God Steel Chronicles Book 1: The Awakening War

Something is waking up in the desert.

Captain Paul “River Dog” Faraone checked his instruments for the third time in as many minutes. The F-16 droned beneath him at eight thousand feet, and the brilliant New Mexico sky stretched endlessly in every direction. Below, the white gypsum sands of the missile range reflected the sun like a blanket of fresh snow. “Red Bull, you still buzzing off that canned rocket fuel you call breakfast?”

Captain Michael “Red Bull” Brennan commed back with the easy confidence of a pilot who had been Paul’s wingman for six years. “Affirmative. I have become turbo, destroyer of heart rates.”

Paul grinned behind his oxygen mask. “Docs say your blood type is synthetic caffeine at this point.”

“Better than yours. Decaf with a splash of boredom.”

“I’m not the one who vibrates during preflight checks, Red Bull.”

“That’s called enthusiasm, River Dog. You should try it sometime.”

“I tried it once. Got written up for excessive joy. Apparently, it’s unbecoming of an officer.”

Michael laughed. “Speaking of which, tell me we’re doing something more exciting than flying lazy circles over the world’s biggest litter box.”

“Negative, Red Bull. Exciting costs extra. You should’ve read the mission brief.”

“I did read it. All three words. ‘Routine reconnaissance patrol.’ I’ve had MREs with more flavor.”

Paul banked, bringing them around for another pass. Six years of flying together from basic training at Sheppard to combat rotations in the Middle East, and Red Bull still couldn’t accept a milk run for what it was. Brothers in the cockpit, whether the mission was dodging SAMs over Baghdad or lazy circles over the world’s biggest sandbox. “Ground Control, Viper Flight. Passing checkpoint Delta, no traffic, no contacts. How’s the weather looking?”

“Viper Flight, Ground Control. Clear skies, light winds. You boys are on a sightseeing tour up there.”

“Copy that. Out.” Paul glanced at his wingman’s position on radar. “See, Red Bull? Sightseeing tour. Very prestigious.”

“Yeah, well, the brochure lied. Where are the amenities? The in-flight beverage service?”

“You’re breathing clean oxygen. That’s fancy.”

“I was promised adventure when I joined the Air Force.”

“No, you were promised decent pay, room and board, and the chance to fly million-dollar death machines. The adventure was implied and not guaranteed.”

Red Bull laughed again. “Fair point. The recruiter showed me footage of Tom Maverick looking way cooler than this.”

“That’s because Tom Maverick had a Hollywood budget. We get government contracts and mystery meat Thursdays.”

“Don’t remind me about Thursday. I think that ‘meat’ tried to crawl off my tray.”

Paul was about to answer when his threat warning system chirped once. He glanced at his displays. Nothing. Probably a ghost return, atmospheric interference bouncing radar in weird ways.

“Hey, River Dog?” Red Bull had lost his joking edge. “You see that?”

Paul scanned the horizon, then down. “See what?”

“Three o’clock low. Desert floor. I don’t know, man. Something’s weird down there.”

Paul rolled right, adjusting his angle. At first he saw nothing but the usual expanse of white sand and scrub. Then he spotted a shimmer in the air, like heat distortion, but wrong. It was too localized and getting brighter.

“Ground Control, Viper One. I have a visual anomaly, bearing zero-niner-five, approximately two miles north of Range Control. Can you confirm any scheduled activity in that sector?”

Static crackled through the comms. “Negative, Viper One. That area is restricted. No tests scheduled. Log this as an unknown aerial energy event, possible Hell origin. Stand by for escalation protocol and describe the anomaly.”

The shimmer turned a deep, arterial red and rose from the desert floor. Paul’s instruments stuttered. “Ground Control, it’s rising. It’s tracking us. Red Bull, talk to me. You still visual?”

“Oh, I’m visual. River Dog, that thing just changed course. It’s tracking us.”

Paul’s training warred with the evidence of his senses. No missile. No drone. No atmospheric phenomenon. The red sphere climbed at an impossible speed, adjusting its trajectory with deliberate intent.

“Viper Flight, Ground Control. We’re picking up a massive energy spike at your location. Advise you break off and—” The transmission dissolved into static. Every system on Paul’s F-16 screamed simultaneously.

>White Sands Observation Platform, 0919 Hours

Lieutenant General Anthony “Ironsides” Zyrni lowered his binoculars. His jaw was tight. Around him on the observation deck, tourists and base personnel stopped mid-conversation as all eyes turned skyward toward the distant specks of the two F-16s.

“Sir?” His aide, Captain McHenry, stepped closer. “What are we looking at?”

Zyrni did not answer right away. The official brief said atmospheric anomalies. The real one had been uglier. Romania had started it—one classified strike, one dead pilot, and questions nobody in Washington wanted to answer out loud.

Since then, Zyrni had been walking western bases where the buried energy spikes kept surfacing, and the strongest readings had led him here. He had hoped this would be another false alarm. The red sphere rising from the desert killed that hope fast. Hell origin. It had to be.

This was not the first sign. Only the first one brazen enough to show itself in daylight. “Get me a direct line to Range Control. Now.”

The sphere tracked the lead F-16 with predatory intent. No missile in the American arsenal moved like that. No test platform adjusted course with that kind of malice.

McHenry already had the radio up. “Range Control, this is Observation Actual, we have visual on—”

The red sphere struck. Even from five miles away, Zyrni saw the hit clearly. It did not punch the jet dead center. It clipped the underside of the starboard wing in a vicious glancing blow and snapped the aircraft sideways so hard it nearly rolled inverted. The F-16 lurched, banked violently, and clawed upward against its own momentum before dropping again.

Zyrni’s stomach went cold. That wasn’t random or mechanical. It was deliberate. “Get SAR spinning up,” he ordered flatly.

>White Sands Missile Range, Paul’s Cockpit, 0920 Hours

The hit came through the starboard wing like a hammer blow. Paul’s world rolled hard left. The horizon flipped. Sand and sky traded places in a blur as the F-16 snapped sideways, nearly going inverted before he caught it with reflex alone. “Come on, come on—”

He fought the stick, boots braced and shoulders straining against the harness as he hauled the jet back toward level flight. For one wild second it answered like it meant to keep flying.

Then the failures started. His HUD died. The multi-function displays went black. Warning tones stacked on warning tones until the cockpit became one long electronic scream. The stick went mushy in his hand. Fly-by-wire without the wire. The jet was still moving, but it was no longer listening.

“Dog! River Dog!” Red Bull’s call tore through the staticky comms.

“I’m here!” Paul barked. “Controls are failing. I have cascading electrical—”

More alarms cut him off. Fire warning. Flight control fault. Generator failure. The whole bird had been fried.

Then another voice reached him, but not through the headset or any system he could name. It was inside his skull. It hit like molten iron driven straight through his thoughts with rage, age, and a presence so immense it made his skin crawl under the flight suit.

I am Abaddon, Herald of the First Queen. You have been marked, child of clay.

Paul jerked like he’d been shocked. What the hell was that? How did anything get inside his head? The voice left behind a hot, creeping pressure in his mind, like something angry had brushed against him and decided not to let go. The name hit him like a brand.

Through the canopy, he caught Red Bull sliding in off his wing, close enough for Paul to see him urgently signaling with one hand while he held formation with the other. His wingman repeated the instruction. Pull the handle.

Paul tried one more control input but got no response. “Ground Control, Viper One, confirm you copy. Aircraft took a Hell origin strike from below ground. Repeat, below ground. Systems are gone. I say again, systems are gone. Do you read?”

Static roared in his headset, then a broken reply punched through. “Er One, we copy partial. Possible Hell attack. Mage desk is asking whether this was Sidhe origin or infernal. Can you identify the energy signature?”

Paul almost laughed at the question’s insanity. The jet bucked again. “Negative. Came out of the ground like something from under us, not something walking the surface.”

That got him another burst of static. “Copy all. Crash recovery, hazmat, and arcane response assets are inbound. Punch out, Viper One. That is a direct order. Punch out now.”

Paul gripped the ejection handle between his legs. One ugly thought flashed through him. What if the seat was fried too? Red Bull was still there, still flying formation beside a dead jet, still giving him the signal to get out.

That settled it. Paul locked eyes with him through the canopy, gave him a quick thumbs-up, and pulled. The canopy blew free with a concussive crack. The seat fired a fraction of a second later, kicking him out of the cockpit with savage force. The rocket pack ignited as soon as he cleared the rails, driving him higher with enough violence to crush the breath out of him. The world became noise, pressure, and sky.

Then the small stabilizing chute behind the seat snapped open, jerking the seat upright and stopping the tumble before it could turn him into human confetti. The automatic system took over from there. The harness released at a safe speed and altitude, the seat dropped away beneath him, and his main parachute deployed from the survival pack. The canopy blossomed overhead with a brutal shock.

Silence hit almost as hard as the ejection. Paul hung gasping while his F-16 spiraled away below, trailing smoke. It stayed in the air just long enough to look stubborn about dying.

Then it hit. The explosion rolled across the desert in a blossom of flame and black smoke.

“Red Bull, this is River Dog, do you copy?” Paul spoke into his survival radio, fighting to keep his voice steady.

Static crackled. Then Red Bull’s response came through, thin but readable. “River Dog! Thank Christ. You good? Anything broken?”

“Negative. I’m good. Chute’s good. Clear of the impact site.”

“Copy. SAR is twelve minutes out. I have eyes on you. Not going anywhere.”

Paul grabbed a riser and slipped the canopy away from the smoke. “Appreciate it.”

“You can repay me with beer.” Red Bull turned more serious. “Ground says magical threat teams are already arguing about whether that was Sidhe magic or something straight out of Hell.”

Paul looked down at the crater where his jet had died, and the voice came back to him. I am Abaddon.

“It came from below. That’s all I know. And I don’t think it was anything that belongs on the surface.”

His boots hit the sand hard. He bent through the landing, rolled, and fought free of the chute as the desert wind tried to drag him. By the time he got the harness loose, Red Bull was still circling overhead like an angry guardian angel. Paul lay there for one hard breath, staring up at the empty blue. Abaddon. Who the hell was Abaddon, and why had that strike left him alive?

>White Sands Observation Platform, 0924 Hours

“Pilot’s down safe. Parachute deployed. Search and Rescue inbound.”

Zyrni nodded with his binoculars still raised. He had seen the ejection, the chute blossoming, and the wreckage burning out on the sand. What he had not seen was what bothered him. He knew damn well he was not in New Mexico to chase weather patterns, regardless of the cover story.

The classified briefings told a different tale. Recurring energy spikes, buried signatures, and Hell-tainted readings surfacing farther and farther inland after first showing up along the western seaboard. Somebody in Washington still wanted to pretend it might be electrical noise or experimental bleed-through. Zyrni had stopped believing that before he ever boarded the plane.

The strike had been deliberate. He was sure of that. Which meant the miss had been deliberate too. Or it had been a mistake. Neither answer sat well.

If the thing in the desert had wanted that pilot dead, it had possessed more than enough power to kill him. Zyrni had read the files on what that kind of energy could do to an aircraft. Midair disintegration. No chute. No pilot to recover. This time the blast had clipped the wing and crippled the jet, yet still left the man inside enough time to punch out.

Why?

Had the entity hesitated?

Had the pilot mattered somehow?

Or had something from Hell missed its shot?

That last possibility chilled him more than the others. A demon with intent was one problem. A demon capable of error was worse. Mistakes made battlefields unpredictable. “Get me the pilot’s identity now,” he ordered.

“Already pulling it, sir.”

Zyrni lowered the binoculars and looked toward the black column of smoke rising over White Sands. History was repeating itself. He could feel it. He did not know yet why it had started with that pilot.

What is this entity, what does it want. Find out on June 26th, when God Steele Chronicles Book 1: The Awakening War is released.