne troops finished their preparations and ran back towards their assigned transports as one of the men started up the APC closest to the farmhouse. After confirming that onboard generator was working properly, he then ran back to another APC as quickly as he could. Once the last of the personnel had boarded, Mitchell then switched channels. "Start those sprinklers and let's move out!"

Centurion 527.150 smiled evilly as he watched the scene through the eyes of his subordinates. So, the foolish humans had dared to wander away from the relative protection of the village. Well, all the easier to eliminate them. With a thought, he ordered his reconnaissance forces to converge on the farm. The Flamataurs took lead, but the Lancers were right behind them. All were eager for the first kill. In the back of their minds, Centurion 527.150 reminded them to try and retrieve a few of the humans alive; he wanted to have a chance to interrogate them before tossing their ravaged bodies to his troops for their enjoyment.

"My Lord, the farm is in sight. The humans seem to have reactivated the water sprinklers."

"Surely such an insignificant amount of water will pose no threat," Centurion 527.150 noted confidently.

"Of course not, My Lord," the lead Flamataur snarled.

With that decided, the formation closed up and dove from the sky. The humans had evidently seen them and were trying to pull back into the mountains, but they were too far away. It would be a competition between the recon units on who could kill the most; several of their number had died in the previous surprise ambush. Now it would be their pleasure to avenge their deaths at the ignorant plebeians. So intent were they on the thrill of the kill, none of them even noticed the unusual odor coming from the farm's sprinklers; it wasn't until the first Flamataur's flaming aura touched down that they realized that something was wrong.

The heat from the explosion was so fierce Mitchell had to shield his face to avoid getting a flash burn. The gasoline being pumped through the sprinklers exploded and erupted from the prepared tanks as the white-hot auras of the Flamataur auras ignited the gasoline and set off the white phosphorus charges set throughout the farmland's grounds. Had they been humans, they would have been vaporized so fast, it would have been almost merciful. Being enhanced metahumans in this case only prolonged their pain.

"That fire's doing a number on the Lancers, but it might not work against the Flamataurs, Lieutenant," one of the villagers pointed out.

"It's not the fire they have to worry about, sir," Mitchell assured the villager.

"Get out of there at once!" Centurion 527.150 angrily ordered. How dare those inferior creatures interfere like that! "Find them and punish them!"

"At once," the Flamataurs acknowledged. Their manner was cold and emotionless as the Lancers erupted and burned to cinders around them. Theirs was not to question or debate, only to obey. As one, they gathered and headed south to the last seen location of the fleeing troops. Because of the thick smoke and flames, not a single one saw the lumps half-buried in the ground in front of them until the first one hit the prepared trip wires.

The villagers all flinched at the sight; it was an awful thing to behold as the composition-4 explosive satchels each propelled ten pounds of steel shrapnel with lethal force out to over a hundred yards in overlapping groups. It had been easier for the experienced Rangers who had seen similar results in Somalia, Kosovo and most recently in Macedonia, but no less palatable.

"Sandman, Foxtrot, eyes are closed," Mitchell reported into his walkie-talkie.

"Acknowledge Fox, good job. Alpha, report," Scott said into his walkie-talkie.

"Enemy troops are on the move, heading north-northwest," the company commander reported. "Looks like torching their recon's got them riled up."

"That's the general idea," Scott nodded. "Artillery battalion, stand by..."

Centurion 527.150 fumed and snarled as he ordered his ground forces north to invade the village. With the loss of his reconnaissance company, he was now essentially blind. He had tried to contact the Elite fortress for overheads, but they had apparently been redeployed to the human capital cities and were unavailable for local action. Two of them had actually been destroyed leaving only one that was heading to the United States. He was gratified to hear that the Americans would soon feel the wrath of the Elite, but with no more overhead fortresses, he couldn't see the enemy's position. And the main Celestial Keep had failed to respond; apparently some metahuman intruders were fighting against the Elite core members.

Well, he would have to make do. The humans couldn't possibly oppose his forces for long. Yes, they had caught him off guard with the farm, and yes, losing his reconnaissance units would make things hard on the Trolls. But they were only humans.

"Sir, more rockets," one of the Bushido units said as he pointed to now-familiar streaks of smoke and fire arcing through the sky.

"Fools..." Centurion 527.150 gloated. "They're trajectory is off this time; they're firing too far back. Have all units advance into the valley. They will not find us such easy targets this time."

"Sandman, Bravo, they're coming north!"

"As well they should," Scott nodded. They were using a variant of traditional Soviet doctrine. And it wasn't bad doctrine, but Scott and the other Rangers already knew it. And now the teeth of the enemy's forces were heading straight into the valley that led into the village. It was the fastest way through the mountains, but it was also the lowest point in the range.

"Alpha, are you in position?"

"Sandman, we're in position. Charges are in place and set."

"Sky-1, Sandman, how close are they?"

Flying low through the valley, a small group of OH-58D Kiowa scout choppers skimmed the mountaintops over the valley. Not as heavily armed as the Apaches, the Kiowa's made up for that with their agility and speed. Inside, the pilots looked down, made their count, and then darted back behind the mountain before the enemy could draw a bead.

"Sandman, Sky-1, estimate CPA in ten minutes. Be aware that the enemy has split off to a flank heading east-northeast."

"Sandman acknowledges." Scott turned around and made a new set of markings on his overhead map. So the enemy wasn't completely dumb after all. He was splitting his forces up to try and outflank his defenses by circling around the valley and coming across the river that fed the nearby lake to the northeast of town. He would have to call up some forces to plug the hole. "Echo-1, Sandman, have some action headed your way. Stand by on those charges."

Operation Green Lance, Day 5.
U.S.S. Nimitz, CTF-73.
Atlantic Ocean, 260 miles from the coast.

"Eagle-1 to base, we have the enemy in sight."

The fortress seemed to hang in the air like a giant ugly Christmas ornament before the fighter-attack planes that converged on their targets. A mixture of F/A-18s, F-14Ds, E-2Cs and EA-6Bs, they were the tip of the lance for the US Navy's Carrier Task Force. Surrounding the carrier itself were two full squadrons of destroyers and missile cruisers. In the command deck, Admiral Jay Johnson waited with anticipation as the telex printer produced the updated orders from the National Command Authority. Once it finished, the yeoman pulled it loose and handed the order for him to sign. As expected, he then went straight to the main intercom. "Now hear this, all ships, all planes, we have received final order to engage and destroy the bandit. Weapons are free at this time, I repeat, weapons free."

Like the sound of a starter's gun, the planes and ships released their firepower as one, unleashing a fusillade of firepower against the imposing enemy. They had been fully briefed before the battle; both about the British casualties and the potential for destruction if they didn't bring this enemy down. With the former in mind, the naval aviators each gave it their all. As a matter of pride, naval pilots saw it as an opportunity to gain an important win against their rivals in the Air Force. But as human beings, they all knew the price that was at stake if the Air Force was forced to deploy its final solution.

Operation Green Lance, Day 5.
Athlone, Ireland.

The night brought no rest as the Elite continued to press towards the village. The Rangers were trained and equipped to fight at night, but the villagers were not, which cut into some of the combat power Scott could bring to bear. The good news was that casualties had been remarkably light up to this point; only a small group of villagers had been caught out in the open when the flanking enemy Trolls had turned unexpectedly towards the river. The bad news was, clever though his plans had been, the enemy was getting closer and closer to the village as time went and tricks and traps could only go so far. Sooner or later, he would have to offer battle or withdraw from the village. With a few more lucky breaks, he was getting ready to do the former with the 3rd ACR by his side.

"Alpha, Sandman, how close?"

"Any second now, stand by..." At the top of the cliff, Olsen kept a careful watch at the approaching Troll formation as they got closer and closer to the mouth of the canyon. Once clear, it would be a straight road to the village. It was their job to see that they would never see it. "Fire in the hole!" he warned as he activated the prepared charges, causing a large rockslide to drop into the valley, closing off the exit to the canyon for the foreseeable future. The Trolls barely had time to back away from the avalanche when a second explosion four miles south of them rocked the entrance to the canyon, sealing them into the valley. Ordinarily, the Rangers would have followed through by delivering large amounts of ordinance into the fire sack to finish them off. But in this case, no one could be sure if grenades and rockets would actually harm the Trolls, and the use of explosives had the risk of opening the valley again. In any event, it would be hours for the Trolls to climb out on their own, and by then, the battle would be over.

"What do you mean trapped?" Centurion 527.150 snarled. "Port them out of there!"

"Sir, the Celestial Keep is not responding and the remaining fortresses are unavailable. Without the reconnaissance units, we have no more air-mobile units available."

Centurion 527.150 howled at the absurdity of it all. It just wasn't possible for him to lose to mere humans! How could this have come to pass?

Operation Green Lance, Day 5.
Forward Command Station.
Ballina, Ireland.

"No doubt about it, Bob, your boy's got some beautiful moves," General Rodgers nodded with admiration as the senior officers watched the satellite overheads.

Behind him, an injured major nodded despite his wounds. "Told you he's the best, sir. General Peterson personally asked him to transfer out of Delta two years ago to take over 75th Bravo Company and SOCOM has him on their short list for major."

"Well, he's got my vote," Rodgers nodded and smiled. It wasn't every day that one got to look brilliant with the entire world watching. A victory here would mean that nuclear retaliation would be far less likely to be necessary, and for delivering victories of this magnitude, one had to take care of the people who made that possible. "Hell, the new President's probably going to want to meet this young man if things turn out well." He turned back to the table maps and updated several markers. "What's the latest word from the 3rd?"

"They're just twenty miles south of Roscommon and making a speed run down the main road. Reports are coming in that resistance is virtually nil. Apparently, the action in Athlone pulled all the Elite's assets into the area. They've got no flank to speak of. We estimate contact in less than an hour."

"Alert the NCA. Let's give him the good news."

Operation Green Lance, Day 5.
NEACP.
Somewhere over the Appalachian Mountains.

"What's the latest word from the Nimitz?"

"At last report, they're doing damage, but not enough, Mr. President," Admiral Clark admitted. "They're passing 150 miles from the coast and still coming."

"Mr. President, Ghost Rider is in position and requests instructions," Air Force General Jumper said.

President George W Bush sighed heavily and nodded. Once again, he listened for the small voice of wisdom, but he heard only the mutterings of his senior staff.  Lord, please guide me, he prayed.  But there was no reasonable option.

"Deploy..."

The Air Force General nodded and picked up an STU-4. "This is NCA to Ghost Rider, bomb release is go, say again, bomb release is go!"

"Ghost Rider acknowledges," replied the robotic voice. "Time on target, two minutes."

"Mr. President, we're receiving FLASH traffic from the NMCC!" a communications technician declared, catching the attention of the entire room. "CINCLANT is reporting that the central city in Ireland is now secure!"

"Mr. President," called a second technician. "We're also reporting video confirmation that Autocrat has fallen in battle against the heroes!" This announcement brought about immediate cheers by the senior military staff, which was quickly interrupted by rapid calls into the STU-4.

With a profound sense of relief, Bush stood and commanded, "Stop it."

"Ghost Rider, this is NCA, abort missile! Repeat, abort missile, acknowledge immediately!" General Jumper ordered.

Operation Green Lance, Day 5.
Atlantic Ocean, 110 miles from the coast.

"Ghost Rider acknowledges abort," the pilot replied tersely as the co-pilot reached down to the weapons controls that tracked and controlled the missile. After a quick nod to confirm the decision from the pilot, the co-pilot pressed a button then checked the status display. His face turned pale and he shook his head.

"Try again," the pilot ordered urgently.

"It's not working," the co-pilot replied, with fear rising in his voice. "Oh shit, it must be the interference from the fortress!"

"This is Ghost Rider, we have a serious problem! The missile will not abort!" the pilot reported urgently into the communicator. "Repeat, missile will not abort!"

Operation Green Lance, Day 5.
NEACP.
Somewhere over the Appalachian Mountains.

A cacophony of recriminations and curses surged through the Airborne Command Post.  The voice of a technician interrupted the angry babble.  "Mr. President, I have Dr Parsons on the line.  He says it's urgent."

President Bush closed his eyes tight.  "Put him through."

"Mr. President, you must not launch!"

"It's too late, Doctor."

"Then abort NOW!  The monolith reports that the fortress is carrying almost 68 Kilograms of antimatter."

Bush's voice was unexpectedly hoarse.  Even though he knew the answer, he asked the question.  "And that means?"

"All life on earth."  There was an odd squeak in Parson's voice.

The room went completely silent.

"My God."

President George W Bush, perhaps the last president of the United States of America, perceived the smell of ancient leather on his shaking hands as they covered his face.  It reminded him that now was perhaps the best time in his life to pray.

The Monolith.
Earth Orbit.

The minor thrashing of the Celestial Keep's computer systems finally subsided enough for the Monolith to begin integrating the strategic situation in the target area.  Immediately it flagged the situation in the Atlantic, which a minor subsystem had recently been freed to track.

It instantly restored control over the transport facilities, halting the almost constant flow of captured Elite troops to holding facilities.  However, it was unable to establish a lock on either the warhead or the power plant of the flying fortress.

With something equivalent to a million shrieks and a million tired sighs, it determined that there was no available tactic in its arsenal likely to save the doomed planet, and began to prepare itself for leaving.  At the same time, a subsystem began to assault the final fortress' computer system, and other subsystems contacted all relevant human personnel.  It could save perhaps a hundred or two.

"All life on Earth will be terminated by a nuclear-forced antimatter explosion in seventy three seconds.  Prepare for transport." Then, almost as an afterthought, it added the location of the projected impact.  It might be relevant to some personnel.

The demigod lifted himself up and whispered something far too ancient to be recognizable. As soon as the Monolith's dire revelation arrived, the mighty Babylonian vanished, leaving Knock-out and the others in a flash of light, thunder and the stench of ozone. He did not recall seeing the body of Maestro on the field but perhaps it was just as well. The memory of the boy's broken body impaled on his spear would remain with him for all time.

For now, he had to try to do something... anything, to atone for what he'd done -- an impossible task at best. In the blink of an eye, Avatar was streaking over the briny blue of the Atlantic Ocean.

Desperation fueled the demigod as he flew at the speed of light. He soared parallel to the horizon, a dog-legging streak scorching the sky in his wake. The Babylonian had witnessed enormity, and denial, and loss. But he never believed failure of this magnitude existed, a failure that his hope denied.

Until now.

Avatar sped as he never had before, flying in the same direction as the Fortress. He caught up to the craft and raced past it. Even as fast as the Fortress was traveling, the structure was no match for a demigod who was living lightning. But just as America's East Coast came within sight, the jagged lance of light stopped along its course and vanished, and like a film negative converting into a photograph, Avatar materialized in its place.

He faced the missile and it stared back like an incoming death's head. Millions and millions of people were but a hundred miles away, mere minutes separated them from the approaching messenger of the Apocalypse. Avatar was the only one between them. The Babylonian braced himself in the air and grabbed at the missile as it sped past.

The missile bowled over Avatar, caught him by his extended hands, and yanked him along at blistering speed. Avatar held fast to the underbelly of the Tomahawk. For now, it was all he could do.

Avatar, the last son of Gilgamesh, Earth's greatest hero, howled in rage and desperate hope. The cords in his neck stood out as he strained beneath the sleek bird of prey, its fatal critical mass of radiation encased by a mere skin of alloy. The titan fought and resisted, his feet dangling against the ripping wind, but he pushed up and up. He continued to wrestle the missile higher into the air. Through the troposphere, past the stratosphere, into the ionosphere.

The Babylonian needed to let one hand go... Needed to grab the wing... Now the other hand.

Avatar's arms tightened around the bending plates of the wings. He struggled to pick up momentum, and with muscles taut and surging with unearthly might, he hurled the missile like a mighty javelin.

The action sent Avatar tumbling through in a low orbit, somersaulting through space, stars literally swimming past his eyes, until he gathered his bearings.  Avatar watched as the missile hurtled through the airless void, its momentum sending it past the Earth, past the Moon, into the cosmic abyss.

Less than a minute later, there was a bright flash of light as the weapon detonated...
 

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