But it was Trevor who did the thinking; repeating his thoughts from a moment before: A brave strike at the heart of the enemy with an unexpected move.

He chewed on that while the old man rattled on as if he had already forgotten the rest of the conversation. “Yes sir, Trevvy, you got some work to be doing. Mind your flanks. Lots of your folks are begging to die for you. Say, maybe you should start arming the little ones. No reason grade schoolers can’t pick up a rifle for the cause!”

The rain of bombs quieted as the attack slowed.

Trevor Stone turned his back to the Old Man and walked away thinking of a brave strike at the heart of the enemy but, as he pictured the maps and markers that told the strategic tale, he could not possibly see where Voggoth might be vulnerable. Or how to strike a blow of any kind.

“Take it to em’, Trev! Give em’ hell!”

Jon Brewer did not like the situation at all. Before his Eagle transport even landed on the ruined tarmac at McConnell, he could already envision Trevor’s disapproving stare and if there was one thing Brewer did not need any more of, it was Trevor’s disapproval.

Trevor would want to know why Jon had forsaken his defensive preparations along the Mississippi to fly to Kansas. He would want to know why he had risked coming to an area under constant bombardment, the most recent of which had barely ended.

In answer to his own question, Jon glanced across the aisle. There, in the parallel row of seats in the Eagle’s passenger compartment, sat Omar Nehru. As he had since arriving in Missouri earlier that day, Omar smoked a cigarette and sat staring straight ahead. Whatever message Anita had given to Omar to relay to Trevor-a message he refused to share with anyone else-it had changed the man. He appeared shell-shocked. Afraid.