Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

The base-owned car groaned and the engine almost seemed to die, even as the driver pushed the pedal down. Captain Carl Parker cursed and looked down at the pedal. He jammed it to the floor, snarling expletives as he felt the bottom of the car under it. He glanced up and cursed again at the green light. He waved at his rearview mirror, where someone was making a circular ‘come on move it’ gesture with their hand. He cursed a third time, lifted his foot, and slowly pushed it down again. The car sputtered, and this time accelerated properly, albeit slowly. He steadily lowered his foot.

“Damn car…” He muttered. The car had a quirk; you couldn’t accelerate unless you did it in stages. If you pushed it down any more than it liked, the motor would stop responding and stall. This was the third time this month he’d checked the vehicle out of the base, and they never fixed it.

He was on his way from a meeting at Los Angeles Air Force Base. There was some aviation specialist who flew in for a threat meeting regarding what was going on in Ukraine. Parker’s helicopter company was unlikely to see any sort of combat, but he still had to go. Afterward, he’d taken a detour on the way back to a Thai restaurant he knew a little off the beaten path. It was out of the way, but they had a soup that was to die for. Parker sighed, and he could almost feel the smell of the soup pleasantly staying with him. It was a consolation prize for what he’d be dealing with when he got back to the base.  More training, oh joy.  

There was a  thump  in the distance. Parker flinched at the sensation and the sound and instinctively ducked his head down. After a moment, he looked around. Outside on the street, heads were turning back the way he had come. He looked in the rearview mirror. “What the…?”

There was a column of smoke rising in the distance. Maybe it’s a fire. As he watched, there was another distinct  thump  and a flutter in the ground. A second column of smoke bloomed. Then a third. Parker looked back at his dashboard and switched on the radio. “... In other news today, the affairs surrounding the special effects failure of the last Christmas parade –” He cursed, and put his hands back on the wheel. They hadn’t gotten the news yet. He  knew  that sound. Parker drove further down the street and awkwardly pulled out his phone.

“Directions to Los Alamitos base,” He told the GPS program. He had to get back to the base immediately and hoped the GPS could take him back faster.

“Directions to: Joint Forces Training Base Los Alamitos,” the phone squeaked, “Take the next left onto: East Washington Boulevard ”.

“Damn highways…” He grunted. The app must’ve been redirecting him to avoid an accident, hopefully, unrelated to whatever was going on behind him. A few minutes of driving later, there were more thumps, more columns of smoke, to his left, and behind him. “Spoke too soon!”

The radio seemed to get the memo. “ ...Breaking news. There are reports of several fires and shootings in the downtown Los Angeles area. Residents are advised to avoid that area until further notice."

He had to get back to the base. The feds and civil authorities would need support. He commanded a helicopter company; he'd be involved. Around him, he could see people gawking in the direction of the smoke. They were raising phones and other devices to record it, while others were calling family and friends. Things were going to pick up fast.

Suddenly, as he crossed an intersection, he saw a flash in his mirror and pushed the pedal down hard on instinct. “Son of a–!” The motor stalled.

The incoming vehicle clipped the nose of the car. It threw him against the door and flung him to the length of his seatbelt. The vehicle spun rapidly into the middle of the intersection, and Parker accelerated as best he could to get to the curb. The car sputtered and moaned, unable to move properly. He sat up and checked the car from his seat, then himself in the mirror. He hadn’t hit his head, good. Well, whoever bumped me is going to get hurt!

He pushed the door open and unbuckled his seatbelt. He stood up to survey the damage and saw it wasn’t too bad. He’d gotten dinged on the corner, and spun out of the way, but the left forward wheel well was squashed against the tire. It wasn’t going to move rapidly anytime soon. Parker whirled about to look for the culprit. A cop car had crashed against the lamp post a few meters away from where he’d stopped. A groggy cop stumbled out, his uniform askew. He shook his head and moved to the back of the car. He popped the trunk and yanked out a shotgun.

“Hey!” Parker demanded and rushed over. “Captain Parker, US Army, what’s happening? I know it’s out of my jurisdiction–”

“Fuck you!” The cop snarled, loading the shotgun, “Every man for himself!”

Parker grabbed the man, “Hey!”

“Get off me!”

Parker grabbed him by the shoulders, “Is there a terrorist attack happening? What is all that?” He pointed at the smoke, “What’s going on?”

“Lemme go!” The cop snarled, throwing off the captain’s hands.

“What’s happening? Just tell me that!”

“The damn gooks are invading!” The cop shouted and sprinted away.

“Racist motherfucker…” Parker mumbled as he looked back at the columns of smoke rising in the distance. He gave his car a forlorn look, then beat feet south. He had to get back to the base.

Los Alamitos Joint Force Training Base was one of two major military facilities in the vicinity of Los Angeles proper, though technically in the city of Los Alamitos. It wasn't a boot camp for raw recruits. It was for practice and training of existing units, with advanced simulators and runways for aircraft. It had around six thousand soldiers regularly. Few of them were front-line combat units, though the base held the headquarters battalion of the 40th Infantry Division. Most of the division was not housed in the base. The base mainly held mechanics, training support, and similar support staff. It had a complex of buildings oriented to the northern side of an airfield. There were simulators, firing ranges, and all manner of training facilities. It was a roughly square shape carved out of the suburban area around it, with the formal parts of the base making a trapezoid within the square. The buildings made up the thinner side of the trapezoid, and the runway made up the wide base. The rest of the square was filled with wide fields for exercises, or storage should the need arise.

Parker rushed toward one of the entrances, with a guardhouse monitoring a small personnel gate and a vehicle gate. To his left, he could see the familiar training facilities and hangars, and off to the right the vast clear area of the runway and the fields. He could hear an alarm going off in the distance. He skidded to a halt when he heard a shout. "Freeze! Hands on your head!"

He squinted at the sentry standing near the gatehouse, and put his hands in the air, "Private! I'm Captain Parker! I have an ID!"

Another soldier emerged from the gatehouse, a sidearm at the ready. "Dude, calm down!" He hissed at his comrade. He moved forward, "Sorry, sir. With everything that's going on…"

"It's alright. I'm Captain Parker," he repeated, "I have an ID in my front left pocket."

The soldier carefully took out Parker’s wallet. "Looks legit."

"I drove out of here two hours ago. I left my car a few streets away."

"Yes, sir. Sorry, sir. He's a bit jumpy."

As Parker moved forward, the other private was shaking as he lowered his rifle, “S-sir, I…oh, I’m sorry, sir!”

“It’s alright, it’s alright,” Parker waved, “Just let me through!”

The personnel gate was hauled open, and the captain moved through. Sirens blared around the base. Personnel moved about, some in confusion, others trying to organize themselves. On his right, to the south, a team of Military Police moved by toward a parking lot, just west of the airfield. He could see staff running about to the north, among the buildings separate from the airfield. Parker ran toward the runway. As he approached the hangars, he spotted one of his company officers moving out of one of the buildings. "Lieutenant Fisher! What's going on?"

The lieutenant looked at him with controlled surprise, "Bombs downtown, sir! The Colonel said to get the choppers ready for action!"

Parker nodded, "Good. Round up everyone you can, on duty and off duty. Where's the Colonel now?"

"EOC, sir!" He pointed to one of the buildings further down the airfield, past a row of parked Black Hawk helicopters.

"Thanks. Carry on, lieutenant."

Parker moved to the Emergency Operation Center, established in the base command center. It was inside an office building just behind the row of buildings that lined the airfield. The base command center was a room filled with computer monitors and staff, a cross between a call center and a classic war room. There were several TV screens on the walls, an array of tables, and cubicles arranged around the room. Soldiers spoke on phones that rang like mad and typed away at computers. Runners came in and out of the room to deliver needed documents, information, and coffee.

Colonel Cinege, the base commander, was with several other officers at a table with several laptops and maps toward the back of the room. Parker moved past the tables of staff and noted a blue force tracker on one of the displays as he approached. There weren't many military units displayed on it beyond the base. “Captain Parker, reporting in.” He saluted.

The colonel turned and returned the salute, "Captain, good, you're here. I was about to order it myself: prep two of your lawn darts for dust off. We need eyes on downtown."

The captain was still a little rattled. "Ma'am, do we know what's going on? I just came from that area. I didn't see anything, but we've got small arms fire all over the place! They could have MANPADs." Human portable air defense systems(MANPAD) were a little harder to conceal than rifles, but not impossible. It was one reason they were so ubiquitous. 

The Colonel nodded, "That's why I need your choppers in the air ASAP. As per regulations with a major terrorist attack on or near a CONUS installation, and requests for aid from civil authorities, I'm assuming immediate response authority." As she spoke, Parker moved to one side of the table. The other officers were a mixture of the units on the base. There was Lieutenant Colonel Tony Stevenson of a training support battalion, Major Cecil Hudson of the Military Police brigade on the base, and numerous officers from a variety of different units. There was a rare glimpse of the captain of the special ops company on the base, Captain Bennett. He looked like he'd just gotten out of bed. Parker came to a halt near the COs of the other aviation units on the base, exchanging nods. 

"We've got a terrorist attack in progress,” said Major Hudson. He gestured at those gathered around the table. “We’re all the senior staff we can contact at the moment, and many civil authorities are confused or out of contact, so we’re going on our own volition. We can't get any helicopters on the horn except the ones on this base. It won't look good if a Black Hawk goes down over LA, but it’ll look even worse if a news chopper takes a stinger in the tailpipe." He gestured at a map of Los Angeles, "We've had multiple bomb detonations across the city, at police stations, Union Station, near LAX, and downtown especially. We can't raise any LAPD stations. We’ve got intermittent contact with the air force–” He caught himself, “The space force base up at LAX, they’re reporting weapons fire. There are reports of hostile drones and armed suspects, we're guessing this is more than just bombers. But this is the US, so they could be random people with guns. People are saying gangs are going nuts, but honestly, we can't tell exactly what's going on right now. Civilian comms, CCTV, and social media are FUBB'd. A lot of it seems like confusion, but some of it is just not functioning. We can't tell if some of it is infrastructure damage or jamming. We're hoping it's just damage from the attacks. On 9/11, cell networks were FUBAR'd because a ton of repeaters were on the towers.”

“I remember,” Cinege nodded. “Our comms are still functional, but we can’t afford to wait for orders. We need intel on what’s going on, and we need to do everything we can to help. Has there been any update on social media research?"

"WiFi is still functional in multiple affected areas. People seem to be saying it's the Chinese or the Russians attacking," said a lieutenant at the end of the table, a communications specialist.

"It's gotta be a terrorist group," Hudson said, "Maybe it's ISIS, or it could be a domestic terrorist group."

"It's a pretty bold one," the special forces captain commented. Parker couldn't remember his name.

"We've got photos all over the place. We don't have eyes on the enemy infantry, but they seem to be using UGVs." The lieutenant brought up several blurry Twitter photos, “Weird-looking ones, too. They look like people.”

"Fat motherfucker," Someone murmured. The machines looked a bit like some new developments in robotics, only much more refined. They were bipedal, with large torsos, two arms, and a wide head, shaped vaguely like a wide smooth gun turret. In one of the photos, the machine stood in the middle of the street, turning toward the viewer. In a short video, the machine was facing forward…then slowly turned its head like an owl to face the viewer.

"They're extremely advanced, they've been seen flying with jet packs." A video clip from another social media site caught a glimpse of two of the drones jumping over a building, with gouts of flame beneath them. 

“Jet packs?” Parker muttered, “That’s nuts.”

"People keep yelling about blasters, like Star Wars," the lieutenant added.

"Must be tracers or something. They must have some billionaire friends," said Captain Reyes from a transportation detachment.

"Where would ISIS ragheads get billionaire friends?" asked his fellow officer, also from a transportation unit.

"Saudi Arabian weapons we sold to them. Probably fancy prototypes. Or Russian oligarchs. What do you think?" The special forces captain grunted.

"Nobody said they couldn't be a domestic terrorist group," the truck captain murmured.

"They must belong to whoever made those tic tac ships, you know, the Unidentified Aerial Phenomena the Nimitz saw," Commented Captain Tyrone Barton, standing beside Parker. He was in charge of one of the aviation support units on the base.

"Yeah, but those things were different," Parker commented.

"They're like nothing we've seen before. Who says they couldn't have legs?"

Cinege frowned at the pictures. "Whatever they are, they're terrorizing LA. Get us pictures of their infantry. Those drones can't be the only things we're looking at." She looked around, "Immediate response authority lets us respond to requests for assistance by civil authorities, and in response to imminent threats to US military assets.” She looked around at the assembled officers. “The Pentagon knows what’s going on here, and we’ve got reinforcements coming. But we got caught with our pants down. We have to move fast.” She looked at the major, "Hudson, secure the perimeter." Cinege looked at the other staff, "Lieutenant Colonel Stevenson, arm some of your staff. You're both to supplement security, but be ready to move out for whatever local authorities need us to do.”

“Any equipment limitations, ma’am?” Asked an infantry officer.

“The FBI won’t like us waving small arms around a major city, and they’ll like dead civilians even less. Limited load out beyond the wire." She looked at Parker, “Have some of your choppers prepare for CASEVAC and air movement. We’ll need to move casualties and gear.” The transport staff straightened up when she pointed at them. "Transportation, get ready to distribute supplies.” She gestured to Hudson, “and help the major secure all the armories and depots in the city." She looked at their PR officer, and communications staff, "Inform the Pentagon what we're doing. Coordinate with emergency authorities, we need to know where we're going and what we're doing. Give them all the support we can, help them push through any red tape. Air traffic might need to be grounded, and our runways need to be clear." She looked expectantly at Parker and his peers.

Parker took out his cell phone. "Fisher, this is Parker. We need two choppers in the air. Flight plan to follow." The other officers contacted their own units.

Los Angeles was some of the most congested airspace in the world. They couldn't just put helicopters in the air without a warning.

XXXXX

Phantom 1-3 and Phantom 1-4, a pair of Black Hawk helicopters, swept over the rooftops toward the rising smoke. They passed over the sprawling districts of the city, with the harbor on their left, and skyscrapers on the right. The city wasn’t quite as tall as some east coast ones, with more moderately sized buildings. It made it easier in some ways to visually see the chaos unfolding below them. The highways were congested, with numerous collisions. 

“Looks like some people are trying to make a run for it but the news hasn’t spread very far. Some people are trying to turn around on the highways.” One of the pilots on Phantom 1-3 observed, noting the patterns of one collision on California 91. “A lot of other people have just stopped. We do have some emergency personnel trying to redirect traffic, but there isn’t much coordination.”

Phantom 1-4 on their right side reported little better. "It looks like Baghdad down there. Civvies are hiding or running by the looks of it. We've got scattered fire from private owners. One police car at the corner of– "

As the pilot read out the street number of a police holdout, the co-pilot cursed. "Look at that. We're seeing Katrina reruns too. I can see some people hunkering down in a Walmart. "

Phantom 1-3’s crew chief adjusted her helmet, “Christ, this is a mess.”

The helicopter’s nose-mounted camera rotated around. The pilot, still looking forward, swatted his co-pilot. “Heads up, we’ve got eyes on the enemy.”

The co-pilot looked forward, and put a hand to his headset, “The drones are making a big push for LAX.”

Ahead of them, with the wide field of Los Angeles International Airport in their field of view, smoke was rising on the right. The co-pilot squinted and worked the camera. Their displays showed the blurry dark shapes of the enemy drones bounding over the rooftops. “Some of them appear to be flying, not just hopping.” 

Los Alamitos airfield replied, “Copy that, Phantom 1-3. They’ve been notified. They’ve got their hands full already.” 

“Roger. We’re proceeding to the next waypoint.”

The helicopters banked as they moved through the air toward the sound of fighting. "We've got some…I'm guessing gang activity. Looks like they're headed to the fighting," Observed Phantom 1-3. A small column of vehicles was loading up below. Figures the size of ants moved with crates and weapons.

"More power to you, fellas," said the crew chief.

"Just hope they don't get in our way," added the copilot.

“They’re not those nazi gang dudes. Anything’s better than them.”

Phantom 1-3’s pilot adjusted the control as they advanced toward the center of the city. "Alamitos Control, Phantom 1-3. Downtown looks like a mess. I'm seeing those drones buzzing around."

“Phantom 1-3, Alamitos Control. Copy that. Be advised. CCTV and civilian traffic indicate a higher concentration of enemy troops than we thought and potential heavy weapons. Try to confirm information, but keep your distance.”

“Roger. We're keeping our distance.”

The co-pilot held up binoculars to look at the Wilshire Grand Center, “Looks like a freaking anthill!”

The pilot grimaced. “Alamitos Control, Phantom 1-3. We’re circling around to check out Union Station.”

Their crew chief peered at one of the skyscrapers in downtown of the city. She fumbled for her binoculars. She was a California native but didn’t spend much time in the center of the city. She’d always seen it from a distance…

She nearly threw the binoculars away. “Damn robots! Worse than the bugs that hang out there usually.”

“Nice one, McKenzie,” the co-pilot muttered.

They passed over the city, across the 101 Interstate, and toward Union Station closer to the city center. “Phantom 1-3, Alamitos Control. Watch for mortars or RPGs.”

“Roger that. Alamitos Control, we’re seeing Union Station now. Looks like some of the trains have moved out. I can see…” 1-3’s pilot adjusted the Blackhawk camera, “There are people in the terminal and one train on the easternmost track. I’m seeing weapons fire from the eastern entrance of the terminal. Some civilian vehicles are blocking the doors."

“Looks like a giant turtle…!” His co-pilot muttered.

“Did not copy Phantom 1-3. Say again?” The radio inquired.

“What?” The pilot demanded.

“Look at that!” The co-pilot hammered his friend’s arm and pointed, “It’s a fucking giant metal turtle!”

The pilot leaned over, “The fuck…?!” He adjusted his headset, “Sorry, Alamitos. Say again. We have an armored walker in the area of the train station.”

"...Phantom 1-3, repeat that?”

“There is an armored vehicle with legs in front of Union Station, over. Looks like some kind of armored personnel carrier, or potentially an infantry fighting vehicle.”

The camera swiveled around, transmitting the images back to the base. Sure enough, there was a large shape vaguely like a turtle, with four legs, hulking over the train station rails. Each limb had several long distinct toes. It had three spherical modules on its front; two bulbous half circles with seemingly decorative bumps, and what looked like a head. It was painted in blotchy grey and white patterns. The machine stalked forward toward the station. "It  does  look like a turtle... We're also seeing casualties on the ground. Trains aren't getting out of here until that thing's gone."

"... Roger that. Can you see what the enemy troop presence is in the area?"

The Black Hawk's camera rotated to spot a cluster of the strange UGVs. Three were rushing toward a fence along one side of the railyard. Their long spindly limbs were humanoid, but moved with a motion more like a running praying mantis; it was a disturbingly fluid movement. “Negative. We’ve only got the drones.”

The crew chief of the helicopter adjusted her helmet again as she scanned the ground. Then she saw a wisp of smoke from the direction of the city center, back across the interstate. She looked forward in alarm and grabbed a safety bar, “Incoming! Slam eye five o’clock low!”

A pair of missiles streaked toward the Blackhawk, picking up speed as they approached. The helicopter bucked and shifted to the side, “Flares!” The pilot called out and jerked the controls.

Four bright bolts sprang out from the aircraft’s tail as it evaded and twisted to the side. Phantom 1-4 did the same, breaking away in the opposite direction. “ Going for the deck !” The pilot cried, and the helicopter dove as it popped its own flares.

Phantom 1-3’s crew chief gave a momentary grin as they dodged the missiles. One almost turned on a dime as it pointed down and corkscrewed to follow the flares.

Suddenly there was a flash in her vision, and she stumbled back against the wall of the aircraft. "Ah!” She shouted, rubbing her eyes and filled with spots, “I think something just took a shot at us!”

"With what?" The co-pilot demanded.

The crew chief blinked rapidly, and pulled down her visor, "I think a laser!" 

"What?!"

1-3’s pilot looked forward and spotted more contrails. "Phantom 1-4! Heads up! Six o'clock low!"

The heat-seeking missiles went straight up from the buildings below into 1-4’s blind spot, right under their tail, and bit into the ventral part of the aircraft’s tail like a predator finally sinking its teeth into a gazelle’s leg. It erupted in fire, smoke, and hydraulic fluid, spewing liquid like a severed artery. It nosed forward rapidly into a spin, "We're hit! We're hit! We've lost the tail rotor! Mayday, mayday, mayday!This is Phantom 1-4, we're going down!" There was a shriek of sound and a wash of static before the audio cut out entirely. Like a toy spinning top at the end of its charge, the aircraft tipped forward as it spun and crashed rotors first into the upper side of an alleyway. After a moment, it tilted backward and fell, coming to a halt caught between the two buildings.

Phantom 1-3 circled around, moving back toward the crash site. "Slam eye, seven o'clock low!” The crew chief cried.

1-3’s pilot cursed, “Flares!”

“We don’t have many left, Boss!” His co-pilot shouted tersely.

The pilot snarled but whipped the aircraft back around again. “Flares! Taking evasive action! Alamitos Control, 1-3! Phantom 1-4 is down and out!"

XXXXX

“Pull them back,” Captain Parker barked.

"Phantom 1-3, fall back." A communications specialist acted accordingly.

“Have them circle around to inspect that Guard recruitment station,” Hudson said.

Parker nodded, “Yes sir. Lieutenant, tell Phantom 1-3 to head to…” He paused, “Reyes, what was the address?”

Captain Reyes swept his finger over a trackpad on a laptop. “5631 Rickenbaker Road!”

“...5631 Rickenbaker Road and assess the status of the vehicle depot.”

“Yes sir. Phantom 1-3, Alamitos Control. New orders. Do a flyover of 5631 Rickenbaker Road and assess the status of the vehicle depot.”

"Roger that. On our way."

Captain Parker watched the screen for a moment longer and looked at Colonel Cinege. She’d been watching the whole thing. "They've got SAMs. And they're pushing towards us."

Cinege shook her head, and looked at one of their comms staff, "Update the Pentagon. We need help fast."

Captain Bennett spoke up, "Let's call Pendleton, they've got Vipers and Hellfire missiles. And if we call Lemoore, they can stop this advance cold!"

"We can't do that, Bennett," Hudson said with a hard tone, "We don’t know if this is an invasion, and if it isn’t, it's against the law."

Bennett glared at him. "What kind of a soldier are you? They're the enemy."

"I'm a soldier who reads manuals."

"We’ll alert the National Guard. They've got anti-armor equipment." Suggested Stevenson. Parker cringed slightly. Relations with the National Guard weren’t the best, after all the scandals they’d been involved in recently.

Cinege nodded, "That might work. It will be slow, but it won't violate the Posse Comitatus Act. If these are domestic terrorists, that's going to put a damper on how much support we can get." Any federal response would be delayed by the Posse Comitatus Act of 1878. It limited the use of federal military forces in US states. National Guard units were different, yet still difficult. 

"Why would it be domestic, ma'am? It's gotta be foreign!" Bennett exclaimed.

"There's a factory in Texas that produces American RPG-7s, and there was that guy who once built a tank out of a bulldozer in his garage," Hudson pointed out. 

"Hell, this could be some billionaire's pet project!" Said Captain Reyes, speaking up from a pile of equipment records at a table nearby.

"You play too much Call of Duty," muttered his fellow transportation captain, flipping through an inventory book. They and two of their lieutenants were busy cataloging all the armories, recruitment offices, and vehicle parks in the city that needed to be monitored.

“Tell me I’m wrong.”

“Tell me if this hardware actually left the base,” He pointed at something on a tablet, “We can’t find it in the inventory, they say it broke down, but Lieutenant Banks here can’t find the release form.”

Cinege ignored them, "It won't look good to have a gunship tearing up half the city. Immediate response authority allows us some leeway, but we're under active threat here. Pendleton is not. Stevenson, check the inventories. We should have some anti-armor or bunker-buster weapons here."

Stevenson nodded and took out his phone. "There might be something, I'm just not sure how much live ammo we have that’ll punch through that armor."

Parker set his jaw, "We don't have much heavy ordnance here, but my choppers can give them a run for their money."

Cinege nodded, "Prioritize cargo and personnel movement. We'll still need them for reconnaissance until we can get more assets, but you have permission to load up your remaining aircraft however you see fit." She looked around. She noted a few stunned faces. ”Let’s keep moving. We need to keep evacuating civilians from the city center. We’re their next target, let’s make them fight for it. Rebels or Chinese, Russians or Martians, this is a US military base, and we’re going down swinging.”

XXXXX

“Alamitos Control, Phantom 1-3. The depot’s crawling with hostiles. Sorry.” Phantom 1-3 circled over the dusty field of trucks and humvees encircled with a wire fence. Grey and brown forms writhed over the vehicles, and moved toward the storage buildings and containers, no doubt after fuel and parts. Being only a utility helicopter, the Black Hawk lacked anything beyond a pair of machine guns on its flanks.

The helicopter turned on a looping return course back to base. They passed over their previous course. The pilot looked down at the street below, trying not to think about the other helicopter. He had lost friends in Afghanistan before, but no one had ever lost a fellow rotorhead to ground fire in the US. They passed over the route the gang had taken. There was a deep boom in the distance, and they barely avoided one of the leaping robots. "Son of a bitch!"

"Boss, four o'clock low!" His copilot called out.

In one of the less well-off sections of the city, they could see gunfire and tracer fire(or whatever it was) from the robots, and some figures in civilian clothes. “Looks like a gang,” The pilot said.

McKenzie, the crew chief, held up her binoculars. “Hey, hey I know those guys!”

“What?” 

“I…uh...never mind my past! I know those guys! Jeez, looks like they’re pinned down!” She winced as a blast caught one of the guys in the shoulder.

The pilot leaned to look at one of the windows. His eyes went back to their fuel gauge. “Sergeant–!”

“Boss, with all due respect, we gotta do  something ! If we don’t do something, everything’s gonna fall apart! We help them, we double our own chances of survival!”

“Are they the right people?” The pilot asked.

“They’re the right enough people!” McKenzie shouted back, “They’re smart enough to not shoot the cops!”

“Eh, sounds good enough to me,” said the co-pilot, “They’re not shooting at us.”

The pilot hesitated. He looked off into the distance. He thought he could see smoke from smoke from 1-4's crash site in the distance. He shrugged, “Alright. Coming about.” Phantom 1-3 peeled around. "Mckenzie, four o'clock low, weapons free."

"With pleasure."

XXXXX

A hail of bullets came down and shredded half the squad of frog bots that were attacking the gang. The group took advantage of the newcomers to fire collectively, tearing apart the machines, and momentarily causing a lull in the fighting.

Marcus Gibson popped up out of cover. He looked around at the survivors of his gang, and up at the helicopter. He gave a wave. He thought he saw a figure returning the wave before it tilted forward and left for parts unknown. He looked around, "Let's go! Ain't nobody taking this place from us! Overgrown bullfrogs aren't going to take this place from us!"

"Whoo! At least the army's on our side!" One of his friends said, lowering a battered uzi.

Marcus grimaced, "That's not good. That means things are  bad . They don't roll out the big guns unless something really bad is happening."

"How do you know?"

"I read." He rushed to help up one of his friends. "C'mon, let's go! If we don't keep an eye on the rest of our hood, no one will!"

The gang of Crips gathered themselves up and rushed down the street, heading for another point of conflict.

XXXXX

The president was at dinner when the call came. At five pm, he thought he had everything dealt with. He'd finished briefings, had an aggravating phone call with several senators, and had a few hours of paperwork after dinner before another late-night meeting. But the latter could wait. He had a nice meal to take in.

He'd hardly picked up his fork before the secret service put his plate in a go-bag and ushered him out of the White House to a waiting limo. He'd eaten on the way over to the Pentagon and was led by grim-faced staff to the National Military Command Center(NMCC).

He was led into the conference room quickly. Aides shut the doors as the president took a seat at the head of the table. Several military officers were on hand, as well as the White House Chief of Staff, secretary of state, the secretary of defense, a few advisors, and several computer screens. Some advisors, members of the cabinet, and other personnel were in attendance via telepresence. Many were confused, while others wore grim expressions. The White House National Security Council had been assembled. “What is happening?” The president asked bluntly. “I heard something about a bomb?”

Brigadier General Moore, in charge of the Pentagon’s National Military Command Center, cleared his throat, “Los Angeles is under attack by an unknown enemy force.” Several members of the council looked at Moore in shock. Others grimaced. “Three hours ago, Los Alamitos Joint Force Training Base declared FPCON Delta, reporting a terrorist attack in progress. Garrison commander Colonel Cinege, in Los Alamitos, became the designated incident commander. Thirty minutes later they stated downtown Los Angeles had been seized by an enemy ground force with heavy weapons. Police forces were immediately repulsed, and military forces are currently being pushed out of the city. We have no information on other incidents locally, nationally, or globally, but that could change at any time.”

The president looked at the general in shock. “What do you mean enemy force? What do you mean by being pushed out of the city? Who are they?”

“Frankly we’re not sure. The situation is developing, and no one’s claimed responsibility so far. The NMCC and related units are sorting through social media and news outlets. A lot of what we know is coming from satellite and aerial reconnaissance.”

An aide switched on a TV screen, to display maps of Los Angeles. Another monitor was activated to show footage from a newsroom. “ ...For those of you just joining us, this is CNN; downtown Los Angeles is under siege by an unknown terrorist group… ” The aide quickly turned down the audio.

Moore gestured to the display with the maps. “They have established a foothold in downtown LA and are rapidly advancing. As far as we can tell, the enemy is a substantial force using infantry, heavy weapons, and advanced Unmanned Ground Vehicles– drones.”

On a third screen, a picture appeared of a large machine. Notation on the side indicated it was between five and seven feet tall. It had a rounded torso, a pair of massive shoulder pauldrons with bumps on each one, and short legs. Each leg had three toes and a long heel. The left arm was a segmented cylinder with three distinct hinges. It had four fingers that poked out from the tip of the conical end of the arm. It wasn’t a traditional hand design. Neither was the right arm. It had the same segments, but only a single hinge. At the end of the arm was a wide-barreled weapon. A hose ran from just below the elbow to the side of the weapon. Another photo displayed one in the air, with the pauldrons rotated forward and jets of fire spraying out from them. A third photo showed one of the machines expanding weaponry from compartments in the pauldrons and on its back.

“We don't have exact numbers, but we estimate between battalion and brigade strength; between one and five thousand. They’re shooting at aircraft in their vicinity, which indicates they have heavy weapons. They’ve already taken down several police aircraft, news helicopters, and a Black Hawk from Los Alamitos. They achieved total surprise and knocked out most of the LAPD’s stations before they even knew what was happening. The LAPD headquarters has already fallen, and the entire police department is in disarray. Emergency services report being overwhelmed. City Hall and several federal buildings around it have been taken. The LA Emergency Management office is out of commission.”

“Good lord… ” The Secretary of Energy murmured.

“All emergency services?” Asked the Secretary of the Treasury.

Moore nodded, “Yes sir. We’re not sure how much infrastructure has been taken already, again, much of the intel we have is based on preliminary assessments. We’re getting conflicting information, making it extremely difficult to determine what is happening. Transportation has been completely crippled. We’ve lost control of all railheads within the city center, including Union Station. They’ve taken many of the highway interchanges in the center of the city. Traffic has come to a halt all over the state and fleeing civilians have the city gridlocked.”

“What about the governor?” The president asked.

“The governor is on vacation and out of contact. He did not wish to be disturbed. The state government has someone driving out to meet him, but it will take some time.”

“Even in the cell phone era…” Someone muttered. The president pointedly did not look at who spoke. They drained a cup of coffee out of the corner of his eye.

“The Lieutenant Governor has activated the National Guard,” General Glover said, “And other similar emergency services in the state.”

Moore took back the reins of the debriefing, “For leadership within the city itself, Colonel Cinege, surviving CERT personnel, fire departments, city hospitals, and other staff are trying to lead a limited evacuation, to get people out of the line of fire. We had no warning, so a serious evacuation is trouble. At the moment they're trying to prioritize getting people out of the line of fire, and at least to community centers, like the universities, schools, and hospitals."

The Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, General Glover, turned in his seat. "With your assessment, sir, we've taken the liberty of increasing to DEFCON Three at all commands. We are at DEFCON Two at NORAD, NORTHCOM, and STRATCOM. We are putting troops all over the coast on alert, and we’re mobilizing reserves as quickly as possible." He spoke rapidly and to the point, without the same smoothness of a politician, more like someone who had to learn political politeness after military politeness. "B-52s are being loaded with nuclear warheads. Land-based missiles are on standby, and our boomers are diving."

"Why aren't we at DEFCON One?" The president asked.

"We’re not sure if it’s an attack by a foreign nation or a particularly ambitious party.”

"How can we be sure? Can’t we tell if it's terrorists or not?"

"At the moment, no. Communications in and out of the city have been disrupted," General Moore said, "Landline connections and major cell service have been damaged. We expect some of the towers are down. Military communications, internet, and some Wi-Fi is still intact, but we still don’t have reliable intelligence about what’s going on, aside from those machines.”

"General Moore, what about military assets within the city?” Asked Glover.

Moore grimaced, “LAX, Los Angeles Air Force Base, and Los Alamitos are under siege. What troops we have in the city are limited in numbers and disorganized. Los Alamitos is using some of its air assets to evacuate a local hospital, and all the wounded they can. Most of the troops available are support staff. A contingent was dealing with a wildfire south of the city when the attack hit. They're completely overwhelmed, undersupplied, and many are unengaged and confused.”

The president put a hand to his chin, “You’re making this sound like an invasion, not a terrorist attack. a full-scale assault.”

“Who could be doing this? The Chinese?” Asked the Secretary of State.

“It must be the Russians,” said the Secretary of the Treasury. He turned to look at the Ambassador to the United Nations, attending via telepresence from New York.

“Before we start pointing fingers, I must ask, has any nation said anything at all?” The president asked.

The ambassador shook her head, “There has been nothing from the Security Council. No one has claimed responsibility. The Russians and the Chinese are insisting they had nothing to do with this. The French and the UK are standing with us, but privately they want to know what’s happening. All nuclear-armed states are going on high alert, claiming it’s in response to our maneuvers, the nations without atomic power are close behind, and everyone is asking questions. The only thing we are certain of is that it is not the Mexicans, Canadians, or Cubans.”

“It would take the entire Mexican Navy to do something like this,” General Glover said, “Same with Brazil, Colombia, and Argentina, and they’re the only ones with the numbers; Colombia and Argentina almost certainly don’t have the equipment. Brazil’s the only one in the Americas with an amphibious assault ship and transports for something this size, and the rest of the navies aren’t worth a bucket of spit for transporting large numbers of troops. We’re still checking where Brazil’s transports are, but last we saw, they were in the South Atlantic and didn’t go through Panama. And the only thing the North Koreans could do would be dropping a nuke, not sending in robots.”

Moore nodded, “None of the usual suspects fit. Frankly, we’re not sure who’s responsible. We’re not sure if it’s an attack by a foreign nation or a particularly ambitious party. It took us time to discover this. We had a substantial delay in response time due to…” He shifted uneasily, “Procedural errors.”

“What do you mean?” Asked an advisor.

Over one of the screens, the Director of National Drug Control Policy asked, “ How can you not be sure who’s attacking us? ” 

“The incident was reported immediately by Colonel Cinege’s EOC– Emergency Operations Center, but I was not informed for over an hour.” Moore grimaced again. “There were… miscommunications.” 

“What kind of miscommunications?”

“I won’t name names, but it appears certain members of my command have a problem taking a US Army colonel seriously.”

“What does that mean?” Asked the White House Chief of Staff, “Speak plainly, General. If there are people who are interfering with national security they have to be…!”

“It seems some individuals believe Colonel Cinege is a liar, because said individuals believe that concerns about gender and race take precedent over the lives of American citizens,” Moore clarified. His voice was hard, and his agitation grew with each word.

The White House Chief of Staff fell silent, and sat back, curiously, with no further comment about removing anyone who might be hampering national security. 

Moore took a breath, and he returned to his normal cadence, “...And as I said, we’ve got intelligence challenges. We cannot determine if this is an attack launched by either foreign or domestic aggressors. No one has claimed responsibility. All we can identify is an insignia on the drones.” He pointed at the third screen again. Another photo appeared, focusing on a strange triangular foot-shaped insignia on the torso of one of the robots. It had three long toes with spherical tips and a rounded heel.

The Director of the Central Intelligence Agency put his fingers together. “I’ve seen a lot of terrorist insignia. That’s not something we’ve seen before. And our analysts agree.”

Moore nodded, “Now, in terms of response, we’re doing better than we did on September 11th. We’ve got fighters scrambling across the entire west coast, all air traffic is being grounded as we speak, and as General Glover said, National Guard units are being assembled. But it’s slow-going.”

“What about other troops? California has tons of military bases,” commented the Secretary of the Treasury.

The Secretary of Defense shook his head, “The Posse Comitatus Act prevents us from employing federal troops in a law enforcement capacity without an act of Congress. As we still aren’t sure if this is a foreign or domestic attack…”

General Glover nodded, “However, we can get around this,” he looked at the president, “Mr. President, we strongly urge that you invoke the Insurrection Act. National Guard units are inadequate for the job. Much as I hate to admit it, the Marines at Camp Pendleton are closer, and they have more experience.”

Moore nodded, “I concur. It’ll take some time to get some tanks in from Fort Irwin and other facilities for them, but they can do it. The enemy seems to have brought in tanks of their own. We should put our best foot forward.” The Marines had decommissioned their tank units recently, leaving them dependent on the Army for this sort of operation.

The president looked down at the table. “How did this get past us? Was there no warning at all?”

“No one’s claimed responsibility, but shouldn’t there have been something? ” Asked the Secretary of Energy.

Eyes shifted toward three figures at the end of the room. The CIA director looked around, then leaned back in his seat to look at the other two; the Director of National Intelligence and another person in a suit. They’d been speaking in hushed whispers for some time. “Director Hampton?” The president asked.

Director Hampton of National Intelligence looked over, her eyes widening slightly, then relaxed. She cleared her throat, “Yes sir. This is Executive Assistant Director Brown, of the FBI National Security Branch.”

The man beside her nodded, “This…wasn’t entirely unexpected. For the past eight months or so, our Los Angeles Division has been following a potential terrorist threat in the city. We’ve received unusual cases of missing persons, unusual police reports, and some wild claims by one particular officer. Last year, there were police records of a bomb detonation and strange lights in the sky. While not unusual for LA, we had several unusual reports from NASA’s Jet Propulsion Laboratory, the University of Los Angeles, and other organizations. They detected, among other things, unusual atmospheric activity and strange electromagnetic radiation readings. They said an Earth observation satellite detected something… ‘screwy’ in the city. Their words.” He coughed, “They also told us they had a malfunction of a gravitational wave detector that had their scientists arguing like mad.” He shifted his weight from one foot to the next slightly. “That was probably unrelated. We put it on a low priority list, probably some local gang, but four months ago, one of the division elements found new evidence. They claimed the first incident was some sort of test of a new weapon. They recently took several suspects into custody who were experimenting with…” There was the slightest pause, a hint of confusion, “A communication device, probably something stolen from UCLA. The LA office stated there were thefts from universities and research facilities in the state.”

The Secretary of Homeland Security sat back in her seat. “My office didn’t receive any reports on this.”

Moore and Glover exchanged looks that said ‘what a surprise’.

Director Hampton leaned forward, “It was only recently that things became this serious. We don’t update the DHS on every gang threat in the country.”

“So this means it’s a domestic threat?” The president asked.

Director Hampton shook her head, “We can't establish that beyond a reasonable doubt. Just because they have cells here doesn’t mean they’re domestic.”

A FEMA Emergency Manager had been silent this whole time. She looked exhausted and had already had her coffee mug refilled twice. She blinked several times, then rubbed the bridge of her nose. "So…we've had a terrorist threat in the city for months, with access to weapons, and given their apparently abundant funds, undoubtedly have potential access to biological, chemical, or even nuclear weapons, and the FBI didn't think to even inform the DHS."

The FBI representative paused. "I wouldn't say undoubtedly…"

The manager glared tiredly. "I might have missed a memo, but I didn't see anything about this."

“It was on a need-to-know-basis–”

“What do you call that?” The manager snarled, gesturing at the screen. 

Subtitles scrawled out under the CNN reporter’s silent mouth. “One of our news choppers has already been shot down…”

“Even if they weren’t reported on, this is ridiculous. How could they get these materials in?” Asked the Secretary of State.

Moore answered, "Initial intelligence has several theories. They could have been smuggled in using conventional cargo in trucks, transported via cargo in freighters, snuck in by submarine, and/or an airborne assault by hijacked airliners or by foreign stealth aircraft. But we’re having trouble figuring out what exactly is happening. We don’t know how they got in. We’re getting conflicting intelligence. We haven’t had any intelligence on suspicious activity or jetliners. We've ruled out direct airborne operations by dedicated transports. There wasn't a whisper from any of our early warning systems. Our scopes are completely clear. Some theorists in NORAD are suggesting it was a suborbital or orbital lander of some kind from the Chinese, the North Koreans, or the Russians. Reconnaissance has determined that there was a bright beam in the sky, consistent with a ballistic reentry by a spacecraft." 

Moore nodded at Brown, and the FBI officer nodded back, “Something strange is that it's similar to a report we got eight months ago.”

“That’s ridiculous,” said the secretary of energy. 

Moore grimaced. “In the 60s, there were some spacecraft designs intended to carry troops anywhere in the world within half an hour. They were never built because they were extremely expensive, among other challenges.”

“At least, until now. So… the Russians used these…landers,” Said the Secretary of the Treasury. He turned to look at the Ambassador to the United Nations. 

The ambassador shook her head, “There has been nothing from the Russians. As I said, no one has taken responsibility.”

Moore held up a hand, “Nothing adds up. our analysts say that the Project Ithacus proposals were technically feasible but extremely resource-intensive. One design was meant to use a carrier's nuclear reactor for fuel and demanded intense power and water supplies. Satellite recon is trying to locate the Kuznetsov, and we’re keeping an eye on the Russian nuclear program, but it doesn’t add up. One of the other challenges for these rockets was that they would resemble a ballistic missile on reentry. Beyond that visual report, we can’t find any trace of a ballistic reentry. There were no sonic booms, no radar signatures, nothing at all. Not from the Russians, not from the Chinese, not anyone. All spaceports are accounted for. There haven't been any launches detected in the last few hours. Space radar doesn't show anything. And no one has found a spacecraft in the city.”

General Glover shook his head, “We don’t have enough information to make any sort of real conclusion. We’re searching records now. We’re tracking down all airliners that passed over LA, we’re searching all cargo manifests for ships in the area. If this is the Chinese or the Russians, then they’ve found a way to sabotage or bypass our entire surveillance network, all early warning systems, military radar, and civil computer systems. If this is the start of a war, we're losing badly.” He paused again. "Some suggest it's extraterrestrial in origin."

"Aliens?" The president asked.

"Yes, sir," Moore shrugged, “Ridiculous, of course, but our analysts get paid to research the ridiculous."

"I see. Could it have been by submarine?"

"Our scopes are clear. The destroyer USS Pinckney says there are no submarines in the area, but if they have some sort of new stealth technology, we likely wouldn't be able to tell. Coast Guard and Navy assets are combing the sea outside Los Angeles, with sonar and binoculars, and they're not detecting any vessels of any kind. If they have stealth technology, it's generations ahead of ours. We have very limited intelligence, and we haven't been able to get clear visuals of the waterfront, but preliminary analysis believes the only way this could be submarine-based is if they snuck right up to the piers and started shooting." The general grimaced, "A new theory from the Office of Naval Intelligence is that they used civilian transport ships in conjunction with a suborbital assault and that whoever it is, they must be the same people who developed the technology behind the Unidentified Aerial Phenomena. The old lander proposals were incredibly resource-intensive and conspicuous on reentry. According to our intelligence on the... Unidentified Aerial Phenomena, they are capable of unusually high speed and maneuverability, breaking the sound barrier without producing a sonic boom, and even an ability to submerge underwater. The beam of light is consistent with a re-entering spacecraft, and the lack of a sonic boom is consistent with the UAP technology. If this technology was applied to one of these troop transport spacecraft, it could be deployed less conspicuously. It's possible, but again, it would require intense amounts of resources. This would have to be a plan months in the making and demand the use of some reactors or significant aerospace resources. Our intelligence networks haven't reported anything."

“So who are they?” Demanded the Secretary of Defense incredulously.

"We're still not sure. The odds are the Chinese. The tic-tacs have been observing US military operations for years, and are capable of spoofing radar and other systems. That checks out as a prelude to this operation. But they never had anything of this scale.” The general grimaced.

“So it could potentially be a foreign invader using theoretical transportation, or someone with a lot of wealth decided to blow up LA,” Commented the FEMA Manager.

“What are you implying?” Asked the Secretary of the Treasury.

“Implying what? I’m saying some rich person may have decided to blow up LA.”

“Regardless of who is doing this…What about reinforcements?” the president asked.

“Frankly, we don’t believe we can achieve force concentration today. This came completely out of nowhere. We don't know what kind of triple-A defenses they might have. If we hit them hard and fast with our ground forces and leapfrog with air cav, we'll be able to launch a lightning strike that should be able to retake the city, but there's no way we're going to hold the base. It'll be easier to abandon it and fight our way back in than to hold it. As I said, tanks will need to come in from Fort Irwin, and that will take time.”

"And now for the most…" The president paused and rubbed his eyes. "Now for the million-dollar question. The economy."

The Secretary of the Treasury put his hands together, "The market is crashing as we speak. Airlines are grounded all over the country. Workers are abandoning their posts in Los Angeles. All over the coast, with the congestion, shipping isn't moving. Stocks are falling fast."

The president muttered a curse. "Is there any way we can fix this without putting them in range of the enemy?"

The FEMA manager coughed on her coffee, “Excuse me? The market? ‘Abandoning their posts’? I thought our most important duty was to preserve the lives of our citizens."

"And that's exactly what we're doing. Preserving the economy is vital to preserving the lives in the rest of the country," the treasury secretary commented, not even sparing a glance in her direction.

"By putting them in rifle range of the enemy?!"

Moore grimaced, and looked at the president, "Sir, I agree. We should push the advantage before something worse happens. Screw the market. We're not going to be paying anyone if the infrastructure goes down. We'll have riots in the streets if we don't act, and if this ends up like…well, you all remember."

"After Ukraine, it would be a PR disaster to leave people to rot like this. We're not the Bush administration!"

That got the room's attention. The president frowned. “Well…that was a miscommunication. I get your point, however.” He considered the FEMA manager out of the corner of his eye again. She was new to the cabinet, she didn’t know how things were done around here. But…perhaps she had a point. This once.

XXXXX

The Los Alamitos base was on fire. Mortars and rockets rained down on them even before the enemy reached them. The troops set up two concentrated formations to defend the approaches. A pair of roads ran parallel to the base perimeter, one to the north and one to the west, with suburban neighborhoods between them and the base. The military police brigade had set up a platoon as a stationary screen on the right flank facing the east-west road. There were a set of brick walls that separated a suburban neighborhood from the base. They hoped to use the walls to buy time and lure the enemy into the killing field behind them, a nice clean park, with playgrounds and rolling fields. The rest of the formation was behind the kill zone, with machine guns and rifles set up. They dug foxholes as quickly as they could, piling the dirt and filling sandbags. The left flank, facing the north-south road, was a little more defensible, though less neat, and more stretched out. The suburban land just stopped at a razor-wire fence that protected a few massive storage lots, and construction areas, it was a wider field of fire, and the neater sections of the base were much deeper in. The flanks intersected in the center, over a parking lot filled with trucks and trailers, setting up in a pair of buildings that gave them a clear field of fire over the road into the base on the left and some storage lots on the right.

They’d been evacuating the suburban area, and the nearby Los Alamitos medical center as quickly as they could. Many base personnel had their families in the neighborhoods. To the direct northwest of the base, at the corner of one neighborhood, an intersection connected the north and west roads. There was a bank there, with a perfect overview of both roads. A scratchy radio report from a special ops team hidden in the bank signaled the enemy's approach. “Tangoes coming up the road, estimate battalion strength.”

Back in the vicinity of the airfield, around which most of the base was oriented, a smattering of crews was assembled around hastily erected firing pits. Ranges were called out, then a collective order cried. “Fire!”

The American mortars that were set up at the airfield and a parking lot opened up. Even the smallest mortar had three times this range, but any further and they’d run the risk of shelling buildings full of civilians. The intersection made a perfect ambush point for the robotic opponents.

The rounds came down like hellfire, high explosive ordnance blasted dozens of the robots to pieces. One of the spec ops troopers pumped a fist, “Hell yeah!”

The enemy formation halted, then split in two. Some of the lanky machines that had been caught in the volley began to pick themselves up, while others picked up fragments of the disabled automatons. Several began to pull back to cover and repair themselves. The main formations split off from the road and bounded over the rooftops like overgrown frogs. “You had to open your mouth, didn’t you?!” The trooper’s friend shouted.

Within minutes, the enemy crossed half a mile of suburban terrain and came to the perimeter. The enemy jumped clean over the right flank stationary screen; an entire US platoon had been cut off, as another wave of enemy drones swept right over the wall.

“Holy shit!” One MP’s undignified shriek articulated what ran through everyone’s mind. The drones in the center of the kill zone turned to fire at the main line, and the screening platoon.

The lieutenant in charge of the platoon paled, “Fall back! Fall back to the second line! Fireteams stick together and make a break for it! Go right through them!”

His NCOs wondered if he’d panicked. This wasn’t the best idea, to say the least. They were charging the interdicting enemy unit between them and safety. But they didn’t have much choice. The troops started running just as the drones poured over the wall. Dozens more climbed into the sky, firing down at the primary firing line. They blasted away with their weapons that seemed entirely loaded with tracers. The air crackled and zipped with red bolts of light.

"Watch your fire! Friendlies ahead!" Was shouted down the second American line, as they tried to cover their comrades' mad dash for safety. Machine guns swept targets from the sky. The rest of the line opened up with their rifles. The screening platoon sprinted for whatever cover they could find. They fired in all directions, pushing through. Drones fell, Americans dropped. The first wave of bots was as trapped as the platoon was.

The frightening machines moved with a grotesque and freakish gait as they emerged from behind the walls. They were larger than most of the men and women there. Their spindly limbs and speed gave an impression of strength and slenderness at the same time. The probe that had separated the units fired into both sides. Dozens of bots were gunned down immediately, some bullets tearing through one or two of the droids, but there were so many. It was like a swarm of metal ants. And somewhere in that mess were a steadily-dropping number of comrades.

At range, the robots almost looked comical. In close combat, they were terrifying. With a burst of heat and fire, three came down in the middle of a fireteam of four, sprinting across a playground. One shot a PFC in the face while a second grabbed the flak vest of a corporal and threw her against a nearby playground structure. 

Another private raised his rifle and heard it click. He instead bashed the thrower as hard as he could. A massive dent crushed its shoulder, and the machine swiveled its head around like an owl. It bent its arms backward and reached for him. With a shout, the soldier brought the rifle down again, again and again.

As he fought his own battle, his surviving friend shot the other two robots with quick reflexes and ran to help up the corporal. He found her bleeding and crumpled limply in a heap. "She's gone!" He shouted to his comrade.

The other man took a step forward before an explosion flung him like a toy. The remaining soldier looked up to see another swarm of the robots take up a position at the wall. A hail of missiles shrieked out from shoulder-mounted launchers; each machine appeared to be packing one. They struck all across the field, hammering the defensive line. The private ran toward the crater, as more explosions erupted around them, and grabbed his comrade, hauling him to his feet. "You’re not going with her!" The other man was dazed, but alive.

They stumbled toward friendly lines. Angry tracers lit up the afternoon sky from the Americans and the enemy. The drones had established their own line at the stone wall. A little over half of the screening platoon made it back to friendly lines, caught in a crossfire just like the robots who’d jumped overhead. More than one soldier had been hit by friendly fire. The private and his wounded friend were dragged into a trench by waiting hands. Their hearts sank at a shout, “Here they come again!”

EEEeee-scCROOM! A shrieking hail of explosives came down on the US line. “Incoming!” A man yelled, just as another cannonade blew him right out of his foxhole.

 The enemy swarmed over the stone wall like a tidal wave, this time protected by a fusillade from their line at the partrition. American machine guns laid down a wall of suppressive fire, but they didn't have much ready ammunition. The enemy’s main weapons unleashed blasts of red light, zipping and hissing past. Troopers fell, steam rising from their wounds. Some soldiers wondered what kind of firearms they were. Whatever they were, the Americans ducked their heads all the same and returned fire. “Grenade launchers! Fire at will!” The captain in charge shouted.

“Grenade launchers! Fire at will!” the NCOs relayed. A score of troopers ducked down to load launchers slung under their rifles. They moved as quickly as possible. They raised their weapons again and fired a discordant chorus of death. Each grenadier fired as soon as they were loaded. Explosive shells hammered the wave of enemy infantry. Craters peppered their way across the wall. And still they came.

Mortars, tracer fire, and rockets pounded the American positions. Dirt blasted high in the sky. Grunts screamed and cried. The wave of drones fell left and right. They climbed over the corpses of their comrades, heedless of the casualties and using them as cover.

A bombardment of Army mortar fire came shrieking down, hammering the enemy buildup behind the wall. One round clipped a flying robot on the way down without detonating, setting it off into a spin to collide with two more.

The enemy drones were rather fragile, despite their strength, but only about as much as your average soldier was. Contrary to what Hollywood insisted, most humans couldn’t take a single bullet and expect to keep operating at peak efficiency. And despite their fragility, each drone was still equipped with powerful weapons, rapidly mobile, and there were just so many. A single drone had more weapons than a single American trooper. And they weren't hampered by worrying about hitting their wounded. There were bodies strewn across the park, some still, but others not. The American mortars had to watch their fire.

"Hey, hey, they're going after the bodies!" A soldier shouted and pointed. A sharpshooter nearby peered into the distance to see one of the robots picking up a prone form near the stone wall. 

After a second, the sharpshooter's eyes widened as the limb body began to struggle. "Sergeant!"

Their sergeant looked over, then forward, and saw the struggling soldier. "Runner! Tell the captain the mortars need to watch their fire! We've got friendlies with the bad guys!"

The mortars had to be even more careful. Slowly, American soldiers were picked off as the enemy pushed harder. Many of them weren’t frontline fighters, they were military police mixed together with whatever volunteers they could find who were skilled with a rifle. More and more missiles, mortars, and the frightening tracer fire battered the American firing line.

To the south, on the left flank, a new formation of robots arrived. The defensive line was formed out of buildings and hastily-moved trucks and was defended by machine guns. They opened up as soon as they saw the robots coming over the rooftops. American mortars shifted their fire there, but they didn’t have many, or the staff to use them. The enemy pressed closer as the indirect fire slackened.

They should have been better. But no one expected an attack like this on Los Angeles.

On the left flank, up the long road to the base, a massive machine lumbered around the corner. It was the same model as the one at the train station. It turned its eyes toward them and stalked forward around. It rapidly moved up to the remains of the base fencing. The other machines cleared the way. “Grenadiers! Grenadiers!” A US captain shouted, “Concentrate fire on that tank!” The Alamitos defenders were under-equipped and still lacking in anti-tank weapons, they were lucky they had enough ammo to put up a defense.

The mechanized walker crawled on four limbs, its red eyes peering at the defenders. Sparks pinged off its armored hide as machine guns turned their fiery touch on the automaton. Still, the torrent of smaller robots came, rolling forward to draw the defender’s fire. There weren’t many grenade launchers among the soldiers, and much of their ammunition was expended, but this was a priority target. There was a distinct drumroll of thumps along the American line, answered by ragged crump sounds along the walker’s body. Smoke billowed from its hull. Craters marred its shell. The tank staggered and halted its advance, as more of the smaller machines were blown to pieces around it, body parts and fragments flew high in the sky. A cheer went up on the US side as the machine turned slightly.

…Then it turned back, still in the fight. The three distinct pods on each “shoulder” of the machine split open like a flower, and several shorter versions of the standard robots emerged. Rifles popped, bringing down most of them before they could hit the ground alive.

The head of the walker lifted on a hinged panel, still facing forward as an enormous rifled cannon unhoused itself from the depths of the machine. “Incoming!”

The cannon fired a missile downrange, altering its trajectory slightly to dip down and strike the center of the American line. It exploded, blasting away the three trucks on the road. Human figures and pieces of figures flew backward, screams drowned out by the withering gunfire around them. The flanking trucks were knocked away while the truck in the center rolled on its side, and its fuel tank ruptured. Diesel fuel spilled across the pavement and the dirt as it burst into flame. A figure jumped over the flames to escape, diving to roll on the grass and put out their clothes. A private dragged a scorched body free of the wreckage.

The turtle walker’s entire dorsal side split open, revealing a honeycomb of recesses for dozens of the smaller machines. They bounded forward with lightning speed, even faster than the other machines, and with far better reaction time. They still could not reach the Americans but stretched their already-battered firepower to the limit.

The turtle’s back closed up, and it retracted its cannon. Its shoulder panels twisted back, and the entire machine reared back on its hind legs. It extended its forward legs into arms, with the “toes” becoming “fingers”. A three-bladed iris in each of the “palms” of the machine’s arms opened and fired new missiles at the remains of the defensive line. They hit the line dead center, to either side of the first attack. The ground shook, and shrapnel flew in all directions. Dirt and pavement were thrown high into the air. The concussive force sent ears ringing. As the smoke cleared, a score of figures in sandy, tan, and grey camouflage lay strewn about the craters spread across the road. Some yelled, and some didn’t.

In an instant, the enemy was upon them.

The Americans broke and ran, sprinting back for the relative safety of the next defensive line. A machine gun nest swept fire over the enemy ranks, desperate to buy their friends time. Another nest, shattered by a hot piece of debris that tore apart their gun(and the gunner’s arm), barely revived themselves in time to be overrun.

The enemy looked down on the gunners with stoic unblinking eyes, aiming their weapons at the soldiers. The three soldiers in the pit exchanged looks. The gunner held a useless limb, the assistant gunner held a spade, while the ammo bearer had a rifle. The spade fell, the rifle fell, and all three put up their hands as best they could. One of the smaller bots from the tank scrambled up. Its segmented metal arms moved like coils, wrapping around the wounded man, dragging him back toward their lines with a cry. The other two were pushed in the same direction.

The captain on the right flank had enough. “Fall back by squad!” He shouted, "Fall back by squad!"

The defense crumpled inward. The enemy’s angry red bolts chased them like dogs on their heels. Men and women collapsed left and right as they rushed back to another line of defense, dug in behind the parking lots at the main buildings.

Like a bird of prey, a Black Hawk came roaring over the faltering American lines, the swishing blades nearly drowned out by a harsh chatter of machine gun fire. Several humvees joined the defensive lines, adding their firepower. At close range, the Black Hawk’s guns tore through several of the drones with every shot, bringing them off the heels of the retreating Americans.

A line of tracers pinged off the tank walker, rambling up its head and making it flinch. It raised its arms and fired its missiles at the Black Hawk. The helicopter gained altitude and popped off flares. As the missiles corkscrewed away, there were more plumes of smoke from deeper in the robot lines, just beyond the gate. Four more missiles shrieked toward the helicopter.

Phantom 1-3 was out of flares. They accelerated away, jinking this way and that, but the missiles maintained their lock.

One slid right through the crew compartment, miraculously passing through a slim gap on both open sides of the aircraft. The second clipped the main rotor and detonated, nearly throwing the crew chief out. The other two caught the aircraft’s tail, blowing it to smithereens and leaving only the main body spinning out of control with the rotor. It whirled like a broken toy, a lozenge shape that came falling out of the sky.

“We’re hit! Phantom 1-3 going down, Phantom 1-3 going down–!” Static washed away the transmission as the aircraft plowed into the ground.

Within minutes, a third of the base had fallen. Phantom 1-3 lay smashed in a truck park, crushing one unfortunate humvee. Crumpled forms of humans and robots alike lay scattered all over the northwestern part of the base. 

The enemy swarmed over the base solar panel farm to the north, cutting the power and attacking backup generators. The robots slammed into the ranks of the retreating right flank soldiers, pushing hard and fast, all the way into hand-to-hand combat range. The lines blurred together into a massive brawl among the buildings as the Americans made a desperate fighting withdrawal to the depths of the base. The monsters called out shrill metallic battle cries and haunting roars as they grappled with the soldiers, who roared back and fought like mad. It was terrifying. Bullets and red tracers tore through the buildings, claws met knives and fists.

A sergeant went flying through a window of a training building into a corridor, falling to the ground in a pile of glass, only for one of the machines to follow and attempt to drag him back. 

Another soldier stepped into the corridor, “Oh no ya don’t!” He jumped on the back of the robot and battered it with his fists. A corporal followed and grabbed at the thing’s arm, trying to release the wounded man.

“Hold it there!” A PFC shouted down the hall. The other two soldiers lifted the robot on its legs, and the private ran forward with her shoulder up. She rammed into the machine, crushing its torso with her weight and force. Its fragments fell to the ground, releasing the wounded sergeant. 

The four stood(or lay) there for a long moment, panting hard. “Damn these things are fragile!” the PFC gasped.

A hail of the enemy tracers sent everyone diving to the deck. “We gotta move! Someone get the sergeant!”

 The base defenders still held some form of formation on the left flank, but on the right was something more akin to swiss cheese. The perimeter had pulled back to a row of buildings just ahead of the airfield. The defenses formed a sort of squiggly shape, a sort of “4” without the top right part. On the left, their backs were against the airfield, facing to the north, forming the base of the shape and looking at the gates. On the right, they had a line facing west, toward the gate, and another to the north, facing the solar farm. Through some miracle, they held. 

Or perhaps it wasn’t a miracle. Two more of the tanks emerged from the left flank gate, having shot down the Black Hawk. The enemy was simply moving around to support their walkers. The first deadly machine spearheaded the assault. It walked slowly forward on all fours, glaring down at the enemy. It fired its head cannon at a machine gun nest, blowing them to pieces.

From the left flank buildings, amongst the rifle and machine gun fire, a small team emerged from a building, carrying a large weapon. “Backblast area clear!” 

The gunner called out, “Firing, firing, firing!” There was a huge crump and a projectile thundered downrange. The Carl Gustav recoilless rifle projectile struck the lead walker in the side, pushing it to the side. It tore a chunk out of one of its four limbs. It staggered along on the three remaining ones, burying its shoulder in the ground and struggling to lift itself back up.

“Reload!” The gunner shouted as the red tracers turned their way. “C’mon, c’mon…!”

“Ready!” The loader said, barely audible over the cacophony, “Backblast area clear!”

“Firing, firing, firing!”

The second round blew off the side of the tank. It raised its other limbs and prepared to fire one of its missiles. Even more of the enemy fired at the recoilless rifle crew. The red tracers were dazzling, putting spots in the eyes of those they missed. The tank struggled, but it could bring its launcher around. It aimed right at the crew.

“Oh, shit– hit the deck!”

Before the crew could be wiped out, another recoilless rifle went off further down the ranks, shattering the enemy tank’s head once and for all in the process. It slumped forward and collapsed. They were lucky the enemy didn’t seem to have any coaxial machine guns, but that was a small miracle. The enemy’s bounding troops still had plenty of fire to make up the difference. 

They were closing in fast. The lines wouldn’t hold. They’d have to retreat to the airfield. The recoilless rifle crews prepared to pull back.

Suddenly there was a climactic crash. An enormous plume of smoke and a crater formed in the blink of an eye. Seconds later there was another. A third hit one of the tanks dead-center, vanishing it in a cloud of smoke.

“The hell was that?” the recoilless gunner asked, stunned.

“The hell do you think?” The loader demanded.

“...Cinco de Mayo?”

His loader looked at him, breathless. He laughed hoarsely. The gunner started to laugh as well. Then both put their heads down again as another round struck the ground.

XXXXX

Nearly eighteen miles away, a US Navy destroyer rode the waves. It was a calm afternoon, the water was cool and peaceful. The USS Pinckney moved at one-quarter speed, with its single 127mm cannon trained to starboard, over the “91” painted on its side. The engines rumbled as it split the ocean, spewing foamy water around its bow. It was a stoic shape, with few crew on deck.

The tranquility was shattered by a sonic boom; the cannon spat a gout of flame and smoke washed away by the wind. A blackened cylinder spat out from above the barrel with a wisp of smoke. The projectile sped far over the horizon, and out of sight. All was calm again.

Deep within the warship, in the destroyer’s blue-tinted Combat Information Center(CIC), a voice crackled from a comm operator's headset. “Adjust fire. Over ten. Drop twenty. Fire for effect. Over.”

“Adjust fire. Over ten. Drop twenty. Fire for effect, out," The rating repeated. Around her, grim and focused faces peered at their displays. The space was cramped but spare, without any equipment that wasn't absolutely necessary. Water bottles and sealed coffee containers stood out like they were from a different world, placed awkwardly on the floor or off to the side. There was no natural light, no view of the calm sea outside. They were cut off from the outside world. Instead, they absorbed information from electronic sensors, cameras, satellites, radio, and lookouts up on deck. Even in this era, they still needed actual eyes on the horizon, just not from the command center anymore. Navigational monitors showed their position off the coast of California. Passive radar displays scanned the skies and the surface around them. Track numbers identified Coast Guard vessels, tugs, pleasure ships, and freighters. The quantity of dots indicating civilian air traffic was slowly decreasing, as they traveled further away from the center of Los Angeles. Radio chatter echoed from speakers and headsets. The CIC was evenly divided into specialized areas for navigation, surface, undersea, and aerial warfare, and other sectors of offense and defense needed to operate the ship.

“Adjust fire, over ten, drop twenty, fire for effect, aye." The operator crewing the Mk 45 127mm dual-purpose gun adjusted the angle and fired again. Even the lookouts couldn’t see the coast from here, not unless they were at the top of the mainmast. All the CIC operators could see were dots on their screens. Numbers, coordinates, angles, so impersonal as they sent shells over the horizon to save thousands of their fellows from very real danger.

The Arleigh Burke-class destroyer was a force to be reckoned with. It had land-attack missiles that could hit a city block in Colorado from the Pacific ocean, weapons capable of knocking down dozens of jet aircraft, anti-ship missiles, torpedoes, a highly capable suite of sonar and radar, and could be equipped with guided munitions capable of targeting ballistic missiles or satellites in low Earth orbit. 

The shell finally struck its target. On a video feed from an aircraft circling Los Alamitos, a bubble of smoke exploded. "Good hit, good hit. Three rounds, target Alpha Foxtrot 3026, over."

Coordinates were called out. The lieutenant commander in charge of the weapons department barked, "Batteries released, mount seven-six, Three round salvo."

There were a few glances around at that order. They couldn't target anything else in the city without more reconnaissance. A drone was circling Los Alamitos and providing additional data, yet the only reason they could strike now was that the area in the base was so wide. Danger close range for 127mm naval guns was 750 meters or about half a mile from the target. But the Air National Guard was delayed. This was all they had to keep them from being overwhelmed.

"Batteries released, mount seven-six, three-round salvo, aye." The ensign operating the Mark 45 gun mount pulled the trigger.

The ship was based out of San Diego. Several of them had friends and family in Los Alamitos proper. No one had time to call anyone to see if they were alright. 

The cannon adjusted and fired. The barrel lowered slightly as the spent cartridge flew forward, and fired again. It lowered slightly further and fired a third time.

The shells went over the horizon and vanished. It took seconds for them to cross the distance and hit. Thus was the nature of modern warfare. A projectile could be sent to destroy a city block while the operator went for coffee.

XXXXX

On land, three nearly simultaneous explosions finally shattered the enemy spearhead. The 60mm mortars were less than half the caliber of the Mk 45, and the Carl Gustavs were only a little more than that. The three 127mm shells, packed with explosive power came flying in faster than the speed of sound. They blew up the remaining walker tanks, their hides cracked open like eggshells in a garbage disposal. Pieces of the smaller robots littered the area around them. Damaged machines writhed and twisted. One lay on its back, it worked its shattered arm back and forth, its legs still trying to walk forward.

"Push 'em back!” The American officers shouted, “Let’s go!” American troopers emerged from the rubble and buildings. A humvee crept up as a few squads dusted themselves off and moved forward.

The perimeter had been forced all the way back to a row of buildings just ahead of the airfield. The Emergency Operations Center hadn’t fallen, but it had taken some enemy fire. Chunks of concrete had been taken out of the edges of the building. A spread of stray rockets had hammered the roof. The building next to the EOC was the base hospital. Outside, in an alleyway beside the EOC, a row of body bags told a dark tale. Hurt and broken bodies lay on blankets and cots in the corridors around the command center itself, waiting to be taken to the waiting helicopters. Several aircraft remained, landing on the far side of the airfield, despite the risk of ground fire, to take on a few more casualties, and bring them out to any other available hospitals. 

A row of windows lined one side of the command building, facing the direction of the breached gate and away from the airfield. The infantry had dug in a few machine gun nests, while one of their precious recoilless rifles, one of several finally dragged out of an armory, was set up in a lounge. The windows had been sandbagged, with furniture upturned to protect it. Stretcher-bearers gently moved an unmoving form onto a litter. The other Americans gave them a sidelong glance and slowly turned their gazes back to the firing line.

 Captain Parker and Colonel Cinege emerged from the EOC room and moved to the windows. Both had sidearms. The colonel spoke into a phone as they watched the troops advancing, “...Thanks  Pinckney  Actual. This is Alamitos Actual, out.” Cinege put the phone down and moved closer to the windows.

Parker watched the carnage unfold as the troops pushed back. "Squids've got good aim," He commented, using a common nickname for sailors.

Cinege nodded with satisfaction. “The Insurrection Act and a favor here and there help some. They got it through just in time.”

“I just wish we could get some Tomahawk missiles pointed at wherever their HQ is.”

“The Navy’s worried about hitting something vital." The colonel didn't roll her eyes, but there was the same sound in her voice. “We should be able to hold the base for now. There can’t be many more of them. How are our air assets?”

Parker grimaced, “The rest of our helicopters are still operational, though a few of them have taken ground fire. We’re working to get the wounded out. The hospital’s been evacuated as best we could, but…” He looked in the distance of the civilian hospital beyond the base perimeter, “I hate to think what those things might be doing to the rest of them.”

“From what they’re saying, at least they’re showing quarter,” Cinege commented. “Better than nothing.”

“Better than some people I could name–”

Boom.

Instinctively the officers hit the deck, covering their necks. The remaining windows shattered. Smoke, particles of sand, and glass flew through the air. For a moment, Parker feared it was a nuke. There was an enormous wave of air that buffeted everyone in the open, throwing helmets and hats to the wind. There was a deafening howl and a thunderclap louder than a sonic boom.

In the sky over downtown, a massive rounded shape appeared. It was bigger than a 747,  much  bigger. It wasn’t as big as the skyscrapers below it, but it looked like someone had scooped a town up and put it in the air. It glimmered in the light of the setting sun, casting a shadow for miles to the west. It was a disk with four cylinders attached to beams distributed equally around the circle. The cylinders burned with blue flame, keeping it aloft. The top of it was triangular, like a pyramid with the corners rounded off. There were blue outlines like circuits that ran across it, barely visible in the twilight.

“What the…?” Cinege murmured in disbelief.

There was a twinkle of light on the upper part of the flying object. Then a blinding beam of light arced over the city and toward the sea. The rumbling of artillery and explosions halted for a moment in shock. The whole world seemed to stand still.

"It's goddamn New Caprica…" Parker murmured.

"What?"

"Nothing!"

"That must’ve been a railgun! They’re aiming for the Navy." The Colonel said.

“A railgun?” Parker asked, "You think they can kill a carrier?"

"Direct fire won’t do it. A Nimitz’ll stay over the horizon. They might be able to damage a destroyer or an LCS."

“Definitely one of those…” Parker grunted.

There was a yell from outside. "Incoming!" The officers dove to the floor again as another round of enemy mortars hammered in. Debris bounced off walls and sandbags as they covered their necks.

Boom.

The air howled with anger, it was like a hurricane rippling in all directions. A shadow darkened the base. Parker and Cinege looked up. Another round flying machine appeared overhead, its engines blasting downward. Projections and speculation ran through Parker’s head. "Okay, it's New Caprica only worse.” His eyes widened and he cowered for a second again. He looked up again to see it was hovering. Not falling, hovering. How can anything that big fly, let alone hover? It should be crushing us!

“Captain! Any thoughts?” Cinege demanded.

A UFO documentary he watched fifteen years ago briefly ran through his mind, and he shook his head, “No clue, ma’am! Dunno what kind of firepower it’s going to take to bring it down either!”

Cinege got to her feet and headed back into the Emergency Operations Center. “Lieutenant! Tell the Pentagon we’ve got bandits over LA! We need fast movers and SAMs in the air,  now ! They’re targeting the harbor. We can call out targets as long as we’re still transmitting.”

Parker looked up at the massive machine. “With all due respect, that won’t be long if they can drop gravity bombs on us. Or any more of those ray guns.”

“Doesn’t matter. We’ve got a job to do.” There was another explosion off to the right. “We won’t last long, so let’s make it count!”