“Air defense systems,” Noam murmured, not audible to anyone but himself. No one needed him to give orders now. They knew what to do.
Clusters of soldiers broke off from a far structure—unoccupied, in case the aircraft returned fire. Even from here Noam could make out the cylindrical missiles perched on their shoulders. He sensed their internal computerized mechanics: the command line-of-sight system that let the operator identify a target, the laser data link that would ensure the missile achieved its goal.
Missiles like that were notoriously difficult to operate. They’d even talked about it in Level IV, during Weber’s tactics class—debated the relative utility of using less advanced systems in lieu of expending time and power training specialized forces to work the command line-of-sight. Half the soldiers carrying these systems on their shoulders right now weren’t trained.
But they didn’t need to be.
Noam’s technopathy tangled up in those too-advanced systems, and he shut his eyes, focusing his attention down to nothing but data.
Aim.
Fire.
The percussive bursts of rocket fire followed a brief and rapid rhythm. Noam felt them make contact with aircraft not because his magic had breached the planes’ antiwitching shields but because he felt the missiles themselves collide with something hard and solid, felt them blossom in fire and heat.
He opened his eyes.
The sky was aflame, rose-gold light flourishing against a dark field.
But that wasn’t the end. Of course it wasn’t.
Four planes made it to the ground, and although Noam’s unit was able to take out some of the soldiers parachuting down from the damaged carriers, they couldn’t get them all.
“Defend the structure,” Noam repeated his own orders to himself. “Let them siege. Wait for reinforcements.”
His soldiers fell into formation at the entrance to the hangar, and Noam sensed all the other units doing the same. Then the peppery rhythm of machine gun fire. From all sides—the antiwitching soldiers would have to split their efforts even more than they had already, would make themselves easy to pick off.
Noam hoped.
“Sir.” Lieutenant Colonel Harris appeared at his elbow, her own gun in hand—although hopefully she wouldn’t have to use it. “You need to get to a more defensible position.”
Right. She was right. No matter how much every fiber of Noam screamed to stay in place, do his part to protect the soldiers he was responsible for, ultimately he was more useful applying his technopathy to their own side’s weaponry and making sure the power grid stayed down. Couldn’t do that if he got shot.
He nodded, once, and turned to head deeper in the aircraft hangar, under the shadowy wings of a dark-windowed Texan jet. The sound of gunfire retreated until the uneven gasps of his own breath were louder—and there, hidden behind forty-five tons of steel and fiberglass, Noam let himself tip forward and press his brow against the cold wall. He clenched his eyes shut and focused on his heartbeat, trying to slow the frantic patter of his pulse against his ribs.
Calm down. You have to be in control.
If he wasn’t in control, all those people would die. And it would be all his fault.
Pull it together, Álvaro.
He pushed off the wall and headed toward the back stairs, taking them two at a time up to the third floor. He found a spot by a window in someone’s abandoned office where he could see the battle playing out down on the ground and reached out with his power again—this time for the comms, repeating the message he’d been sending out since they came up with this fucking plan:Urgent reinforcements needed at Houston airport; antiwitching units on the ground.
Nobody answered. Not that he could sense.
That was the part he didn’t dare tell the lieutenant colonel or the major—or even Bethany.
What if we’re alone out here?
He couldn’t watch the bloodshed. Couldn’t watch his own people getting gunned down, see the way their bodies contorted when the bullets hit them, reeling back and then slumping to the ground. He turned his gaze toward the antiwitching planes instead, half planning to see if there was any way he could use magic on somethingadjacentto them to strand the soldiers on the ground, only—
Only there were more people coming out of the final plane. And although they were escorted by soldiers in that shimmering, iridescent armor ... they weren’t wearing it themselves.
“Shit!”
Noam lurched to his feet, but he didn’t get a chance to run downstairs, didn’t even get a chance to send off a comm to the lieutenant colonel or the major.
One of those unarmored men lifted a hand, then brought it down in a heavy swoop.
