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  To my kids, my granddaughter, the kind people who read my books, and to the United States Armed Services—it's time to come home now!

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I would like to thank the members of DARPA, as well as the fantastic engineers at NASA. Keep at it, the funding will return and so will we—to the unexplored reaches of space.

  To the men and women of the United States Armed Forces: the Army, Navy, Air Force, Coast Guard, and Marines. I told many of you that your reward would soon arrive, and now here is Overlord, a small payment for being the best in the world at what you do.

  Thanks to MI-6 for answering all the crazy questions this deranged author could think up—at least as many as propriety would allow. And yes, those answers did lead me to suspect that Her Majesty’s government may have an Event Group hidden away under the Tower of London! Finally, thanks to the Royal Family of Great Britain for being especially good sports.

  CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Copyright Notice

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Prologue: The Things of Legend

  Part 1: The Calm Before the Storm

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Part 2: The Failings of Man

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Part 3: Unyielding Force

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Part 4: Invasion

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Epilogue

  Also by David L. Golemon

  About the Author

  Copyright

  PROLOGUE

  THE THINGS OF LEGEND

  People like us, who believe in physics, know that the distinction between past, present and future is only a stubbornly persistent illusion.

  —Albert Einstein

  700,000,000 BCE

  The entire crew with the exception of himself and the maneuvering watch had been evacuated to the new colony on the western side of the giant supercontinent. The captain knew that setting his battle-damaged warship down onto the lush forest and then easing her into the inland sea would be a near impossible task with decks ten through eighteen awash with flames. The last massed assault by the enemy had been catastrophic.

  The large eighteen-inch guns had fallen silent when the ship’s powerful engines stopped providing the needed energy for the turbo-generators of the massive upper and lower turrets of one through four. Turrets five and six on the underside of the vast ship had been blown free of her superstructure in the warship’s last battle above the hostile new world. The crews of those gun-mounts had bravely stayed in place and they had all had died at their stations.

  After the loss of the one-hundred-thousand-gallon coolant tanks that supplied the necessary gases to refrigerate the large-bore weapons, his remaining crew had sent the last three enemy vessels to their deaths by ramming them with the wedge-shaped deflector plow at the bow of the battleship. With maneuvering power only the battered ship had limped into low orbit around their new home. The orbital track he had laid into his navigation console was fast deteriorating and the captain knew they either had to obey the orders of a dying race or try desperately to save the last battleship from destruction. He figured the citizens of this new world owed his vessel a better grave than the one he had planned for her—as a floating reminder of a lost civilization that would be seen in the night sky for thousands of years until a decaying orbit sent her crashing into the planet below.

  The captain had refused his last order and had decided instead that his battleship would not suffer the same fate as Ranger, Vortex, and Guidon, the last ships of the grand fleet that had met their fate on the surface of this planet’s lone moon. He swore the demise of his ship would not be the same. He gave the order to enter the atmosphere of this hostile planet and face whatever fate would be bestowed upon it by a new, better civilization.

  “Liquid fuel maneuvering engines at 100 percent, Captain. We have ejected the main engine core for safety,” his executive officer called out as he wiped blood from a gash on his forehead.

  “Bring her nose up fifty degrees, set it down easily. Use the trees and terrain as much as possible and slow her down before she breaks her back.”

  The giant battleship’s thrusters were slowly turned and aimed straight down. The articulated jets were never designed for entering an atmosphere nor to carry the bulk of the mammoth warship, but with the loss of the weight of the lower gun turrets and superstructure she just might have enough. She came down fast and hard, trailing a tail of flame that ignited all in its wake. She slammed into the trees hard. Her massive weight crushed the thick, hundred-foot monoliths and her liquid-fueled thrusters started fires that began to rage out of control. The captain saw their approaching target through the electronic view-screen: the giant inland sea.

  “Thrusters are overheating, now at 120 percent capacity,” the first officer called out. “The lower battle bridge has been sheared away along with the remaining crew compartments!”

  The sudden explosion of ion gases burst through their containment bells on the two stern thrusters, taking them and one of the main engines at the stern with it. The enriched gas blew up and the stern vanished in a microsecond, rocking the battleship.

  “Stern section has come into contact with the surface, she’s dragging and stress forces are at maximum—she’s about to break in two!” the maneuvering officer called out.

  The captain swallowed as he grabbed the railing lining the center of the bridge, then glanced at the few remaining men on the battle bridge. He was proud of them, as he knew they would die just as assuredly as he in saving their last ship from being just a nighttime display of brilliantly colored debris orbiting a savage world.

  They approached the inland sea at fifty kilometers per second. He knew the battleship would sustain massive damage but she would remain intact for the future of their colony if needed again—or some other race for their savagery. His goal was to save the massive eighteen-inch guns in her four remaining turrets. He saw the sea just over the elevated number one gun turret and determined that they would make it to the choppy green waters.

  “Gentlemen, fighting alongside of you has been an honor,” he said proudly.

  The ten men stood at their stations beaten and bloody after their five-day fight to get the colony moved from the moon to the surface of this world.

  The inland sea roiled and bubbled as the great bulk of metal eased into the water. Massive steam jets erupted as her engines became inundated with moisture, blowing the mixing chambers of ion particles into oblivion. She rocked as the detonation set off by the heat of the melting main engines mixed with the coldness of the sea. There were several large explosions as it began to sink. Giant pressure-filled bubbles and steam vents were the only grave marker for the most powerful warship ever built.

  There the great ship would remain for millions of years until the inland sea on the hostile continent was covered in two miles of snow and ice.

  CENTRAL EUROPE

  38,000 BCE

  The snow fell as the group of quickly va
nishing Neanderthals moved across the barren landscape. The wind picked up as the last remaining group of the human subspecies fought their way through the drifting snow. The small clan of twenty-seven men, women, and children were so burdened by the wet skins on their backs that it weighed them down to a point where they could no longer keep from falling and sliding into small crevasses as their footing became perilous.

  The large leader of the group stopped as he heard a noise not common in snowstorms. The male shook his head from side to side as the noise seemed to emanate from his own head instead of the sky where the snow was now swirling in patterns never seen before by the group of Neanderthals. As he dropped his long spear and bundled skins and placed his hands to his ears he saw that the same noise was affecting not only the others in the soon-to-be extinct people but the large and voracious timber wolves that were hidden behind the blanket of white and green of tree. The air erupted with the howls and animal screams of other beasts as the ringing struck all in the area. Soon women and then the smaller of the children succumbed to the strange sound and fell to their knees. The wind started to pick up and now the leader of the group was fearful of getting caught in the open plain and buried forever. He had known many who perished because they could not grasp the cruelty of nature.

  Suddenly the skies erupted above them. The snow started swirling in an ever-increasing circle. The leader managed to move his aching head to the skies and saw a sight the early man had never seen before. The swirling snow was now highlighted with blue, green, and yellow lights. The miniature tornado trailed down into the plain and struck the ground as if water had been poured from the heavens. The wave of melting snow and ice still moved in an ever-increasing vortex. The strange system started moving toward the small band as lightning and wind knocked the remaining men from their feet. The terror-filled eyes of the first humans watched as the tornado of ice, wind, and snow, highlighted by the colorful streaks, moved toward them.

  The alpha male finally managed to gain his feet as his children cowered on the ground, reaching out for him, but he just watched as the strange system moved closer to him and his band. The eye of the storm circled as the tornado came over them. The eye of the storm was clear and the male could see he was staring into a giant tunnel that was violent and terrifying. The blackness at the top of the funnel was filled with stars the size the beast had never seen before. The Neanderthal could never fathom that what he was seeing was not stars, but whole planets—planets that were millions of light-years away.

  The funnel cloud passed over them and the long, filthy hair of the small band was lifted as static electricity filled the air around them. The male held out his arm and he could see the soft blue hue of electricity as it coursed around, over, and through his exposed skin. He looked up and could see the interior walls of the swirling mass of ice, snow, and color as the tornado engulfed the small cowering band. The leader watched as first the taller of the men were gone; they vanished right before the alpha male’s eyes. Then the children and women followed. It was then he felt the deep penetration of the electrical field as it covered his entire body. Then he was gone.

  In seconds the swirling mass of the tornado lifted from the ground and then suddenly turned inside out. It was if someone were shaking out a knotted sock. The tornado shot back into the sky and then vanished. It only took a few moments for the falling snow to start falling in a far more normal pattern. It swirled and eddied as the last of the multicolored vortex blasted through the high clouds above the earth. Then the strange pattern moved not into the high atmosphere, but back down again into what would eventually become known in many thousand years as the Middle East.

  With the disappearance of the last band of Neanderthals in the world, their demise would spark debate amongst the most brilliant paleontologists in the future world as to when and why the Neanderthals had vanished from the face of the earth.

  NORTHERN BRITANNIA, THE SCOTTISH HIGHLANDS

  117 AD

  The four thousand men of the Ninth Legion ceased the chase and laid down moat and stockade for the night’s security. The Legio IX Hispana—founded by Pompey Magnus himself and also a legion once commanded by Julius Caesar—was far north of Hadrian’s Wall, which dissected Britannia across her middle, dividing the civilized south from that of the killing grounds in the north. The Ninth was chasing the barbaric tribes of blue-painted Caledonian savages as they tried to put an end to the increased raids into Roman-controlled territory.

  The command of all forces north of the wall had fallen to Centurion Flavious Pettellus. With the remainder of the Ninth safely ensconced south of the borderlands, the forces on the hunt felt their vulnerability in this desolate and cold land.

  The punitive action against the Caledonians was now entering its seventh month. Pattellus’s one hundred cavalry and three hundred and fifty foot soldiers were weary and worn, with many of them having been cleaved to the bone. The soldiers as well as their commander were ready to end this raid and return to Hadrian’s Wall.

  Pettellus turned his face to the skies as dark rain clouds closed over the last of the sun as the centurion sat by his fire. He removed his helmet and stared into the crackling flames. He didn’t notice when his aide removed his red cloak and then placed it over the commander’s shoulders for warmth. The sounds of the camp were nothing but muted noises as his eyes remained fixed on the fire even as his body ignored the mist starting to veil the evening under the ominous skies.

  “The honor has left this pursuit just as surely as the warmth of the year vanishes around us,” he mumbled as his eyes remained locked on the flames.

  His aide stopped before entering the tent but decided not to comment on his commander’s increasingly sour mood at the lack of success in his campaign to rid the northern regions of the devils that raided south of the Wall. The aide shook his head and was about to step into the tent when he saw the lights to the north. He was about to comment when Centurion Pettellus was approached by the watch commander. Even then the aide’s eyes never wavered from the strange sight directly to the north. The green and blue shades of light were unlike the northern lights they had witnessed at these climbs and the aide knew he was seeing something very much different this night.

  The watch commander slapped his right fist to his armored chest and then waited for the centurion to acknowledge his presence. The messenger soon realized that Pettellus was not going to respond and hesitantly lowered his hand and arm.

  “Sir, we have activity reported by our outer pickets.” The man waited but Pettellus remained still and his eyes continued to watch the flickering fire before him. “There seems to be Caledonian movement in force. They may be using the weather for cover for possible attack.”

  “I would hardly call the placement of fifty men to spy our movements as activity in force, Commander.”

  “The pickets report—”

  “Thus far on this campaign we have yet to see more than a hundred of the savages on open ground, and by the time we react they have vanished as magically as wine and coin in a brothel.”

  “Sir, these reports are verified. Possibly one thousand to two thousand blue-painted warriors are near our breastworks.”

  Finally Pettellus blinked and then barely moved his head to look up at the watch commander just as the first real drops of rain hit his face through the gathering mist.

  “And with the northern lights having changed their colors the men are not taking to encampment well. They are speaking among themselves about omens and that the lights are a harbinger of disaster.”

  Centurion Pettellus turned and looked northward and saw the meaning of the commander’s words. The northern lights should not be visible at this time in the evening. They were at least seven hours ahead of schedule and the colors were far more radiant. The blues swirled around the green and then those dove into a yellowish mix of reds and orange. The centurion slowly rose to his feet. The red cloak slid from his shoulders as he spied the strange activity of the lights. The rain and
wind picked up in strength.

  “Bring the men to 100 percent alert. Get my archers to the center of the stockade to await orders. I want my cavalry mounted and ready to move.” He turned to his aide as the watch commander moved off to alert the detached men of the Ninth Legion for action. “This is perfect weather for attack. They can hit us and move into the storm and vanish as usual”—he smiled for what seemed like the first time since the pursuit had started many months before—“but not this time.”

  The aide watched the centurion place his cloak back on and waited for him to tie it off. The helmet was replaced with renewed vigor and the commander adjusted the Gladius in its sheath. The steel of the blade was still shiny and a virgin to enemy blood.

  “Sir, this night’s lights in the north, this … this could be a bad portent of things to come.”

  Centurion Pettellus turned abruptly to face the aide who had remained quiet during his exchange with the watch commander. The man was Greek and the Roman knew him to be knowledgeable about the mysticism of the great lights in the north. The man had been a teacher of philosophy many years before his days of servitude began.

  “Night arrows!”

  Before Pettellus could admonish his aide about his fears, the shout of warning stopped him cold. He immediately took hold of the Greek and threw him to the ground near the fire just as the black arrows started thudding into the ground and tents around them. One of the missiles glanced off of the helmet of the centurion as his aide shouted in terror at the sudden assault from the swirling night sky. Arrows as black as the night struck the fire, tent, and the surrounding equipment of the Ninth Legion. The sound of men shouting and cursing was heard as even more of the black-dyed arrows slammed into the earth around them.

  The wind picked up just as the last of the missiles fell. The blow had gone from only a breeze to gale force in less than five minutes. The northern lights were burning through the darkness as they had never done before. At that time every man of the Ninth Legion felt the penetration and assault on their inner ear. It was as if a sharp spike had been driven into their eyes. The feeling soon passed as men fought to get their bearings in the rising storm.