It wasn’t the best position as it cut down their chances of withdrawal if things went south, but it would increase their firing arcs significantly.

At the same time the rest of the tanks in the platoon would spread out, cannon to cannon across Zerega. It was cramped conditions, but if they were about to get serious fire support from above, the least his platoon could do was give it their fighting all.

Twenty electromagnetic assault weapons erupted from the rooftops, reasonably in sync, as the aliens followed the retreating tanks deeper into the makeshift killbox. Unlike the tanks, the men with the assault weapons were operating effectively at their optimal range, and the sudden rain of high-velocity steel slammed into the Drasin like an impenetrable wall. The creatures faltered briefly, caught between pursuing their opponents, engaging the new targets, or going for cover.

The tanks rejoined the fight in that instant of hesitation, five EM cannons roaring on pure auto fire. Anything that survived the initial barrage from the rooftops stood no chance at all against the follow-up from the streets. Less than ten seconds later the guns fell silent and an unreal quiet settled across the scene, right alongside the dust that was slowly drifting to the street.

Curran looked around slowly. “Is that all of them? Keep your eyes open, everyone.”

The quiet was deafening after the nearly constant barrage of sonic booms, almost disorienting, and Curran imagined that he could feel the pressure in the area drop from everyone holding their breath and scanning the carnage. A flicker of motion was his only warning before an ear-splitting boom roared from the rooftop ahead of him and he jumped in his seat as the flailing body of another alien fell eight stories to the ground, destroying two parked import cars in an explosion of plastic and metal.

On that same rooftop he spotted a figure walk up to the edge and, after glancing down, step off into midair.

The man freefell eighty feet, planting his boots hard into the roof of another plastic import car and landing in a explosion of debris like his defeated foe. The armored man stepped out of the wreckage, calmly walking out into the intersection and looking over at Curran’s tank. He tapped his helmet twice, then held up three fingers.

Curran instantly switched over to channel three.

“Major Curran, I presume?”

“I am, and you are?”

“Captain Eric Weston, Confederate Black Navy.”

Curran’s eyes widened as he took that in. He’d heard of the man, of course, everyone had, but what the hell was he doing running around New York in Special Operations infantry armor? For that matter, Curran involuntarily glanced to the east where he had seen the Odyssey go down. What was he doing alive?

“Pardon my saying so, Captain, but you’re a long way from the Black.”