Chapter 4

It was fortunate that the remaining distance to the docks was short, because in spite of the titanic battle raging across the river, the fighting within Manhattan had not ended. Aria drove Bron and Eckert by burning buildings, blackened fighting vehicles, and the bodies of the fallen. Just before reaching the waterfront, they passed a beautiful public park with a green baseball diamond surrounded by a chain link fence. A giant Zentraedi lay spread-eagled there, her arm and leg thrown across the pitcher's mound and home plate. Bron had seen many other battles firsthand, but he knew that he had changed, and his feelings about battle had changed as well. If he weren't already numb with shock, he doubted he could have accepted the sight of so much senseless loss of life in silence.

The taxi pulled onto 12th Avenue, right in front of the long brick building that served as the harbor's cruise ship terminal. The front of the building had five large sets of doors, but a firefight had taken place outside the nearest entrance. Two of York's infantry fighting vehicles were in the parking lot, stopped askew, their passenger hatches open, and oily black smoke spilled out of them. A wide hole had been blasted in the wall of the building, and crumbling bricks were scattered in every direction. The huddled bodies of soldiers in the black of York and the drab gray of the Borough defenders were intermingled. The structure was big enough to block their view of the battle beyond the river, but they could see and hear the continuous explosions beyond its roof. Aria stopped in the street, and Eckert finished wrapping a bandage around his wounded hand. They all cautiously left the taxi behind, Aria's drone whining softly as it spun up its fan blades and obediently followed her.

"You're going with us?" Bron asked Aria quietly, keeping one hand on Eckert's shoulder to guide him.

"I think you're where the story is now, Inspector General."

They began crossing the parking lot, and were halfway to the hole in the wall when Eckert's foot struck a broken brick, sending it skittering across the asphalt. They heard a small exclamation, and then a York infantry trooper stumbled out from behind the nearest armored vehicle's hulk. He wore black fatigues and bulky body armor, with a heavy load of ammunition and grenades webbed across his chest. His thick-rimmed helmet rested on tinted goggles. What little could be seen of his face was pale under the soot that was smeared on his cheeks. His lips peeled back in a grimace, showing too-white teeth as he raised an evil looking submachine gun and leveled it on the three of them.

"Move and I swear to God I'll f-!"

BLAM

The point blank shotgun blast tore right through the soldier's chest plate, blowing him off his feet. He landed on his back, arms thrown wide, and his weapon went spinning away. He did not move again. Eckert racked his shotgun, and the spent shell casing hit the pavement with a clatter. Bron looked at the police sergeant's blank, staring eyes.

"Will, how did you-? I thought you were-"

"What? I'm blind, not deaf."

Aderac was waiting inside the terminal.

"Yes, all of the evacuation boats and ships are ready, as planned. With the landlines down, I didn't know whether to move forward on my own, or send my people to the sub-basement and wait it all out."

Bron looked through the landscape windows of the terminal's waterfront side. A blizzard of weapons fire, smoke, and burning cinders obscured the far shore, except for the opposite dock area, where black armored battlepods were trooping into position, squad by squad.

"It's time," he said. "The President has given the order."

Aderac grunted, and turned to his assistant.

"Inform all crews. Prepare for immediate launch."

He, the Dock Master of New York Harbor, was about to send all of the boats and ships he was responsible for directly into the warzone.

"You don't have to do this," Aderac repeated, after showing Bron the throttle, wheel, and few other controls he would need to steer the mid-size yacht out into the harbor. A rich man's toy, it was simple to operate, and its idling engine, readied ahead of time by Aderac's workers, was purring beneath them. Bron, an experienced pilot of battlepods and small scout ships, was certain he could manage. Aria had remained ashore, camera at the ready as always, promising to look after Eckert until his injuries could be properly treated. Before they parted, Bron thanked her and hugged her goodbye. She had stiffened in surprise, then returned the hug, admonishing him in clipped tones not to be reckless with his life. He didn't answer that. Now he kept his eyes on the view out the tinted windshield of the yacht's small but plush pilot-house.

"I'm not going to fight anymore, Aderac. There's no way to talk to anyone, to try to stop the battle, and we're certainly not surrendering. So this is what I'm going to do."

Aderac raised his eyebrows at Bron's words, then nodded.

"Very well. I'll order the tugs to start. Good fortune, Inspector General." He saluted, Zentraedi fashion. Bron held out his hand, and Aderac took it. They shook.

"I'll cast you off myself," Aderac called from the doorway. "Remember, the harbor lights will flash three times. Then, you open up the throttle. The rest is in Fate's hands."

Bron sat in the cushioned seat, and waited. Fires were igniting on barges spread all along the length of the Manhattan docks. A mixture of tires, garbage, and various accelerants were set aflame and began spewing thick, noxious black smoke. Tugboats nudged them out into the Hudson River, forming a concealing cloud. Bron could still hear the constant rumble of explosives and the rattle of cannon fire, interspersed with the scream of beam weaponry, but he could see only the choppy blue-green water out to two hundred meters ahead of him. He held his breath, and all of the harbor's illumination and signal lights flashed once, twice, three times. Bron released his breath with a gasp, took the red rubber grip of the throttle, and threw it forward to 'ALL AHEAD FULL.'

The yacht's diesel engine growled, and the boat bobbed as it began to gently pull away from the pier, picking up speed quickly. He gripped the wheel, and a clangor rang out across the docks, briefly drowning out the sounds of war. The bells, horns, and high pitched synthesized tones of scores of watercraft were sounded by their volunteer crews. Bron reached across his console and activated his own boat's air horn, looking left and right as he did so. He was surrounded by the most motley assortment of vessels New York Harbor had ever seen launch together. He saw tour boats, yachts and other pleasure craft, alongside sluggish fishing trawlers and marine research ships. Police patrollers and fire boats slipped between bulky passenger ferries, and behind them all came hulking freighters and slim coast guard cutters. What had Director Carstein compared it to? 'Like our own miniature Dunkirk.' Only it was different, in some very important ways. The UEG, the Zentraedi in orbit, the various relief forces, would be panicking at the move, because attempting to evacuate in the face of that assault group on the opposite shore, with no escort, no air cover, and no navy task force waiting to receive them, was suicide. There was no way that York would ever let their prey escape- their pride and hatred would not permit it.

Already, Bron saw lurid energy beams and hot yellow tracers pouring out of the smoke towards him and the other boats. A barge ahead and just to the right blew up, and he threw a hand over his eyes against the glare as his yacht wallowed from the explosion, water washing over its bow. Nearby, a fishing boat was on fire, and in the opposite direction, a rocket barrage struck the deck of a freighter, blasting shipping containers fifty meters into the air. Some of the crews were abandoning ship, leaping from pilot-houses and over gunwales to splash into the river.

Though he still could not see through the smoke screen, with the weight of firepower coming at the evacuation flotilla, Bron imagined that York's battlepods must already be breaking ranks to participate in the massacre, peeling off from the greater battle with the Zentraedi and the Ghosts to line up along the Jersey docks and blaze away. A growing number would be down in the water, eager to come to grips with their victims, or else carelessly knocked off the piers as more and more mecha crowded the waterfront. Exactly as planned.

It had taken half the previous night, but Bron and Mary had convinced Manhattan's leaders to trust the UEG, and to abandon the risky plan to evacuate by boat. The bulk of Manhattan's civilians were relatively safe in subway stations turned shelters throughout the city. The Joralemon Street Tunnel had been cleared of mines early this morning, and Metro trains were now continuously spiriting evacuees away to the east, under the Harlem River to the station in Brooklyn Heights. There were no UN Marine destroids waiting to meet them as originally planned, but it was safer than anywhere else around Manhattan. There was hope - for the Terrans and micronized Zentraedi. As for the giants… he couldn't bear thinking about it right now. At least the evacuation boats were serving their new purpose of disrupting the cohesiveness of York's battle formations.

A hundred meters away, the Staten Island Ferry, a four decked boat painted a cheerful orange and blue, was pierced by a hungry particle beam that split it amidships, and its two halves sagged toward each other, taking on water fast. Bron pulled the yacht's throttle back to neutral, and stepped out onto the upper deck to watch. All around him was smoke, fire, oil slicks, and burning debris. Most of the barges had been sunk, so the previously impenetrable wall of covering smoke had gaps now. He could see the flashes of weapon fire on the Jersey side of the river, see the baleful red of the enemy battlepods' visual sensors. It looked like a quarter of York's army might be over there, and dozens of pods were awkwardly wading through the mud of the harbor bottom, with still more spilling off the piers and tumbling into the churning water as he watched. A few seemed to be stuck.

This was it. He had done all he could. This might be enough to turn the battle, but from everything he had seen, it was quite likely to end in a Pyrrhic victory for everyone fighting to stop York. How many Zentraedi giants would be alive by the end of this day? He looked down at the sloshing waters of the river, teeming with danger. He could not swim. What use was swimming to giant warriors equipped with war machines and planet destroying weaponry to match their stature, the Masters had reasoned. Perhaps better to stay up here, and wait for whatever came next. A less messy, less painful end than facing tomorrow in a world that lacked Vanessa.

Bron grabbed the hand-rail as an exploding missile launched a geyser high above his head, and the cold spray of water blasted him in the face. It was like he woke from a daze. He couldn't do this. He remembered Mary's tearful words when they last spoke. More than that, he remembered Vanessa's words from a year ago, after she had nearly despaired at losing the people most important to her. He remembered how he had reminded her of the people that still lived, still cared for her. After all she had been through since that day, she would never have agreed with this… fatalism. He could almost see the look on her face, the tears glistening in her beautiful violet eye, almost hear the words she would say to him, and he felt ashamed. The only proper way he knew to lessen the pain was to honor her beliefs. To not give up, to continue on, and return to the people they both loved. Though his vision was blurred, he put a foot on the railing, pushing himself up, preparing to leap into the water.

A burst of heavy autocannon fire ripped through the yacht, bow to stern, tearing the thin aluminum hull to shreds. The upper deck flipped upward under the force of the attack, catapulting Bron through the air. He cried out in surprise and fear, then choked when he hit the water and liquid rushed into his mouth and nose. He surfaced, coughing and gagging, trying to blink away the brackish water in his eyes. If Aderac hadn't insisted Bron put on a bulky yellow life jacket before he would even be allowed aboard a boat, he would already be drowning. As it was, he flailed, disoriented. He felt a sudden heat and light on the right side of his face and the back of his right hand, a heat that rapidly became intolerable. He screamed, awkwardly kicking in the opposite direction. His vision cleared, and he could see the wide, burning oil slick that he had come close to drifting into. The heat lessened, but the pain did not, and he realized that patches of his skin had burned.

Tracers flew over Bron's head, and so he at least knew which direction the enemy lay, but he didn't have any sense of where to find safety. Every boat he saw was on fire or sinking. He could hear other survivors splashing and calling out in alarm. A life preserver floated within reach, and he grabbed the orange and white ring with both hands. Only a quarter kilometer away, a black Regult unit was striding along the harbor bottom, smashing aside debris, water lapping around its red sensor lens. It fired its particle beams almost continuously, the white hot lines of energy leaving strobing black and green streaks across his vision.

Then, in the distance, he saw something else in the water- something big enough to capture his attention and stand out from the vaporous stew that New York Harbor had become. It came from the direction of the bay. First, Bron saw a great wave, pushing all before it, leaving only pure white sea foam in its wake. Then, the water's surface broke. Metal, on metal, on metal. Crystal clear waterfalls spilled off walls of steel and alloy that were banded first in somber industrial gray, then in bright crimson, and had been touched by burns and rents where the emerging leviathan had suffered and survived dozens of beam and missile strikes. It rose higher and higher, until its deck was more than fifty meters above its waterline, and still it rushed nearer, its speed and mass as majestic as they were terrifying. As Bron watched, dumbstruck, Submersible Landing Vessel 114 entered New York Harbor. Persephone had returned from the Underworld.

In the following days, the whole world would learn the story of the Persephone and her crew. It was a story that would pass into legend, to be mentioned in the same breath along-side Launch Day, Dolza's Global Assault, and the Battle of New Macross. Long were the hours, lost in darkness, lying at the bottom of the North Atlantic, where the water pressure set the damaged carrier's hull groaning. Unknown to York's ambush force, Commander Amelie Lacroix, after standing up from the burned body of her beloved captain, had carried out his intentions, evacuating the ravaged navigation bridge, securing the ship's hatches, and flooding the ballast tanks. The Persephone quickly sank beneath the waves, trailing smoke, fire, and molten metal. The crash as it struck the seabed resounded on every deck. The remaining battlepods, convinced of their victory, sped on towards the invasion of Manhattan, leaving their intended victim behind. Without, were the broken wrecks of the rest of the task force, and within, the crew battled hell-fire and icy black water.

Hundreds of sailors died in those depths, cooked in the oven that entire sections of their ship had become, overwhelmed by smoke and fumes, or simply deprived of oxygen, while others screamed out their final breaths, to be replaced by invading seawater in the cold darkness. But thousands more endured, extinguishing flames, sealing water-tight doors, working emergency pumps, and restoring power to vital systems. Acting Captain Lacroix directed the efforts with the utmost urgency, because she knew there would be no rescuers coming to their aid. She knew that even if they refloated the ship, they could not simply steam away to safety. Captain Kekoa had charged them all with a task. Their mission was not yet complete.

By the time the Persephone rose again from the deep and entered the harbor, every destroid and Valkyrie was armed and crewed, every beam turret charged, every missile rack loaded and ready. Exterior hatches slid aside, the great lifts on the flight deck ascended, and the ship unleashed its arsenal before Bron's eyes. Defenders and Phalanxes manned the fighting platforms. Quad-barreled cannons raked the waters, tearing apart battlepods as if they were toy targets at a carnival attraction. There was no escape this time - the muddy bottom of the harbor provided no refuge to shocked pilots who lacked the special marine training the ones who had attacked Persephone earlier that morning had received. The closest battlepod in the water to Bron was perforated over and over before its legs gave out under it, and it sank beneath the water, bubbles boiling out of the hull breaches.

The battloid Valkyries of the Fire Bees and the Silver Lancers arrived next, charging off of the lifts to the edge of the flight deck, their steps weighed down by an augmented armor and missile loadout, giving them the appearance of hulking body builders. Protective shutters flipped open and the veritechs lofted hundreds of missiles at the hostile shoreline, then went to one knee and fired their gun pods in turn, suppressing the nearest concentrations of York's mecha. Meanwhile, the Phalanxes coordinated their barrages through the ship's advanced fire control computers and emptied their enormous missile drums, the smoke of the mass launch momentarily shrouding the Persephone like a brooding mountain peak. The largest wave of heavy warheads spread over five kilometers of waterfront and broke apart. Thousands of deadly submunitions scattered and went off like giant strings of firecrackers, damaging or destroying dozens of pods and sending the rest reeling. Through the chain of destruction flew a second, smaller wave of anti-radiation missiles that ruthlessly homed in on the jamming emissions of York's scout variant battlepods and exterminated them. Abruptly the airwaves cleared of static. Bron gagged and spat out a mouthful of water. He was so entranced by the sudden reversal of fortunes that he was not concentrating on keeping his head above the surface.

"Stop rubbernecking and help me!"

The voice came from over his shoulder, startling him so much he almost let go of the life preserver.

"I'm here, I'm here!" another voice called back, annoyed.

"We've got you, sir! Just hang on a second!"

Strong hands seized Bron under the armpits and by the collar of his life jacket and pulled him from the water. He was dragged over the bright orange side of a large inflatable raft, and rolled into the bottom, where a small amount of water washed back and forth under him. There were five other exhausted boat crewmen there with him, shivering where they sat watching the battle, and two New York Fire Department search and rescue specialists leaned over him, while a third manned the rescue boat's outboard motor.

"We're going to check over your injuries, sir. You're going to be okay," one of his rescuers told him.

Bron struggled into a crouch, craning his neck to observe the battle.

"Oh, ok, I guess you're sitting up then," the first firefighter, whose name tag read FOLEY, said, eyeing Bron's burly build and deciding not to try to wrestle him back into a prone position. "I see that you're burned. Are there any other injuries I should be aware of?"

"I'm fine, I think," Bron answered distractedly. "I just really need to see what's going on."

"I can handle this, Mike. Get back to watching for more survivors."

"Right," the second firefighter said, moving away.

"And keep your eyes on the water, not the battle!" Foley called after him, and turned his attention back to Bron. "Ok, if you could just hold still, I'm going to check your vitals."

"Sure."

Bron barely heard him, barely noticed the man's touch as he checked his pulse, shined a light into his eyes, and began examining his burns. The Persephone wasn't slowing, was in fact picking up speed, and angling in toward the Jersey shore. Bron began to feel panic returning.

"What are they trying to do?"

The docks were a whirlwind of weapon exchanges and burning or fleeing battlepods, but there were still hundreds of foes out there, and a number of pods hopped onto the wide concrete and steel piers, seeking a good line of fire on the Persephone. The ship shrugged off the few solid hits like they were biting gnats, and then three blinding white circles of light snapped into existence over its hull. The air buzzed and crackled, and the energy barriers zipped to the bow of the ship, completely covering and reinforcing the heavily armored prow. The Persephone, running at flank speed, narrowly skirted the old Hoboken shipyard before plowing directly into the more than thirty meter wide pier for the Midtown Ferry. Solid concrete, steel, and earth were all smashed aside, and the carrier continued straight on through the equally massive yacht pier beyond, barely slowing as it battered its way through a third pier, cutting off the ruined restaurant at the end of it from the shore. The battlepods lining the piers were utterly annihilated under the grinding weight of the ship, leaving behind unidentifiable scraps of compressed metal, or were tossed into the water to become trapped in the mud or to be picked off by destroids and close-in defense turrets.

Bron shook his head in disbelief. "Just like Daedalus," he murmured.

Persephone cruised on another hundred-fifty meters or so, it's hull not even fully clear of the last pier yet, and then drove itself aground at Lincoln Harbor Park. The jutting prong of its bow turned up tons of earth before finally coming to rest, partially buried, right at the edge of an ash-covered running track. At the far end of the park, still more of York's battlepods were approaching from the north and west, forming up to counterattack, but before they were ready, the great hatch that formed the forward edge of the flight deck folded back, exposing a yawning cavity from which the assault landing ramp deployed. The world lit up again.

Tightly clustered lines of energy and endless missiles poured out of the Persephone's hold like a dragon's breath - enough firepower to tear through the core of a Zentraedi heavy cruiser. Any opposing battlepod within a narrow cone stretching two kilometers of open space in front of the ship was cut apart. Somewhere, off to the west, a desperate battle was continuing across former Hudson County, but for a few seconds, everything along the shore was still.

Foley was as slack-jawed as Bron, the sterile bandage he was holding up to Bron's cheek forgotten. Everyone watched now as rank after rank of Tomahawk destroids, loaded down with heavy weapons like anthropomorphic battle cruisers, trooped down the assault ramp. The green and red mecha filed out, team by team, into Hoboken, Union City, and West New York, searching for fresh prey. The other survivors in the boat were beginning to chatter among themselves, realizing that the tide had turned decisively. Even Bron smiled slightly, in spite of the aching pain and loss he felt in his chest.

A clatter of metal reached their ears, staggeringly loud even with the distance to the Persephone. Then another. Another. Two vast shapes, barely able to fit side by side, emerged into the daylight from Persephone's hold. The inhuman bulk of a pair of Monster mobile assault cannons laboriously walked down the ramp. Each slow step thundered across the battlefield, sending up dust devils of ash. The squat, bipedal mecha, slab-sided and lobster-like, and each massing more than a dozen lesser destroids, reached the center of the running track and planted immense recoil absorbers. The four gargantuan battleship-sized cannons each one carried on its back whined, elevated, and made minute adjustments, aiming toward the main battleground.

"Cover your-" Bron started to say, and the main batteries fired. He felt the salvo as a pressure on his face and eyes, a shock through his bones. The Monsters disappeared for a moment in a great puff of ash, and a glittering spray kicked up off the surface of the river under the vibration of the blasts. Everyone else was cheering, but Bron could only dully hear them over the ringing in his ears. Seconds later the shells detonated down the length of York's main line of resistance, spreading destruction on an apocalyptic scale. Already, the Monsters were ejecting spent shell casings half the size of compact cars, and heavy tractor trailers were rolling down the Persephone's ramp, bringing fresh ammunition. Marine infantry were deploying in their armored vehicles, and the Valkyries on the flight deck were jettisoning their spent armor and missile addons so that they could transform to guardian mode and take off, clearing the way for helicopters to be brought up on the lifts.

The search and rescue boat was bobbing gently in the water, bathed in warm sunlight. Foley and the other firefighters bent back to their tasks, treating the wounded, including Bron, and motoring on to pick up more shipwrecked survivors. This battle is almost over, Bron thought, wiping tears from his eyes, heedless of his burned cheek and hand. If only the peace could be as simple. Oh, Vee, what do I do now?

The strike module vibrated again, releasing another wave of destructive energy. A red icon disappeared from Vanessa's screen, and she nodded curtly to herself. That was the last of the ground-based missile batteries she had marked for the Sal-Dazir's gunnery crews.

"Now estimating ninety-eight percent destruction of York's rear echelon and reserves," Sensors reported. Captain Gotta gave a satisfied grunt.

"What of the ground battle?" he asked.

"With the entry of the destroids and heavy artillery into the battle, the enemy's main battlepod force has broken and is in complete rout. Group Leader Pentiet is pursuing them with maximum aggression."

May, who had taken over coordinating communications between the Zentraedi and Army of the Southern Cross forces after the jamming ended, spoke up. "The Persephone's air group is assisting the pursuit. Ghost Wing is heavily depleted, and Colonel Edwards has ordered his squadrons back into Manhattan to take care of the mop up."

That was fine, as far as Vanessa was concerned. With Captain Kekoa's untimely death, Edwards was now the senior ASC officer in theater, which made it his show to run for now. She watched Gotta carefully as he responded to May's report with a dismissive nod.

"Very well. Instruct Group Leader Pentiet to proceed at her own discretion." Then he squared his shoulders, and his chest rose with an indrawn breath. "Conn, steer course two-six-seven! Engineering, ahead full atmospheric!"

Vanessa's eye narrowed, and May blinked in confusion. The agreed plan was to come about and splash down in New York Bay. The strike module's Reflex furnace was badly degraded, and would soon fail without a full rebuild. With the Zentraedi fleet disbanding, this was to be the Sal-Dezir's final voyage.

"Sir, I don't understand," May said. "Aren't we supposed to return to Manhattan now?"

They could already feel the ship's motion as it changed course under them. Vanessa knew what Gotta was going to say before he spoke the words aloud.

"We're not going back to Manhattan," he announced, his face set in stone.

"We're going to York."

Next chapter… the Second Rain of Death, attack position, and an ending in crimson…