Or small tank.

Lyssa swore some more as she tossed her twelve-gauge and drew her service pistol. That was a little more high tech, a ten-millimeter armor piercer designed to turn civilian-level body armor to Swiss cheese. She fired as she fell back, really just trying to delay one of the invaders so people could clear the area.

All she was really doing was attracting its attention to her.

Great. Just what I needed to top off my friggin’ day.

She glanced around and changed direction as she started to run, leading the thing into the park and away from the crowds. The ten-millimeter autoloader reloaded easily, her hands moving on muscle memory as she ran for her life. The park was large enough that the things on her tail would have room to move without knocking over buildings or, hopefully, people, but it also meant that she was about to be a nice wide-open target.

That was about the time that a sizzling sound made her throw herself to the left as a beam scorched the grass ahead of her. Lyssa rolled to her feet, stared for a split second, and started running again.

Great! Ray guns too!

She tapped the ear set she was wearing. “Central, this is Kilo One Nine calling in a Code . . . Central, what the fuck is the code for alien invasion anyway?”

NATIONAL GUARD COMMAND POST, INTREPID SEA, AIR, & SPACE MUSEUM

“SIR! WE’VE GOT reports across the entire city, those things are everywhere!”

Brigadier Potts growled. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

The over-excited lieutenant had the decency to look abashed at his outburst, which did unfortunately little for Potts’ mood. He had alien invaders all over the city and the fact that he’d actually had twenty-four hours’ notice pissed him off even more.

They’d had time to set up an emergency command post, using the old Intrepid aircraft carrier that had been parked on the coast of Manhattan Island for over a century. It seemed like a decent enough place to set up, given that they needed a central location that could be defended. It was an old hulk, nearly two centuries old, but it had been kept up and they had room to spare.

As far as military armor went, the Intrepid was an antique, but what an antique.

“Sir!”

“What is it, Sergeant?” Potts glanced to where his Command Master Sergeant had appeared.

“Final reports from spotters, sir.”

“And?”

“One hundred eighty-three targets, in city.”

The general grimaced, but nodded. “Thank you, Sergeant.”

“Yes sir. Sir?”

“What is it?”

“We’ve got field reports from the crash sites splashed by the Odyssey,” Command Master Sergeant Rigand told him. “Looks like they saved us at least a hundred other bogeys before they went down.”