2008 - Armageddon
Re: 2008 - Armageddon
Chapter Twenty-One
Executive Office, Pima Air & Space Museum, Tucson, Arizona
The sound of R-3350 engines starting up woke Daniel J. Ryan, Executive Director of the Pima Air and Space Museum up from an exhausted sleep. For weeks it seemed as if his whole museum had become a research center, digging out old documentation that allowed the aircraft stored at the AMARG boneyard down the road to be brought back into service. His prized restoration experts had suddenly found themselves wearing Air Force Blue uniforms and preparing aircraft to go to war again. AMARG was slowly beginning to empty as the aircraft capable of being returned to service were brought back to operational status and the rest were stripped of what parts they had left.
He got off the couch in his office, hearing the whine of the R-3350s outside pick up in volume. He shook his head and headed for the executive bathroom, his mouth tasted foul after what had passed for a night’s sleep, and he desperately wanted to clean his teeth. He checked his tinfoil hat was on safely, a gesture that had almost become a reflex amongst the human population over the last few weeks, and then headed for a shower and a shave. Half his job involved being the public front for the museum, and that meant looking well-groomed whenever he could. His wife was bringing him freshly pressed clothes over each day, and he couldn’t let her down by not shaving. Even though the R-3350s were making his mirror shake and his hand unsteady.
Finally, he was ready to face the coming day and he went back to his desk. He’d pulled a cup of water from the dispenser and the R-3350s were causing concentric ripples on the surface. He looked at them for several seconds before the significance sank in.
Ten seconds later he was out his office door and running for the flight line, shouting “Hey, bring my B-29 back!”
Flight Line, Pima Air & Space Museum, Tucson, Arizona
“I’m sorry Sir, technically the aircraft still does belong to the Air Force and we’re repossessing it. We’ll be taking your KB-50 as well as soon as we can get it flyable and converted back to a bomb carrier. And, of course, we will be taking all three of your B-52s.”
“But these are museum pieces….” Ryan spluttered, aghast at the thought of Pima’s superb collection of aircraft being dismantled.
“They can still perform useful roles, Sir. If it’s any consolation, the Commemorative Air Force and the New England Air Museum are losing their B-29s as well. Not to mention Wright Patterson losing Boxcar and the Smithsonian parting with Enola Gay. They’re more than 20 others as well, although there are only five B-50s and they’re in rough condition. Except yours of course, Still, we should have enough to make up a mixed B-29/B-50 group by the time we’ve finished.”
“But they’re obsolete.” Ryan’s voice was weak.
“Not so much Sir. They still haul bombs and are fast enough, and fly high enough, to keep out of harpy claws. And we’re not sure how well jets will adapt to the conditions in hell so we’re hedging our bets.” Behind him, there was a roar, and the B-29 took off, heading for its new operational base. Ryan could barely stop himself from crying.
“What else are you taking?”
“Oh, not much Sir. Your F-111 and your A-10 of course. You’ve kept the planes here in superb condition, I must say. We may want some others as well, depending on what we can find elsewhere. We don’t want lots of single aircraft but if there are enough to make up a small group……”
“I suppose you’ll want our replica Wright Flyer?” Ryan spoke bitterly.
“No Sir, not under current plans. But we would like to talk to you about your B-36.”
Executive Office, Alexander Arms Corporation, Radford Arsenal, Virginia
“Mister Alexander Sir, it’s a Colonel Matthews from the Defense Logistics Agency.” Alexander’s secretary sounded urgent.
“Put him through then Jeanie.” There was a click on the line “Bill Alexander here.”
“Mister Alexander, it’s Colonel Matthews here from the DLA. If you haven’t heard already, you will be shortly, our M16s and M4s aren’t showing up very well in Iraq. Don’t have the stopping power to finish off a baldrick. So, we need to change our approach fast. You’re making.50 Beowulf M16s for the Coastguard, well, you can start expanding that production line right now. We need you to start mass-producing .50 Beowulf upper receivers with a 24-inch barrel right away. We’ll issue them and mate them with in-service lower receivers. We’ll be faxing you the paperwork later today. Take this telephone call as authorizationto start work.”
“How many?”
“Our initial production target will be one million sets of parts needed to convert in-service weapons. For your information, the new rifle will be the M16A6 and the M4A5.”
The room was swimming around Alexander’s eyes. “We’re a small company, there’s no way we can make that number of rifles. And the ammunition.”
Matthews sounded more than slightly irritated. “Then license other producers. Talk to Ordnance, they may have facilities you can take over. Listen, man, this country is awash with weapons producers, if you can’t meet the production targets, make some arrangements. Our boys have died out there because their rifles didn’t do the job. And you know where they go when they die. You’re a manager, so get the lead out of your pants and start managing. Don’t make us write more letters to mothers telling them their kids died because they didn’t have the tools they need. Understand?”
Alexander didn’t have a chance to answer before he heard the telephone bang down. He stared at the receiver in his hand for a long moment that was only interrupted when his fax machine started to spew pages out. “Jeanie? Get me a list of all our sub-component suppliers, we must jack production up soonest. And get me the heads of Bushmaster, DPMS, Olympic Arms, Colt, FN, and any other rival you can think of.”
Headquarters, Boeing Military Aircraft Division, St Louis, Missouri.
The voice was impossibly British. “I say, is that Mike Graham, T-45 project manager?”
“It is. To whom am I speaking?”
“Sorry, old chap. James Kendrick here, Hawk 200 Project Manager at BAE Systems. We’ve had some calls from our respective governments asking us to put our heads together and come up with a new aircraft for our forces.”
“Excuse me, I’ve heard nothing of this.” There was a ‘ding’ on Graham’s computer indicating a top-priority email from corporate HQ in Chicago. He read it. “My apologies, I’ve just been told.”
“No problem. Everything is screwed up. Anyway, basically the RAF want a cheap, light fighter to make up numbers, the Navy wants one for their carriers and you chaps want some for everybody. So, our governments have decided to combine your T-45C trainer with our Hawk 200 light fighter and produce a single-seat, radar-equipped fighter for everybody. My bosses think it’s a pretty good idea, one that should sell well. So, we need to get cracking. Can we arrange for our design team to come over there?”
“Sure, or would you prefer us to come over to you?”
“Really, we’d rather come to you if you don’t mind. Have you ever tried to get a decent steak in Britain?”
Fort Bragg, North Carolina
Blasted rock, pools of mud and other less wholesome liquids, gauzy wisps of orange fumes, the odd crucified body; Hell wasn't anything pleasant to look at, even through a window. Standing in front of that window was an Army officer facing out towards a room occupied by a mix of civilian and military engineers along with a sprinkling of figures in Air Force, Army, and Marine uniforms. As the last straggler slips through the door set in the far wall, he began to speak.
"Gentlemen, ladies, my name is Major Warhol, and welcome to Section Twelve of DIMO(N). I'm sure we'll be assigned a mouthful of an acronym soon, but for now, we've just been calling it the Hell Lab." He stepped to one side and waved an arm at the window behind him.
"To get straight to the point, sooner or later we're going to fight in Hell, and from what limited intel we've gathered so far, it's a hell of an environment." He winced slightly at the awful pun, then shook his head with a sheepish smile before continuing, "It's going to do a number on our gear, and long-term exposure isn't going to do humans any good either. That's where we come in. We've put together a mock-up, our own personal Hell-in-a-jar based on the intelligence we've received so far, and we're going to be testing our gear in it. That's for the servicemen among you. The rest of you," he nods towards one of the engineers close to the window, "are here to fix whatever doesn't work, or failing that, to devise something new to fill a gap where our existing equipment doesn't cut it. We've got five other rooms like this one, with different speculative environments, and we'll be updating all of them as we learn more about the makeup of Hell. Now, we’ve only got actual data on one part of hell, one segment of the 5th circle. However, it looks like Dante’s Inferno was a pretty accurate description so until we know more, we’re working on that basis. We’ve got people here digging through other old records as well, so we’ll refine the picture as we go. Across the hall, there's another team that'll be doing the same with Heaven once we know something about it."
He singled out a lone man in a suit with a nod, "Agent Carson accomplished the only strike mission so far into Hell, albeit remotely. He's at your disposal for questions, and the CIA was kind enough to send the Predator he used for the strike along with him." Carson’s lips cracked in a wry, sardonic smile. He’d sat behind an operator’s terminal and sent in a drone but that made him a celebrity. "I'm told we're free to disassemble the Predator, but the Agency would like Agent Carson back in one piece. Or at least, if we do dismantle him, can we number the pieces, so The Company can reassemble him. Also, please remember, he’s a star on the war-bond sales pitches."
A chuckle ran around the room, accompanied by a snort from Carson himself. Major Warhol let the room settle for a few seconds before he started back into the briefing, "Air Force types, the wind tunnel's still under construction, but once it's up, you'll have down-check aircraft of any make you need in the hangars on-base to test in a Hell-condition wind tunnel. Sorry to give you the castoffs, but we're short there as it is. Some of the birds are types we don’t have in the inventory anymore, but we’ve repossessed from museums. Feel free to test those to destruction. Infantry, there's a target range with variable-density cloud generators to simulate atmospheric conditions. Armor, you're going to be a bit limited for a while, we're not going to have room for a half-dozen large-scale Hell-jars for you to play with, and the one we will have won't be finished for a week or two."
Warhol signaled with his hand, ordering a guard to open another door. A group of a dozen Arabs filed into the room, dressed in loose white robes. A rustling murmur passed through the briefing room's other occupants as they turned to look at the newcomers, several frowns flashing into place. Before anything could get out of hand, Major Warhol's voice called out again, louder at first to cut through the whispered speculation,
"I’d like to welcome Abdullah Rashid, formerly one of the Iraqi insurgency leaders, and now head of the DIMO(N) S12 insurgency team. I know! He shouted, cutting through a rising babble of voices, that many of you will be uncomfortable working with him and his men, but the fact remains that the Iraqi insurgents have had quite a lot of experience in running insurgencies recently and their people fought alongside ours in Hit. We’re allies now." His lips quirk in a thin, humorless smile, "And there’ll be others joining us as well, including some explosives experts from the Provisional IRA. They are probably the best in the world at their art, they should be, they fought the British for long enough. If I hear of them being frozen out of the discussion here, I'm not going to be a terribly happy man, and none of you want that. These teams will be focusing on the best ways to manufacture explosives, weapons, IEDs, anything they can think of that can be made and used in whole or in part using Hell-native resources and conditions."
Warhol surveyed the assembled men and women for a few more seconds, and then nodded to himself,
"Alright, dismi--actually, one thing I forgot. Everyone, if you'll please inspect the walls."
He waited for a few seconds for people to turn and look, scattered around the walls of the room at regular intervals were glass-fronted cabinets loaded with shotguns and submachine guns, on each one was printed in tall, red letters, 'IN CASE OF BALDRICKS, BREAK GLASS.' Another chuckle ran through the room, albeit a somewhat nervous one.
"We don't know the limitations of the Baldricks' teleportation and portal abilities yet, so we're going to assume they could pop up in here. Familiarize yourself with the locations of the emergency arms cabinets, and with the weapons. There's an earth-environment firing range on base, feel free to avail yourself of it if you want to brush the rust off; I'd hate to lose any of you to something as silly as a lone baldrick raider Dismissed." He pauses for a moment, then grins, "And I mean it this time. Break into teams and let's start figuring out how to raze Hell."
The Oval Office, The White House, Washington DC
“My fellow humans.” President Bush looked into the camera and gave a careful, friendly smile. The truth was that he was feeling reasonably happy at this point, his approval rating had gone over 50 percent for the first time in years. “You have all been following the events in Iraq where allied forces have engaged a baldrick invasion army estimated at over 400,000 strong. Much of the fighting has been obscure due to the area it has covered but now, I am able to give you some accurate information on what has taken place.
“The baldrick army has been defeated, not just defeated but destroyed. Our troops and those of our allies, most notably the Iranians under General Fereidoon Zolfaghari and the British under Brigadier John Carlson have beaten back the enemy and inflicted enormous losses upon them. We believe that the total of their dead is more than 300,000, a number that is rising hourly as our forces pursue the defeated enemy back to the very mouth of hell.” Bush looked down at his desk briefly, the retreating enemy hadn’t yet encountered the blocking force that was between them and safety. That was a nice surprise that was waiting for them.
“Our own losses so far are just over 600 dead. Most of these were suffered in the battle for the town of Hit. There, a brigade of the Tenth Mountain Division held the town against an overwhelmingly powerful force of baldricks and drove them back, fighting room to room in the process. In doing so they proved that not only do our armed forces have superior equipment to our enemy, but our men are better trained, braver, and more resourceful than their baldrick counterparts.
“Now, however, we must look to the future. We have learned that the force that struck us represents only a small portion of the forces that the enemy has available to him. Beyond that, we know that the forces of Yahweh still exist and must be numbered on the list of our enemies. Already, we have killed one of them, one responsible for an atrocious massacre carried out against defenseless civilians in the peace of their home. Our forces have achieved wonders, General Petraeus has won a victory that will forever place him amongst the Great Leaders, but this is not enough.
“We must mobilize for war. Our armed forces depend on armored vehicles for their mobility and for defense against baldrick attacks. Those armored vehicles need fuel and the battles over the last few days have shown how much they require. We must give them a priority for supplies of gasoline and diesel fuel. Accordingly, I have given orders for fuel rationing to be instituted here in the United States. Each licensed driver in a family will be allowed to buy no more than twenty gallons of automobile fuel per month. Government help will be provided for carpooling and other requirements. There is a crying need for more vehicles to carry the supplies needed to our troops. Therefore, most private automobile production in this country is to be converted to military use. Heavy truck plants will, of course, be converted to produce military trucks. Car and SUV facilities will be converted to produce light armored cars or aircraft depending on their level of technology. The only exceptionto this will be factories producing electric cars or small commercial vehicles. We have talked much about replacing gasoline-powered automobiles in our society. Now, our hand has been forced.
“In the last two days, 600 of our men and their allies have sacrificed everything they had for us. They gave their lives, knowing what awaited them beyond death. Now, we must match their sacrifice and bend every will, every nerve, every muscle in a great national crusade that will see our enemies driven into the dust and humbled. Thank you all, and good night.”
President Bush turned off the microphones and stared at the office wall. He’d just told the American people that they couldn’t drive around anymore the way they used to. Ah well, it had been nice being popular again for a while.
Executive Office, Pima Air & Space Museum, Tucson, Arizona
The sound of R-3350 engines starting up woke Daniel J. Ryan, Executive Director of the Pima Air and Space Museum up from an exhausted sleep. For weeks it seemed as if his whole museum had become a research center, digging out old documentation that allowed the aircraft stored at the AMARG boneyard down the road to be brought back into service. His prized restoration experts had suddenly found themselves wearing Air Force Blue uniforms and preparing aircraft to go to war again. AMARG was slowly beginning to empty as the aircraft capable of being returned to service were brought back to operational status and the rest were stripped of what parts they had left.
He got off the couch in his office, hearing the whine of the R-3350s outside pick up in volume. He shook his head and headed for the executive bathroom, his mouth tasted foul after what had passed for a night’s sleep, and he desperately wanted to clean his teeth. He checked his tinfoil hat was on safely, a gesture that had almost become a reflex amongst the human population over the last few weeks, and then headed for a shower and a shave. Half his job involved being the public front for the museum, and that meant looking well-groomed whenever he could. His wife was bringing him freshly pressed clothes over each day, and he couldn’t let her down by not shaving. Even though the R-3350s were making his mirror shake and his hand unsteady.
Finally, he was ready to face the coming day and he went back to his desk. He’d pulled a cup of water from the dispenser and the R-3350s were causing concentric ripples on the surface. He looked at them for several seconds before the significance sank in.
Ten seconds later he was out his office door and running for the flight line, shouting “Hey, bring my B-29 back!”
Flight Line, Pima Air & Space Museum, Tucson, Arizona
“I’m sorry Sir, technically the aircraft still does belong to the Air Force and we’re repossessing it. We’ll be taking your KB-50 as well as soon as we can get it flyable and converted back to a bomb carrier. And, of course, we will be taking all three of your B-52s.”
“But these are museum pieces….” Ryan spluttered, aghast at the thought of Pima’s superb collection of aircraft being dismantled.
“They can still perform useful roles, Sir. If it’s any consolation, the Commemorative Air Force and the New England Air Museum are losing their B-29s as well. Not to mention Wright Patterson losing Boxcar and the Smithsonian parting with Enola Gay. They’re more than 20 others as well, although there are only five B-50s and they’re in rough condition. Except yours of course, Still, we should have enough to make up a mixed B-29/B-50 group by the time we’ve finished.”
“But they’re obsolete.” Ryan’s voice was weak.
“Not so much Sir. They still haul bombs and are fast enough, and fly high enough, to keep out of harpy claws. And we’re not sure how well jets will adapt to the conditions in hell so we’re hedging our bets.” Behind him, there was a roar, and the B-29 took off, heading for its new operational base. Ryan could barely stop himself from crying.
“What else are you taking?”
“Oh, not much Sir. Your F-111 and your A-10 of course. You’ve kept the planes here in superb condition, I must say. We may want some others as well, depending on what we can find elsewhere. We don’t want lots of single aircraft but if there are enough to make up a small group……”
“I suppose you’ll want our replica Wright Flyer?” Ryan spoke bitterly.
“No Sir, not under current plans. But we would like to talk to you about your B-36.”
Executive Office, Alexander Arms Corporation, Radford Arsenal, Virginia
“Mister Alexander Sir, it’s a Colonel Matthews from the Defense Logistics Agency.” Alexander’s secretary sounded urgent.
“Put him through then Jeanie.” There was a click on the line “Bill Alexander here.”
“Mister Alexander, it’s Colonel Matthews here from the DLA. If you haven’t heard already, you will be shortly, our M16s and M4s aren’t showing up very well in Iraq. Don’t have the stopping power to finish off a baldrick. So, we need to change our approach fast. You’re making.50 Beowulf M16s for the Coastguard, well, you can start expanding that production line right now. We need you to start mass-producing .50 Beowulf upper receivers with a 24-inch barrel right away. We’ll issue them and mate them with in-service lower receivers. We’ll be faxing you the paperwork later today. Take this telephone call as authorizationto start work.”
“How many?”
“Our initial production target will be one million sets of parts needed to convert in-service weapons. For your information, the new rifle will be the M16A6 and the M4A5.”
The room was swimming around Alexander’s eyes. “We’re a small company, there’s no way we can make that number of rifles. And the ammunition.”
Matthews sounded more than slightly irritated. “Then license other producers. Talk to Ordnance, they may have facilities you can take over. Listen, man, this country is awash with weapons producers, if you can’t meet the production targets, make some arrangements. Our boys have died out there because their rifles didn’t do the job. And you know where they go when they die. You’re a manager, so get the lead out of your pants and start managing. Don’t make us write more letters to mothers telling them their kids died because they didn’t have the tools they need. Understand?”
Alexander didn’t have a chance to answer before he heard the telephone bang down. He stared at the receiver in his hand for a long moment that was only interrupted when his fax machine started to spew pages out. “Jeanie? Get me a list of all our sub-component suppliers, we must jack production up soonest. And get me the heads of Bushmaster, DPMS, Olympic Arms, Colt, FN, and any other rival you can think of.”
Headquarters, Boeing Military Aircraft Division, St Louis, Missouri.
The voice was impossibly British. “I say, is that Mike Graham, T-45 project manager?”
“It is. To whom am I speaking?”
“Sorry, old chap. James Kendrick here, Hawk 200 Project Manager at BAE Systems. We’ve had some calls from our respective governments asking us to put our heads together and come up with a new aircraft for our forces.”
“Excuse me, I’ve heard nothing of this.” There was a ‘ding’ on Graham’s computer indicating a top-priority email from corporate HQ in Chicago. He read it. “My apologies, I’ve just been told.”
“No problem. Everything is screwed up. Anyway, basically the RAF want a cheap, light fighter to make up numbers, the Navy wants one for their carriers and you chaps want some for everybody. So, our governments have decided to combine your T-45C trainer with our Hawk 200 light fighter and produce a single-seat, radar-equipped fighter for everybody. My bosses think it’s a pretty good idea, one that should sell well. So, we need to get cracking. Can we arrange for our design team to come over there?”
“Sure, or would you prefer us to come over to you?”
“Really, we’d rather come to you if you don’t mind. Have you ever tried to get a decent steak in Britain?”
Fort Bragg, North Carolina
Blasted rock, pools of mud and other less wholesome liquids, gauzy wisps of orange fumes, the odd crucified body; Hell wasn't anything pleasant to look at, even through a window. Standing in front of that window was an Army officer facing out towards a room occupied by a mix of civilian and military engineers along with a sprinkling of figures in Air Force, Army, and Marine uniforms. As the last straggler slips through the door set in the far wall, he began to speak.
"Gentlemen, ladies, my name is Major Warhol, and welcome to Section Twelve of DIMO(N). I'm sure we'll be assigned a mouthful of an acronym soon, but for now, we've just been calling it the Hell Lab." He stepped to one side and waved an arm at the window behind him.
"To get straight to the point, sooner or later we're going to fight in Hell, and from what limited intel we've gathered so far, it's a hell of an environment." He winced slightly at the awful pun, then shook his head with a sheepish smile before continuing, "It's going to do a number on our gear, and long-term exposure isn't going to do humans any good either. That's where we come in. We've put together a mock-up, our own personal Hell-in-a-jar based on the intelligence we've received so far, and we're going to be testing our gear in it. That's for the servicemen among you. The rest of you," he nods towards one of the engineers close to the window, "are here to fix whatever doesn't work, or failing that, to devise something new to fill a gap where our existing equipment doesn't cut it. We've got five other rooms like this one, with different speculative environments, and we'll be updating all of them as we learn more about the makeup of Hell. Now, we’ve only got actual data on one part of hell, one segment of the 5th circle. However, it looks like Dante’s Inferno was a pretty accurate description so until we know more, we’re working on that basis. We’ve got people here digging through other old records as well, so we’ll refine the picture as we go. Across the hall, there's another team that'll be doing the same with Heaven once we know something about it."
He singled out a lone man in a suit with a nod, "Agent Carson accomplished the only strike mission so far into Hell, albeit remotely. He's at your disposal for questions, and the CIA was kind enough to send the Predator he used for the strike along with him." Carson’s lips cracked in a wry, sardonic smile. He’d sat behind an operator’s terminal and sent in a drone but that made him a celebrity. "I'm told we're free to disassemble the Predator, but the Agency would like Agent Carson back in one piece. Or at least, if we do dismantle him, can we number the pieces, so The Company can reassemble him. Also, please remember, he’s a star on the war-bond sales pitches."
A chuckle ran around the room, accompanied by a snort from Carson himself. Major Warhol let the room settle for a few seconds before he started back into the briefing, "Air Force types, the wind tunnel's still under construction, but once it's up, you'll have down-check aircraft of any make you need in the hangars on-base to test in a Hell-condition wind tunnel. Sorry to give you the castoffs, but we're short there as it is. Some of the birds are types we don’t have in the inventory anymore, but we’ve repossessed from museums. Feel free to test those to destruction. Infantry, there's a target range with variable-density cloud generators to simulate atmospheric conditions. Armor, you're going to be a bit limited for a while, we're not going to have room for a half-dozen large-scale Hell-jars for you to play with, and the one we will have won't be finished for a week or two."
Warhol signaled with his hand, ordering a guard to open another door. A group of a dozen Arabs filed into the room, dressed in loose white robes. A rustling murmur passed through the briefing room's other occupants as they turned to look at the newcomers, several frowns flashing into place. Before anything could get out of hand, Major Warhol's voice called out again, louder at first to cut through the whispered speculation,
"I’d like to welcome Abdullah Rashid, formerly one of the Iraqi insurgency leaders, and now head of the DIMO(N) S12 insurgency team. I know! He shouted, cutting through a rising babble of voices, that many of you will be uncomfortable working with him and his men, but the fact remains that the Iraqi insurgents have had quite a lot of experience in running insurgencies recently and their people fought alongside ours in Hit. We’re allies now." His lips quirk in a thin, humorless smile, "And there’ll be others joining us as well, including some explosives experts from the Provisional IRA. They are probably the best in the world at their art, they should be, they fought the British for long enough. If I hear of them being frozen out of the discussion here, I'm not going to be a terribly happy man, and none of you want that. These teams will be focusing on the best ways to manufacture explosives, weapons, IEDs, anything they can think of that can be made and used in whole or in part using Hell-native resources and conditions."
Warhol surveyed the assembled men and women for a few more seconds, and then nodded to himself,
"Alright, dismi--actually, one thing I forgot. Everyone, if you'll please inspect the walls."
He waited for a few seconds for people to turn and look, scattered around the walls of the room at regular intervals were glass-fronted cabinets loaded with shotguns and submachine guns, on each one was printed in tall, red letters, 'IN CASE OF BALDRICKS, BREAK GLASS.' Another chuckle ran through the room, albeit a somewhat nervous one.
"We don't know the limitations of the Baldricks' teleportation and portal abilities yet, so we're going to assume they could pop up in here. Familiarize yourself with the locations of the emergency arms cabinets, and with the weapons. There's an earth-environment firing range on base, feel free to avail yourself of it if you want to brush the rust off; I'd hate to lose any of you to something as silly as a lone baldrick raider Dismissed." He pauses for a moment, then grins, "And I mean it this time. Break into teams and let's start figuring out how to raze Hell."
The Oval Office, The White House, Washington DC
“My fellow humans.” President Bush looked into the camera and gave a careful, friendly smile. The truth was that he was feeling reasonably happy at this point, his approval rating had gone over 50 percent for the first time in years. “You have all been following the events in Iraq where allied forces have engaged a baldrick invasion army estimated at over 400,000 strong. Much of the fighting has been obscure due to the area it has covered but now, I am able to give you some accurate information on what has taken place.
“The baldrick army has been defeated, not just defeated but destroyed. Our troops and those of our allies, most notably the Iranians under General Fereidoon Zolfaghari and the British under Brigadier John Carlson have beaten back the enemy and inflicted enormous losses upon them. We believe that the total of their dead is more than 300,000, a number that is rising hourly as our forces pursue the defeated enemy back to the very mouth of hell.” Bush looked down at his desk briefly, the retreating enemy hadn’t yet encountered the blocking force that was between them and safety. That was a nice surprise that was waiting for them.
“Our own losses so far are just over 600 dead. Most of these were suffered in the battle for the town of Hit. There, a brigade of the Tenth Mountain Division held the town against an overwhelmingly powerful force of baldricks and drove them back, fighting room to room in the process. In doing so they proved that not only do our armed forces have superior equipment to our enemy, but our men are better trained, braver, and more resourceful than their baldrick counterparts.
“Now, however, we must look to the future. We have learned that the force that struck us represents only a small portion of the forces that the enemy has available to him. Beyond that, we know that the forces of Yahweh still exist and must be numbered on the list of our enemies. Already, we have killed one of them, one responsible for an atrocious massacre carried out against defenseless civilians in the peace of their home. Our forces have achieved wonders, General Petraeus has won a victory that will forever place him amongst the Great Leaders, but this is not enough.
“We must mobilize for war. Our armed forces depend on armored vehicles for their mobility and for defense against baldrick attacks. Those armored vehicles need fuel and the battles over the last few days have shown how much they require. We must give them a priority for supplies of gasoline and diesel fuel. Accordingly, I have given orders for fuel rationing to be instituted here in the United States. Each licensed driver in a family will be allowed to buy no more than twenty gallons of automobile fuel per month. Government help will be provided for carpooling and other requirements. There is a crying need for more vehicles to carry the supplies needed to our troops. Therefore, most private automobile production in this country is to be converted to military use. Heavy truck plants will, of course, be converted to produce military trucks. Car and SUV facilities will be converted to produce light armored cars or aircraft depending on their level of technology. The only exceptionto this will be factories producing electric cars or small commercial vehicles. We have talked much about replacing gasoline-powered automobiles in our society. Now, our hand has been forced.
“In the last two days, 600 of our men and their allies have sacrificed everything they had for us. They gave their lives, knowing what awaited them beyond death. Now, we must match their sacrifice and bend every will, every nerve, every muscle in a great national crusade that will see our enemies driven into the dust and humbled. Thank you all, and good night.”
President Bush turned off the microphones and stared at the office wall. He’d just told the American people that they couldn’t drive around anymore the way they used to. Ah well, it had been nice being popular again for a while.
Re: 2008 - Armageddon
Chapter Twenty-Two
Ibn Sina Hospital, Baghdad, Iraq
“These things smell dreadful. Couldn’t we have chilled them?”
“We did Doctor. Unfortunately, dead baldricks appear to rot very fast indeed. As far as we can tell, it’s daylight that causes them to decay, not temperature.”
Doctor Surlethe nodded and looked at the baldrick corpse stretched out on the dissection table in front of him. “This is a big one even by baldrick standards, nearly 3 meters tall, weight 200 kilograms?”
“Before your army shot large pieces off him, yes.” A ripple of laughter ran around the operating theater. The relationship between Iraqi and American had eased to the point where they could make jokes about each other. The Iraqi nurse flushed slightly, even now she felt ill at ease receiving public attention.
“Let’s have a look at the X-rays.” Surlethe had them set up on the overhead displays. “Is everybody seeing what I’m seeing?”
“It’s very human.” One of the watching doctors spoke hesitantly. “Human but not human, as if it was a human body seen through a nightmare.”
“Exactly, the body is laid out almost identically to ours. The single upper arm and upper leg bones, the two bones in the lower arms and legs. The same number of ribs, or vertebrae. If we go by bone count and position, this thing is human. But, of course, we know it isn’t. The bones themselves are twisted and distorted, and there are things here that have no equivalent in our anatomy. Not just superficial things either, like the horns and tail. There are these things as well.” Surlethe tapped the body where what appeared to be huge muscles ran down its back. They were so large they made the creature’s spine look as if it was in the middle of its body rather than its back. The creature’s stunted wings stuck out of them reminiscent of broken branches from a snowbank. “50 percent of its body mass would you say?”
There was a ripple of agreement. “I thought they were muscles that allowed it to fly but they’re not. This thing can’t fly. Did histology come up with anything?”
“Doctor Surlethe, we find this hard to believe but we think they are electrolytes. The samples we took show them to be very similar to those in the electric eel, but they are much larger. The electric eel generates 500 volts at 1 amp, if these cells work the same way, the baldrick should be able to generate 5,000 volts at 10 amps. Almost 100 times more power.”
“That would explain much, especially their ability to fire bolts of lightning. Let’s have a look inside, shall we?”
Surlethe took an electric carving knife, he’d already found from bitter experience that surgical scalpels had a very short life when faced with baldrick skin and sliced into the dead baldrick. The smell was far worse once the skin was opened and inside, the internal organs were already decomposing into slush.
“From what we can see here, it’s the same as with the bone structure. It’s human but wildly different from us. Thoughts people?”
“It is as if it was human but became corrupted.” The Iraqi nurse was speaking slowly. “Almost as if this was once human but something got at it, corrupted its DNA.”
“It’s worth noting that the other bodies are very similar to this. If this is the result of DNA being corrupted, then the corruption was done systematically. It’s created a new species.”
“Did this evolve from us? Or is it parallel evolution?” Another Iraqi doctor watching the dissection spoke. He was slightly guarded; he’d heard that there were Americans who were still dumb enough to believe in creationist stories and deny the truth that stared into their faces. He didn’t want to upset one of them, they had guns as well as strange beliefs.
Surlethe thought carefully. “I’d say it’s parallel evolution, they started out as the next-level-up version of us, and something happened to them. Either they’ve been infected with something that messed up their DNA or they’ve been engineered to look like this.”
“Genetic engineering needs technology.” Yet another Iraqi doctor. “And we know they don’t have it.”
“We think they don’t Doctor. Probably, they don’t, and we certainly haven’t seen it yet. But we can’t rule out the possibility that there are pockets of technology somewhere. However, genetic engineering doesn’t need that high technology, just patience, and breeding experiments. Look at dogs, a Rottweiler and a Chihuahua were engineered from the same ancestor. These could be the same.” I wish they’d let me dissect that succubus Surlethe thought. Then we’d have something to compare this with. “Right, well, let’s look a bit more before this one decays to nothingness.”
Outside Gary’s Shoe Store, New Market Mall, Chicago, Illinois
“But its … una ropas de puton.” Maria looked at the top her school friends were urging her to buy. If she’d worn it back in Honduras, her mother would beat her, and old women would whisper accusations behind her back. But here?
“Look girl, you’re in America now. Halter tops, mini-skirts, and fuck-me pumps get issued at the border. Get used to it.” Shana’s voice was severe, but she was laughing underneath it.
Maria looked dubious, but she could see her friends were right. Dress standards were different here. She’d only been at the school six weeks, and this was her first time hanging out in the mall with her new friends. She didn’t want to embarrass herself or them. What she didn’t know was that she was far from the first new arrival from Central America who’d joined the school and all the girls with her understood how difficult the adjustment from the highly conservative lifestyle she’d come from was. The Immigration Department might run assimilation classes for new arrivals, but the high school girls had their own, much more efficient program. She should have guessed from the way they were speaking, that the group had two African American girls, three Anglos, and two Latinas. They were speaking in a strange mixture of Spanish and English, switching from one language to the other in mid-sentence with unconscious fluency, the whole mixed in with ebonic slang. Viewed objectively it was an awesome display of bilingualism.
She held the blouse up against herself again. In truth, it was quite modest by the standards of teenage girls at a mall and was on sale. And it did make her look nice. She pushed her hat a little back on her head, trying to make up her mind. All the girls were wearing the fashionable kepi-style caps with aluminum foil built into the crown and neck, that was one thing that had changed since The Message. Now, everybody wore caps, all the time. The stores here were full of them, some cheap baseball caps with foil inserts, others much more expensive. Maria finally made her decision. She’d take the top. She took it to the counter and, as she started to pay, her friends broke out in a round of applause. She’d just done something her mother would not approve of and that was her first step to becoming a real American teenager.
“Hey man, you, like, going to get some more donuts?” One of the Anglo girls, Marcie, was speaking to Philip Phelan, the shift supervisor of the mall security guards. He smiled a bit weakly at her, it was a joke all the rental cops on duty here had to put up with, but she was a customer, so her jokes were, by definition, funny.
“Afraid not ma’am. Crispy Kreme ran out of original glazed so I’m going to must make do with Pop-Tarts.”
“Poor baby.” Marcie’s voice was sweetly consoling. “The red light comes on again in an hour, so I’m told.”
“Why thank you, ma’am. I’ll bear that in mind.”
Marcie watched Phelan continue his rounds, a shadow of concern crossing her mind. He was way too far overweight, and she could see him wheezing slightly. It reminded her of her father before he’d had his first heart attack. He really should be sitting comfortably behind a desk, she thought. Then she frowned slightly, there was a ripple in the air down by the food court. Something overheating? Or a fire? She was just about to call attentionto it when the ripple changed to a black dot and then to an ellipse.
She’d seen what stepped out of that ellipse on news programs, on the film of the fighting in the Middle East, but she’d never expected to see something like it in her local mall. A baldrick, fully nine feet tall, complete with horns, tail, and trident. Eyes glowing red and small pointed beard seemed to bristle at the stunned shoppers. There was an eerie silence as people tried to absorb what was happening. A silence that was interrupted by a crack and brilliant blue flash as the baldrick discharged his trident at a woman pushing a baby carriage. The crash as the woman went down, convulsing from the massive electrical shock, broke the spell.
“Run!” Shana grabbed Maria and started bundling her forward. Years of threatened shootings in high schools had led Americans to learn a vital lesson; when trouble is breaking out, get as far and as fast in the opposite direction as possible. Maria didn’t have that inbred instinct and had to be shown. Her friends half-pushed, half-dragged her towards the exit adjacent to the mall’s Macy’s store.
Across the mall, the shoppers were dispersing in different directions, depending on which exit was nearest. The silence was replaced by the sound of screaming from the chaotic mob of people. In its midst, the baldrick grabbed another victim with the claws of one hand, ripped him open with the other, and threw the disintegrating body into the mass of running people. Then, it looked around, its eyes fixed on a group running for the Macy’s exit and set off after them.
Philip Phelan didn’t run. Unfortunately, he didn’t have a gun either. The mall rentacops weren’t allowed to carry them. He did have a taser and he used it, helplessly watching the barbed metal spikes bounce off the skin of the baldrick. The monster had already carved its way through three more people, throwing their dismembered remains around and Phelan believed that his job was now to buy as much time as he could for the rest to get clear. The monster reached out for him, almost lazily, its great claws reaching for his throat. Phelan had drawn his baton and he swiped at the grabbing hand, knocking it to one side. Then he slashed back in the opposite direction, hitting the monster in the throat, causing it to stagger for a second. For one delirious moment, he believed he had a chance of winning the encounter, then he felt the claws on the baldrick’s other hand sinking into his abdomen. They hooked around the bottom of his ribs and the last thing that Phelan ever felt was him being hurled into the air as his chest came apart.
The baldrick watched the fat old man land in the food court on the floor below and looked around for another victim. A middle-aged woman had stopped running and was facing him, holding both hands out as if she were praying. A ridiculous idea but who knew what these humans would try. Then there were a series of bright flashes from the woman’s hands and the baldrick felt six jabbing pains in his chest. He paused for a brief second then started after the woman.
“Lady, you got reloads?”
“No.” She wailed, looking at the monster bearing down on her.
“Run!” The man speaking had another handgun out. One a lot bigger than the woman’s little Kel-Tec .32. He was in the correct position, M1911A1 in both hands, right-hand pushing, left-hand pulling, and his nine shots made a perfect group on the baldricks chest. Then, his slide locked back on empty, he followed the woman running for the exit, the baldrick now streaming green blood from the wound in its chest, closing rapidly on them.
They were saved by the shoe salesman in Gary’s Shoe Store, who had been a mighty athlete in his day. As the baldrick crossed in front of his store, he ran out and took it in a perfect football tackle, slamming it off its feet and into the guard rail. The railing, more decorative than practical, cracked free of the floor and for a moment looked like it might give way under the impact, but it held and the fighting human and baldrick bounced off it back onto the floor. The baldrick managed to tear at the human’s face with one hand and that gained him enough of an advantage to throw him off. The shoe salesman was blinded, crippled by the injury, and didn’t have a chance of evading the slash that tore out his heart. By that time, the man and woman who had shot the baldrick were safely away.
Out in the car park was a Ford F-150 pick-up truck, covered with NRA stickers. More significantly, both its driver and passenger were hunters who had come in for some supplies at the Northwest Face store before going off on a trip. Bill Redfield saw the people pouring out of the exits and managed to stop one as he ran past the truck.
“What’s going on?”
“Baldricks, in the mall. They’re killing everybody.” The man tore himself free and continued running.
“Can’t get in through the doors Jim, too many people coming out. Like running into an avalanche.”
“The Café.”
“Hit It.”
The Coffee Cup Café was on the ground floor level with the car park and, better, it had a terrace and windows that were a rare interruption in the otherwise blank mall walls. Jim Caldwell slammed his truck into gear and floored the accelerator. He was doing over 60 miles an hour when his truck plowed through the terrace tables and smashed open the windows beyond. The glass exploded inwards, scattering across the café in shards. Caldwell had wanted to do that for years, in his opinion charging five bucks for a cup of coffee merited destruction. As a result, Redfield, and Caldwell, not to mention their truck, were in the mall. A few seconds later they were running into the main concourse holding their hunting rifles.
“Escalators, up.” The screaming said the baldricks were on the top floor. They sprinted up the escalator in time to see a single baldrick, there was only one, tearing a man apart outside a shoe store. The baldrick stood up and started to close in on the people struggling outside Macy’s but Caldwell dropped to one knee and took aim. He had an old Garand fitted with a scope; across the width of the mall, it was murderously accurate. He squeezed out his eight rounds of .30-06 and heard the characteristic ‘ting’ as the clip was ejected. The baldrick staggered with the impacts, obviously finding it had to stay on its feet, but it was still obviously determined to get into the crowd of humans. That wasn’t bad tactics either, once mixed in with humans, the usefulness of the hunting rifles would be much diminished.
Redfield stopped that happening. His favored game was elk and moose, and he had the rifle to match. A Weatherby Mark V Deluxe chambered for .416 Weatherby Magnum. With its scope, it had cost him almost $3,000 and his wife had given him the silent treatment for three months after she’d found it in the gun safe. He dropped flat and took careful aim, squeezing the trigger and feeling the brutal recoil as the rifle sent the heavy bullet tearing down range. He didn’t stop to see what the result was, he was working the bolt to feed the second round into the chamber. By the time he got his eye back to the scope, the baldrick was sitting down, the wall behind it splattered green with its blood. Redfield fired again, seeing the baldrick jerk as the bullet plowed into it. There was no doubt, that it was down for good, but he still had a single round left in his rifle and the thing was still moving. He worked the bolt again and then took careful aim at the monster’s head. It burst very pleasingly as the bullet struck home.
Redfield straightened up, pleased with himself despite the pain in his shoulder. Caldwell was looking at him. “Remind me never to poke fun at that cannon of yours again,” he said.
Across the concourse, it was hard to believe it was over. The baldrick lay dead barely ten feet from where Maria stood crying. She was in shock, from terror and the deafening explosions that had brought the monster down. She and her friends had been at the back of the crowd trying to escape and they would have been the first to die if the baldrick had reached the crowd. Maria knew it but all she could think of was that in the panic she’d lost the bag holding her new blouse. Now she’d lost it, it seemed enormously important to her. Behind her, she felt a hand on her shoulder.
“Hey, Maria.” It was Kelly, one of the Anglo girls with Maria’s shopping bag. “You dropped this. The second lesson on being a mall rat, never, ever, let go of your loot.”
Across the mall concourse, two men in hunting clothes stood up. There was silence for a second, then an eruption of cheering. One of the men waved, and the other held his rifle above his head. The cheering redoubled.
Maria found a microphone stuck in her face. “KVTW News. What did you see?”
“I saw the devil coming to kill us and an old security man attacked it with a stick. It killed him but he saved our lives. Éra el hombre mas valiente que nunca haya visto.”
The television reporter turned to another person, a woman who was staring at a tiny semi-automatic pistol in her hand. “Ma’am, what do you think?”
She looked dazedly at the camera. “I need a bigger fucking gun.”
Ibn Sina Hospital, Baghdad, Iraq
“These things smell dreadful. Couldn’t we have chilled them?”
“We did Doctor. Unfortunately, dead baldricks appear to rot very fast indeed. As far as we can tell, it’s daylight that causes them to decay, not temperature.”
Doctor Surlethe nodded and looked at the baldrick corpse stretched out on the dissection table in front of him. “This is a big one even by baldrick standards, nearly 3 meters tall, weight 200 kilograms?”
“Before your army shot large pieces off him, yes.” A ripple of laughter ran around the operating theater. The relationship between Iraqi and American had eased to the point where they could make jokes about each other. The Iraqi nurse flushed slightly, even now she felt ill at ease receiving public attention.
“Let’s have a look at the X-rays.” Surlethe had them set up on the overhead displays. “Is everybody seeing what I’m seeing?”
“It’s very human.” One of the watching doctors spoke hesitantly. “Human but not human, as if it was a human body seen through a nightmare.”
“Exactly, the body is laid out almost identically to ours. The single upper arm and upper leg bones, the two bones in the lower arms and legs. The same number of ribs, or vertebrae. If we go by bone count and position, this thing is human. But, of course, we know it isn’t. The bones themselves are twisted and distorted, and there are things here that have no equivalent in our anatomy. Not just superficial things either, like the horns and tail. There are these things as well.” Surlethe tapped the body where what appeared to be huge muscles ran down its back. They were so large they made the creature’s spine look as if it was in the middle of its body rather than its back. The creature’s stunted wings stuck out of them reminiscent of broken branches from a snowbank. “50 percent of its body mass would you say?”
There was a ripple of agreement. “I thought they were muscles that allowed it to fly but they’re not. This thing can’t fly. Did histology come up with anything?”
“Doctor Surlethe, we find this hard to believe but we think they are electrolytes. The samples we took show them to be very similar to those in the electric eel, but they are much larger. The electric eel generates 500 volts at 1 amp, if these cells work the same way, the baldrick should be able to generate 5,000 volts at 10 amps. Almost 100 times more power.”
“That would explain much, especially their ability to fire bolts of lightning. Let’s have a look inside, shall we?”
Surlethe took an electric carving knife, he’d already found from bitter experience that surgical scalpels had a very short life when faced with baldrick skin and sliced into the dead baldrick. The smell was far worse once the skin was opened and inside, the internal organs were already decomposing into slush.
“From what we can see here, it’s the same as with the bone structure. It’s human but wildly different from us. Thoughts people?”
“It is as if it was human but became corrupted.” The Iraqi nurse was speaking slowly. “Almost as if this was once human but something got at it, corrupted its DNA.”
“It’s worth noting that the other bodies are very similar to this. If this is the result of DNA being corrupted, then the corruption was done systematically. It’s created a new species.”
“Did this evolve from us? Or is it parallel evolution?” Another Iraqi doctor watching the dissection spoke. He was slightly guarded; he’d heard that there were Americans who were still dumb enough to believe in creationist stories and deny the truth that stared into their faces. He didn’t want to upset one of them, they had guns as well as strange beliefs.
Surlethe thought carefully. “I’d say it’s parallel evolution, they started out as the next-level-up version of us, and something happened to them. Either they’ve been infected with something that messed up their DNA or they’ve been engineered to look like this.”
“Genetic engineering needs technology.” Yet another Iraqi doctor. “And we know they don’t have it.”
“We think they don’t Doctor. Probably, they don’t, and we certainly haven’t seen it yet. But we can’t rule out the possibility that there are pockets of technology somewhere. However, genetic engineering doesn’t need that high technology, just patience, and breeding experiments. Look at dogs, a Rottweiler and a Chihuahua were engineered from the same ancestor. These could be the same.” I wish they’d let me dissect that succubus Surlethe thought. Then we’d have something to compare this with. “Right, well, let’s look a bit more before this one decays to nothingness.”
Outside Gary’s Shoe Store, New Market Mall, Chicago, Illinois
“But its … una ropas de puton.” Maria looked at the top her school friends were urging her to buy. If she’d worn it back in Honduras, her mother would beat her, and old women would whisper accusations behind her back. But here?
“Look girl, you’re in America now. Halter tops, mini-skirts, and fuck-me pumps get issued at the border. Get used to it.” Shana’s voice was severe, but she was laughing underneath it.
Maria looked dubious, but she could see her friends were right. Dress standards were different here. She’d only been at the school six weeks, and this was her first time hanging out in the mall with her new friends. She didn’t want to embarrass herself or them. What she didn’t know was that she was far from the first new arrival from Central America who’d joined the school and all the girls with her understood how difficult the adjustment from the highly conservative lifestyle she’d come from was. The Immigration Department might run assimilation classes for new arrivals, but the high school girls had their own, much more efficient program. She should have guessed from the way they were speaking, that the group had two African American girls, three Anglos, and two Latinas. They were speaking in a strange mixture of Spanish and English, switching from one language to the other in mid-sentence with unconscious fluency, the whole mixed in with ebonic slang. Viewed objectively it was an awesome display of bilingualism.
She held the blouse up against herself again. In truth, it was quite modest by the standards of teenage girls at a mall and was on sale. And it did make her look nice. She pushed her hat a little back on her head, trying to make up her mind. All the girls were wearing the fashionable kepi-style caps with aluminum foil built into the crown and neck, that was one thing that had changed since The Message. Now, everybody wore caps, all the time. The stores here were full of them, some cheap baseball caps with foil inserts, others much more expensive. Maria finally made her decision. She’d take the top. She took it to the counter and, as she started to pay, her friends broke out in a round of applause. She’d just done something her mother would not approve of and that was her first step to becoming a real American teenager.
“Hey man, you, like, going to get some more donuts?” One of the Anglo girls, Marcie, was speaking to Philip Phelan, the shift supervisor of the mall security guards. He smiled a bit weakly at her, it was a joke all the rental cops on duty here had to put up with, but she was a customer, so her jokes were, by definition, funny.
“Afraid not ma’am. Crispy Kreme ran out of original glazed so I’m going to must make do with Pop-Tarts.”
“Poor baby.” Marcie’s voice was sweetly consoling. “The red light comes on again in an hour, so I’m told.”
“Why thank you, ma’am. I’ll bear that in mind.”
Marcie watched Phelan continue his rounds, a shadow of concern crossing her mind. He was way too far overweight, and she could see him wheezing slightly. It reminded her of her father before he’d had his first heart attack. He really should be sitting comfortably behind a desk, she thought. Then she frowned slightly, there was a ripple in the air down by the food court. Something overheating? Or a fire? She was just about to call attentionto it when the ripple changed to a black dot and then to an ellipse.
She’d seen what stepped out of that ellipse on news programs, on the film of the fighting in the Middle East, but she’d never expected to see something like it in her local mall. A baldrick, fully nine feet tall, complete with horns, tail, and trident. Eyes glowing red and small pointed beard seemed to bristle at the stunned shoppers. There was an eerie silence as people tried to absorb what was happening. A silence that was interrupted by a crack and brilliant blue flash as the baldrick discharged his trident at a woman pushing a baby carriage. The crash as the woman went down, convulsing from the massive electrical shock, broke the spell.
“Run!” Shana grabbed Maria and started bundling her forward. Years of threatened shootings in high schools had led Americans to learn a vital lesson; when trouble is breaking out, get as far and as fast in the opposite direction as possible. Maria didn’t have that inbred instinct and had to be shown. Her friends half-pushed, half-dragged her towards the exit adjacent to the mall’s Macy’s store.
Across the mall, the shoppers were dispersing in different directions, depending on which exit was nearest. The silence was replaced by the sound of screaming from the chaotic mob of people. In its midst, the baldrick grabbed another victim with the claws of one hand, ripped him open with the other, and threw the disintegrating body into the mass of running people. Then, it looked around, its eyes fixed on a group running for the Macy’s exit and set off after them.
Philip Phelan didn’t run. Unfortunately, he didn’t have a gun either. The mall rentacops weren’t allowed to carry them. He did have a taser and he used it, helplessly watching the barbed metal spikes bounce off the skin of the baldrick. The monster had already carved its way through three more people, throwing their dismembered remains around and Phelan believed that his job was now to buy as much time as he could for the rest to get clear. The monster reached out for him, almost lazily, its great claws reaching for his throat. Phelan had drawn his baton and he swiped at the grabbing hand, knocking it to one side. Then he slashed back in the opposite direction, hitting the monster in the throat, causing it to stagger for a second. For one delirious moment, he believed he had a chance of winning the encounter, then he felt the claws on the baldrick’s other hand sinking into his abdomen. They hooked around the bottom of his ribs and the last thing that Phelan ever felt was him being hurled into the air as his chest came apart.
The baldrick watched the fat old man land in the food court on the floor below and looked around for another victim. A middle-aged woman had stopped running and was facing him, holding both hands out as if she were praying. A ridiculous idea but who knew what these humans would try. Then there were a series of bright flashes from the woman’s hands and the baldrick felt six jabbing pains in his chest. He paused for a brief second then started after the woman.
“Lady, you got reloads?”
“No.” She wailed, looking at the monster bearing down on her.
“Run!” The man speaking had another handgun out. One a lot bigger than the woman’s little Kel-Tec .32. He was in the correct position, M1911A1 in both hands, right-hand pushing, left-hand pulling, and his nine shots made a perfect group on the baldricks chest. Then, his slide locked back on empty, he followed the woman running for the exit, the baldrick now streaming green blood from the wound in its chest, closing rapidly on them.
They were saved by the shoe salesman in Gary’s Shoe Store, who had been a mighty athlete in his day. As the baldrick crossed in front of his store, he ran out and took it in a perfect football tackle, slamming it off its feet and into the guard rail. The railing, more decorative than practical, cracked free of the floor and for a moment looked like it might give way under the impact, but it held and the fighting human and baldrick bounced off it back onto the floor. The baldrick managed to tear at the human’s face with one hand and that gained him enough of an advantage to throw him off. The shoe salesman was blinded, crippled by the injury, and didn’t have a chance of evading the slash that tore out his heart. By that time, the man and woman who had shot the baldrick were safely away.
Out in the car park was a Ford F-150 pick-up truck, covered with NRA stickers. More significantly, both its driver and passenger were hunters who had come in for some supplies at the Northwest Face store before going off on a trip. Bill Redfield saw the people pouring out of the exits and managed to stop one as he ran past the truck.
“What’s going on?”
“Baldricks, in the mall. They’re killing everybody.” The man tore himself free and continued running.
“Can’t get in through the doors Jim, too many people coming out. Like running into an avalanche.”
“The Café.”
“Hit It.”
The Coffee Cup Café was on the ground floor level with the car park and, better, it had a terrace and windows that were a rare interruption in the otherwise blank mall walls. Jim Caldwell slammed his truck into gear and floored the accelerator. He was doing over 60 miles an hour when his truck plowed through the terrace tables and smashed open the windows beyond. The glass exploded inwards, scattering across the café in shards. Caldwell had wanted to do that for years, in his opinion charging five bucks for a cup of coffee merited destruction. As a result, Redfield, and Caldwell, not to mention their truck, were in the mall. A few seconds later they were running into the main concourse holding their hunting rifles.
“Escalators, up.” The screaming said the baldricks were on the top floor. They sprinted up the escalator in time to see a single baldrick, there was only one, tearing a man apart outside a shoe store. The baldrick stood up and started to close in on the people struggling outside Macy’s but Caldwell dropped to one knee and took aim. He had an old Garand fitted with a scope; across the width of the mall, it was murderously accurate. He squeezed out his eight rounds of .30-06 and heard the characteristic ‘ting’ as the clip was ejected. The baldrick staggered with the impacts, obviously finding it had to stay on its feet, but it was still obviously determined to get into the crowd of humans. That wasn’t bad tactics either, once mixed in with humans, the usefulness of the hunting rifles would be much diminished.
Redfield stopped that happening. His favored game was elk and moose, and he had the rifle to match. A Weatherby Mark V Deluxe chambered for .416 Weatherby Magnum. With its scope, it had cost him almost $3,000 and his wife had given him the silent treatment for three months after she’d found it in the gun safe. He dropped flat and took careful aim, squeezing the trigger and feeling the brutal recoil as the rifle sent the heavy bullet tearing down range. He didn’t stop to see what the result was, he was working the bolt to feed the second round into the chamber. By the time he got his eye back to the scope, the baldrick was sitting down, the wall behind it splattered green with its blood. Redfield fired again, seeing the baldrick jerk as the bullet plowed into it. There was no doubt, that it was down for good, but he still had a single round left in his rifle and the thing was still moving. He worked the bolt again and then took careful aim at the monster’s head. It burst very pleasingly as the bullet struck home.
Redfield straightened up, pleased with himself despite the pain in his shoulder. Caldwell was looking at him. “Remind me never to poke fun at that cannon of yours again,” he said.
Across the concourse, it was hard to believe it was over. The baldrick lay dead barely ten feet from where Maria stood crying. She was in shock, from terror and the deafening explosions that had brought the monster down. She and her friends had been at the back of the crowd trying to escape and they would have been the first to die if the baldrick had reached the crowd. Maria knew it but all she could think of was that in the panic she’d lost the bag holding her new blouse. Now she’d lost it, it seemed enormously important to her. Behind her, she felt a hand on her shoulder.
“Hey, Maria.” It was Kelly, one of the Anglo girls with Maria’s shopping bag. “You dropped this. The second lesson on being a mall rat, never, ever, let go of your loot.”
Across the mall concourse, two men in hunting clothes stood up. There was silence for a second, then an eruption of cheering. One of the men waved, and the other held his rifle above his head. The cheering redoubled.
Maria found a microphone stuck in her face. “KVTW News. What did you see?”
“I saw the devil coming to kill us and an old security man attacked it with a stick. It killed him but he saved our lives. Éra el hombre mas valiente que nunca haya visto.”
The television reporter turned to another person, a woman who was staring at a tiny semi-automatic pistol in her hand. “Ma’am, what do you think?”
She looked dazedly at the camera. “I need a bigger fucking gun.”
Re: 2008 - Armageddon
Chapter Twenty-Three
Military Attache’s Offices, Royal Thai Embassy, Washington DC
Major General Asanee settled back in her seat to watch the early morning news. She knew what the leading item was likely to be, but the U.S. news networks always amused her. She flipped the television mounted on the wall to Fox and waited for the headlines. She wasn’t disappointed.
The death toll in the baldrick attack on the Lakeview Mall in Chicago continues to rise. At least ten humans are reported to have been killed when a lone baldrick materialized in the shopping area of the mall and started to indiscriminately kill shoppers. Hero of the hour was 56-year-old security guard Philip Phelan who saved the lives of a group of teenage girls when armed only with a baton, he defended them from the baldrick. Now, from the scene of the attack.
The General pursed her lips for a second and asked herself the same question that was puzzling people in government offices across America. Why had this happened now? Was it linked to the crushing defeat of the baldrick army in Iraq? If so, it appeared to be opening an entirely new front in the war. Almost absent-mindedly she flipped channels to CBS.
An incident in a Chicago mall turned violent yesterday when two gunmen opened fire with assault rifles on a baldrick that was visiting the shopping plaza. The gunmen, both members of the NRA, had brought their guns into the mall in flagrant violation of the operation’s “no guns” policy and started shooting without warning. More than ten people were killed in the attack.
The General sighed quietly to herself; the American media never changed she thought ruefully. Perhaps it was better that nobody believed a word they said. Still, that comment about the NRA started a chain of thought in her mind, one that rotated around the phrase “a well-organized militia”. Her country already had one, the Tahan Phran and it was a key part of their defense against terrorism. She nodded quietly to herself and picked up the telephone, dialing the Office of the Secretary of Defense. “Hello, this is Major-General Asanee here. I would like to speak with Secretary Warner, this morning if possible.”
Outside the White House, Pennsylvania Avenue, Washington DC
The television cameras had been waiting outside the White House since early morning, hoping to catch one of the Cabinet members in a limousine just after the imposition of gasoline rationing on the rest of America. So far, they had been sorely disappointed since the only footage they had got was one sequence of Condoleezza Rice on a bicycle and John Warner jogging into the building. The cameraman was about to give it up as a bad job when he felt a tap on his shoulder. A small, nondescript van was pulling into the White House driveway and, significantly, it passed through security with hardly a moment’s delay. It wasn’t much but it was better than nothing.
White House Conference Room, White House, Washington DC
“You all got the warning about the television cameras then?” President Bush glanced around the assembled members of the Cabinet, reassured by the nods he received. “Right let us continue. Just what happened in that mall? And why did it happen?”
Secretary Michael Chertoff looked down at the brief he had been given. “The eyewitness accounts are pretty confused as one might expect. As far as we can make out, the baldrick just appeared within the mall and started killing people, at random. It carried on doing so until it was shot dead. And that’s pretty much all we do know.” The Homeland Defense Secretary looked up at the meeting. “It’s critical we don’t confuse what we think with what we know here. We can make all sorts of guesses but the amount of hard information we have is very limited. We can screw ourselves up if we start thinking our guesses are facts.”
There were a series of nods around the table. In some ways, it had been an unnecessary comment, not confusing facts with deductions from those facts was a caution that everybody knew. In another way, the warning was timely and vital for, although everybody knew the principle, they forgot it with dreadful regularity. People treating their opinions as facts was called the Rumsfeld Syndrome in this room.
“Another fact for the pile.” Secretary Warner spoke quietly as was his usual practice. “That baldrick took a lot of killing. It got hit 15 times with pistol fire, OK six of those were .32s but the rest were .45s. Also, eleven rifle-caliber hits. Only the last three hurt it.”
“Not quite, John.” Secretary Michael O. Leavitt consulted his brief. “My people tell me that the .30-06 hits would have killed the baldrick eventually but the .416s really hurried things along. This fits what we’re getting back from Iraq I believe?”
“It does Mike. Baldricks appear to die from bleeding out, they can take quite devastating hits but if they don’t cause massive blood loss, they can keep going for some time. Some of our snipers report that baldricks have kept going after taking .50 caliber bullets to the head. On the other hand, fragmentation damage rips them up and causes extensive bleeding that finishes them quickly.”
“Very interesting.” Bush was a little annoyed, this was all very well but it didn’t answer any of the key questions he needed to deal with. “But why did this happen, how likely is this attack to be repeated and what can we do to stop them? If this thing just appeared in the middle of a mall, it could appear anywhere – can’t it?”
In one corner, General Schatten coughed gently. “If I may be permitted Sir, we have brought along about the only expert we have on how and why baldricks think the way they do. If I may be permitted to bring her in?”
Bush nodded. General Schatten left for a moment, then returned with a companion whose appearance stunned the room into silence. It was about six feet tall and was wearing a cape-like red robe which did not hide the fact that it was naked. Its skin was the sort of shiny black normally associated with insects except around the head where it faded to a corpse-like white. Its hair was pinkish blonde with two red-tipped horns emerging from its lank folds. It the mouth large and vivid red, the eyes sunk deep in shadow, their yellow gaze darting around from one personto the next. On closer inspection, it was female.
“That’s a baldrick, are you insane bringing that thing in here?” Secretary Warner’s voice almost cracked with the shock.
“Ladies, gentlemen, this is Lugasharmanaska, a succubus who has defected to us. She has provided us with a significant amount of intelligence over the last few days. Secretary Chertoff, you stressed the need for facts, not opinions. Luga is the only person who can give us facts.”
“Take a seat, my dear.” For want of anymore appropriate attitude, President Bush dropped into his genial Texan host mode. Lugasharmanaska took a vacant seat, appreciating how those nearest to her shifted away. “You heard what happened yesterday afternoon in Chicago?”
“No.” Her yellow-slitted eyes darted around again, measuring up the people in the room with her.
“Show the film, please. Lugasharmanaska this is a film taken through our video surveillance system at the mall. It shows a baldr…. a demon …. Attacking the crowd.”
Luga watched the film without any real interest. “So?”
“So why this attack, why now?”
“Why not.” Lugasharmanaska shrugged a curiously human gesture. “This is nothing new. Just another berserker attacking. Odd your people fought back though, usually, they do not.”
“Wait a minute.” Secretary Rice jumped on the last phrase. “Usually, has this happened before.”
Lugasharmanaska was almost impatient. “Of course, it has. How many times have you had mass killings in your schools or parks? How many times has an isolated community been mysteriously wiped out? Always it was either us or Yahweh. Sometimes our berserkers would do it themselves, other times they would possess another human to do it.” She stirred slightly in excitement. “That was always very good because we would let the person see what they had done and know they would be punished for it. Their despair was a joy to us.”
“Yahweh did things like this?”
“Of course.” Impatience had become scorn. “Most were his, to keep you frightened and depending on him. Ours were just for sport.”
Bush glanced around the assembled cabinet, gathering in the expressions of horror and disgust on their faces. What must it be like working daily with a monster like this, listening to these horrors? “Always the attacks were on schools and malls?” The question was soft, he was controlling his voice very carefully.
“Of course. That is where fear and terror would be greatest.” Lugasharmanaska paused for a second. “You were very wise keeping your guns out of such places, it hid them from us.”
“But you can go anywhere, appear anywhere.”
“No.” Impatience returned. “We need Nephilim to home in on. In malls and such there are large concentrations of people so the homing signal is strongest there.”
“So you can only appear where there are concentrations of people.”
“That is what I said is it not?”
“So the timing of this attack has nothing to do with the fighting in Iraq?”
“What fighting?”
Bush glanced at General Schatten who shook his head. They’d told Lugasharmanaska nothing of the battles in the Iraqi desert. “Your army invaded us. We defeated it. Wiped it out at little cost to ourselves. What isn’t dead is running. And don’t think this will end there. We fight to win.”
“Defeated? Which Army?” Lugasharmanaska was stunned, she knew humans were unexpectedly powerful but to defeat an entire Army? Lead by who? She gathered herself, noting the renewed confidence in the humans. Her shock had cost her ground. “No, this attack has nothing to do with that. The duke who launched it may not even know the war has started yet. Hell is a big place and communications are very slow. By messenger mostly. Many parts may not have got the word yet.”
The interrogation went on, pushing Lugasharmanaska for added details of the berserker raids. In the background, one of James Randi’s JREF observers was filming the whole process.
DIMO(N) Conference Room, The Pentagon, Arlington, VA
“Notice something odd about this film Robert?”
“About a demon in the Conference room? Nothing at all odd. I’d guess in some previous administrations there were several. I’ve always wondered about Robert McNamara myself, he’s a good candidate for a fiend from hell.”
“Not bright enough. No, look at how this meeting starts. See how everybody is disgusted by Lugasharmanaska, repulsed by her. Combination of hatred, loathing, abomination, abhorrence, you name it, every negative emotion imaginable. Now, look at these scenes at the end of the meeting. What do you see?”
“Doesn’t look very different to me. The President is being charming but if looks could kill, Condi’s laser gaze would have fried poor Lugasharmanaska on the spot.”
“Right, and what is it we’ve noticed about people meeting Lugasharmanaska?”
“Everybody accepts her and gets sympathetic, warm, and fuzzy about her. Oh, I see what you mean. The Cabinet didn’t.”
“And they all had their caps on, so it isn’t mind control. Whatever it is that she does, it didn’t work there.”
“Must be environmental, must be. How does that conference room differ from ours?”
“It’s a lot bigger of course. And more expensively equipped. That’s all.”
“And its air is screened.” General Schatten cut in from one corner
“General?”
“The air is screened, its continually drawn out, filtered, and recycled. There’s quite an airflow but is through vents in the floor so people don’t notice it. You can throw a tear gas bomb in there and the air will be scrubbed clean before it hurts anybody.”
“The air gets scrubbed clean. All the time. James – pheromones sound likely to you?”
“Ummm.”
“Scents used by humans to modify behavior around them. For example, women who are ovulating use them to be particularly attractive to men, pheromones from pregnant women make people around them feel warm and fuzzy, it’s part of our non-verbal communication system.”
“I do not like thee Doctor Fell
Why this is I cannot tell
But I know this and know full well
I do not like thee Doctor Fell.”
“Exactly James, a lot of our subconscious likes and dislikes are determined by pheromones. We’re only just beginning to get into what they do and the field’s opening out. It may well be that our sense of smell is vastly more important than we ever gave it credit for. The conference room is big, that means Lugasharmanaska’s pheromones didn’t have time to build up the necessary concentration before they were swept out and scrubbed out.”
“Does that mean we must wear a gas mask before we speak with her?”
“Might not do any good, there’s some evidence that pheromones work by skin absorption as well. The upside is that pheromone effects are insidious but if people are aware of them, they can filter them out, recognize and discount them if you like. Another good thing about this…”
“What’s that Robert?”
“I doubt if Lugasharmanaska understands what it is that makes people agreeable around her. I bet she just takes it for granted that they will be. That means she must be a very confused succubus right now.”
“Did you see her face when the President told her about our victory in Iraq? She was shaken to her very roots. She’s shaken up in more ways than one.”
Office of the Secretary of Defense, The Pentagon, Washington DC
John Warner sighed and rubbed his eyes. The logic laid out by the charming but ice-cold Thai General was undeniable, especially with what they’d learned from that foul monster General Schatten had brought into the White House. Baldricks could teleport into any large group of people. So there had to be guards everywhere. That meant a militia, well, the Constitution provided for that, encouraged it even. And enough guns were floating around in America to arm it. His pen sketched doodles on a pad. Of course, the term militia was out, too many negative connotations these days. His eye rested on a picture of the American Civil War and the letters USV. United States Volunteers. That wasn’t right though, these people would be defending their homes. Local Defense Volunteers. That had a good ring to it and glossed over the fact that they were going to be drafted.
Every man and woman between the ages of 18 and 50 who weren’t already part of the armed forces, was what the new draft would bring in. To be armed and sent as patrols to sports stadiums, schools, malls, and anywhere people would be gathering. The average strength on any given day is 25 million. One more burden for a nation that was already working long hours with little rest. Yet, the benefits were already showing, new M270A2 rocket launchers, M2 Bradleys, and M1 tanks were starting to flow from the production line. Aircraft was the problem; production would take a long time to ramp up and bringing retired old aircraft back from the graveyard could only achieve so much.
His phone beeped. “Mister Secretary. A Ms. O’Leary to see you. She’s your eleven o’clock.”
Warmer sighed again. What did she want? “Miss O’Leary, how can I help you?”
“Secretary Warner, I understand you’ll be needing a lot of guns, needing them quickly and they must be powerful enough to take down a baldrick with a minimum number of shots.”
“That is so.” More than you can realize he thought.
“I own a small custom gun producing company. We make a derivative of the M1 Garand in.458 Winchester. Our production isn’t great, but we can expand a bit and we know other companies that can do the same. There are quite a few others, including Springfield who make the M1A, a semi-automatic version of the M14, who can retool to make .458 Winchester versions of that weapon. Between us, we can make a lot of these rifles. They’re accurate at a longer range than the .50 M16s you’re introducing, and they don’t use the same industry resources. We can use furniture makers for the wooden stocks etc, and the parts are milled, not stamped. There are lots of small engineering companies that are hurting right now, they aren’t into the high-tech stuff our modern weaponry requires. But for something at World War Two levels, they’re perfect. And they want in on the war effort.”
And in on the profits, Warner thought. But she was right, and this would help arm the Local Defense Volunteers. And it did make use of small industrial capacity. “An excellent idea Miss O’Leary. Let’s talk money on this.”
Military Attache’s Offices, Royal Thai Embassy, Washington DC
Major General Asanee settled back in her seat to watch the early morning news. She knew what the leading item was likely to be, but the U.S. news networks always amused her. She flipped the television mounted on the wall to Fox and waited for the headlines. She wasn’t disappointed.
The death toll in the baldrick attack on the Lakeview Mall in Chicago continues to rise. At least ten humans are reported to have been killed when a lone baldrick materialized in the shopping area of the mall and started to indiscriminately kill shoppers. Hero of the hour was 56-year-old security guard Philip Phelan who saved the lives of a group of teenage girls when armed only with a baton, he defended them from the baldrick. Now, from the scene of the attack.
The General pursed her lips for a second and asked herself the same question that was puzzling people in government offices across America. Why had this happened now? Was it linked to the crushing defeat of the baldrick army in Iraq? If so, it appeared to be opening an entirely new front in the war. Almost absent-mindedly she flipped channels to CBS.
An incident in a Chicago mall turned violent yesterday when two gunmen opened fire with assault rifles on a baldrick that was visiting the shopping plaza. The gunmen, both members of the NRA, had brought their guns into the mall in flagrant violation of the operation’s “no guns” policy and started shooting without warning. More than ten people were killed in the attack.
The General sighed quietly to herself; the American media never changed she thought ruefully. Perhaps it was better that nobody believed a word they said. Still, that comment about the NRA started a chain of thought in her mind, one that rotated around the phrase “a well-organized militia”. Her country already had one, the Tahan Phran and it was a key part of their defense against terrorism. She nodded quietly to herself and picked up the telephone, dialing the Office of the Secretary of Defense. “Hello, this is Major-General Asanee here. I would like to speak with Secretary Warner, this morning if possible.”
Outside the White House, Pennsylvania Avenue, Washington DC
The television cameras had been waiting outside the White House since early morning, hoping to catch one of the Cabinet members in a limousine just after the imposition of gasoline rationing on the rest of America. So far, they had been sorely disappointed since the only footage they had got was one sequence of Condoleezza Rice on a bicycle and John Warner jogging into the building. The cameraman was about to give it up as a bad job when he felt a tap on his shoulder. A small, nondescript van was pulling into the White House driveway and, significantly, it passed through security with hardly a moment’s delay. It wasn’t much but it was better than nothing.
White House Conference Room, White House, Washington DC
“You all got the warning about the television cameras then?” President Bush glanced around the assembled members of the Cabinet, reassured by the nods he received. “Right let us continue. Just what happened in that mall? And why did it happen?”
Secretary Michael Chertoff looked down at the brief he had been given. “The eyewitness accounts are pretty confused as one might expect. As far as we can make out, the baldrick just appeared within the mall and started killing people, at random. It carried on doing so until it was shot dead. And that’s pretty much all we do know.” The Homeland Defense Secretary looked up at the meeting. “It’s critical we don’t confuse what we think with what we know here. We can make all sorts of guesses but the amount of hard information we have is very limited. We can screw ourselves up if we start thinking our guesses are facts.”
There were a series of nods around the table. In some ways, it had been an unnecessary comment, not confusing facts with deductions from those facts was a caution that everybody knew. In another way, the warning was timely and vital for, although everybody knew the principle, they forgot it with dreadful regularity. People treating their opinions as facts was called the Rumsfeld Syndrome in this room.
“Another fact for the pile.” Secretary Warner spoke quietly as was his usual practice. “That baldrick took a lot of killing. It got hit 15 times with pistol fire, OK six of those were .32s but the rest were .45s. Also, eleven rifle-caliber hits. Only the last three hurt it.”
“Not quite, John.” Secretary Michael O. Leavitt consulted his brief. “My people tell me that the .30-06 hits would have killed the baldrick eventually but the .416s really hurried things along. This fits what we’re getting back from Iraq I believe?”
“It does Mike. Baldricks appear to die from bleeding out, they can take quite devastating hits but if they don’t cause massive blood loss, they can keep going for some time. Some of our snipers report that baldricks have kept going after taking .50 caliber bullets to the head. On the other hand, fragmentation damage rips them up and causes extensive bleeding that finishes them quickly.”
“Very interesting.” Bush was a little annoyed, this was all very well but it didn’t answer any of the key questions he needed to deal with. “But why did this happen, how likely is this attack to be repeated and what can we do to stop them? If this thing just appeared in the middle of a mall, it could appear anywhere – can’t it?”
In one corner, General Schatten coughed gently. “If I may be permitted Sir, we have brought along about the only expert we have on how and why baldricks think the way they do. If I may be permitted to bring her in?”
Bush nodded. General Schatten left for a moment, then returned with a companion whose appearance stunned the room into silence. It was about six feet tall and was wearing a cape-like red robe which did not hide the fact that it was naked. Its skin was the sort of shiny black normally associated with insects except around the head where it faded to a corpse-like white. Its hair was pinkish blonde with two red-tipped horns emerging from its lank folds. It the mouth large and vivid red, the eyes sunk deep in shadow, their yellow gaze darting around from one personto the next. On closer inspection, it was female.
“That’s a baldrick, are you insane bringing that thing in here?” Secretary Warner’s voice almost cracked with the shock.
“Ladies, gentlemen, this is Lugasharmanaska, a succubus who has defected to us. She has provided us with a significant amount of intelligence over the last few days. Secretary Chertoff, you stressed the need for facts, not opinions. Luga is the only person who can give us facts.”
“Take a seat, my dear.” For want of anymore appropriate attitude, President Bush dropped into his genial Texan host mode. Lugasharmanaska took a vacant seat, appreciating how those nearest to her shifted away. “You heard what happened yesterday afternoon in Chicago?”
“No.” Her yellow-slitted eyes darted around again, measuring up the people in the room with her.
“Show the film, please. Lugasharmanaska this is a film taken through our video surveillance system at the mall. It shows a baldr…. a demon …. Attacking the crowd.”
Luga watched the film without any real interest. “So?”
“So why this attack, why now?”
“Why not.” Lugasharmanaska shrugged a curiously human gesture. “This is nothing new. Just another berserker attacking. Odd your people fought back though, usually, they do not.”
“Wait a minute.” Secretary Rice jumped on the last phrase. “Usually, has this happened before.”
Lugasharmanaska was almost impatient. “Of course, it has. How many times have you had mass killings in your schools or parks? How many times has an isolated community been mysteriously wiped out? Always it was either us or Yahweh. Sometimes our berserkers would do it themselves, other times they would possess another human to do it.” She stirred slightly in excitement. “That was always very good because we would let the person see what they had done and know they would be punished for it. Their despair was a joy to us.”
“Yahweh did things like this?”
“Of course.” Impatience had become scorn. “Most were his, to keep you frightened and depending on him. Ours were just for sport.”
Bush glanced around the assembled cabinet, gathering in the expressions of horror and disgust on their faces. What must it be like working daily with a monster like this, listening to these horrors? “Always the attacks were on schools and malls?” The question was soft, he was controlling his voice very carefully.
“Of course. That is where fear and terror would be greatest.” Lugasharmanaska paused for a second. “You were very wise keeping your guns out of such places, it hid them from us.”
“But you can go anywhere, appear anywhere.”
“No.” Impatience returned. “We need Nephilim to home in on. In malls and such there are large concentrations of people so the homing signal is strongest there.”
“So you can only appear where there are concentrations of people.”
“That is what I said is it not?”
“So the timing of this attack has nothing to do with the fighting in Iraq?”
“What fighting?”
Bush glanced at General Schatten who shook his head. They’d told Lugasharmanaska nothing of the battles in the Iraqi desert. “Your army invaded us. We defeated it. Wiped it out at little cost to ourselves. What isn’t dead is running. And don’t think this will end there. We fight to win.”
“Defeated? Which Army?” Lugasharmanaska was stunned, she knew humans were unexpectedly powerful but to defeat an entire Army? Lead by who? She gathered herself, noting the renewed confidence in the humans. Her shock had cost her ground. “No, this attack has nothing to do with that. The duke who launched it may not even know the war has started yet. Hell is a big place and communications are very slow. By messenger mostly. Many parts may not have got the word yet.”
The interrogation went on, pushing Lugasharmanaska for added details of the berserker raids. In the background, one of James Randi’s JREF observers was filming the whole process.
DIMO(N) Conference Room, The Pentagon, Arlington, VA
“Notice something odd about this film Robert?”
“About a demon in the Conference room? Nothing at all odd. I’d guess in some previous administrations there were several. I’ve always wondered about Robert McNamara myself, he’s a good candidate for a fiend from hell.”
“Not bright enough. No, look at how this meeting starts. See how everybody is disgusted by Lugasharmanaska, repulsed by her. Combination of hatred, loathing, abomination, abhorrence, you name it, every negative emotion imaginable. Now, look at these scenes at the end of the meeting. What do you see?”
“Doesn’t look very different to me. The President is being charming but if looks could kill, Condi’s laser gaze would have fried poor Lugasharmanaska on the spot.”
“Right, and what is it we’ve noticed about people meeting Lugasharmanaska?”
“Everybody accepts her and gets sympathetic, warm, and fuzzy about her. Oh, I see what you mean. The Cabinet didn’t.”
“And they all had their caps on, so it isn’t mind control. Whatever it is that she does, it didn’t work there.”
“Must be environmental, must be. How does that conference room differ from ours?”
“It’s a lot bigger of course. And more expensively equipped. That’s all.”
“And its air is screened.” General Schatten cut in from one corner
“General?”
“The air is screened, its continually drawn out, filtered, and recycled. There’s quite an airflow but is through vents in the floor so people don’t notice it. You can throw a tear gas bomb in there and the air will be scrubbed clean before it hurts anybody.”
“The air gets scrubbed clean. All the time. James – pheromones sound likely to you?”
“Ummm.”
“Scents used by humans to modify behavior around them. For example, women who are ovulating use them to be particularly attractive to men, pheromones from pregnant women make people around them feel warm and fuzzy, it’s part of our non-verbal communication system.”
“I do not like thee Doctor Fell
Why this is I cannot tell
But I know this and know full well
I do not like thee Doctor Fell.”
“Exactly James, a lot of our subconscious likes and dislikes are determined by pheromones. We’re only just beginning to get into what they do and the field’s opening out. It may well be that our sense of smell is vastly more important than we ever gave it credit for. The conference room is big, that means Lugasharmanaska’s pheromones didn’t have time to build up the necessary concentration before they were swept out and scrubbed out.”
“Does that mean we must wear a gas mask before we speak with her?”
“Might not do any good, there’s some evidence that pheromones work by skin absorption as well. The upside is that pheromone effects are insidious but if people are aware of them, they can filter them out, recognize and discount them if you like. Another good thing about this…”
“What’s that Robert?”
“I doubt if Lugasharmanaska understands what it is that makes people agreeable around her. I bet she just takes it for granted that they will be. That means she must be a very confused succubus right now.”
“Did you see her face when the President told her about our victory in Iraq? She was shaken to her very roots. She’s shaken up in more ways than one.”
Office of the Secretary of Defense, The Pentagon, Washington DC
John Warner sighed and rubbed his eyes. The logic laid out by the charming but ice-cold Thai General was undeniable, especially with what they’d learned from that foul monster General Schatten had brought into the White House. Baldricks could teleport into any large group of people. So there had to be guards everywhere. That meant a militia, well, the Constitution provided for that, encouraged it even. And enough guns were floating around in America to arm it. His pen sketched doodles on a pad. Of course, the term militia was out, too many negative connotations these days. His eye rested on a picture of the American Civil War and the letters USV. United States Volunteers. That wasn’t right though, these people would be defending their homes. Local Defense Volunteers. That had a good ring to it and glossed over the fact that they were going to be drafted.
Every man and woman between the ages of 18 and 50 who weren’t already part of the armed forces, was what the new draft would bring in. To be armed and sent as patrols to sports stadiums, schools, malls, and anywhere people would be gathering. The average strength on any given day is 25 million. One more burden for a nation that was already working long hours with little rest. Yet, the benefits were already showing, new M270A2 rocket launchers, M2 Bradleys, and M1 tanks were starting to flow from the production line. Aircraft was the problem; production would take a long time to ramp up and bringing retired old aircraft back from the graveyard could only achieve so much.
His phone beeped. “Mister Secretary. A Ms. O’Leary to see you. She’s your eleven o’clock.”
Warmer sighed again. What did she want? “Miss O’Leary, how can I help you?”
“Secretary Warner, I understand you’ll be needing a lot of guns, needing them quickly and they must be powerful enough to take down a baldrick with a minimum number of shots.”
“That is so.” More than you can realize he thought.
“I own a small custom gun producing company. We make a derivative of the M1 Garand in.458 Winchester. Our production isn’t great, but we can expand a bit and we know other companies that can do the same. There are quite a few others, including Springfield who make the M1A, a semi-automatic version of the M14, who can retool to make .458 Winchester versions of that weapon. Between us, we can make a lot of these rifles. They’re accurate at a longer range than the .50 M16s you’re introducing, and they don’t use the same industry resources. We can use furniture makers for the wooden stocks etc, and the parts are milled, not stamped. There are lots of small engineering companies that are hurting right now, they aren’t into the high-tech stuff our modern weaponry requires. But for something at World War Two levels, they’re perfect. And they want in on the war effort.”
And in on the profits, Warner thought. But she was right, and this would help arm the Local Defense Volunteers. And it did make use of small industrial capacity. “An excellent idea Miss O’Leary. Let’s talk money on this.”
Re: 2008 - Armageddon
Chapter Twenty-Four
The Banks of the Styx, Fifth Ring, Hell
Chondrakerntolis rode his Beast carefully along the banks of the Styx. Something worried him about this area, not so very long before, his Beast had been alarmed by something along just this stretch of road. And then there was the mysterious death of Jarakeflaxis. They’d found his mangled body, studded with stab wounds, and crucified on one of the rocky outcrops. The letters PFLH had been scrawled over his head, in his own blood. Nobody could make sense of it or understand it. PFLH? No sense at all.
Somebody was up to no good that was certain. Crucifixion pointed to Yahweh and his people, but they rarely came down this way. He had heard that a delegation from Yahweh was on its way to visit Satan but who knew what for. Wise demons did not involve themselves in the affairs of those so high up for when giants fought, midgets got trampled. The most likely bet was that one of the Dukes was making a power-play, trying to expand his influence over the netherworld at the expense of Chondrakerntolis’s Duke. Now that would make sense.
Something weird had been happening recently. The number of souls that had been arriving in hell had suddenly accelerated, rising by orders of magnitude. They’d been dispatched to the various regions of hell of course but at every level, the numbers were being hidden so that their essence could be used by the lower-level demons instead of restricted to those of higher caste. Was that why Jarakeflaxis had been killed? Had one of the Dukes or Greater Demons found out that human life essence was being diverted and settled for that public punishment. But if it was an example, why was there no indication of what it was an example of?
That question so occupied Chondrakerntolis that he never noticed the thin wire stretched across the pathway. His Beast saw it but the threat it represented didn’t register. The Beasts were bred for their unthinking ferocity, caution was not a desired characteristic. As a result of their inattention, neither was quite aware of what happened next, nor of the skill with which it had been planned. The wires were attached to push-pull detonators fixed to four claymore mines, placed so that their victim was the center of an X defined by the cones of cubical metal shrapnel they generated. The wires also tripped a timer switch on four one-kilogram blocks of Semtex that had been buried under the path’s surface.
Chondrakerntolis tried to make his brain work, he was surrounded by flying mud and dust, his body shredded by wounds that sprayed his green blood around. His Beast was down, its front legs and one of its claws torn off, its body broken and bleeding. Even as he watched, the path surface erupted, shredding the already-dying Beast and throwing its parts around. The connection was inevitable, whatever the reason for the death of Jarakeflaxis, he was to be its next victim.
The mud and mist stirred, and three figures emerged. HUMANS! Chondrakerntolis cudgeled his dying brain into absorbing this data. Humans had done this? How? They were cattle, prey to be milked of their life essence, nothing more. They had killed him? How?
A human female knelt beside him, and he heard her voice. “Somebody told us you couldn’t be killed. Guess they were wrong huh?”
Chondrakerntolis tried to reply but couldn’t. As his vision faded out, one question tormented him. What happened to demons when they died?
Watch Tower, Banks of the Styx, Fifth Ring, Hell.
The thunder, strange and mysterious had echoed around the Fifth Ring. Naxalavorsetys looked over the rim of his tower, there wasn’t much to see, just the seething of the mud in which the humans spend eternity on the edge of drowning. Just to be sure, he fired off a flare, lighting the area around the tower a bit better. Still nothing. He shrugged; strange noises were not unknown in hell. It was nothing to worry about. His shift would be over soon, and he could go back to his normal life. The regular legions were all being called away and the jobs of the guards were being taken over by civilians such as him. This was something that he did not like at all.
The second blast was very definitely something to worry about. It was stunningly close, Naxalavorsetys felt the superheated air blast at his skin, felt the shock wave pummel him. More importantly, he felt his watch tower lurch as a major portion of the stonework on one side was blown away. His tower was collapsing and he realized what that meant even though he couldn’t comprehend how it had been done.
It wasn’t the fall that killed Naxalavorsetys, it was the wreckage of the watchtower landing on top of him that did the job.
A few minutes later the two three-human strike teams joined up and set off for the next target.
The Division Wall of the Sixth Ring, Hell
Kerflumpus always enjoyed stretching his legs, even if just to torture a few humans here and there. Now, he was marching out of the Sixth Ring into the Fifth he proudly threw out his chest and swung his arms. News had been all over about the crushing defeats inflicted on the insurgent humans, and his legion was mobilizing to move out and continue the pursuit of the shattered human nations, to spread out and batter their world into submission.
The prospect excited him. They said that the sky in the human world was different, that it was light and dark, instead of the dull orange-and-brown saturation. Well, now he would get to see it – and to experience crushing the humans and driving them before him, to taste their panic, blood, and flesh, as a member of the second army to pour from the portal into the humans' plane.
Kerflumpus was in the second platoon of his legion; ahead and to his left, the commander, a Greater Demon, was swaying with the gait of his Great Beast as it stepped off the Styx bridge. Its arched tail curled over his head, and he was sitting in the saddle with a bored look on his face when, with a sigh, his head exploded. Kerflumpus caught it out of the corner of his eye, and swung around with horror, as every other demon in the unit did.
Suddenly, something similar happened to the demon next to him: there was a whistling sound, and then they were both staring in horror at the fist-sized hole that had opened in his chest. Spattering green blood all over Kerflumpus, he staggered a few steps and fell over the parapet of the bridge into the slow-moving, murky Styx below. Across the bridge, it seemed that demons were falling at random every ten seconds or so, and the situation was proceeding nicely toward absolute pandemonium: the head of the legion was held up at the forward edge of the bridge by the dead commander, milling about with no idea what to do; the tail of the legion was crowding into the bridge with no idea what was going on. Meanwhile, the legion ahead of them was marching off along the road into the mists of the fifth ring, with no idea what was happening behind them.
There was some wizardry at work here, heretofore unknown in hell. In a sheer, undiluted panic, Kerflumpus charged his trident and loosed it off the bridge. He was watching the head-sized ball of magic zip across the river toward the far side when the air punched him, blanking out all sound as he was thrown up, spinning in midair. All around him, he saw other demons thrown up, some weakly flapping their vestigial wings; it was almost comical, and it was the last thing he saw before the masonry fragments and shrapnel shredded him.
Across the river, Lieutenant Kim whistled as the bridge blew. It was more spectacular than she'd expected; the initial flash of detonation was impossibly fast, and the blast wave ripped apart the bridge as though it were made of sand, sending Baldricks flying. She nodded back at McInery and Terrant. “Good work placing the Semtex, Mac, and Bubbles.” The two were grinning ear-to-ear.
Behind them, two of the other three members of Tango-one-five were setting down the M107s. “Good shooting to you guys, too,” said Kim. It hadn't taken much; the Baldricks had been tightly packed on the bridge, and all they'd had to do is fire into the crowd. The .50 caliber Mk213 bullets had done a fabulous job. As usual.
After surveying the scene for a few minutes and letting the two pilots – both avid big-game hunters before their units were called to Iraq – pick off a couple of more bad guys and the commander of the next brigade-sized unit, Kim hoisted a satchel of webbing onto her shoulder. It had about two dozen more bricks of Semtex, the detonators, and several boxes of ammunition. “Okay, boys. We're done here. Let's head out and get the next ambush set up.”
Adjusting her webbing straps so they didn't chafe her through the mud caking her body, Kim led Tango-one-five back down the Styx toward their supply cache and the rope bridge they'd strung across the river. Once on the other side, they would set about making the Dis-Dysprosium Road a hell within hell, one that Baldricks would fear more than they feared Satan himself. Kim already had a name for it. La Route Sans Joie.
Palace of Satan, Infernal City of Dis, Sixth Ring of Hell
The banners of kingdoms long conquered swirled in the red mist as the Akropoulopos approached the diamond throne of Satan. He had always known being a messenger was a bad idea, and now he knew that his life was a couple of minutes from ending. “Oh, mighty prince,” he began, “overlord of the innumerable legions of –”
“Get on with it,” snapped Satan irritably, clicking his claws against the hewn gem. “What news have you brought me of Abigor's brilliant success?”
“Sire, the messengers from Abigor are silent. I bring news, not of Abigor, but terrible happenings much closer to your throne.”
“Well, what is it? Hurry up; my time is not your kidling's plaything.”
The messenger swallowed and groveled. “My lord – I do not know how to say this. The bridge leading to the road to Dysprosium has been destroyed.”
Satan stopped clicking his fingers. “What?” His voice was quiet, which was even more terrifying than the hysterical fits. “Repeat yourself.”
Akropoulos was shivering uncontrollably. “Your invincible eminence, the bridge across the Styx has been destroyed. The legionaries who were there report that it burst into many pieces with the roar of ten thousand demons. Flying stones killed many, and –”
“What,” asked Satan, cutting him off with a word, “do my advisors think to be the cause of this ... outrage?” Still silkily smooth and quiet.
The court was silent, save for the shuffling of feet as some of the more perspicacious demons positioned themselves so that the inevitable rage would not claim their lives.
“Speak!” roared Satan. “I COMMAND you all, SPEAK!!”
One demon timidly cleared his throat. “Um, Sire, none of us can think of any explanation, save ....” He trailed off, but not in time to save himself.
“Save what?” screamed Satan, balling his hand into a fist, and pounding it on his throne.
“Save ... uh ... save, perhaps, most improbably, a bit of stray human magic?”
Satan's glare squashed him into an unimaginably horrible pulp. “You will all find us the cause of this outrage! You will ensure that it does not happen again! This is our domain; our immortal, invincible will decrees that no human mage shall ever work his magic in this infernal pit!”
As the court demons hastened to obey, scrambling around the wide hall, Akropoulos took the opportunity to scuttle unnoticed away. As he hurriedly left the palace, he promised himself to try again to join the legions; messengering was too hazardous a job.
Fifth Ring, Hell
The road, large flat paving stones laid atop a low causeway of dirt, wound through the foggy swamps. The half-muted groans of the eternally drowning souls crucified in the mud echoed dimly through the stinking air. McInery surveyed it with a grim smile. “You think we can blow the causeway, ell-tee?”
Kim shrugged. “Why the hell not try, Mac? Bubbles, you got the Semtex?”
“Aye, ell-tee, right here.”
“Let’s lay it.” Kim directed the other members of Tango-one-five recon flight to lay eight Semtex bricks on each side of the road, spaced several hundred feet apart. The bricks were pushed down into the soft earth, no more noticeable than large rocks.
As Tarrant finished pushing the electronic detonators into the last brick, McInery hurried up to where Kim and the rest of Tango flight were standing. “Ell-tee, we have contacts coming from that direction.” He waved behind him.
“How many, Mac?”
“Didn’t count; just saw the torches and heard the voices.” In the distance, dim chanting floated through the mist toward them.
“Everyone, off the road!” she hissed. She grabbed the last bag, slung it over her shoulder, and waded into the bog after the others. They made toward a low granite outcropping just within view of the road. As they hurried behind it, stumbling past several submarine crucifixes, the chanting grew louder.
“Pie Iesu domine, dona eis requiem.” The tramping of the feet, all in step, grew, and the first torchbearers appeared through the mist. Kim suppressed a gasp; they were not Baldricks. These were honest-to-God Cherubs, dressed in pure white that seemed to glow like pearl through the thin fog, and they were chanting something – was it Latin? Whatever it was, Kim had enough of a musical ear to note that the singing was perfect, the pitch exactly correct, the timing exquisite. She couldn’t have emulated it herself, when trying to sing, she hit all the right notes, she just hit them in the wrong order.
Amid the Cherubs – all chanting, all bearing torches, and all wearing swords at their sides – were greater humanoids head and shoulders taller than the others, with flawless skin and, damningly, white wings folded across their backs. “Mac, how many you count?” whispered Kim.
“I got seven angels, ell-tee, and seventy-seven cherubs.”
“We’re at war with heaven and hell both, right, guys?”
There was a mutter of affirmation from beside her, and a brisk, quiet, “Let’s take them!” from one of the big game hunters, who had been a devout Catholic up until The Message. Kim nodded and thumbed the detonator.
The concussion knocked the breath out of her, even at this distance. The blast tore the heavenly emissaries apart, spattering white and red blood and body parts along with the dirt, mud, and chunks of rock. After, where there had once been a road, there was a giant gaping hole filling with vile, gurgling swamp water. The group of angels and cherubs was scattered in many pieces through the surrounding swamp.
When she got her breath back, Kim was last in line as Tango flight trooped away from the carnage as fast as they could, quietly jubilant. Then a stray thought crossed her mind. “Boys, we’re going to need more Semtex.”
The Banks of the Styx, Fifth Ring, Hell
Rahab looked at the dead Beast and its rider in horror. The Beasts and the demons who rode them were invulnerable, everybody knew that. Those few who had tried to kill them had died deaths that were terrible even by the standards of hell. Yet those new arrivals had killed this pair. She knew who had done it, nobody else would have the gall to even try. And if that wasn’t enough, the letters PFLH written on the Beast’s side in its blood were enough.
Were they insane? Rahab’s stomach clenched with fear at what was likely to happen. Once these deaths became known, there would be revenge and reprisals. The demons would come down here by the legion, searching every inch of ground for those who had done the deed. In the process, they would find all those who had escaped from the pits over the millennia and, at best, return them to torment. Thousands of souls are doomed to return to their agony because these six decided to upset the natural order of things. When she had left them in the underground room, Rahab had been sorely tempted to ‘arrange’ for them to be found by the guards and returned to the pits. She had dismissed the idea, believing that their comments and stories had been just wild boasting. Now, she guessed they were not, and she bitterly wished she had betrayed them. Condemning six souls was better than dooming the tens of thousands of escapees.
She’d been searching for them for days, trying to catch up with them and bring them into a shelter. Now she had found this. She agonized over the decision, what to do? At that point, another fact penetrated her bewildered mind. She had seen no flares from the watchtower that lay close at hand. Fearfully she made her way to where it had stood, only to be appalled by the sight that loomed through the mist. The watch tower was a blasted stump, its wreckage spread all over the paths, some of it sinking into the mud. And on the stump were the letters PFLH. Written in the blood of the watch-demon.
What else had these mad humans got in mind? And what to do about them? In Rahab’s mind was another question as well. Was it time to join them? And did she have any choice in the matter?
The Banks of the Styx, Fifth Ring, Hell
Chondrakerntolis rode his Beast carefully along the banks of the Styx. Something worried him about this area, not so very long before, his Beast had been alarmed by something along just this stretch of road. And then there was the mysterious death of Jarakeflaxis. They’d found his mangled body, studded with stab wounds, and crucified on one of the rocky outcrops. The letters PFLH had been scrawled over his head, in his own blood. Nobody could make sense of it or understand it. PFLH? No sense at all.
Somebody was up to no good that was certain. Crucifixion pointed to Yahweh and his people, but they rarely came down this way. He had heard that a delegation from Yahweh was on its way to visit Satan but who knew what for. Wise demons did not involve themselves in the affairs of those so high up for when giants fought, midgets got trampled. The most likely bet was that one of the Dukes was making a power-play, trying to expand his influence over the netherworld at the expense of Chondrakerntolis’s Duke. Now that would make sense.
Something weird had been happening recently. The number of souls that had been arriving in hell had suddenly accelerated, rising by orders of magnitude. They’d been dispatched to the various regions of hell of course but at every level, the numbers were being hidden so that their essence could be used by the lower-level demons instead of restricted to those of higher caste. Was that why Jarakeflaxis had been killed? Had one of the Dukes or Greater Demons found out that human life essence was being diverted and settled for that public punishment. But if it was an example, why was there no indication of what it was an example of?
That question so occupied Chondrakerntolis that he never noticed the thin wire stretched across the pathway. His Beast saw it but the threat it represented didn’t register. The Beasts were bred for their unthinking ferocity, caution was not a desired characteristic. As a result of their inattention, neither was quite aware of what happened next, nor of the skill with which it had been planned. The wires were attached to push-pull detonators fixed to four claymore mines, placed so that their victim was the center of an X defined by the cones of cubical metal shrapnel they generated. The wires also tripped a timer switch on four one-kilogram blocks of Semtex that had been buried under the path’s surface.
Chondrakerntolis tried to make his brain work, he was surrounded by flying mud and dust, his body shredded by wounds that sprayed his green blood around. His Beast was down, its front legs and one of its claws torn off, its body broken and bleeding. Even as he watched, the path surface erupted, shredding the already-dying Beast and throwing its parts around. The connection was inevitable, whatever the reason for the death of Jarakeflaxis, he was to be its next victim.
The mud and mist stirred, and three figures emerged. HUMANS! Chondrakerntolis cudgeled his dying brain into absorbing this data. Humans had done this? How? They were cattle, prey to be milked of their life essence, nothing more. They had killed him? How?
A human female knelt beside him, and he heard her voice. “Somebody told us you couldn’t be killed. Guess they were wrong huh?”
Chondrakerntolis tried to reply but couldn’t. As his vision faded out, one question tormented him. What happened to demons when they died?
Watch Tower, Banks of the Styx, Fifth Ring, Hell.
The thunder, strange and mysterious had echoed around the Fifth Ring. Naxalavorsetys looked over the rim of his tower, there wasn’t much to see, just the seething of the mud in which the humans spend eternity on the edge of drowning. Just to be sure, he fired off a flare, lighting the area around the tower a bit better. Still nothing. He shrugged; strange noises were not unknown in hell. It was nothing to worry about. His shift would be over soon, and he could go back to his normal life. The regular legions were all being called away and the jobs of the guards were being taken over by civilians such as him. This was something that he did not like at all.
The second blast was very definitely something to worry about. It was stunningly close, Naxalavorsetys felt the superheated air blast at his skin, felt the shock wave pummel him. More importantly, he felt his watch tower lurch as a major portion of the stonework on one side was blown away. His tower was collapsing and he realized what that meant even though he couldn’t comprehend how it had been done.
It wasn’t the fall that killed Naxalavorsetys, it was the wreckage of the watchtower landing on top of him that did the job.
A few minutes later the two three-human strike teams joined up and set off for the next target.
The Division Wall of the Sixth Ring, Hell
Kerflumpus always enjoyed stretching his legs, even if just to torture a few humans here and there. Now, he was marching out of the Sixth Ring into the Fifth he proudly threw out his chest and swung his arms. News had been all over about the crushing defeats inflicted on the insurgent humans, and his legion was mobilizing to move out and continue the pursuit of the shattered human nations, to spread out and batter their world into submission.
The prospect excited him. They said that the sky in the human world was different, that it was light and dark, instead of the dull orange-and-brown saturation. Well, now he would get to see it – and to experience crushing the humans and driving them before him, to taste their panic, blood, and flesh, as a member of the second army to pour from the portal into the humans' plane.
Kerflumpus was in the second platoon of his legion; ahead and to his left, the commander, a Greater Demon, was swaying with the gait of his Great Beast as it stepped off the Styx bridge. Its arched tail curled over his head, and he was sitting in the saddle with a bored look on his face when, with a sigh, his head exploded. Kerflumpus caught it out of the corner of his eye, and swung around with horror, as every other demon in the unit did.
Suddenly, something similar happened to the demon next to him: there was a whistling sound, and then they were both staring in horror at the fist-sized hole that had opened in his chest. Spattering green blood all over Kerflumpus, he staggered a few steps and fell over the parapet of the bridge into the slow-moving, murky Styx below. Across the bridge, it seemed that demons were falling at random every ten seconds or so, and the situation was proceeding nicely toward absolute pandemonium: the head of the legion was held up at the forward edge of the bridge by the dead commander, milling about with no idea what to do; the tail of the legion was crowding into the bridge with no idea what was going on. Meanwhile, the legion ahead of them was marching off along the road into the mists of the fifth ring, with no idea what was happening behind them.
There was some wizardry at work here, heretofore unknown in hell. In a sheer, undiluted panic, Kerflumpus charged his trident and loosed it off the bridge. He was watching the head-sized ball of magic zip across the river toward the far side when the air punched him, blanking out all sound as he was thrown up, spinning in midair. All around him, he saw other demons thrown up, some weakly flapping their vestigial wings; it was almost comical, and it was the last thing he saw before the masonry fragments and shrapnel shredded him.
Across the river, Lieutenant Kim whistled as the bridge blew. It was more spectacular than she'd expected; the initial flash of detonation was impossibly fast, and the blast wave ripped apart the bridge as though it were made of sand, sending Baldricks flying. She nodded back at McInery and Terrant. “Good work placing the Semtex, Mac, and Bubbles.” The two were grinning ear-to-ear.
Behind them, two of the other three members of Tango-one-five were setting down the M107s. “Good shooting to you guys, too,” said Kim. It hadn't taken much; the Baldricks had been tightly packed on the bridge, and all they'd had to do is fire into the crowd. The .50 caliber Mk213 bullets had done a fabulous job. As usual.
After surveying the scene for a few minutes and letting the two pilots – both avid big-game hunters before their units were called to Iraq – pick off a couple of more bad guys and the commander of the next brigade-sized unit, Kim hoisted a satchel of webbing onto her shoulder. It had about two dozen more bricks of Semtex, the detonators, and several boxes of ammunition. “Okay, boys. We're done here. Let's head out and get the next ambush set up.”
Adjusting her webbing straps so they didn't chafe her through the mud caking her body, Kim led Tango-one-five back down the Styx toward their supply cache and the rope bridge they'd strung across the river. Once on the other side, they would set about making the Dis-Dysprosium Road a hell within hell, one that Baldricks would fear more than they feared Satan himself. Kim already had a name for it. La Route Sans Joie.
Palace of Satan, Infernal City of Dis, Sixth Ring of Hell
The banners of kingdoms long conquered swirled in the red mist as the Akropoulopos approached the diamond throne of Satan. He had always known being a messenger was a bad idea, and now he knew that his life was a couple of minutes from ending. “Oh, mighty prince,” he began, “overlord of the innumerable legions of –”
“Get on with it,” snapped Satan irritably, clicking his claws against the hewn gem. “What news have you brought me of Abigor's brilliant success?”
“Sire, the messengers from Abigor are silent. I bring news, not of Abigor, but terrible happenings much closer to your throne.”
“Well, what is it? Hurry up; my time is not your kidling's plaything.”
The messenger swallowed and groveled. “My lord – I do not know how to say this. The bridge leading to the road to Dysprosium has been destroyed.”
Satan stopped clicking his fingers. “What?” His voice was quiet, which was even more terrifying than the hysterical fits. “Repeat yourself.”
Akropoulos was shivering uncontrollably. “Your invincible eminence, the bridge across the Styx has been destroyed. The legionaries who were there report that it burst into many pieces with the roar of ten thousand demons. Flying stones killed many, and –”
“What,” asked Satan, cutting him off with a word, “do my advisors think to be the cause of this ... outrage?” Still silkily smooth and quiet.
The court was silent, save for the shuffling of feet as some of the more perspicacious demons positioned themselves so that the inevitable rage would not claim their lives.
“Speak!” roared Satan. “I COMMAND you all, SPEAK!!”
One demon timidly cleared his throat. “Um, Sire, none of us can think of any explanation, save ....” He trailed off, but not in time to save himself.
“Save what?” screamed Satan, balling his hand into a fist, and pounding it on his throne.
“Save ... uh ... save, perhaps, most improbably, a bit of stray human magic?”
Satan's glare squashed him into an unimaginably horrible pulp. “You will all find us the cause of this outrage! You will ensure that it does not happen again! This is our domain; our immortal, invincible will decrees that no human mage shall ever work his magic in this infernal pit!”
As the court demons hastened to obey, scrambling around the wide hall, Akropoulos took the opportunity to scuttle unnoticed away. As he hurriedly left the palace, he promised himself to try again to join the legions; messengering was too hazardous a job.
Fifth Ring, Hell
The road, large flat paving stones laid atop a low causeway of dirt, wound through the foggy swamps. The half-muted groans of the eternally drowning souls crucified in the mud echoed dimly through the stinking air. McInery surveyed it with a grim smile. “You think we can blow the causeway, ell-tee?”
Kim shrugged. “Why the hell not try, Mac? Bubbles, you got the Semtex?”
“Aye, ell-tee, right here.”
“Let’s lay it.” Kim directed the other members of Tango-one-five recon flight to lay eight Semtex bricks on each side of the road, spaced several hundred feet apart. The bricks were pushed down into the soft earth, no more noticeable than large rocks.
As Tarrant finished pushing the electronic detonators into the last brick, McInery hurried up to where Kim and the rest of Tango flight were standing. “Ell-tee, we have contacts coming from that direction.” He waved behind him.
“How many, Mac?”
“Didn’t count; just saw the torches and heard the voices.” In the distance, dim chanting floated through the mist toward them.
“Everyone, off the road!” she hissed. She grabbed the last bag, slung it over her shoulder, and waded into the bog after the others. They made toward a low granite outcropping just within view of the road. As they hurried behind it, stumbling past several submarine crucifixes, the chanting grew louder.
“Pie Iesu domine, dona eis requiem.” The tramping of the feet, all in step, grew, and the first torchbearers appeared through the mist. Kim suppressed a gasp; they were not Baldricks. These were honest-to-God Cherubs, dressed in pure white that seemed to glow like pearl through the thin fog, and they were chanting something – was it Latin? Whatever it was, Kim had enough of a musical ear to note that the singing was perfect, the pitch exactly correct, the timing exquisite. She couldn’t have emulated it herself, when trying to sing, she hit all the right notes, she just hit them in the wrong order.
Amid the Cherubs – all chanting, all bearing torches, and all wearing swords at their sides – were greater humanoids head and shoulders taller than the others, with flawless skin and, damningly, white wings folded across their backs. “Mac, how many you count?” whispered Kim.
“I got seven angels, ell-tee, and seventy-seven cherubs.”
“We’re at war with heaven and hell both, right, guys?”
There was a mutter of affirmation from beside her, and a brisk, quiet, “Let’s take them!” from one of the big game hunters, who had been a devout Catholic up until The Message. Kim nodded and thumbed the detonator.
The concussion knocked the breath out of her, even at this distance. The blast tore the heavenly emissaries apart, spattering white and red blood and body parts along with the dirt, mud, and chunks of rock. After, where there had once been a road, there was a giant gaping hole filling with vile, gurgling swamp water. The group of angels and cherubs was scattered in many pieces through the surrounding swamp.
When she got her breath back, Kim was last in line as Tango flight trooped away from the carnage as fast as they could, quietly jubilant. Then a stray thought crossed her mind. “Boys, we’re going to need more Semtex.”
The Banks of the Styx, Fifth Ring, Hell
Rahab looked at the dead Beast and its rider in horror. The Beasts and the demons who rode them were invulnerable, everybody knew that. Those few who had tried to kill them had died deaths that were terrible even by the standards of hell. Yet those new arrivals had killed this pair. She knew who had done it, nobody else would have the gall to even try. And if that wasn’t enough, the letters PFLH written on the Beast’s side in its blood were enough.
Were they insane? Rahab’s stomach clenched with fear at what was likely to happen. Once these deaths became known, there would be revenge and reprisals. The demons would come down here by the legion, searching every inch of ground for those who had done the deed. In the process, they would find all those who had escaped from the pits over the millennia and, at best, return them to torment. Thousands of souls are doomed to return to their agony because these six decided to upset the natural order of things. When she had left them in the underground room, Rahab had been sorely tempted to ‘arrange’ for them to be found by the guards and returned to the pits. She had dismissed the idea, believing that their comments and stories had been just wild boasting. Now, she guessed they were not, and she bitterly wished she had betrayed them. Condemning six souls was better than dooming the tens of thousands of escapees.
She’d been searching for them for days, trying to catch up with them and bring them into a shelter. Now she had found this. She agonized over the decision, what to do? At that point, another fact penetrated her bewildered mind. She had seen no flares from the watchtower that lay close at hand. Fearfully she made her way to where it had stood, only to be appalled by the sight that loomed through the mist. The watch tower was a blasted stump, its wreckage spread all over the paths, some of it sinking into the mud. And on the stump were the letters PFLH. Written in the blood of the watch-demon.
What else had these mad humans got in mind? And what to do about them? In Rahab’s mind was another question as well. Was it time to join them? And did she have any choice in the matter?
Re: 2008 - Armageddon
Chapter Twenty-Five
Somewhere in The Desert, Western Iraq, late afternoon
The sand collapsed underneath his clawed feet, sending him tumbling downwards into a ravine he had never seen. Memnon had been staggering through the desert, at first with purpose, trying to make his way back to the Hellmouth and deliver his message but all plan or intent had long since been burned out of his brain. The sun had seared him, brutally, without mercy, sending his body temperature soaring and fogging his brain with mists that owed as much to hallucination as the shimmering heat haze. The bitter cold of the nights had been worse, if anything, than the roasting heat of the sun. There were parts of hell where the souls of humans were roasted in coffins or blasted around on super-heated winds. Now Memnon knew the sufferings they endured
He’d also had a plan, to keep going until his wings regenerated and he could fly the rest of the way. That plan too had died, his wings were regenerating although slowly. They were growing back twisted, malformed, useless. Memnon guessed that the fragments of iron that he could feel in his back, the legacy of the fire-lance that had torn his original pair off, were interfering with the growth patterns and leaving him with these poor apologies for wings. Whatever the reason, he knew that he would never fly again. Never soar through the comforting skies of hell, looking down on the great city of Dis that surrounded the pit where human souls were forever condemned to suffer.
Nor were his mutated wings the only parts of his body causing him grief. His stomach was an empty pit, chewing at the very center of his being. His last meal of human flesh was long forgotten in his screaming need for raw meat, yet in this endless expanse of sand, there was no sign of food. Nor was their water and his throat was closed tight, swollen with the thirst that was adding its measure of suffering to the madness that was slowly but surely taking him over.
He rolled down the sandbank, seeing the sky rotate above him, the hated yellow sun glaring down as it laughed at his suffering. His body stopped its role, impacting on a strange irregular mass that yielded on his impact. Memnon looked harder at where he had ended up, it was a gully through the sand, perhaps one carved by flood water and not yet erased by the wind. It was not the sand that had stopped his roll though, it was the bodies of dead demons, perhaps half a dozen of them, piled in the bottom of the crevice. Had they crawled here for shelter and died?
Memnon pushed at the bodies, feeling one firmer than the rest. That is what kicked his mind into action, here was meat. He ripped off a large chunk from the firmest corpse, the others were already far advanced in decay and sank his teeth into it. His throat was too swollen to swallow at first but a thin stream of fresh blood from the meat eased it enough. Then, the implication of that thought struck Memnon at the same time as there was a faint, racking groan from the body he was eating. The demon was still alive. It took only a second for Memnonto fix that, his claws lashed across its throat, killing it. It was, probably, a merciful act.
Memnon filled his stomach with fresh meat and the blood eased his thirst a little. It was then he heard a strange sound, a thumping from the sky that reminded him of clawed feet marching down the road from Dysprosium. There was a great bridge on that road, one over the River Styx, where a demon could stand and drink in the sufferings of the humans below. He would like to stand on that bridge again.
The thumping grew worse and to Memnon’s horror, a human sky-chariot flew over a hill, obviously searching the ground. It was not one of the sleek ones, the ones that had mutilated and maimed him, it was an uglier, more ungainly monster that had a strange rotating structure over its head. As if its wings spun around instead of flapping. The sky-chariot slowed down abruptly, and its nose started to swing backward and forwards, searching the ground ahead of it. Memnon knew what it had spotted, the pile of bodies in the ravine and it was checking to see if they were dead. He paused, then froze. Perhaps if he played dead, it would go away. The shame of that thought made him want to weep but he remained motionless anyway.
There were a series of explosions, very fast, and streaks of fire from under the sky chariot’s nose. They ended in the ravine and walked along with it in a series of small blasts. Memnon willed himself to remain still, if he got up and ran, the sky-chariot would kill him for certain. If he stayed still and silent, he might survive, and he did have the message to deliver. The blasts stopped well short of him; it had only been a very short burst. Memnon realized that it had been intended to scare any living creature in the mound into moving so that it could be killed. He congratulated himself on defeating the cunning plan, and again when the sky-chariot turned and flew away.
Soon the desert was silent again and Memnon could start moving. He left his ravine, it took much longer to climb up the sandy banks than it had taken to descend, and started again, heading west towards the setting sun. He didn’t even have a clear idea of where he was anymore, only that the portal home was somewhere to the west. He wanted home so badly he could taste it, anything to get away from this hideous planet and the humans with their deadly chariots.
Sometime later, he had no idea whether it was minutes, hours, or days for his whole world now concentrated on the effort needed to pick his feet up and lay them down again, to keep up his slow journey west, he saw a strip of black. A human thing that they laid across the desert so that their chariots could move faster. Memnon’s heart stirred for on it were familiar figures, infantry demons. Also heading west. From a rocky outcrop on top of a hill overlooking the blackstrip, he summoned up his energy and focused his far-seeing vision on them.
The sight of a defeated army was a pitiful one, it always was, always would be. Memnon had seen a defeated army before, in the skirmishes that constantly went on in Hell as the Great Dukes jockeyed for a position there were defeated armies often enough. This was something else, something that went so far beyond pitiful that Memnon had no words to describe it. The infantry had thrown their tridents away and was staggering as they walked west. Some supported others, helping them along and that amazed Memnon for in Hellish armies the demons lived or died by their strength. Even as he watched, he saw one fall to its knees and try to collapse in exhaustion but the two nearest helped it to its feet and half-carried it onwards. He had never seen anything like that before. Nor had he heard anything like it, a moaning, half-wailing sound of demons in dire distress.
Then he heard the same dull thudding noise only this time he knew what it was. The Sky-Chariot was coming back. He looked and saw it, black against the sky and with three more of its kind in the company. They were heading in fast, obviously knowing precisely where to go and, as Memnon saw, what to do. Two fire-lances erupted from each of them, swinging out towards the column of misery he had been watching. The fire-lances streaked in, too fast to see properly and terminated in explosions, all eight equally spaced along the column on the blackstrip. He could hear the explosions from where he lay and heard the screams they caused.
The Sky-Chariots didn’t leave it there, they were closing on the column and Memnon saw them rake it with the same weapon he had experienced earlier, the same rapid series of explosions the same red streaks ending in smaller bursts on the ground. Only these were in the mass of living demons, and he saw them flayed by the bursts, chopped down. Two of the sky-chariots flew parallel with the column, peppering it with the explosions, tearing at it. Some demons tried to escape by running sideways, but the sky-chariots followed them and chased them down. Each attempted escape ended the same way, the demon vanishing in the dust of the blasts, to be seen torn and dead when it cleared. It didn’t take long for Memnonto understand that the sky-chariots were playing a game, competing between themselves to see who could kill the largest number of escapees.
What sort of people were these humans? Memnon was bewildered by what he was seeing, the army was defeated. Anybody could see that. What was to be gained by this slaughter? In Hell, battles were fought until one side had lost and then stopped. Sometimes a battle would never start, one commander would see he was outmatched and stood no chance of winning so he would concede the issue. He had never seen this before, this relentless pursuit and destruction of a beaten enemy. The sight made him shift with rage, boiling anger at human cowardice seething within him. Even destroying the retreating foe, they stood off and killed from a distance, they never closed and fought their enemy honorably. He controlled himself, he had no desire to be a target of the sky chariot’s games.
Finally, when all on the blackstrip was still, the four sky chariots made a final pass over the scene of carnage and left. Memnon was about to leave his cover in the rocks that topped his hill when he saw dust on the horizon. He shrank back into his rocky shelter and watched. The cloud materialized, and Memnon saw something that chilled his heart still further. A long column of Iron Chariots, some big, some smaller, with a sky-chariot flying on each side. He watched, appalled as they drove over the demon corpses stretched out on the blackstrip, grinding them into green and yellow smears on the black surface. Then, once clear of the remnants of the column Memnon had watched, they peeled off the blackstrip and spread out in a circle the long tubes pointing outwards.
He was fascinated by the sight. As far as he knew, nobody had ever watched the humans in their iron chariots when they weren’t killing. He saw humans climb out of the iron chariots, oddly the smaller ones seemed to have more humans than the big ones. They walked around, he could see them unloading things from the chariot and passing them around. Then more chariots arrived, great ones that dwarfed even the bigger iron chariot. Some had tents on the back, others great cylinders.
The tented ones started to unload boxes, the humans breaking them open and passing the contents to each other. Strange things pointed cylinders that gleamed in the sun. They put the cylinders inside the iron chariots and seemed to be happy at the labor. Others were passing around other things from the boxes. But it was the great cylinders that confused Memnon. The chariots carrying them pulled alongside the iron chariots and somehow the humans connected the two with a long snake. Were the two chariots mating? Memnon shook his head in disbelief and continued to watch what happened beneath.
Alpha-One-One, Somewhere in The Desert, Western Iraq, before dusk
“That’s it Hooters, we’re out of gas. Or as near to it as makes no difference. Got a little in case we must maneuver but we go no further.” “We don’t have to Biker. This is where we’re supposed to wait for the supply trucks. We clear of the stink?”
That was a lesson the tankers had learned early. Dead baldricks rotted fast in the sun and the smell was dreadful. It was so bad back where the baldrick army had been broken under the hammer of artillery fire and the anvil of armor that there was a serious question of whether people would be able to live there again. The smell seemed to seep into the soil.
“We’re fine Hooters.” Baldy had stuck his head out and sniffed. “The fly-boys in the Apaches did a good job on this lot.”
“Okay. Take five guys. Crab, Baldy, stay on overwatch while Biker and I stretch our legs.” She picked up the M4 carbine from its clips and heaved herself out of her commander’s hatch. It took a moment’s effort to scramble down the outside of her tank and then the sand felt good and solid under her feet.
“This sounds crazy Ell-tee, but you know, I’m kinda getting to like the desert. It seems to grow on us dunnit?”
“It does Jim, it truly does. There’s a grandeur here, something elemental somehow.” They’d both noticed the crews of the other Abrams tanks and Bradley infantry combat vehicles also dismounting to stretch their legs and dropped the nicknames. “You ever seen a desert before?”
“Nope. I’m from Vermont. Just a rubber who spent the week in the city and the weekend in the hills. Then my Guard unit got called up and here I am.”
“Rubber?” Stevenson looked curiously at her driver. He didn’t look like a contraceptive.
“Rich Urban Biker. Where you come from El-tee?”
“New Jersey. Bayonne to be precise. Joined the Guard to work my way through college and found myself here in the sandpit instead. Then the Message came, your old Ell-tee laid down and died and I was the only spare officer available.”
“Can’t say I’m surprised, he always was a sanctimonious old bastard. When we’re at camp and he visited a local knocking shop, he’d get on his knees and pray for forgiveness first. Cracked the girls up it did.”
Stevenson whooped with laughter and shook her head. “Doesn’t it always go to show? Them that talk the talk don’t walk the walk. Right Jim, we better give the others a chance to stretch.
She’d timed it just right. By the time her crew had got their break, the big Oshkosh ships of the desert had arrived and were driving into the laager. Critically, all the fuel trucks were there, their load of fuel was desperately needed. She watched carefully as the hoses were unreeled and the fuel trucks started gassing up the Abrams and Bradleys. Other trucks were unloading boxes of ammunition.
“Hey, Ell-tee. You need reloads?”
“Sure do.” She looked at the barrel of her tank. They’d stopped using a single ring for each baldrick kill, now they had a one-inch band for 10 and a quarter-inch band for singles. Plus, their single white band as well.
“Right, can give you ten Sabot, twenty HEAT, the rest canister.”
“I’d like more canister if you’ve got it. Not much use for sabot.”
“Sorry Ell-tee, we’re running low. We’re sharing out the HEAT and canister and making the numbers up with sabot. The brass tells us they’re flying 120 in direct from home and more’s coming from Europe but we’re still running low here where it counts.”
“Hokay.” Slightly resigned but there it was. Nobody said the war had to be easy. Stevenson and her crew started breaking open the crates and bombing up their tank.
They were interrupted by the sound of a Blackhawk landing.
“Captain Stevenson?”
She turned around, slightly irritated. She assumed the mistaken rank was a comment on her dress, she was wearing a tank top and had left the top of her BDUs in the tank. The desert may be grand, but it was still hot.
“It’s Lieutenant, Err Sorry Sir, I’ll get my blouse right now.” She did a double-take. Colonel Sean MacFarland was standing in front of her.
“Well, when you do, you get to pin these on it.” He handed her a small box, containing double silver bars. Congratulations. You’ve done a fine job out here.”
“Sir, thank you, Sir.” Stevenson looked at the bars in her hand.
“You’ll take over this combat group. You done good Stevenson, especially for somebody thrown in the deep end the way you were. The whole group will be staying here tonight, the way the pocket is shrinking around what’s left of the baldricks, there’s too much danger of friendly fire if we don’t take things carefully.”
“Big jump up Sir.” Stevenson was nervous, what amounted to a company command was a challenge, to put it mildly.
“Same for everybody Stevenson. Army’s growing fast, we’re taking cadre out of units to help train new outfits as fast as we can. You stay alive, you’ll have a battalion in a few months. Well done, Captain.”
MacFarland wandered off, apparently at random but to those under him, it always seemed that he would turn up at exactly the time needed to spot a problem developing. Around the laagered combat team, the dusk started to settle, and the flashes of artillery fire grew more distinct.
Somewhere in The Desert, Western Iraq, night
Abigor huddled in the rocks, looking out across the desert. If his instincts were right, the Hellmouth was very close. The last few days had been a horror, the human sky-chariots had hounded his force as it had disintegrated. They’d never let up, their curious rotating wings beating the air, the thumping of their weapons always so deadly. His Army had started retreating, what was left of it, then the retreat had become a rout. Still, the humans hadn’t let up, they’d pursued him until the rout had become a panic-stricken flight for the rear and the defeated army had become a helpless mob that had been slashed into ever-smaller pieces. Then, when he thought he had finally escaped, he’d seen more of the human iron chariots in front of them, blocking the retreat.
That was when he had understood at last. The humans didn’t fight their battles to make a point, they fought them to destroy their enemies. He’d noted something else. In Hell, armies fought their battles bottom-up. The foot infantry would get killed but rarely any of higher rank. Commanders had better things to do than kill each other. Anyway, how could one negotiate a deal with somebody one had just killed? But the humans fought their battles top-down. They started by killing the enemy commanders and then slaughtered the decapitated mass that was left. There was a corollary to that, they fought that way because they didn’t intend to negotiate with the losers.
How could they have understood humans so little?
Abigor shook himself and cautiously looked around. The humans could see in the dark, and shots could come out of nowhere. Still, it looked safe enough and there wasn’t far to go. The Hellmouth was so close now, just a few more hours away.
Somewhere in The Desert, Western Iraq, late afternoon
The sand collapsed underneath his clawed feet, sending him tumbling downwards into a ravine he had never seen. Memnon had been staggering through the desert, at first with purpose, trying to make his way back to the Hellmouth and deliver his message but all plan or intent had long since been burned out of his brain. The sun had seared him, brutally, without mercy, sending his body temperature soaring and fogging his brain with mists that owed as much to hallucination as the shimmering heat haze. The bitter cold of the nights had been worse, if anything, than the roasting heat of the sun. There were parts of hell where the souls of humans were roasted in coffins or blasted around on super-heated winds. Now Memnon knew the sufferings they endured
He’d also had a plan, to keep going until his wings regenerated and he could fly the rest of the way. That plan too had died, his wings were regenerating although slowly. They were growing back twisted, malformed, useless. Memnon guessed that the fragments of iron that he could feel in his back, the legacy of the fire-lance that had torn his original pair off, were interfering with the growth patterns and leaving him with these poor apologies for wings. Whatever the reason, he knew that he would never fly again. Never soar through the comforting skies of hell, looking down on the great city of Dis that surrounded the pit where human souls were forever condemned to suffer.
Nor were his mutated wings the only parts of his body causing him grief. His stomach was an empty pit, chewing at the very center of his being. His last meal of human flesh was long forgotten in his screaming need for raw meat, yet in this endless expanse of sand, there was no sign of food. Nor was their water and his throat was closed tight, swollen with the thirst that was adding its measure of suffering to the madness that was slowly but surely taking him over.
He rolled down the sandbank, seeing the sky rotate above him, the hated yellow sun glaring down as it laughed at his suffering. His body stopped its role, impacting on a strange irregular mass that yielded on his impact. Memnon looked harder at where he had ended up, it was a gully through the sand, perhaps one carved by flood water and not yet erased by the wind. It was not the sand that had stopped his roll though, it was the bodies of dead demons, perhaps half a dozen of them, piled in the bottom of the crevice. Had they crawled here for shelter and died?
Memnon pushed at the bodies, feeling one firmer than the rest. That is what kicked his mind into action, here was meat. He ripped off a large chunk from the firmest corpse, the others were already far advanced in decay and sank his teeth into it. His throat was too swollen to swallow at first but a thin stream of fresh blood from the meat eased it enough. Then, the implication of that thought struck Memnon at the same time as there was a faint, racking groan from the body he was eating. The demon was still alive. It took only a second for Memnonto fix that, his claws lashed across its throat, killing it. It was, probably, a merciful act.
Memnon filled his stomach with fresh meat and the blood eased his thirst a little. It was then he heard a strange sound, a thumping from the sky that reminded him of clawed feet marching down the road from Dysprosium. There was a great bridge on that road, one over the River Styx, where a demon could stand and drink in the sufferings of the humans below. He would like to stand on that bridge again.
The thumping grew worse and to Memnon’s horror, a human sky-chariot flew over a hill, obviously searching the ground. It was not one of the sleek ones, the ones that had mutilated and maimed him, it was an uglier, more ungainly monster that had a strange rotating structure over its head. As if its wings spun around instead of flapping. The sky-chariot slowed down abruptly, and its nose started to swing backward and forwards, searching the ground ahead of it. Memnon knew what it had spotted, the pile of bodies in the ravine and it was checking to see if they were dead. He paused, then froze. Perhaps if he played dead, it would go away. The shame of that thought made him want to weep but he remained motionless anyway.
There were a series of explosions, very fast, and streaks of fire from under the sky chariot’s nose. They ended in the ravine and walked along with it in a series of small blasts. Memnon willed himself to remain still, if he got up and ran, the sky-chariot would kill him for certain. If he stayed still and silent, he might survive, and he did have the message to deliver. The blasts stopped well short of him; it had only been a very short burst. Memnon realized that it had been intended to scare any living creature in the mound into moving so that it could be killed. He congratulated himself on defeating the cunning plan, and again when the sky-chariot turned and flew away.
Soon the desert was silent again and Memnon could start moving. He left his ravine, it took much longer to climb up the sandy banks than it had taken to descend, and started again, heading west towards the setting sun. He didn’t even have a clear idea of where he was anymore, only that the portal home was somewhere to the west. He wanted home so badly he could taste it, anything to get away from this hideous planet and the humans with their deadly chariots.
Sometime later, he had no idea whether it was minutes, hours, or days for his whole world now concentrated on the effort needed to pick his feet up and lay them down again, to keep up his slow journey west, he saw a strip of black. A human thing that they laid across the desert so that their chariots could move faster. Memnon’s heart stirred for on it were familiar figures, infantry demons. Also heading west. From a rocky outcrop on top of a hill overlooking the blackstrip, he summoned up his energy and focused his far-seeing vision on them.
The sight of a defeated army was a pitiful one, it always was, always would be. Memnon had seen a defeated army before, in the skirmishes that constantly went on in Hell as the Great Dukes jockeyed for a position there were defeated armies often enough. This was something else, something that went so far beyond pitiful that Memnon had no words to describe it. The infantry had thrown their tridents away and was staggering as they walked west. Some supported others, helping them along and that amazed Memnon for in Hellish armies the demons lived or died by their strength. Even as he watched, he saw one fall to its knees and try to collapse in exhaustion but the two nearest helped it to its feet and half-carried it onwards. He had never seen anything like that before. Nor had he heard anything like it, a moaning, half-wailing sound of demons in dire distress.
Then he heard the same dull thudding noise only this time he knew what it was. The Sky-Chariot was coming back. He looked and saw it, black against the sky and with three more of its kind in the company. They were heading in fast, obviously knowing precisely where to go and, as Memnon saw, what to do. Two fire-lances erupted from each of them, swinging out towards the column of misery he had been watching. The fire-lances streaked in, too fast to see properly and terminated in explosions, all eight equally spaced along the column on the blackstrip. He could hear the explosions from where he lay and heard the screams they caused.
The Sky-Chariots didn’t leave it there, they were closing on the column and Memnon saw them rake it with the same weapon he had experienced earlier, the same rapid series of explosions the same red streaks ending in smaller bursts on the ground. Only these were in the mass of living demons, and he saw them flayed by the bursts, chopped down. Two of the sky-chariots flew parallel with the column, peppering it with the explosions, tearing at it. Some demons tried to escape by running sideways, but the sky-chariots followed them and chased them down. Each attempted escape ended the same way, the demon vanishing in the dust of the blasts, to be seen torn and dead when it cleared. It didn’t take long for Memnonto understand that the sky-chariots were playing a game, competing between themselves to see who could kill the largest number of escapees.
What sort of people were these humans? Memnon was bewildered by what he was seeing, the army was defeated. Anybody could see that. What was to be gained by this slaughter? In Hell, battles were fought until one side had lost and then stopped. Sometimes a battle would never start, one commander would see he was outmatched and stood no chance of winning so he would concede the issue. He had never seen this before, this relentless pursuit and destruction of a beaten enemy. The sight made him shift with rage, boiling anger at human cowardice seething within him. Even destroying the retreating foe, they stood off and killed from a distance, they never closed and fought their enemy honorably. He controlled himself, he had no desire to be a target of the sky chariot’s games.
Finally, when all on the blackstrip was still, the four sky chariots made a final pass over the scene of carnage and left. Memnon was about to leave his cover in the rocks that topped his hill when he saw dust on the horizon. He shrank back into his rocky shelter and watched. The cloud materialized, and Memnon saw something that chilled his heart still further. A long column of Iron Chariots, some big, some smaller, with a sky-chariot flying on each side. He watched, appalled as they drove over the demon corpses stretched out on the blackstrip, grinding them into green and yellow smears on the black surface. Then, once clear of the remnants of the column Memnon had watched, they peeled off the blackstrip and spread out in a circle the long tubes pointing outwards.
He was fascinated by the sight. As far as he knew, nobody had ever watched the humans in their iron chariots when they weren’t killing. He saw humans climb out of the iron chariots, oddly the smaller ones seemed to have more humans than the big ones. They walked around, he could see them unloading things from the chariot and passing them around. Then more chariots arrived, great ones that dwarfed even the bigger iron chariot. Some had tents on the back, others great cylinders.
The tented ones started to unload boxes, the humans breaking them open and passing the contents to each other. Strange things pointed cylinders that gleamed in the sun. They put the cylinders inside the iron chariots and seemed to be happy at the labor. Others were passing around other things from the boxes. But it was the great cylinders that confused Memnon. The chariots carrying them pulled alongside the iron chariots and somehow the humans connected the two with a long snake. Were the two chariots mating? Memnon shook his head in disbelief and continued to watch what happened beneath.
Alpha-One-One, Somewhere in The Desert, Western Iraq, before dusk
“That’s it Hooters, we’re out of gas. Or as near to it as makes no difference. Got a little in case we must maneuver but we go no further.” “We don’t have to Biker. This is where we’re supposed to wait for the supply trucks. We clear of the stink?”
That was a lesson the tankers had learned early. Dead baldricks rotted fast in the sun and the smell was dreadful. It was so bad back where the baldrick army had been broken under the hammer of artillery fire and the anvil of armor that there was a serious question of whether people would be able to live there again. The smell seemed to seep into the soil.
“We’re fine Hooters.” Baldy had stuck his head out and sniffed. “The fly-boys in the Apaches did a good job on this lot.”
“Okay. Take five guys. Crab, Baldy, stay on overwatch while Biker and I stretch our legs.” She picked up the M4 carbine from its clips and heaved herself out of her commander’s hatch. It took a moment’s effort to scramble down the outside of her tank and then the sand felt good and solid under her feet.
“This sounds crazy Ell-tee, but you know, I’m kinda getting to like the desert. It seems to grow on us dunnit?”
“It does Jim, it truly does. There’s a grandeur here, something elemental somehow.” They’d both noticed the crews of the other Abrams tanks and Bradley infantry combat vehicles also dismounting to stretch their legs and dropped the nicknames. “You ever seen a desert before?”
“Nope. I’m from Vermont. Just a rubber who spent the week in the city and the weekend in the hills. Then my Guard unit got called up and here I am.”
“Rubber?” Stevenson looked curiously at her driver. He didn’t look like a contraceptive.
“Rich Urban Biker. Where you come from El-tee?”
“New Jersey. Bayonne to be precise. Joined the Guard to work my way through college and found myself here in the sandpit instead. Then the Message came, your old Ell-tee laid down and died and I was the only spare officer available.”
“Can’t say I’m surprised, he always was a sanctimonious old bastard. When we’re at camp and he visited a local knocking shop, he’d get on his knees and pray for forgiveness first. Cracked the girls up it did.”
Stevenson whooped with laughter and shook her head. “Doesn’t it always go to show? Them that talk the talk don’t walk the walk. Right Jim, we better give the others a chance to stretch.
She’d timed it just right. By the time her crew had got their break, the big Oshkosh ships of the desert had arrived and were driving into the laager. Critically, all the fuel trucks were there, their load of fuel was desperately needed. She watched carefully as the hoses were unreeled and the fuel trucks started gassing up the Abrams and Bradleys. Other trucks were unloading boxes of ammunition.
“Hey, Ell-tee. You need reloads?”
“Sure do.” She looked at the barrel of her tank. They’d stopped using a single ring for each baldrick kill, now they had a one-inch band for 10 and a quarter-inch band for singles. Plus, their single white band as well.
“Right, can give you ten Sabot, twenty HEAT, the rest canister.”
“I’d like more canister if you’ve got it. Not much use for sabot.”
“Sorry Ell-tee, we’re running low. We’re sharing out the HEAT and canister and making the numbers up with sabot. The brass tells us they’re flying 120 in direct from home and more’s coming from Europe but we’re still running low here where it counts.”
“Hokay.” Slightly resigned but there it was. Nobody said the war had to be easy. Stevenson and her crew started breaking open the crates and bombing up their tank.
They were interrupted by the sound of a Blackhawk landing.
“Captain Stevenson?”
She turned around, slightly irritated. She assumed the mistaken rank was a comment on her dress, she was wearing a tank top and had left the top of her BDUs in the tank. The desert may be grand, but it was still hot.
“It’s Lieutenant, Err Sorry Sir, I’ll get my blouse right now.” She did a double-take. Colonel Sean MacFarland was standing in front of her.
“Well, when you do, you get to pin these on it.” He handed her a small box, containing double silver bars. Congratulations. You’ve done a fine job out here.”
“Sir, thank you, Sir.” Stevenson looked at the bars in her hand.
“You’ll take over this combat group. You done good Stevenson, especially for somebody thrown in the deep end the way you were. The whole group will be staying here tonight, the way the pocket is shrinking around what’s left of the baldricks, there’s too much danger of friendly fire if we don’t take things carefully.”
“Big jump up Sir.” Stevenson was nervous, what amounted to a company command was a challenge, to put it mildly.
“Same for everybody Stevenson. Army’s growing fast, we’re taking cadre out of units to help train new outfits as fast as we can. You stay alive, you’ll have a battalion in a few months. Well done, Captain.”
MacFarland wandered off, apparently at random but to those under him, it always seemed that he would turn up at exactly the time needed to spot a problem developing. Around the laagered combat team, the dusk started to settle, and the flashes of artillery fire grew more distinct.
Somewhere in The Desert, Western Iraq, night
Abigor huddled in the rocks, looking out across the desert. If his instincts were right, the Hellmouth was very close. The last few days had been a horror, the human sky-chariots had hounded his force as it had disintegrated. They’d never let up, their curious rotating wings beating the air, the thumping of their weapons always so deadly. His Army had started retreating, what was left of it, then the retreat had become a rout. Still, the humans hadn’t let up, they’d pursued him until the rout had become a panic-stricken flight for the rear and the defeated army had become a helpless mob that had been slashed into ever-smaller pieces. Then, when he thought he had finally escaped, he’d seen more of the human iron chariots in front of them, blocking the retreat.
That was when he had understood at last. The humans didn’t fight their battles to make a point, they fought them to destroy their enemies. He’d noted something else. In Hell, armies fought their battles bottom-up. The foot infantry would get killed but rarely any of higher rank. Commanders had better things to do than kill each other. Anyway, how could one negotiate a deal with somebody one had just killed? But the humans fought their battles top-down. They started by killing the enemy commanders and then slaughtered the decapitated mass that was left. There was a corollary to that, they fought that way because they didn’t intend to negotiate with the losers.
How could they have understood humans so little?
Abigor shook himself and cautiously looked around. The humans could see in the dark, and shots could come out of nowhere. Still, it looked safe enough and there wasn’t far to go. The Hellmouth was so close now, just a few more hours away.
Re: 2008 - Armageddon
Chapter Twenty-Six
Central Belfast, Northern Ireland.
Inspector Richard Doherty was a veteran police officer, having been in the Police Service of Northern Ireland, or Police Service of Northern Ireland (incorporating the Royal Ulster Constabulary, George Cross) to give it its full name, since 2001 and had served in the Royal Ulster Constabulary for twelve years before the change of name. He was one of the 20 percent of the service’s officers who were Catholic (well, ex-Catholic and it was about 15 percent since The Message), though as a veteran RUC man he thought of him as an eight percenter, 8.3 percent of the old force having been Catholic. The Message had hit Northern Ireland harder than the mainland; around a quarter of the population had just lain down and died, or committed suicide, including many of the province’s religious leaders and some of the political ones. Sadly, for the police, about ten percent of the service had been amongst those who had died.
Like many of his co-religionists, he resented the fact that Catholics had been promoted in numbers well out of proportion to the percentage of total officers. He still remembered the days when becoming a police officer, or soldier was a very dangerous choice for a Catholic. Not only were you likely to be shot in the back, or blown up while carrying out your duties, but your family was also at great risk. Only now, times had changed.
The appearance of the armies of Hell in the desert of Iraq and a baldrick attack in America had stepped up the level of anxiety for the public. To reassure the population, the PSNI had put a strong-armed presence on the streets of the province. Backing them up were a couple of regular army infantry battalions, who would soon be joined by the recently re-formed Home Service battalions of The Royal Irish Regiment. Men and women (known as ‘Greenfinches’) who had served in these battalions had flocked back to the colors when the decisionto re-form them had been announced. Fortunately, the army still had enough equipment and uniforms in storage in Northern Ireland to equip them.
The Inspector oversaw a Police Support Unit of twelve officers, mounted in a pair of armored Land Rovers, known as the Tangi. Once upon a time, the Tangis of the RUC had been painted grey, now they were painted in the same orange and yellow checkered ‘Battenberg’ high visibility scheme worn by similar vehicles on the mainland.
Doherty shook his head as he saw a man and a woman, both carrying Armalite rifles, walking past as they did their shopping. One of the first acts after the British Government had declared a State of Emergency was to repeal all existing gun control laws. Illegally held weapons were now appearing openly on the streets. It was quite amazing how many of them there were. But then, the various groups of Irish terrorists had been notorious for burying stashes of guns all over the countryside.
“A few years ago we would have been arresting that pair, or worse, Sarge,” Doherty commented.
“That’s right, to be sure.” Sergeant Chris Ryder replied. “I don’t think I’ll ever get used to seeing ex-Provos or Loyalists walking about with their guns openly.”
“Yeh, I know what you mean, Sarge. If I had my way half of them would still be in the Maze; murderous bastards the lot of them. Those rifles won’t do them much good anyway; I hear that a full thirtyround magazine of 5.56mm rounds only slows a baldrick down.”
Doherty had every reasonto be bitter about the terrorists. One of his friends had been shot in the back by an IRA gunman while administering First Aid to a woman injured in a road accident, while another had been crippled by a blast bomb thrown by a Loyalist mob.
Suddenly a series of screams caught the attention of both officers. Doherty and Ryder turned towards the sound, just catching the sound of two ‘pops’, pistol shots. They were just in time to see one of the police support unit personnel, Glock 17 still in his hands, being eviscerated by a three-meter-high demonic apparition.
“Jesus…I mean bloody hell! ….. I mean, oh shit!” Doherty exclaimed as he watched the baldrick kill a civilian who was too slow in running. His mind seemed to be running in slow motion and he had time to reflect that The Message had eviscerated the English language’s stock of forceful expressions.
“Get the rifles out of the Tangis!” He yelled to the remainder of the unit, then “RUN! RUN!” to the nearest civilians.
Doherty and Ryder both drew their pistols and opened fire, even though they knew that the 9x19mm rounds would probably do little more than piss the baldrick off. The baldrick turned as he felt the new stinging impacts, he turned and saw two more of the humans dressed in green and wearing those funny hats pointing their outstretched arms at him, as if praying, or begging for mercy. He marveled at their apparent stupidity, praying had not saved the last green-clad human.
The two police officers retreated towards the Tangis, changing the magazines in their pistols. Several other members of the unit had also opened fire, but to Doherty’s horror, he could see that although the baldrick was bleeding from multiple wounds it had not even been slowed down. All he could do was continue to fire until he ran out of ammunition and hoped for the best.
At this point an armed civilian joined the battle, engaging the baldrick with an AK-47, the demon paused, ignoring the police officers for a moment to take hold of the civilian, tear out his heart, and throw him through the air.
Finally, the two officers assigned to the task managed to get the six HK33 rifles that were held in lock boxes in each Land Rover and drew them out. Doherty dropped his Glock and grabbed the rifle from the policewoman with a great deal of gratitude. He had no hesitation in selecting full auto, raised the rifle to his shoulder, and opened fire. Now that the surviving officers were armed with rifles, even ones firing 5.56x45mm NATO rounds, the baldrick finally began to show that it was feeling the effects of the gunfire. It began to stagger back under the effect of the massed gunfire, especially now that several armed civilians had joined the fight. Two of them had pump-action shotguns and the heavy slugs produced the first real impact on the creature.
They drove it back, the bullets pounding on its body. Finally, it collapsed to the street, dead. Doherty and Ryder advanced on the body cautiously, changing the magazines on their rifles. To their relief, it was very dead.
“Score one for the good guys.” One of the armed civilians was loading his shotgun with more heavy slugs. He looked sadly at the street where a police officer and two civilians were down, in crumpled, lifeless heaps. “Cost us though.” Then he grinned at the police officers. “Still, it’s good to see true fighting Irishmen all on the same side at last.”
Cabinet Office, White House, Washington D.C.
“We must anticipate that there will be further attacks of this kind. Given what that monster told us…” Secretary Warner was interrupted by a tangible shudder that ran around the room. Memories of the succubus’s presence at a meeting were all too fresh. “These attacks have been going on for a long time and we see no reason why they should stop now. In fact, with the destruction of the baldrick army in Iraq, they might well pick up in tempo. So, as a line of defense against such attacks, I propose the formation of a local defense force that will protect areas where there are large gatherings of people. Malls, sports meetings, etc. The personnel will be drawn from all citizens between the ages of 18 and 50 who are not currently serving in the armed forces. We’ll give priority to people whose industries are not needed for the war effort; they can serve one of their workdays. We’ll arm them with the new .458 rifles we’re putting into production. I propose the new force be called the Local Defense Volunteers.”
“Local Defense Volunteers.” Secretary Rice’s voice was thoughtful. “LDV. You know what they’ll be called, don’t you? The Look, Duck and Vanish.”
“Look, Duck and Vanish?” Warner thought for a second. “I suppose so. How did you come up with that?”
“The British had a similar force back in World War Two. Originally, they called it the Local Defense Volunteers, but they changed it to ‘Home Guard’ because of the misinterpretation of the acronym.”
“How did you get Local Defense Volunteers anyway John?” President Bush’s voice was curious.
“I was looking at a picture of the Civil War and it made me think of the U.S. Volunteers. The new group is for Local Defense, so I put the two together.”
“What’s wrong with U.S. Volunteers?” Bush was curious. “Sounds good to me. We can revive all the names of the Civil War units for the local forces. Add a sense of history to the undertaking. We can even call on some of those re-enactor people to start them off. They’ll use their guns to start with of course.”
“I’d love to see the effect of a minie ball on a baldrick.” Rice’s voice was droll. “They might like the smell of black powder though. Lots of sulfur in it.”
“So, we’ll get the bill written and pushed through. U.S. Volunteers it is. So, are we decided?” Bush looked around. There was a unanimous nodding of heads. “So be it. Next issue?”
“Aircraft production Sir. We’re getting the B-1 production line set up now. It’ll be starting work in around three months, expect to see the first aircraft off the line this time next year. It’s good we kept the tooling. The first AT-45Cs are coming off the Boeing line now. They’re a minimum-change armed version of the T-45C, they’ll keep the line running until the single-seat D model is ready. F-111s and B-52s are re-entering the fleet from Davis Monthan now. A lot of older aircraft as well, we’ve got some like the F-4 being assigned to wings, more as placeholders than anything else. The rest we’re going to use for tests. To see what sort of aircraft can fly in Hell-like conditions.”
“Any F-102s?” Bush spoke with a mixture of nostalgia and enthusiasm.”
“Yes Sir, nine were preserved, we can make two flyable. Not enough for issue so we’ll be using them for experiments.”
“No, you won’t,” Bush spoke firmly. “This is a Presidential directive. Get those two flyable F-102s down to Andrews and designate them the Presidential Fighter Flight. And get somebody to check me out on them, it’s been a long time since I flew a ‘102.”
In the background, the Secret Service Presidential Bodyguard detail went white at the thought of a President flying a death trap like the F-102. The President might think he was going to fly one and the aircraft might be sitting at Andrews with a pretty paint job, but he would get in the cockpit over the Secret Service’s collective dead bodies. From the expressions around the Cabinet Room, they weren’t the only ones with that in mind.
‘PINDAR’, under the MoD Main Building, Whitehall, London.
Prime Minister Gordon Brown looked across the table at his new Deputy Prime Minister. God, (he has must remember not to use that name again), that grinning idiot got on his nerves, he’d strangle him if he asked Brown to call him ‘Dave’ again. Well, it was the price of coalition politics he supposed, and there was not a great deal he could do about it. The PM did reflect on the fact that Deputy Prime Minister David Cameron did rather remind him of a poor clone of his late, unlamented predecessor. Who could have imagined that Tony Blair had been so devout? It had come as quite a shock, even to this son of the Manse.
Given his Scots Presbyterian upbringing, his father had been a Minister in the Church of Scotland, The Message had hit Brown hard. He felt angry and betrayed but could not help wondering if this was some kind of supreme test by God, or maybe the creature claiming to be Him was in fact not the Supreme Being at all, but some kind of imposter. The latter had certainly been the opinion of the Moderator of the Church of Scotland when Brown had spoken to him.
In the first couple of days after The Message, there had been a great deal of uncertainty in the United Kingdom. Those who were most religiously devout, around a tenth of the population, had died; some had just lain down and given up, and others had committed suicide in a variety of imaginative ways. Some religious leaders had spoken to the Prime Minister, demanding that Britain surrender to the inevitable; those that were still alive were now residents of HMP Belmarsh, which was rather empty now that most Islamic fundamentalists were gone.
While a smaller proportion of the population of Britain had died, the deaths had been largely concentrated in a few areas. Parts of Leicester and Bradford had become ghost towns and at least a couple of the smaller Western Isles had been totally depopulated. Clearing up the bodies before they decayed and caused a disease outbreak had been quite an undertaking. The government had called in the army, who had assisted in clearing up the corpses and building the funeral pyres used to dispose of them. Facing economic and social chaos on a scale never seen, Brown had declared a State of Emergency and had signed Queen’s Order Two, mobilizing the entirety of Britain’s Armed Forces. ‘Entirety’ included all reserve forces, service pensioners, and all cadet force personnel over sixteen.
Britain was going to need everybody who could hold a rifle, or train others to do so. One largely unknown fact was that the Army Act and its counterparts covering the RAF and Royal Navy allowed for the reintroduction of conscription without any new act having to be put before Parliament. In his second speech to the British people, Brown announced the immediate reintroduction of National Service for everybody between 19 and 55. Finding enough equipment, uniforms, or personnel to train the millions of men and women who would now be inducted into the army, navy, and air force was another matter, and would take some time.
The next step had been to examine existing Emergency Powers Bills that had been prepared for potential wars and see what was applicable to this particular situation. While all the anti-terrorism-related emergency plans were up to date those doing the research were rather alarmed to find that the last time the plans for General War (the closest scenario to this one) had been updated was 1992! This set of plans and Emergency Powers Bills had served as the basis for those that had just been rushed through Parliament along with a declaration of war on Hell, which along with Britain’s devolved parliament and assemblies, was now prorogued, the remaining members have dispersed to their constituencies.
At least now with Parliament prorogued Brown would now only have to deal with his Cabinet and the three First Ministers, though they could be something of a pain. At least many of the government’s emergency powers overrode much of their authority. The Prime Minister realized that the Minister of Defense was speaking and tried to look like he had been listening all along.
“…And the news from Iraq certainly seems to be good. The baldrick attacks on Allied Forces have been totally defeated and their army is in headlong retreat towards the Hellmouth.” Admiral of the Fleet Lord West was saying. “Damn all good it will do them because the American 1st Armored Division and the Iranian armored division have cut off their line of retreat.”
Appointing Admiral West as the new Secretary of State for Defense had come as a development of the horse-trading that had taken place during the formation of the Coalition government. The Service Chiefs as well as the Conservatives and Liberal Democrats had made it very clear that they had no confidence in West’s predecessor, Des Browne, so he had to go. The Admiral was already the Parliamentary Undersecretary for Security, so he had the experience of working in government, he had great experience in military matters and was highly respected by both the Services and politicians.
“The 4th Mechanized Brigade has performed very well against the baldrick army; I think our retention of rifled guns for the Challenger 2 has finally proven its worth.” The Admiral said, continuing his briefing. “They’ve demonstrated an ability to strike the enemy at a greater range than the smoothbore guns on the American tanks.”
“That’s certainly true.” General Sir Richard Dannatt, the Chief of the General Staff, agreed. “Our HESH rounds have also proven to be somewhat more effective than the HEAT rounds used by the Abrams, though we do need something like the canister round they have. There was a canister round produced for the old Challenger 1, and if we have any left, they may be compatible with the Challenger 2.”
“Talking of shells, and ammunition is one thing that Major General Binns has expressed concern about.” Admiral West told the Prime Minister. “A great deal of ammunition was expended in stopping the baldrick attack and while the stockpile in theatre is in no danger of running out just yet. We are beginning to run short.”
“I take it we are moving further supplies to Iraq?” The Prime Minister asked.
“Yes, Prime Minister,” West confirmed. “We are moving stocks of ammunition from the UK and Germany to Iraq. The remainder of the 1st Armored Division is moving to ports of embarkation in Germany in case it is needed in Iraq, and we have alerted 3 Division to be ready for possible deployment, though we may need them at home.
“Immediate reinforcements for our forces in Iraq will come from Afghanistan, where the threat has disappeared overnight. In fact, the senior surviving Taliban commander has sent a message to the commander of ISAF offering the support of his men in fighting the war. Iran has agreed to assist in the movement of our troops, and other contingents of ISAF from Afghanistan to the theatre of operations.”
The Prime Minister nodded, indicating that he understood.
“What progress is being made regarding the restarting of tank shell production?” Brown asked. “I don’t think that we can rely on supplies from South Africa, as memory serves, they were somewhat shoddy anyway.”
“We have sent a Ministry team up to the site of ROF Bishopton, along with some chaps from BAE. It seems that the factory is still largely intact, so restarting production should not be too difficult if a bit expensive.” West replied. “Fortunately, the plans to build houses on the site were delayed, so no demolition has taken place and most of the equipment is either there or was put into secure storage. The initial estimate given by my people is that the factory should be up and running within two months.”
“Good.” The PM replied. “I trust there will be no problems regarding finance, Alistair?” He asked the Chancellor of the Exchequer.
“Not at all, Prime Minister.” Alistair Darling replied. “Defense and industrial projects related to the Defense of the Realm will get all the money they need. The Bank of England is printing more money so that we can continue to pay our bills; that does, of course, risk the most appalling economic downturn when the war is over.”
Gordon Brown laughed, the first time he had done so in a long time.
“Only if we win, Alistair. If we lose, then I don’t think it will be a problem.” He turned back to Admiral West. “Admiral, if at any point BAE drags their heels, either over Bishopton, or increasing production of aircraft, tanks, rifles, or whatever, tell them that should they continue to bugger around, Her Majesties Government will nationalize the company and sack the management, thus making them eligible to be conscripted into the army.”
“Certainly, Prime Minister. I shall certainly look at sending them somewhere nasty if that happens.” West said.
“I’ll deploy them to Iraq,” Dannatt commented. “My soldiers need more equipment as soon as possible, so I’ll not have them putting their lives at risk any more than they are already. There is one thing that we do need to ask your permission to do, Prime Minister. The SA80, along with all rifles chambered for 5.56mm NATO rounds has proven to be less than effective at dealing with baldricks. They will kill them, but it takes a great deal of ammunition and has resulted in soldiers being killed before the baldrick dies.
“We have found that the .338 Lapua round used in our sniper rifles is far more effective, so we would like to start immediate and rapid development of a rifle chambered for this round to replace the SA80. My staff has identified the old SLR as a suitable basis for this weapon, so we would like to arrange for production facilities to be set up as soon as possible.”
“An Urgent Operational Requirement I take it, General?” Brown asked. “Then by all means do whatever is necessary to get this weapon into the hands of our soldiers.
“On another matter entirely I have heard that the Americans have managed to contact some of their soldiers in Hell and are in the process of starting an insurgency. Are we engaged in a similar undertaking?”
He saw the Chief of the Defense Staff, Air Chief Marshal Sir Jock Stirrup, smile in a very cat-like way.
“We most certainly are, Prime Minister. Our Special Forces people are working very closely with the Americans on this. If possible, we’d also like to try to contact any of our personnel who have ended up in Hell. We believe that if we can organize all the ex-military personnel who have ended up in Hell, or even just a small proportion of them, then we may be able to get quite a rebellion going.”
Central Belfast, Northern Ireland.
Inspector Richard Doherty was a veteran police officer, having been in the Police Service of Northern Ireland, or Police Service of Northern Ireland (incorporating the Royal Ulster Constabulary, George Cross) to give it its full name, since 2001 and had served in the Royal Ulster Constabulary for twelve years before the change of name. He was one of the 20 percent of the service’s officers who were Catholic (well, ex-Catholic and it was about 15 percent since The Message), though as a veteran RUC man he thought of him as an eight percenter, 8.3 percent of the old force having been Catholic. The Message had hit Northern Ireland harder than the mainland; around a quarter of the population had just lain down and died, or committed suicide, including many of the province’s religious leaders and some of the political ones. Sadly, for the police, about ten percent of the service had been amongst those who had died.
Like many of his co-religionists, he resented the fact that Catholics had been promoted in numbers well out of proportion to the percentage of total officers. He still remembered the days when becoming a police officer, or soldier was a very dangerous choice for a Catholic. Not only were you likely to be shot in the back, or blown up while carrying out your duties, but your family was also at great risk. Only now, times had changed.
The appearance of the armies of Hell in the desert of Iraq and a baldrick attack in America had stepped up the level of anxiety for the public. To reassure the population, the PSNI had put a strong-armed presence on the streets of the province. Backing them up were a couple of regular army infantry battalions, who would soon be joined by the recently re-formed Home Service battalions of The Royal Irish Regiment. Men and women (known as ‘Greenfinches’) who had served in these battalions had flocked back to the colors when the decisionto re-form them had been announced. Fortunately, the army still had enough equipment and uniforms in storage in Northern Ireland to equip them.
The Inspector oversaw a Police Support Unit of twelve officers, mounted in a pair of armored Land Rovers, known as the Tangi. Once upon a time, the Tangis of the RUC had been painted grey, now they were painted in the same orange and yellow checkered ‘Battenberg’ high visibility scheme worn by similar vehicles on the mainland.
Doherty shook his head as he saw a man and a woman, both carrying Armalite rifles, walking past as they did their shopping. One of the first acts after the British Government had declared a State of Emergency was to repeal all existing gun control laws. Illegally held weapons were now appearing openly on the streets. It was quite amazing how many of them there were. But then, the various groups of Irish terrorists had been notorious for burying stashes of guns all over the countryside.
“A few years ago we would have been arresting that pair, or worse, Sarge,” Doherty commented.
“That’s right, to be sure.” Sergeant Chris Ryder replied. “I don’t think I’ll ever get used to seeing ex-Provos or Loyalists walking about with their guns openly.”
“Yeh, I know what you mean, Sarge. If I had my way half of them would still be in the Maze; murderous bastards the lot of them. Those rifles won’t do them much good anyway; I hear that a full thirtyround magazine of 5.56mm rounds only slows a baldrick down.”
Doherty had every reasonto be bitter about the terrorists. One of his friends had been shot in the back by an IRA gunman while administering First Aid to a woman injured in a road accident, while another had been crippled by a blast bomb thrown by a Loyalist mob.
Suddenly a series of screams caught the attention of both officers. Doherty and Ryder turned towards the sound, just catching the sound of two ‘pops’, pistol shots. They were just in time to see one of the police support unit personnel, Glock 17 still in his hands, being eviscerated by a three-meter-high demonic apparition.
“Jesus…I mean bloody hell! ….. I mean, oh shit!” Doherty exclaimed as he watched the baldrick kill a civilian who was too slow in running. His mind seemed to be running in slow motion and he had time to reflect that The Message had eviscerated the English language’s stock of forceful expressions.
“Get the rifles out of the Tangis!” He yelled to the remainder of the unit, then “RUN! RUN!” to the nearest civilians.
Doherty and Ryder both drew their pistols and opened fire, even though they knew that the 9x19mm rounds would probably do little more than piss the baldrick off. The baldrick turned as he felt the new stinging impacts, he turned and saw two more of the humans dressed in green and wearing those funny hats pointing their outstretched arms at him, as if praying, or begging for mercy. He marveled at their apparent stupidity, praying had not saved the last green-clad human.
The two police officers retreated towards the Tangis, changing the magazines in their pistols. Several other members of the unit had also opened fire, but to Doherty’s horror, he could see that although the baldrick was bleeding from multiple wounds it had not even been slowed down. All he could do was continue to fire until he ran out of ammunition and hoped for the best.
At this point an armed civilian joined the battle, engaging the baldrick with an AK-47, the demon paused, ignoring the police officers for a moment to take hold of the civilian, tear out his heart, and throw him through the air.
Finally, the two officers assigned to the task managed to get the six HK33 rifles that were held in lock boxes in each Land Rover and drew them out. Doherty dropped his Glock and grabbed the rifle from the policewoman with a great deal of gratitude. He had no hesitation in selecting full auto, raised the rifle to his shoulder, and opened fire. Now that the surviving officers were armed with rifles, even ones firing 5.56x45mm NATO rounds, the baldrick finally began to show that it was feeling the effects of the gunfire. It began to stagger back under the effect of the massed gunfire, especially now that several armed civilians had joined the fight. Two of them had pump-action shotguns and the heavy slugs produced the first real impact on the creature.
They drove it back, the bullets pounding on its body. Finally, it collapsed to the street, dead. Doherty and Ryder advanced on the body cautiously, changing the magazines on their rifles. To their relief, it was very dead.
“Score one for the good guys.” One of the armed civilians was loading his shotgun with more heavy slugs. He looked sadly at the street where a police officer and two civilians were down, in crumpled, lifeless heaps. “Cost us though.” Then he grinned at the police officers. “Still, it’s good to see true fighting Irishmen all on the same side at last.”
Cabinet Office, White House, Washington D.C.
“We must anticipate that there will be further attacks of this kind. Given what that monster told us…” Secretary Warner was interrupted by a tangible shudder that ran around the room. Memories of the succubus’s presence at a meeting were all too fresh. “These attacks have been going on for a long time and we see no reason why they should stop now. In fact, with the destruction of the baldrick army in Iraq, they might well pick up in tempo. So, as a line of defense against such attacks, I propose the formation of a local defense force that will protect areas where there are large gatherings of people. Malls, sports meetings, etc. The personnel will be drawn from all citizens between the ages of 18 and 50 who are not currently serving in the armed forces. We’ll give priority to people whose industries are not needed for the war effort; they can serve one of their workdays. We’ll arm them with the new .458 rifles we’re putting into production. I propose the new force be called the Local Defense Volunteers.”
“Local Defense Volunteers.” Secretary Rice’s voice was thoughtful. “LDV. You know what they’ll be called, don’t you? The Look, Duck and Vanish.”
“Look, Duck and Vanish?” Warner thought for a second. “I suppose so. How did you come up with that?”
“The British had a similar force back in World War Two. Originally, they called it the Local Defense Volunteers, but they changed it to ‘Home Guard’ because of the misinterpretation of the acronym.”
“How did you get Local Defense Volunteers anyway John?” President Bush’s voice was curious.
“I was looking at a picture of the Civil War and it made me think of the U.S. Volunteers. The new group is for Local Defense, so I put the two together.”
“What’s wrong with U.S. Volunteers?” Bush was curious. “Sounds good to me. We can revive all the names of the Civil War units for the local forces. Add a sense of history to the undertaking. We can even call on some of those re-enactor people to start them off. They’ll use their guns to start with of course.”
“I’d love to see the effect of a minie ball on a baldrick.” Rice’s voice was droll. “They might like the smell of black powder though. Lots of sulfur in it.”
“So, we’ll get the bill written and pushed through. U.S. Volunteers it is. So, are we decided?” Bush looked around. There was a unanimous nodding of heads. “So be it. Next issue?”
“Aircraft production Sir. We’re getting the B-1 production line set up now. It’ll be starting work in around three months, expect to see the first aircraft off the line this time next year. It’s good we kept the tooling. The first AT-45Cs are coming off the Boeing line now. They’re a minimum-change armed version of the T-45C, they’ll keep the line running until the single-seat D model is ready. F-111s and B-52s are re-entering the fleet from Davis Monthan now. A lot of older aircraft as well, we’ve got some like the F-4 being assigned to wings, more as placeholders than anything else. The rest we’re going to use for tests. To see what sort of aircraft can fly in Hell-like conditions.”
“Any F-102s?” Bush spoke with a mixture of nostalgia and enthusiasm.”
“Yes Sir, nine were preserved, we can make two flyable. Not enough for issue so we’ll be using them for experiments.”
“No, you won’t,” Bush spoke firmly. “This is a Presidential directive. Get those two flyable F-102s down to Andrews and designate them the Presidential Fighter Flight. And get somebody to check me out on them, it’s been a long time since I flew a ‘102.”
In the background, the Secret Service Presidential Bodyguard detail went white at the thought of a President flying a death trap like the F-102. The President might think he was going to fly one and the aircraft might be sitting at Andrews with a pretty paint job, but he would get in the cockpit over the Secret Service’s collective dead bodies. From the expressions around the Cabinet Room, they weren’t the only ones with that in mind.
‘PINDAR’, under the MoD Main Building, Whitehall, London.
Prime Minister Gordon Brown looked across the table at his new Deputy Prime Minister. God, (he has must remember not to use that name again), that grinning idiot got on his nerves, he’d strangle him if he asked Brown to call him ‘Dave’ again. Well, it was the price of coalition politics he supposed, and there was not a great deal he could do about it. The PM did reflect on the fact that Deputy Prime Minister David Cameron did rather remind him of a poor clone of his late, unlamented predecessor. Who could have imagined that Tony Blair had been so devout? It had come as quite a shock, even to this son of the Manse.
Given his Scots Presbyterian upbringing, his father had been a Minister in the Church of Scotland, The Message had hit Brown hard. He felt angry and betrayed but could not help wondering if this was some kind of supreme test by God, or maybe the creature claiming to be Him was in fact not the Supreme Being at all, but some kind of imposter. The latter had certainly been the opinion of the Moderator of the Church of Scotland when Brown had spoken to him.
In the first couple of days after The Message, there had been a great deal of uncertainty in the United Kingdom. Those who were most religiously devout, around a tenth of the population, had died; some had just lain down and given up, and others had committed suicide in a variety of imaginative ways. Some religious leaders had spoken to the Prime Minister, demanding that Britain surrender to the inevitable; those that were still alive were now residents of HMP Belmarsh, which was rather empty now that most Islamic fundamentalists were gone.
While a smaller proportion of the population of Britain had died, the deaths had been largely concentrated in a few areas. Parts of Leicester and Bradford had become ghost towns and at least a couple of the smaller Western Isles had been totally depopulated. Clearing up the bodies before they decayed and caused a disease outbreak had been quite an undertaking. The government had called in the army, who had assisted in clearing up the corpses and building the funeral pyres used to dispose of them. Facing economic and social chaos on a scale never seen, Brown had declared a State of Emergency and had signed Queen’s Order Two, mobilizing the entirety of Britain’s Armed Forces. ‘Entirety’ included all reserve forces, service pensioners, and all cadet force personnel over sixteen.
Britain was going to need everybody who could hold a rifle, or train others to do so. One largely unknown fact was that the Army Act and its counterparts covering the RAF and Royal Navy allowed for the reintroduction of conscription without any new act having to be put before Parliament. In his second speech to the British people, Brown announced the immediate reintroduction of National Service for everybody between 19 and 55. Finding enough equipment, uniforms, or personnel to train the millions of men and women who would now be inducted into the army, navy, and air force was another matter, and would take some time.
The next step had been to examine existing Emergency Powers Bills that had been prepared for potential wars and see what was applicable to this particular situation. While all the anti-terrorism-related emergency plans were up to date those doing the research were rather alarmed to find that the last time the plans for General War (the closest scenario to this one) had been updated was 1992! This set of plans and Emergency Powers Bills had served as the basis for those that had just been rushed through Parliament along with a declaration of war on Hell, which along with Britain’s devolved parliament and assemblies, was now prorogued, the remaining members have dispersed to their constituencies.
At least now with Parliament prorogued Brown would now only have to deal with his Cabinet and the three First Ministers, though they could be something of a pain. At least many of the government’s emergency powers overrode much of their authority. The Prime Minister realized that the Minister of Defense was speaking and tried to look like he had been listening all along.
“…And the news from Iraq certainly seems to be good. The baldrick attacks on Allied Forces have been totally defeated and their army is in headlong retreat towards the Hellmouth.” Admiral of the Fleet Lord West was saying. “Damn all good it will do them because the American 1st Armored Division and the Iranian armored division have cut off their line of retreat.”
Appointing Admiral West as the new Secretary of State for Defense had come as a development of the horse-trading that had taken place during the formation of the Coalition government. The Service Chiefs as well as the Conservatives and Liberal Democrats had made it very clear that they had no confidence in West’s predecessor, Des Browne, so he had to go. The Admiral was already the Parliamentary Undersecretary for Security, so he had the experience of working in government, he had great experience in military matters and was highly respected by both the Services and politicians.
“The 4th Mechanized Brigade has performed very well against the baldrick army; I think our retention of rifled guns for the Challenger 2 has finally proven its worth.” The Admiral said, continuing his briefing. “They’ve demonstrated an ability to strike the enemy at a greater range than the smoothbore guns on the American tanks.”
“That’s certainly true.” General Sir Richard Dannatt, the Chief of the General Staff, agreed. “Our HESH rounds have also proven to be somewhat more effective than the HEAT rounds used by the Abrams, though we do need something like the canister round they have. There was a canister round produced for the old Challenger 1, and if we have any left, they may be compatible with the Challenger 2.”
“Talking of shells, and ammunition is one thing that Major General Binns has expressed concern about.” Admiral West told the Prime Minister. “A great deal of ammunition was expended in stopping the baldrick attack and while the stockpile in theatre is in no danger of running out just yet. We are beginning to run short.”
“I take it we are moving further supplies to Iraq?” The Prime Minister asked.
“Yes, Prime Minister,” West confirmed. “We are moving stocks of ammunition from the UK and Germany to Iraq. The remainder of the 1st Armored Division is moving to ports of embarkation in Germany in case it is needed in Iraq, and we have alerted 3 Division to be ready for possible deployment, though we may need them at home.
“Immediate reinforcements for our forces in Iraq will come from Afghanistan, where the threat has disappeared overnight. In fact, the senior surviving Taliban commander has sent a message to the commander of ISAF offering the support of his men in fighting the war. Iran has agreed to assist in the movement of our troops, and other contingents of ISAF from Afghanistan to the theatre of operations.”
The Prime Minister nodded, indicating that he understood.
“What progress is being made regarding the restarting of tank shell production?” Brown asked. “I don’t think that we can rely on supplies from South Africa, as memory serves, they were somewhat shoddy anyway.”
“We have sent a Ministry team up to the site of ROF Bishopton, along with some chaps from BAE. It seems that the factory is still largely intact, so restarting production should not be too difficult if a bit expensive.” West replied. “Fortunately, the plans to build houses on the site were delayed, so no demolition has taken place and most of the equipment is either there or was put into secure storage. The initial estimate given by my people is that the factory should be up and running within two months.”
“Good.” The PM replied. “I trust there will be no problems regarding finance, Alistair?” He asked the Chancellor of the Exchequer.
“Not at all, Prime Minister.” Alistair Darling replied. “Defense and industrial projects related to the Defense of the Realm will get all the money they need. The Bank of England is printing more money so that we can continue to pay our bills; that does, of course, risk the most appalling economic downturn when the war is over.”
Gordon Brown laughed, the first time he had done so in a long time.
“Only if we win, Alistair. If we lose, then I don’t think it will be a problem.” He turned back to Admiral West. “Admiral, if at any point BAE drags their heels, either over Bishopton, or increasing production of aircraft, tanks, rifles, or whatever, tell them that should they continue to bugger around, Her Majesties Government will nationalize the company and sack the management, thus making them eligible to be conscripted into the army.”
“Certainly, Prime Minister. I shall certainly look at sending them somewhere nasty if that happens.” West said.
“I’ll deploy them to Iraq,” Dannatt commented. “My soldiers need more equipment as soon as possible, so I’ll not have them putting their lives at risk any more than they are already. There is one thing that we do need to ask your permission to do, Prime Minister. The SA80, along with all rifles chambered for 5.56mm NATO rounds has proven to be less than effective at dealing with baldricks. They will kill them, but it takes a great deal of ammunition and has resulted in soldiers being killed before the baldrick dies.
“We have found that the .338 Lapua round used in our sniper rifles is far more effective, so we would like to start immediate and rapid development of a rifle chambered for this round to replace the SA80. My staff has identified the old SLR as a suitable basis for this weapon, so we would like to arrange for production facilities to be set up as soon as possible.”
“An Urgent Operational Requirement I take it, General?” Brown asked. “Then by all means do whatever is necessary to get this weapon into the hands of our soldiers.
“On another matter entirely I have heard that the Americans have managed to contact some of their soldiers in Hell and are in the process of starting an insurgency. Are we engaged in a similar undertaking?”
He saw the Chief of the Defense Staff, Air Chief Marshal Sir Jock Stirrup, smile in a very cat-like way.
“We most certainly are, Prime Minister. Our Special Forces people are working very closely with the Americans on this. If possible, we’d also like to try to contact any of our personnel who have ended up in Hell. We believe that if we can organize all the ex-military personnel who have ended up in Hell, or even just a small proportion of them, then we may be able to get quite a rebellion going.”
Re: 2008 - Armageddon
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Apartment in Queens, New York
He carefully wrote out the name and address on the plain manila envelope with his black sharpie. It whispered across the surface as his elegant but simple strokes spelled out the name James Randi. He stopped for a moment, the quiet dulcet tones of the classical music in the background were swelling up now and he listened. He ignored the palsied shaking of his left hand. There was no time for fear.
His eyes drifted down to the small pile of photos stacked up next to the open envelope. The top photo was a wide-angled shot of an African village, with thatched huts and low-hanging solitary trees with scrub brush everywhere. It was almost clichéd as if he had taken a photo of an African village set in the back lot of Paramount. He only wished that were true. In the wide-angle shot, there were plumes of black smoke rising in several locations throughout the center of the village. His thoughts, unbidden as always, drifted back to that moment in time. His eyes lost their focus on the photo, and he was no longer in his quiet home in a nondescript neighborhood of Queens. He was stalking through the deep scrub brush of the African village.
The heat was oppressive, and the sweat clung to his body unwilling to leave and unable to really cool him in this Subsaharan warmth. He had heard of the atrocities committed here in Darfur and like many of the Western journalists here he was losing hope that anyone cared about the Africans dying in the wastes of this forsaken place. As he walked into the village, he was painfully aware of how alone he was here and how exposed should rebel or government forces decide to descend on this village and finish what they had obviously started. He could already hear the lamentation of the women. It was a mournful yet desperate dirge that refused any succor or solace.
It was the wailing of the women, the gnashing of the teeth of the men that must have attracted it here. The sounds of death in the old ways. The way people used to mourn before things got so civilized. But he was getting ahead of himself, wasn’t he? He stepped between huts and abandoned carts, weaving through the debris and the occasional crater caused by some form of an ordinance. Perhaps the government had sent another wave of Russian-built bombers up north to deal more death to these villagers. It had happened before.
The camera whirred and clicked in rapid-fire sequence as he took his shots while moving through the village, a discarded doll, a shoe left in the dirt, and blood smeared across a doorway. It was all a flowing narrative, and he was capturing it as best he could in this miserable heat and squalor. The smell struck him as soon as he approached the town center, and he immediately knew what the fires were. People were burning. He pulled his camera up before him like a weapon, fingers tense as he prepared to take his shots.
He stepped over a dead mule, the flies already swirling in angry buzzing clouds. His eyes narrowed on the ruined town center. The market was on fire and there were people trapped within some of the flaming wrecks. A lot of people. The bombs struck at midday when many of the villagers were gathering what they could for dinner. The people who did this knew precisely what they were doing when they carried out the attack. He began snapping photos, the lens quietly clicking as it focused on the flailing limbs of the trapped and burning, capturing the expressions of pain and anguish. The lost hope was stamped across the faces of relatives. He had to keep taking the pictures because if he stopped, even for a moment, he could begin to comprehend what he was seeing, and he would lose all sense of composure and self-control.
People were trapped in the rubble and being burned alive and there was nothing anyone could do about it. He captured, with numb resolve, the desperately futile attempts by relatives and good Samaritans to douse the flames with buckets of water or dirt. He continued snapping pictures as they worked furiously. Suddenly a young girl rushed up to him and began tugging at his arm and speaking to him in a machine gun-like delivery. She was begging him, begging in the most heart-wrenching manner for assistance. All he could do was drop his camera for a moment and shake his head sadly. Tears welled up in her eyes and she pulled now, almost as if trying to physically drag him to the scene. He continued to shake his head and then weakly responded in his stilted version of her dialect that he could do nothing.
She shook her head and wailed, slapping herself on the sides of her forehead and falling to her knees. She sunk down into the packed earth and sobbed into it as if it were her mother’s breast. Her body shifted back and forth furiously as if trying to burrow into the ground to escape her grief and her cries were like knives in his heart. He stared down at the sight dumbly, unsure what to say or do. His Western mind was unprepared for this level of grief.
“It is like music don’t you think, Jude?”
He froze. The voice was soft like silk sheets on skin. The person stood beside him, materializing out of the air like a shadow escaping the noonday sun.
“The anguish, the terror, the guilt. When death comes for humanity, it is the most feared and awesome event in their too-brief lives.” His eyes slowly turned to regard the person. He stood taller than Jude, black as obsidian in the sun and wearing a simple white shirt opened at the chest with filthy khakis. His feet were clad in battered hiking boots. The boots were splattered with what he guessed were ancient blood stains. “Imagine it, Jude. You come into this world and breath for the first time you have simultaneously taken one more step towards death.” The newcomer turned his head slowly to face him and it was so achingly graceful that Jude wanted to weep. “The moment you are born you are dying. That is the paradox in which you live.”
Jude shook his head slowly. “Who are you?” he asked quietly. There was an awesome sense of power around him, like standing next to a livewire and he was dimly aware that the activity around them, the dying, and the screams were all slowing down and muted as if the world were pausing out of respect for his conversation with the stranger.
The stranger smiled softly as if at a private joke. “I am a traveler in your world, I come and go as I please and where I go death follows me.”
“You’re not human,” Jude replied without thinking and immediately had no idea why he just said that.
“I am more than anything you have ever known, Jude, son of Gregory. I am the sword, the scythe of the One Above All, and in my passing entire nations have wept bitter tears. The first-born tremble at my name.”
Unspoken, Jude heard a single name whispered with reverence in his head. “Uriel.”
The black Adonis-like being said nothing but pursed his lips as if contemplating his next words carefully. “Follow me.”
“What?” Jude stammered.
“Follow me, Jude. I have many roads yet to travel and this continent pleases me. The people here still know how to grieve. They are still connected on a primal level to death and mortality. Your sterile world repels and abhors me. Death in your world is a clinical state with consequences tied up in paperwork and inconvenience. Here. In this place.” Uriel slowly raised his arms as if to embrace some unseen thing in the ether. “Death is still felt.”
“This is insane.”
“No, this is life and death happening now. There is something coming. A great message that will make even your great Empires in the West feel again. I wanted to bask in the cold glow of entropy one last time before I must leave this place.”
“I’m talking to the angel of death…” Jude whispered to himself in disbelief. “I finally lost it. I’ve seen too much.”
Uriel suddenly reached out, at least Jude guessed he reached out because he must have done it between the blinks of an eye, for in the next instant Uriel’s hand grasped Jude’s chin tightly and forced him to look into his eyes. And in the angel’s eyes, he saw a pool of white within the white and something else. Something dark and chittering like a mad insect.
“FOCUS child of Seth.”
Jude’s hair grayed at the temples, and he felt a palsy come over him, hands shaking, and his bowels released their contents without hesitation. He stood in abject terror, rooted in place, and suddenly everything Uriel wanted and said was the sole thing in Jude’s universe.
“Follow me, you will know my wake for in it there is pestilence, war, and famine. Follow me throughout this continent and see my great works. For when I am gone there will be none like me again in this universe. I am the One Above All’s scythe, where I go, humanity dies. I am not just some quaint Angel of Death; I am entropy incarnate. I weep for your world for my touch is far more merciful than what is to come. The Morningstar has always been too…blunt an instrument for my taste.”
Jude said nothing, but his tongue lolled in his mouth and his vision began to fade. He could hear his heartbeat pounding in his ears and the roar of blood., His heart was slowing, inexorably slowing to a dull thrumming and he could feel ice collecting where Uriel’s fingers touched his flesh, his blood had instantly recoiled at the touch and remained away from the points flesh-on-flesh contact.
“Within your bloodline is carried the ancient gift like the one borne by the Witch of Endor and all that ilk. You can see me for what I am. So, follow me, Jude, I choose you as my final witness in these dark days. A prophet for a new age.”
Uriel released Jude’s chin and watched the young man for a moment as blood rushed back into his face and graying cold clammy skin slowly regained its luster. His hair remained grey, and his cheeks had sunk in slightly. There was no doubt these were scars that would remain. One did not touch the divine without scars remaining to mark its passage.
Uriel looked back over the crowd of screaming refugees, the world apparently was coming back up to speed and volume and nodded as if coming to a decision. “Peace be with you and my peace I grant you.” He whispered and suddenly every single living thing in the town square down to the angrily buzzing flies dropped to the earth in an instant. Uriel nodded in satisfaction turned in a slow beautiful motion and strode away. In the glaring noonday sun, Jude saw the hint of ebony wings jutting from his back. He numbly looked around and then realized what had happened and acted as only he could. He lifted his camera.
He snapped back to the here and now and saw that he had finished writing the address. He sighed softly and coughed. Blood speckled down on the white coffee table. Yes, one did not walk with the Angel of Death and remain untouched. He gently took the stack of photos and scanned them one last time before slipping them into the envelope. Each photo a place in Africa, each one a record of devastation and death, and each one followed by a photo of a black man, black enough to have been carved from obsidian like a walking statute and beautiful, so beautiful that in many instances the photos of his face simply blurred as if man’s technology simply could not capture the sheer grace of the being, and in many of these photos there were the onyx wings unfurled like a predatory hawk as it strode through the wreckage of its passing.
Every prophet needed his gospel. Every prophet needed to warn the people. Jude Sanchez was no different. He had to warn the world that Baldricks was not the only thing that stalked them from beyond. He sealed the envelope.
Hampshire, England.
The knock at the door came while Commander Nigel ‘Sharkey’ Ward, DSC, AFC, RN (Retired) was eating his breakfast. Cursing the interruption at this hour of the morning he made his way to the door. “Yes, what is it?” He asked before taking in who his visitor was.
To his surprise he saw a very young-looking Sub-Lieutenant, Ward noticed the wings on his sleeve marking him as a naval aviator, with two armed bluejackets, both wearing the brassard of the Naval Police, standing behind him.
“Commander Ward, Sir.” The young officer said.
“Yes, how can I help you, Sub?”
“Your presence is required at Yeovilton, Sir.” The Sub-Lieutenant replied, handing Ward a sealed envelope.
He was shocked to discover it was from the First Sea Lord and Chief of the Naval Staff, Admiral Sir Jonathan Band, himself. It informed him that the Royal Navy was returning the Sea Harrier FA.2 to service and as part of this was recalling as many retired Sea Jet pilots to service as it could. As the senior Sea Harrier pilot and pioneer in operating the aircraft, his services were required for refresher training. Admiral Band also offered him a promotion to Captain should he accept this post, if not he would simply be conscripted as a pilot at his former rank.
“Give me ten minutes to pack a few things, Sub, and those two Regulators won’t be necessary.”
Bruntingthorpe Aerodrome, Leicestershire.
The aerodrome echoed to the sound of four Rolls-Royce Olympus turbojet engines being throttled up to full power. A great delta-winged shape emerged from behind one of the hangars and made its way towards the runway; Vulcan XH558 was back in service.
Taking their lead from the USAF, the Royal Air Force had been scouring the country’s aviation museums for aircraft that might be returned to service. A small collection of various kinds of Tornado and Harrier were already on their way to RAF St. Athan, or BAE Preston for refurbishment, while a small collection of Blackburn Buccaneers was currently being assembled. Finally, the air force’s attention had focused on the only remaining airworthy Avro Vulcan B.2 left in the world. They were also now looking at the Vulcans and Victors maintained in taxiable condition, as well as those held in static condition.
Meanwhile, the volunteers of the Vulcan Operating Company had either found themselves back in the RAF or conscripted into the air force. The technicians, assisted by a team brought in from the rest of the air force, had been working hard for the last couple of weeks turning XH558 from a display aircraft into a warplane once again. One advantage that they had discovered was that the modern electronics that they had installed took up less space and were lighter than the 1950s equipment that the aircraft had once carried; that left more capacity for fuel and weapons. Spares were a potential issue, though at least the VOC had assembled enough to keep XH558 going for a while, and fortunately Rolls-Royce still had the details of how to build the Olympus engine. If push came to shove though, some spare parts might be manufactured from scratch.
If returning XH558 to service was successful it would serve as the model for XL426 and XM655, both of which were potentially airworthy, and for any of the other surviving Vulcans and Victors that were in reasonable condition.
For the entirety of the past week RAF armorers had been conducting weapons fit tests, confirming that yes, the Vulcan could still carry 1,000lb bombs, and just as their counterparts in 1982 had discovered, that she could carry three 1,000lb Laser Guided Bombs in its bomb bay. They had also double-checked that it could still carry another weapon it had once carried too.
As one of the aircraft chosen to carry the ill-fated Skybolt missile XH558 had two underwing pylons that had been used in the Falklands War to carry Shrike missiles and ECM pods. These pylons had been reactivated so that once again they could be used for weapons or jamming pods.
Today XH558 was heading off to the RAF bombing range at Garvie Island to test her newly restored capability, her belly full of twenty-one 1,000lb bombs. Her pilot and co-pilot advanced the throttles forward to the stops and the bomber began to accelerate down the long runway, once used by SAC bombers on Reflex Alert, and roared into the air as if she was young again.
“London Military this is X-Ray Hotel 558, requesting permissionto climb to flight level Thirtyand proceed on the flight plan, over.”
“Roger that, 558. Welcome back to the air force, over.”
Apartment in Queens, New York
He carefully wrote out the name and address on the plain manila envelope with his black sharpie. It whispered across the surface as his elegant but simple strokes spelled out the name James Randi. He stopped for a moment, the quiet dulcet tones of the classical music in the background were swelling up now and he listened. He ignored the palsied shaking of his left hand. There was no time for fear.
His eyes drifted down to the small pile of photos stacked up next to the open envelope. The top photo was a wide-angled shot of an African village, with thatched huts and low-hanging solitary trees with scrub brush everywhere. It was almost clichéd as if he had taken a photo of an African village set in the back lot of Paramount. He only wished that were true. In the wide-angle shot, there were plumes of black smoke rising in several locations throughout the center of the village. His thoughts, unbidden as always, drifted back to that moment in time. His eyes lost their focus on the photo, and he was no longer in his quiet home in a nondescript neighborhood of Queens. He was stalking through the deep scrub brush of the African village.
The heat was oppressive, and the sweat clung to his body unwilling to leave and unable to really cool him in this Subsaharan warmth. He had heard of the atrocities committed here in Darfur and like many of the Western journalists here he was losing hope that anyone cared about the Africans dying in the wastes of this forsaken place. As he walked into the village, he was painfully aware of how alone he was here and how exposed should rebel or government forces decide to descend on this village and finish what they had obviously started. He could already hear the lamentation of the women. It was a mournful yet desperate dirge that refused any succor or solace.
It was the wailing of the women, the gnashing of the teeth of the men that must have attracted it here. The sounds of death in the old ways. The way people used to mourn before things got so civilized. But he was getting ahead of himself, wasn’t he? He stepped between huts and abandoned carts, weaving through the debris and the occasional crater caused by some form of an ordinance. Perhaps the government had sent another wave of Russian-built bombers up north to deal more death to these villagers. It had happened before.
The camera whirred and clicked in rapid-fire sequence as he took his shots while moving through the village, a discarded doll, a shoe left in the dirt, and blood smeared across a doorway. It was all a flowing narrative, and he was capturing it as best he could in this miserable heat and squalor. The smell struck him as soon as he approached the town center, and he immediately knew what the fires were. People were burning. He pulled his camera up before him like a weapon, fingers tense as he prepared to take his shots.
He stepped over a dead mule, the flies already swirling in angry buzzing clouds. His eyes narrowed on the ruined town center. The market was on fire and there were people trapped within some of the flaming wrecks. A lot of people. The bombs struck at midday when many of the villagers were gathering what they could for dinner. The people who did this knew precisely what they were doing when they carried out the attack. He began snapping photos, the lens quietly clicking as it focused on the flailing limbs of the trapped and burning, capturing the expressions of pain and anguish. The lost hope was stamped across the faces of relatives. He had to keep taking the pictures because if he stopped, even for a moment, he could begin to comprehend what he was seeing, and he would lose all sense of composure and self-control.
People were trapped in the rubble and being burned alive and there was nothing anyone could do about it. He captured, with numb resolve, the desperately futile attempts by relatives and good Samaritans to douse the flames with buckets of water or dirt. He continued snapping pictures as they worked furiously. Suddenly a young girl rushed up to him and began tugging at his arm and speaking to him in a machine gun-like delivery. She was begging him, begging in the most heart-wrenching manner for assistance. All he could do was drop his camera for a moment and shake his head sadly. Tears welled up in her eyes and she pulled now, almost as if trying to physically drag him to the scene. He continued to shake his head and then weakly responded in his stilted version of her dialect that he could do nothing.
She shook her head and wailed, slapping herself on the sides of her forehead and falling to her knees. She sunk down into the packed earth and sobbed into it as if it were her mother’s breast. Her body shifted back and forth furiously as if trying to burrow into the ground to escape her grief and her cries were like knives in his heart. He stared down at the sight dumbly, unsure what to say or do. His Western mind was unprepared for this level of grief.
“It is like music don’t you think, Jude?”
He froze. The voice was soft like silk sheets on skin. The person stood beside him, materializing out of the air like a shadow escaping the noonday sun.
“The anguish, the terror, the guilt. When death comes for humanity, it is the most feared and awesome event in their too-brief lives.” His eyes slowly turned to regard the person. He stood taller than Jude, black as obsidian in the sun and wearing a simple white shirt opened at the chest with filthy khakis. His feet were clad in battered hiking boots. The boots were splattered with what he guessed were ancient blood stains. “Imagine it, Jude. You come into this world and breath for the first time you have simultaneously taken one more step towards death.” The newcomer turned his head slowly to face him and it was so achingly graceful that Jude wanted to weep. “The moment you are born you are dying. That is the paradox in which you live.”
Jude shook his head slowly. “Who are you?” he asked quietly. There was an awesome sense of power around him, like standing next to a livewire and he was dimly aware that the activity around them, the dying, and the screams were all slowing down and muted as if the world were pausing out of respect for his conversation with the stranger.
The stranger smiled softly as if at a private joke. “I am a traveler in your world, I come and go as I please and where I go death follows me.”
“You’re not human,” Jude replied without thinking and immediately had no idea why he just said that.
“I am more than anything you have ever known, Jude, son of Gregory. I am the sword, the scythe of the One Above All, and in my passing entire nations have wept bitter tears. The first-born tremble at my name.”
Unspoken, Jude heard a single name whispered with reverence in his head. “Uriel.”
The black Adonis-like being said nothing but pursed his lips as if contemplating his next words carefully. “Follow me.”
“What?” Jude stammered.
“Follow me, Jude. I have many roads yet to travel and this continent pleases me. The people here still know how to grieve. They are still connected on a primal level to death and mortality. Your sterile world repels and abhors me. Death in your world is a clinical state with consequences tied up in paperwork and inconvenience. Here. In this place.” Uriel slowly raised his arms as if to embrace some unseen thing in the ether. “Death is still felt.”
“This is insane.”
“No, this is life and death happening now. There is something coming. A great message that will make even your great Empires in the West feel again. I wanted to bask in the cold glow of entropy one last time before I must leave this place.”
“I’m talking to the angel of death…” Jude whispered to himself in disbelief. “I finally lost it. I’ve seen too much.”
Uriel suddenly reached out, at least Jude guessed he reached out because he must have done it between the blinks of an eye, for in the next instant Uriel’s hand grasped Jude’s chin tightly and forced him to look into his eyes. And in the angel’s eyes, he saw a pool of white within the white and something else. Something dark and chittering like a mad insect.
“FOCUS child of Seth.”
Jude’s hair grayed at the temples, and he felt a palsy come over him, hands shaking, and his bowels released their contents without hesitation. He stood in abject terror, rooted in place, and suddenly everything Uriel wanted and said was the sole thing in Jude’s universe.
“Follow me, you will know my wake for in it there is pestilence, war, and famine. Follow me throughout this continent and see my great works. For when I am gone there will be none like me again in this universe. I am the One Above All’s scythe, where I go, humanity dies. I am not just some quaint Angel of Death; I am entropy incarnate. I weep for your world for my touch is far more merciful than what is to come. The Morningstar has always been too…blunt an instrument for my taste.”
Jude said nothing, but his tongue lolled in his mouth and his vision began to fade. He could hear his heartbeat pounding in his ears and the roar of blood., His heart was slowing, inexorably slowing to a dull thrumming and he could feel ice collecting where Uriel’s fingers touched his flesh, his blood had instantly recoiled at the touch and remained away from the points flesh-on-flesh contact.
“Within your bloodline is carried the ancient gift like the one borne by the Witch of Endor and all that ilk. You can see me for what I am. So, follow me, Jude, I choose you as my final witness in these dark days. A prophet for a new age.”
Uriel released Jude’s chin and watched the young man for a moment as blood rushed back into his face and graying cold clammy skin slowly regained its luster. His hair remained grey, and his cheeks had sunk in slightly. There was no doubt these were scars that would remain. One did not touch the divine without scars remaining to mark its passage.
Uriel looked back over the crowd of screaming refugees, the world apparently was coming back up to speed and volume and nodded as if coming to a decision. “Peace be with you and my peace I grant you.” He whispered and suddenly every single living thing in the town square down to the angrily buzzing flies dropped to the earth in an instant. Uriel nodded in satisfaction turned in a slow beautiful motion and strode away. In the glaring noonday sun, Jude saw the hint of ebony wings jutting from his back. He numbly looked around and then realized what had happened and acted as only he could. He lifted his camera.
He snapped back to the here and now and saw that he had finished writing the address. He sighed softly and coughed. Blood speckled down on the white coffee table. Yes, one did not walk with the Angel of Death and remain untouched. He gently took the stack of photos and scanned them one last time before slipping them into the envelope. Each photo a place in Africa, each one a record of devastation and death, and each one followed by a photo of a black man, black enough to have been carved from obsidian like a walking statute and beautiful, so beautiful that in many instances the photos of his face simply blurred as if man’s technology simply could not capture the sheer grace of the being, and in many of these photos there were the onyx wings unfurled like a predatory hawk as it strode through the wreckage of its passing.
Every prophet needed his gospel. Every prophet needed to warn the people. Jude Sanchez was no different. He had to warn the world that Baldricks was not the only thing that stalked them from beyond. He sealed the envelope.
Hampshire, England.
The knock at the door came while Commander Nigel ‘Sharkey’ Ward, DSC, AFC, RN (Retired) was eating his breakfast. Cursing the interruption at this hour of the morning he made his way to the door. “Yes, what is it?” He asked before taking in who his visitor was.
To his surprise he saw a very young-looking Sub-Lieutenant, Ward noticed the wings on his sleeve marking him as a naval aviator, with two armed bluejackets, both wearing the brassard of the Naval Police, standing behind him.
“Commander Ward, Sir.” The young officer said.
“Yes, how can I help you, Sub?”
“Your presence is required at Yeovilton, Sir.” The Sub-Lieutenant replied, handing Ward a sealed envelope.
He was shocked to discover it was from the First Sea Lord and Chief of the Naval Staff, Admiral Sir Jonathan Band, himself. It informed him that the Royal Navy was returning the Sea Harrier FA.2 to service and as part of this was recalling as many retired Sea Jet pilots to service as it could. As the senior Sea Harrier pilot and pioneer in operating the aircraft, his services were required for refresher training. Admiral Band also offered him a promotion to Captain should he accept this post, if not he would simply be conscripted as a pilot at his former rank.
“Give me ten minutes to pack a few things, Sub, and those two Regulators won’t be necessary.”
Bruntingthorpe Aerodrome, Leicestershire.
The aerodrome echoed to the sound of four Rolls-Royce Olympus turbojet engines being throttled up to full power. A great delta-winged shape emerged from behind one of the hangars and made its way towards the runway; Vulcan XH558 was back in service.
Taking their lead from the USAF, the Royal Air Force had been scouring the country’s aviation museums for aircraft that might be returned to service. A small collection of various kinds of Tornado and Harrier were already on their way to RAF St. Athan, or BAE Preston for refurbishment, while a small collection of Blackburn Buccaneers was currently being assembled. Finally, the air force’s attention had focused on the only remaining airworthy Avro Vulcan B.2 left in the world. They were also now looking at the Vulcans and Victors maintained in taxiable condition, as well as those held in static condition.
Meanwhile, the volunteers of the Vulcan Operating Company had either found themselves back in the RAF or conscripted into the air force. The technicians, assisted by a team brought in from the rest of the air force, had been working hard for the last couple of weeks turning XH558 from a display aircraft into a warplane once again. One advantage that they had discovered was that the modern electronics that they had installed took up less space and were lighter than the 1950s equipment that the aircraft had once carried; that left more capacity for fuel and weapons. Spares were a potential issue, though at least the VOC had assembled enough to keep XH558 going for a while, and fortunately Rolls-Royce still had the details of how to build the Olympus engine. If push came to shove though, some spare parts might be manufactured from scratch.
If returning XH558 to service was successful it would serve as the model for XL426 and XM655, both of which were potentially airworthy, and for any of the other surviving Vulcans and Victors that were in reasonable condition.
For the entirety of the past week RAF armorers had been conducting weapons fit tests, confirming that yes, the Vulcan could still carry 1,000lb bombs, and just as their counterparts in 1982 had discovered, that she could carry three 1,000lb Laser Guided Bombs in its bomb bay. They had also double-checked that it could still carry another weapon it had once carried too.
As one of the aircraft chosen to carry the ill-fated Skybolt missile XH558 had two underwing pylons that had been used in the Falklands War to carry Shrike missiles and ECM pods. These pylons had been reactivated so that once again they could be used for weapons or jamming pods.
Today XH558 was heading off to the RAF bombing range at Garvie Island to test her newly restored capability, her belly full of twenty-one 1,000lb bombs. Her pilot and co-pilot advanced the throttles forward to the stops and the bomber began to accelerate down the long runway, once used by SAC bombers on Reflex Alert, and roared into the air as if she was young again.
“London Military this is X-Ray Hotel 558, requesting permissionto climb to flight level Thirtyand proceed on the flight plan, over.”
“Roger that, 558. Welcome back to the air force, over.”
Re: 2008 - Armageddon
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Oxford, England.
Professor Richard Dawkins was a deeply unhappy man. He had spent much of his career trying to prove that God, and by extension Satan, did not exist. He had even managed to convince himself that he had proven it beyond a reasonable doubt. Several scholars disagreed with him and had even gone as far as to write books that argued that Dawkins was wrong, though the professor was so convinced of being right he had not even tried to debate with them, despite the apparent logic of many of their arguments. He was right, and that was all that mattered.
The Message had upset all his work, God did exist, even if he had abandoned humanity to the tender mercies of Hell. Despite all his efforts to try and prove it was fake, The Message had been all too real. The only crumb of comfort he could take from the situation was that his thesis that religion was inherently bad had been proven right, and at least he had not had to listen to the faithful say ‘I told you so’, which would have happened had a benevolent, loving God revealed himself.
Despite all that was happening in the world Dawkins had decided to devote his time to writing a book that argued that The Message had vindicated his work, glossing over the fact that he had been wrong about the non-existence of Heaven and Hell; most readers would not remember that he thought. Evidently, he had not been paying enough attention to the news, the Government had implemented paper rationing to go with fuel and food rationing, and very few books would be getting published soon. In fact, very little other than military manuals and very truncated newspapers would be published from now on. To the intense distress of some, The Sun had decided to discontinue Page 3 for the foreseeable future.
Dawkins’ stomach reminded him that it was time for lunch. He left the Oxford University college where he worked, intending to eat in the pub frequented by C.S Lewis and J.R.R Tolkien, idly wondering whether they continued their theological argument now that they were in Hell.
He passed two Thames Valley Police constables, the thought of John Thaw coming into his mind as he did so. What did bring him up short was that both officers were armed, still something of a rare sight in Britain. The two Police Constables carried the standard Glock 17 as a sidearm, though one carried a G36C rifle, while the second carried a pump-action shotgun. The British police had searched through their armories for suitable weapons to arm as many of their officers, whether Authorized Firearms Officers or not.
“Professor Dawkins?”
Dawkins turned back from staring at the two coppers to see a slightly disheveled, long-haired man in his mid-twenties standing in front of him. The professor was not worried, lots of his fans and acolytes liked to speak to him about his work or ask for his autograph. It wasn’t as if he was likely to be assailed by any religious fanatics these days.
“Yes.” He replied. “I think I have a pen here somewhere…” Dawkins continued absentmindedly.
“Good, good.” The man said satisfied. “This is all your fault!” He suddenly yelled, taking the professor by surprise. “You and your ilk denied the All-Mighty and he has abandoned us to eternal damnation as punishment!”
“Look here…” Dawkins began to say hoping that those two police officers he had seen earlier were not too far away had heard the commotion and would come to his rescue but was cut off by a sharp pain in his chest.
He looked down to see the wild-eyed man pull an eight-inch knife out of his chest. The man raised his arm and stabbed again, and again and again.
The two police officers had indeed heard the yelling and had been hurrying to deal with it. Instead of seeing two men arguing they saw one man lying on the pavement surrounded by a spreading pool of red, while the other was spattered with blood and held aloft a dripping knife. He looked straight at the aghast police officers.
“All-Mighty Lord, today I have truly done your work. I will gladly do my penance!” The murderer screamed; his voice was rich in exaltation.
The shotgun-armed constable brought up his weapon and shot him once. The heavy slug intended for use against baldricks made an incredible mess of a human being, blasting a huge hole in his chest and throwing the corpse out into the road.
“Enjoy rotting in Hell mate.” The copper said as he worked the slide on his weapon. “You’ve condemned an innocent man to hideous torture.”
Headquarters, Randi Institute of Pneumatology, The Pentagon, Arlington, VA
“This letter was received by the Institute a few hours ago. It provides us with eye-witness evidence that angels, as well as demons, have been behind much of the misery that has afflicted our world over the centuries… Excuse me.”
Randi turned to a secretary who had brought in a message flimsy. He read it, then turned dead white. “Gentlemen, Ladies, my apologies. I must ask to be excused. Please carry on with the agenda.” He turned and left the conference room, the sharper observers noting that he staggered slightly as he did so.
A few minutes later, Julie Adams knocked quietly on the door of his office and went in. Randi was sitting at his desk, his face in his hands, sobbing quietly. She slipped behind him and put an arm around his shoulders, she owed her sanity to this man and some comfort was the least she could provide.
“What’s happened, James?”
“An old friend of mine, Richard Dawkins, has been killed. He was attacked in the street, in Oxford. He never stood a chance.”
“A baldrick?”
“No, that’s what is so horrible. It was some religious nutcase, witnesses say he was screaming stuff about how Richard and I brought all this down on humanity, that by denying God, we brought about all of humanity’s damnation.”
“That’s ridiculous James. The poor man was probably insane – or possessed. Was he wearing his hat?”
“Is it so ridiculous? Really. We were so sure we were right, that all this talk of gods and devils and great sky pixies was just old, outmoded superstition. Just ancient people without the knowledge to understand what was going on around them giving the only explanation they could think of. We laughed at them, ridiculed their ideas and beliefs and all the time there was a higher dimension, there were creatures who influenced our lives. The old legends did have a base of truth in them, and we laughed them off. Just as we laughed off the people who tried to tell us we needed these tinfoil hats. Now it’s the people who refuse to wear them that are the dangerous cranks. So, did we condemn humanity by our arrogance?”
“When did Heaven get closed to new entrants James?”
“Nobody knows. Everybody has different theories, but 1000 AD is the most popular.”
“And you and your friend are really that old?”
Rand started at the suggestion and frowned. “This isn’t funny.”
“No, it isn’t James. It’s not funny at all. You’re blaming yourself, your friend, and all those who thought like you for something that happened more than a thousand years ago. That’s absurd, not funny. Got news for you James, the world does not rotate around you any more than it rotates around any one of us. Your friend was a victim of the same mean, treacherous deception that made victims of us all. So, stop blaming yourself and try to think out how we can help your friend.”
“What?” Randi was stunned by the comment.
“Well, we know he’s in hell, don’t we? Everybody who dies is. We know Kitten can find people in hell and contact them if she has enough to go on. Do you have pictures of your friend, personal stuff, or things he gave you? Then give them to Kitten and see if she can contact him. Then we can work out how to get him out of there.”
“Bring him back from the dead?”
“Why not? We’re sending enough occupants of hell in the opposite direction. At least let’s try instead of wallowing in self-pity.”
Inner Ring, Seventh Circle of Hell
Richard Dawkins writhed and twisted on the burning sand, trying to evade the flurries of searing flakes that tormented him. As far as he could see, he was in a featureless desert, broken only by the forms of other victims thrashing about in the same agony as him. He had no idea how long he had been here, all he could remember was the knife plunging into him and then everything around him converging into a single bright dot, the way an old-fashioned television did when the station closed. Then the impression of a tunnel and the sudden impact of pain as he had found himself here.
This was it; this was hell, and he was stuck here forever. Then he mentally struck himself, no, he wasn’t here forever. He was here until humans could blast their way down to him and free him. That was it. He had to hold out until then.
The burns from the sand and those accursed flakes made thinking difficult and Dawkins believed he was going mad. There was a voice calling him. “Richard, Richard.” He knew the pain from the burning was making him hallucinate. “Richard, Richard?” It was still going on.
“Lalla?” It couldn’t be, she was still alive. He was imagining things.
“No, it’s Kitten. Is this Richard Dawkins?”
“Who are you?”
“You don’t know me; I work for James Randi. You are Richard Dawkins. If you are, we’re using you as an experiment.”
“I’m Dawkins. Please, help me.”
“We’re trying. Hold on.”
Headquarters, Randi Institute of Pneumatology, The Pentagon, Arlington, VA
“I’m through, I got him. Poor thing, he sounds terrible.”
“Being knifed and sent to hell will do that to a man.” The speaker was one of four Special Forces men in the room, wearing orange-red BDUs and armed with the new M4A5s.
“Get ready to move Lieutenant Madeuce. Once the portal is open, we can’t hold it for long. And don’t forget the bolt-cutters. Ready Kitten? Here we go.”
James Kirkpatrick started turning up the dial, artificially boosting the signal they’d recorded connecting Kitten and Dawkins. Soon enough, the now-familiar ellipse started to form. As it increased in size Kitten was threshing around helplessly on her couch, her partner dabbing her forehead and whispering comfortingly to her. Then, it was large enough and the Special Forces H-team stepped through.
Inner Ring, Seventh Circle of Hell
“Get a poncho over him fast. Damn these blasted flakes, what the hell is this place?” Madeuce was angry and hurried, this was nothing like what had been described to them.
“Hell boss. Sir stay still Sir, we’ll get you out of this. Just hold still.” The tool-steel bolt-cutters sliced easily through even the thick bronze shackles.
“Shit we’ve got company!” A figure, tall and black had suddenly appeared. Madeuce squeezed off a burst from his carbine at him and saw the figure lurch with the hits. Then a streak of fire shot across the burning desert and the baldrick exploded. “Well done, Frankie. They don’t like AT-4s.”
Behind them, the other two members of the team had freed Dawkins and dragged him through the ellipse. Madeuce and Frankie Portello followed them out and the ellipse closed behind them.
Headquarters, Randi Institute of Pneumatology, The Pentagon, Arlington, VA
“We got him!” The voice from the Special Forces team was triumphant. All four were back in the room and the portal had been open for less than a minute.
The body of Richard Dawkins was in the room with doctors applying instruments and probes. “We’re getting readings, he’s err....” The doctor was about to say ‘alive’ but stopped himself. “With us.”
“Richard, can you hear me.” Randi was urgent, almost frantic, far removed from the gentlemanly, calm demeanor he usually maintained.
“James how did you... what’s happening?”
“We got you out. Don’t ask how but we did.”
“Mister Randi, energy levels we’re getting are fading, it’s as if his life wasn’t already dead, is leaking out.”
“Right,” Kirkpatrick said to Kitten. “Can you contact Lieutenant Kim please? Then we’ll open a portal to her.”
“All right, please hurry though.” Kitten relaxed on her seat and closed her eyes, concentrating on her picture of Jade Kim. Over the other side of the room, the H-team was loading up with supplies for the PFLH. No point in wasting a trip.
“Richard, we can’t keep you here, we’re sending you back to the Fifth Circle. We have a resistance team there; they’ll shelter you until they can get you into hiding.”
“Ma’am.” Lieutenant Madeuce was speaking to Kitten. Don’t hold the portal open after we’re through. Once we’ve arrived, we’ll be staying there for a while.” Kitten nodded with her eyes still closed.
On the Shore of the Styx, Fifth Ring, Hell
Kim’s eyes were suddenly defocused. “Message coming through guys. Our resupply hopefully.
Lieutenant Kim? It was Kitten again.
“Yes Kitten”
“Get ready, portal opening. There’s a special forces team and a passenger coming through with some supplies. They’ll explain what’s happening. Get ready now.”
The black ellipse formed as a point and rapidly swelled to its full size, large enough for a man to step through. Five figures came through, four in red brown BDUs that matched the foul air of Hell very well. The fifth man was naked, his body burned but already starting to heal. Kim recognized it was the enhanced healing power of hell. This person was one of the dead, just like Kim and her little unit.
“Ma’am. Lieutenant Madeuce. Special Forces. This is Richard Dawkins, we pulled him out of somewhere else in Hell and brought him here.”
“Why? We haven’t room for passengers.”
“We needed to know if people can be brought from hell to earth and stay there. Well, they can’t, he was, well, dying for want of a better word. The eggheads needed to know if Kitten could find other people, we needed to know if we can do transits like this. So many things. Look, we’re staying onto help you here. In your reports, you mentioned a refugee organization. Can they look after him?”
“Why can’t I fight as well.”
“Because you’re not trained to. This is a job for professionals.” Madeuce’s voice was curt. “Can we get him to safety? Ma’am. My orders are to place myself under your command.”
Kim nodded. Being dead had its advantages, if this war went on long enough, she would be the most senior Lieutenant in history. “There is a refugee organization, headed up by a woman called Rahab. We don’t know if we can trust her, this will make a good test. OK, Bubbles, Mac, we better find Rahab. Madeuce, you bring supplies?
“120 kilograms of Semtex, another M107 a lot of ammunition for same, and six M4A5 carbines. Oh, and a video camera. The brass wants pictures and films of hell.”
Kim nodded, the Semtex wasn’t enough, but it would do. “Who are you, Sir?”
“Richard Dawkins. I was an author.”
“I know, I read one of your books. Guess you must be pretty embarrassed huh? Don’t sweat it, we’ll look after you.
Oxford, England.
Professor Richard Dawkins was a deeply unhappy man. He had spent much of his career trying to prove that God, and by extension Satan, did not exist. He had even managed to convince himself that he had proven it beyond a reasonable doubt. Several scholars disagreed with him and had even gone as far as to write books that argued that Dawkins was wrong, though the professor was so convinced of being right he had not even tried to debate with them, despite the apparent logic of many of their arguments. He was right, and that was all that mattered.
The Message had upset all his work, God did exist, even if he had abandoned humanity to the tender mercies of Hell. Despite all his efforts to try and prove it was fake, The Message had been all too real. The only crumb of comfort he could take from the situation was that his thesis that religion was inherently bad had been proven right, and at least he had not had to listen to the faithful say ‘I told you so’, which would have happened had a benevolent, loving God revealed himself.
Despite all that was happening in the world Dawkins had decided to devote his time to writing a book that argued that The Message had vindicated his work, glossing over the fact that he had been wrong about the non-existence of Heaven and Hell; most readers would not remember that he thought. Evidently, he had not been paying enough attention to the news, the Government had implemented paper rationing to go with fuel and food rationing, and very few books would be getting published soon. In fact, very little other than military manuals and very truncated newspapers would be published from now on. To the intense distress of some, The Sun had decided to discontinue Page 3 for the foreseeable future.
Dawkins’ stomach reminded him that it was time for lunch. He left the Oxford University college where he worked, intending to eat in the pub frequented by C.S Lewis and J.R.R Tolkien, idly wondering whether they continued their theological argument now that they were in Hell.
He passed two Thames Valley Police constables, the thought of John Thaw coming into his mind as he did so. What did bring him up short was that both officers were armed, still something of a rare sight in Britain. The two Police Constables carried the standard Glock 17 as a sidearm, though one carried a G36C rifle, while the second carried a pump-action shotgun. The British police had searched through their armories for suitable weapons to arm as many of their officers, whether Authorized Firearms Officers or not.
“Professor Dawkins?”
Dawkins turned back from staring at the two coppers to see a slightly disheveled, long-haired man in his mid-twenties standing in front of him. The professor was not worried, lots of his fans and acolytes liked to speak to him about his work or ask for his autograph. It wasn’t as if he was likely to be assailed by any religious fanatics these days.
“Yes.” He replied. “I think I have a pen here somewhere…” Dawkins continued absentmindedly.
“Good, good.” The man said satisfied. “This is all your fault!” He suddenly yelled, taking the professor by surprise. “You and your ilk denied the All-Mighty and he has abandoned us to eternal damnation as punishment!”
“Look here…” Dawkins began to say hoping that those two police officers he had seen earlier were not too far away had heard the commotion and would come to his rescue but was cut off by a sharp pain in his chest.
He looked down to see the wild-eyed man pull an eight-inch knife out of his chest. The man raised his arm and stabbed again, and again and again.
The two police officers had indeed heard the yelling and had been hurrying to deal with it. Instead of seeing two men arguing they saw one man lying on the pavement surrounded by a spreading pool of red, while the other was spattered with blood and held aloft a dripping knife. He looked straight at the aghast police officers.
“All-Mighty Lord, today I have truly done your work. I will gladly do my penance!” The murderer screamed; his voice was rich in exaltation.
The shotgun-armed constable brought up his weapon and shot him once. The heavy slug intended for use against baldricks made an incredible mess of a human being, blasting a huge hole in his chest and throwing the corpse out into the road.
“Enjoy rotting in Hell mate.” The copper said as he worked the slide on his weapon. “You’ve condemned an innocent man to hideous torture.”
Headquarters, Randi Institute of Pneumatology, The Pentagon, Arlington, VA
“This letter was received by the Institute a few hours ago. It provides us with eye-witness evidence that angels, as well as demons, have been behind much of the misery that has afflicted our world over the centuries… Excuse me.”
Randi turned to a secretary who had brought in a message flimsy. He read it, then turned dead white. “Gentlemen, Ladies, my apologies. I must ask to be excused. Please carry on with the agenda.” He turned and left the conference room, the sharper observers noting that he staggered slightly as he did so.
A few minutes later, Julie Adams knocked quietly on the door of his office and went in. Randi was sitting at his desk, his face in his hands, sobbing quietly. She slipped behind him and put an arm around his shoulders, she owed her sanity to this man and some comfort was the least she could provide.
“What’s happened, James?”
“An old friend of mine, Richard Dawkins, has been killed. He was attacked in the street, in Oxford. He never stood a chance.”
“A baldrick?”
“No, that’s what is so horrible. It was some religious nutcase, witnesses say he was screaming stuff about how Richard and I brought all this down on humanity, that by denying God, we brought about all of humanity’s damnation.”
“That’s ridiculous James. The poor man was probably insane – or possessed. Was he wearing his hat?”
“Is it so ridiculous? Really. We were so sure we were right, that all this talk of gods and devils and great sky pixies was just old, outmoded superstition. Just ancient people without the knowledge to understand what was going on around them giving the only explanation they could think of. We laughed at them, ridiculed their ideas and beliefs and all the time there was a higher dimension, there were creatures who influenced our lives. The old legends did have a base of truth in them, and we laughed them off. Just as we laughed off the people who tried to tell us we needed these tinfoil hats. Now it’s the people who refuse to wear them that are the dangerous cranks. So, did we condemn humanity by our arrogance?”
“When did Heaven get closed to new entrants James?”
“Nobody knows. Everybody has different theories, but 1000 AD is the most popular.”
“And you and your friend are really that old?”
Rand started at the suggestion and frowned. “This isn’t funny.”
“No, it isn’t James. It’s not funny at all. You’re blaming yourself, your friend, and all those who thought like you for something that happened more than a thousand years ago. That’s absurd, not funny. Got news for you James, the world does not rotate around you any more than it rotates around any one of us. Your friend was a victim of the same mean, treacherous deception that made victims of us all. So, stop blaming yourself and try to think out how we can help your friend.”
“What?” Randi was stunned by the comment.
“Well, we know he’s in hell, don’t we? Everybody who dies is. We know Kitten can find people in hell and contact them if she has enough to go on. Do you have pictures of your friend, personal stuff, or things he gave you? Then give them to Kitten and see if she can contact him. Then we can work out how to get him out of there.”
“Bring him back from the dead?”
“Why not? We’re sending enough occupants of hell in the opposite direction. At least let’s try instead of wallowing in self-pity.”
Inner Ring, Seventh Circle of Hell
Richard Dawkins writhed and twisted on the burning sand, trying to evade the flurries of searing flakes that tormented him. As far as he could see, he was in a featureless desert, broken only by the forms of other victims thrashing about in the same agony as him. He had no idea how long he had been here, all he could remember was the knife plunging into him and then everything around him converging into a single bright dot, the way an old-fashioned television did when the station closed. Then the impression of a tunnel and the sudden impact of pain as he had found himself here.
This was it; this was hell, and he was stuck here forever. Then he mentally struck himself, no, he wasn’t here forever. He was here until humans could blast their way down to him and free him. That was it. He had to hold out until then.
The burns from the sand and those accursed flakes made thinking difficult and Dawkins believed he was going mad. There was a voice calling him. “Richard, Richard.” He knew the pain from the burning was making him hallucinate. “Richard, Richard?” It was still going on.
“Lalla?” It couldn’t be, she was still alive. He was imagining things.
“No, it’s Kitten. Is this Richard Dawkins?”
“Who are you?”
“You don’t know me; I work for James Randi. You are Richard Dawkins. If you are, we’re using you as an experiment.”
“I’m Dawkins. Please, help me.”
“We’re trying. Hold on.”
Headquarters, Randi Institute of Pneumatology, The Pentagon, Arlington, VA
“I’m through, I got him. Poor thing, he sounds terrible.”
“Being knifed and sent to hell will do that to a man.” The speaker was one of four Special Forces men in the room, wearing orange-red BDUs and armed with the new M4A5s.
“Get ready to move Lieutenant Madeuce. Once the portal is open, we can’t hold it for long. And don’t forget the bolt-cutters. Ready Kitten? Here we go.”
James Kirkpatrick started turning up the dial, artificially boosting the signal they’d recorded connecting Kitten and Dawkins. Soon enough, the now-familiar ellipse started to form. As it increased in size Kitten was threshing around helplessly on her couch, her partner dabbing her forehead and whispering comfortingly to her. Then, it was large enough and the Special Forces H-team stepped through.
Inner Ring, Seventh Circle of Hell
“Get a poncho over him fast. Damn these blasted flakes, what the hell is this place?” Madeuce was angry and hurried, this was nothing like what had been described to them.
“Hell boss. Sir stay still Sir, we’ll get you out of this. Just hold still.” The tool-steel bolt-cutters sliced easily through even the thick bronze shackles.
“Shit we’ve got company!” A figure, tall and black had suddenly appeared. Madeuce squeezed off a burst from his carbine at him and saw the figure lurch with the hits. Then a streak of fire shot across the burning desert and the baldrick exploded. “Well done, Frankie. They don’t like AT-4s.”
Behind them, the other two members of the team had freed Dawkins and dragged him through the ellipse. Madeuce and Frankie Portello followed them out and the ellipse closed behind them.
Headquarters, Randi Institute of Pneumatology, The Pentagon, Arlington, VA
“We got him!” The voice from the Special Forces team was triumphant. All four were back in the room and the portal had been open for less than a minute.
The body of Richard Dawkins was in the room with doctors applying instruments and probes. “We’re getting readings, he’s err....” The doctor was about to say ‘alive’ but stopped himself. “With us.”
“Richard, can you hear me.” Randi was urgent, almost frantic, far removed from the gentlemanly, calm demeanor he usually maintained.
“James how did you... what’s happening?”
“We got you out. Don’t ask how but we did.”
“Mister Randi, energy levels we’re getting are fading, it’s as if his life wasn’t already dead, is leaking out.”
“Right,” Kirkpatrick said to Kitten. “Can you contact Lieutenant Kim please? Then we’ll open a portal to her.”
“All right, please hurry though.” Kitten relaxed on her seat and closed her eyes, concentrating on her picture of Jade Kim. Over the other side of the room, the H-team was loading up with supplies for the PFLH. No point in wasting a trip.
“Richard, we can’t keep you here, we’re sending you back to the Fifth Circle. We have a resistance team there; they’ll shelter you until they can get you into hiding.”
“Ma’am.” Lieutenant Madeuce was speaking to Kitten. Don’t hold the portal open after we’re through. Once we’ve arrived, we’ll be staying there for a while.” Kitten nodded with her eyes still closed.
On the Shore of the Styx, Fifth Ring, Hell
Kim’s eyes were suddenly defocused. “Message coming through guys. Our resupply hopefully.
Lieutenant Kim? It was Kitten again.
“Yes Kitten”
“Get ready, portal opening. There’s a special forces team and a passenger coming through with some supplies. They’ll explain what’s happening. Get ready now.”
The black ellipse formed as a point and rapidly swelled to its full size, large enough for a man to step through. Five figures came through, four in red brown BDUs that matched the foul air of Hell very well. The fifth man was naked, his body burned but already starting to heal. Kim recognized it was the enhanced healing power of hell. This person was one of the dead, just like Kim and her little unit.
“Ma’am. Lieutenant Madeuce. Special Forces. This is Richard Dawkins, we pulled him out of somewhere else in Hell and brought him here.”
“Why? We haven’t room for passengers.”
“We needed to know if people can be brought from hell to earth and stay there. Well, they can’t, he was, well, dying for want of a better word. The eggheads needed to know if Kitten could find other people, we needed to know if we can do transits like this. So many things. Look, we’re staying onto help you here. In your reports, you mentioned a refugee organization. Can they look after him?”
“Why can’t I fight as well.”
“Because you’re not trained to. This is a job for professionals.” Madeuce’s voice was curt. “Can we get him to safety? Ma’am. My orders are to place myself under your command.”
Kim nodded. Being dead had its advantages, if this war went on long enough, she would be the most senior Lieutenant in history. “There is a refugee organization, headed up by a woman called Rahab. We don’t know if we can trust her, this will make a good test. OK, Bubbles, Mac, we better find Rahab. Madeuce, you bring supplies?
“120 kilograms of Semtex, another M107 a lot of ammunition for same, and six M4A5 carbines. Oh, and a video camera. The brass wants pictures and films of hell.”
Kim nodded, the Semtex wasn’t enough, but it would do. “Who are you, Sir?”
“Richard Dawkins. I was an author.”
“I know, I read one of your books. Guess you must be pretty embarrassed huh? Don’t sweat it, we’ll look after you.
Re: 2008 - Armageddon
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Martial Field of Dysprosium, Hell
Had it been only two earth weeks ago? Then, his army had marched out, banners flying, horns, and trumpets blaring, drums thudding. A sight to stir the blood and induce martial ardor in all who saw it. A huge Army, 60 legions strong, 400,000 demons had sortied to defeat the humans. It was all supposed to have been so easy, so glorious. Trampling humanity underfoot, ravaging their cities, destroying their works, and carrying their souls back in triumph to Hell.
And what was left now? How many of the 400,000 had made it back alive? Or even half-alive? 300? 400 at most and the majority were wounded, some so badly they would be little more than helpless children. Neither the humans nor their weapons had mercy, those who their weapons spared, they left crippled and feeble. The sounds were as appalling as the sight of the shattered fragment that was all that was left of his Army. No martial music, no bombastic speeches either. Just the wailing of the wounded and the bereaved. Abigor didn’t know which was worse, the cries of the wounded or the yowls of the females as they hunted through the survivors for their mates. Mostly those howls turned into screams of misery as they realized their mate was not on the tiny list of survivors, on rare occasions, the scream of relief was moderated, diluted, by the grief when they saw the awful wounds the humans had inflicted. Rare indeed for a mate to find her demon whole and untouched. Not one in tens of thousands.
Abigor heard the sobbing at his feet. A cavalryman was sitting down cross-legged on the ground, the head of his Beast in his lap. The cavalryman was badly wounded, his side laid open by fragments, but his Beast was dying. The fire in its angry red eyes was slowly dimming and the cause was obvious. The wound in its side was massive, blasted open, and burned deep. A seeker lance had caused that, Abigor knew from seeing too many.
“Sire, he wouldn’t stop. I tried to make him stop and rest, but he wouldn’t. He just kept going, carrying me back here. I did try to make him rest but he wouldn’t and now he’s dying.”
In this case, the Beast had shown better tactical common sense than its rider, Abigor reflected. If they had stopped, they’d have been caught and killed by the Iron Chariots. But it was true, the Beast had saved its rider’s life. “What is your name rider?”
“Visharakoramal Sire, of the Right Wing.”
“Visharakoramal, take your mate and go home. Go somewhere quiet and remote where none who might seek would look and make your home there.” On the ground, the light in the Beast’s eyes flickered and went out. It was dead. “Do not let his sacrifice be in vain. Take your mate and go home, when hundreds of thousands are dead, one more will not be noted.”
Visharakoramal nodded and gently laid the Beast’s head down, then took his mate and quietly left. Abigor looked around, catching another three figures coming through the Hellmouth. Two demons carrying a third whose legs had been blown off, probably by one of the mage-bars the humans had scattered. That was new also, the sight of demons helping their wounded. They must have learned it from the humans, at Hit, Abigor had seen how many humans would risk their lives to rescue one of their own who was in trouble. He’d seen the great Iron Chariots go places and do unimaginable, terrible things to help one of their own. It was strange, exposure to the humans was changing the demons in ways other than the nightmare of the human’s crushing superiority in weaponry.
“Sire?”
Abigor turned. Behind him was a figure, not as great as he but still larger than the pitiful remnants of his Army. A Lesser Herald, but one whose wings were stunted and malformed.
“Sire I am Memnon, Lesser Herald. I have a message for His Infernal Majesty. May I accompany you to an audience with him?”
An audience with Satan? Abigor shuddered, to relay the tale of this catastrophe was certain death. “You realize my company might bring you death? Who is your message from?”
“From Yahweh. And death I think, is the least of our problems.”
That was true, Abigor thought. It might be good to have company on this final walk. He found himself urgently wishing he’d died on the run to the Hellmouth just a few hours ago.
Six hours earlier, Hellmouth, Western Iraq
Abigor crouched in the hollow. The Hellmouth was clearly visible on the horizon, the impossible geometry glimmering black against the dark blue velvet of the predawn sky. For the umpteenth time that night – he hadn't slept; the quiet desert sounds kept startling him from any pretense of restfulness – he began to mull over the defeat and stopped himself. There was just no way of explaining how humans had become so powerful.
Sighing, he shook himself and peeked up; the huge portal was less than ten miles away. A straight run would get him there in less than an hour. He would cross through and – and then what? Report to Satan? Abigor frowned. If Satan had heard already, Abigor was as good as dead; no other Duke would want to begin to associate with him. His position in the court was gone, taken now, probably by Belial or some other scheming coward.
Could he stay with his former allies? The thought flitted through his mind, then was easily dismissed as he began trudging through the soft sand toward his destination. The Dukes, who were former allies, were just that – former. None of them would touch him with a thirtyfoot pole now; given the totality of his defeat, he suspected that nothing could save him. But what alternatives did he have? Stay here, where the human magic crushed everything in its path, and they sought out their defeated enemies to slaughter them like cattle? He had to get back to hell, he had to warn the others of the nightmare they faced.
The sun peeked above the horizon behind him, and his shadow stretched far ahead of him. The cloudless sky was striated orange and pink, fading to purple in the western sky before him. For a moment, Abigor stopped and looked around him, at the last clear, white stars fading in the west, at the beautiful dawn panorama unfolding in the east over the flat, unimaginably vast desert wastes. The ground here was as like a part of hell as any he'd seen, and yet above it stretched such beauty. The humans didn't know what they had, he thought; how could they appreciate such sublime beauty? And demons didn't know what they were missing either. With a twinge of sorrow, he contemplated again his ruined future back home under the dull, ceaseless striation of hell's skies.
Suddenly, his ears perked – a small buzz in the distance. Could it be a human implement? He froze for an instant, and in that instant, he detected a now-familiar deeper rumble: horseless iron chariots. He broke into a flat-out sprint for the portal.
Multi-National Force Headquarters, Green Zone, Baghdad, Iraq
“Have we got the Global Hawk feed up?” asked General Petraeus.
One of the technicians, Bert, replied, “Yep. It should be on the main screen right ...” there was a ticker of fingers on a keyboard and a mouse click “... now.” The screen blinked, fuzzed, and there was the Hellmouth, black against the pink-lit sand.
The whole scene moved slowly as the cameras on the Global Hawk zoomed in on the portal. The entire Hellmouth surveillance mission had been on the backburner as the Global Hawks had been used to control the allied forces that had annihilated the demonic army. That was over now, the baldrick army was shattered beyond comprehension or reconstitution, there were only handfuls of baldricks free and alive between the Hellmouth and the Euphrates, and that had pushed intelligence-gathering back to top priority. Nobody ever won a war by defending themselves. They won it by taking the fight to the enemy. It was time to begin striking back at Hell, and that meant learning as much as possible about it, especially the terrain near the Hellmouth which was, in the plans Petraeus and his colleagues were starting to Dr.aw up, the site of the first beachhead.
For a moment, Petraeus wondered if this was how Eisenhower had felt in 1943, then stifled the thought; Eisenhower had known so much more about his enemy, and his enemy had known about him. The two situations were only comparable if you didn't think about it. Then, he noticed a small black figure far below the Hawk, also making for the portal. “What's that?” He indicated the figure.
“Just a moment, sir.” The feed on the screen jumped through the magnifications until the figure was clearly visible: a large baldrick, running as fast as it could.
“Feed this through to the nearest armored unit, with orders to intercept and – wait, zoom in just a little bit more.” Something about the figure had triggered his memory. The feed duly zoomed, and Petraeus recognized the baldrick: his counterpart, the lucky one he'd missed with the artillery during the main battle. “Orders to intercept and capture.” If this worked out, it would be a huge intelligence bonus.
Hellmouth, Western Iraq
The roar of the Abrams engine was almost deafening and the imperfections in the land bounced her around in her commander’s seat, adding extra bruises to the impressive collection she had already collected. Captain Keisha Stevenson nodded as the crackling orders came through the radio, and then repeated them on the company channel. “Guys, we've got a target. Orders to capture.”
In the light of the Iraqi dawn, the Abrams tanks and Bradley vehicles under her command sped up and veered left, the Bradleys belching black smoke and kicking up sand that hovered in the air in their wake, slowly dispersing.
Abigor ignored the pain in his side, pushing his legs as fast as they would go. The Hellmouth was growing larger, a black swirling void underneath the horizon. If the humans didn't notice him, he was only a few minutes away from home. He could almost taste the sulfurous air.
But the roar of the iron chariots was louder dominating the sounds of early morning. He didn't let himself look over his shoulder, only gamely pushed faster. All he felt, his whole being, was now his feet pounding into the ground, his heart thumping in his chest, and the tingle of the magic in his back (he had long since abandoned his trident), all undercut by the gathering rumble of iron chariots.
All too soon, they were close behind him the cloud of dust they raised choking him. One pulled ahead of the rest and was almost beside him its odd head turning so that the long tube was pointing at him. Abigor tried to run around it, failed, then he switched doubled back and ran behind it, the Hellmouth just a few yards away. His senses were overwhelmed by the cold and unyielding taste of the iron, not at all like the friendly warmth of the bronze or tin he was used to. As he dived behind the Chariot, he could feel a blast of heat, uncomfortable even for his own thick skin. Even as he expected the deadly blast of human mage-magic in his back, he continued to marvel at the humans' ingenuity and ability to accomplish the seemingly impossible. Chariots, without horses, generated their own heat, propulsion, and magic fire lances while carrying humans within them.
Then, even as the muscles in his back cringed in anticipation of the expected blow, the blackness of the Hellmouth enveloped him
“Alpha-Actual. Sorry, Sir, he got past us. No excuses Sir, he was so close to the Hellmouth we only had one shot and we blew it. Want us to go in after him?”
There was a pause and Stevenson knew the message was going up the line and the response was coming down. “Alpha-Actual, Command Prime was watching on Eye-Five. Word is don’t blame yourself, that big baldrick would make a great football player. Stay out of hell for now. Drop back one klick and go hull down with a line of fire to the Hellmouth. The Generals are thinking.”
And we all know that makes their heads hurt. Stevenson thought and settled back as much as was possible in the turret of an Abrams. “Biker take us back one click to the ridgeline we crossed. Time to have a rest.”
University of Alabama, Tuscaloosa, Alabama
“... and remember that problems one, three, and four of section 37 in the Munkres text are due next Tuesday. You may assume the Tychonoff Theorem; we will finish proving it, in the next class. Problem five is extra credit. Class dismissed.” As the students in his Topology, I class finished packing up their papers, Dr. Kuroneko turned to the board and began erasing the proof of a lemma for the Tychonoff Theorem.
A polite knocking at the door caught his attention, and he turned around, adjusting his glasses and absentmindedly smearing chalk dust across his cheek and nose. “Yes?”
To his surprise, it was not a student wanting help with the homework questions; it was three men Dressed in military uniforms. “Dr. Kuroneko?”
“That's me, yes. How may I help you?”
“I'm General Schatten, of the US Army's D.I.M.O.(N) section. I understand you are the foremost mathematical expert in ...” He wrinkled his nose, fished in his pocket, and pulled out a piece of paper. “... in 'higher dimensional topology.'”
Dr. Kuroneko shrugged. “Some people say that I am, yes.”
“Well, we have a team of physicists working on a project for us, and they recommended you as the mathematical expert we need. We've already talked to the math department here; they're more than willing to help with the war effort, so they've granted you an indefinite paid sabbatical. We will, of course, be more than willing to provide you with additional compensation for your services. As well, your landlord has agreed to let us pay your rent while you live in Arlington and work for us, again indefinitely.”
The mathematician blinked. “So, I'm working for you? On what sort of project?”
“Dr. Kuroneko, we have a problem. We’ve managed to open a portal to hell, and we can communicate with those inside on an individual basis. We need to communicate with everybody in there, baldricks, humans everybody. We know it can be done because they did it to us, there was The Message and then that bombastic nonsense from Satan. We need you to work out the mathematics that underlies the situation, we need you to analyze the basis of how this communications phenomenon works. The only way to understand something is to understand the math behind it. Now we’re doing it on a purely empirical basis, we need you to make sense of it. Once you’ve done that, we can start to use it properly.”
Kuroneko’s eyes lit up. Secretly, although he was too polite to say so, he was amazed that an Army General would understand the importance of basic theory. It never occurred to him that Generals dealt with basic theory and applied mathematics as a routine part of their job. “That sounds fascinating! When do I start?”
General Schatten smiled. “Yesterday if possible. Today at the latest. We're already loading your possessions into the moving van for you.” He stepped forward and shook Dr. Kuroneko's hand. “Welcome to D.I.M.O.(N), Doctor.”
Seymour Johnson Air Force Base, North Carolina
“Man, what do we want with a piston-engined bird that’s fifty years old.” The F-16 pilot leaned back on the O-club bar, not noticing the slight air of reproof that went around the room. The two old B-29s sitting on the flight line might be relics of a bygone age but their crews were guests of the mess, and the comment was out of place.
“We don’t know that jets can fly in hell yet, in fact, we know nothing about the place at all other than its pretty unpleasant. We know that there’s a high content of particulates in the atmosphere, sulfur, and pumice. The Predator that went in came back pretty messed up. So, prop birds give us another option. Also, we need every modern bird we can get up in the air, every second or third-line job that gets done by a museum piece is one more modern bird freed up for combat. That’s why we’ve got C-47s back in the inventory as well.” The scientist drank his beer reflectively. The tour around the museums hadn’t picked up that many usable aircraft, there was a big difference between a plane that looked good on display and one that was able to be returned to flying status, but they had a few. By a quirk of history, the B-29s had done better than most and even then, only a handful was available for service. The non-flying birds and the aircraft too old to be of even fourth- or fifth-line use had their own role to play though. They were in the Hell Jars, being experimented on.
“Yeah but prop-engined bombers.” The F-16 pilot spoke with scorn and didn’t notice the frown of displeasure from his commander.
“I know, I know.” Colonel Tibbets put down his beer. He’d kept quiet to date, partly because he didn’t want to rise to the bait and partly because he had his own position in mind. He suspected somebody in Air Force Personnel had a sense of humor and had searched through the Air Force list to find a Colonel Tibbets to command the newly reformed 40th Bombardment Wing. “We’re really going to need you guys in the fighters to protect us. Like we always have, I guess. Why don’t we buy you a drink or three and show our appreciation?”
The next morning Lieutenant Barham woke up in his quarters with a head that felt ready to explode. The party that had started in the O-club had then moved to the strip outside the base and turned into a real bar crawl. He didn’t remember too much after the fourth or fifth bar, but his head was dreadful. Those bomber boys certainly knew how to party. He glanced at the flight line, both the B-29s had gone, probably on their way to whatever experimental station they would be assigned to.
At that point, Barham realized that it wasn’t just his head that was hurting. His rear end was also feeling --- inflamed. With a dawning sense of horror, he went to the washroom and looked in the mirror and what he saw there confirmed his worst fears. On one buttock was tattooed the unit crest of the 40th Bombardment Wing and the motto “Old Age and Treachery Beats Youth and Skill”. The other buttock had a B-29 and the motto “Four Screws Beats a Blow Job” tattooed on it.
Barham was still dumbly contemplating the sight when the phone rang. “The Squadron Commander wishes to speak with you. Now,” was the message.
Martial Field of Dysprosium, Hell
Had it been only two earth weeks ago? Then, his army had marched out, banners flying, horns, and trumpets blaring, drums thudding. A sight to stir the blood and induce martial ardor in all who saw it. A huge Army, 60 legions strong, 400,000 demons had sortied to defeat the humans. It was all supposed to have been so easy, so glorious. Trampling humanity underfoot, ravaging their cities, destroying their works, and carrying their souls back in triumph to Hell.
And what was left now? How many of the 400,000 had made it back alive? Or even half-alive? 300? 400 at most and the majority were wounded, some so badly they would be little more than helpless children. Neither the humans nor their weapons had mercy, those who their weapons spared, they left crippled and feeble. The sounds were as appalling as the sight of the shattered fragment that was all that was left of his Army. No martial music, no bombastic speeches either. Just the wailing of the wounded and the bereaved. Abigor didn’t know which was worse, the cries of the wounded or the yowls of the females as they hunted through the survivors for their mates. Mostly those howls turned into screams of misery as they realized their mate was not on the tiny list of survivors, on rare occasions, the scream of relief was moderated, diluted, by the grief when they saw the awful wounds the humans had inflicted. Rare indeed for a mate to find her demon whole and untouched. Not one in tens of thousands.
Abigor heard the sobbing at his feet. A cavalryman was sitting down cross-legged on the ground, the head of his Beast in his lap. The cavalryman was badly wounded, his side laid open by fragments, but his Beast was dying. The fire in its angry red eyes was slowly dimming and the cause was obvious. The wound in its side was massive, blasted open, and burned deep. A seeker lance had caused that, Abigor knew from seeing too many.
“Sire, he wouldn’t stop. I tried to make him stop and rest, but he wouldn’t. He just kept going, carrying me back here. I did try to make him rest but he wouldn’t and now he’s dying.”
In this case, the Beast had shown better tactical common sense than its rider, Abigor reflected. If they had stopped, they’d have been caught and killed by the Iron Chariots. But it was true, the Beast had saved its rider’s life. “What is your name rider?”
“Visharakoramal Sire, of the Right Wing.”
“Visharakoramal, take your mate and go home. Go somewhere quiet and remote where none who might seek would look and make your home there.” On the ground, the light in the Beast’s eyes flickered and went out. It was dead. “Do not let his sacrifice be in vain. Take your mate and go home, when hundreds of thousands are dead, one more will not be noted.”
Visharakoramal nodded and gently laid the Beast’s head down, then took his mate and quietly left. Abigor looked around, catching another three figures coming through the Hellmouth. Two demons carrying a third whose legs had been blown off, probably by one of the mage-bars the humans had scattered. That was new also, the sight of demons helping their wounded. They must have learned it from the humans, at Hit, Abigor had seen how many humans would risk their lives to rescue one of their own who was in trouble. He’d seen the great Iron Chariots go places and do unimaginable, terrible things to help one of their own. It was strange, exposure to the humans was changing the demons in ways other than the nightmare of the human’s crushing superiority in weaponry.
“Sire?”
Abigor turned. Behind him was a figure, not as great as he but still larger than the pitiful remnants of his Army. A Lesser Herald, but one whose wings were stunted and malformed.
“Sire I am Memnon, Lesser Herald. I have a message for His Infernal Majesty. May I accompany you to an audience with him?”
An audience with Satan? Abigor shuddered, to relay the tale of this catastrophe was certain death. “You realize my company might bring you death? Who is your message from?”
“From Yahweh. And death I think, is the least of our problems.”
That was true, Abigor thought. It might be good to have company on this final walk. He found himself urgently wishing he’d died on the run to the Hellmouth just a few hours ago.
Six hours earlier, Hellmouth, Western Iraq
Abigor crouched in the hollow. The Hellmouth was clearly visible on the horizon, the impossible geometry glimmering black against the dark blue velvet of the predawn sky. For the umpteenth time that night – he hadn't slept; the quiet desert sounds kept startling him from any pretense of restfulness – he began to mull over the defeat and stopped himself. There was just no way of explaining how humans had become so powerful.
Sighing, he shook himself and peeked up; the huge portal was less than ten miles away. A straight run would get him there in less than an hour. He would cross through and – and then what? Report to Satan? Abigor frowned. If Satan had heard already, Abigor was as good as dead; no other Duke would want to begin to associate with him. His position in the court was gone, taken now, probably by Belial or some other scheming coward.
Could he stay with his former allies? The thought flitted through his mind, then was easily dismissed as he began trudging through the soft sand toward his destination. The Dukes, who were former allies, were just that – former. None of them would touch him with a thirtyfoot pole now; given the totality of his defeat, he suspected that nothing could save him. But what alternatives did he have? Stay here, where the human magic crushed everything in its path, and they sought out their defeated enemies to slaughter them like cattle? He had to get back to hell, he had to warn the others of the nightmare they faced.
The sun peeked above the horizon behind him, and his shadow stretched far ahead of him. The cloudless sky was striated orange and pink, fading to purple in the western sky before him. For a moment, Abigor stopped and looked around him, at the last clear, white stars fading in the west, at the beautiful dawn panorama unfolding in the east over the flat, unimaginably vast desert wastes. The ground here was as like a part of hell as any he'd seen, and yet above it stretched such beauty. The humans didn't know what they had, he thought; how could they appreciate such sublime beauty? And demons didn't know what they were missing either. With a twinge of sorrow, he contemplated again his ruined future back home under the dull, ceaseless striation of hell's skies.
Suddenly, his ears perked – a small buzz in the distance. Could it be a human implement? He froze for an instant, and in that instant, he detected a now-familiar deeper rumble: horseless iron chariots. He broke into a flat-out sprint for the portal.
Multi-National Force Headquarters, Green Zone, Baghdad, Iraq
“Have we got the Global Hawk feed up?” asked General Petraeus.
One of the technicians, Bert, replied, “Yep. It should be on the main screen right ...” there was a ticker of fingers on a keyboard and a mouse click “... now.” The screen blinked, fuzzed, and there was the Hellmouth, black against the pink-lit sand.
The whole scene moved slowly as the cameras on the Global Hawk zoomed in on the portal. The entire Hellmouth surveillance mission had been on the backburner as the Global Hawks had been used to control the allied forces that had annihilated the demonic army. That was over now, the baldrick army was shattered beyond comprehension or reconstitution, there were only handfuls of baldricks free and alive between the Hellmouth and the Euphrates, and that had pushed intelligence-gathering back to top priority. Nobody ever won a war by defending themselves. They won it by taking the fight to the enemy. It was time to begin striking back at Hell, and that meant learning as much as possible about it, especially the terrain near the Hellmouth which was, in the plans Petraeus and his colleagues were starting to Dr.aw up, the site of the first beachhead.
For a moment, Petraeus wondered if this was how Eisenhower had felt in 1943, then stifled the thought; Eisenhower had known so much more about his enemy, and his enemy had known about him. The two situations were only comparable if you didn't think about it. Then, he noticed a small black figure far below the Hawk, also making for the portal. “What's that?” He indicated the figure.
“Just a moment, sir.” The feed on the screen jumped through the magnifications until the figure was clearly visible: a large baldrick, running as fast as it could.
“Feed this through to the nearest armored unit, with orders to intercept and – wait, zoom in just a little bit more.” Something about the figure had triggered his memory. The feed duly zoomed, and Petraeus recognized the baldrick: his counterpart, the lucky one he'd missed with the artillery during the main battle. “Orders to intercept and capture.” If this worked out, it would be a huge intelligence bonus.
Hellmouth, Western Iraq
The roar of the Abrams engine was almost deafening and the imperfections in the land bounced her around in her commander’s seat, adding extra bruises to the impressive collection she had already collected. Captain Keisha Stevenson nodded as the crackling orders came through the radio, and then repeated them on the company channel. “Guys, we've got a target. Orders to capture.”
In the light of the Iraqi dawn, the Abrams tanks and Bradley vehicles under her command sped up and veered left, the Bradleys belching black smoke and kicking up sand that hovered in the air in their wake, slowly dispersing.
Abigor ignored the pain in his side, pushing his legs as fast as they would go. The Hellmouth was growing larger, a black swirling void underneath the horizon. If the humans didn't notice him, he was only a few minutes away from home. He could almost taste the sulfurous air.
But the roar of the iron chariots was louder dominating the sounds of early morning. He didn't let himself look over his shoulder, only gamely pushed faster. All he felt, his whole being, was now his feet pounding into the ground, his heart thumping in his chest, and the tingle of the magic in his back (he had long since abandoned his trident), all undercut by the gathering rumble of iron chariots.
All too soon, they were close behind him the cloud of dust they raised choking him. One pulled ahead of the rest and was almost beside him its odd head turning so that the long tube was pointing at him. Abigor tried to run around it, failed, then he switched doubled back and ran behind it, the Hellmouth just a few yards away. His senses were overwhelmed by the cold and unyielding taste of the iron, not at all like the friendly warmth of the bronze or tin he was used to. As he dived behind the Chariot, he could feel a blast of heat, uncomfortable even for his own thick skin. Even as he expected the deadly blast of human mage-magic in his back, he continued to marvel at the humans' ingenuity and ability to accomplish the seemingly impossible. Chariots, without horses, generated their own heat, propulsion, and magic fire lances while carrying humans within them.
Then, even as the muscles in his back cringed in anticipation of the expected blow, the blackness of the Hellmouth enveloped him
“Alpha-Actual. Sorry, Sir, he got past us. No excuses Sir, he was so close to the Hellmouth we only had one shot and we blew it. Want us to go in after him?”
There was a pause and Stevenson knew the message was going up the line and the response was coming down. “Alpha-Actual, Command Prime was watching on Eye-Five. Word is don’t blame yourself, that big baldrick would make a great football player. Stay out of hell for now. Drop back one klick and go hull down with a line of fire to the Hellmouth. The Generals are thinking.”
And we all know that makes their heads hurt. Stevenson thought and settled back as much as was possible in the turret of an Abrams. “Biker take us back one click to the ridgeline we crossed. Time to have a rest.”
University of Alabama, Tuscaloosa, Alabama
“... and remember that problems one, three, and four of section 37 in the Munkres text are due next Tuesday. You may assume the Tychonoff Theorem; we will finish proving it, in the next class. Problem five is extra credit. Class dismissed.” As the students in his Topology, I class finished packing up their papers, Dr. Kuroneko turned to the board and began erasing the proof of a lemma for the Tychonoff Theorem.
A polite knocking at the door caught his attention, and he turned around, adjusting his glasses and absentmindedly smearing chalk dust across his cheek and nose. “Yes?”
To his surprise, it was not a student wanting help with the homework questions; it was three men Dressed in military uniforms. “Dr. Kuroneko?”
“That's me, yes. How may I help you?”
“I'm General Schatten, of the US Army's D.I.M.O.(N) section. I understand you are the foremost mathematical expert in ...” He wrinkled his nose, fished in his pocket, and pulled out a piece of paper. “... in 'higher dimensional topology.'”
Dr. Kuroneko shrugged. “Some people say that I am, yes.”
“Well, we have a team of physicists working on a project for us, and they recommended you as the mathematical expert we need. We've already talked to the math department here; they're more than willing to help with the war effort, so they've granted you an indefinite paid sabbatical. We will, of course, be more than willing to provide you with additional compensation for your services. As well, your landlord has agreed to let us pay your rent while you live in Arlington and work for us, again indefinitely.”
The mathematician blinked. “So, I'm working for you? On what sort of project?”
“Dr. Kuroneko, we have a problem. We’ve managed to open a portal to hell, and we can communicate with those inside on an individual basis. We need to communicate with everybody in there, baldricks, humans everybody. We know it can be done because they did it to us, there was The Message and then that bombastic nonsense from Satan. We need you to work out the mathematics that underlies the situation, we need you to analyze the basis of how this communications phenomenon works. The only way to understand something is to understand the math behind it. Now we’re doing it on a purely empirical basis, we need you to make sense of it. Once you’ve done that, we can start to use it properly.”
Kuroneko’s eyes lit up. Secretly, although he was too polite to say so, he was amazed that an Army General would understand the importance of basic theory. It never occurred to him that Generals dealt with basic theory and applied mathematics as a routine part of their job. “That sounds fascinating! When do I start?”
General Schatten smiled. “Yesterday if possible. Today at the latest. We're already loading your possessions into the moving van for you.” He stepped forward and shook Dr. Kuroneko's hand. “Welcome to D.I.M.O.(N), Doctor.”
Seymour Johnson Air Force Base, North Carolina
“Man, what do we want with a piston-engined bird that’s fifty years old.” The F-16 pilot leaned back on the O-club bar, not noticing the slight air of reproof that went around the room. The two old B-29s sitting on the flight line might be relics of a bygone age but their crews were guests of the mess, and the comment was out of place.
“We don’t know that jets can fly in hell yet, in fact, we know nothing about the place at all other than its pretty unpleasant. We know that there’s a high content of particulates in the atmosphere, sulfur, and pumice. The Predator that went in came back pretty messed up. So, prop birds give us another option. Also, we need every modern bird we can get up in the air, every second or third-line job that gets done by a museum piece is one more modern bird freed up for combat. That’s why we’ve got C-47s back in the inventory as well.” The scientist drank his beer reflectively. The tour around the museums hadn’t picked up that many usable aircraft, there was a big difference between a plane that looked good on display and one that was able to be returned to flying status, but they had a few. By a quirk of history, the B-29s had done better than most and even then, only a handful was available for service. The non-flying birds and the aircraft too old to be of even fourth- or fifth-line use had their own role to play though. They were in the Hell Jars, being experimented on.
“Yeah but prop-engined bombers.” The F-16 pilot spoke with scorn and didn’t notice the frown of displeasure from his commander.
“I know, I know.” Colonel Tibbets put down his beer. He’d kept quiet to date, partly because he didn’t want to rise to the bait and partly because he had his own position in mind. He suspected somebody in Air Force Personnel had a sense of humor and had searched through the Air Force list to find a Colonel Tibbets to command the newly reformed 40th Bombardment Wing. “We’re really going to need you guys in the fighters to protect us. Like we always have, I guess. Why don’t we buy you a drink or three and show our appreciation?”
The next morning Lieutenant Barham woke up in his quarters with a head that felt ready to explode. The party that had started in the O-club had then moved to the strip outside the base and turned into a real bar crawl. He didn’t remember too much after the fourth or fifth bar, but his head was dreadful. Those bomber boys certainly knew how to party. He glanced at the flight line, both the B-29s had gone, probably on their way to whatever experimental station they would be assigned to.
At that point, Barham realized that it wasn’t just his head that was hurting. His rear end was also feeling --- inflamed. With a dawning sense of horror, he went to the washroom and looked in the mirror and what he saw there confirmed his worst fears. On one buttock was tattooed the unit crest of the 40th Bombardment Wing and the motto “Old Age and Treachery Beats Youth and Skill”. The other buttock had a B-29 and the motto “Four Screws Beats a Blow Job” tattooed on it.
Barham was still dumbly contemplating the sight when the phone rang. “The Squadron Commander wishes to speak with you. Now,” was the message.
Re: 2008 - Armageddon
Chapter Thirty
The Banks of the Styx, Fifth Ring, Hell
Another demon had died, his head grotesquely shattered by the human weapons. Rahab recognized the signs by this time, the physical destruction that had been wrought from a distance that gave the victim no chance of surviving, not even warning that it was under attack. She wasn’t quite certain how many had died to date, might have been twelve or more. She did know the number included some of the demons that had once ridden so imperiously on their Beasts. The humans had proved her wrong, they could be killed. The humans had killed them quite easily. There was much to think about there. There was something else to consider as well. In her travels, trying to find the six new arrivals who were causing this mayhem, she had watched the demons and learned something else. They were scared, too many of their number had gone out on patrol and never returned. Now, they were beginning to skimp those patrols, to head through the area as fast as they could, not stopping for anything until they got back to the safety of the walls.
Rahab found herself asking, just how safe were those walls? She had seen what was left of the mighty bridge over the Styx, a mass of destroyed masonry flung around the way an angry child might scatter play bricks. A bridge that had stood for untold millennia had been wantonly destroyed, with, it was rumored, the best part of a whole legion that had been unfortunate enough to be standing on it. Work gangs were trying to repair it, some of the humans are driven by demon overseers, but the destruction had been so great it was defeating their efforts. She had watched while some of the repairs collapsed again, the foundations undermined by the power of the destruction. There had been other attacks as well, on the great road that led from the depths of Hell up to the city of Dis and from there out to the field of Dysprosium. Rahab had never been outside the great pit of hell, but she had heard the area outside Dis where the Demons lived was quite pleasant by their standards.
Getting there would be a problem for the demons now though. That road had been the scene of one attack after another, the dead mounting as explosions tore into formation after formation. Rahab shook her head, it made little sense, but she sensed the demons were losing the fight down here. They were trying to protect themselves against ghosts who would strike and slip away before they could be found. The new arrivals didn’t fight the demon way, for pride and honor. Rahab realized they fought for other reasons entirely, they fought to win and woe to anybody who got in their way.
Rahab felt the slam in her back that threw her to the ground and knew the agony of fear. Had she been caught after all this time? A figure was holding her down, her arms twisted behind her back, and she guessed what was to come next. An agonizing rape certainly, then return to the hell-pit from which she had so bravely escaped once before. Her time of freedom was at an end, there was no point in fighting, and she went limp as she was rolled onto her back.
It was a kind of demon she hadn’t seen before, one with huge, staring, lidless eyes and a face below them that was featureless. It was red-brown, a varied skin coloration that merged in with the background. Then, as her senses overcame the blind panic, she realized something else. This creature wasn’t a demon, it was human. More than that, it was a living human, one from outside Hell. A living human that had voluntarily come to Hell? It was rumored there had been others, but this was a solid fact.
“Hello, Rahab. I see you’ve met Lieutenant Madeuce. Sorry about the abruptness of the meeting.” Rahab looked up, it was the woman she had met before, the one who had abandoned the hiding place with her friends. Now she was different, she was wearing the same red-brown clothes as the still-alive had on. Rahab looked harder, she was also wearing a harness with strange green slabs on it and she had a black stick in her hands. An oddly, indescribably shaped stick.
“Who are you?” Rahab needed to know.
“I’m Lieutenant Jade Kim, call-sign Broomstick. These are the rest of my unit. That’ll do for now. You might have noticed we have started a war down here. It’s going to get a lot worse. That’s part of the reason why we found you.”
“Found me, how…”
“It wasn’t hard. Leave it there. I’d guess the only reason why the baldricks haven’t found you is that they couldn’t be bothered with you and there weren’t enough of you to make any difference. So, they didn’t even try. That’s changing, we’ve hurt them badly and they’re going to start fighting back. You need to warn your people and get them out of here. We don’t have the numbers, yet, to protect a static population.”
“Yet?” Rahab was bewildered. None of what she was being told made sense.
“That’s our first question, you wander all over the place. Have you seen any more like us arriving? If so, tell us where they are.”
“Do you know how many people arrive here all the time? And this is a small part of Hell, a segment of one circle. A small segment is owned by a minor duke. A few more have arrived here recently, I can show you where. But what if they are not the ones you want.”
“That’s the second thing. First part. We busted a guy out from one of the other rings. Tried to take him back to Earth but it didn’t work out. He started dying as soon as he arrived. So, he was brought back here. He’s not a soldier, no use to us. We want you to take him in, hide him. Second part. Same with any others that we bust out. If they’re of no use to us, we want you to hide them along with the rest of your people.”
“So you made a mistake and now you want me to put it right for you.” Rahab had the conceit and viciousness back in her voice. “Why should I help you?”
“Because we’re all human because hell isn’t going to last very long. Our people are coming for us and Satan and all his foul legions won’t stop them. The more chaos we stir up down here, the less resistance he can put up back there, and the sooner we will win. Because we are, believe it or not, on the same side.”
“Or we’d better be.” Madeuce’s voice was muffled by the scarf over his nose and mouth. The first few hours down here had been uncomfortable for him, and his chest still felt raw and heavy from the atmosphere. The scarf and goggles had helped a lot, just as they had in the sandstorms of Iraq. “Just an idle question Rahab. What happens when people down here die?”
Rahab felt her stomach drop slightly at the veiled threat. “The Demons believe that we generate some sort of force that helps lift them to their afterlife. Humans, I suppose we just vanish.”
Kim nodded. “Not a good deal, is it? We can offer you a better one. Out of this pit, movement elsewhere in Hell, whatever elsewhere is, and a life. We’re on the same side, just let’s act like it, huh?”
Rahab thought it over. They were right, things were changing, and, like it or not, there was a war starting in Hell. “Very well, I’ll take in your person. And anymore you ‘bust out’. Just don’t overload me with numbers and give me time to get them away before your war turns into a bloodbath. Turns into more of a bloodbath.”
“Done.” Kim turned around. “Bubbles, get Richard out of hiding, tell him he’s got a new girlfriend.”
Throne Room, Palace of Satan, Infernal City of Dis
Satan relished the atmosphere of absolute terror that was building up in his great throne room. The word was spreading across the halls and circles of Hell, through the streets of Dis itself, down the great Pit that it surrounded, and into the garrisons that held the walls separating the rings of Hell. Abigor had failed. Abigor had been defeated, his army massacred. He had been defeated by the humans; his Army driven back inside the gates of Hell. He had been ordered to crush the humans and he had failed. It had amused Satan to dream up some inventive punishments for one who had failed him so badly but there were more important things than petty revenge. He had to find out how this unimaginable thing had occurred. Was Abigor treacherous or just plain stupid?
The audience stirred and shrank back as Abigor entered, a Lesser Herald trailing in his wake. In a way, it was almost amusing, the desire for the other Demons to get out of the possible line of fire. Abigor walked down the hall, conscious of the eyes on him as he approached the great throne where Satan sat, watching him. He reached the foot of the throne and threw himself at Satan’s feet.
“So, Abigor, you have come to tell us of your great victory and regale us with stories of the sufferings you have inflicted on the humans?” Satan’s voice was the silky smoothness that portrayed real trouble and Abigor knew it.”
“Infernal Majesty, I fear…”
“Good”
Abigor felt a flash of irritation at the interruption. “I fear that I have grim and terrible news. My Army was defeated, destroyed by the Humans. Something has happened in their world, something that is terrible beyond belief. They have magic that is so powerful we could not stand against it. They can breathe on whole sections of an Army and leave nothing but mangled flesh, they have lances and arrows that never miss their target, that follow the one they aim at no matter how much they run.
“Run? So, you admit your army ran?”
“After all but one in a thousand had died, Yes Sire, we ran. All those who did not die. Most of those who tried to escape the humans died. The humans have iron chariots.” A thrill of horror went round the room. Iron chariots had caused them problems once before, problems that had required a succubus, a peasant girl, and a tent peg to sort out. Now they were back in a new and more terrible form?
The thought of Iron Chariots sent screaming rage flooding through Satan’s mind, but he kept himself under strict control. There was so much he needed to know. “Tell me all Abigor. From the start.”
Sprawled on the floor, Abigor started to relate the history of his devastated Army. How it had marched out of Hell and across the desert to its first objectives. The strange attacks on the way, the flying chariots that had killed some of his commanders, the mysterious explosions that had wiped out whole command groups. Then, the enemy defense line, the fire lances, the exploding ground, the snakes of iron that tore his troops apart. The way the humans had breathed death, how they never came close to their enemy but killed from distances. How they had slaughtered Abigor’s Army and then chased it back across the desert, killing remorselessly as they did so. By the time he finished, the room was silent, and the demon Dukes were looking at each other with profound unease.
“So now we know the reason for the destruction of your Army Abigor.” Satan’s voice oozed charm, then suddenly turned to a berserk scream. “It was cowardice. Unmitigated cowardice. You claim that your Army pressed home its attacks bravely, yet you are here alive to give lie to that statement. Your soldiers were cowards who would not charge the enemy but ran away and you were at their head. You led the disaster; you led their failure. Your cowardice was the cause of your army’s destruction.
Here it comes Abigor thought. A hideous death.
“But I am merciful.” The oily cooing was back in Satan’s voice. “I will give you a chance to redeem yourself.”
“Majesty, I thank you. But there is something we must do first. We must close that portal before it can be used against us.”
“Would that we could.” The words were not spoken but formed in Abigor’s mind. It wasn’t Satan speaking but he didn’t know who it was. “Our mages have been trying with all the energy they can command. It is no use. We cannot close it. It may decay on its own, in time, but we cannot close it. It is as much a fixture now as the very walls of Dis itself.”
“That is not your concern coward.” Satan turned to Memnon. “Tell me your story, Herald. Let us hear how you ran from the humans and betrayed our kind.”
Memnon stared at the leering, sneering figure on the throne. Satan had no idea, what he was hearing simply wasn’t registering. He began to speak, the experiences of the last month pouring from him.
Outside the Portal to Hell, Western Iraq
Running. It was all he could think of doing. Legs pistoning like a great machine his hooves kicked up sand and grit into thick clouds with each giant stride. His breath came hard and fast, foam-flecked at the corners of his mouth, and his eyes were narrowed into slits as he pushed his body to its limits and beyond in a frightful dash towards home. His mind was racing along with his body. The memories of his recent sojourn here on this dreadful plane burned through his fear and panic.
He had watched his wing mates annihilated by sky chariots. They never stood a chance and all their infernal might was no match for human magic. He did not have time to taste the shame that shot through him. It was not the time or the place to wallow in his misery. He needed to survive. He needed to get home. He needed to repeat the words.
Uriel. Damn the Nameless One. To unleash Uriel on this world in all his awesome wonder and glory was almost too much to bear. After all who was he but a humble servant, a warrior for his Duke. And now to be a messenger, a go-between for the angelics made him want to spill his guts into these desert wastes and scream with impotent horror into the night.
But there was no time for that. There was only time to run and not think about the sounds around him, the cracks in the air that indicated some human was pointing his plastic lance and firing bolts of fire nearby, perhaps even at him as he rumbled by like a runaway freight train. Were his wings healed he would be flying so hard so fast that the very sinews of his shoulder blades and joints would tear away.
There were the more ominous cracks of artificial thunder as human sky chariots blasted their way overhead. Sometimes it was followed by the deep bass rumble of human fire magic as it burst over a concentration of Never born and spread them over the wastes like fertilizer. He had seen one such strike up close as he ran.
One of the cavalry servitors tending to his dying mount looked up at him as he raced by, several foot soldiers were standing by the noble one waiting for instructions. One must submit his will and being to a demon of higher order. It was the way of things. It was the natural order. The cavalry servitor demanded he halt and give a chant of greeting and submission. Memnon had considered for the briefest moment to do as he was told. Every fiber of his being seemed to tense as it prepared to submit as was custom and tradition.
The artificial thunder rumbled directly overhead, and he remembered the death, the fire bolts, the arrows of doom that could pluck them from the sky as easily as a hawk picked off a field mouse for supper. And he responded in a manner that still haunted him.
“Run you fool!” he spat, and his hooves did not falter, did not pause. He simply continued running, hot sweat hissing as it touched whatever it fell upon like an obscene rain. The cavalry servitor was stunned. Eyes bulged, and tusks snapped loudly in anger and confusion.
“In the name of Abigor, you will submit to me now or----”
Then there was the brief sound like parchment tearing or the clothes of some helpless human wench being rent by lecherous claws and then the cavalry servitor, his mount, and several of the closest foot troops exploded into a thick cloud of blood and bone. They were gone in a moment as if they had never been there. Several of the surviving foot soldiers were crawling away screaming in agony as they left liquefied or shattered limbs behind. He looked up long enough to see a sky chariot with its wings whirling over its head roar past in a low trajectory like a bird of prey surveying the carnage of its passing.
“Or what you fool? Everything has changed. Our world has been torn asunder.” Memnon spat to himself in sheer disgust. He paused only long enough to make sure the chariot did not come around for another attack run but the combination of the billowing clouds swept up by the chariot’s passing and his panicked running had obscured him from its sight and unlike the other higher-flying iron and plastic chariots this one seemed to lack the keen senses of its brethren and that saved the wayward servant of the Morningstar.
His body started to seize up and his muscles were cramped as he took those moments to slow down. He had pushed himself beyond all endurance and his body was now reacting to his fevered pace. At any moment he would collapse in an exhausted heap and sleep through the hazy pain to awaken refreshed.
However, one glance back at the bloody crater where before several of his kith and kin had stood fired him up and he raised one arm to his mouth, and he bit deeply into the bicep. The flesh was rent from his bone and blood gushed into his nostrils. He snorted in pain and pleasure and that small spark of pain he was so keen on inflicting upon the useless wretches of humanity kindled a small surge in power pushed by will and fear and the Never born exploded back into his breakneck pace.
And so, he ran and ran. He ran past the sight of his grand army shattered into bloody remnants and screaming broken brethren who were begging for release, for a return to the fiery bloody skies of home and cursing humanity in whatever tongue they deemed fit. He ran through a charnel house of guts and sinews, hooves cracked exposed bone and ribs. He ran even as the air burned within his lungs like a furnace. He ran as he heard more thunderclaps and whistling booms. He ran until he could run no more and collapsed in heap, blood spewing from his ruined bicep, frothy saliva spilling from his mouth, and foam flecking along his heaving flanks.
There was no more left. No more to give and not even enough energy to take.
Memnon was spent to the last dregs of his reserves, and he looked up to the sky to scream his defiance and await the human magic that was sure to rend him limb from limb. But then he noticed he was right at the lip of the portal to hell. Could it be? Was it not a failure? Had he pushed himself enough? Before him in a pathetic display a great beast dragged itself towards the yawning doorway hone. Both hind legs were reduced to splintered messes of dying meat and trailing entrails still it tried to get itself home. A leg from its rider was still firmly in the stirrup the rest of its charge probably scattered along with the wastes. Memnon growled and fell upon the beast in a scream of desperation and anger at the predicament he found himself in, reduced to feeding off one of the great beasts to survive. He let his anger and frustration out on the wretched beast as it bleated in its death throes while teeth and claws rent muscle and sinew from the bone.
Memnon fed deeply and voraciously as his anger, despair, and shame burned in his belly worse than the rancid meat being guzzled in with such relish. He wanted to feed away from the pain, the anguish of the defeat, the shame of running from the prey, the despair of knowing that he had failed so completely and utterly and the gnawing fear that Nameless One was moving behind the scenes, that Uriel would tread this world completely unleashed.
What victory was there in that? It was whispered from the elder days that Uriel’s power was so grand that his death touch obliterated not only human life but also the human soul. His power, one of the greatest of all angels save perhaps for Michael the Great General, was the ultimate weapon because it robbed everyone, including the Nameless of the prize of human essence. When the first born of Khemet was swept aside their souls did not go screaming into Hell or the Etheric Realms. They simply ceased to be. Oblivion.
The very concept chilled the demon to its core. Nothing. Just the great darkness and void. At least in hell, these pathetic humans drew solace from the fact that they still existed. Despite the pain and anguish, they still mattered. But Uriel robbed everyone of that solace. He was the Nameless Ones’ weapon of last resort. The great scythe that robbed all sides of the prize. Or so it was rumored by those higher than he otherwise why the dread at his coming. Why the reticence of the Nameless to unleash him? His thoughts paused in a moment of revelation.
Standing at the Hellmouth was a Lord. The Duke, Abigor.
In that instant, he felt something alien. Something alarming yet exhilarating as he watched his Duke move among the shattered remnants. He was still tall and proud yet there was no longer that cold arrogance to his gait, the sneering pride on his features, the snarl of command on his lips, or the lash of rebuke in his eyes.
Haunted.
He looked haunted and humbled, yet he was proud now, not a pride borne of Dukedom granted to him in the mists of ancient history but pride in personal knowledge that he had faced the human magic and lived. Pride in that he was still here. He was a Duke of Hell yes, but now he was a survivor. Memnon watched him speak gently to one of the survivors and he heard a brief whisper in his ear.
“Follow him. Follow him till the end of your story.”
Memnon nodded numbly and rose to wipe the gore and gristle from his snout. He strode up to his lord and spoke.
“My lord?” When Abigor turned to regard him, Memnon knew he had found his leader.
Throne Room, Palace of Satan, Infernal City of Dis
There was, once again, silence in the great Throne Room. “And what was Yahweh’s message?” Satan’s voice was loaded with contempt.
“He said this. ‘The One Above All has spoken yet he sees vile repugnant defiance from humanity. The Great Chorus must not be disturbed. The Chanting must not cease. Your ilk was given this world and we see nothing but abhorrent failure. We do not want to take a more active role. Uriel awaits in the ether like a sword of Damocles. Last he moved upon man, the Land of Khemet wept bitter tears. Do not force our hand. Cow them. Stop the defiance. Should they find a way to disrupt the Chorus we will end this charade once and for all.’ That and that alone, Majesty.”
The silence in the room deepened. This was unheard of, the great ones never interfered with the domains of others. When they did, it meant war. There had been one between Satan and Yahweh already and nobody wanted that experience repeated. Still, Yahweh never interfered in the work of hell, just as Satan never did so with Heaven. Or anywhere else for that matter.
“Despite those ill-chosen words, crushing the humans is a necessity. All our armies are being brought to full strength of 81 legions.” That was almost 550,000 demons in each. “Asmodeus, Beelzebub, and Dagon will command three such armies including their own for our renewed assault on Earth.” A gasp went around the room, that meant Satan was committing 729 legions out of the professional Army force of 999 legions, 939 now that Abigor’s Army had been destroyed. They would only have 210 legions left in Hell to train the reservists and conscripts that made up the rest of Hell’s nominal force of 6,666 legions. Almost 5 million demons would be turned loose on Earth. There had never been a military exercise like this, not even in the war with Yahweh.
“Sire, I beg you.” Abigor’s voice was urgent, his mind filled with the picture of what must surely come. “The portal is a death trap even for such a force. There is a ridge that dominates it, and humans fight from behind ridges. By now they will have every chariot, every fire-lance, every seeker lance they have aimed at that portal. As our demons funnel through it, they will be destroyed. The death will continue until the portal is blocked by our dead.”
“I know.” Satan’s voice was still calm and oily. “That is why you will take your Army and seize that ridgeline.”
“My Army has been destroyed. Barely 300 are left in condition to fight.”
“Then make up the numbers with your mates and your kidlings. The youngest and the oldest. If they can carry a trident, they go. If they cannot, they can go anyway and fight with bare hands. You will leave none of your clan behind. If they can crawl to that ridge, they will go.”
Abigor shook at the sentence. It meant death for him and all his line, that was clear. He rose to his feet, nodded, and left.
“And now, Herald, what shall I do with you?”
“Majesty, I would join Abigor and go with him.”
“So be it.” Memnon turned and left, following Abigor from the throne room.
“Asmodeus, Beelzebub, and Dagon. You have many reservists in your ranks. Train them properly before launching your assault. There is no hurry.”
Asmodeus frowned. “But Sire. What about Abigor?”
“Abigor who?”
The Banks of the Styx, Fifth Ring, Hell
Another demon had died, his head grotesquely shattered by the human weapons. Rahab recognized the signs by this time, the physical destruction that had been wrought from a distance that gave the victim no chance of surviving, not even warning that it was under attack. She wasn’t quite certain how many had died to date, might have been twelve or more. She did know the number included some of the demons that had once ridden so imperiously on their Beasts. The humans had proved her wrong, they could be killed. The humans had killed them quite easily. There was much to think about there. There was something else to consider as well. In her travels, trying to find the six new arrivals who were causing this mayhem, she had watched the demons and learned something else. They were scared, too many of their number had gone out on patrol and never returned. Now, they were beginning to skimp those patrols, to head through the area as fast as they could, not stopping for anything until they got back to the safety of the walls.
Rahab found herself asking, just how safe were those walls? She had seen what was left of the mighty bridge over the Styx, a mass of destroyed masonry flung around the way an angry child might scatter play bricks. A bridge that had stood for untold millennia had been wantonly destroyed, with, it was rumored, the best part of a whole legion that had been unfortunate enough to be standing on it. Work gangs were trying to repair it, some of the humans are driven by demon overseers, but the destruction had been so great it was defeating their efforts. She had watched while some of the repairs collapsed again, the foundations undermined by the power of the destruction. There had been other attacks as well, on the great road that led from the depths of Hell up to the city of Dis and from there out to the field of Dysprosium. Rahab had never been outside the great pit of hell, but she had heard the area outside Dis where the Demons lived was quite pleasant by their standards.
Getting there would be a problem for the demons now though. That road had been the scene of one attack after another, the dead mounting as explosions tore into formation after formation. Rahab shook her head, it made little sense, but she sensed the demons were losing the fight down here. They were trying to protect themselves against ghosts who would strike and slip away before they could be found. The new arrivals didn’t fight the demon way, for pride and honor. Rahab realized they fought for other reasons entirely, they fought to win and woe to anybody who got in their way.
Rahab felt the slam in her back that threw her to the ground and knew the agony of fear. Had she been caught after all this time? A figure was holding her down, her arms twisted behind her back, and she guessed what was to come next. An agonizing rape certainly, then return to the hell-pit from which she had so bravely escaped once before. Her time of freedom was at an end, there was no point in fighting, and she went limp as she was rolled onto her back.
It was a kind of demon she hadn’t seen before, one with huge, staring, lidless eyes and a face below them that was featureless. It was red-brown, a varied skin coloration that merged in with the background. Then, as her senses overcame the blind panic, she realized something else. This creature wasn’t a demon, it was human. More than that, it was a living human, one from outside Hell. A living human that had voluntarily come to Hell? It was rumored there had been others, but this was a solid fact.
“Hello, Rahab. I see you’ve met Lieutenant Madeuce. Sorry about the abruptness of the meeting.” Rahab looked up, it was the woman she had met before, the one who had abandoned the hiding place with her friends. Now she was different, she was wearing the same red-brown clothes as the still-alive had on. Rahab looked harder, she was also wearing a harness with strange green slabs on it and she had a black stick in her hands. An oddly, indescribably shaped stick.
“Who are you?” Rahab needed to know.
“I’m Lieutenant Jade Kim, call-sign Broomstick. These are the rest of my unit. That’ll do for now. You might have noticed we have started a war down here. It’s going to get a lot worse. That’s part of the reason why we found you.”
“Found me, how…”
“It wasn’t hard. Leave it there. I’d guess the only reason why the baldricks haven’t found you is that they couldn’t be bothered with you and there weren’t enough of you to make any difference. So, they didn’t even try. That’s changing, we’ve hurt them badly and they’re going to start fighting back. You need to warn your people and get them out of here. We don’t have the numbers, yet, to protect a static population.”
“Yet?” Rahab was bewildered. None of what she was being told made sense.
“That’s our first question, you wander all over the place. Have you seen any more like us arriving? If so, tell us where they are.”
“Do you know how many people arrive here all the time? And this is a small part of Hell, a segment of one circle. A small segment is owned by a minor duke. A few more have arrived here recently, I can show you where. But what if they are not the ones you want.”
“That’s the second thing. First part. We busted a guy out from one of the other rings. Tried to take him back to Earth but it didn’t work out. He started dying as soon as he arrived. So, he was brought back here. He’s not a soldier, no use to us. We want you to take him in, hide him. Second part. Same with any others that we bust out. If they’re of no use to us, we want you to hide them along with the rest of your people.”
“So you made a mistake and now you want me to put it right for you.” Rahab had the conceit and viciousness back in her voice. “Why should I help you?”
“Because we’re all human because hell isn’t going to last very long. Our people are coming for us and Satan and all his foul legions won’t stop them. The more chaos we stir up down here, the less resistance he can put up back there, and the sooner we will win. Because we are, believe it or not, on the same side.”
“Or we’d better be.” Madeuce’s voice was muffled by the scarf over his nose and mouth. The first few hours down here had been uncomfortable for him, and his chest still felt raw and heavy from the atmosphere. The scarf and goggles had helped a lot, just as they had in the sandstorms of Iraq. “Just an idle question Rahab. What happens when people down here die?”
Rahab felt her stomach drop slightly at the veiled threat. “The Demons believe that we generate some sort of force that helps lift them to their afterlife. Humans, I suppose we just vanish.”
Kim nodded. “Not a good deal, is it? We can offer you a better one. Out of this pit, movement elsewhere in Hell, whatever elsewhere is, and a life. We’re on the same side, just let’s act like it, huh?”
Rahab thought it over. They were right, things were changing, and, like it or not, there was a war starting in Hell. “Very well, I’ll take in your person. And anymore you ‘bust out’. Just don’t overload me with numbers and give me time to get them away before your war turns into a bloodbath. Turns into more of a bloodbath.”
“Done.” Kim turned around. “Bubbles, get Richard out of hiding, tell him he’s got a new girlfriend.”
Throne Room, Palace of Satan, Infernal City of Dis
Satan relished the atmosphere of absolute terror that was building up in his great throne room. The word was spreading across the halls and circles of Hell, through the streets of Dis itself, down the great Pit that it surrounded, and into the garrisons that held the walls separating the rings of Hell. Abigor had failed. Abigor had been defeated, his army massacred. He had been defeated by the humans; his Army driven back inside the gates of Hell. He had been ordered to crush the humans and he had failed. It had amused Satan to dream up some inventive punishments for one who had failed him so badly but there were more important things than petty revenge. He had to find out how this unimaginable thing had occurred. Was Abigor treacherous or just plain stupid?
The audience stirred and shrank back as Abigor entered, a Lesser Herald trailing in his wake. In a way, it was almost amusing, the desire for the other Demons to get out of the possible line of fire. Abigor walked down the hall, conscious of the eyes on him as he approached the great throne where Satan sat, watching him. He reached the foot of the throne and threw himself at Satan’s feet.
“So, Abigor, you have come to tell us of your great victory and regale us with stories of the sufferings you have inflicted on the humans?” Satan’s voice was the silky smoothness that portrayed real trouble and Abigor knew it.”
“Infernal Majesty, I fear…”
“Good”
Abigor felt a flash of irritation at the interruption. “I fear that I have grim and terrible news. My Army was defeated, destroyed by the Humans. Something has happened in their world, something that is terrible beyond belief. They have magic that is so powerful we could not stand against it. They can breathe on whole sections of an Army and leave nothing but mangled flesh, they have lances and arrows that never miss their target, that follow the one they aim at no matter how much they run.
“Run? So, you admit your army ran?”
“After all but one in a thousand had died, Yes Sire, we ran. All those who did not die. Most of those who tried to escape the humans died. The humans have iron chariots.” A thrill of horror went round the room. Iron chariots had caused them problems once before, problems that had required a succubus, a peasant girl, and a tent peg to sort out. Now they were back in a new and more terrible form?
The thought of Iron Chariots sent screaming rage flooding through Satan’s mind, but he kept himself under strict control. There was so much he needed to know. “Tell me all Abigor. From the start.”
Sprawled on the floor, Abigor started to relate the history of his devastated Army. How it had marched out of Hell and across the desert to its first objectives. The strange attacks on the way, the flying chariots that had killed some of his commanders, the mysterious explosions that had wiped out whole command groups. Then, the enemy defense line, the fire lances, the exploding ground, the snakes of iron that tore his troops apart. The way the humans had breathed death, how they never came close to their enemy but killed from distances. How they had slaughtered Abigor’s Army and then chased it back across the desert, killing remorselessly as they did so. By the time he finished, the room was silent, and the demon Dukes were looking at each other with profound unease.
“So now we know the reason for the destruction of your Army Abigor.” Satan’s voice oozed charm, then suddenly turned to a berserk scream. “It was cowardice. Unmitigated cowardice. You claim that your Army pressed home its attacks bravely, yet you are here alive to give lie to that statement. Your soldiers were cowards who would not charge the enemy but ran away and you were at their head. You led the disaster; you led their failure. Your cowardice was the cause of your army’s destruction.
Here it comes Abigor thought. A hideous death.
“But I am merciful.” The oily cooing was back in Satan’s voice. “I will give you a chance to redeem yourself.”
“Majesty, I thank you. But there is something we must do first. We must close that portal before it can be used against us.”
“Would that we could.” The words were not spoken but formed in Abigor’s mind. It wasn’t Satan speaking but he didn’t know who it was. “Our mages have been trying with all the energy they can command. It is no use. We cannot close it. It may decay on its own, in time, but we cannot close it. It is as much a fixture now as the very walls of Dis itself.”
“That is not your concern coward.” Satan turned to Memnon. “Tell me your story, Herald. Let us hear how you ran from the humans and betrayed our kind.”
Memnon stared at the leering, sneering figure on the throne. Satan had no idea, what he was hearing simply wasn’t registering. He began to speak, the experiences of the last month pouring from him.
Outside the Portal to Hell, Western Iraq
Running. It was all he could think of doing. Legs pistoning like a great machine his hooves kicked up sand and grit into thick clouds with each giant stride. His breath came hard and fast, foam-flecked at the corners of his mouth, and his eyes were narrowed into slits as he pushed his body to its limits and beyond in a frightful dash towards home. His mind was racing along with his body. The memories of his recent sojourn here on this dreadful plane burned through his fear and panic.
He had watched his wing mates annihilated by sky chariots. They never stood a chance and all their infernal might was no match for human magic. He did not have time to taste the shame that shot through him. It was not the time or the place to wallow in his misery. He needed to survive. He needed to get home. He needed to repeat the words.
Uriel. Damn the Nameless One. To unleash Uriel on this world in all his awesome wonder and glory was almost too much to bear. After all who was he but a humble servant, a warrior for his Duke. And now to be a messenger, a go-between for the angelics made him want to spill his guts into these desert wastes and scream with impotent horror into the night.
But there was no time for that. There was only time to run and not think about the sounds around him, the cracks in the air that indicated some human was pointing his plastic lance and firing bolts of fire nearby, perhaps even at him as he rumbled by like a runaway freight train. Were his wings healed he would be flying so hard so fast that the very sinews of his shoulder blades and joints would tear away.
There were the more ominous cracks of artificial thunder as human sky chariots blasted their way overhead. Sometimes it was followed by the deep bass rumble of human fire magic as it burst over a concentration of Never born and spread them over the wastes like fertilizer. He had seen one such strike up close as he ran.
One of the cavalry servitors tending to his dying mount looked up at him as he raced by, several foot soldiers were standing by the noble one waiting for instructions. One must submit his will and being to a demon of higher order. It was the way of things. It was the natural order. The cavalry servitor demanded he halt and give a chant of greeting and submission. Memnon had considered for the briefest moment to do as he was told. Every fiber of his being seemed to tense as it prepared to submit as was custom and tradition.
The artificial thunder rumbled directly overhead, and he remembered the death, the fire bolts, the arrows of doom that could pluck them from the sky as easily as a hawk picked off a field mouse for supper. And he responded in a manner that still haunted him.
“Run you fool!” he spat, and his hooves did not falter, did not pause. He simply continued running, hot sweat hissing as it touched whatever it fell upon like an obscene rain. The cavalry servitor was stunned. Eyes bulged, and tusks snapped loudly in anger and confusion.
“In the name of Abigor, you will submit to me now or----”
Then there was the brief sound like parchment tearing or the clothes of some helpless human wench being rent by lecherous claws and then the cavalry servitor, his mount, and several of the closest foot troops exploded into a thick cloud of blood and bone. They were gone in a moment as if they had never been there. Several of the surviving foot soldiers were crawling away screaming in agony as they left liquefied or shattered limbs behind. He looked up long enough to see a sky chariot with its wings whirling over its head roar past in a low trajectory like a bird of prey surveying the carnage of its passing.
“Or what you fool? Everything has changed. Our world has been torn asunder.” Memnon spat to himself in sheer disgust. He paused only long enough to make sure the chariot did not come around for another attack run but the combination of the billowing clouds swept up by the chariot’s passing and his panicked running had obscured him from its sight and unlike the other higher-flying iron and plastic chariots this one seemed to lack the keen senses of its brethren and that saved the wayward servant of the Morningstar.
His body started to seize up and his muscles were cramped as he took those moments to slow down. He had pushed himself beyond all endurance and his body was now reacting to his fevered pace. At any moment he would collapse in an exhausted heap and sleep through the hazy pain to awaken refreshed.
However, one glance back at the bloody crater where before several of his kith and kin had stood fired him up and he raised one arm to his mouth, and he bit deeply into the bicep. The flesh was rent from his bone and blood gushed into his nostrils. He snorted in pain and pleasure and that small spark of pain he was so keen on inflicting upon the useless wretches of humanity kindled a small surge in power pushed by will and fear and the Never born exploded back into his breakneck pace.
And so, he ran and ran. He ran past the sight of his grand army shattered into bloody remnants and screaming broken brethren who were begging for release, for a return to the fiery bloody skies of home and cursing humanity in whatever tongue they deemed fit. He ran through a charnel house of guts and sinews, hooves cracked exposed bone and ribs. He ran even as the air burned within his lungs like a furnace. He ran as he heard more thunderclaps and whistling booms. He ran until he could run no more and collapsed in heap, blood spewing from his ruined bicep, frothy saliva spilling from his mouth, and foam flecking along his heaving flanks.
There was no more left. No more to give and not even enough energy to take.
Memnon was spent to the last dregs of his reserves, and he looked up to the sky to scream his defiance and await the human magic that was sure to rend him limb from limb. But then he noticed he was right at the lip of the portal to hell. Could it be? Was it not a failure? Had he pushed himself enough? Before him in a pathetic display a great beast dragged itself towards the yawning doorway hone. Both hind legs were reduced to splintered messes of dying meat and trailing entrails still it tried to get itself home. A leg from its rider was still firmly in the stirrup the rest of its charge probably scattered along with the wastes. Memnon growled and fell upon the beast in a scream of desperation and anger at the predicament he found himself in, reduced to feeding off one of the great beasts to survive. He let his anger and frustration out on the wretched beast as it bleated in its death throes while teeth and claws rent muscle and sinew from the bone.
Memnon fed deeply and voraciously as his anger, despair, and shame burned in his belly worse than the rancid meat being guzzled in with such relish. He wanted to feed away from the pain, the anguish of the defeat, the shame of running from the prey, the despair of knowing that he had failed so completely and utterly and the gnawing fear that Nameless One was moving behind the scenes, that Uriel would tread this world completely unleashed.
What victory was there in that? It was whispered from the elder days that Uriel’s power was so grand that his death touch obliterated not only human life but also the human soul. His power, one of the greatest of all angels save perhaps for Michael the Great General, was the ultimate weapon because it robbed everyone, including the Nameless of the prize of human essence. When the first born of Khemet was swept aside their souls did not go screaming into Hell or the Etheric Realms. They simply ceased to be. Oblivion.
The very concept chilled the demon to its core. Nothing. Just the great darkness and void. At least in hell, these pathetic humans drew solace from the fact that they still existed. Despite the pain and anguish, they still mattered. But Uriel robbed everyone of that solace. He was the Nameless Ones’ weapon of last resort. The great scythe that robbed all sides of the prize. Or so it was rumored by those higher than he otherwise why the dread at his coming. Why the reticence of the Nameless to unleash him? His thoughts paused in a moment of revelation.
Standing at the Hellmouth was a Lord. The Duke, Abigor.
In that instant, he felt something alien. Something alarming yet exhilarating as he watched his Duke move among the shattered remnants. He was still tall and proud yet there was no longer that cold arrogance to his gait, the sneering pride on his features, the snarl of command on his lips, or the lash of rebuke in his eyes.
Haunted.
He looked haunted and humbled, yet he was proud now, not a pride borne of Dukedom granted to him in the mists of ancient history but pride in personal knowledge that he had faced the human magic and lived. Pride in that he was still here. He was a Duke of Hell yes, but now he was a survivor. Memnon watched him speak gently to one of the survivors and he heard a brief whisper in his ear.
“Follow him. Follow him till the end of your story.”
Memnon nodded numbly and rose to wipe the gore and gristle from his snout. He strode up to his lord and spoke.
“My lord?” When Abigor turned to regard him, Memnon knew he had found his leader.
Throne Room, Palace of Satan, Infernal City of Dis
There was, once again, silence in the great Throne Room. “And what was Yahweh’s message?” Satan’s voice was loaded with contempt.
“He said this. ‘The One Above All has spoken yet he sees vile repugnant defiance from humanity. The Great Chorus must not be disturbed. The Chanting must not cease. Your ilk was given this world and we see nothing but abhorrent failure. We do not want to take a more active role. Uriel awaits in the ether like a sword of Damocles. Last he moved upon man, the Land of Khemet wept bitter tears. Do not force our hand. Cow them. Stop the defiance. Should they find a way to disrupt the Chorus we will end this charade once and for all.’ That and that alone, Majesty.”
The silence in the room deepened. This was unheard of, the great ones never interfered with the domains of others. When they did, it meant war. There had been one between Satan and Yahweh already and nobody wanted that experience repeated. Still, Yahweh never interfered in the work of hell, just as Satan never did so with Heaven. Or anywhere else for that matter.
“Despite those ill-chosen words, crushing the humans is a necessity. All our armies are being brought to full strength of 81 legions.” That was almost 550,000 demons in each. “Asmodeus, Beelzebub, and Dagon will command three such armies including their own for our renewed assault on Earth.” A gasp went around the room, that meant Satan was committing 729 legions out of the professional Army force of 999 legions, 939 now that Abigor’s Army had been destroyed. They would only have 210 legions left in Hell to train the reservists and conscripts that made up the rest of Hell’s nominal force of 6,666 legions. Almost 5 million demons would be turned loose on Earth. There had never been a military exercise like this, not even in the war with Yahweh.
“Sire, I beg you.” Abigor’s voice was urgent, his mind filled with the picture of what must surely come. “The portal is a death trap even for such a force. There is a ridge that dominates it, and humans fight from behind ridges. By now they will have every chariot, every fire-lance, every seeker lance they have aimed at that portal. As our demons funnel through it, they will be destroyed. The death will continue until the portal is blocked by our dead.”
“I know.” Satan’s voice was still calm and oily. “That is why you will take your Army and seize that ridgeline.”
“My Army has been destroyed. Barely 300 are left in condition to fight.”
“Then make up the numbers with your mates and your kidlings. The youngest and the oldest. If they can carry a trident, they go. If they cannot, they can go anyway and fight with bare hands. You will leave none of your clan behind. If they can crawl to that ridge, they will go.”
Abigor shook at the sentence. It meant death for him and all his line, that was clear. He rose to his feet, nodded, and left.
“And now, Herald, what shall I do with you?”
“Majesty, I would join Abigor and go with him.”
“So be it.” Memnon turned and left, following Abigor from the throne room.
“Asmodeus, Beelzebub, and Dagon. You have many reservists in your ranks. Train them properly before launching your assault. There is no hurry.”
Asmodeus frowned. “But Sire. What about Abigor?”
“Abigor who?”
Re: 2008 - Armageddon
Chapter Thirty-One
Army Training Center, Cultybraggan, near Stirling, Scotland.
Warrant Officer Class II William Bell watched with some satisfaction as the company he had helped train entered the firing range to practice their musketry skills. The men who made up D Company, 7th (Fife) Battalion the Black Watch, had shown great promises; there had been many bright individuals among them, who were potential Non-Commissioned Officers, and possibly officer material, and all had been keen to learn. That was something of a relief, the problem with any rapid force expansion was finding good NCOs and reasonably competent officers. The British Army had paid badly for that problem in the past, Bell hoped that this time around it would be different.
He was also rather pleased that General, sorry Field Marshal Dannatt, as he was now, had decided that as the army was expanding that the recent regimental amalgamations, which had been deeply unpopular in Scotland, would be reversed. Hence the Black Watch, 3rd Battalion the Royal Regiment of Scotland had once again become the 1st Battalion, The Black Watch, and the regiment had regained its independent identity. The alternative, as Dannatt had pointed out, was to have battalions with absurdly high numbers, and anyway the public better identified with the more traditional regimental names. That argument had carried the day and regiments were emerging all over the U.K. The parades as the merged regiments had formed, then split apart, their colors being cased and replaced by the old traditional standards were a frequent news item on television these days.
Bell himself had served for the full twenty-two years in the 1st Black Watch, retiring as a Company Sergeant-Major. Like all other army pensioners, he had been recalled to the colors to help train a new generation of National Servicemen. It was highly doubtful that he would go into action with the new battalion once it was operational, but he was certainly fit enough to continue to serve in his current training role or transfer to the re-established Home Service Force.
As the first platoon began to shoot at the targets, Bell remembered the first month after conscription had been brought in. The army had been totally unprepared, the last time they had to train thousands of new recruits had been in 1960, and arguably they had not faced a situation quite like this since the raising of the Kitchener Armies in 1914. There had been not enough uniforms, weapons, equipment, or accommodation, as in 1914-1915 new recruits had to be billeted amongst the civilian population while new hutted accommodation was constructed.
At least now the worst of the shortages were over, everybody now had uniforms and at least most of the normal equipment that an infantryman should expect to have. Moreover, the new L1A2 Self Loading Rifle chambered for .338 Lapua rounds had begun to come off the production lines in some numbers. The first orders had gone to FN-Herstal over in Belgium. Years of being players in the export market had meant they were geared up to switch between calibers quickly. The omnipresence of the 7.62x51 NATO and, later, the 5,56x45 had eroded that capability but enough had remained for them to start producing the new rifles within a week of receiving the orders. Initial priority had gone to regular and Territorial units in the Middle East, which had at least freed up numbers of L85A2 and L86A2s for the National Servicemen to train on, but now the first L1A2s had begun to be issued to conscripts for familiarity training. British production was ramping up as well and once that happened, the re-equipment of the rest of the Army would follow.
Today was the day that the 7th Black Watch would get their first chance to fire the new rifles, having spent the previous week learning how the weapon worked, how it should be cleaned, and what its various features were. Bell himself had examined one of the rifles closely himself and had realized that although it was semi-automatic, just like the old 7.62mm L1A1 SLR the old matchstick/paper clip trick would work on it. However, it was debatable whether firing a .338 rifle on fully automatic was a good thing. The old 7.62 NATO had been hard to control on full auto, the .338 was way out there. Given the muzzle climb, it might be good for shooting down harpies though.
“In your own time, commence firing!” The range officer called out.
‘CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!’
Bell watched with interest as a few members of the platoon paused after the first shot, somewhat shocked at the recoil of the .338 round compared to the 5.56mm that they had gotten used to. To their credit, they adjusted their position slightly and resumed firing. From what he could see, despite the extra power of their new weapons, the level of marksmanship had not dropped off appreciably.
“They’re shooting very well, Mr. Mathews,” Bell observed to the platoon commander.
“They are indeed, Sergeant-Major.” The young subaltern, who had found his Sandhurst class suddenly passed out early, replied, slightly nervous of the very experienced Senior NCO. “In no small thanks to your training of them.”
‘THUD! THUD! THUD!’
Both men turned their heads towards the sound and saw that on the range next door that S Company had begun to practice firing their newly issued Browning Heavy Machine Guns. The 12.7mm round was a prodigious man killer, and was also effective against baldricks, so every infantry battalion was being issued with the big machine gun. The M-2s had come from FN-Herstal as well, Bell couldn’t help reflecting that the armorers were doing well out of the Salvation War. The M-2 issue was even including the units due to be mounted in Warrior Infantry Fighting Vehicles. The 7th Black Watch was one of them and would be receiving its new Warriors as soon as the vehicles were available. Until then, they were making do with FV-432s and some M-113s the government had found somewhere.
Two Warriors had recently visited Cultybraggan so that the men destined to join armored infantry regiments could become familiar with them. They had been examples of the new Warrior Mk.2, armed with the 40mm CTA cannon, rather than the old 30mm RARDEN cannon. The RARDEN had proven very effective against baldricks, but it’s one weakness was its low rate of fire, the troops in Iraq had requested a weapon with a greater rate of fire. The MoD had bitten the bullet and decided that the time had come to make a choice, and quickly. The BAE Systems proposal, which involved installing a 40mm CTA cannon in the existing Warrior turret had been chosen, even if the turret were now a bit cramped, because it could be manufactured more quickly, and existing Warriors could be modified faster.
“Have you tried the new rifle yourself yet, Sir?” Bell enquired.
“I certainly have, Sergeant-Major,” Mathews replied. “It has one hell of a kick, left my shoulder all black and blue, and one really does need that bipod. I think it will make a good battle rifle, though, once we all get used to it.”
“Rather reminds me of the old Slur, Sir,” Bell said wistfully, having left the army before the SA80 family had entered widespread service. “Bit fiercer, though.
“It’ll certainly give those baldricks a pause for thought if they come back again.”
Western desert of Iraq.
Corporal James Moss, well he was an Acting Sergeant, as the old platoon Sergeant was gone (he had been a member of the Free Church of Scotland), of 3 Platoon, A Company, 1st Battalion the Royal Scots, scanned the desert around him from the commander’s hatch of the FV432 ‘Bulldog’ APC. As with the other Scottish regiments 1st Royal Scots, the senior line infantry regiment of the army, had been de-amalgamated, in its case not only from The Royal Regiment of Scotland but also from the King’s Own Scottish Borderers. Part of the regiment, mainly men from the Borderers, had been sent home to the UK to help form the new 1st Battalion, The King’s Own Scottish Borders, while a mixture of reservists and Territorial Army soldiers took their place in Iraq.
While the upgraded ‘Bulldog’ was considered by the troops to be an excellent vehicle, having protection fully equal of the Warrior IFV, the fact that it was only armed with a GPMG had kept the units equipped with it out of the fight with the baldricks. Major General Brims had kept them and the 1st Battalion the Duke of Lancaster’s Regiment back as his reserve, while the 1st Battalion the Scots Guards and 1st Battalion the Mercian Regiment (Cheshire) had all the fun in their Warriors.
Determined to play some useful part the Scots and Lancasters had scoured armories for heavier weapons to replace their GPMGs with. Moss’ ‘Bulldog’, for example, had a Browning HMG on the commander’s mount, the GPMG being relocated to a pintle mount aft of the main troop compartment hatches. Getting enough Brownings for his platoon had cost Moss every bottle of whisky that the platoon possessed, and most of their beer. A very happy American unit had handed over the HMGs and ammunition and had immediately drawn replacements for themselves.
Other ‘Bulldogs’ had Russian made DShK machine-guns taken from Iraqi armories while some sported American Mark 19 Grenade launchers. The British Army had adopted that weapon for use in Afghanistan and the Quartermaster would surely be surprised to find out how many were now in the unofficial inventory. With their new armament the ‘Bulldog’ equipped battle groups had been sent out into the desert behind where the armored battle groups of 4th Mechanized Brigade had advanced, to sweep the ground for any stray baldricks who may have escaped.
A few baldricks and injured harpies had already been encountered by the mechanized patrols and successfully dealt with. Mostly killed, but there were whispers that some had been taken prisoner. It was also whispered that units who managed to take such prisoners would be smiled upon by those in authority. However, this long after the defeat of the demon army the chances of encountering a live baldrick, or even a dead one, as the corpses had largely decomposed, was slim. Still, Acting Sergeant Moss was ever hopeful of getting his chance.
“I can see something move over there, Corp…er, Sarge.” One of the dismounts, who was standing head and shoulders out of the open troop hatches reported.
Moss cocked the big Browning and swung it round in the direction that the private had indicated, while he studied the object through the Common Weapons Sight on his new L1A2 (he had taken the CWS off his old L85A2 and fitted it to the new rifle).
“Oh, sorry, false alarm, it’s a cow or something.”
“Bloody numptie,” Moss complained. “You had me going for a minute there.”
“That’s the feckin’ real thing though!” Another soldier called out, flipping the safety catch off his rifle and opening fire.
The baldrick that the soldier had spotted had started to try and run as soon as he had heard the APC approach, but was too weak to move particularly fast. The .338 Lapua round struck him in the side and was enough in his weakened state to bring the demon down.
“Davie, halt!” Moss said to the FV432’s driver. “I think we might have just taken ourselves a baldrick prisoner.”
The Portal from Hell, Western Desert, Iraq
In any other circumstances, the sight would have been hilariously funny. The little force about to sally through the portal was built around veterans of the first great invasion, most still bearing the wounds of that horrifying massacre but the rest? Kidlings wearing equipment too big for them, so heavy they could hardly lift it, mates who were scarcely any better off. None of them knew how to operate their tridents, how to charge them and then discharge the magic in a searing bolt. Most of the mates were crying, they knew what awaited them. The kidlings were excited, trying to run around with their equipment, assuming that what was about to happen was just a game. One kidling couldn’t lift his trident properly so had it over his shoulder with the end trailing on the ground behind him. In any other circumstances, the sight would have been hilariously funny, but Abigor’s heart was near breaking.
“Get ready!” His order ran around the group, bringing them into some form of formation. “Move out.” He went into a jogtrot and stepped through the great ellipse that represented the portal between dimensions, into the clear yellow sun and blue skies that he had devoutly hoped never to see again. Behind him, his pathetic rag-tag band appeared in a grim pastiche of a fighting formation.
The truth was, Abigor was surprised to be still alive. He had expected to be swamped by a barrage of fire-lances and mage bolts as soon as he and his band had emerged, but the desert was silent. The ridge up ahead of them seemed deserted but Abigor wasn’t fooled by that, he knew the humans would stay below the ridgeline where they were safe until it was time to pour their fire into their enemies. Thinking about it with the clarity that accompanies imminent death, Abigor suddenly realized that it was a very sensible approach.
Yet still, the desert was silent, no hideous holocaust of fire erupting around them. Had he been wrong? Had the humans given up and gone home? Surely that was unlike them, it didn’t fit the remorseless harrowing of his Army as it had retreated across the desert. But why was it silent?
“Everybody be careful where you put your feet. Do not step on mage bars. They will kill you.” Or worse he thought, but there was no need to worry the mates and kidlings with that possibility. Despite all his fears, the ridgeline was approaching fast as he jog-trotted across the desert. For preference, he and his veterans would have been at a full run to cover the ground as fast as possible, but they had to measure their pace to the abilities of the weakest members of their group. This attack was a sick joke and Abigor knew it.
Yet it had succeeded. They reached the ridgeline and deployed on it. The mates and kidlings were exhausted by the run across the desert, the veterans were barely fazed by its exertions. Abigor was keeping them relatively closely bunched. He knew it was wrong, that he should be dispersing his people out so they would not be slaughtered in mass by the human mage-magic but that was not his intent. He knew his group could not survive and keeping them bunched would mean a quick death for them all as the humans concentrated their fire on them. He had seen too many demons screaming their last seconds away as they had been torn apart yet still lived. He did not want his kidlings and mates to die that way.
The minutes ticked by, Abigor marveling that the humans had taken so long to react. He glanced behind him; the forces that were supposed to have followed him out were nowhere to be seen. That, he had expected. He had known from this start that this ‘attack’ was just a mass execution. Then, overhead, Abigor heard the screaming howl of mage-bolts as they started to descend upon him. It was all over.
Combat Team Alpha. By the Hellmouth, Western Iraq
“Any movement Hooters?”
“All still out there. Nothing happening.” Stevenson’s combat team had drawn the Hellmouth watch assignment for the day. She had her platoon of Bradleys in the center, holding a ridgeline while her two platoons of Abrams tanks were spread out to either side. If the baldricks emerged, they’d fight in the best traditions of the U.S. Army, they’d protect their artillery observer while he called down unimaginable firepower upon their enemies. “Wait for one, there’s movement. Here they come again.”
Down in the desert, figures were emerging from the Hellmouth. They were a disorganized stream, undisciplined, nothing like the neat formations that had emerged before. They were spread out in the desert, running straight at the dug-in Bradleys but to Stevenson’s already experienced eye, this wasn’t an attack. Anyway, was that all of them?
“Alpha-actual to Domino. We have a Hellmouth activity. Baldricks emerging, a number estimated at..” Stevenson did a quick count, there were around 400 at most. “Four hundred, say again four-zero-zero. Heading for our position.”
“Four hundred? Are you sure of that?”
“Sure am. Four hundred, no follow-up force. There’s something very wrong about this.” She thought for a second and looked through the high-powered optics on her tank. She blinked and looked again. “Sir, this force is a joke. There are some regulars down there but there are some small ones that can hardly lift their weapons. Others don’t have any at all.” She looked again at the way the formation was breaking up as it crossed rough ground. For the first time, she appreciated the amount of training the earlier formations had shown. Their lines had never wavered, never broken no matter how rough the ground or intense the fire brought down in them. This mob was not even in the same class. “Sir, these baldricks aren’t soldiers, most of them aren’t. They look more like civilians.”
“Understood.” There was a pause. “Deny contact, ring them off, don’t let them go anywhere but hold your fire until ordered otherwise. Give them at least 1500 meters clearance”
“Very good Sir.” Stevenson broke contact and changed to her command frequency. “Third platoon fall back, let them have the ridgeline, we don’t need it. First and second, move up to flanking positions. Hold fire.”
There was a cloud of dust and black smoke as the Bradleys backed off their ridgeline and headed for the one about 2,000 meters to the rear. They were already in position when the baldricks ran up onto the ridge and started to deploy into a defensive perimeter. A tight one, Stevenson thought, perfect for artillery. Didn’t baldricks ever learn?
“Report.” The single word came over her radio.
Stevenson looked carefully. “We’re in position. Sir the enemy force is at least 50 percent civilian. There are small ones running around, I think they’re playing, it looks like their children of some kind. And others are behaving like their mothers.” She flipped her optics up to full power. “Well, what do you know, our big friend the football player is up there.”
“Very good. Hold positions, do not open fire. This is going right up the chain.”
Stevenson relaxed in her seat, watching the baldricks. There were some real soldiers across there, they were watchful, their tridents at the ready. But the rest? No way were they, soldiers. Women and children were Stevenson’s guess. Okay, I guess now is when we find out what sort of people, we really are she thought to herself. The minutes ticked by until almost an hour had passed.
“Alpha-Actual. This is Command-One-Actual.”
Whoa, that meant General Petraeus himself. “Alpha Actual Sir.”
“Get ready, there’s artillery fire coming in. In between you and the baldricks. A safe distance but it’s tight. FYI, we’re going to try and get this lot to surrender. As soon as the shells have landed, expose your vehicles but do not, I repeat do not, open fire. One-shot from you without orders, Captain, and you’ll be burning **** for the rest of your career.”
“Understood Sir. Expose but do not fire.”
Overhead there was a howl of descending 155mm shells from a Paladin battery. The salvo was beautifully placed, one shot to each side of the baldrick group, two in front of it, two behind. A perfect hexagon that was just, only just, far enough out to be safe. “All Alpha Vehicles move up onto the ridge crest. Do not under any circumstances fire. Repeat do not under any circumstances open fire. Require verbal repeat and acknowledgment of that order from each vehicle.” She listened as the acknowledgments came in. Then, her Abrams lurched as she moved up to the crest of the ridge.
On the Ridgeline, Hellmouth, Western Iraq
Abigor’s skin crawled as he expected the lash of mage-fire and iron fragments, but the desert erupted in a neat hexagon around his unit, the bursts harmless. Oh, they buffeted and shook the ground but there were no screaming disemboweled demons on the ground to show they had landed. Then, all around him, Iron Chariots appeared. In front, to either side, behind him. The humans really did love surrounding their enemies so that none could escape when the killing started. But the Chariots remained silent. No fire lances, no seeker lances, the chariots just sat there and watched him. The silence was eerie after the crash of the mage-bursts. The kidlings had stopped their games, the mates their weeping, and everybody was just waiting. It dawned on Abigor that they were waiting for him. Everybody, demon and human were waiting for him.
If they were waiting for him to start fighting, what happened if he did not? Why had the humans given him a chance denied to him by Satan? What would happen if he took that chance? It couldn’t be any worse than what would happen if he didn’t. Abigor made his decision and stood up, throwing his trident away. Then, he raised his hands to show he was unarmed. “All of you, throw down your arms. Stand up and raise your hands like mine. So that the humans can see we are unarmed.”
Across the desert, the Iron Chariots kicked up a cloud of dust and started to move in.
Combat Team Alpha. By the Hellmouth, Western Iraq
“Sir, they’re surrendering. They’ve thrown down their arms and are standing up. They’ve raised their hands, all of them.”
“Captain Stevenson, move in, carefully. This may be a trick but if it isn’t we have a priceless opportunity here. Do not fire, even if fired upon.”
That means I’m the sacrificial goat. Stevenson thought. She gave the order and her command started rolling closer to the group on the hill crest. They were motionless as her tanks and armored infantry vehicles closed in. When they were less than fifty meters away, the big one, the one Stevenson thought of as the football player, dropped to the ground and sprawled out on the sand. She checked her intercom, making sure it was set so only her crew could hear her. “Reminds me of one of my ex-boyfriends, guys. I wonder if he wants me to trample him too?”
There was a suppressed series of snorts from her crew. She stopped the vehicle and got out, climbing down the outside of the turret and onto the ground.
“I am Captain Keisha Stevenson, United States Army. I am authorized to accept your surrender.”
“I am Great Duke Abigor. I am, or was, commander of sixty legions. I offer you my surrender and fealty.”
White House Communications Center, Washington DC.
“Vladimir, this is Dubya. I have urgent news. General Abigor has just surrendered and defected.”
“That filthy Vlasovite bastard.”
“Sorry, Vladimir, you misunderstand, he’s a baldrick, he’s defecting to us.”
Without missing a beat, Putin carried on, “What I meant to say of course was that he is a heroic champion of freedom and liberty who has overcome his corrupt upbringing so that he can rally to the side of truth, honor, and justice.”
“That’s right Vladimir, he’s a filthy Vlasovite bastard, but he’s our filthy Vlasovite bastard.”
Army Training Center, Cultybraggan, near Stirling, Scotland.
Warrant Officer Class II William Bell watched with some satisfaction as the company he had helped train entered the firing range to practice their musketry skills. The men who made up D Company, 7th (Fife) Battalion the Black Watch, had shown great promises; there had been many bright individuals among them, who were potential Non-Commissioned Officers, and possibly officer material, and all had been keen to learn. That was something of a relief, the problem with any rapid force expansion was finding good NCOs and reasonably competent officers. The British Army had paid badly for that problem in the past, Bell hoped that this time around it would be different.
He was also rather pleased that General, sorry Field Marshal Dannatt, as he was now, had decided that as the army was expanding that the recent regimental amalgamations, which had been deeply unpopular in Scotland, would be reversed. Hence the Black Watch, 3rd Battalion the Royal Regiment of Scotland had once again become the 1st Battalion, The Black Watch, and the regiment had regained its independent identity. The alternative, as Dannatt had pointed out, was to have battalions with absurdly high numbers, and anyway the public better identified with the more traditional regimental names. That argument had carried the day and regiments were emerging all over the U.K. The parades as the merged regiments had formed, then split apart, their colors being cased and replaced by the old traditional standards were a frequent news item on television these days.
Bell himself had served for the full twenty-two years in the 1st Black Watch, retiring as a Company Sergeant-Major. Like all other army pensioners, he had been recalled to the colors to help train a new generation of National Servicemen. It was highly doubtful that he would go into action with the new battalion once it was operational, but he was certainly fit enough to continue to serve in his current training role or transfer to the re-established Home Service Force.
As the first platoon began to shoot at the targets, Bell remembered the first month after conscription had been brought in. The army had been totally unprepared, the last time they had to train thousands of new recruits had been in 1960, and arguably they had not faced a situation quite like this since the raising of the Kitchener Armies in 1914. There had been not enough uniforms, weapons, equipment, or accommodation, as in 1914-1915 new recruits had to be billeted amongst the civilian population while new hutted accommodation was constructed.
At least now the worst of the shortages were over, everybody now had uniforms and at least most of the normal equipment that an infantryman should expect to have. Moreover, the new L1A2 Self Loading Rifle chambered for .338 Lapua rounds had begun to come off the production lines in some numbers. The first orders had gone to FN-Herstal over in Belgium. Years of being players in the export market had meant they were geared up to switch between calibers quickly. The omnipresence of the 7.62x51 NATO and, later, the 5,56x45 had eroded that capability but enough had remained for them to start producing the new rifles within a week of receiving the orders. Initial priority had gone to regular and Territorial units in the Middle East, which had at least freed up numbers of L85A2 and L86A2s for the National Servicemen to train on, but now the first L1A2s had begun to be issued to conscripts for familiarity training. British production was ramping up as well and once that happened, the re-equipment of the rest of the Army would follow.
Today was the day that the 7th Black Watch would get their first chance to fire the new rifles, having spent the previous week learning how the weapon worked, how it should be cleaned, and what its various features were. Bell himself had examined one of the rifles closely himself and had realized that although it was semi-automatic, just like the old 7.62mm L1A1 SLR the old matchstick/paper clip trick would work on it. However, it was debatable whether firing a .338 rifle on fully automatic was a good thing. The old 7.62 NATO had been hard to control on full auto, the .338 was way out there. Given the muzzle climb, it might be good for shooting down harpies though.
“In your own time, commence firing!” The range officer called out.
‘CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!’
Bell watched with interest as a few members of the platoon paused after the first shot, somewhat shocked at the recoil of the .338 round compared to the 5.56mm that they had gotten used to. To their credit, they adjusted their position slightly and resumed firing. From what he could see, despite the extra power of their new weapons, the level of marksmanship had not dropped off appreciably.
“They’re shooting very well, Mr. Mathews,” Bell observed to the platoon commander.
“They are indeed, Sergeant-Major.” The young subaltern, who had found his Sandhurst class suddenly passed out early, replied, slightly nervous of the very experienced Senior NCO. “In no small thanks to your training of them.”
‘THUD! THUD! THUD!’
Both men turned their heads towards the sound and saw that on the range next door that S Company had begun to practice firing their newly issued Browning Heavy Machine Guns. The 12.7mm round was a prodigious man killer, and was also effective against baldricks, so every infantry battalion was being issued with the big machine gun. The M-2s had come from FN-Herstal as well, Bell couldn’t help reflecting that the armorers were doing well out of the Salvation War. The M-2 issue was even including the units due to be mounted in Warrior Infantry Fighting Vehicles. The 7th Black Watch was one of them and would be receiving its new Warriors as soon as the vehicles were available. Until then, they were making do with FV-432s and some M-113s the government had found somewhere.
Two Warriors had recently visited Cultybraggan so that the men destined to join armored infantry regiments could become familiar with them. They had been examples of the new Warrior Mk.2, armed with the 40mm CTA cannon, rather than the old 30mm RARDEN cannon. The RARDEN had proven very effective against baldricks, but it’s one weakness was its low rate of fire, the troops in Iraq had requested a weapon with a greater rate of fire. The MoD had bitten the bullet and decided that the time had come to make a choice, and quickly. The BAE Systems proposal, which involved installing a 40mm CTA cannon in the existing Warrior turret had been chosen, even if the turret were now a bit cramped, because it could be manufactured more quickly, and existing Warriors could be modified faster.
“Have you tried the new rifle yourself yet, Sir?” Bell enquired.
“I certainly have, Sergeant-Major,” Mathews replied. “It has one hell of a kick, left my shoulder all black and blue, and one really does need that bipod. I think it will make a good battle rifle, though, once we all get used to it.”
“Rather reminds me of the old Slur, Sir,” Bell said wistfully, having left the army before the SA80 family had entered widespread service. “Bit fiercer, though.
“It’ll certainly give those baldricks a pause for thought if they come back again.”
Western desert of Iraq.
Corporal James Moss, well he was an Acting Sergeant, as the old platoon Sergeant was gone (he had been a member of the Free Church of Scotland), of 3 Platoon, A Company, 1st Battalion the Royal Scots, scanned the desert around him from the commander’s hatch of the FV432 ‘Bulldog’ APC. As with the other Scottish regiments 1st Royal Scots, the senior line infantry regiment of the army, had been de-amalgamated, in its case not only from The Royal Regiment of Scotland but also from the King’s Own Scottish Borderers. Part of the regiment, mainly men from the Borderers, had been sent home to the UK to help form the new 1st Battalion, The King’s Own Scottish Borders, while a mixture of reservists and Territorial Army soldiers took their place in Iraq.
While the upgraded ‘Bulldog’ was considered by the troops to be an excellent vehicle, having protection fully equal of the Warrior IFV, the fact that it was only armed with a GPMG had kept the units equipped with it out of the fight with the baldricks. Major General Brims had kept them and the 1st Battalion the Duke of Lancaster’s Regiment back as his reserve, while the 1st Battalion the Scots Guards and 1st Battalion the Mercian Regiment (Cheshire) had all the fun in their Warriors.
Determined to play some useful part the Scots and Lancasters had scoured armories for heavier weapons to replace their GPMGs with. Moss’ ‘Bulldog’, for example, had a Browning HMG on the commander’s mount, the GPMG being relocated to a pintle mount aft of the main troop compartment hatches. Getting enough Brownings for his platoon had cost Moss every bottle of whisky that the platoon possessed, and most of their beer. A very happy American unit had handed over the HMGs and ammunition and had immediately drawn replacements for themselves.
Other ‘Bulldogs’ had Russian made DShK machine-guns taken from Iraqi armories while some sported American Mark 19 Grenade launchers. The British Army had adopted that weapon for use in Afghanistan and the Quartermaster would surely be surprised to find out how many were now in the unofficial inventory. With their new armament the ‘Bulldog’ equipped battle groups had been sent out into the desert behind where the armored battle groups of 4th Mechanized Brigade had advanced, to sweep the ground for any stray baldricks who may have escaped.
A few baldricks and injured harpies had already been encountered by the mechanized patrols and successfully dealt with. Mostly killed, but there were whispers that some had been taken prisoner. It was also whispered that units who managed to take such prisoners would be smiled upon by those in authority. However, this long after the defeat of the demon army the chances of encountering a live baldrick, or even a dead one, as the corpses had largely decomposed, was slim. Still, Acting Sergeant Moss was ever hopeful of getting his chance.
“I can see something move over there, Corp…er, Sarge.” One of the dismounts, who was standing head and shoulders out of the open troop hatches reported.
Moss cocked the big Browning and swung it round in the direction that the private had indicated, while he studied the object through the Common Weapons Sight on his new L1A2 (he had taken the CWS off his old L85A2 and fitted it to the new rifle).
“Oh, sorry, false alarm, it’s a cow or something.”
“Bloody numptie,” Moss complained. “You had me going for a minute there.”
“That’s the feckin’ real thing though!” Another soldier called out, flipping the safety catch off his rifle and opening fire.
The baldrick that the soldier had spotted had started to try and run as soon as he had heard the APC approach, but was too weak to move particularly fast. The .338 Lapua round struck him in the side and was enough in his weakened state to bring the demon down.
“Davie, halt!” Moss said to the FV432’s driver. “I think we might have just taken ourselves a baldrick prisoner.”
The Portal from Hell, Western Desert, Iraq
In any other circumstances, the sight would have been hilariously funny. The little force about to sally through the portal was built around veterans of the first great invasion, most still bearing the wounds of that horrifying massacre but the rest? Kidlings wearing equipment too big for them, so heavy they could hardly lift it, mates who were scarcely any better off. None of them knew how to operate their tridents, how to charge them and then discharge the magic in a searing bolt. Most of the mates were crying, they knew what awaited them. The kidlings were excited, trying to run around with their equipment, assuming that what was about to happen was just a game. One kidling couldn’t lift his trident properly so had it over his shoulder with the end trailing on the ground behind him. In any other circumstances, the sight would have been hilariously funny, but Abigor’s heart was near breaking.
“Get ready!” His order ran around the group, bringing them into some form of formation. “Move out.” He went into a jogtrot and stepped through the great ellipse that represented the portal between dimensions, into the clear yellow sun and blue skies that he had devoutly hoped never to see again. Behind him, his pathetic rag-tag band appeared in a grim pastiche of a fighting formation.
The truth was, Abigor was surprised to be still alive. He had expected to be swamped by a barrage of fire-lances and mage bolts as soon as he and his band had emerged, but the desert was silent. The ridge up ahead of them seemed deserted but Abigor wasn’t fooled by that, he knew the humans would stay below the ridgeline where they were safe until it was time to pour their fire into their enemies. Thinking about it with the clarity that accompanies imminent death, Abigor suddenly realized that it was a very sensible approach.
Yet still, the desert was silent, no hideous holocaust of fire erupting around them. Had he been wrong? Had the humans given up and gone home? Surely that was unlike them, it didn’t fit the remorseless harrowing of his Army as it had retreated across the desert. But why was it silent?
“Everybody be careful where you put your feet. Do not step on mage bars. They will kill you.” Or worse he thought, but there was no need to worry the mates and kidlings with that possibility. Despite all his fears, the ridgeline was approaching fast as he jog-trotted across the desert. For preference, he and his veterans would have been at a full run to cover the ground as fast as possible, but they had to measure their pace to the abilities of the weakest members of their group. This attack was a sick joke and Abigor knew it.
Yet it had succeeded. They reached the ridgeline and deployed on it. The mates and kidlings were exhausted by the run across the desert, the veterans were barely fazed by its exertions. Abigor was keeping them relatively closely bunched. He knew it was wrong, that he should be dispersing his people out so they would not be slaughtered in mass by the human mage-magic but that was not his intent. He knew his group could not survive and keeping them bunched would mean a quick death for them all as the humans concentrated their fire on them. He had seen too many demons screaming their last seconds away as they had been torn apart yet still lived. He did not want his kidlings and mates to die that way.
The minutes ticked by, Abigor marveling that the humans had taken so long to react. He glanced behind him; the forces that were supposed to have followed him out were nowhere to be seen. That, he had expected. He had known from this start that this ‘attack’ was just a mass execution. Then, overhead, Abigor heard the screaming howl of mage-bolts as they started to descend upon him. It was all over.
Combat Team Alpha. By the Hellmouth, Western Iraq
“Any movement Hooters?”
“All still out there. Nothing happening.” Stevenson’s combat team had drawn the Hellmouth watch assignment for the day. She had her platoon of Bradleys in the center, holding a ridgeline while her two platoons of Abrams tanks were spread out to either side. If the baldricks emerged, they’d fight in the best traditions of the U.S. Army, they’d protect their artillery observer while he called down unimaginable firepower upon their enemies. “Wait for one, there’s movement. Here they come again.”
Down in the desert, figures were emerging from the Hellmouth. They were a disorganized stream, undisciplined, nothing like the neat formations that had emerged before. They were spread out in the desert, running straight at the dug-in Bradleys but to Stevenson’s already experienced eye, this wasn’t an attack. Anyway, was that all of them?
“Alpha-actual to Domino. We have a Hellmouth activity. Baldricks emerging, a number estimated at..” Stevenson did a quick count, there were around 400 at most. “Four hundred, say again four-zero-zero. Heading for our position.”
“Four hundred? Are you sure of that?”
“Sure am. Four hundred, no follow-up force. There’s something very wrong about this.” She thought for a second and looked through the high-powered optics on her tank. She blinked and looked again. “Sir, this force is a joke. There are some regulars down there but there are some small ones that can hardly lift their weapons. Others don’t have any at all.” She looked again at the way the formation was breaking up as it crossed rough ground. For the first time, she appreciated the amount of training the earlier formations had shown. Their lines had never wavered, never broken no matter how rough the ground or intense the fire brought down in them. This mob was not even in the same class. “Sir, these baldricks aren’t soldiers, most of them aren’t. They look more like civilians.”
“Understood.” There was a pause. “Deny contact, ring them off, don’t let them go anywhere but hold your fire until ordered otherwise. Give them at least 1500 meters clearance”
“Very good Sir.” Stevenson broke contact and changed to her command frequency. “Third platoon fall back, let them have the ridgeline, we don’t need it. First and second, move up to flanking positions. Hold fire.”
There was a cloud of dust and black smoke as the Bradleys backed off their ridgeline and headed for the one about 2,000 meters to the rear. They were already in position when the baldricks ran up onto the ridge and started to deploy into a defensive perimeter. A tight one, Stevenson thought, perfect for artillery. Didn’t baldricks ever learn?
“Report.” The single word came over her radio.
Stevenson looked carefully. “We’re in position. Sir the enemy force is at least 50 percent civilian. There are small ones running around, I think they’re playing, it looks like their children of some kind. And others are behaving like their mothers.” She flipped her optics up to full power. “Well, what do you know, our big friend the football player is up there.”
“Very good. Hold positions, do not open fire. This is going right up the chain.”
Stevenson relaxed in her seat, watching the baldricks. There were some real soldiers across there, they were watchful, their tridents at the ready. But the rest? No way were they, soldiers. Women and children were Stevenson’s guess. Okay, I guess now is when we find out what sort of people, we really are she thought to herself. The minutes ticked by until almost an hour had passed.
“Alpha-Actual. This is Command-One-Actual.”
Whoa, that meant General Petraeus himself. “Alpha Actual Sir.”
“Get ready, there’s artillery fire coming in. In between you and the baldricks. A safe distance but it’s tight. FYI, we’re going to try and get this lot to surrender. As soon as the shells have landed, expose your vehicles but do not, I repeat do not, open fire. One-shot from you without orders, Captain, and you’ll be burning **** for the rest of your career.”
“Understood Sir. Expose but do not fire.”
Overhead there was a howl of descending 155mm shells from a Paladin battery. The salvo was beautifully placed, one shot to each side of the baldrick group, two in front of it, two behind. A perfect hexagon that was just, only just, far enough out to be safe. “All Alpha Vehicles move up onto the ridge crest. Do not under any circumstances fire. Repeat do not under any circumstances open fire. Require verbal repeat and acknowledgment of that order from each vehicle.” She listened as the acknowledgments came in. Then, her Abrams lurched as she moved up to the crest of the ridge.
On the Ridgeline, Hellmouth, Western Iraq
Abigor’s skin crawled as he expected the lash of mage-fire and iron fragments, but the desert erupted in a neat hexagon around his unit, the bursts harmless. Oh, they buffeted and shook the ground but there were no screaming disemboweled demons on the ground to show they had landed. Then, all around him, Iron Chariots appeared. In front, to either side, behind him. The humans really did love surrounding their enemies so that none could escape when the killing started. But the Chariots remained silent. No fire lances, no seeker lances, the chariots just sat there and watched him. The silence was eerie after the crash of the mage-bursts. The kidlings had stopped their games, the mates their weeping, and everybody was just waiting. It dawned on Abigor that they were waiting for him. Everybody, demon and human were waiting for him.
If they were waiting for him to start fighting, what happened if he did not? Why had the humans given him a chance denied to him by Satan? What would happen if he took that chance? It couldn’t be any worse than what would happen if he didn’t. Abigor made his decision and stood up, throwing his trident away. Then, he raised his hands to show he was unarmed. “All of you, throw down your arms. Stand up and raise your hands like mine. So that the humans can see we are unarmed.”
Across the desert, the Iron Chariots kicked up a cloud of dust and started to move in.
Combat Team Alpha. By the Hellmouth, Western Iraq
“Sir, they’re surrendering. They’ve thrown down their arms and are standing up. They’ve raised their hands, all of them.”
“Captain Stevenson, move in, carefully. This may be a trick but if it isn’t we have a priceless opportunity here. Do not fire, even if fired upon.”
That means I’m the sacrificial goat. Stevenson thought. She gave the order and her command started rolling closer to the group on the hill crest. They were motionless as her tanks and armored infantry vehicles closed in. When they were less than fifty meters away, the big one, the one Stevenson thought of as the football player, dropped to the ground and sprawled out on the sand. She checked her intercom, making sure it was set so only her crew could hear her. “Reminds me of one of my ex-boyfriends, guys. I wonder if he wants me to trample him too?”
There was a suppressed series of snorts from her crew. She stopped the vehicle and got out, climbing down the outside of the turret and onto the ground.
“I am Captain Keisha Stevenson, United States Army. I am authorized to accept your surrender.”
“I am Great Duke Abigor. I am, or was, commander of sixty legions. I offer you my surrender and fealty.”
White House Communications Center, Washington DC.
“Vladimir, this is Dubya. I have urgent news. General Abigor has just surrendered and defected.”
“That filthy Vlasovite bastard.”
“Sorry, Vladimir, you misunderstand, he’s a baldrick, he’s defecting to us.”
Without missing a beat, Putin carried on, “What I meant to say of course was that he is a heroic champion of freedom and liberty who has overcome his corrupt upbringing so that he can rally to the side of truth, honor, and justice.”
“That’s right Vladimir, he’s a filthy Vlasovite bastard, but he’s our filthy Vlasovite bastard.”
Re: 2008 - Armageddon
Chapter Thirty-Two
Headquarters, Multi-National Force, Baghdad, Iraq
“Well, they’re human.”
“You have got to be kidding us. There’s no way those things are human.”
Dr. Surlethe settled back in the conference room chair with every sign of comfort. That was one thing the higher ranks of the Army had down to a fine art, their conference rooms were well-furnished, air-conditioned, and had all the luxuries one might wish combined with hi-tech presentation equipment. It would be years before civilian releases caught up with the Army version of Microsoft PowerPoint. The Marines, now they were different, their “conference room” was usually a tent somewhere with a bare wood trestle table and a few camp chairs. One Marine General had remarked on the Army’s “excessive facility” only to be rather coldly told that any damned fool can be uncomfortable. “Nevertheless, they are human. Sort of.” There was a stir of relaxation at the qualification.
“What do you mean Doctor?” General Petraeus needed to know a lot about these creatures, not least because he had almost a thousand of them in a Prisoner of War camp.
“General, we’ve looked at the DNA of the baldricks, and it’s human.” Surlethe thought for a second. “Look at it this way, the difference in DNA between a chimpanzee and a human is around two percent. The difference between baldrick and human DNA is about one-half of one percent. So baldricks are much more closely related to us than we are to chimpanzees.”
“They don’t look it.”
“No, they don’t General.” Again, Surlethe thought for a moment. “Actually, they do. If we ignore the way-out bits, the strange contortions, and so on, they do look like us. We started off by thinking that they were a next-level up version of us that simply evolved differently but when the DNA comparisons came through, we had to abandon that. There’s no doubt about it in our minds, we and the baldricks had a common ancestor somewhere way back when. The big question is did that common ancestor evolve here on earth, on the hell-place, or somewhere else?”
“I still find it hard to believe that something that’s so different from us could be related to us. DNA shifts and mutation rates can’t explain that level of difference.”
Protect us from intelligent, well-read generals Surlethe sighed quietly to himself, life had been much easier in the old days when Generals knew how to destroy armies and nothing else. Then, they just accepted everything a scientist said. Put on a long white coat and they were as good as gold. This one had an annoying habit of arguing with scientists and, even more annoying, was very often right. He quickly realized that it was about to get worse.
“I’ve been reading up on the Human Genome Project. According to their findings, the useless repetitive sequences, and the junk DNA make up at least 50% of the human genome. According to the people working on that program, the junk DNA doesn’t have a direct function, but they reshape the genome by rearranging it, thereby creating entirely new genes, or modifying and reshuffling existing genes. It also appears that something quite drastic happened around 50 million years ago that caused all our junk DNA.”
“That’s correct General. Our working hypothesis is that somehow, we and the baldricks split away from each other way back then. We went our way, they went theirs. Perhaps we all came from somewhere else and the ‘something quite drastic’ was that we stayed here, and they went to the hell-place. We each used different parts of our junk DNA and activated different strings. The difference may be only one-half of one percent but it’s a very important one-half of one percent. There’s more to it than that of course; it looks to us like the baldrick DNA itself has been corrupted, either by selective breeding, prion infection, both, or something else.”
“So, how can you help me look after the prisoners we’ve acquired.”
“Well, we know from other sources that they are exclusive carnivores. It’s probable that they’ll eat any sort of meat, they’ll eat in large quantities but at irregular intervals. Without the need for major physical exercise, they’ll probably eat only once a week or so. Won’t be a pretty sight when they do though.” Surlethe thought back to the sight of the succubus eating and shuddered. “Medication might work on them; we must be careful and take it in stages. Oh, and General, their metabolic pathways are almost identical to ours. Chemical weapons should work on them just fine.”
The Ultimate Temple, Heaven
The archangel Michael strode forward into the Temple. All about him, the people sang; he could feel the ecstasy of the choirs of angels, of those few, fortunate saved humans. As he entered the Holiest of Holies, the thick marble of the temple walls drowned out the beautiful music outside; reduced to a dim glow, he focused his attention on the sight before him.
He knew the sight was supposed to awe him, every time without fail: the great white throne, with its flashing lightning and pealing thunder surrounding the giant figure who sat on it, the One Above All Others. Before the throne were the seven great, gold lamps, burning their ceaseless incense so that the clouds of scented smoke hung thick and hazy, the smell clinging to everything. Michael loved it for it appealed to his sense of the ridiculous but now he’d just about had enough of it and of the pretensions of that throne’s occupant.
At the four corners of the room stood the four living creatures, chanting their ceaseless cry: “Holy, holy, holy is the Lord God Almighty, who was, and is, and is to come;” and the twenty-four members of the Private Choir. They were ancient even by the angels' standards, and were constantly on their faces before the throne, murmuring, “You are worthy, our Lord and God, to receive glory and honor and power, for you created all things, and by your will, they were created and have their being." Time was, their voices had outstripped even the living creatures in volume, but even here they were not free from time's ravages. An astute observer might look closely into their eyes and see the misery and despair there. Singing the same praises for untold millennia was not as heavenly as it sounded.
Michael stopped in the middle of the lamps and knelt on both knees, prostrating himself and pressing his flawless lips to the cold, dark jade floor. As though sensing intentions, the four living creatures quieted, and the twenty-four elders' murmurs died to whispers. From the white throne, the voice of Yahweh thundered: “Michael, my good general, what news do you bring me?”
"Oh, nameless one, Lord and God of all, I prostrate myself to your presence. The messengers of Gabriel have returned, save one – Appoloin – who was killed in your service." As he related the information, he couldn't help the quiver of surprise that crept into his voice; the idea that humans, of all things, could destroy demons or angels, let alone the merciless slaughter to which they had apparently subjected the demonic army, still confused him. If he could admit it to himself, he might even have said that the prospect scared him. And yet, it was these humans with their incredible abilities that offered him a chance to depose Yahweh, take his place and put some order back into Heaven.
"My Lord, the army the Morningstar sent forth has been destroyed. The human magic has proved far beyond the capability of the fallen ones."
Yahweh was silent for a moment, then spoke. "Interesting. And what of the rest of Satan's hordes?”
"My Lord, the delegation you sent to Dis has not returned; it is several choirs overdue. It is not known if the messengers we sent have been received."
"Is Uriel prepared to go out into the world?"
"He is, my Lord.”
"Summon him to me, Michael." At the decree, Michael's fist clenched, and lightning sparked around it as he bit down on his excitement. Yahweh was falling for the scheme, despite its wildness and apparent impossibility. All the maneuvering, all the scheming, all the corruption was about to pay off. Michael looked up at the figure towering over him with awe and love written on his face but in his heart was nothing but contempt.
Camp Echo, New Amarah Airfield, Al Amarah, Iraq
The truck convoy, a long line of the eight-by-eight HEMTTs, pulled up at the long line of huge hangars that were half-buried in the ground. This was one of Saddam Hussein’s airfields, one disused until recently but now put to a use that the deranged dictator could never have imagined. The great buried hangars were perfect as a detention area for captured demons. Some of the baldricks sitting in the trucks looked at the razor wire that surrounded the hangars and shuddered. Many bore the scars of that infernal wire.
Abigor had a truck to himself, his size and weight made that essential, and the truth was that he had thoroughly enjoyed his ride. The great truck had moved faster than he had ever dreamed possible, carrying him away from the Hellmouth and towards wherever it was that the humans would take him. The trip itself had been an eye-opener. The black strips the humans laid across the desert were crowded with chariots, nose-to-tail convoys of them, mostly heading west. He had, at last, seen the Iron Chariots, ‘tanks’ they were called apparently, at close quarters. Many different types of them, some looking similar, others very different. Long lines of them moving west and he noted how everybody got out of their way. He’d seen the humans inside them, and they’d waved at him, shouting things as they passed. Some had been abusive, Abigor recognized curses when he heard them, but most were almost friendly. Once or twice, he’d waved back and that had caused the tank crews, even the hostile ones, to behave in a friendlier manner. It seemed that humans had a strange attitude towards their enemies.
He’d also looked at one of the homes of the Flying Chariots as the convoy had made its way East. Two of them had been taking off, the howl they made painful to the ears. ‘Warthogs.’ One of the truck drivers had shouted. ‘Wait till you see them, babies, at work.’ They were babies? What did the parents look like? A few minutes later, Abigor had his answer, a great chariot many times the size of the warthogs landed and started to disgorge tons of cargo. Another followed and by the time their convoy had moved on, two more. The movement at the flying chariot base was constant, if the chariots weren’t taking off, they were landing.
“General Abigor? Follow me please.” The human spoke politely but firmly. From the number of chariots around, disobeying him was unwise. Anyway, Abigor remembered the long streams of chariots heading west. Arguing wasn’t an option. He followed the human into the hangar.
It was pleasantly gloomy inside, a pleasant change from the glaring desert sun. It was cooler too although Abigor hadn’t been upset by the heat outside. The interior was divided up into cages, each holding a single demon prisoner. Large enough for him to get up, walk around and exercise. The cage walls were wire layers interspaced with razor wire.
“General, these are the prisoners we have taken to date. We are doing the best we can to look after them properly, if there are any complaints, please tell us. You are a senior officer here and responsible for them all.”
Abigor didn’t understand much of that, but the last words made sense. The humans had given him a command, far less than a single legion that was true, but a command, nonetheless. It was a start. He stared at the nearest prisoner, entangling its mind with his own.
“What have they done with you?”
“Nothing, they just keep us here. They feed us meat, give us water.”
“How did they torture you?”
“They did not. They are soft and weak. Jahnibatwesvhik over there had a long splinter of enchanted iron in his chest. It was poisoning him, so they took it out. Gave him a drug so that he slept while it was done. As if he couldn’t have stood the pain like a true demon.”
Abigor nodded and turned to the human with him. “You have looked after them well.” His voice showed disbelief and confusion.
“It is our way when we can. What do your people do for amusement? We have no idea what to give our prisoners. Do you have books you read or games you play?”
We torture human souls for our amusement. was the answer that ran through Abigor’s mind, but he guessed that saying so was not the smartest thing he could do at this point. “We will be happy for whatever you can provide.”
“Good, we’ll find something. General, there were civilians with your party. I must warn you; we do not look kindly on those who use civilians as cover for their actions.”
“Satan sent them with me, they are my family. We were all sent to die together.”
The human nodded. “We’ll investigate that further. In the meantime, the women and children will be housed in another building like this one. We want you to point out which child belongs to which mother, so we can house them together.”
Abigor absorbed the information that was pouring in on him. It was impossible, surely, that these genial hosts could be the same merciless killers who had destroyed his Army. “Did you take part in the fighting?”
“Sure. My brigade held the town of Hit against your infantry. We got pasted holding it, your guys fight well up close, but we held long enough for the gunships to get to work. General, are any of your women nurses?”
“What are nurses?”
“Those skilled with helping to treat the wounded. Most of your people have wounds.”
“No.” Abigor’s confusion levels increased to a near-breaking point. What was with these humans? In the demon armies, nobody treated the wounded. They died or got better according to their luck. A popular demon might be looked after by his immediate comrades, and an unpopular one might get killed so he wouldn’t hold up the rest, but that was all. Then, Abigor thought of the sight of two demons carrying a legless third all the way back home. Contact with humans was having disturbing effects.
“That’s a pity. We’re short of medical staff here and we don’t know our way around your bodies. If we operate, we could be doing more harm than good. Our medications could kill.”
“Would dissecting a few living demons help? I can assign a few of these to you for that purpose if you wish?”
Colonel David Paschal looked at the baldrick towering over him and shuddered at the thought. Then reminded himself that these were demons, after all, they were not supposed to be nice people. He also reminded himself that his job was to watch, learn and interact with these creatures while his shattered brigade was rebuilt. “No thank you General Abigor, that would be prohibited by our laws.”
Abigor was looking at him curiously. “Sire, you seem to know much about us already?”
“You are not the first to rally to our cause. We have others as well. Some have proved most helpful, especially a succubus we captured.” Paschal held his breath, would Abigor fall for the bait.
He did. His explosive snort rattled the cages. “A succubus! I hope you do not believe everything that single-sex freak told you. They are deceivers and seducers all.”
“No, we adopted an old human principle ‘trust but verify’. Your people here have been helpful in the ‘verifying’ part.”
Abigor relaxed. “Then I will order them to continue doing so.”
Paschal looked at the hangar around them. There was no sign of the modification, but the roof had been coated with a new aluminum foil foam laminate that was orders of magnitudes more effective at stopping the baldrick mind-entanglement capability than normal foil caps were. With luck, people in this hangar should be isolated from outside mind links. “Please do that General.”
Headquarters, Multi-National Force, Baghdad, Iraq
“Major Marina Fyodorovna Luchenko, First Guards Engineer Division reporting Sir. My General has assigned me to you as liaison. He asks what you would like built where?”
General David Petraeus looked at the Russian officer. “Good to have you on board Major. And your engineers, we need them badly. Our supply lines are very difficult, the road network is completely inadequate for the volume of traffic we are moving. It would help if somebody told the Israelis about obeying traffic signs. Our traffic accident rate is bad enough without their assistance.”
Major Luchenko snorted delicately. “So, Sir, what can we do to help?”
“We need a highway, Major. Starting at Diddiwanyah, then going around Al Najaf, and then due west to the Hellmouth. I’d like four lanes going each way, each lane extra wide to handle our HEMTTs – and your trucks of course.” Petraeus looked at the Russian woman and grinned broadly. “That’s right Major, I want you to build the ultimate highway to hell.”
Headquarters, Multi-National Force, Baghdad, Iraq
“Well, they’re human.”
“You have got to be kidding us. There’s no way those things are human.”
Dr. Surlethe settled back in the conference room chair with every sign of comfort. That was one thing the higher ranks of the Army had down to a fine art, their conference rooms were well-furnished, air-conditioned, and had all the luxuries one might wish combined with hi-tech presentation equipment. It would be years before civilian releases caught up with the Army version of Microsoft PowerPoint. The Marines, now they were different, their “conference room” was usually a tent somewhere with a bare wood trestle table and a few camp chairs. One Marine General had remarked on the Army’s “excessive facility” only to be rather coldly told that any damned fool can be uncomfortable. “Nevertheless, they are human. Sort of.” There was a stir of relaxation at the qualification.
“What do you mean Doctor?” General Petraeus needed to know a lot about these creatures, not least because he had almost a thousand of them in a Prisoner of War camp.
“General, we’ve looked at the DNA of the baldricks, and it’s human.” Surlethe thought for a second. “Look at it this way, the difference in DNA between a chimpanzee and a human is around two percent. The difference between baldrick and human DNA is about one-half of one percent. So baldricks are much more closely related to us than we are to chimpanzees.”
“They don’t look it.”
“No, they don’t General.” Again, Surlethe thought for a moment. “Actually, they do. If we ignore the way-out bits, the strange contortions, and so on, they do look like us. We started off by thinking that they were a next-level up version of us that simply evolved differently but when the DNA comparisons came through, we had to abandon that. There’s no doubt about it in our minds, we and the baldricks had a common ancestor somewhere way back when. The big question is did that common ancestor evolve here on earth, on the hell-place, or somewhere else?”
“I still find it hard to believe that something that’s so different from us could be related to us. DNA shifts and mutation rates can’t explain that level of difference.”
Protect us from intelligent, well-read generals Surlethe sighed quietly to himself, life had been much easier in the old days when Generals knew how to destroy armies and nothing else. Then, they just accepted everything a scientist said. Put on a long white coat and they were as good as gold. This one had an annoying habit of arguing with scientists and, even more annoying, was very often right. He quickly realized that it was about to get worse.
“I’ve been reading up on the Human Genome Project. According to their findings, the useless repetitive sequences, and the junk DNA make up at least 50% of the human genome. According to the people working on that program, the junk DNA doesn’t have a direct function, but they reshape the genome by rearranging it, thereby creating entirely new genes, or modifying and reshuffling existing genes. It also appears that something quite drastic happened around 50 million years ago that caused all our junk DNA.”
“That’s correct General. Our working hypothesis is that somehow, we and the baldricks split away from each other way back then. We went our way, they went theirs. Perhaps we all came from somewhere else and the ‘something quite drastic’ was that we stayed here, and they went to the hell-place. We each used different parts of our junk DNA and activated different strings. The difference may be only one-half of one percent but it’s a very important one-half of one percent. There’s more to it than that of course; it looks to us like the baldrick DNA itself has been corrupted, either by selective breeding, prion infection, both, or something else.”
“So, how can you help me look after the prisoners we’ve acquired.”
“Well, we know from other sources that they are exclusive carnivores. It’s probable that they’ll eat any sort of meat, they’ll eat in large quantities but at irregular intervals. Without the need for major physical exercise, they’ll probably eat only once a week or so. Won’t be a pretty sight when they do though.” Surlethe thought back to the sight of the succubus eating and shuddered. “Medication might work on them; we must be careful and take it in stages. Oh, and General, their metabolic pathways are almost identical to ours. Chemical weapons should work on them just fine.”
The Ultimate Temple, Heaven
The archangel Michael strode forward into the Temple. All about him, the people sang; he could feel the ecstasy of the choirs of angels, of those few, fortunate saved humans. As he entered the Holiest of Holies, the thick marble of the temple walls drowned out the beautiful music outside; reduced to a dim glow, he focused his attention on the sight before him.
He knew the sight was supposed to awe him, every time without fail: the great white throne, with its flashing lightning and pealing thunder surrounding the giant figure who sat on it, the One Above All Others. Before the throne were the seven great, gold lamps, burning their ceaseless incense so that the clouds of scented smoke hung thick and hazy, the smell clinging to everything. Michael loved it for it appealed to his sense of the ridiculous but now he’d just about had enough of it and of the pretensions of that throne’s occupant.
At the four corners of the room stood the four living creatures, chanting their ceaseless cry: “Holy, holy, holy is the Lord God Almighty, who was, and is, and is to come;” and the twenty-four members of the Private Choir. They were ancient even by the angels' standards, and were constantly on their faces before the throne, murmuring, “You are worthy, our Lord and God, to receive glory and honor and power, for you created all things, and by your will, they were created and have their being." Time was, their voices had outstripped even the living creatures in volume, but even here they were not free from time's ravages. An astute observer might look closely into their eyes and see the misery and despair there. Singing the same praises for untold millennia was not as heavenly as it sounded.
Michael stopped in the middle of the lamps and knelt on both knees, prostrating himself and pressing his flawless lips to the cold, dark jade floor. As though sensing intentions, the four living creatures quieted, and the twenty-four elders' murmurs died to whispers. From the white throne, the voice of Yahweh thundered: “Michael, my good general, what news do you bring me?”
"Oh, nameless one, Lord and God of all, I prostrate myself to your presence. The messengers of Gabriel have returned, save one – Appoloin – who was killed in your service." As he related the information, he couldn't help the quiver of surprise that crept into his voice; the idea that humans, of all things, could destroy demons or angels, let alone the merciless slaughter to which they had apparently subjected the demonic army, still confused him. If he could admit it to himself, he might even have said that the prospect scared him. And yet, it was these humans with their incredible abilities that offered him a chance to depose Yahweh, take his place and put some order back into Heaven.
"My Lord, the army the Morningstar sent forth has been destroyed. The human magic has proved far beyond the capability of the fallen ones."
Yahweh was silent for a moment, then spoke. "Interesting. And what of the rest of Satan's hordes?”
"My Lord, the delegation you sent to Dis has not returned; it is several choirs overdue. It is not known if the messengers we sent have been received."
"Is Uriel prepared to go out into the world?"
"He is, my Lord.”
"Summon him to me, Michael." At the decree, Michael's fist clenched, and lightning sparked around it as he bit down on his excitement. Yahweh was falling for the scheme, despite its wildness and apparent impossibility. All the maneuvering, all the scheming, all the corruption was about to pay off. Michael looked up at the figure towering over him with awe and love written on his face but in his heart was nothing but contempt.
Camp Echo, New Amarah Airfield, Al Amarah, Iraq
The truck convoy, a long line of the eight-by-eight HEMTTs, pulled up at the long line of huge hangars that were half-buried in the ground. This was one of Saddam Hussein’s airfields, one disused until recently but now put to a use that the deranged dictator could never have imagined. The great buried hangars were perfect as a detention area for captured demons. Some of the baldricks sitting in the trucks looked at the razor wire that surrounded the hangars and shuddered. Many bore the scars of that infernal wire.
Abigor had a truck to himself, his size and weight made that essential, and the truth was that he had thoroughly enjoyed his ride. The great truck had moved faster than he had ever dreamed possible, carrying him away from the Hellmouth and towards wherever it was that the humans would take him. The trip itself had been an eye-opener. The black strips the humans laid across the desert were crowded with chariots, nose-to-tail convoys of them, mostly heading west. He had, at last, seen the Iron Chariots, ‘tanks’ they were called apparently, at close quarters. Many different types of them, some looking similar, others very different. Long lines of them moving west and he noted how everybody got out of their way. He’d seen the humans inside them, and they’d waved at him, shouting things as they passed. Some had been abusive, Abigor recognized curses when he heard them, but most were almost friendly. Once or twice, he’d waved back and that had caused the tank crews, even the hostile ones, to behave in a friendlier manner. It seemed that humans had a strange attitude towards their enemies.
He’d also looked at one of the homes of the Flying Chariots as the convoy had made its way East. Two of them had been taking off, the howl they made painful to the ears. ‘Warthogs.’ One of the truck drivers had shouted. ‘Wait till you see them, babies, at work.’ They were babies? What did the parents look like? A few minutes later, Abigor had his answer, a great chariot many times the size of the warthogs landed and started to disgorge tons of cargo. Another followed and by the time their convoy had moved on, two more. The movement at the flying chariot base was constant, if the chariots weren’t taking off, they were landing.
“General Abigor? Follow me please.” The human spoke politely but firmly. From the number of chariots around, disobeying him was unwise. Anyway, Abigor remembered the long streams of chariots heading west. Arguing wasn’t an option. He followed the human into the hangar.
It was pleasantly gloomy inside, a pleasant change from the glaring desert sun. It was cooler too although Abigor hadn’t been upset by the heat outside. The interior was divided up into cages, each holding a single demon prisoner. Large enough for him to get up, walk around and exercise. The cage walls were wire layers interspaced with razor wire.
“General, these are the prisoners we have taken to date. We are doing the best we can to look after them properly, if there are any complaints, please tell us. You are a senior officer here and responsible for them all.”
Abigor didn’t understand much of that, but the last words made sense. The humans had given him a command, far less than a single legion that was true, but a command, nonetheless. It was a start. He stared at the nearest prisoner, entangling its mind with his own.
“What have they done with you?”
“Nothing, they just keep us here. They feed us meat, give us water.”
“How did they torture you?”
“They did not. They are soft and weak. Jahnibatwesvhik over there had a long splinter of enchanted iron in his chest. It was poisoning him, so they took it out. Gave him a drug so that he slept while it was done. As if he couldn’t have stood the pain like a true demon.”
Abigor nodded and turned to the human with him. “You have looked after them well.” His voice showed disbelief and confusion.
“It is our way when we can. What do your people do for amusement? We have no idea what to give our prisoners. Do you have books you read or games you play?”
We torture human souls for our amusement. was the answer that ran through Abigor’s mind, but he guessed that saying so was not the smartest thing he could do at this point. “We will be happy for whatever you can provide.”
“Good, we’ll find something. General, there were civilians with your party. I must warn you; we do not look kindly on those who use civilians as cover for their actions.”
“Satan sent them with me, they are my family. We were all sent to die together.”
The human nodded. “We’ll investigate that further. In the meantime, the women and children will be housed in another building like this one. We want you to point out which child belongs to which mother, so we can house them together.”
Abigor absorbed the information that was pouring in on him. It was impossible, surely, that these genial hosts could be the same merciless killers who had destroyed his Army. “Did you take part in the fighting?”
“Sure. My brigade held the town of Hit against your infantry. We got pasted holding it, your guys fight well up close, but we held long enough for the gunships to get to work. General, are any of your women nurses?”
“What are nurses?”
“Those skilled with helping to treat the wounded. Most of your people have wounds.”
“No.” Abigor’s confusion levels increased to a near-breaking point. What was with these humans? In the demon armies, nobody treated the wounded. They died or got better according to their luck. A popular demon might be looked after by his immediate comrades, and an unpopular one might get killed so he wouldn’t hold up the rest, but that was all. Then, Abigor thought of the sight of two demons carrying a legless third all the way back home. Contact with humans was having disturbing effects.
“That’s a pity. We’re short of medical staff here and we don’t know our way around your bodies. If we operate, we could be doing more harm than good. Our medications could kill.”
“Would dissecting a few living demons help? I can assign a few of these to you for that purpose if you wish?”
Colonel David Paschal looked at the baldrick towering over him and shuddered at the thought. Then reminded himself that these were demons, after all, they were not supposed to be nice people. He also reminded himself that his job was to watch, learn and interact with these creatures while his shattered brigade was rebuilt. “No thank you General Abigor, that would be prohibited by our laws.”
Abigor was looking at him curiously. “Sire, you seem to know much about us already?”
“You are not the first to rally to our cause. We have others as well. Some have proved most helpful, especially a succubus we captured.” Paschal held his breath, would Abigor fall for the bait.
He did. His explosive snort rattled the cages. “A succubus! I hope you do not believe everything that single-sex freak told you. They are deceivers and seducers all.”
“No, we adopted an old human principle ‘trust but verify’. Your people here have been helpful in the ‘verifying’ part.”
Abigor relaxed. “Then I will order them to continue doing so.”
Paschal looked at the hangar around them. There was no sign of the modification, but the roof had been coated with a new aluminum foil foam laminate that was orders of magnitudes more effective at stopping the baldrick mind-entanglement capability than normal foil caps were. With luck, people in this hangar should be isolated from outside mind links. “Please do that General.”
Headquarters, Multi-National Force, Baghdad, Iraq
“Major Marina Fyodorovna Luchenko, First Guards Engineer Division reporting Sir. My General has assigned me to you as liaison. He asks what you would like built where?”
General David Petraeus looked at the Russian officer. “Good to have you on board Major. And your engineers, we need them badly. Our supply lines are very difficult, the road network is completely inadequate for the volume of traffic we are moving. It would help if somebody told the Israelis about obeying traffic signs. Our traffic accident rate is bad enough without their assistance.”
Major Luchenko snorted delicately. “So, Sir, what can we do to help?”
“We need a highway, Major. Starting at Diddiwanyah, then going around Al Najaf, and then due west to the Hellmouth. I’d like four lanes going each way, each lane extra wide to handle our HEMTTs – and your trucks of course.” Petraeus looked at the Russian woman and grinned broadly. “That’s right Major, I want you to build the ultimate highway to hell.”
Re: 2008 - Armageddon
Chapter Thirty-Three
Swamps by the River Styx, Fifth Ring, Hell
Okeraphluxos looked over the swamp from his castle. It was small, of course, just as he was a minor duke; he owed his fealty to Kinathroses, the major duke who controlled about half of the sixth ring, and that duke, in turn, owed fealty to Asmodeus, who held the segments of the fifth, sixth and fourth rings, and had just acquired a sixth of Abigor's former holdings, including good land outside the pit and a chunk of the third ring. It had been a long time since a Great Duke of such high status had vanished and the others were falling over themselves trying to seize the choicest of his properties.
His yearly report to Kinathroses was due in the next week, and he needed to find a way to conceal the strange things that had been happening. Oh, not just the usual fudging of the numbers; he'd been doing that for the last few centuries since the number of humans arriving at hell had ballooned. But even more recently than that, his guards had become reluctant to venture into his swampland realm. He'd had to make an example out of the most recalcitrant, crucifying and then disemboweling him. That hadn’t done much good, they were still reluctant to go out into the swamps alone and when they did, they were quick to return. Those that did return.
It wasn’t just the mysterious disappearances of his guards and the equally mystifying destruction of the causeway through his territory. Okeraphluxos had other major problems on his hands. His best troops were being taken away to reinforce Asmodeus’s Army, leaving him with only the least effective, the very old, the very young, and the infirm. All untrained and looking like the soft civilians they really were. As he sat in his chamber pondering the issue, another dull, distant thud rumbled across the swamp. The damnable noises had been going on just a little longer than this mysterious disease of cowardice had been infecting his troops. The minor duke shook his head, cleared his thoughts, and returned to the business of figuring out how to continue deceiving his lord.
Outside the castle, Lt Kim regarded the building skeptically. “That's a castle?” she asked, arching an eyebrow.
Rahab nodded. “That is the home of the minor duke who commands this chunk of the fifth ring.”
Kim looked at it critically. It was a large house rising out of a cluster of smaller houses, surrounded by a piled stone wall at least fifteen feet high. From her vantage point on top of a mound of granite, Kim could see baldricks coming and going through the gate; most were marching in short columns, but one, leading a row of animals that looked like rhinolobsters, but without the long, arching tails, was seated on the beast at the head of the column.
“Note that animal shipment down, Mac,” said Kim. “Brass will want to know everything they can about the economy here.” Beside her, McInery was clicking away with the cameras, documenting as much of the outpost as possible.
Rahab was looking at Kim with a mixture of distrust and curiosity. “What are you planning to do?”
Kim smiled, rather viciously. “You'll see.” Indeed, you will, she thought. And it will blow your stone-age mind.
Behind them, Madeuce loomed up, face impassive beneath its mask and goggles as always. “Are you ready to start, ma’am?” he asked.
“You OK, Mac?”
“Yeah, my lungs feel like shit though. Gonna be glad to get out of here though.” Madeuce bit his lip in self-reproach. Getting out wasn’t an option for Kim and her crew. They were stuck here, and he’d just rubbed that in.
Kim guessed what was running through his mind. “You’ve earned an out and it’s different for you. This place is ours now, earth is your place. Anyway, this is your last run, Kitten will be contacting us soon, and then, you’re on your way home. So, as your final hurrah, take it away, Lieutenant.
The big man nodded, a hint of a smile playing about his lips. He signaled to the other three men accompanying him, and they marched off. Kim detected a hint of motion closer to the wall; through the dim, noxious atmosphere, she could just make out Bubbles planting the last few bricks of Semtex. The perpetual mists and fog of hell were annoying, but they made the life of the guerilla much easier. As Madeuce disappeared behind another rock outcropping beside the causeway leading out of Okeraphluxos' stronghold, Bubbles slowly made his way back from the base of the wall.
Okeraphluxos was still sitting in his chamber and thinking when he heard a series of loud pops from the window. The sounds were entirely unfamiliar; curious, he stood up and went over to the window as the cracks continued. The sight that greeted him was entirely unexpected: at the gate, his demons were milling about; some were yelling and screaming, and some were running back toward the barracks. With each pop, another demon yelled and dropped; once or twice, heads literally exploded. The food beasts below were panicking and stampeding straight for the back of the compound. He saw several demons trampled beneath their hooves as the small herd ran in blank terror. Several more cracks and the remaining demons were also heading back into the compound, abandoning their injured comrades.
Abruptly, the walls around his castle just disintegrated. An instant later, a deafening concussion physically knocked him backward, and a shower of stone fragments flew through the window, lacerating the duke's face. In shock, he felt his face, felt the blood oozing out, then crawled back to the window. The room was still spinning around him, and he fought the urge to retch on the windowsill.
Outside, his castle was a complete wreck. The retaining wall had entirely vanished, the causeway leading through the swamp toward the Dis-Dysprosium Road had disappeared, and two of the barracks buildings had collapsed. At first, he thought there was nothing left of the demons who had so recently been busy about their business in the castle, but then, looking more closely, he saw, strewn about the jagged rubble coating the ground, lumps that were smoother and darker than the rock fragments. Then, he did vomit on the windowsill.
It was that move that saved his life. As he ducked to vomit, the stone just behind where his head had been exploded in a vicious arc of fragments as something hit it. Okeraphluxos continued downwards, landing on the floor below the windowsill and crawled away. Just what was happening? Obviously, his castle was under attack, but he’d never seen a siege start like this before. Oh, sieges were known events, a property might be disputed or perhaps seized as a bargaining chip for some other issue, but they ran to a set pattern. The besieging commander would pull his army up and display it in front of the target castle so that the besieged commander could see what he was up against and compare his own forces to them. Then besieger and besieged would meet and decide if the balance of forces made resistance practical. If it was, then the siege was on, if not then the defending garrison would surrender. This sort of sudden attack was unheard-of. And what had destroyed his outer walls?
Okeraphluxos decided to take a better look and was about to do so through the window he had just used when it occurred to him that doing so would be a terminally bad idea. He crawled out of the room, then went to another and used the window there. What he saw appalled him, the remainder of his troops were sprawled on the ground, dead or dying. Yet, across in the swamps, he saw a group of figures moving, six of them, humans by the look of them but colored so they were virtually invisible against the ground and mists of Hell. The six figures ran forward to new positions, spread out in front of his massacred men then dropped to the ground. Okeraphluxos took his eyes off them because as they dropped flat, four more humans, colored the same way, emerged from hiding places, and ran across the ground.
One surviving member of Okeraphluxos’s garrison stood up to take a shot with his trident but before he could do so, there was a rapid series of small thuds and he fell. They’d come from the area where the first group of six humans had gone to the ground. He could hardly see them when he tried to make them out and by the time, he spotted the first, the second group had taken cover as well. Then, the first group got to their feet and closed in on the large house that formed the keep of Okeraphluxos’s castle. They did something to the door and then retreated. Watching carefully, Okeraphluxos was bewildered, there was no precedent for what was happening. Sieges took a long time, even for a small castle-like his. But this time his defenses were collapsing as if they didn’t exist. It was barely a few minutes since the first explosions had taken down his outer wall and now his keep was under attack. The destruction of his keep gate seemed tame compared with the series of blasts that had destroyed his walls, but Okeraphluxos knew it was the death knell for his defense.
Outside the keep, Kim couldn’t help but feel smugly satisfied. The sudden, violent assault was doing its work, the baldricks inside the defenses couldn’t adapt to the speed at which the situation was changing. By the time they responded to one development, it was already history and the course of the battle had moved on, so their attempted response just led to an even greater disaster. It was a classic blitzkrieg, something that the track heads in their armor thought they monopolized. They didn’t, infantry could do it as well.
If the baldricks had kept their heads, if they’d been able to respond fast enough, they should have turned the remaining parts of the outer defenses into strong points, each of which would have had to be reduced individually. That would have broken the momentum of her attack and allowed the rest of the garrison to stage a counterattack that would have destroyed her puny force. But they’d never had the chance, by the time they’d overcome their initial reactions to the unprecedented violence and speed of the attack and started thinking, the opportunity was gone. The outer defenses had fallen, and the keep was on its own – and now its gates were gone.
Kim looked hard through the mists. The baldricks were starting to react logically and she must stop that. They’d piled timber, carts, and furniture up inside the gates to form a secondary barricade and were waiting behind it. Not bad she thought, a viable countermove against the sort of attack they were used to. Only, this wasn’t one. Quite apart from their superior weaponry and military tactics built around those weapons, Kim and her men had the experience of two thousand years of warfare engrained within them. It wasn’t conscious knowledge, none of them had ever trained to take down a castle defended by medieval or older weapons, but they’d seen it done in the movies, read about it in history books. There wasn’t a move the baldricks could make that they didn’t know about and counter.
Countering the barricade was easy, and Kim didn’t even have to give the orders. From his overwatch position, Madeuce had anticipated the barricade and was ready for it. He and his men each had an AT-4 anti-tank rocket launcher ready. The orange-white fire and streak of white smoke began with them and ended in rolling explosions that tore the barricade and its defenders apart. The explosions had barely subsided when Kim’s team charged forward, spraying the remaining defenders with bullets from their M4s. Madeuce waved and his men joined the assault, slower because they were the support team, loaded with heavy equipment, but still fast enough to get through the gates before Kim and her people vanished inside the keep. There were sounds of intermittent bursts of gunfire from the rooms inside and then silence.
Okeraphluxos had seen the destruction of the last of his garrison at the barricade and knew it was all over. The humans hadn’t even bothered to ask him whether he wanted to surrender, and it was obvious that they weren’t about to. There was a trident hanging on the wall, not the run-of-the-mill cast one, a Tartaruan trident that had been forged with care by Belial’s best craftsmen. It could hold a charge better than the normal ones and its prongs would stab deeper and break less. It would be a good weapon to die with. His grip as he took hold of it was careful, he concentrated his magic on charging it up, ready for the burst of power that would open the fight.
He never got the chance. Kim’s men were already in the corridor when he stepped out of his room and the short, stubby M4s were far better suited to fighting in confined areas that the unwieldy tripod. The last thing that Okeraphluxos ever heard was the thudding of the gunfire and the last thing he felt was the bullets that killed him.
Ten minutes later, Kim was settled down in a comfortable chair, waiting for the scheduled contact. It came, right on schedule. Jade, this is Kitten. Is it safe to open?
Sure is Kitten. Got a surprise for you too. We’ve just taken a baldrick castle. Not an impressive one but still a castle
Oh, well done. Opening now.
The familiar ellipse started to open. “Madeuce, get ready to go through, it’s been good to have you with us.” Kim reached into a pocket and fished out a piece of jewelry she’d found. “Give this to Kitten for me, will you? It’s the least we can do for her. And take the cameras with the pictures the brass wanted back as well.”
Madeuce nodded and stepped through the ellipse followed by his special forces team. As soon as they were clear, the barrage of supplies and ammunition came the other way. Then the ellipse closed off.
Twenty minutes later, Kim and her team had evacuated the castle. They’d left the bodies of the dead baldricks piled up in the courtyard, under a message that was much more detailed than the usual four letters. It read They oppressed the people. They faced the people’s justice. Fear Us. Popular Front for The Liberation of Hell
Rahab ran the words over in her mind. They were succinct, merciless. One side of her was appalled by the destruction and violence, another was fearful of the consequences that would result from the destruction of even a minor duke and his fortress. But there was another emotion as well, one she had forgotten could exist. It was called hope and she had felt it as she had watched the almost-casual destruction of the castle. She needed to discuss what she had seen with a military expert and fortunately, she knew one who could help her.
417th Flight Test Squadron, Edwards Air Force Base, California
“How’s it going, Sammy?”
Samuel Allansen looked up at the misshapen Boeing 747-400F behind him. “Well, it’s going.”
That was something of an understatement; the Boeing wasn’t really a -400F at all, it was something much more interesting, a YAL-1A Airborne Laser aircraft. The real distinguishing feature was the turret in the nose that controlled the Chemical Oxygen Iodine Laser, or COIL installed in the aircraft’s body. Originally the YAL-1A had been designed to shoot down tactical ballistic missiles but it looked like that role was already history. It didn’t matter too much, after years of parsimony, the Salvation War was making funding available for all sorts of programs and the ABL was one of them. Nobody knew what was coming out of hell next and the capability of the ABL was just too delicious to give up. The test program had been accelerated by almost a year and three more YAL-1As were already being built at Boeing’s facility in Wichita. Once they joined the test program, things would really start to move.
“Shot down any baldricks yet?” Mickey Jennings was poking fun at his old friend but there was an element of frustration in it for them both. They were stuck here at Edwards on the ABL test program while other Air Force pilots were making sky-high scores downing harpies.
“Nah, can if any show up though. We’ve got the COIL installed and we’re doing systems integration stuff now. The brass has ordered us to cut short the systems level ground and flight tests and bring the intercept tests against in-flight targets forward. They’d be happy if we could do them last week but yesterday will be soon enough for them.”
Jennings nodded sympathetically. The ABL had been a source of frustration to the people working on it, not for technical reasons although the program had been, to put it mildly, ‘challenging’ but for finance. The budget had never been enough to work at optimum speed and there was always the threat of it being cut completely. At least that had gone, but the problem was now the constant push to get the program operational.
“And it’s not as if we don’t have things to work out yet.” Allansen was still talking. “The laser tends to overheat and we’re not sure if the fire control system will be good enough to take on a baldrick. It’s infra-red and was designed to lock on to the flare from the end of a ballistic missile. That’s a whole world hotter than a baldrick and the eggheads aren’t sure it’ll work against them.”
“The fighter jocks are complaining about the AIM-9 as well. Apparently, it has real difficulty locking on to a baldrick. Still, the 120s are doing well.”
“Yeah, but we don’t carry them. I’ve been on about that. What’s the point of building a critical bird like this and then giving us nothing to defend ourselves with? To do our job, we’d be within 300 klicks of an enemy missile base, and you can’t tell me the bad guys will be happy about that. Yet here we are, the biggest, most expensive clay pigeon in the world.”
“Harpies ain’t no skeet-shooters, that’s for sure?”
“No? They took down enough helicopters for the Army to stop using them until the fighter jocks could clear the sky. OK, we’re safe enough from harpies at 40,000 feet but who knows what we’ll be facing next time around. And there is a next time coming, everybody knows it. Anyway, Mickey, that’s not why I asked you over. My copilot, Jimmy Grainger, is being assigned to one of the new birds Boeing is building. He’s leaving at the end of the month and I won’t be seeing him much in between. Want to join the crew? It’ll get you out from behind that desk.”
“Oh nooo. Why should I want to fly an aircraft when I can sit behind a nice comfortable desk, just loaded with routine paperwork? I’ll make you a counteroffer, you can have my desk and I’ll have your bird.”
“Not a chance. Seriously, if you want the job, it’s yours. The Air Force is calling back all its retirees and the ones who are too old to stand up without a walker get the desk jobs. You should see the F-111 wing that’s forming up in Washington. And you heard about the B-29s I guess.” Allansen adopted a comically exaggerated ‘hush secret’ pose, looking around theatrically. “I hear you’re down for transfer to a B-17 wing if you don’t get out from behind that desk.”
“OK, OK, I surrender, I’ll take the job. Anything but a B-17.”
“Welcome on board. And by the way, be careful what you say about the B-17s. Curt LeMay might hear you – remember we know now he’s out there somewhere. He was mighty fond of the B-17.”
Swamps by the River Styx, Fifth Ring, Hell
Okeraphluxos looked over the swamp from his castle. It was small, of course, just as he was a minor duke; he owed his fealty to Kinathroses, the major duke who controlled about half of the sixth ring, and that duke, in turn, owed fealty to Asmodeus, who held the segments of the fifth, sixth and fourth rings, and had just acquired a sixth of Abigor's former holdings, including good land outside the pit and a chunk of the third ring. It had been a long time since a Great Duke of such high status had vanished and the others were falling over themselves trying to seize the choicest of his properties.
His yearly report to Kinathroses was due in the next week, and he needed to find a way to conceal the strange things that had been happening. Oh, not just the usual fudging of the numbers; he'd been doing that for the last few centuries since the number of humans arriving at hell had ballooned. But even more recently than that, his guards had become reluctant to venture into his swampland realm. He'd had to make an example out of the most recalcitrant, crucifying and then disemboweling him. That hadn’t done much good, they were still reluctant to go out into the swamps alone and when they did, they were quick to return. Those that did return.
It wasn’t just the mysterious disappearances of his guards and the equally mystifying destruction of the causeway through his territory. Okeraphluxos had other major problems on his hands. His best troops were being taken away to reinforce Asmodeus’s Army, leaving him with only the least effective, the very old, the very young, and the infirm. All untrained and looking like the soft civilians they really were. As he sat in his chamber pondering the issue, another dull, distant thud rumbled across the swamp. The damnable noises had been going on just a little longer than this mysterious disease of cowardice had been infecting his troops. The minor duke shook his head, cleared his thoughts, and returned to the business of figuring out how to continue deceiving his lord.
Outside the castle, Lt Kim regarded the building skeptically. “That's a castle?” she asked, arching an eyebrow.
Rahab nodded. “That is the home of the minor duke who commands this chunk of the fifth ring.”
Kim looked at it critically. It was a large house rising out of a cluster of smaller houses, surrounded by a piled stone wall at least fifteen feet high. From her vantage point on top of a mound of granite, Kim could see baldricks coming and going through the gate; most were marching in short columns, but one, leading a row of animals that looked like rhinolobsters, but without the long, arching tails, was seated on the beast at the head of the column.
“Note that animal shipment down, Mac,” said Kim. “Brass will want to know everything they can about the economy here.” Beside her, McInery was clicking away with the cameras, documenting as much of the outpost as possible.
Rahab was looking at Kim with a mixture of distrust and curiosity. “What are you planning to do?”
Kim smiled, rather viciously. “You'll see.” Indeed, you will, she thought. And it will blow your stone-age mind.
Behind them, Madeuce loomed up, face impassive beneath its mask and goggles as always. “Are you ready to start, ma’am?” he asked.
“You OK, Mac?”
“Yeah, my lungs feel like shit though. Gonna be glad to get out of here though.” Madeuce bit his lip in self-reproach. Getting out wasn’t an option for Kim and her crew. They were stuck here, and he’d just rubbed that in.
Kim guessed what was running through his mind. “You’ve earned an out and it’s different for you. This place is ours now, earth is your place. Anyway, this is your last run, Kitten will be contacting us soon, and then, you’re on your way home. So, as your final hurrah, take it away, Lieutenant.
The big man nodded, a hint of a smile playing about his lips. He signaled to the other three men accompanying him, and they marched off. Kim detected a hint of motion closer to the wall; through the dim, noxious atmosphere, she could just make out Bubbles planting the last few bricks of Semtex. The perpetual mists and fog of hell were annoying, but they made the life of the guerilla much easier. As Madeuce disappeared behind another rock outcropping beside the causeway leading out of Okeraphluxos' stronghold, Bubbles slowly made his way back from the base of the wall.
Okeraphluxos was still sitting in his chamber and thinking when he heard a series of loud pops from the window. The sounds were entirely unfamiliar; curious, he stood up and went over to the window as the cracks continued. The sight that greeted him was entirely unexpected: at the gate, his demons were milling about; some were yelling and screaming, and some were running back toward the barracks. With each pop, another demon yelled and dropped; once or twice, heads literally exploded. The food beasts below were panicking and stampeding straight for the back of the compound. He saw several demons trampled beneath their hooves as the small herd ran in blank terror. Several more cracks and the remaining demons were also heading back into the compound, abandoning their injured comrades.
Abruptly, the walls around his castle just disintegrated. An instant later, a deafening concussion physically knocked him backward, and a shower of stone fragments flew through the window, lacerating the duke's face. In shock, he felt his face, felt the blood oozing out, then crawled back to the window. The room was still spinning around him, and he fought the urge to retch on the windowsill.
Outside, his castle was a complete wreck. The retaining wall had entirely vanished, the causeway leading through the swamp toward the Dis-Dysprosium Road had disappeared, and two of the barracks buildings had collapsed. At first, he thought there was nothing left of the demons who had so recently been busy about their business in the castle, but then, looking more closely, he saw, strewn about the jagged rubble coating the ground, lumps that were smoother and darker than the rock fragments. Then, he did vomit on the windowsill.
It was that move that saved his life. As he ducked to vomit, the stone just behind where his head had been exploded in a vicious arc of fragments as something hit it. Okeraphluxos continued downwards, landing on the floor below the windowsill and crawled away. Just what was happening? Obviously, his castle was under attack, but he’d never seen a siege start like this before. Oh, sieges were known events, a property might be disputed or perhaps seized as a bargaining chip for some other issue, but they ran to a set pattern. The besieging commander would pull his army up and display it in front of the target castle so that the besieged commander could see what he was up against and compare his own forces to them. Then besieger and besieged would meet and decide if the balance of forces made resistance practical. If it was, then the siege was on, if not then the defending garrison would surrender. This sort of sudden attack was unheard-of. And what had destroyed his outer walls?
Okeraphluxos decided to take a better look and was about to do so through the window he had just used when it occurred to him that doing so would be a terminally bad idea. He crawled out of the room, then went to another and used the window there. What he saw appalled him, the remainder of his troops were sprawled on the ground, dead or dying. Yet, across in the swamps, he saw a group of figures moving, six of them, humans by the look of them but colored so they were virtually invisible against the ground and mists of Hell. The six figures ran forward to new positions, spread out in front of his massacred men then dropped to the ground. Okeraphluxos took his eyes off them because as they dropped flat, four more humans, colored the same way, emerged from hiding places, and ran across the ground.
One surviving member of Okeraphluxos’s garrison stood up to take a shot with his trident but before he could do so, there was a rapid series of small thuds and he fell. They’d come from the area where the first group of six humans had gone to the ground. He could hardly see them when he tried to make them out and by the time, he spotted the first, the second group had taken cover as well. Then, the first group got to their feet and closed in on the large house that formed the keep of Okeraphluxos’s castle. They did something to the door and then retreated. Watching carefully, Okeraphluxos was bewildered, there was no precedent for what was happening. Sieges took a long time, even for a small castle-like his. But this time his defenses were collapsing as if they didn’t exist. It was barely a few minutes since the first explosions had taken down his outer wall and now his keep was under attack. The destruction of his keep gate seemed tame compared with the series of blasts that had destroyed his walls, but Okeraphluxos knew it was the death knell for his defense.
Outside the keep, Kim couldn’t help but feel smugly satisfied. The sudden, violent assault was doing its work, the baldricks inside the defenses couldn’t adapt to the speed at which the situation was changing. By the time they responded to one development, it was already history and the course of the battle had moved on, so their attempted response just led to an even greater disaster. It was a classic blitzkrieg, something that the track heads in their armor thought they monopolized. They didn’t, infantry could do it as well.
If the baldricks had kept their heads, if they’d been able to respond fast enough, they should have turned the remaining parts of the outer defenses into strong points, each of which would have had to be reduced individually. That would have broken the momentum of her attack and allowed the rest of the garrison to stage a counterattack that would have destroyed her puny force. But they’d never had the chance, by the time they’d overcome their initial reactions to the unprecedented violence and speed of the attack and started thinking, the opportunity was gone. The outer defenses had fallen, and the keep was on its own – and now its gates were gone.
Kim looked hard through the mists. The baldricks were starting to react logically and she must stop that. They’d piled timber, carts, and furniture up inside the gates to form a secondary barricade and were waiting behind it. Not bad she thought, a viable countermove against the sort of attack they were used to. Only, this wasn’t one. Quite apart from their superior weaponry and military tactics built around those weapons, Kim and her men had the experience of two thousand years of warfare engrained within them. It wasn’t conscious knowledge, none of them had ever trained to take down a castle defended by medieval or older weapons, but they’d seen it done in the movies, read about it in history books. There wasn’t a move the baldricks could make that they didn’t know about and counter.
Countering the barricade was easy, and Kim didn’t even have to give the orders. From his overwatch position, Madeuce had anticipated the barricade and was ready for it. He and his men each had an AT-4 anti-tank rocket launcher ready. The orange-white fire and streak of white smoke began with them and ended in rolling explosions that tore the barricade and its defenders apart. The explosions had barely subsided when Kim’s team charged forward, spraying the remaining defenders with bullets from their M4s. Madeuce waved and his men joined the assault, slower because they were the support team, loaded with heavy equipment, but still fast enough to get through the gates before Kim and her people vanished inside the keep. There were sounds of intermittent bursts of gunfire from the rooms inside and then silence.
Okeraphluxos had seen the destruction of the last of his garrison at the barricade and knew it was all over. The humans hadn’t even bothered to ask him whether he wanted to surrender, and it was obvious that they weren’t about to. There was a trident hanging on the wall, not the run-of-the-mill cast one, a Tartaruan trident that had been forged with care by Belial’s best craftsmen. It could hold a charge better than the normal ones and its prongs would stab deeper and break less. It would be a good weapon to die with. His grip as he took hold of it was careful, he concentrated his magic on charging it up, ready for the burst of power that would open the fight.
He never got the chance. Kim’s men were already in the corridor when he stepped out of his room and the short, stubby M4s were far better suited to fighting in confined areas that the unwieldy tripod. The last thing that Okeraphluxos ever heard was the thudding of the gunfire and the last thing he felt was the bullets that killed him.
Ten minutes later, Kim was settled down in a comfortable chair, waiting for the scheduled contact. It came, right on schedule. Jade, this is Kitten. Is it safe to open?
Sure is Kitten. Got a surprise for you too. We’ve just taken a baldrick castle. Not an impressive one but still a castle
Oh, well done. Opening now.
The familiar ellipse started to open. “Madeuce, get ready to go through, it’s been good to have you with us.” Kim reached into a pocket and fished out a piece of jewelry she’d found. “Give this to Kitten for me, will you? It’s the least we can do for her. And take the cameras with the pictures the brass wanted back as well.”
Madeuce nodded and stepped through the ellipse followed by his special forces team. As soon as they were clear, the barrage of supplies and ammunition came the other way. Then the ellipse closed off.
Twenty minutes later, Kim and her team had evacuated the castle. They’d left the bodies of the dead baldricks piled up in the courtyard, under a message that was much more detailed than the usual four letters. It read They oppressed the people. They faced the people’s justice. Fear Us. Popular Front for The Liberation of Hell
Rahab ran the words over in her mind. They were succinct, merciless. One side of her was appalled by the destruction and violence, another was fearful of the consequences that would result from the destruction of even a minor duke and his fortress. But there was another emotion as well, one she had forgotten could exist. It was called hope and she had felt it as she had watched the almost-casual destruction of the castle. She needed to discuss what she had seen with a military expert and fortunately, she knew one who could help her.
417th Flight Test Squadron, Edwards Air Force Base, California
“How’s it going, Sammy?”
Samuel Allansen looked up at the misshapen Boeing 747-400F behind him. “Well, it’s going.”
That was something of an understatement; the Boeing wasn’t really a -400F at all, it was something much more interesting, a YAL-1A Airborne Laser aircraft. The real distinguishing feature was the turret in the nose that controlled the Chemical Oxygen Iodine Laser, or COIL installed in the aircraft’s body. Originally the YAL-1A had been designed to shoot down tactical ballistic missiles but it looked like that role was already history. It didn’t matter too much, after years of parsimony, the Salvation War was making funding available for all sorts of programs and the ABL was one of them. Nobody knew what was coming out of hell next and the capability of the ABL was just too delicious to give up. The test program had been accelerated by almost a year and three more YAL-1As were already being built at Boeing’s facility in Wichita. Once they joined the test program, things would really start to move.
“Shot down any baldricks yet?” Mickey Jennings was poking fun at his old friend but there was an element of frustration in it for them both. They were stuck here at Edwards on the ABL test program while other Air Force pilots were making sky-high scores downing harpies.
“Nah, can if any show up though. We’ve got the COIL installed and we’re doing systems integration stuff now. The brass has ordered us to cut short the systems level ground and flight tests and bring the intercept tests against in-flight targets forward. They’d be happy if we could do them last week but yesterday will be soon enough for them.”
Jennings nodded sympathetically. The ABL had been a source of frustration to the people working on it, not for technical reasons although the program had been, to put it mildly, ‘challenging’ but for finance. The budget had never been enough to work at optimum speed and there was always the threat of it being cut completely. At least that had gone, but the problem was now the constant push to get the program operational.
“And it’s not as if we don’t have things to work out yet.” Allansen was still talking. “The laser tends to overheat and we’re not sure if the fire control system will be good enough to take on a baldrick. It’s infra-red and was designed to lock on to the flare from the end of a ballistic missile. That’s a whole world hotter than a baldrick and the eggheads aren’t sure it’ll work against them.”
“The fighter jocks are complaining about the AIM-9 as well. Apparently, it has real difficulty locking on to a baldrick. Still, the 120s are doing well.”
“Yeah, but we don’t carry them. I’ve been on about that. What’s the point of building a critical bird like this and then giving us nothing to defend ourselves with? To do our job, we’d be within 300 klicks of an enemy missile base, and you can’t tell me the bad guys will be happy about that. Yet here we are, the biggest, most expensive clay pigeon in the world.”
“Harpies ain’t no skeet-shooters, that’s for sure?”
“No? They took down enough helicopters for the Army to stop using them until the fighter jocks could clear the sky. OK, we’re safe enough from harpies at 40,000 feet but who knows what we’ll be facing next time around. And there is a next time coming, everybody knows it. Anyway, Mickey, that’s not why I asked you over. My copilot, Jimmy Grainger, is being assigned to one of the new birds Boeing is building. He’s leaving at the end of the month and I won’t be seeing him much in between. Want to join the crew? It’ll get you out from behind that desk.”
“Oh nooo. Why should I want to fly an aircraft when I can sit behind a nice comfortable desk, just loaded with routine paperwork? I’ll make you a counteroffer, you can have my desk and I’ll have your bird.”
“Not a chance. Seriously, if you want the job, it’s yours. The Air Force is calling back all its retirees and the ones who are too old to stand up without a walker get the desk jobs. You should see the F-111 wing that’s forming up in Washington. And you heard about the B-29s I guess.” Allansen adopted a comically exaggerated ‘hush secret’ pose, looking around theatrically. “I hear you’re down for transfer to a B-17 wing if you don’t get out from behind that desk.”
“OK, OK, I surrender, I’ll take the job. Anything but a B-17.”
“Welcome on board. And by the way, be careful what you say about the B-17s. Curt LeMay might hear you – remember we know now he’s out there somewhere. He was mighty fond of the B-17.”
Re: 2008 - Armageddon
Chapter Thirty-Four
Private Quarters, Palace of Satan, Dis, Hell
Satan contemplated the goblet of wine in front of him and sighed moodily. Then he grabbed the orc servitor that had brought him the cup and wrung him out over the still, red liquid. Then he threw the mutilated corpse into a corner. Behind him, the majordomo sighed. Good staff was getting so hard to keep these days.
Satan didn’t worry himself with such mundane concerns. He had much more important things on his mind than his domestic staff. He stirred the wine with a talon, watching the contents of the goblet dissolve the organs squeezed out of the luckless orc, and then drank it down. Especially domestic staff that didn’t taste good. Had Yahweh planned this whole mess?
The fact was that the unexpected resistance of the humans had thrown all his plans into total chaos. It was just not supposed to happen this way. Ostensibly because growing lack of respect (by which Yahweh meant blind, unquestioning worship) from the humans had soured him of Earth, Yahweh had washed his hands of them and signed them over to Satan. Satan knew what really lay behind that, Heaven’s gates had been closed for millennia now, closed, and locked. Giving Earth to Satan had just confirmed a situation that had existed for a very long time. Without even a nominal interest in Earth, Yahweh could retreat to Heaven and concentrate on more enticing projects.
It should have been easy, to invade Earth, crush the remaining humans and bring their souls here to Hell. Leave the Earth almost depopulated, erase humans and all trace of their works, let it – and them – redevelop, and see what happened next. Only it hadn’t worked that way. The Humans had massacred the Army sent against them. The news of Abigor’s crushing defeat had ricocheted around Hell, creating alarm and uncertainty unknown for thousands of years. Satan had had to move fast there, if Abigor had been left alive to spread his tales, that alarm and uncertainty would have turned up panic and demoralization. Annihilating Abigor and all his line had crushed that and showed everybody that Satan still had the situation in hand.
And that, Satan thought, was a very good question. One he would annihilate anybody who dared ask it. Did he have the situation in hand? The demons around him had no idea how critical the situation had become. If the situation on Earth had been the only one, he faced, then there would have been no problem but that wasn’t the case and there was the whole problem laid out simply and neatly. Satan knew that he had been neatly impaled on the points of a trident and any attempt to free himself from one prong only resulted in him becoming more firmly transfixed by the others. Oh, he had made a great show of ordering the assembled legions to go forth and invade Earth, this time in overwhelming numbers but he knew all too well that those orders were just for effect. To make the armies fit for war, they had to have their numbers made up of reservists, civilians who hadn’t handled a trident in anger for centuries. They just weren’t fit to go right now and if he sent them, he would leave Hell open, bereft of trained troops.
That was where the second problem came in, the second trident fork, the rebellion that had started in Hell itself. Oh, Asmodeus had hidden the extent of it, or rather he thought he had, but the word was spreading anyway. Asmodeus himself was losing power because of the inability of his minions to put down the revolt, it was even being whispered that it was humans themselves who had risen against Satan’s power. And had done so with more of the devastating magic they’d used on Earth. Just how had they found such mages? Humans had never been seen to have magical powers before. Who had given them such powers?
There was only one plausible answer to that. Yahweh. And that brought his mind back to the original question, had Yahweh planned the whole thing? There was no doubt Yahweh was on the move, an Angelic delegation had been sent to Dis, but it had never got to the city walls. The rebels had killed it, wiped it out with that confounded magic of theirs. That left Satan with a very real problem, he was already getting some polite inquiries about that delegation. If he denied all knowledge of it, that would be instantly disbelieved, and that disbelief would be expressed as an assumption Satan was admitting guilt for its disappearance. That could lead to war. On the other hand, if he admitted it had been destroyed by rebels, that would be an admission of weakness so profound it could lead to war.
No, if he invaded Earth, he would be leaving his realm open to invasion from Heaven. If he kept his Army here, he would be leaving Earth to build up its forces for an even deadlier defense. If he split his forces between the two, he might not have the strength to do either. And if he ignored this rebellion, it would grow and become a third, equally powerful demand on his strength.
All of which pointed to the third spike in Satan’s gut. Yahweh had never forgotten Satan’s rebellion that had established Hell as an independent entity. Oh, Yahweh was happy enough claiming victory and boasting of how Satan had been ‘cast down’ but the truth was simple. Before Satan’s rebellion, Heaven and Hell had been one entity, ruled by Yahweh. Now they were two independent entities and Yahweh ruled only one of them. And he had never forgotten it. Had he planned this whole mess? Once again, the question echoed through Satan’s mind. Then another displaced it. Had the humans planned this whole situation. Had they, enraged by Yahweh’s betrayal of them, decided to take deadly revenge on both? If that were true, where would they stop? Would they stop?
“Your Majesty, Asmodeus awaits.” The Majordomo measured the distance to the nearest cover, a familiar precaution these days, one which his predecessor had inexplicably neglected.
“Send him in.” Satan stared morosely as Asmodeus crawled in on his belly.
“Your Majesty, I abase myself before you.”
“Not enough. And your cringing is inadequate also.”
Asmodeus shriveled slightly on the floor. “Your Majesty, I bring bad news.”
“Let me guess, the rebellion you are tolerating in your domain is getting worse.”
On the floor, Asmodeus shuddered. “Majesty, one of my underlings has been killed, his castle stormed, and its garrison wiped out. The attackers left this message. They oppressed the people. They faced the people’s justice. Fear Us. Popular Front for The Liberation of Hell
To Asmodeus’s amazement, Satan smiled. “The Liberation of Hell. I fought for that once. And won. And now the humans fight me for the same thing.”
“Majesty, they...”
“And you let them.” Satan’s voice had its oily, deadly quality back.
“No Majesty. This stupid rebellion can be crushed, easily. All I need to do is take five legions down there and hunt the rebels down. We can be training the rest of the armies while I do that. This must be done Majesty.”
“Then do it. And take ten legions, not five.” That was a solution Satan thought, he could tell Yahweh that the delegation had been destroyed by rebels who had been wiped out for their impudence.
“One other thing Majesty.” Asmodeus felt himself beginning to lose control of his bowels.
“Speak.”
“Majesty, Abigor is not dead. Our watchers saw him surrender his forces to the humans. He has defected to them.”
Satan’s scream of rage could be heard across four rings of hell.
Celestial Mechanics laboratory, DIMO(N), Yale, New Haven, Connecticut
“Why don’t we just nuke the wretched thing?” General Teed Michael Moseley glanced at the nondescript civilian sitting beside him. The man quietly reached out his hand, flat, palm down, and moved it slightly backward and forwards in negation. Moseley’s mouth twisted slightly, a targeteer had spoken and the answer is given, ‘not enough data’.
Dr. Kuroneko frowned, then gestured at the projection screen. His first assignment had been to find a way of closing the Hellmouth in the Iraqi desert down if that became necessary. The obvious answer, the one the Air Force loved, had been his first guess as well. A bad guess as it happened.
“It won’t work General. Let me show you.” The EM field graphs disappeared and were replaced by an intricate wireframe animation, sprinkled liberally with numeric labels and equations. It seemed to show two spheres stuffed into the ends of a short rubber hose, which was threaded through the center of a spinning donut. Glowing pinpricks were appearing in the upper region, alighting on the top sphere, and streaming along the surface of the tube to the lower sphere, where they dissipated. Meanwhile, the surface of the donut rippled and shifted in almost hypnotic patterns.
"This is our current best guess at the actual structure of the portal. We've been given free access to the NSF supercomputing grid, which helps a lot. The coders are still catching up with the theory though and the theory itself still lacks experimental confirmation."
Dr. Kuroneko paused. The military types didn't seem to be nearly as concerned about the lack of rigor as the audience at a typical physics conference. He shrugged and continued.
"This is just a projection of course. The real thing is seven-dimensional. The energy, or whatever is the equivalent of energy flows down from higher dimensions to lower ones. By the way, there’s no sign of it stopping with us, so there could be as many dimensions 'below' us as there are 'above'. The key to the portals is this constriction in the flow; it's formed of exotic matter, brought into existence by specific patterns of microwaves. We still don't have an empirical model of how that works..." The audience was frowning now. The doctor's tone became defensive.
"...after all this branch of science is so new it hasn’t even got a name yet. What we can do is model the behavior of the portal once it's open. Once we could do that, your idea was one of the first things we tried."
The doctor touched a button on the remote and the lower sphere exploded into fragments. With nowhere to go, the glowing particles built up in the center of the donut. Within seconds, they burst through into the lower area again, as if a temporary dam had been washed away. The particles sprayed wildly for a few more seconds before stabilizing into a new lower sphere.
"That was at x10 speed. Hitting this end of the portal can buy us only minutes at best." Dr. Kuroneko paused to cast his eyes over the impressive collection of military brass. They weren't so different from freshmen, he thought, both spent most of their time playing video games these days. That had been a problem in itself. Politicians, and civilians, had seen modern military command systems and noted their similarity to computer games. They’d somehow jumped to the conclusion that the similarity meant that wars could be made bloodless, a stupid concept now disproven by 400,000 dead baldricks in the Iraqi desert. He shook his head, refocusing on the task at hand.
"I know what you're thinking, what happens if we disrupt the far end? Well, watch this." He pressed the remote again and this time the top sphere shattered. Deprived of energy, the lower sphere faded away, but the glowing particles didn't stop coming. Instead, more and more started to appear and this time they were drawn straight to the central torus instead of passing through to the lower region. The spinning donut started to twist and oscillate more and more wildly as it was bombarded with energy, then suddenly the screen went dark.
Kuroneko swore. The simulation had been thrown together in a 36-hour coding session, so bugs were to be expected, but it had worked fine in the dry run. Naturally. He reset and tried again. Again, the torus was bombarded with energy, looking as if it would fly apart... but then it suddenly swelled to twice its original diameter. The particles could now make it through, and both spheres reappeared, much larger than before.
"As you can see, unlike our own efforts to date the strange matter envelope in the demon version is self-stabilizing. Simply pouring energy in will only result in it reforming around a higher harmonic." Some of the military types still weren't getting it. He sighed and rephrased it into baby-talk for them. "So, no General, you can't nuke it. We'll just think of something else.
There was a long pause. The brass shifted uncomfortably in their seats. Dr. Kuroneko pre-empted their next question.
"We have come up with one possibility. The inner structure of the portal is in a complex dynamic balance. If we can hit that torus with a blast of directed electromagnetic energy, at precisely the right frequencies, it's very likely that we can overwhelm that balance and disrupt the exotic matter. It will dissipate and remove the constriction in the flow, thus closing the gate. Permanently unless somebody opens a new gate in the same place. Unfortunately, there are only a few systems in the world that can generate that kind of pulse, and all of them are huge pieces of apparatus built into research institutions."
That was that. There was nothing to do but get back to work on the simulation. If they could understand the resonance better, perhaps a series of smaller pulses spread out over time...
"Actually Dr. Kuroneko you may be in luck." The man speaking seemed to be a civilian, with a curiously flat voice. He reached inside a case and removed several copies of a file, which he passed out. Dr. Kuroneko blinked. They were stamped 'TOP SECRET' and 'CANUKUS EYES ONLY'.
"When I received your initial report, I did a little digging. I remembered hearing about a crazy idea that a group of Brits at Aldermaston came up with in the mid-80s. NATO was desperate for a way to stop a Soviet tank army steamrolling Germany without resorting to nukes. A lot of left-field ideas were studied, and this was one of them."
He flipped the file open to a page showing a full-page schematic.
"As you can see, the device is conceptually simple. Two inner coils nested inside an outer one. Capacitors energize the inner coils and an explosive force them apart. A tremendous current is generated in the outer coils and channeled into the Klystron array in the nose. Power output spikes in the terawatt range in the milliseconds before the device is destroyed. They called it Project Starglider. Don’t ask me why."
General Schatten spoke up. "Don't we have something similar? They don't show me all the air force toys, but I've heard the rumors about e-bombs used in early strikes on Iraq."
"Nothing on the scale or precision of this device, General. It was designed to burn through EMP hardening and leave an entire division without communications or radar. It projects a precisely controlled spectrum in a relatively narrow burst. Only two problems; the working parts must be kept filled with liquid helium and the damn thing weighs nearly 20 tons."
"Ah, so rather like the very first hydrogen bomb?" Dr. Kuroneko was used to theory, not hardware, and he was struggling for a frame of reference. "It explodes but is almost completely immobile?"
“It’s a device, not a bomb, and it initiates, not explodes.” The targeteer spoke idly. “But you’re right, it was a clumsy device, even for a B-36. We built five of them in early ’54 designated the TX-16.”
“I never knew that.” Kuroneko was amazed, he’d always assumed the Ivy Mike device was a useless technological dead end.
“So, don’t worry about size and bulk if we need it, we can move it. The Brits were planning to dump it out the back of a C-130, though that idea was marginal at best.” The targeteer’s voice was still idle and steeped with professional disinterest.
There was a long silence as the attendees paged through the file. Eventually, General Moseley's impatience got the better of him. “So, did it work?"
"They built two quarter-scale prototypes. The first one was a non-superconducting test article. It was only fired at low power and according to the file, it's still in storage at the AWE. The second one was a full prototype. Results from the sole test were mixed. Power output was disappointing, but the amplitude profile did suggest that ten of the twelve emitter tubes shattered prematurely."
Dr. Kuroneko had been frantically scanning the project history. "Ah, of course, the fact that the… device …. is destroyed when used would make finding out what happened rather difficult. Hmm. It looks like the engineers were convinced they could lick the problem, but the project was defunded in 1993... I presume because of the end of the Cold War?"
“That’s not why it was canceled, Doctor.” The idle voice was getting on Kuroneko’s nerves. “EMP is a grotesquely over-rated weapon. Its literary achievements far outweigh its practical applications. There are much simpler ways of taking down a command system."
There was another long silence before Secretary Warner decided that he had all the information he needed. The details were clearly best left to the specialists. It was time to ask the key question. “Can you make it work for us?"
All eyes turned to Dr. Kuroneko, who had gone back to devouring the file. For a moment, he was oblivious to the discussion surrounding him, but then he sensed the silence and looked up.
"Ah, well, it looks like.," This is insane, he thought, I'll need a whole new set of simulations to even start... "Was the result of the British tests Omni-directional or Uni-directional?"
The flat voice answered again. “It was designed to hit everything in a ninety-degree frontal cone, but I'm sure the engineers can refine that.”
"Well then sir, at first glance the theoretical work looks solid, we can replace the original coils with high-temperature superconductors to bring down the mass..." He grimaced briefly at the thought of federal agents raiding half the low-temperature physics lab in the nation for the material. "If we can get it working at design power... couple the simulation to an evolutionary algorithm to find the optimal frequency spread... then yes sir, I think it will work."
Buckingham Palace, London.
“Behind me, you can see the new Regimental Colonel presenting the regimental colors to the reformed 1 Battalion, The Cameronians, also known as the Scottish Rifles. Due to defense cuts in the late 1960s, the regiment chose disbandment over amalgamation, although two Territorial Army companies of the regiment survived as late as the 1990s before the final company was re-badged as part of the King’s Own Scottish Borderers.
“Today the only Scottish rifle regiment has rejoined its illustrious fellow regiments in the Scottish Division. Over the last month, we have become rather used to de-amalgamation parades, but today’s parade is something special as it is a long time since the army has reformed a disbanded regiment.
“Behind me, you can see the first recruits to join the battalion, in their distinctive Douglas tartan crews; some are former members of the two Territorial companies, though most are National Servicemen newly out of basic training.
“The Regimental Colonel is now taking the salute as the battalion marches off the parade ground.
“This is Brian Rix, for Reporting Scotland, in Hamilton. Back to the studio.”
“Your granddaughter seems to suit her new job very well, Your Majesty.” Prime Minister Gordon Brown remarked as he watched the television. “Would you like me to switch the set-off, Ma’am?”
“I can manage thank you, Prime Minister, I’m not in my grave yet.” Elisabeth the Second, of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland and of Her other Realms and Territories Queen, Head of the Commonwealth, Lord of Mann, Duke of Normandy etc, etc, formerly Defender of the Faith, said lightly as she got up to turn off the television.
“Anne is certainly very proud of Zara, though I’m not sure I approve of a rather junior subaltern being appointed as a Regimental Colonel. I do know that she is rather disappointed to have been assigned to The King’s Troop when she chose the Royal Horse Artillery; she wanted to see some action rather than being assigned to Home Defense.”
“The Ministry of Defense is rather nervous about assigning members of the Royal Family to active units. They feel they rather used up their luck with Harry. Losing a member of the Royal Family in action might hurt the nation’s morale, Ma’am.” The Prime Minister replied.
“Prime Minister, today we face the most serious threat that this country, indeed humanity, has ever faced. Should we lose the war then we will all end up in Hell, so it will not matter much if one of my family should die during the war. I also feel that we must bear all the same risks that every other family in Britain must run.
“Andrew has already rejoined the navy; you may have noticed that Charles and my husband have been drilling with the Home Service Force Company formed from palace staff, so I do not see why William, Harry, and Zara should not get their chance to see active service in this war.”
Gordon Brown smiled, this was why he liked Her Majesty, and why, overall, he got on very well with her. His first audience with the Queen on becoming Prime Minister had been far longer than that of his predecessor; Her Majesty liked all things Scottish and was always keen to talk about Scotland. She also rather liked Sarah, the Prime Minister’s wife. “I shall pass on your wishes to the Ministry of Defense, Ma’am. When the Household Cavalry is sent into action William and Harry will not be held back, and I’m sure that if Zara wishes a transfer to another regiment of the Royal Horse Artillery it will be looked upon favorably.”
“Thank you, Prime Minister. The great advantage of a hereditary monarchy is that there are plenty of us spare should something happen to someone further up the line of succession.
“Anyway, where are my manners, how is your family?”
Private Quarters, Palace of Satan, Dis, Hell
Satan contemplated the goblet of wine in front of him and sighed moodily. Then he grabbed the orc servitor that had brought him the cup and wrung him out over the still, red liquid. Then he threw the mutilated corpse into a corner. Behind him, the majordomo sighed. Good staff was getting so hard to keep these days.
Satan didn’t worry himself with such mundane concerns. He had much more important things on his mind than his domestic staff. He stirred the wine with a talon, watching the contents of the goblet dissolve the organs squeezed out of the luckless orc, and then drank it down. Especially domestic staff that didn’t taste good. Had Yahweh planned this whole mess?
The fact was that the unexpected resistance of the humans had thrown all his plans into total chaos. It was just not supposed to happen this way. Ostensibly because growing lack of respect (by which Yahweh meant blind, unquestioning worship) from the humans had soured him of Earth, Yahweh had washed his hands of them and signed them over to Satan. Satan knew what really lay behind that, Heaven’s gates had been closed for millennia now, closed, and locked. Giving Earth to Satan had just confirmed a situation that had existed for a very long time. Without even a nominal interest in Earth, Yahweh could retreat to Heaven and concentrate on more enticing projects.
It should have been easy, to invade Earth, crush the remaining humans and bring their souls here to Hell. Leave the Earth almost depopulated, erase humans and all trace of their works, let it – and them – redevelop, and see what happened next. Only it hadn’t worked that way. The Humans had massacred the Army sent against them. The news of Abigor’s crushing defeat had ricocheted around Hell, creating alarm and uncertainty unknown for thousands of years. Satan had had to move fast there, if Abigor had been left alive to spread his tales, that alarm and uncertainty would have turned up panic and demoralization. Annihilating Abigor and all his line had crushed that and showed everybody that Satan still had the situation in hand.
And that, Satan thought, was a very good question. One he would annihilate anybody who dared ask it. Did he have the situation in hand? The demons around him had no idea how critical the situation had become. If the situation on Earth had been the only one, he faced, then there would have been no problem but that wasn’t the case and there was the whole problem laid out simply and neatly. Satan knew that he had been neatly impaled on the points of a trident and any attempt to free himself from one prong only resulted in him becoming more firmly transfixed by the others. Oh, he had made a great show of ordering the assembled legions to go forth and invade Earth, this time in overwhelming numbers but he knew all too well that those orders were just for effect. To make the armies fit for war, they had to have their numbers made up of reservists, civilians who hadn’t handled a trident in anger for centuries. They just weren’t fit to go right now and if he sent them, he would leave Hell open, bereft of trained troops.
That was where the second problem came in, the second trident fork, the rebellion that had started in Hell itself. Oh, Asmodeus had hidden the extent of it, or rather he thought he had, but the word was spreading anyway. Asmodeus himself was losing power because of the inability of his minions to put down the revolt, it was even being whispered that it was humans themselves who had risen against Satan’s power. And had done so with more of the devastating magic they’d used on Earth. Just how had they found such mages? Humans had never been seen to have magical powers before. Who had given them such powers?
There was only one plausible answer to that. Yahweh. And that brought his mind back to the original question, had Yahweh planned the whole thing? There was no doubt Yahweh was on the move, an Angelic delegation had been sent to Dis, but it had never got to the city walls. The rebels had killed it, wiped it out with that confounded magic of theirs. That left Satan with a very real problem, he was already getting some polite inquiries about that delegation. If he denied all knowledge of it, that would be instantly disbelieved, and that disbelief would be expressed as an assumption Satan was admitting guilt for its disappearance. That could lead to war. On the other hand, if he admitted it had been destroyed by rebels, that would be an admission of weakness so profound it could lead to war.
No, if he invaded Earth, he would be leaving his realm open to invasion from Heaven. If he kept his Army here, he would be leaving Earth to build up its forces for an even deadlier defense. If he split his forces between the two, he might not have the strength to do either. And if he ignored this rebellion, it would grow and become a third, equally powerful demand on his strength.
All of which pointed to the third spike in Satan’s gut. Yahweh had never forgotten Satan’s rebellion that had established Hell as an independent entity. Oh, Yahweh was happy enough claiming victory and boasting of how Satan had been ‘cast down’ but the truth was simple. Before Satan’s rebellion, Heaven and Hell had been one entity, ruled by Yahweh. Now they were two independent entities and Yahweh ruled only one of them. And he had never forgotten it. Had he planned this whole mess? Once again, the question echoed through Satan’s mind. Then another displaced it. Had the humans planned this whole situation. Had they, enraged by Yahweh’s betrayal of them, decided to take deadly revenge on both? If that were true, where would they stop? Would they stop?
“Your Majesty, Asmodeus awaits.” The Majordomo measured the distance to the nearest cover, a familiar precaution these days, one which his predecessor had inexplicably neglected.
“Send him in.” Satan stared morosely as Asmodeus crawled in on his belly.
“Your Majesty, I abase myself before you.”
“Not enough. And your cringing is inadequate also.”
Asmodeus shriveled slightly on the floor. “Your Majesty, I bring bad news.”
“Let me guess, the rebellion you are tolerating in your domain is getting worse.”
On the floor, Asmodeus shuddered. “Majesty, one of my underlings has been killed, his castle stormed, and its garrison wiped out. The attackers left this message. They oppressed the people. They faced the people’s justice. Fear Us. Popular Front for The Liberation of Hell
To Asmodeus’s amazement, Satan smiled. “The Liberation of Hell. I fought for that once. And won. And now the humans fight me for the same thing.”
“Majesty, they...”
“And you let them.” Satan’s voice had its oily, deadly quality back.
“No Majesty. This stupid rebellion can be crushed, easily. All I need to do is take five legions down there and hunt the rebels down. We can be training the rest of the armies while I do that. This must be done Majesty.”
“Then do it. And take ten legions, not five.” That was a solution Satan thought, he could tell Yahweh that the delegation had been destroyed by rebels who had been wiped out for their impudence.
“One other thing Majesty.” Asmodeus felt himself beginning to lose control of his bowels.
“Speak.”
“Majesty, Abigor is not dead. Our watchers saw him surrender his forces to the humans. He has defected to them.”
Satan’s scream of rage could be heard across four rings of hell.
Celestial Mechanics laboratory, DIMO(N), Yale, New Haven, Connecticut
“Why don’t we just nuke the wretched thing?” General Teed Michael Moseley glanced at the nondescript civilian sitting beside him. The man quietly reached out his hand, flat, palm down, and moved it slightly backward and forwards in negation. Moseley’s mouth twisted slightly, a targeteer had spoken and the answer is given, ‘not enough data’.
Dr. Kuroneko frowned, then gestured at the projection screen. His first assignment had been to find a way of closing the Hellmouth in the Iraqi desert down if that became necessary. The obvious answer, the one the Air Force loved, had been his first guess as well. A bad guess as it happened.
“It won’t work General. Let me show you.” The EM field graphs disappeared and were replaced by an intricate wireframe animation, sprinkled liberally with numeric labels and equations. It seemed to show two spheres stuffed into the ends of a short rubber hose, which was threaded through the center of a spinning donut. Glowing pinpricks were appearing in the upper region, alighting on the top sphere, and streaming along the surface of the tube to the lower sphere, where they dissipated. Meanwhile, the surface of the donut rippled and shifted in almost hypnotic patterns.
"This is our current best guess at the actual structure of the portal. We've been given free access to the NSF supercomputing grid, which helps a lot. The coders are still catching up with the theory though and the theory itself still lacks experimental confirmation."
Dr. Kuroneko paused. The military types didn't seem to be nearly as concerned about the lack of rigor as the audience at a typical physics conference. He shrugged and continued.
"This is just a projection of course. The real thing is seven-dimensional. The energy, or whatever is the equivalent of energy flows down from higher dimensions to lower ones. By the way, there’s no sign of it stopping with us, so there could be as many dimensions 'below' us as there are 'above'. The key to the portals is this constriction in the flow; it's formed of exotic matter, brought into existence by specific patterns of microwaves. We still don't have an empirical model of how that works..." The audience was frowning now. The doctor's tone became defensive.
"...after all this branch of science is so new it hasn’t even got a name yet. What we can do is model the behavior of the portal once it's open. Once we could do that, your idea was one of the first things we tried."
The doctor touched a button on the remote and the lower sphere exploded into fragments. With nowhere to go, the glowing particles built up in the center of the donut. Within seconds, they burst through into the lower area again, as if a temporary dam had been washed away. The particles sprayed wildly for a few more seconds before stabilizing into a new lower sphere.
"That was at x10 speed. Hitting this end of the portal can buy us only minutes at best." Dr. Kuroneko paused to cast his eyes over the impressive collection of military brass. They weren't so different from freshmen, he thought, both spent most of their time playing video games these days. That had been a problem in itself. Politicians, and civilians, had seen modern military command systems and noted their similarity to computer games. They’d somehow jumped to the conclusion that the similarity meant that wars could be made bloodless, a stupid concept now disproven by 400,000 dead baldricks in the Iraqi desert. He shook his head, refocusing on the task at hand.
"I know what you're thinking, what happens if we disrupt the far end? Well, watch this." He pressed the remote again and this time the top sphere shattered. Deprived of energy, the lower sphere faded away, but the glowing particles didn't stop coming. Instead, more and more started to appear and this time they were drawn straight to the central torus instead of passing through to the lower region. The spinning donut started to twist and oscillate more and more wildly as it was bombarded with energy, then suddenly the screen went dark.
Kuroneko swore. The simulation had been thrown together in a 36-hour coding session, so bugs were to be expected, but it had worked fine in the dry run. Naturally. He reset and tried again. Again, the torus was bombarded with energy, looking as if it would fly apart... but then it suddenly swelled to twice its original diameter. The particles could now make it through, and both spheres reappeared, much larger than before.
"As you can see, unlike our own efforts to date the strange matter envelope in the demon version is self-stabilizing. Simply pouring energy in will only result in it reforming around a higher harmonic." Some of the military types still weren't getting it. He sighed and rephrased it into baby-talk for them. "So, no General, you can't nuke it. We'll just think of something else.
There was a long pause. The brass shifted uncomfortably in their seats. Dr. Kuroneko pre-empted their next question.
"We have come up with one possibility. The inner structure of the portal is in a complex dynamic balance. If we can hit that torus with a blast of directed electromagnetic energy, at precisely the right frequencies, it's very likely that we can overwhelm that balance and disrupt the exotic matter. It will dissipate and remove the constriction in the flow, thus closing the gate. Permanently unless somebody opens a new gate in the same place. Unfortunately, there are only a few systems in the world that can generate that kind of pulse, and all of them are huge pieces of apparatus built into research institutions."
That was that. There was nothing to do but get back to work on the simulation. If they could understand the resonance better, perhaps a series of smaller pulses spread out over time...
"Actually Dr. Kuroneko you may be in luck." The man speaking seemed to be a civilian, with a curiously flat voice. He reached inside a case and removed several copies of a file, which he passed out. Dr. Kuroneko blinked. They were stamped 'TOP SECRET' and 'CANUKUS EYES ONLY'.
"When I received your initial report, I did a little digging. I remembered hearing about a crazy idea that a group of Brits at Aldermaston came up with in the mid-80s. NATO was desperate for a way to stop a Soviet tank army steamrolling Germany without resorting to nukes. A lot of left-field ideas were studied, and this was one of them."
He flipped the file open to a page showing a full-page schematic.
"As you can see, the device is conceptually simple. Two inner coils nested inside an outer one. Capacitors energize the inner coils and an explosive force them apart. A tremendous current is generated in the outer coils and channeled into the Klystron array in the nose. Power output spikes in the terawatt range in the milliseconds before the device is destroyed. They called it Project Starglider. Don’t ask me why."
General Schatten spoke up. "Don't we have something similar? They don't show me all the air force toys, but I've heard the rumors about e-bombs used in early strikes on Iraq."
"Nothing on the scale or precision of this device, General. It was designed to burn through EMP hardening and leave an entire division without communications or radar. It projects a precisely controlled spectrum in a relatively narrow burst. Only two problems; the working parts must be kept filled with liquid helium and the damn thing weighs nearly 20 tons."
"Ah, so rather like the very first hydrogen bomb?" Dr. Kuroneko was used to theory, not hardware, and he was struggling for a frame of reference. "It explodes but is almost completely immobile?"
“It’s a device, not a bomb, and it initiates, not explodes.” The targeteer spoke idly. “But you’re right, it was a clumsy device, even for a B-36. We built five of them in early ’54 designated the TX-16.”
“I never knew that.” Kuroneko was amazed, he’d always assumed the Ivy Mike device was a useless technological dead end.
“So, don’t worry about size and bulk if we need it, we can move it. The Brits were planning to dump it out the back of a C-130, though that idea was marginal at best.” The targeteer’s voice was still idle and steeped with professional disinterest.
There was a long silence as the attendees paged through the file. Eventually, General Moseley's impatience got the better of him. “So, did it work?"
"They built two quarter-scale prototypes. The first one was a non-superconducting test article. It was only fired at low power and according to the file, it's still in storage at the AWE. The second one was a full prototype. Results from the sole test were mixed. Power output was disappointing, but the amplitude profile did suggest that ten of the twelve emitter tubes shattered prematurely."
Dr. Kuroneko had been frantically scanning the project history. "Ah, of course, the fact that the… device …. is destroyed when used would make finding out what happened rather difficult. Hmm. It looks like the engineers were convinced they could lick the problem, but the project was defunded in 1993... I presume because of the end of the Cold War?"
“That’s not why it was canceled, Doctor.” The idle voice was getting on Kuroneko’s nerves. “EMP is a grotesquely over-rated weapon. Its literary achievements far outweigh its practical applications. There are much simpler ways of taking down a command system."
There was another long silence before Secretary Warner decided that he had all the information he needed. The details were clearly best left to the specialists. It was time to ask the key question. “Can you make it work for us?"
All eyes turned to Dr. Kuroneko, who had gone back to devouring the file. For a moment, he was oblivious to the discussion surrounding him, but then he sensed the silence and looked up.
"Ah, well, it looks like.," This is insane, he thought, I'll need a whole new set of simulations to even start... "Was the result of the British tests Omni-directional or Uni-directional?"
The flat voice answered again. “It was designed to hit everything in a ninety-degree frontal cone, but I'm sure the engineers can refine that.”
"Well then sir, at first glance the theoretical work looks solid, we can replace the original coils with high-temperature superconductors to bring down the mass..." He grimaced briefly at the thought of federal agents raiding half the low-temperature physics lab in the nation for the material. "If we can get it working at design power... couple the simulation to an evolutionary algorithm to find the optimal frequency spread... then yes sir, I think it will work."
Buckingham Palace, London.
“Behind me, you can see the new Regimental Colonel presenting the regimental colors to the reformed 1 Battalion, The Cameronians, also known as the Scottish Rifles. Due to defense cuts in the late 1960s, the regiment chose disbandment over amalgamation, although two Territorial Army companies of the regiment survived as late as the 1990s before the final company was re-badged as part of the King’s Own Scottish Borderers.
“Today the only Scottish rifle regiment has rejoined its illustrious fellow regiments in the Scottish Division. Over the last month, we have become rather used to de-amalgamation parades, but today’s parade is something special as it is a long time since the army has reformed a disbanded regiment.
“Behind me, you can see the first recruits to join the battalion, in their distinctive Douglas tartan crews; some are former members of the two Territorial companies, though most are National Servicemen newly out of basic training.
“The Regimental Colonel is now taking the salute as the battalion marches off the parade ground.
“This is Brian Rix, for Reporting Scotland, in Hamilton. Back to the studio.”
“Your granddaughter seems to suit her new job very well, Your Majesty.” Prime Minister Gordon Brown remarked as he watched the television. “Would you like me to switch the set-off, Ma’am?”
“I can manage thank you, Prime Minister, I’m not in my grave yet.” Elisabeth the Second, of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland and of Her other Realms and Territories Queen, Head of the Commonwealth, Lord of Mann, Duke of Normandy etc, etc, formerly Defender of the Faith, said lightly as she got up to turn off the television.
“Anne is certainly very proud of Zara, though I’m not sure I approve of a rather junior subaltern being appointed as a Regimental Colonel. I do know that she is rather disappointed to have been assigned to The King’s Troop when she chose the Royal Horse Artillery; she wanted to see some action rather than being assigned to Home Defense.”
“The Ministry of Defense is rather nervous about assigning members of the Royal Family to active units. They feel they rather used up their luck with Harry. Losing a member of the Royal Family in action might hurt the nation’s morale, Ma’am.” The Prime Minister replied.
“Prime Minister, today we face the most serious threat that this country, indeed humanity, has ever faced. Should we lose the war then we will all end up in Hell, so it will not matter much if one of my family should die during the war. I also feel that we must bear all the same risks that every other family in Britain must run.
“Andrew has already rejoined the navy; you may have noticed that Charles and my husband have been drilling with the Home Service Force Company formed from palace staff, so I do not see why William, Harry, and Zara should not get their chance to see active service in this war.”
Gordon Brown smiled, this was why he liked Her Majesty, and why, overall, he got on very well with her. His first audience with the Queen on becoming Prime Minister had been far longer than that of his predecessor; Her Majesty liked all things Scottish and was always keen to talk about Scotland. She also rather liked Sarah, the Prime Minister’s wife. “I shall pass on your wishes to the Ministry of Defense, Ma’am. When the Household Cavalry is sent into action William and Harry will not be held back, and I’m sure that if Zara wishes a transfer to another regiment of the Royal Horse Artillery it will be looked upon favorably.”
“Thank you, Prime Minister. The great advantage of a hereditary monarchy is that there are plenty of us spare should something happen to someone further up the line of succession.
“Anyway, where are my manners, how is your family?”
Re: 2008 - Armageddon
Chapter Thirty-Five
Palace of Asmodeus, City of Dis. Hell
“Explain yourself.” Asmodeus’s voice was unforgiving.
The subject of his displeasure was cringing on the floor, trying to think of some good reasons why the situation had ever got to this point. The problem was that, while Kinathroses could think of some very good reasons indeed, speaking any of them would get him killed. Instantly.
“Sire, I was betrayed by my subordinates….”
“That goes with the territory. This is hell you know.” Asmodeus spoke in an almost friendly manner, giving Kinathroses some vague hope that he might survive this session. “Your subordinates are supposed to try and betray you. It is your duty to detect their treachery and deal with it. If you are so stupid and incompetent that you cannot do that simple thing, then you are obviously unfitted to hold the position that you presently occupy. Perhaps the subordinate who betrayed you might better be suited to your present responsibilities.”
Kinathroses’s hopes of survival took an immediate downturn. Even if he survived the interview with Asmodeus, he would be demoted to the lower ranks and left to serve one of those who had once served him. And his new lord would promptly have him assassinated to avoid any attempts to reverse the situation. Better to try a different approach. “Sire, it is the humans who are at the root of this trouble.”
“Ahh. Human magery.” Asmodeus was enjoying himself immensely. “You claim human magic is so powerful that your armies could not stand against it. Abigor claimed that you know. It cost him everything.”
May your talons rot thought Kinathroses. You have no idea what humans are capable of. You come here, throwing your weight around without understanding anything of what has been happening. Well, you can learn the way we are learning. “Sire, human magery is much over-rated. Oh, they have some special tricks that it true, but they are of little significance compared with other factors.”
“What other factors?” Asmodeus was genuinely intrigued. This was a cut on the situation he hadn’t expected.
“Sire, it is not what the humans must fight with, it is how they fight. Or rather how they do not fight. They do not seek out our armies to face them in combat. They hide in the rocks, the mud, and the caves. They wait until they have a demon alone, or perhaps a small group, then they strike from concealment, killing without warning. Then they fade away again. With all the demons leaving to join the armies for the invasion of Earth, we have too few under arms down here to stop them. By the time the message gets back from the attack, the humans are long gone. Mostly. Sometimes, we send a rescue column out and the column itself is attacked. And again, by the time we react, the humans have gone. We cannot get messages around quickly enough, there is too much space to cover.
“And then there are the mage-blasts. Nobody knows where or when the next one will be. Our demons can be on the walls, marching along a road, or resting in their outposts when a mage-blast wipes them out. No warning, no challenge to combat, just a mage blast from out of the mists and darkness. Those that survive are horribly wounded. That is the factor that we cannot fight Sire. How can we fight those who will not stand and fight.”
“Trap them so they have no choice but to fight?” Asmoedeus’s mind turned to the problems he had just heard. He had ten full legions coming down, 66,666 trained veteran demons. That would swing the force level problem decisively his way. The communications problem was one he hadn’t thought of, in his military experience, mostly limited to the formalized, choreographed skirmishes in Hell, commanding units had been no problem. The troops had always been in the range of his voice or mind-masking power. It had never occurred to him that wouldn’t be the case here. But he did have enough troops to overcome that problem.
The picture of the rebellion suppression campaign started to form in his mind. He would start with a single main operational base on the edge of the 5th circle segment where the rebellion was concentrated. Then, he would start to spread across the segment, establishing each outpost within sight of another. If one was attacked, support would be immediate because other outposts would see what was happening. And, even better, they could relay mind-masked messages from one to the next, allowing the great rear base to be informed quickly.
Asmodeus mulled the concept over, It seemed to work but he could see one flaw. If he pushed out from one point, he would force the rebels back. That’s where Hell’s strange topography cut in. It was an odd fact about Hell that if one set out in a straight line, in any direction, one ended up in the same place one had started. Left, right, forward, backward, up, down, it made no difference. Keep going long enough and one ended up where one had started. Heaven was the same. Unless one created a portal, there was no way out because there was nowhere to go out. Thinking about that made Asmodeus’s head hurt. Still, there was a solution, start from two bases, one at each end of the segment of the 5th circle and close in on the middle. That way the rebels would be trapped between them and eventually, they’d fight in the open.
Throne Room, Palace of Satan, Dis, Hell
Count Belial watched Satan rage at Hell’s inability to immediately destroy the impertinent humans, his own mind boiling with thoughts of how he could exploit this unprecedented situation. It had been a scant five millennia since he had clawed his way back to a place at Satan's court, a singular feat among dukes who had fallen so far from their lord's favor. His presence here was still something of a joke as yet he commanded but a single legion and his domain could muster only a meager tribute of human essence. Most of Hell's nobility thought of him as little more than the court jester, but a few understood the influence that the great mines and furnaces of Tartarus gave him.
Those were the dangerous ones. He had to go from beneath notice to beyond challenge in a single stroke, or he would inevitably lose his domain to one of the dukes. This could be the perfect opportunity, but the timing had to be exquisite. As Belial watched, Satan scooped up another unlucky minor demon and crushed it into a paste, squeezing the creature's remains out of his clenched fist before whirling to seek another target. Too early and he would only draw Satan's wrath as the unfortunate ogre had. Too late and his proposal would be seen as a challenge to Satan's preferred course of action - dangerous even for once as favored as Abigor had been, probably fatal for one as lowly as him. Belial waited for the instant that Satan's terrible eyes turned from rage to cold calculation, then spoke.
"Your Eminence..."
Every eye was on him. Satan's gaze bored into him, and he dropped groveling to his knees in an expected manner.
"Your Eminence, my demons can strike back at the humans immediately. At your command, I will reward their insolence with fiery annihilation. Of course, my lord recalls the fate of Sodom and Gomorrah."
There was a murmur of suppressed laughter around the room. Sodom and Gomorrah had been essentially party tricks. They had occurred at a time when Satan and Yahweh were engaged in an informal competition to visit the most creative 'punishments' on the lower planes. The humans had become so pathetic, so despairing at the demon’s presence that there was little scope for honorable warfare against them; they simply ran screaming or lined up and waited to be hewn down like crops. The demons were always ready to appreciate new forms of suffering and Belial's creative use of magic had been quite spectacular, not to mention entertaining enough to gain his return to the palace. However, his suggestion that such tricks be considered a legitimate means of waging war was ridiculous. Surely their lord could not be seriously considering it?
In fact, Satan was doing just that. It would take weeks, perhaps months, to prepare another attack on the scale of Abigor's, and much as he wanted to believe that this was simply due to the incompetence and treachery of his former favorite, he knew this was not the case. He had Asmodeus away dealing with the rebellion down in the fifth circle and Yahweh was in the wings. There was another possibility that was on his mind as well, if one attack had failed, he had to consider the possibility that a second would also fail. The humans had undoubtedly taken horrible losses, but Abigor was doubtless proclaiming that he would lead them to victory and instructing them on how best to resist demonic powers. Combined with their strange and seemingly powerful magic, Satan had to agree with Abigor about one thing; he had to know what forces the humans could muster, and what it would really take to crush them. That would take time, as would dealing with the chaos resulting from Abigor's fall.
Already Satan's informants reporting skirmishes between the forces of dukes trying to add chunks of Abigor's domain to their own. That situation was confusing, sometimes it was hard to tell whether the demons who had been found brutally murdered were the victims of that internecine skirmishing or had been the victims of the human rebellion. Satan was sure that the assassinations had been carried out on the direct orders of his dukes, testing each other's defenses, each preparing to take advantage of any opportunities the way Belial was. An interesting question, was the human rebellion the work of a Duke who had seen human magery as a new way of fighting a war? It didn’t really matter, with Asmodeus and his Army moving to crush the rebellion, the status quo would return soon enough, but in the meantime, Satan had to be seen to take decisive action. Belial's suggestion was perfect; it was fast, if it worked it would kill enough humans to claim a major victory, and if it didn't Belial was completely expendable.
"You want to act like a human, cowering in your own realm, killing with magic instead of rending your enemies?" Satan spat contemptuously.
He's playing with me, Belial thought with some relief even as he continued to abase himself. Those words stated flatly would have spelled his doom. Phrased as a question, Satan was just forcing him to justify himself.
"Your Eminence, of course, your glorious armies will grind the humans into dust, Abigor's failure will be of no consequence in the long run. But it will take time to muster fresh legions, the humans may falsely believe that their resistance has won them a respite. Please sire, let me erase that hope, command me to make them burn and suffer even as they await their final extinction."
Belial Kornakat raised his head and a silent understanding passed between him and Satan Mekratrig. He would get a chance. Success would mean elevation sufficient to ensure his survival in the court. Failure would result in a fate even worse than Abigor's.
"Very well. I see no reason to allow the apes the luxury of hope. You will choose two of their largest cities and destroy them utterly as you destroyed Sodom, as you destroyed Gomorrah."
Belial thrashed his tail and licked at Satan's talons, resembling for a moment a gigantic, monstrously disfigured dog. All for show of course; mentally he was weighing the risk of asking for more resources and looking weak against the risk of the attacks failing. He had heard that the humans had multiplied greatly since the time of Sodom, and this had to be a most spectacular defeat.
"Thank you, Your Eminence, we will begin at once, the suffering will be glorious... but sire... the bigger the coven, the more humans we can burn. If I could have more naga for the effort, our blow will be that much more crushing for the humans."
A fresh murmur passed around the throne room. Satan merely snorted. Belial's admission of weakness was pathetic. There was truth in his words though. With the grand portal to Earth already open, the naga would not be needed for the counterstrike, so the other dukes might complain but could spare them. If his plan were successful, such reliance on others would prevent him from gaining too much glory.
"Attend me. Each grand duke will send a party of portal-mages to Tartarus such that he deems fit to compensate for Belial's inadequacy."
Satan's gaze returned to Belial, who was writhing in fresh paroxysms of abasement. "You are right to bask in my generosity, Belial. I will allow you twelve days to destroy two great human cities. Fail me and I will have you baked alive in one of your own furnaces. Now leave us."
"Of course, your Eminence! I will begin the preparations immediately!" Belial scrabbled to his feet and sprinted from the throne room; meeting Satan's schedule would take a minor miracle.
DIMO(N) Headquarters, Crystal City, VA
Lugasharmanaska looked up at the moon and stars overhead, marveling at their beauty. She was relaxing on a long bed-like something that, like the roof garden she was in, was a left-over from the time this building had been a luxury hotel. The bar in one corner was closed but the furniture was still there. Not wood or stone but the curious dead material the humans called plastic. They used the plastic for almost everything it seemed. And there was an awful lot of everything, that was why Lugasharmanaska was thinking so hard.
The problem was quite simple, her original defection had placed her in a position where she could benefit no matter which side won the war. The more she had learned, the more she had seen, the more she had become convinced that the humans were not going to lose. They were wealthy beyond any demonic dream of avarice, they had machines to do their work for them and they had an unlimited number of those machines. And that was the problem because they used those same machines to do their killing. Lugasharmanaska shuddered slightly to herself. Humans were so good at killing, that when they couldn’t find demons to kill, they practiced on each other.
It wasn’t just that they were good at killing, they were good at understanding as well. If they met something they didn’t understand, they didn’t write it off as “magic” or “magery”, they didn’t consider it to be “the will of something or other”. They set people to work studying it and those people would nibble away at the mystery until they had worked out what it was all about. Then they would hammer away at what they had learned some more until they not only understood the mystery but had worked out practical applications for it. Applications that were far more useful than the mystery itself.
In a flash of insight, Lugasharmanaska suddenly understood why Yahweh had abandoned this world. For millennia, humans hadn’t thought that way, they’d accepted what they had been told, treated “divine revelation” as something sacrosanct that it was death to dispute. Suddenly, that had changed, humans had stopped accepting what they were told and started asking questions. And, when they didn’t like the answers, they’d started arguing. They’d found their own answers and realized there was no place for “magic” and “magery” in the world they were learning about. There were only things they understood and things they didn’t understand – yet. Their plastic, their machines, and their terrible efficiency at killing, all came from that same desire to understand what they didn’t understand – yet.
And that was why Hell and all its demons were going to lose this war. They accepted things the way they were, they didn’t ask questions about why. Things were what they were and that was it. Humans didn’t agree with that, things were there to be understood and used. They even had names for these arts. Understanding things was called “science” and using things was called “engineering”. Lugasharmanaska almost fell into the trap of believing they were new religions, but she’d been saved from that error by a fluke.
She’d been in one of the buildings devoted to trying to understand Hell when she’d seen two men arguing in front of an audience. An old man, obviously of great importance, and a younger man, probably his follower. They’d been arguing furiously, shouting at each other, waving their arms around, and making marks on a great blackboard. Lugasharmanaska had expected to see the young man struck dead for his impudence, what Satan or Yahweh would do to a follower who argued with them in public defied even Lugasharmanaska’s devilish imagination. But the young man had made some triumphant marks on the board and the old man had looked at them for a minute or so then said, simply ‘he’s right you know”. And the room had burst out into applause and the old man had clapped the younger one on the back and shaken his hand. That was when she had understood when science said something was so, that was only the case until somebody proved otherwise. Then the old truth was dropped and a new one put in its place until that too was disproved.
That was why humans would win this war. Whatever Satan and his armies did, humans would understand it, improve it, and then use the improved thing against their enemy.
The question was, what should Lugasharmanaska do now? She’d already modified her original plan quite drastically; her intent had been to tell the humans as little as possible and distort what she did say to them in ways that would benefit her. She’d nearly been caught, had only escaped by pure luck. Humans had taken what she had told them and used their science on it. They’d proved that some of the things she’d told them contradicted others. She’d pretended ignorance, said that was the way she’d understood it, and acted bewildered. And she’d made a vow to be much more careful as she knew her survival depended on being useful.
That was why she was up here on the roof. She’d accepted that mind-masking didn’t work on humans anymore and that they were aware of her miasma and on their guard against its effects. Her ability to communicate with home had also gone. But she had to try, she had to warn her liege-lord Deumos of the danger she faced. Lugasharmanaska understood humans and how they regarded their enemies. If the enemy fought, the humans would kill without mercy. If Deumos were to survive the oncoming destruction, she would find a way of not being an enemy of the humans without being slaughtered by Satan as a traitor. Somehow, Lugasharmanaska had to get a warning through. So, she lay on the plastic chair, apparently relaxed and resting but in reality, screwing every ounce of mage-power she could muster to contact Deumos. In the middle of the fierce concentration, she found herself wondering what her mage-power really was.
Palace of Asmodeus, City of Dis. Hell
“Explain yourself.” Asmodeus’s voice was unforgiving.
The subject of his displeasure was cringing on the floor, trying to think of some good reasons why the situation had ever got to this point. The problem was that, while Kinathroses could think of some very good reasons indeed, speaking any of them would get him killed. Instantly.
“Sire, I was betrayed by my subordinates….”
“That goes with the territory. This is hell you know.” Asmodeus spoke in an almost friendly manner, giving Kinathroses some vague hope that he might survive this session. “Your subordinates are supposed to try and betray you. It is your duty to detect their treachery and deal with it. If you are so stupid and incompetent that you cannot do that simple thing, then you are obviously unfitted to hold the position that you presently occupy. Perhaps the subordinate who betrayed you might better be suited to your present responsibilities.”
Kinathroses’s hopes of survival took an immediate downturn. Even if he survived the interview with Asmodeus, he would be demoted to the lower ranks and left to serve one of those who had once served him. And his new lord would promptly have him assassinated to avoid any attempts to reverse the situation. Better to try a different approach. “Sire, it is the humans who are at the root of this trouble.”
“Ahh. Human magery.” Asmodeus was enjoying himself immensely. “You claim human magic is so powerful that your armies could not stand against it. Abigor claimed that you know. It cost him everything.”
May your talons rot thought Kinathroses. You have no idea what humans are capable of. You come here, throwing your weight around without understanding anything of what has been happening. Well, you can learn the way we are learning. “Sire, human magery is much over-rated. Oh, they have some special tricks that it true, but they are of little significance compared with other factors.”
“What other factors?” Asmodeus was genuinely intrigued. This was a cut on the situation he hadn’t expected.
“Sire, it is not what the humans must fight with, it is how they fight. Or rather how they do not fight. They do not seek out our armies to face them in combat. They hide in the rocks, the mud, and the caves. They wait until they have a demon alone, or perhaps a small group, then they strike from concealment, killing without warning. Then they fade away again. With all the demons leaving to join the armies for the invasion of Earth, we have too few under arms down here to stop them. By the time the message gets back from the attack, the humans are long gone. Mostly. Sometimes, we send a rescue column out and the column itself is attacked. And again, by the time we react, the humans have gone. We cannot get messages around quickly enough, there is too much space to cover.
“And then there are the mage-blasts. Nobody knows where or when the next one will be. Our demons can be on the walls, marching along a road, or resting in their outposts when a mage-blast wipes them out. No warning, no challenge to combat, just a mage blast from out of the mists and darkness. Those that survive are horribly wounded. That is the factor that we cannot fight Sire. How can we fight those who will not stand and fight.”
“Trap them so they have no choice but to fight?” Asmoedeus’s mind turned to the problems he had just heard. He had ten full legions coming down, 66,666 trained veteran demons. That would swing the force level problem decisively his way. The communications problem was one he hadn’t thought of, in his military experience, mostly limited to the formalized, choreographed skirmishes in Hell, commanding units had been no problem. The troops had always been in the range of his voice or mind-masking power. It had never occurred to him that wouldn’t be the case here. But he did have enough troops to overcome that problem.
The picture of the rebellion suppression campaign started to form in his mind. He would start with a single main operational base on the edge of the 5th circle segment where the rebellion was concentrated. Then, he would start to spread across the segment, establishing each outpost within sight of another. If one was attacked, support would be immediate because other outposts would see what was happening. And, even better, they could relay mind-masked messages from one to the next, allowing the great rear base to be informed quickly.
Asmodeus mulled the concept over, It seemed to work but he could see one flaw. If he pushed out from one point, he would force the rebels back. That’s where Hell’s strange topography cut in. It was an odd fact about Hell that if one set out in a straight line, in any direction, one ended up in the same place one had started. Left, right, forward, backward, up, down, it made no difference. Keep going long enough and one ended up where one had started. Heaven was the same. Unless one created a portal, there was no way out because there was nowhere to go out. Thinking about that made Asmodeus’s head hurt. Still, there was a solution, start from two bases, one at each end of the segment of the 5th circle and close in on the middle. That way the rebels would be trapped between them and eventually, they’d fight in the open.
Throne Room, Palace of Satan, Dis, Hell
Count Belial watched Satan rage at Hell’s inability to immediately destroy the impertinent humans, his own mind boiling with thoughts of how he could exploit this unprecedented situation. It had been a scant five millennia since he had clawed his way back to a place at Satan's court, a singular feat among dukes who had fallen so far from their lord's favor. His presence here was still something of a joke as yet he commanded but a single legion and his domain could muster only a meager tribute of human essence. Most of Hell's nobility thought of him as little more than the court jester, but a few understood the influence that the great mines and furnaces of Tartarus gave him.
Those were the dangerous ones. He had to go from beneath notice to beyond challenge in a single stroke, or he would inevitably lose his domain to one of the dukes. This could be the perfect opportunity, but the timing had to be exquisite. As Belial watched, Satan scooped up another unlucky minor demon and crushed it into a paste, squeezing the creature's remains out of his clenched fist before whirling to seek another target. Too early and he would only draw Satan's wrath as the unfortunate ogre had. Too late and his proposal would be seen as a challenge to Satan's preferred course of action - dangerous even for once as favored as Abigor had been, probably fatal for one as lowly as him. Belial waited for the instant that Satan's terrible eyes turned from rage to cold calculation, then spoke.
"Your Eminence..."
Every eye was on him. Satan's gaze bored into him, and he dropped groveling to his knees in an expected manner.
"Your Eminence, my demons can strike back at the humans immediately. At your command, I will reward their insolence with fiery annihilation. Of course, my lord recalls the fate of Sodom and Gomorrah."
There was a murmur of suppressed laughter around the room. Sodom and Gomorrah had been essentially party tricks. They had occurred at a time when Satan and Yahweh were engaged in an informal competition to visit the most creative 'punishments' on the lower planes. The humans had become so pathetic, so despairing at the demon’s presence that there was little scope for honorable warfare against them; they simply ran screaming or lined up and waited to be hewn down like crops. The demons were always ready to appreciate new forms of suffering and Belial's creative use of magic had been quite spectacular, not to mention entertaining enough to gain his return to the palace. However, his suggestion that such tricks be considered a legitimate means of waging war was ridiculous. Surely their lord could not be seriously considering it?
In fact, Satan was doing just that. It would take weeks, perhaps months, to prepare another attack on the scale of Abigor's, and much as he wanted to believe that this was simply due to the incompetence and treachery of his former favorite, he knew this was not the case. He had Asmodeus away dealing with the rebellion down in the fifth circle and Yahweh was in the wings. There was another possibility that was on his mind as well, if one attack had failed, he had to consider the possibility that a second would also fail. The humans had undoubtedly taken horrible losses, but Abigor was doubtless proclaiming that he would lead them to victory and instructing them on how best to resist demonic powers. Combined with their strange and seemingly powerful magic, Satan had to agree with Abigor about one thing; he had to know what forces the humans could muster, and what it would really take to crush them. That would take time, as would dealing with the chaos resulting from Abigor's fall.
Already Satan's informants reporting skirmishes between the forces of dukes trying to add chunks of Abigor's domain to their own. That situation was confusing, sometimes it was hard to tell whether the demons who had been found brutally murdered were the victims of that internecine skirmishing or had been the victims of the human rebellion. Satan was sure that the assassinations had been carried out on the direct orders of his dukes, testing each other's defenses, each preparing to take advantage of any opportunities the way Belial was. An interesting question, was the human rebellion the work of a Duke who had seen human magery as a new way of fighting a war? It didn’t really matter, with Asmodeus and his Army moving to crush the rebellion, the status quo would return soon enough, but in the meantime, Satan had to be seen to take decisive action. Belial's suggestion was perfect; it was fast, if it worked it would kill enough humans to claim a major victory, and if it didn't Belial was completely expendable.
"You want to act like a human, cowering in your own realm, killing with magic instead of rending your enemies?" Satan spat contemptuously.
He's playing with me, Belial thought with some relief even as he continued to abase himself. Those words stated flatly would have spelled his doom. Phrased as a question, Satan was just forcing him to justify himself.
"Your Eminence, of course, your glorious armies will grind the humans into dust, Abigor's failure will be of no consequence in the long run. But it will take time to muster fresh legions, the humans may falsely believe that their resistance has won them a respite. Please sire, let me erase that hope, command me to make them burn and suffer even as they await their final extinction."
Belial Kornakat raised his head and a silent understanding passed between him and Satan Mekratrig. He would get a chance. Success would mean elevation sufficient to ensure his survival in the court. Failure would result in a fate even worse than Abigor's.
"Very well. I see no reason to allow the apes the luxury of hope. You will choose two of their largest cities and destroy them utterly as you destroyed Sodom, as you destroyed Gomorrah."
Belial thrashed his tail and licked at Satan's talons, resembling for a moment a gigantic, monstrously disfigured dog. All for show of course; mentally he was weighing the risk of asking for more resources and looking weak against the risk of the attacks failing. He had heard that the humans had multiplied greatly since the time of Sodom, and this had to be a most spectacular defeat.
"Thank you, Your Eminence, we will begin at once, the suffering will be glorious... but sire... the bigger the coven, the more humans we can burn. If I could have more naga for the effort, our blow will be that much more crushing for the humans."
A fresh murmur passed around the throne room. Satan merely snorted. Belial's admission of weakness was pathetic. There was truth in his words though. With the grand portal to Earth already open, the naga would not be needed for the counterstrike, so the other dukes might complain but could spare them. If his plan were successful, such reliance on others would prevent him from gaining too much glory.
"Attend me. Each grand duke will send a party of portal-mages to Tartarus such that he deems fit to compensate for Belial's inadequacy."
Satan's gaze returned to Belial, who was writhing in fresh paroxysms of abasement. "You are right to bask in my generosity, Belial. I will allow you twelve days to destroy two great human cities. Fail me and I will have you baked alive in one of your own furnaces. Now leave us."
"Of course, your Eminence! I will begin the preparations immediately!" Belial scrabbled to his feet and sprinted from the throne room; meeting Satan's schedule would take a minor miracle.
DIMO(N) Headquarters, Crystal City, VA
Lugasharmanaska looked up at the moon and stars overhead, marveling at their beauty. She was relaxing on a long bed-like something that, like the roof garden she was in, was a left-over from the time this building had been a luxury hotel. The bar in one corner was closed but the furniture was still there. Not wood or stone but the curious dead material the humans called plastic. They used the plastic for almost everything it seemed. And there was an awful lot of everything, that was why Lugasharmanaska was thinking so hard.
The problem was quite simple, her original defection had placed her in a position where she could benefit no matter which side won the war. The more she had learned, the more she had seen, the more she had become convinced that the humans were not going to lose. They were wealthy beyond any demonic dream of avarice, they had machines to do their work for them and they had an unlimited number of those machines. And that was the problem because they used those same machines to do their killing. Lugasharmanaska shuddered slightly to herself. Humans were so good at killing, that when they couldn’t find demons to kill, they practiced on each other.
It wasn’t just that they were good at killing, they were good at understanding as well. If they met something they didn’t understand, they didn’t write it off as “magic” or “magery”, they didn’t consider it to be “the will of something or other”. They set people to work studying it and those people would nibble away at the mystery until they had worked out what it was all about. Then they would hammer away at what they had learned some more until they not only understood the mystery but had worked out practical applications for it. Applications that were far more useful than the mystery itself.
In a flash of insight, Lugasharmanaska suddenly understood why Yahweh had abandoned this world. For millennia, humans hadn’t thought that way, they’d accepted what they had been told, treated “divine revelation” as something sacrosanct that it was death to dispute. Suddenly, that had changed, humans had stopped accepting what they were told and started asking questions. And, when they didn’t like the answers, they’d started arguing. They’d found their own answers and realized there was no place for “magic” and “magery” in the world they were learning about. There were only things they understood and things they didn’t understand – yet. Their plastic, their machines, and their terrible efficiency at killing, all came from that same desire to understand what they didn’t understand – yet.
And that was why Hell and all its demons were going to lose this war. They accepted things the way they were, they didn’t ask questions about why. Things were what they were and that was it. Humans didn’t agree with that, things were there to be understood and used. They even had names for these arts. Understanding things was called “science” and using things was called “engineering”. Lugasharmanaska almost fell into the trap of believing they were new religions, but she’d been saved from that error by a fluke.
She’d been in one of the buildings devoted to trying to understand Hell when she’d seen two men arguing in front of an audience. An old man, obviously of great importance, and a younger man, probably his follower. They’d been arguing furiously, shouting at each other, waving their arms around, and making marks on a great blackboard. Lugasharmanaska had expected to see the young man struck dead for his impudence, what Satan or Yahweh would do to a follower who argued with them in public defied even Lugasharmanaska’s devilish imagination. But the young man had made some triumphant marks on the board and the old man had looked at them for a minute or so then said, simply ‘he’s right you know”. And the room had burst out into applause and the old man had clapped the younger one on the back and shaken his hand. That was when she had understood when science said something was so, that was only the case until somebody proved otherwise. Then the old truth was dropped and a new one put in its place until that too was disproved.
That was why humans would win this war. Whatever Satan and his armies did, humans would understand it, improve it, and then use the improved thing against their enemy.
The question was, what should Lugasharmanaska do now? She’d already modified her original plan quite drastically; her intent had been to tell the humans as little as possible and distort what she did say to them in ways that would benefit her. She’d nearly been caught, had only escaped by pure luck. Humans had taken what she had told them and used their science on it. They’d proved that some of the things she’d told them contradicted others. She’d pretended ignorance, said that was the way she’d understood it, and acted bewildered. And she’d made a vow to be much more careful as she knew her survival depended on being useful.
That was why she was up here on the roof. She’d accepted that mind-masking didn’t work on humans anymore and that they were aware of her miasma and on their guard against its effects. Her ability to communicate with home had also gone. But she had to try, she had to warn her liege-lord Deumos of the danger she faced. Lugasharmanaska understood humans and how they regarded their enemies. If the enemy fought, the humans would kill without mercy. If Deumos were to survive the oncoming destruction, she would find a way of not being an enemy of the humans without being slaughtered by Satan as a traitor. Somehow, Lugasharmanaska had to get a warning through. So, she lay on the plastic chair, apparently relaxed and resting but in reality, screwing every ounce of mage-power she could muster to contact Deumos. In the middle of the fierce concentration, she found herself wondering what her mage-power really was.
Re: 2008 - Armageddon
Chapter Thirty-Six
Section Twelve, DIMO(N), Fort Bragg, North Carolina
“Let’s start with weapons. Jerry?”
“In Helljar-One, that’s the one simulating the normal Hell-place environment, it’s the older stuff that does best. Shouldn’t surprise us really, tolerances are greater, so they can take the sand and grit better. The pumice in the air is the real problem. It mixes with moisture and oil to form a cement that blocks the weapons up. Regular cleaning is essential and using Militec rather than lube oil is a good start. The good news is that grenades and fused weapons like rockets and shells work just fine. The bad news is that the M16 and M4 have very serious problems. The gas tube and bolt carriers jam up so fast it isn’t funny. We got the first of the new rifles, the M114 and M115, they both work better. All weapons must be carefully cleaned and often.
“Helljar-Two, ironically, is a lot easier on weapons that One. The mud and filth are bad of course but it’s something the troops know how to deal with. We’ve had the reports back from Tango-Bravo, and the first A-Team we sent in to help them out, and we’ve correlated them with the results from Helljar-Two. The very high degree of congruence I’m glad to say gives us a degree of confidence in our results. Based on our studies, we’ve pulled the M4A5s from Tango-Bravo and given them pre-production M114s instead. They’re happier now. The Special Forces group in with Tango-Bravo now also has M114s.”
“Excuse the interruption Jerry, but while we’re on the subject of the Special Forces people we’re sending in, any word on the medical side of this.” General Schatten looked at the woman who was supervising the medical side of the studies.
Doctor Sangina thumbed through her notes. “The first group under Lieutenant Madeuce have suffered quite badly. They have pumice deposits in their lungs and those will have a severe impact on their future health unless we can find a way of treating them. This isn’t a new problem; it’s been known in the mining industry for centuries. It’s usually called silicosis although the specific form here is known as Pneumonoultramicroscopicsilicovolcanoconiosis. There are treatments under evaluation for the condition, including whole-lung lavage but, unless we get a breakthrough, I’m afraid the first group of patients are going to must accept some severe health consequences 15 – 20 years down the line. The second group we sent in, and all after that, have breathing masks that filter out the dust. That should solve the problem.”
“People in the Hell-Place heal a lot faster than they do here, any word on that?”
“It is true, that’s why the victims in Hell survive the way they do. It’s not a function of place though, it’s a function of being a creature of that place. Souls who have transitioned to hell via death or creatures that are native to hell have much-enhanced healing power and wound resistance compared to us. They retain those advantages when they come to our dimension. The catch is that humans from hell can’t survive here for long, they leak, oh, I don’t know how to describe it, life energy I suppose. Baldricks can, we think because they use their bio-electrical generating capability to replace the leaking energy, to trickle-charge themselves so to speak. Reborn Humans don’t have that capability, so they die in our dimension. Now, if we go to the Hell dimension, we don’t get a boost in healing or damage resistance, we’re just the same there as we are here.”
“Thank you. Sorry, Jerry, I was very concerned about the people we’re sending in. Can you continue please?”
“No problem. Helljar-Three is the one with the burning desert. That’s the one we know least about; we’ve only got limited intelligence there. In some ways it’s much more hostile than Helljar Two, when the reports said burning desert and flaming rain, they weren’t joking. In other ways, it’s more benign. The air is much drier, and the dust content is a lot, a lot lower. As far as we can make out, our equipment functions much better there, it’s just that we don’t.
“Thank you, Jerry. Greg, vehicles?”
“Main problem is dust and the pumice cement. We have heavy-duty air filters that can cope with it and we’re designing better ones. Like the weapons side of things, the secret is to clean and keep cleaning. A couple of things, diesels are less susceptible to choking on the dust than gas turbines. We might want to think about a diesel-powered M1 for operations in Hell itself. That always has been an option, but the gas turbine’s advantages have meant we haven’t gone there before. Now, we might want to rethink that. But, if we use the right filters and keep cleaning things, we can take our ground vehicles in right now. Oh yes, current NBC protection systems for the crews of the Abrams and Bradleys are quite adequate for the conditions. Strykers as well. The logistics vehicles may need an upgrade.”
“Which brings us to aircraft. Bill?”
“Bad news all around I’m afraid Sir. Same problems Jerry and Greg have been talking about. Dust chokes the engines quickly and cakes the airframes. Being sucked through a jet engine causes hellish erosion problems, mostly on the blades but it’s gruesome in the rest of the engine as well. You can take a zero off the number of hours between overhauls at least, probably two. That’s not the worst of it, the dust scours the aircraft itself, abrading the wing and fuselage surfaces. The faster aircraft go, the worse they get. We need new coatings for the aircraft that’ll help cut that down.
“We tried the prop planes as well. Mixed news there, the erosion problem on the airframes isn’t so bad since the aircraft are much slower but the damage to the propellers is wicked. You should see an old P-47 we stuck in a wind tunnel and blasted with a simulated hell atmosphere while we ran its engine. After an hour, the prop was ground to nothing. Aircraft with liquid-cooled engines were a problem, the cooling system got jammed up, so the engines overheated and seized up. Radial engines were bad as well at first, but we’ve managed some workarounds for them. Oil coolers are still a problem though.
“Sum of it all, we’ve got a lot of work to do before we can deploy air power into Hell. Priority problem should be airframe erosion, once we can lick that, the others will follow.”
Schatten looked around. “Good work guys. I’ll transmit the data through to the Army in Iraq.”
Combat Team Alpha. By the Hellmouth, Western Iraq
“Okay, a lot of men told me to go to hell in the past. The Big Cheese is the first one who really meant it.”
“We really going into Hell, Hooters?”
“Sure, are Biker. It’s a thunder run. Hold one.” Stevenson flipped her radio system, so she was addressing all 14 vehicles in her command. “Right, this is what’s happening. We’re going in through the Hellmouth, according to our source, the area inside is called the Martial Plain of Dysprosium. It’s a prairie-like area the baldricks use for parades and so on. We can swing in, cross it, and hit two encampments that are about twenty miles inside. We’ll take them down and shoot up any resistance. Anybody who shoots at us gets greased. Try not to hit non-combatants but if they’re being used as shields or getting in the way, that’s too bad. The word from the top is, that we don’t deliberately target any non-coms, but they’d better learn to keep out of our way. No vehicles to be left behind, there’s an engineer unit out here, if one of us gets immobilized, we send for them, and they tow us out. All clear? Good. The formation, my four tanks lead, line abreast, Bradleys behind, four more M1s at the rear. Right-hand tanks watch right, left-hand watch left, forward-center pair ahead, aft center pair behind. Bradleys, watch the sky, the Harpies are our worst threat. See one, kill it. I’ll command from Alpha-One-One.”
That would upset the two Bradley crews that technically formed the HQ section, but Stevenson felt much more at home in her Abrams.
Stevenson flipped her radio back to the in-vehicle circuit, “Biker, take us through.”
“Coming inside Captain?” The driver didn’t know whether the radio was still set to company-wide, so he was careful.
“Sure. Orders are to seal down. Gonna limit our vision though, everybody watch out, if something blows as we go through, we’ll need to react fast.” Stevenson relaxed, leaning up against the cupola ring as she heard the gas turbine behind her spool up. The back of her tank looked different after the week of waiting outside the Hellmouth. It had what looked like a low tent over it, one made of metal filter foil. It would allow air in, some, but it would also keep dust out and stop harpy-fire basting the engine. The top edge of the Abram’s performance had gone, reduced airflow to the turbine had seen to that, but the big tank was still fast and agile enough. She took a last look around at the blue sky and yellow sun of Earth, then dropped inside her tank and dogged the hatch down. As the Abrams lurched forward, she could feel the air pressure increase slightly as the tank’s NBC system established a positive pressure gradient.
Outside the black wall of the ellipse was approaching as the tank accelerated towards it. There’d been a lot of debate about whether to crash through at high speed or to ease through. Eventually, the decision had been left to her and she’d decided the high-speed approach was best. Get through and in before anybody waiting in ambush could react. Besides, nobody had even a slight understanding of what the inside of the portal was like, and being half-in, half-out could be a very bad place.
It didn’t seem to matter; the wall approached them, but Stevenson wasn’t aware of going through it. One moment she was on Earth, almost instantly and without any other sign, everything had changed to the thick red light of hell. No shock, no jolt, nothing. Just the sudden switch in lighting conditions. Stevenson looked through her optronic system and saw the terrain ahead brightening as the system compensated for the light. A check on the navigation system was more worrying, the compass needle was spinning around uselessly while the GPN navigation system had gone dead. According to the inertial navigation system, she was still on Earth, about a klick from where she had started. She wished that were true.
“All Alpha vehicles. I’m defining the Hellmouth as position zero, its direction is East. Adjust all inertial systems accordingly.” She punched the data in herself and watched the electronic compass settle down. Her tank’s nose was pointing dead ahead, bearing two-seven-oh so to get back to earth she would drive on oh-nine-oh. She looked behind on oh-nine-oh by the compass and to her relief, the Hellmouth was still there.
She had the hand-drawn map in her hands and carefully orientated it with the Hellmouth. Whoever had drawn it had nice handwriting she thought. It showed the plain she could see now and the two installations way over on what would be her arbitrarily defined south. She looked again through the optronic surveillance system, she couldn’t see much ahead, there was a pile of burned-out timber over one side, she guessed that would be the reviewing stand the Predator had blown up in the first days of the war. Or what was left of it. Another glance at the compass showed that the computer had settled it down to correspond with her arbitrary alignment.
“Okay, Biker, take off, head course one-eight-oh. Try and hold 20 mph.” She flipped the radio back to the company network. “All vehicles, one eight oh. Expect a target in 20 miles. Contact time one hour.”
The ground was a lot smoother than she’d expected; compared with the rough jolting she got every time her tank crossed the Iraqi desert, it was a positive luxury. She looked behind her, the Bradleys were following in her wake with the second group of M1s behind them. A cloud of red dust was rising behind the vehicles, a V-shaped cloud from each that merged behind them to give a fair equivalent of a smoke screen. If it had been white and at sea, it would have reminded her of water skiers at a beach resort. Only, it wasn’t white it was red, and this wasn’t a beach resort, it was Hell although compared with the beaches in her home of Bayonne, it would be hard to tell the difference. And they weren’t water skiers, they were the point of a very, very pissed-off human army.
“Boss target up ahead.” Anything here that wasn’t a tank, or a Mick-vee was hostile. This didn’t need that distinction, a line of nine baldricks, tridents on shoulders, marching across the plain. A guard patrol perhaps? Stevenson didn’t know and didn’t care. Her laser gave a quick flash that was instantly translated into range. “All Alpha-One vehicles, targets one-six-three degrees, range 1,200 meters. Engage HEAT.”
The baldricks realized what was about to hit them a split second before the tank guns crashed. They turned, aiming their tridents at the oncoming tanks. Two lightning flashes hit Alpha-one’s turret, causing the computer to blip and reset. No damage and the shells exploded in the baldrick line, throwing parts of them skywards. Those who weren’t dead were still writhing on the ground when the four M1s drove over them. Stevenson could feel the tank shift slightly as Biker used his tracks to grind them into the ground. Then they were gone, just leaving a green stain on the ground.
A TOW-2 missile shot overhead, turned in mid-air, and plowed into a small stone building that had been half-concealed in a dip in the ground. Probably a guardhouse, possibly for the patrol that had just been summarily blasted out of existence. One of the Bradleys hadn’t wanted to be left out of the first engagement of the first human Thunder Run through Hell.
“Target should be up ahead.” Stevenson transmitted the message long after the mangled remains of the patrol and the burning guardhouse had been left behind them.
“Not here, Captain.” Baldy’s voice was regretful.
“It must be. The map shows it due south of the Hellmouth. Unless it isn’t that accurate. Okay, we’ll do it the hard way. Bravo units form here. Keep the radio link open so we can get directional cuts on you. Charlie team, go east, twenty minutes at 20mph then come back. Use Bravo’s links for direction. Alpha, we’ll go west, same time, same speed, do the same.”
The formation split into three, the Bradleys forming a defensive laager while the two platoons of Abrams tanks set off in opposite directions. Stevenson’s luck was still holding, ten minutes after the split, she spotted the encampment that was her primary target. A small group of buildings surrounded by a stone wall. “All Alpha elements, target located. Home in on my radio.” She waited until she got the acknowledgments and then started to edge her tanks forward.
Fublaronishel’s Encampment, Martial Plain of Dysprosium, Hell
It wasn’t a great command but for an ambitious young demon, an independent command like this was good. If he did well, his overlord would see and reward him. If he did not, the command was small enough so that any errors would be easily concealed. Fublaronishel had high hopes of this command, hopes that it would lead to better things and perhaps the award of a mate. Then his eyes narrowed, a cloud of dust? It couldn’t be the patrol he had sent out; they weren’t due back for two days. Then he saw what was approaching and his heart went cold.
“Iron Chariots! Iron Chariots are coming.” It was impossible, the Humans couldn’t have brought their Iron Chariots here. They had been terribly hurt by the nameless one whose disgrace was such that even thinking his previous name was punishable by death. They couldn’t be coming. Fublaronishel knew that they were because he could see them. They still couldn’t be. “Turn out the guard. Every demon to the walls.”
His men were well-trained, they ran out of the barracks and scaled the walls, facing the dreaded Iron Chariots. The humans had stopped, many spear throws from the walls, perhaps they were afraid to attack a fortification. Then the desert erupted into smoke and dust as the fire lances screamed out from the long tube that topped the Chariots. The walls shook with the impact, the stones shattering, and fragments were thrown across the encampment ground. It dawned on the stunned Fublaronishel that they had struck his wall before he had heard their launch. He staggered, looking at the walls, still standing although shaken to their core. Too many of his men were down, he was understrength to start with, he had only six of his nine nine-demon sections and one of those was out on patrol, and a second was at an outpost less than a couple of miles away. That had left him with 36 and already a quarter of them was on the ground, dead or wounded it was hard to say. Then, another scream and the explosions struck his wall, tumbling it down into a pile of pulverized rubble. That was when he heard another sound, a whistling roar, something he had never heard before.
It was one of the great Iron Chariots, it reached the ruined wall and started to cross it, something no chariot Fublaronishel had ever seen could do. The roar increased, and the Chariot pulled up over the rubble, its front pointing at the sky, then its nose suddenly crashed down, and the chariot accelerated down the other side of the rubble pile. The strange box and tube seemed to rotate, the tube swinging around to point at him, but he didn’t see the great blast as it launched a fire-lance. Instead, there was a dancing point of light and Fublaronishel felt the impacts knock him off his feet. He was weak, unable to rise, and helpless when the chariot crushed the life out of him with its treads.
Combat Team Alpha. Fublaronishel’s Encampment, Martial Plain of Dysprosium, Hell
“And the walls came tumbling down.” Stevenson’s voice was smugly self-satisfied. “Baldricks, meet depleted uranium.” Her platoon’s first salvo had been sabot, bolts of depleted uranium alloy that had smashed into the wall, the shock waves from the impacts leaving the stones riddled with stress fractures. The second salvo had been HEAT rounds, their explosions blasting the riven wall down, leaving it a gentle pile of rubble, the wall’s defenders mixed in with it. “Biker take us through.”
She flipped her radio back to the company net again. “All Alpha-Alpha vehicles, over the wall, destroy the encampment. One and three take the buildings on the left, two and four on the right. One HEAT round into each.”
“Wait for us, we’re three minutes out.” She recognized the voice, the commander of Alpha-Bravo, pleading to be allowed to join the assault.
“Can’t let them regroup. It’s pedal to the metal time boys.” Her tank was accelerating towards the ruins of the wall and the baldricks staggering round behind it, she lost sight of them as the bow rose, the gas turbine screaming out power as it pushed the tank over the rubble. Then the bows dropped again, and she saw the pitiful little encampment in front of her. A baldrick was trying to aim his trident at her tank but Baldy cut him down with the co-axial machine gun before he had the chance. Several more baldricks were over on the right, she ignored them, they were Alpha-Alpha-Two’s responsibility. A charge well and truly kept for even as her first HEAT round flattened the nearest left-hand hut, a canister round from Two turned the baldricks in the group into chopped fragments.
The encampment was burning, the building set a fire from the copper plasma jets formed by the HEAT rounds. Some of the baldricks had been taking cover inside, their screams as they burned could be heard even inside the tanks as they waddled down the single street between the buildings, their guns crashing as they demolished what was left of the encampment. They were wreathed in the smoke, only vaguely semi-visible, the screaming roar of their engines the only thing that the baldricks could hear before they emerged from the cloud that hid the monsters. It was the roar of the engines that broke the baldricks more than the gunfire or the screams of the victims as the tanks cut them down or ground them into slush with their tracks. The baldricks that were left ran from the burning encampment into the open ground where they hoped to make their escape. These baldricks knew nothing of how tanks fought infantry.
Behind her, Stevenson could hear the crackle of 25mm gunfire as the Bradleys caught up with her platoon and added their own quantum of destruction to the holocaust that was engulfing the outpost. Her tank had reached the end of the street and it crashed through the wooden gate that gave access to the highway in front of her. A dozen, perhaps a dozen and a half baldricks were running away, trying to escape across the open ground. It was pitiful, Stevenson felt slightly sorry for them as her four tanks formed into their line and the canister shells scythed them down. Baldricks could run faster than humans, a lot faster, but that didn’t save them. The ones who survived the canister were cut down by the machine guns and then crushed under the tracks. If any had survived, they would have learned an important lesson that day. Mechanized warfare is a bitch.
Over to her left, another black pyre of smoke was staining the red sky. “Charlie is that you?”
“Sure, is Captain. We cut the corner and hit the secondary. Its ashes, there were eighteen, perhaps twenty Baldricks here, all dead. No casualties.”
“Bravo, any casualties back there?”
“Not a one Cap. We’re fine and we got some of the baldricks you missed on the way through.”
“Okay, guys, form on me. We’re heading home.”
An hour later, Stevenson was staring at her map again. “It’s got to be here. We came back on an exact reciprocal of the way we came in. It’s got to be here.”
“Could they have closed it Hooters?” Crab’s voice was worried.
“I’ll tell you something else, we didn’t see that guard house we flattened on the way in. We weren’t that long; we should have seen the wreckage at least.”
Stevenson pressed her lips together. “Right.” Radio to company command channel. “All right guys, same drill as before. We go two ways; Bravo stays here and keeps in contact. We’ll find that Hellmouth.”
This time it was Charlie that lucked out, at the end of their cast. They spotted the burned-out display stand and that gave Alpha Team the reference it needed. Twenty minutes later her command reassembled and drove triumphantly out through the Hellgate
As they crossed the ridge, Colonel Macfarland was waiting for them, impatience conflicting with congratulation on his face.
“Sir, both targets wiped out, no casualties, more than 100 baldricks dead. And Sir, something’s really screwy with directions in there.”
Section Twelve, DIMO(N), Fort Bragg, North Carolina
“Let’s start with weapons. Jerry?”
“In Helljar-One, that’s the one simulating the normal Hell-place environment, it’s the older stuff that does best. Shouldn’t surprise us really, tolerances are greater, so they can take the sand and grit better. The pumice in the air is the real problem. It mixes with moisture and oil to form a cement that blocks the weapons up. Regular cleaning is essential and using Militec rather than lube oil is a good start. The good news is that grenades and fused weapons like rockets and shells work just fine. The bad news is that the M16 and M4 have very serious problems. The gas tube and bolt carriers jam up so fast it isn’t funny. We got the first of the new rifles, the M114 and M115, they both work better. All weapons must be carefully cleaned and often.
“Helljar-Two, ironically, is a lot easier on weapons that One. The mud and filth are bad of course but it’s something the troops know how to deal with. We’ve had the reports back from Tango-Bravo, and the first A-Team we sent in to help them out, and we’ve correlated them with the results from Helljar-Two. The very high degree of congruence I’m glad to say gives us a degree of confidence in our results. Based on our studies, we’ve pulled the M4A5s from Tango-Bravo and given them pre-production M114s instead. They’re happier now. The Special Forces group in with Tango-Bravo now also has M114s.”
“Excuse the interruption Jerry, but while we’re on the subject of the Special Forces people we’re sending in, any word on the medical side of this.” General Schatten looked at the woman who was supervising the medical side of the studies.
Doctor Sangina thumbed through her notes. “The first group under Lieutenant Madeuce have suffered quite badly. They have pumice deposits in their lungs and those will have a severe impact on their future health unless we can find a way of treating them. This isn’t a new problem; it’s been known in the mining industry for centuries. It’s usually called silicosis although the specific form here is known as Pneumonoultramicroscopicsilicovolcanoconiosis. There are treatments under evaluation for the condition, including whole-lung lavage but, unless we get a breakthrough, I’m afraid the first group of patients are going to must accept some severe health consequences 15 – 20 years down the line. The second group we sent in, and all after that, have breathing masks that filter out the dust. That should solve the problem.”
“People in the Hell-Place heal a lot faster than they do here, any word on that?”
“It is true, that’s why the victims in Hell survive the way they do. It’s not a function of place though, it’s a function of being a creature of that place. Souls who have transitioned to hell via death or creatures that are native to hell have much-enhanced healing power and wound resistance compared to us. They retain those advantages when they come to our dimension. The catch is that humans from hell can’t survive here for long, they leak, oh, I don’t know how to describe it, life energy I suppose. Baldricks can, we think because they use their bio-electrical generating capability to replace the leaking energy, to trickle-charge themselves so to speak. Reborn Humans don’t have that capability, so they die in our dimension. Now, if we go to the Hell dimension, we don’t get a boost in healing or damage resistance, we’re just the same there as we are here.”
“Thank you. Sorry, Jerry, I was very concerned about the people we’re sending in. Can you continue please?”
“No problem. Helljar-Three is the one with the burning desert. That’s the one we know least about; we’ve only got limited intelligence there. In some ways it’s much more hostile than Helljar Two, when the reports said burning desert and flaming rain, they weren’t joking. In other ways, it’s more benign. The air is much drier, and the dust content is a lot, a lot lower. As far as we can make out, our equipment functions much better there, it’s just that we don’t.
“Thank you, Jerry. Greg, vehicles?”
“Main problem is dust and the pumice cement. We have heavy-duty air filters that can cope with it and we’re designing better ones. Like the weapons side of things, the secret is to clean and keep cleaning. A couple of things, diesels are less susceptible to choking on the dust than gas turbines. We might want to think about a diesel-powered M1 for operations in Hell itself. That always has been an option, but the gas turbine’s advantages have meant we haven’t gone there before. Now, we might want to rethink that. But, if we use the right filters and keep cleaning things, we can take our ground vehicles in right now. Oh yes, current NBC protection systems for the crews of the Abrams and Bradleys are quite adequate for the conditions. Strykers as well. The logistics vehicles may need an upgrade.”
“Which brings us to aircraft. Bill?”
“Bad news all around I’m afraid Sir. Same problems Jerry and Greg have been talking about. Dust chokes the engines quickly and cakes the airframes. Being sucked through a jet engine causes hellish erosion problems, mostly on the blades but it’s gruesome in the rest of the engine as well. You can take a zero off the number of hours between overhauls at least, probably two. That’s not the worst of it, the dust scours the aircraft itself, abrading the wing and fuselage surfaces. The faster aircraft go, the worse they get. We need new coatings for the aircraft that’ll help cut that down.
“We tried the prop planes as well. Mixed news there, the erosion problem on the airframes isn’t so bad since the aircraft are much slower but the damage to the propellers is wicked. You should see an old P-47 we stuck in a wind tunnel and blasted with a simulated hell atmosphere while we ran its engine. After an hour, the prop was ground to nothing. Aircraft with liquid-cooled engines were a problem, the cooling system got jammed up, so the engines overheated and seized up. Radial engines were bad as well at first, but we’ve managed some workarounds for them. Oil coolers are still a problem though.
“Sum of it all, we’ve got a lot of work to do before we can deploy air power into Hell. Priority problem should be airframe erosion, once we can lick that, the others will follow.”
Schatten looked around. “Good work guys. I’ll transmit the data through to the Army in Iraq.”
Combat Team Alpha. By the Hellmouth, Western Iraq
“Okay, a lot of men told me to go to hell in the past. The Big Cheese is the first one who really meant it.”
“We really going into Hell, Hooters?”
“Sure, are Biker. It’s a thunder run. Hold one.” Stevenson flipped her radio system, so she was addressing all 14 vehicles in her command. “Right, this is what’s happening. We’re going in through the Hellmouth, according to our source, the area inside is called the Martial Plain of Dysprosium. It’s a prairie-like area the baldricks use for parades and so on. We can swing in, cross it, and hit two encampments that are about twenty miles inside. We’ll take them down and shoot up any resistance. Anybody who shoots at us gets greased. Try not to hit non-combatants but if they’re being used as shields or getting in the way, that’s too bad. The word from the top is, that we don’t deliberately target any non-coms, but they’d better learn to keep out of our way. No vehicles to be left behind, there’s an engineer unit out here, if one of us gets immobilized, we send for them, and they tow us out. All clear? Good. The formation, my four tanks lead, line abreast, Bradleys behind, four more M1s at the rear. Right-hand tanks watch right, left-hand watch left, forward-center pair ahead, aft center pair behind. Bradleys, watch the sky, the Harpies are our worst threat. See one, kill it. I’ll command from Alpha-One-One.”
That would upset the two Bradley crews that technically formed the HQ section, but Stevenson felt much more at home in her Abrams.
Stevenson flipped her radio back to the in-vehicle circuit, “Biker, take us through.”
“Coming inside Captain?” The driver didn’t know whether the radio was still set to company-wide, so he was careful.
“Sure. Orders are to seal down. Gonna limit our vision though, everybody watch out, if something blows as we go through, we’ll need to react fast.” Stevenson relaxed, leaning up against the cupola ring as she heard the gas turbine behind her spool up. The back of her tank looked different after the week of waiting outside the Hellmouth. It had what looked like a low tent over it, one made of metal filter foil. It would allow air in, some, but it would also keep dust out and stop harpy-fire basting the engine. The top edge of the Abram’s performance had gone, reduced airflow to the turbine had seen to that, but the big tank was still fast and agile enough. She took a last look around at the blue sky and yellow sun of Earth, then dropped inside her tank and dogged the hatch down. As the Abrams lurched forward, she could feel the air pressure increase slightly as the tank’s NBC system established a positive pressure gradient.
Outside the black wall of the ellipse was approaching as the tank accelerated towards it. There’d been a lot of debate about whether to crash through at high speed or to ease through. Eventually, the decision had been left to her and she’d decided the high-speed approach was best. Get through and in before anybody waiting in ambush could react. Besides, nobody had even a slight understanding of what the inside of the portal was like, and being half-in, half-out could be a very bad place.
It didn’t seem to matter; the wall approached them, but Stevenson wasn’t aware of going through it. One moment she was on Earth, almost instantly and without any other sign, everything had changed to the thick red light of hell. No shock, no jolt, nothing. Just the sudden switch in lighting conditions. Stevenson looked through her optronic system and saw the terrain ahead brightening as the system compensated for the light. A check on the navigation system was more worrying, the compass needle was spinning around uselessly while the GPN navigation system had gone dead. According to the inertial navigation system, she was still on Earth, about a klick from where she had started. She wished that were true.
“All Alpha vehicles. I’m defining the Hellmouth as position zero, its direction is East. Adjust all inertial systems accordingly.” She punched the data in herself and watched the electronic compass settle down. Her tank’s nose was pointing dead ahead, bearing two-seven-oh so to get back to earth she would drive on oh-nine-oh. She looked behind on oh-nine-oh by the compass and to her relief, the Hellmouth was still there.
She had the hand-drawn map in her hands and carefully orientated it with the Hellmouth. Whoever had drawn it had nice handwriting she thought. It showed the plain she could see now and the two installations way over on what would be her arbitrarily defined south. She looked again through the optronic surveillance system, she couldn’t see much ahead, there was a pile of burned-out timber over one side, she guessed that would be the reviewing stand the Predator had blown up in the first days of the war. Or what was left of it. Another glance at the compass showed that the computer had settled it down to correspond with her arbitrary alignment.
“Okay, Biker, take off, head course one-eight-oh. Try and hold 20 mph.” She flipped the radio back to the company network. “All vehicles, one eight oh. Expect a target in 20 miles. Contact time one hour.”
The ground was a lot smoother than she’d expected; compared with the rough jolting she got every time her tank crossed the Iraqi desert, it was a positive luxury. She looked behind her, the Bradleys were following in her wake with the second group of M1s behind them. A cloud of red dust was rising behind the vehicles, a V-shaped cloud from each that merged behind them to give a fair equivalent of a smoke screen. If it had been white and at sea, it would have reminded her of water skiers at a beach resort. Only, it wasn’t white it was red, and this wasn’t a beach resort, it was Hell although compared with the beaches in her home of Bayonne, it would be hard to tell the difference. And they weren’t water skiers, they were the point of a very, very pissed-off human army.
“Boss target up ahead.” Anything here that wasn’t a tank, or a Mick-vee was hostile. This didn’t need that distinction, a line of nine baldricks, tridents on shoulders, marching across the plain. A guard patrol perhaps? Stevenson didn’t know and didn’t care. Her laser gave a quick flash that was instantly translated into range. “All Alpha-One vehicles, targets one-six-three degrees, range 1,200 meters. Engage HEAT.”
The baldricks realized what was about to hit them a split second before the tank guns crashed. They turned, aiming their tridents at the oncoming tanks. Two lightning flashes hit Alpha-one’s turret, causing the computer to blip and reset. No damage and the shells exploded in the baldrick line, throwing parts of them skywards. Those who weren’t dead were still writhing on the ground when the four M1s drove over them. Stevenson could feel the tank shift slightly as Biker used his tracks to grind them into the ground. Then they were gone, just leaving a green stain on the ground.
A TOW-2 missile shot overhead, turned in mid-air, and plowed into a small stone building that had been half-concealed in a dip in the ground. Probably a guardhouse, possibly for the patrol that had just been summarily blasted out of existence. One of the Bradleys hadn’t wanted to be left out of the first engagement of the first human Thunder Run through Hell.
“Target should be up ahead.” Stevenson transmitted the message long after the mangled remains of the patrol and the burning guardhouse had been left behind them.
“Not here, Captain.” Baldy’s voice was regretful.
“It must be. The map shows it due south of the Hellmouth. Unless it isn’t that accurate. Okay, we’ll do it the hard way. Bravo units form here. Keep the radio link open so we can get directional cuts on you. Charlie team, go east, twenty minutes at 20mph then come back. Use Bravo’s links for direction. Alpha, we’ll go west, same time, same speed, do the same.”
The formation split into three, the Bradleys forming a defensive laager while the two platoons of Abrams tanks set off in opposite directions. Stevenson’s luck was still holding, ten minutes after the split, she spotted the encampment that was her primary target. A small group of buildings surrounded by a stone wall. “All Alpha elements, target located. Home in on my radio.” She waited until she got the acknowledgments and then started to edge her tanks forward.
Fublaronishel’s Encampment, Martial Plain of Dysprosium, Hell
It wasn’t a great command but for an ambitious young demon, an independent command like this was good. If he did well, his overlord would see and reward him. If he did not, the command was small enough so that any errors would be easily concealed. Fublaronishel had high hopes of this command, hopes that it would lead to better things and perhaps the award of a mate. Then his eyes narrowed, a cloud of dust? It couldn’t be the patrol he had sent out; they weren’t due back for two days. Then he saw what was approaching and his heart went cold.
“Iron Chariots! Iron Chariots are coming.” It was impossible, the Humans couldn’t have brought their Iron Chariots here. They had been terribly hurt by the nameless one whose disgrace was such that even thinking his previous name was punishable by death. They couldn’t be coming. Fublaronishel knew that they were because he could see them. They still couldn’t be. “Turn out the guard. Every demon to the walls.”
His men were well-trained, they ran out of the barracks and scaled the walls, facing the dreaded Iron Chariots. The humans had stopped, many spear throws from the walls, perhaps they were afraid to attack a fortification. Then the desert erupted into smoke and dust as the fire lances screamed out from the long tube that topped the Chariots. The walls shook with the impact, the stones shattering, and fragments were thrown across the encampment ground. It dawned on the stunned Fublaronishel that they had struck his wall before he had heard their launch. He staggered, looking at the walls, still standing although shaken to their core. Too many of his men were down, he was understrength to start with, he had only six of his nine nine-demon sections and one of those was out on patrol, and a second was at an outpost less than a couple of miles away. That had left him with 36 and already a quarter of them was on the ground, dead or wounded it was hard to say. Then, another scream and the explosions struck his wall, tumbling it down into a pile of pulverized rubble. That was when he heard another sound, a whistling roar, something he had never heard before.
It was one of the great Iron Chariots, it reached the ruined wall and started to cross it, something no chariot Fublaronishel had ever seen could do. The roar increased, and the Chariot pulled up over the rubble, its front pointing at the sky, then its nose suddenly crashed down, and the chariot accelerated down the other side of the rubble pile. The strange box and tube seemed to rotate, the tube swinging around to point at him, but he didn’t see the great blast as it launched a fire-lance. Instead, there was a dancing point of light and Fublaronishel felt the impacts knock him off his feet. He was weak, unable to rise, and helpless when the chariot crushed the life out of him with its treads.
Combat Team Alpha. Fublaronishel’s Encampment, Martial Plain of Dysprosium, Hell
“And the walls came tumbling down.” Stevenson’s voice was smugly self-satisfied. “Baldricks, meet depleted uranium.” Her platoon’s first salvo had been sabot, bolts of depleted uranium alloy that had smashed into the wall, the shock waves from the impacts leaving the stones riddled with stress fractures. The second salvo had been HEAT rounds, their explosions blasting the riven wall down, leaving it a gentle pile of rubble, the wall’s defenders mixed in with it. “Biker take us through.”
She flipped her radio back to the company net again. “All Alpha-Alpha vehicles, over the wall, destroy the encampment. One and three take the buildings on the left, two and four on the right. One HEAT round into each.”
“Wait for us, we’re three minutes out.” She recognized the voice, the commander of Alpha-Bravo, pleading to be allowed to join the assault.
“Can’t let them regroup. It’s pedal to the metal time boys.” Her tank was accelerating towards the ruins of the wall and the baldricks staggering round behind it, she lost sight of them as the bow rose, the gas turbine screaming out power as it pushed the tank over the rubble. Then the bows dropped again, and she saw the pitiful little encampment in front of her. A baldrick was trying to aim his trident at her tank but Baldy cut him down with the co-axial machine gun before he had the chance. Several more baldricks were over on the right, she ignored them, they were Alpha-Alpha-Two’s responsibility. A charge well and truly kept for even as her first HEAT round flattened the nearest left-hand hut, a canister round from Two turned the baldricks in the group into chopped fragments.
The encampment was burning, the building set a fire from the copper plasma jets formed by the HEAT rounds. Some of the baldricks had been taking cover inside, their screams as they burned could be heard even inside the tanks as they waddled down the single street between the buildings, their guns crashing as they demolished what was left of the encampment. They were wreathed in the smoke, only vaguely semi-visible, the screaming roar of their engines the only thing that the baldricks could hear before they emerged from the cloud that hid the monsters. It was the roar of the engines that broke the baldricks more than the gunfire or the screams of the victims as the tanks cut them down or ground them into slush with their tracks. The baldricks that were left ran from the burning encampment into the open ground where they hoped to make their escape. These baldricks knew nothing of how tanks fought infantry.
Behind her, Stevenson could hear the crackle of 25mm gunfire as the Bradleys caught up with her platoon and added their own quantum of destruction to the holocaust that was engulfing the outpost. Her tank had reached the end of the street and it crashed through the wooden gate that gave access to the highway in front of her. A dozen, perhaps a dozen and a half baldricks were running away, trying to escape across the open ground. It was pitiful, Stevenson felt slightly sorry for them as her four tanks formed into their line and the canister shells scythed them down. Baldricks could run faster than humans, a lot faster, but that didn’t save them. The ones who survived the canister were cut down by the machine guns and then crushed under the tracks. If any had survived, they would have learned an important lesson that day. Mechanized warfare is a bitch.
Over to her left, another black pyre of smoke was staining the red sky. “Charlie is that you?”
“Sure, is Captain. We cut the corner and hit the secondary. Its ashes, there were eighteen, perhaps twenty Baldricks here, all dead. No casualties.”
“Bravo, any casualties back there?”
“Not a one Cap. We’re fine and we got some of the baldricks you missed on the way through.”
“Okay, guys, form on me. We’re heading home.”
An hour later, Stevenson was staring at her map again. “It’s got to be here. We came back on an exact reciprocal of the way we came in. It’s got to be here.”
“Could they have closed it Hooters?” Crab’s voice was worried.
“I’ll tell you something else, we didn’t see that guard house we flattened on the way in. We weren’t that long; we should have seen the wreckage at least.”
Stevenson pressed her lips together. “Right.” Radio to company command channel. “All right guys, same drill as before. We go two ways; Bravo stays here and keeps in contact. We’ll find that Hellmouth.”
This time it was Charlie that lucked out, at the end of their cast. They spotted the burned-out display stand and that gave Alpha Team the reference it needed. Twenty minutes later her command reassembled and drove triumphantly out through the Hellgate
As they crossed the ridge, Colonel Macfarland was waiting for them, impatience conflicting with congratulation on his face.
“Sir, both targets wiped out, no casualties, more than 100 baldricks dead. And Sir, something’s really screwy with directions in there.”
Re: 2008 - Armageddon
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Tartarus, outer borders of Hell
Count Belial had long since stopped watching the bleak landscape roll past below. He had been flying for two days straight and even his inhuman endurance could not prevent the ride from becoming extremely uncomfortable. The wyverns flew faster than any demon, while his own prized flock flew faster than anything the demons had ever encountered, thanks to Euryale's breeding program. Unfortunately, it was also fast enough to transform the normally soft and welcoming clouds of ash into a blast that stung Belial's eyes and scoured his skin. The remoteness of his domain made the wyverns a necessity if he was to maintain any real presence at Satan's court, but Belial had also found them useful as a mercenary force. After millennia of facing virtually helpless lower-plane species, few demon lords bothered to maintain the kind of aerial combat forces seen in the Great Celestial War. They mostly depended on the harpies who, one on one, were no match for a Wyvern and its rider. The timely arrival of a few of his superior wyverns at a flier skirmish usually won him considerable favor with the victorious duke.
Whatever the merits of wyverns, right now Belial wanted nothing more than for this flight to end. From the moment he had left Satan's throne room, his mind had been churning on the details of the plan. The attack had to be spectacular, of that there was no doubt, but this time spectacle was not enough. Destroying a couple of human settlements would get him temporary adulation, but when the main attack began the glory-hungry dukes would soon see fit to consign his actions to historical trivia. They would say that his attacks merely kept the court entertained while the real forces were mustered. To gain real status he had to play a major and unquestionable role in the demon victory. His first thought was to burn the human capitals, but it was no use - the humans seemed to be divided into thousands of city-states that had temporarily united into a planet-wide crusade against the demons. Destroying a mere pair of them would undoubtedly terrorize the local population but likely have little effect on the forces the humans could field. In fact, if their political leadership was anything like Satan, destroying it may give an advantage to the human armies. Belial laughed grimly at the joke he would never dare make to anybody.
Half a day into the flight, a revelation came to him, and with it the solution to his dilemma. Belial had been trying to comprehend why the humans fought so well now when they had never done so before. The reports of the few battered survivors had stressed the killing power of the human magic, but when pressed they had admitted that had never seen human mages conjuring the magic unassisted. What they had seen was an endless array of strange metal items; boxes that spat killing flame, spears that threw metal pebbles, sky chariots that fired the deadly fire arrows, and of course the iron chariots of legend. The humans had never shown any magical ability when the demons had visited before.
To Belial, it was obvious. The foundation of his painstakingly rebuilt power base was the superior weapons his forges produced. The difference between a typical bronze trident and a Tartaruan one was relatively slight. The painstakingly crafted copper laminations increased its power by around one and a half-fold, almost two-fold in the jeweled silver versions he made for the nobility. The secret tempering process produced prongs that bit deeper and snapped off with noticeably lower frequency than a common cast trident. The difference was not overwhelming, but it significantly tilted the odds in the small skirmishes that had been typical of Celestial warfare since the end of the Great War.
Even still the difference between an armed demon and an unarmed demon was not great. The tridents permitted the lesser demons to fling lightning, but it took many blasts to fell one demon and against celestials served only to thin out a charge before contact. The real fighting was done in close quarters. While tridents and swords had useful reach they often broke and did no more damage than tooth and claw. Belial saw that because the humans were so weak, they had been forced to invest tremendous effort into creating powerful weapons, weapons that could multiply their strength until it was sufficient to challenge a demon. In a flash, Belial saw the humans' scheme. When they had first seen the demons five millennia ago, they must have realized that weapons of unprecedented enchantment were the only thing that could offer them hope of resisting the armies of hell. They had probably been refining their lore and stockpiling them in secret all this time, revealing their new magics only when threatened with outright extinction. Belial had not thought the short-lived humans capable of such patience and planning. Regardless, now that he understood where their strength came from, he could destroy it.
Belial felt the wyvern's weight shift beneath him, and the pounding of its wing beats slowed slightly. Immediately he connected with its mind, ready to punish the creature for its laziness. Instead, he was relieved to find that the beast had sighted its roost and had begun a slow descent towards the palace. Belial raised his head into the slipstream, opening his eyes and blinking back the grains of pumice that battered against his face. The dusty red foothills of the Tartaruan range were dimly visible beneath them, dotted with flickering fires and columns of smoke rising from the forges. His capital sat in a deep depression between the upper foothills, now almost perpetually shrouded by smog. The palace itself had originally been a prison, carved laboriously from adamantine to house the most dangerous angelic prisoners of war. Many millennia ago, Satan had found it most amusing to exile him to an abandoned ruin in a worthless backwater, but Belial had gradually transformed it into a great arsenal and an almost impregnable fortress.
The wyvern dropped into a glide, shedding speed fast as it circled over the dwellings of Belial's subjects. The great guardian-beast at the main gates spotted its master returning and loosed an ear-splitting discordant screech from its thirteen throats. The scurrying figures below had long since stopped being startled by the noise, but they did pause and look up, before falling to their knees in deference to their master. His steed began its final swoop down onto the basalt flagstones of the outer courtyard. Belial saw that Euryale was already waiting for him on the terrace, accompanied by assorted servants. As he drew up, she stared disapprovingly at his mount, clearly angry that he had pushed one of her prized specimens so hard.
"My Lord." Euryale's snake-like 'hair' writhed and glared at him, but her tone was flatly deferential.
She gestured to a pair of servants. "You two, take this beast to the roosts immediately. Feed him chopped flesh, not live and not too quick. Don't let him bloat himself. If he sickens, I will hold you responsible."
The self-proclaimed gorgon queen turned back to Belial, who had begun striding up the steps towards the palace. She hurried to keep up. "So, what news from Mekratrig's court? What great deeds have you accomplished while I mind your palace for you." Her tone carried bitterness rather than resentment; gorgons in general and Euryale were not welcome in Dis. She too had been an outcast and she had even further to go before returning to favor.
"Not here." Belial paused to address the servants. "I want every baron, every captain, and every senior overseer in my throne room in four hours’ time. Send the fastest fliers. Stop groveling and move!" The lesser demons took off, some literally while the flightless ran for the barracks, leaving count and consort to enter the palace and make their way to Belial's study.
No sooner had the bronze doors clanged shut than Euryale spat "So let me guess, Satan exiled you again and now we must prepare to be invaded by half the neighboring dukes."
"Silence wench!". Belial had seemed distracted, but now he fixed her with a gaze so terrible she immediately regretted her taunt. For a moment she thought he was going to strike her, but when he spoke again it was not with a roar but with pride tinged with glee. "Abigor has been proven a fool and a traitor. He allowed most of his forces to be slaughtered by the humans and then joined their side." The news had stunned every demon to hear of it and Euryale was no exception.
"Our lord Satan has chosen me to strike the next blow against the humans. My plan will deliver a decisive blow and stand in sharp contrast to Abigor's failure. They must have places like Tartarus, hidden places where they produce and stockpile their enchanted weapons. We will find these places and we will destroy them the way we destroyed the last two human cities. With most of their weapons gone and no way to make more, the human armies will falter and be swept away."
Belial's plan seemed mad to Euryale at first, but within seconds she began to see the logic. It was not the way wars had been fought; destroying crops and food stores were standard practice but disarming the enemy had never been considered a viable or useful tactic. Yet the human magics were unprecedented and the humans were so very reliant on them. The more she thought about it, the more it made sense.
Headquarters, Randi Institute of Pneumatology, The Pentagon, Arlington, VA
“May I speak with you, Excellency?”
James Randi looked up at the figure that had just entered his office. He felt the start of a surge of affection and crushed it down ruthlessly. Damn, these succubi are dangerous ran through his mind. Even aware of their ability to induce empathy with anybody within smelling distance, the pheromones worked. “I’m not an Excellency or even a Sire. And calling me that doesn’t get you any favorable consideration, quite the reverse in fact. But if you want to call me James, or The Amazing Randi, then we can talk.”
Lugasharmanaska noted the abruptness and guessed it was the man over-compensating for the effects of her miasma. It was a pity the humans had found out about that. “James, I know we can talk to demons in hell now. Using your machines.”
“We can. One on one. Julie’s making Domiklespharatu a whimpering nervous wreck. It doesn’t get us very far but it’s giving her a bit of revenge for the torment he put her through. So?”
“My Liege-Lady is Deumos, the Princess of all the Incubi and Succubi in Hell. There are thousands of us you know. I would like to speak to her using your machines.”
The reply was so blunt it had to be honest. No wheedling or trickery, just a blunt request. Randi was amazed and suspicious. “And just why should we do that.”
“My mission was to seduce one or more leading politicians, bend them to my will, and then learn from them as much about you humans as I could. I failed; the politicians who were leading in Bangkok resisted me. That failure could earn me my death. But I need to report to Deumos my findings.”
“Why, if you’ll be killed.” Randi thought for a moment. “Could she kill you here, by remote control so to speak?”
“No, but that does not matter now.” Lugasharmanaska gave what was her equivalent of a smile. “Anyway, I have not failed anymore, have I? I am here with you now and this building is indeed a palace of power. I did not get here the way intended but I am here. And I ought to report my findings to Deumos.”
“And what findings might those be?” Randi was interested in how this conversation was going. He had the impression Lugasharmanaska was being honest for the first time since she had arrived here.
“I will tell her that you humans are going to win this war. That short of some incredible stupidity on your part, and you are not a stupid people, you can hardly help but win. Already she must know about the raid yesterday, it will do no harm to tell her it will be the first of many, each more destructive than the last. I will persuade her that her only chance of survival will be to join the human side, to stand with humans against Satan. She may stand with him and die for certainty or stand with humans and have a chance of survival. And she will believe me for I will be telling her the truth.”
“That never got anybody believed. I was telling people the truth about cheap tricksters like that Israeli idiot and malicious frauds who pretended to be mediums for decades and nobody believed me. Lugasharmanaska, let me take this to the powers that be. We’ll see what they say.”
It hadn’t taken much persuading. The chance of turning a demon lord was too good to pass up. Anyway, measuring the signals generated as Lugasharmanaska talked to Deumos would provide a whole world of valuable data. So, four hours later, the succubus was relaxing on a couch while the technicians worked on the wiring connecting her to the signals amplification system. A group of four Marines was in the room as well, their orders simple, if the Succubus tried anything, kill her. However, there was something else as well. Randi had given their leader a letter Lugasharmanaska had written, one that had made his eyebrows rise.
“OK, Luga. Off you go, try and get through.”
Lugasharmanaska screwed up her eyes and concentrated her very hardest. As the signal started to be generated, the electrical sensors around her head picked it up and started boosting it, driving it against the indefinable, unknown barrier that separated the dimensions. She grimaced slightly, she guessed the humans weren’t trying to hurt her, but the boosted signal was having the same effect on her mind as over-loud music had on human ears. Then, there was a snapping sensation. She was thorough.
“Your Royal Highness. It is Lugasharmanaska. I have much to report.”
“You have been gone for a long time kidling. We thought you were dead.”
“I was recognized and captured. I failed in my mission.”
“Then it would have been better for you if you had been dead.” The mock-affection had gone from Deumos’s mind voice.
“Highness. I failed in my mission, but I have also succeeded. I am in the human’s power palace now, speaking to you from there. I have become part of that power structure, a lowly part but still high enough to learn things you must know. Please, I beg of you, hear me.”
“Speak then kidling. Perhaps your words may earn forgiveness.”
“Highness. I have learned this, and it is true. The humans will not lose this war. They will win, and Satan’s empire will come crashing down upon him. They have killing arts beyond our imagination and the ability to use them. They have not shown us a tenth of a tenth of a tenth of what they can do. Did you hear of the attack yesterday when the humans sent their tanks and mickvees into Hell itself? When they destroyed whatever, they could find, killed all and destroyed all.”
“I had heard this. None here could understand it. They did not kill quite all; some wounded were pulled from the ruins. Why did they not hold what they took for ransom?”
“Highness. Humans called this a Thunder Run. It is to demonstrate they can go where they wish when they wish, and you can do nothing to stop them. They do not wish for plunder, just to kill. We have nothing that they want except for our utter destruction. They see us as their, I think the phrase is, mortal enemies. The raid yesterday was the first of many, each more destructive and devastating than the last. Nothing Hell has can stand against them, Heaven itself cannot stand against them. You have two choices Highness. You may stand with Satan and be destroyed with him for certainty, or you may stand with us and have a chance of survival.” Lugasharmanaska’s mind voice was desperate, she had to convince Deumos of the catastrophe that faced her.
“Us, kidling?”
Lugasharmanaska took a brief gasp of air and then concentrated again. “Yes, Highness. Us. I have joined the humans and cast my lot with them. I may not survive to see their victory, but it is better to have a chance of living to see the victory than the certainty of seeing defeat. Highness, by every standard of loyalty I owe you, I beg you to do the same.”
“And why should I believe you?” Deumos’s mind voice was cold.
“For this reason.” Lugasharmanaska waved her hand and the technician started upping the power in the transmission. The pain in her head was dreadful, it seemed to fill her whole body. She had thought Kitten had been weak and foolish when she had writhed in pain during this transmission but now, for the first time, she understood what the young Goth girl had suffered every time she made a bridge.
Sleeping Chamber, Palace of Deumos, Hell.
For a moment, Deumos did not recognize the black ellipse that was forming in her bedchamber. By the time she did, four humans had stepped through it. Their leader, his features strangely obscured by a mask that covered his nose and mouth looked at the great figure that was sprawled on the couch and lifted a tube to his shoulder.
“Whoosh, blam, thank you, Ma’am. You’re dead.”
Then they stepped back through the ellipse letting it collapse behind them. The whole attack had taken less than five seconds and Deumos had never had a chance to react.
“Highness, they could have killed you if they had wanted to. They can kill you any time they want to. They can kill anybody any time they want to.” Lugasharmanaska’s mind voice was very weak and shaky. “To join them is your only chance.”
“Very well kidling. I will think about this. You have done well to tell me of these things.” Deumos leaned back on her couch, her mind just beginning to absorb how easily she could have been killed. And Satan was lying, hiding just how powerful humans were. She had a lot to think about.
Headquarters, Randi Institute of Pneumatology, The Pentagon, Arlington, VA
Lugasharmanaska was gray, her normal shiny black skin, dull and faded. That alone told anybody watching what she had gone through. Her mind was weak but still calculating, assessing the result of this, the greatest gamble she had ever made. As soon as she had heard Abigor and a Herald had defected, she knew that her usefulness was diminished to almost nothing. She had to find a new role for herself if she were to continue in her privileged position. This was her throw, her attempt to do so.
“Did it work?” Randi was speaking.
“Sure did. Never seen anybody so stunned. We could have put the AT-4 into her and there was nothing she could have done to stop us. Perhaps we should have done.” The Marine Lieutenant sounded quite regretful.
“Perhaps. Luga, your side of this. Did it work?”
“Perhaps.” She had thought to exaggerate the effects of her message, but she decided not to. Only the truth would serve her now. “Deumos will think about what I said and the demonstration. I would not expect her to do more. Once we make a few more demonstrations of power, then she will join. But she will join, I think.
Tartarus, outer borders of Hell
Count Belial had long since stopped watching the bleak landscape roll past below. He had been flying for two days straight and even his inhuman endurance could not prevent the ride from becoming extremely uncomfortable. The wyverns flew faster than any demon, while his own prized flock flew faster than anything the demons had ever encountered, thanks to Euryale's breeding program. Unfortunately, it was also fast enough to transform the normally soft and welcoming clouds of ash into a blast that stung Belial's eyes and scoured his skin. The remoteness of his domain made the wyverns a necessity if he was to maintain any real presence at Satan's court, but Belial had also found them useful as a mercenary force. After millennia of facing virtually helpless lower-plane species, few demon lords bothered to maintain the kind of aerial combat forces seen in the Great Celestial War. They mostly depended on the harpies who, one on one, were no match for a Wyvern and its rider. The timely arrival of a few of his superior wyverns at a flier skirmish usually won him considerable favor with the victorious duke.
Whatever the merits of wyverns, right now Belial wanted nothing more than for this flight to end. From the moment he had left Satan's throne room, his mind had been churning on the details of the plan. The attack had to be spectacular, of that there was no doubt, but this time spectacle was not enough. Destroying a couple of human settlements would get him temporary adulation, but when the main attack began the glory-hungry dukes would soon see fit to consign his actions to historical trivia. They would say that his attacks merely kept the court entertained while the real forces were mustered. To gain real status he had to play a major and unquestionable role in the demon victory. His first thought was to burn the human capitals, but it was no use - the humans seemed to be divided into thousands of city-states that had temporarily united into a planet-wide crusade against the demons. Destroying a mere pair of them would undoubtedly terrorize the local population but likely have little effect on the forces the humans could field. In fact, if their political leadership was anything like Satan, destroying it may give an advantage to the human armies. Belial laughed grimly at the joke he would never dare make to anybody.
Half a day into the flight, a revelation came to him, and with it the solution to his dilemma. Belial had been trying to comprehend why the humans fought so well now when they had never done so before. The reports of the few battered survivors had stressed the killing power of the human magic, but when pressed they had admitted that had never seen human mages conjuring the magic unassisted. What they had seen was an endless array of strange metal items; boxes that spat killing flame, spears that threw metal pebbles, sky chariots that fired the deadly fire arrows, and of course the iron chariots of legend. The humans had never shown any magical ability when the demons had visited before.
To Belial, it was obvious. The foundation of his painstakingly rebuilt power base was the superior weapons his forges produced. The difference between a typical bronze trident and a Tartaruan one was relatively slight. The painstakingly crafted copper laminations increased its power by around one and a half-fold, almost two-fold in the jeweled silver versions he made for the nobility. The secret tempering process produced prongs that bit deeper and snapped off with noticeably lower frequency than a common cast trident. The difference was not overwhelming, but it significantly tilted the odds in the small skirmishes that had been typical of Celestial warfare since the end of the Great War.
Even still the difference between an armed demon and an unarmed demon was not great. The tridents permitted the lesser demons to fling lightning, but it took many blasts to fell one demon and against celestials served only to thin out a charge before contact. The real fighting was done in close quarters. While tridents and swords had useful reach they often broke and did no more damage than tooth and claw. Belial saw that because the humans were so weak, they had been forced to invest tremendous effort into creating powerful weapons, weapons that could multiply their strength until it was sufficient to challenge a demon. In a flash, Belial saw the humans' scheme. When they had first seen the demons five millennia ago, they must have realized that weapons of unprecedented enchantment were the only thing that could offer them hope of resisting the armies of hell. They had probably been refining their lore and stockpiling them in secret all this time, revealing their new magics only when threatened with outright extinction. Belial had not thought the short-lived humans capable of such patience and planning. Regardless, now that he understood where their strength came from, he could destroy it.
Belial felt the wyvern's weight shift beneath him, and the pounding of its wing beats slowed slightly. Immediately he connected with its mind, ready to punish the creature for its laziness. Instead, he was relieved to find that the beast had sighted its roost and had begun a slow descent towards the palace. Belial raised his head into the slipstream, opening his eyes and blinking back the grains of pumice that battered against his face. The dusty red foothills of the Tartaruan range were dimly visible beneath them, dotted with flickering fires and columns of smoke rising from the forges. His capital sat in a deep depression between the upper foothills, now almost perpetually shrouded by smog. The palace itself had originally been a prison, carved laboriously from adamantine to house the most dangerous angelic prisoners of war. Many millennia ago, Satan had found it most amusing to exile him to an abandoned ruin in a worthless backwater, but Belial had gradually transformed it into a great arsenal and an almost impregnable fortress.
The wyvern dropped into a glide, shedding speed fast as it circled over the dwellings of Belial's subjects. The great guardian-beast at the main gates spotted its master returning and loosed an ear-splitting discordant screech from its thirteen throats. The scurrying figures below had long since stopped being startled by the noise, but they did pause and look up, before falling to their knees in deference to their master. His steed began its final swoop down onto the basalt flagstones of the outer courtyard. Belial saw that Euryale was already waiting for him on the terrace, accompanied by assorted servants. As he drew up, she stared disapprovingly at his mount, clearly angry that he had pushed one of her prized specimens so hard.
"My Lord." Euryale's snake-like 'hair' writhed and glared at him, but her tone was flatly deferential.
She gestured to a pair of servants. "You two, take this beast to the roosts immediately. Feed him chopped flesh, not live and not too quick. Don't let him bloat himself. If he sickens, I will hold you responsible."
The self-proclaimed gorgon queen turned back to Belial, who had begun striding up the steps towards the palace. She hurried to keep up. "So, what news from Mekratrig's court? What great deeds have you accomplished while I mind your palace for you." Her tone carried bitterness rather than resentment; gorgons in general and Euryale were not welcome in Dis. She too had been an outcast and she had even further to go before returning to favor.
"Not here." Belial paused to address the servants. "I want every baron, every captain, and every senior overseer in my throne room in four hours’ time. Send the fastest fliers. Stop groveling and move!" The lesser demons took off, some literally while the flightless ran for the barracks, leaving count and consort to enter the palace and make their way to Belial's study.
No sooner had the bronze doors clanged shut than Euryale spat "So let me guess, Satan exiled you again and now we must prepare to be invaded by half the neighboring dukes."
"Silence wench!". Belial had seemed distracted, but now he fixed her with a gaze so terrible she immediately regretted her taunt. For a moment she thought he was going to strike her, but when he spoke again it was not with a roar but with pride tinged with glee. "Abigor has been proven a fool and a traitor. He allowed most of his forces to be slaughtered by the humans and then joined their side." The news had stunned every demon to hear of it and Euryale was no exception.
"Our lord Satan has chosen me to strike the next blow against the humans. My plan will deliver a decisive blow and stand in sharp contrast to Abigor's failure. They must have places like Tartarus, hidden places where they produce and stockpile their enchanted weapons. We will find these places and we will destroy them the way we destroyed the last two human cities. With most of their weapons gone and no way to make more, the human armies will falter and be swept away."
Belial's plan seemed mad to Euryale at first, but within seconds she began to see the logic. It was not the way wars had been fought; destroying crops and food stores were standard practice but disarming the enemy had never been considered a viable or useful tactic. Yet the human magics were unprecedented and the humans were so very reliant on them. The more she thought about it, the more it made sense.
Headquarters, Randi Institute of Pneumatology, The Pentagon, Arlington, VA
“May I speak with you, Excellency?”
James Randi looked up at the figure that had just entered his office. He felt the start of a surge of affection and crushed it down ruthlessly. Damn, these succubi are dangerous ran through his mind. Even aware of their ability to induce empathy with anybody within smelling distance, the pheromones worked. “I’m not an Excellency or even a Sire. And calling me that doesn’t get you any favorable consideration, quite the reverse in fact. But if you want to call me James, or The Amazing Randi, then we can talk.”
Lugasharmanaska noted the abruptness and guessed it was the man over-compensating for the effects of her miasma. It was a pity the humans had found out about that. “James, I know we can talk to demons in hell now. Using your machines.”
“We can. One on one. Julie’s making Domiklespharatu a whimpering nervous wreck. It doesn’t get us very far but it’s giving her a bit of revenge for the torment he put her through. So?”
“My Liege-Lady is Deumos, the Princess of all the Incubi and Succubi in Hell. There are thousands of us you know. I would like to speak to her using your machines.”
The reply was so blunt it had to be honest. No wheedling or trickery, just a blunt request. Randi was amazed and suspicious. “And just why should we do that.”
“My mission was to seduce one or more leading politicians, bend them to my will, and then learn from them as much about you humans as I could. I failed; the politicians who were leading in Bangkok resisted me. That failure could earn me my death. But I need to report to Deumos my findings.”
“Why, if you’ll be killed.” Randi thought for a moment. “Could she kill you here, by remote control so to speak?”
“No, but that does not matter now.” Lugasharmanaska gave what was her equivalent of a smile. “Anyway, I have not failed anymore, have I? I am here with you now and this building is indeed a palace of power. I did not get here the way intended but I am here. And I ought to report my findings to Deumos.”
“And what findings might those be?” Randi was interested in how this conversation was going. He had the impression Lugasharmanaska was being honest for the first time since she had arrived here.
“I will tell her that you humans are going to win this war. That short of some incredible stupidity on your part, and you are not a stupid people, you can hardly help but win. Already she must know about the raid yesterday, it will do no harm to tell her it will be the first of many, each more destructive than the last. I will persuade her that her only chance of survival will be to join the human side, to stand with humans against Satan. She may stand with him and die for certainty or stand with humans and have a chance of survival. And she will believe me for I will be telling her the truth.”
“That never got anybody believed. I was telling people the truth about cheap tricksters like that Israeli idiot and malicious frauds who pretended to be mediums for decades and nobody believed me. Lugasharmanaska, let me take this to the powers that be. We’ll see what they say.”
It hadn’t taken much persuading. The chance of turning a demon lord was too good to pass up. Anyway, measuring the signals generated as Lugasharmanaska talked to Deumos would provide a whole world of valuable data. So, four hours later, the succubus was relaxing on a couch while the technicians worked on the wiring connecting her to the signals amplification system. A group of four Marines was in the room as well, their orders simple, if the Succubus tried anything, kill her. However, there was something else as well. Randi had given their leader a letter Lugasharmanaska had written, one that had made his eyebrows rise.
“OK, Luga. Off you go, try and get through.”
Lugasharmanaska screwed up her eyes and concentrated her very hardest. As the signal started to be generated, the electrical sensors around her head picked it up and started boosting it, driving it against the indefinable, unknown barrier that separated the dimensions. She grimaced slightly, she guessed the humans weren’t trying to hurt her, but the boosted signal was having the same effect on her mind as over-loud music had on human ears. Then, there was a snapping sensation. She was thorough.
“Your Royal Highness. It is Lugasharmanaska. I have much to report.”
“You have been gone for a long time kidling. We thought you were dead.”
“I was recognized and captured. I failed in my mission.”
“Then it would have been better for you if you had been dead.” The mock-affection had gone from Deumos’s mind voice.
“Highness. I failed in my mission, but I have also succeeded. I am in the human’s power palace now, speaking to you from there. I have become part of that power structure, a lowly part but still high enough to learn things you must know. Please, I beg of you, hear me.”
“Speak then kidling. Perhaps your words may earn forgiveness.”
“Highness. I have learned this, and it is true. The humans will not lose this war. They will win, and Satan’s empire will come crashing down upon him. They have killing arts beyond our imagination and the ability to use them. They have not shown us a tenth of a tenth of a tenth of what they can do. Did you hear of the attack yesterday when the humans sent their tanks and mickvees into Hell itself? When they destroyed whatever, they could find, killed all and destroyed all.”
“I had heard this. None here could understand it. They did not kill quite all; some wounded were pulled from the ruins. Why did they not hold what they took for ransom?”
“Highness. Humans called this a Thunder Run. It is to demonstrate they can go where they wish when they wish, and you can do nothing to stop them. They do not wish for plunder, just to kill. We have nothing that they want except for our utter destruction. They see us as their, I think the phrase is, mortal enemies. The raid yesterday was the first of many, each more destructive and devastating than the last. Nothing Hell has can stand against them, Heaven itself cannot stand against them. You have two choices Highness. You may stand with Satan and be destroyed with him for certainty, or you may stand with us and have a chance of survival.” Lugasharmanaska’s mind voice was desperate, she had to convince Deumos of the catastrophe that faced her.
“Us, kidling?”
Lugasharmanaska took a brief gasp of air and then concentrated again. “Yes, Highness. Us. I have joined the humans and cast my lot with them. I may not survive to see their victory, but it is better to have a chance of living to see the victory than the certainty of seeing defeat. Highness, by every standard of loyalty I owe you, I beg you to do the same.”
“And why should I believe you?” Deumos’s mind voice was cold.
“For this reason.” Lugasharmanaska waved her hand and the technician started upping the power in the transmission. The pain in her head was dreadful, it seemed to fill her whole body. She had thought Kitten had been weak and foolish when she had writhed in pain during this transmission but now, for the first time, she understood what the young Goth girl had suffered every time she made a bridge.
Sleeping Chamber, Palace of Deumos, Hell.
For a moment, Deumos did not recognize the black ellipse that was forming in her bedchamber. By the time she did, four humans had stepped through it. Their leader, his features strangely obscured by a mask that covered his nose and mouth looked at the great figure that was sprawled on the couch and lifted a tube to his shoulder.
“Whoosh, blam, thank you, Ma’am. You’re dead.”
Then they stepped back through the ellipse letting it collapse behind them. The whole attack had taken less than five seconds and Deumos had never had a chance to react.
“Highness, they could have killed you if they had wanted to. They can kill you any time they want to. They can kill anybody any time they want to.” Lugasharmanaska’s mind voice was very weak and shaky. “To join them is your only chance.”
“Very well kidling. I will think about this. You have done well to tell me of these things.” Deumos leaned back on her couch, her mind just beginning to absorb how easily she could have been killed. And Satan was lying, hiding just how powerful humans were. She had a lot to think about.
Headquarters, Randi Institute of Pneumatology, The Pentagon, Arlington, VA
Lugasharmanaska was gray, her normal shiny black skin, dull and faded. That alone told anybody watching what she had gone through. Her mind was weak but still calculating, assessing the result of this, the greatest gamble she had ever made. As soon as she had heard Abigor and a Herald had defected, she knew that her usefulness was diminished to almost nothing. She had to find a new role for herself if she were to continue in her privileged position. This was her throw, her attempt to do so.
“Did it work?” Randi was speaking.
“Sure did. Never seen anybody so stunned. We could have put the AT-4 into her and there was nothing she could have done to stop us. Perhaps we should have done.” The Marine Lieutenant sounded quite regretful.
“Perhaps. Luga, your side of this. Did it work?”
“Perhaps.” She had thought to exaggerate the effects of her message, but she decided not to. Only the truth would serve her now. “Deumos will think about what I said and the demonstration. I would not expect her to do more. Once we make a few more demonstrations of power, then she will join. But she will join, I think.
Re: 2008 - Armageddon
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Camp Hell-Alpha. Martial Plain of Dysprosium, Hell
“The dimensions are all screwed up.” Captain Keisha Stevenson was watching the mechanics take the dust filters off Alpha-Alpha-One and take them away to the cleaning area. The building they were in was a garage large enough to hold all four Abrams tanks with room to spare. It was prefabricated, the parts flown in using one of the massive Russian Mil-26 helicopters and then brought through the Hellmouth and assembled. It was one of four such buildings in the complex with more to come. Now, Battle Group Alpha was the only portion of the US Army permanently stationed in Hell. A lot more was coming in and out, but Alpha was the only unit that stayed there. Once again, she thought, her unit was ending up as the sacrificial goat. She was beginning to regret blasting that angel, the act that had brought her onto General Petraeus’s radar. She thought about the scene in the hut and decided that she didn’t regret firing that canister round at all.
“The beacon worked though?”
“Sure, but it was weird, we were steering straight line, not deviating a degree, but we could see the beacon behind us slide slowly away to one side.”
“It’s not just bearing, it’s range as well. We took the data out of your navigational computer and analyzed it. The speed you were doing, the time you took, and the distance you covered don’t add up. I needn’t tell you the problems that will cause the artillery boys. It’s not just you, all the other units are reporting the same thing. Bearing and range are all out of whack. We’re going to have to find something to pound on to see how significant it all is. Before that, we’re going to establish another beacon, about 30 miles out from this one. Get a cross-bearing and navigation will get a lot easier. Also, we can compare our data with the on-the-ground data and that’ll give us a handle on what is going on. If there’s a mathematical relationship, we can program the navigational computers to handle it.” Major Warhol didn’t look that convinced. But then he hadn’t been on the Thunder Runs and didn’t appreciate how disturbing the distorted dimensions were to crews who wanted to get back home. That was one reason why he was here, to see how the real conditions of Hell compared with his simulated Helljars.
Home, now that was an interesting word, Stevenson thought, looking around the base. Now, this was home. Four garages for her armored vehicles, all with a positive pressure system to keep the unfiltered Hell atmosphere out and dust-trap doors to let the vehicles in. Massive filters on the roof to clean the air before that got in. Workshops to keep her tanks and armored infantry carriers running, and that meant scrubbing the engine air filters every time they went out. As a start, there was much else as well. Torsion bars had to be cleaned, the maintenance list went on and on. Still, at least the pumice was softer than the hard sand of the Iraqi desert. Then there were the barracks. The living accommodation wasn’t bad, but it was Spartan. At least the air was clean although that had its disadvantages. Two days ago, the cooks had tried to raise morale by serving good old American hamburgers, comfort food for the crews. The smell of fried onions had lingered for hours and hours, constantly recycled by the air purification system.
The whole lot was surrounded by razor wire and there were anti-harpy systems all over. Russian Tunguskas for long-range defense, twin .50 machine guns in old-fashioned, but still power operated, turrets on the building roofs for close-in work. More loot from the museum stripping exercise she guessed. Outside the razor wire were minefields. The next unit in would be an artillery battery that was being attached to Alpha for the duration of its stay in Hell. Stevenson was in no doubt that Hell-Alpha could put up a devastating fight if it had to but the baldricks operated in such large numbers, that devastation might not be enough.
“You’re worried about the defenses?” Major Warhol had caught her unconscious glance up and out.
“Aren’t you? Abigor hit us with nearly 400,000 baldricks and it took five divisions plus to stop him. We stopped him cold, sure, but you and I both know how many more legions Satan’s supposed to have. How are we supposed to stop them with just a reinforced company?”
“It won’t come to that. Anyway, the Hellmouth is right behind you. If you look like getting overrun, you can just back out and there’s those five divisions still covering you.”
“That’s another thing. How can we be sure that thing is going to stay open?”
“It will, Captain, we think so anyway. We think the baldricks made a huge mistake, they opened a portal so large they can’t close it again. We’re working on a way to close the things, but we think they can’t.”
“Major, no disrespect sir, but it’s our ass that’s hanging on your think.”
“None taken. If it’s any consolation I’m going to be here for some days so it’s my ass hanging as well.” Warhol glanced around and dropped his voice. “And Dave Petraeus is moving here as soon as we can get an HQ building put together. And even if the Hellmouth closes, we already know we can open new ones, small ones, to get people out. We’d blow up the equipment but we’re sure we can get you and your people out. Anyway, when you are going out again?”
“Tomorrow. The map shows a river not so far from here. We’re going to push right up to it and see what it’s like. See if it really is boiling blood as the legends say.”
“The Styx?”
“Nah, not according to our map. It’s called the Phlegethon according to Abigor. The deepest penetration we’ll have done. Want to come along? You can ride in one of the Tracks.”
It was a challenge and Warhol knew it. One he couldn’t resist. “Sure, a day by the river? What more could a man ask?”
North-West-Upper Gallery, Shaft 18, Slocum Mine, Tartarus
Publius Julius Livianus had long since lost track of when he had last seen the sky. From what he recalled it wasn't a great loss. The diffuse reddish light, constant choking smoke, jagged volcanic landscape, and demons, demons everywhere the eye could see, all combined to make the surface a living nightmare. Down here in the flickering torchlight existence was almost tolerable. The demons still came, and, on each visit, they lashed him with their barbed whips, but rarely more than once a day. As long as he kept up a steady rhythm with his pickax, then the ore crates filled up. If the ore crates were full, he received only a single lash. In all it was far superior to the earlier place, where for uncounted centuries he had lain pinned to the ground on an endless plain of burning sands, his flesh continually scorched but never dying. Publius shuddered. The only reason he still thought of the place was to remind himself that progress was still possible. Through sheer will, he had maintained his sanity and eventually managed to meditate on virtue even in that place, and he had ascended to this less tortuous level of Hades. It seemed logical that with sufficient effort he would be released to the next level. At least, that's what he told himself and any fellow prisoner who would listen.
Suddenly, Publius became aware that the general din of the mine workings had changed subtly. Every alert for the approach of an overseer, every human in the gallery began to lighten their strokes and raise their head, listening intently. There was a commotion of snarls, shouts, and the clang of dropped tools, punctuated by the occasional scream. The source soon became apparent as a demon entered their gallery, bellowing orders and lashing his whip idly as he went.
"Go to the loading area. All of you, now. Leave your tools. Go."
None of the humans waited to be lashed and Publius ran with the others until he reached the loading area. The large gallery was normally where the crates of ore were tipped into carts to be dragged up to the surface, but it doubled as an assembly area when the demons wished to 'motivate' the workforce, usually by eating whichever unfortunate had missed their quota that month. With all the workings on this shaft emptied several hundred humans were crowded into the cavernous space.
This time however the scene was a little different. A dozen demons were gathered on the platform and some of them carried bronze tridents instead of whips. One of them was quite different from the rest; obviously female, she was covered in fine coppery scales that glittered softly in the torchlight. A snakelike tail coiled around her feet and great bat-like wings were folded against her back. However, her most distinguishing and terrifying feature was the mass of snakelike growths that took the place of hair. Publius had heard the rumors many times; the black snakes could freeze a man rigid, and the red ones could enslave his will. The rumors weren't clear whether it took a bite or just a look, but just to be on the safe side he avoided looking at the snake demon directly.
The largest overseer spoke first. "You vermin are here to answer a simple question. If one of you answers it correctly, you can all go back to work. Fail to answer and you will all be thrown back into the hell from which you came. Do you understand?"
The humans seemed dazed. Some were nodding, others just stared at him. Moronic beasts, Oodusjarkethat thought I wonder why the brass is bothering with them. Surely if the rulers of hell needed to know something about the human world, they could just send a succubus to find out.
Lakheenahuknaasi wasn't sure why they were bothering either. She felt claustrophobic down here and her wings kept fluttering involuntarily. Fortunately, the non-fliers were unlikely to understand why. The humans seemed to be trying to stare at her without focusing on her. They were pathetic, with their corpse white skin, sunken pink eyes, and wild unkempt hair, yet their mass gaze was strangely unsettling. She shook her head. Their minds were dull, expressing nothing more than unfocused despair and hatred tinged with a slight curiosity about her presence. They were just humans.
"We desire to know where humans make your weapons. What towns make the flame lances, sky chariots, fire arrows, thunder sticks, and iron chariots. Where are these weapons stored? You will tell us or suffer the consequences."
Lakheenahuknaasi waited. Silence. The humans looked at each other, then the demons. There was a murmur, indistinct and almost subliminal. She struggled to distinguish words from the diffuse babble, but it defeated her. The mental activity jumped up an order of magnitude as if the humans were shaking off a stupor. The noise started growing, chaotic, unformed, unstructured, and somehow threatening. It swelled and broke up into distinct fractions, some just an undifferentiated mumble but other parts clear and distinct. Some of the humans began to shout names.
“Woolwich!”
“Slough!”
“Donzy!”
“Essen!”
“Hobbiton!”
“Carthage!”
“The Emerald City!”
Lakheenahuknaasi tried to focus, to see which ones seemed sincere but it was impossible. The humans were grabbing at each other, punching, kicking. Even as she watched, the guards were allowing the situation to get out of control, an unthinkable, unprecedented situation. They were bellowing and lashing at nearby humans with their whips, but they were barely making a dent in the din that was reverberating off the cavern walls. One torch was knocked over, then another, as the assembled ranks of workers dissolved into chaos.
The gorgon's question had set Publius's mind racing. He had always thought of the demons as mere servants of the cosmic order. Yes, they were malicious, but that was their lot in life, they could no more go against their nature than a wolf could avoid chasing a hare. Other prisoners had told him of their notions of two celestial realms opposed, of demons as evil beings that had rebelled against a benevolent creator, but he had placed no stock in it. What omnipotent god could permit the existence of opposition, and what benevolent god would give them humans to torture? Yet here was undeniable proof that the demons were not simply cosmic jail-keepers. The only reason they would want to know about human weapons was if they were fighting humans. That meant the demons invading his home, laying siege to Rome no doubt - or just possibly, he barely dared hope... the legions coming to liberate him? The demons were desperate to know of human weapons, could it be that they weren’t just fighting humans, they were fighting and losing? Could it be that the demons were not part of the cosmic order at all, simply common slavers?
Publius was snapped out of his reverie by a stray elbow catching him in the ribs. He dropped into a crouch and realized that he was in the middle of a riot. For a split second, he considered rushing the demons, but it was impossible, they were armed and organized and, in any case, even if they could be overcome the humans would still be trapped and at the mercy of the hordes of demons on the surface. For now, the important thing was to prevent the demons from getting the answers they were so desperate for. Publius had seen the men shouting names, some were obviously faking but a few had a defeatist desire to collaborate. One of the latter groups was stumbling around right in front of him, weakly shouting "No, no, do what they say, you'll get us all eaten alive". He knew what he had to do. Lifting a dagger-sized rock flake from the nearest crate, Publius yelled "Death to the traitor!"
Lakheenahuknaasi found herself backed up against a wall. The humans were pressing close, and she reflexively loosed a spray of paralyzing darts at them. Eight poisonous spikes shot out from a pair of her head tendrils and embedded themselves in the chests of three humans, who staggered and fell twitching. Meanwhile, her escorts were firing blasts of lightning into the crowd, electrocuting humans when they hit, blasting clouds of rock dust into the air when they missed. The humans fell back, hiding behind rock crates or cowering on the floor. Slowly the noise abated, and the dust began to settle.
Lakheenahuknaasi climbed back onto the dais and surveyed the chamber. The floor was splattered with blood strewn with human bodies, from which a distinct smell of cooked flesh emanated. They would be up again soon enough, the humans in hell recovered from a single lightning bolt within minutes. She searched for the humans that had been calling out names earlier, one from whom she had picked up a feeling of honesty and compliance. Her eyes stopped on a human that seemed more badly injured than the rest; it was lying in a spreading pool of blood, its neck at a strange angle... in fact looking closer she could see that its skull had been crushed in multiple places. Lakheenahuknaasi blinked. It was the human who had been trying to answer her question. She glanced around, all the ones from whom she had picked up a tendency to cooperate were dead. Killed by their fellow workers. And from the rest were other feelings, fear certainly, bordering on pathological terror but something else, something she’d never thought to associate with humans. They were triumphant.
Brown’s Lane, Coventry.
For three long years, the spiritual home of Jaguar Cars had lain idle, the last car had rolled off the production line here in 2005 and the firm had moved its operations elsewhere, fifty-four years after production had started. It seemed that the Jaguar’s parent company at the time, Ford, cared little for tradition. Now the idle car factories of Coventry, Birmingham, and Dagenham had found a new role; while the Land Rover factory at Solihull would essentially be doing the same thing, just swapping civilian production for purely military models, the other car factories would be supporting the war effort rather differently. There was help arriving for that, the company’s new Indian owners were sending over plans for a light armored car that would fit the existing production line well.
The roads around the Brown’s Lane factory were jammed with low-loaders carrying various versions of the FV430 tracked armored personnel carrier and wheeled Saxon carriers. They’d all been brought from the nearest rail freight yard, itself hastily restored to operation and now filled with military vehicles on flatbed trucks. The FV430s were vehicles that had either been in storage, or in various museums up and down the country. What they all had in common was that they had not gone through the ‘Bulldog’ upgrade. While BAE Land Systems was fully occupied building newer vehicles like the Challenger 2, Warrior, and AS90, car factories like Brown’s Lane would take up much of the slack involved in upgrading existing vehicles. Eventually, once the tooling from India was in place, they would also begin to manufacture military vehicles.
Until then, each FV430 that arrived at Brown’s Lane would be stripped down, worn components replaced. The old Rolls Royce K60 engine would be removed and replaced by a modern Cummins B series engine with new sand and dust filters. Once that was done, Israeli-designed appliqué armor and a Remote Weapons Station would be added, though not the weapon itself; the army was still debating as to whether the tried and trusted Browning Heavy Machine Gun, or a new FN-designed weapon, the BRG-15, firing a 15.5 x 115 mm cartridge should arm the FV432s. The latter was more powerful and likely to do more damage to a baldrick, but the Browning had the advantage of already being in service in some numbers. The last thing the British Army needed right now was another cartridge on top of the 9mm, 5.56mm, 7.62mm, 8.59mm, and 12.7mm rounds it already employed. The armorers had enough of a headache as it was.
The Saxons, some of which were the Saxon Patrol variant that had replaced the last of the Humber ‘Pigs’ in Northern Ireland, we’re coming in for a slightly different upgrade. Now they were somewhat lacking in offensive capability, a single 7.62mm GPMG was considered inadequate against baldrick attacks. Like the FV430s they would be fitted with an RWS, though for the moment they would be issued to units assigned to the Home Guard rather than being sent out to Iraq. The Saxons, as it turned out, were far easier to work on, and even better, once finished, they could be driven to where they were needed, rather than taking up valuable rail cars and transporter trucks.
Just to make life even easier, the workers who had been made redundant by the collapse of MG Rover and the contraction of the car industry in general in the West Midlands had flocked to get jobs in the new defense-related concerns that had grown up. To its immense relief and surprise, the government had not needed to use its new powers to direct labor to where it was needed. To protect these vital factories from potential baldrick attacks a company of the Home Guard had been formed from the workforce. It was now a common sight to see workers who were not on shift drilling in the car park of Brown’s Lane and the other former car factories in the area. At the moment all they had were L85A3s, a semi-automatic version of the standard SA80 intended for use by cadet forces, though the Brown’s Lane Company had somehow managed to get hold of a Carl Gustav and a few rounds of HEAT and HE. How was probably a question better not asked.
“Well, we’re certainly back in business.” The Works Manager looked at the sight below with satisfaction. Behind him, the representative from Tata Motors nodded with satisfaction. The purchase of the company by the Indian Tata group had caused extreme concern over whether the plant would just be taken off to India and the workers thrown out, but the Tata management had gone out of their way to prove otherwise. Then, The Message had come, and national identity had become very unimportant. Oh, there were a few countries still who were predictably refusing to join the rest of the world’s fight, North Korea being prominent amongst them, but India had thrown all its resources into the human struggle against their enemies. One small part of that effort was this plant here.
“I think it’s time for lunch, don’t you?” The Tata representative had a twinkle in his eye when he asked. The British had always had a love affair with what they called Indian Curry and Tata had brought in staff who knew how to make it properly. As a result, it was quietly acknowledged that the Jaguar works canteen was the best Indian Restaurant in the Midlands. And with food rationing back, a good mid-day meal was something to be treasured. If it didn’t delay the work on the factory floor of course.
Camp Hell-Alpha. Martial Plain of Dysprosium, Hell
“The dimensions are all screwed up.” Captain Keisha Stevenson was watching the mechanics take the dust filters off Alpha-Alpha-One and take them away to the cleaning area. The building they were in was a garage large enough to hold all four Abrams tanks with room to spare. It was prefabricated, the parts flown in using one of the massive Russian Mil-26 helicopters and then brought through the Hellmouth and assembled. It was one of four such buildings in the complex with more to come. Now, Battle Group Alpha was the only portion of the US Army permanently stationed in Hell. A lot more was coming in and out, but Alpha was the only unit that stayed there. Once again, she thought, her unit was ending up as the sacrificial goat. She was beginning to regret blasting that angel, the act that had brought her onto General Petraeus’s radar. She thought about the scene in the hut and decided that she didn’t regret firing that canister round at all.
“The beacon worked though?”
“Sure, but it was weird, we were steering straight line, not deviating a degree, but we could see the beacon behind us slide slowly away to one side.”
“It’s not just bearing, it’s range as well. We took the data out of your navigational computer and analyzed it. The speed you were doing, the time you took, and the distance you covered don’t add up. I needn’t tell you the problems that will cause the artillery boys. It’s not just you, all the other units are reporting the same thing. Bearing and range are all out of whack. We’re going to have to find something to pound on to see how significant it all is. Before that, we’re going to establish another beacon, about 30 miles out from this one. Get a cross-bearing and navigation will get a lot easier. Also, we can compare our data with the on-the-ground data and that’ll give us a handle on what is going on. If there’s a mathematical relationship, we can program the navigational computers to handle it.” Major Warhol didn’t look that convinced. But then he hadn’t been on the Thunder Runs and didn’t appreciate how disturbing the distorted dimensions were to crews who wanted to get back home. That was one reason why he was here, to see how the real conditions of Hell compared with his simulated Helljars.
Home, now that was an interesting word, Stevenson thought, looking around the base. Now, this was home. Four garages for her armored vehicles, all with a positive pressure system to keep the unfiltered Hell atmosphere out and dust-trap doors to let the vehicles in. Massive filters on the roof to clean the air before that got in. Workshops to keep her tanks and armored infantry carriers running, and that meant scrubbing the engine air filters every time they went out. As a start, there was much else as well. Torsion bars had to be cleaned, the maintenance list went on and on. Still, at least the pumice was softer than the hard sand of the Iraqi desert. Then there were the barracks. The living accommodation wasn’t bad, but it was Spartan. At least the air was clean although that had its disadvantages. Two days ago, the cooks had tried to raise morale by serving good old American hamburgers, comfort food for the crews. The smell of fried onions had lingered for hours and hours, constantly recycled by the air purification system.
The whole lot was surrounded by razor wire and there were anti-harpy systems all over. Russian Tunguskas for long-range defense, twin .50 machine guns in old-fashioned, but still power operated, turrets on the building roofs for close-in work. More loot from the museum stripping exercise she guessed. Outside the razor wire were minefields. The next unit in would be an artillery battery that was being attached to Alpha for the duration of its stay in Hell. Stevenson was in no doubt that Hell-Alpha could put up a devastating fight if it had to but the baldricks operated in such large numbers, that devastation might not be enough.
“You’re worried about the defenses?” Major Warhol had caught her unconscious glance up and out.
“Aren’t you? Abigor hit us with nearly 400,000 baldricks and it took five divisions plus to stop him. We stopped him cold, sure, but you and I both know how many more legions Satan’s supposed to have. How are we supposed to stop them with just a reinforced company?”
“It won’t come to that. Anyway, the Hellmouth is right behind you. If you look like getting overrun, you can just back out and there’s those five divisions still covering you.”
“That’s another thing. How can we be sure that thing is going to stay open?”
“It will, Captain, we think so anyway. We think the baldricks made a huge mistake, they opened a portal so large they can’t close it again. We’re working on a way to close the things, but we think they can’t.”
“Major, no disrespect sir, but it’s our ass that’s hanging on your think.”
“None taken. If it’s any consolation I’m going to be here for some days so it’s my ass hanging as well.” Warhol glanced around and dropped his voice. “And Dave Petraeus is moving here as soon as we can get an HQ building put together. And even if the Hellmouth closes, we already know we can open new ones, small ones, to get people out. We’d blow up the equipment but we’re sure we can get you and your people out. Anyway, when you are going out again?”
“Tomorrow. The map shows a river not so far from here. We’re going to push right up to it and see what it’s like. See if it really is boiling blood as the legends say.”
“The Styx?”
“Nah, not according to our map. It’s called the Phlegethon according to Abigor. The deepest penetration we’ll have done. Want to come along? You can ride in one of the Tracks.”
It was a challenge and Warhol knew it. One he couldn’t resist. “Sure, a day by the river? What more could a man ask?”
North-West-Upper Gallery, Shaft 18, Slocum Mine, Tartarus
Publius Julius Livianus had long since lost track of when he had last seen the sky. From what he recalled it wasn't a great loss. The diffuse reddish light, constant choking smoke, jagged volcanic landscape, and demons, demons everywhere the eye could see, all combined to make the surface a living nightmare. Down here in the flickering torchlight existence was almost tolerable. The demons still came, and, on each visit, they lashed him with their barbed whips, but rarely more than once a day. As long as he kept up a steady rhythm with his pickax, then the ore crates filled up. If the ore crates were full, he received only a single lash. In all it was far superior to the earlier place, where for uncounted centuries he had lain pinned to the ground on an endless plain of burning sands, his flesh continually scorched but never dying. Publius shuddered. The only reason he still thought of the place was to remind himself that progress was still possible. Through sheer will, he had maintained his sanity and eventually managed to meditate on virtue even in that place, and he had ascended to this less tortuous level of Hades. It seemed logical that with sufficient effort he would be released to the next level. At least, that's what he told himself and any fellow prisoner who would listen.
Suddenly, Publius became aware that the general din of the mine workings had changed subtly. Every alert for the approach of an overseer, every human in the gallery began to lighten their strokes and raise their head, listening intently. There was a commotion of snarls, shouts, and the clang of dropped tools, punctuated by the occasional scream. The source soon became apparent as a demon entered their gallery, bellowing orders and lashing his whip idly as he went.
"Go to the loading area. All of you, now. Leave your tools. Go."
None of the humans waited to be lashed and Publius ran with the others until he reached the loading area. The large gallery was normally where the crates of ore were tipped into carts to be dragged up to the surface, but it doubled as an assembly area when the demons wished to 'motivate' the workforce, usually by eating whichever unfortunate had missed their quota that month. With all the workings on this shaft emptied several hundred humans were crowded into the cavernous space.
This time however the scene was a little different. A dozen demons were gathered on the platform and some of them carried bronze tridents instead of whips. One of them was quite different from the rest; obviously female, she was covered in fine coppery scales that glittered softly in the torchlight. A snakelike tail coiled around her feet and great bat-like wings were folded against her back. However, her most distinguishing and terrifying feature was the mass of snakelike growths that took the place of hair. Publius had heard the rumors many times; the black snakes could freeze a man rigid, and the red ones could enslave his will. The rumors weren't clear whether it took a bite or just a look, but just to be on the safe side he avoided looking at the snake demon directly.
The largest overseer spoke first. "You vermin are here to answer a simple question. If one of you answers it correctly, you can all go back to work. Fail to answer and you will all be thrown back into the hell from which you came. Do you understand?"
The humans seemed dazed. Some were nodding, others just stared at him. Moronic beasts, Oodusjarkethat thought I wonder why the brass is bothering with them. Surely if the rulers of hell needed to know something about the human world, they could just send a succubus to find out.
Lakheenahuknaasi wasn't sure why they were bothering either. She felt claustrophobic down here and her wings kept fluttering involuntarily. Fortunately, the non-fliers were unlikely to understand why. The humans seemed to be trying to stare at her without focusing on her. They were pathetic, with their corpse white skin, sunken pink eyes, and wild unkempt hair, yet their mass gaze was strangely unsettling. She shook her head. Their minds were dull, expressing nothing more than unfocused despair and hatred tinged with a slight curiosity about her presence. They were just humans.
"We desire to know where humans make your weapons. What towns make the flame lances, sky chariots, fire arrows, thunder sticks, and iron chariots. Where are these weapons stored? You will tell us or suffer the consequences."
Lakheenahuknaasi waited. Silence. The humans looked at each other, then the demons. There was a murmur, indistinct and almost subliminal. She struggled to distinguish words from the diffuse babble, but it defeated her. The mental activity jumped up an order of magnitude as if the humans were shaking off a stupor. The noise started growing, chaotic, unformed, unstructured, and somehow threatening. It swelled and broke up into distinct fractions, some just an undifferentiated mumble but other parts clear and distinct. Some of the humans began to shout names.
“Woolwich!”
“Slough!”
“Donzy!”
“Essen!”
“Hobbiton!”
“Carthage!”
“The Emerald City!”
Lakheenahuknaasi tried to focus, to see which ones seemed sincere but it was impossible. The humans were grabbing at each other, punching, kicking. Even as she watched, the guards were allowing the situation to get out of control, an unthinkable, unprecedented situation. They were bellowing and lashing at nearby humans with their whips, but they were barely making a dent in the din that was reverberating off the cavern walls. One torch was knocked over, then another, as the assembled ranks of workers dissolved into chaos.
The gorgon's question had set Publius's mind racing. He had always thought of the demons as mere servants of the cosmic order. Yes, they were malicious, but that was their lot in life, they could no more go against their nature than a wolf could avoid chasing a hare. Other prisoners had told him of their notions of two celestial realms opposed, of demons as evil beings that had rebelled against a benevolent creator, but he had placed no stock in it. What omnipotent god could permit the existence of opposition, and what benevolent god would give them humans to torture? Yet here was undeniable proof that the demons were not simply cosmic jail-keepers. The only reason they would want to know about human weapons was if they were fighting humans. That meant the demons invading his home, laying siege to Rome no doubt - or just possibly, he barely dared hope... the legions coming to liberate him? The demons were desperate to know of human weapons, could it be that they weren’t just fighting humans, they were fighting and losing? Could it be that the demons were not part of the cosmic order at all, simply common slavers?
Publius was snapped out of his reverie by a stray elbow catching him in the ribs. He dropped into a crouch and realized that he was in the middle of a riot. For a split second, he considered rushing the demons, but it was impossible, they were armed and organized and, in any case, even if they could be overcome the humans would still be trapped and at the mercy of the hordes of demons on the surface. For now, the important thing was to prevent the demons from getting the answers they were so desperate for. Publius had seen the men shouting names, some were obviously faking but a few had a defeatist desire to collaborate. One of the latter groups was stumbling around right in front of him, weakly shouting "No, no, do what they say, you'll get us all eaten alive". He knew what he had to do. Lifting a dagger-sized rock flake from the nearest crate, Publius yelled "Death to the traitor!"
Lakheenahuknaasi found herself backed up against a wall. The humans were pressing close, and she reflexively loosed a spray of paralyzing darts at them. Eight poisonous spikes shot out from a pair of her head tendrils and embedded themselves in the chests of three humans, who staggered and fell twitching. Meanwhile, her escorts were firing blasts of lightning into the crowd, electrocuting humans when they hit, blasting clouds of rock dust into the air when they missed. The humans fell back, hiding behind rock crates or cowering on the floor. Slowly the noise abated, and the dust began to settle.
Lakheenahuknaasi climbed back onto the dais and surveyed the chamber. The floor was splattered with blood strewn with human bodies, from which a distinct smell of cooked flesh emanated. They would be up again soon enough, the humans in hell recovered from a single lightning bolt within minutes. She searched for the humans that had been calling out names earlier, one from whom she had picked up a feeling of honesty and compliance. Her eyes stopped on a human that seemed more badly injured than the rest; it was lying in a spreading pool of blood, its neck at a strange angle... in fact looking closer she could see that its skull had been crushed in multiple places. Lakheenahuknaasi blinked. It was the human who had been trying to answer her question. She glanced around, all the ones from whom she had picked up a tendency to cooperate were dead. Killed by their fellow workers. And from the rest were other feelings, fear certainly, bordering on pathological terror but something else, something she’d never thought to associate with humans. They were triumphant.
Brown’s Lane, Coventry.
For three long years, the spiritual home of Jaguar Cars had lain idle, the last car had rolled off the production line here in 2005 and the firm had moved its operations elsewhere, fifty-four years after production had started. It seemed that the Jaguar’s parent company at the time, Ford, cared little for tradition. Now the idle car factories of Coventry, Birmingham, and Dagenham had found a new role; while the Land Rover factory at Solihull would essentially be doing the same thing, just swapping civilian production for purely military models, the other car factories would be supporting the war effort rather differently. There was help arriving for that, the company’s new Indian owners were sending over plans for a light armored car that would fit the existing production line well.
The roads around the Brown’s Lane factory were jammed with low-loaders carrying various versions of the FV430 tracked armored personnel carrier and wheeled Saxon carriers. They’d all been brought from the nearest rail freight yard, itself hastily restored to operation and now filled with military vehicles on flatbed trucks. The FV430s were vehicles that had either been in storage, or in various museums up and down the country. What they all had in common was that they had not gone through the ‘Bulldog’ upgrade. While BAE Land Systems was fully occupied building newer vehicles like the Challenger 2, Warrior, and AS90, car factories like Brown’s Lane would take up much of the slack involved in upgrading existing vehicles. Eventually, once the tooling from India was in place, they would also begin to manufacture military vehicles.
Until then, each FV430 that arrived at Brown’s Lane would be stripped down, worn components replaced. The old Rolls Royce K60 engine would be removed and replaced by a modern Cummins B series engine with new sand and dust filters. Once that was done, Israeli-designed appliqué armor and a Remote Weapons Station would be added, though not the weapon itself; the army was still debating as to whether the tried and trusted Browning Heavy Machine Gun, or a new FN-designed weapon, the BRG-15, firing a 15.5 x 115 mm cartridge should arm the FV432s. The latter was more powerful and likely to do more damage to a baldrick, but the Browning had the advantage of already being in service in some numbers. The last thing the British Army needed right now was another cartridge on top of the 9mm, 5.56mm, 7.62mm, 8.59mm, and 12.7mm rounds it already employed. The armorers had enough of a headache as it was.
The Saxons, some of which were the Saxon Patrol variant that had replaced the last of the Humber ‘Pigs’ in Northern Ireland, we’re coming in for a slightly different upgrade. Now they were somewhat lacking in offensive capability, a single 7.62mm GPMG was considered inadequate against baldrick attacks. Like the FV430s they would be fitted with an RWS, though for the moment they would be issued to units assigned to the Home Guard rather than being sent out to Iraq. The Saxons, as it turned out, were far easier to work on, and even better, once finished, they could be driven to where they were needed, rather than taking up valuable rail cars and transporter trucks.
Just to make life even easier, the workers who had been made redundant by the collapse of MG Rover and the contraction of the car industry in general in the West Midlands had flocked to get jobs in the new defense-related concerns that had grown up. To its immense relief and surprise, the government had not needed to use its new powers to direct labor to where it was needed. To protect these vital factories from potential baldrick attacks a company of the Home Guard had been formed from the workforce. It was now a common sight to see workers who were not on shift drilling in the car park of Brown’s Lane and the other former car factories in the area. At the moment all they had were L85A3s, a semi-automatic version of the standard SA80 intended for use by cadet forces, though the Brown’s Lane Company had somehow managed to get hold of a Carl Gustav and a few rounds of HEAT and HE. How was probably a question better not asked.
“Well, we’re certainly back in business.” The Works Manager looked at the sight below with satisfaction. Behind him, the representative from Tata Motors nodded with satisfaction. The purchase of the company by the Indian Tata group had caused extreme concern over whether the plant would just be taken off to India and the workers thrown out, but the Tata management had gone out of their way to prove otherwise. Then, The Message had come, and national identity had become very unimportant. Oh, there were a few countries still who were predictably refusing to join the rest of the world’s fight, North Korea being prominent amongst them, but India had thrown all its resources into the human struggle against their enemies. One small part of that effort was this plant here.
“I think it’s time for lunch, don’t you?” The Tata representative had a twinkle in his eye when he asked. The British had always had a love affair with what they called Indian Curry and Tata had brought in staff who knew how to make it properly. As a result, it was quietly acknowledged that the Jaguar works canteen was the best Indian Restaurant in the Midlands. And with food rationing back, a good mid-day meal was something to be treasured. If it didn’t delay the work on the factory floor of course.
Re: 2008 - Armageddon
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Outer Ring, 7th Circle of Hell
The voice was urgent, omnipresent. Corporal Tucker McElroy! Do you hear me?
I hear you! McElroy screamed back in his mind. It wasn't because he realized that he was being contacted via some sort of telepathy; writhing in the river of lava for the last month or so had burned his lungs so badly that he couldn't speak, so this was his only option.
You were killed at Hit, correct?
Affirmative! McElroy bellowed back. I'm burning up here, so please, whoever you are, get me out of here. McElroy remembered his manners at the last moment. “Pardon my bluntness!
Not at all. My name is Kitten. I work for the government. We have been trying to contact all U.S. military personnel killed in action during the first battle with the baldricks. So, are you in a fire? Is there a way out?
It’s some sort of river, of lava. I’ve tried to get out, but I never make it very far. There are baldrick guards on the banks, sooner or later, one of them comes along and pushes me back in. Are you taking a survey or something?
Please climb out now. We're sending in some cover for you, but you need to be on survivable terrain.
That galvanized McElroy. He would have double-blinked if his seared eyelids were still functional. He half-leaped, half swam, and broke the surface of the lava stream. It wasn't quite liquid, wasn’t quite solid and it was certainly more substantial than flames, so with great effort, he could make his way through it. He didn't know how big the river of flaming lava was, but he couldn't see the far shore, in fact, he couldn’t see anything, and his eyeballs were also boiled into uselessness. In any case, he’d never ventured out far enough to try. Most people, including him, spent their burning time marshaling enough strength to crawl out onto the shores of the river for a brief respite. Then, a baldrick would come along, stab the unfortunate soul with a trident, or perhaps its claws, and hurl the screaming creature back into the lake.
McElroy lost count of how many times that had happened to him.
On my way! McElroy shouted. I'll let you know when I'm out.
It didn't take long. Panic-driven instinct combined with this glimmer of hope, and he scrambled out of the flames and onto the rocky shores of the lake. Unmindful of the sizzling hunks of flesh and fat that he left on the ground behind him, he crawled ten meters before he collapsed.
Clear!
He just wanted to close his eyes, but of course, he couldn't. He wanted to breathe again, but he couldn't. The agony slowly dimmed and to his amazement, his sight was already beginning to return. Dim and shadowy but returning. That wasn’t necessarily a good thing, he noted with detached amusement that a demon had already spotted him and was closing quickly, bellowing some pointless taunt or curse. Tucker couldn't tell because his ears were long gone.
Had he dreamed the whole thing? Hallucinating on top of burning in Hell. He would've smiled at the thought, but he already brandished a skeleton's grin. Maybe when his lips grew back, he'd smile again. Now, though, the demon was nearly upon him.
Oh well, back to the lake for him.
Then, the demon did a very strange thing. He was perhaps three meters away when he stopped. McElroy felt a distinct throbbing, a rapid whump-whump-whump of displaced air passing over him. He turned his head the other way.
A mini-Hellmouth dominated the background nearby. In front of it stood four uniformed soldiers, unmistakably United States Marines. They were all firing, unloading their weapons into the demon. It was quite thoroughly dead when they were done.
Corporal! Has the team arrived? Kitten spoke in his mind. The voice was in distinct pain, as though someone was squeezing all the air from Kitten's lungs. To have that kind of effect within thoughts...what the hell was Kitten going through to do this?
And how! They just smoked a baldrick. Merely thinking the words gave him strength enough to stand up. He mused that he must look like Anakin Skywalker at the end of the most recent Star Wars movie, all burnt and freakish. He turned to the four marines and saluted, and they matched him. One of them stepped forward and began to speak, his facemask wobbling slightly as his jaw moved beneath.
He was still deaf, so he couldn't hear what the Marine was saying. Hurry, please! Send them back! Kitten suddenly squealed.
McElroy held up his hand. Pointed to his ears, shook his head. Pointed at the marine, then the portal, and made shooshing motions. The marine stopped, nodded, and passed what looked like an old-fashioned rifle with a wooden stock and a rucksack to McElroy. The four Marines vanished into the portal, which itself closed a second later. He looked at the rifle, recognizing it as an M-1 Garand but with a bigger bore than any Garand he’d ever seen.
You're on your own, Corporal, Kitten said, voice weak and dim. Your orders are to evade and survive. You're among the first we've extracted and armed successfully, so you may be on your own for a while. I'll contact you from time to time. Understood?
Affirmative. Thank you, Kitten. Please pass along the word to my family that I'm out and kicking. He didn't get a reply, but that was alright. McElroy was already scanning the area. The wind was throwing dirt into his unprotected eyes, but he could already see better than just a few minutes before.
The shoreline was deserted, aside from the baldrick corpse. The stream of lava stretched on for miles in each direction, but there was cover further inland, or so it appeared. He squinted; maybe it was an edge of a forest? Or tall grass? Or just a rocky outcrop? His vision was still too bad to tell. At any rate, it would leave him less exposed. He was like a piece of metal in a sand tumbler out here, and the fresh burn wounds were all singing "Ave Maria" as the grime and grit blasted him. They were healing fast though, he could feel his ears returning already.
Placing the Garand and rucksack down for a moment, he went over to the baldrick. It was dead all right, big holes blasted in it and even bigger ones where the bullets had exited the wounds. The monster had nothing he could use, except its trident of course. McElroy hitched his pack to his back, slung the Garand over his shoulder, and took off, running up the shore towards what he could now clearly see was a forest.
Throne Room, Belial’s Palace, Tartarus
Belial's throne room was, in many ways a microcosm of his lord's. A mason would note that the columns were carved of adamantine rather than granite and inlaid with gold and silver rather than sheathed with brass. A soldier's eye would be drawn to the assorted barons in attendance; much of their forms were covered by burnished bronze plates, many with gaudy jewels. At no other court in hell would a demon show weakness by needing armor to protect themselves. Here in Tartarus, the master proclaimed dominance through superior arms and the servants competed to show their devotion to his principles. A politician would ignore these trappings and focus on the occupant of the throne. The Count's face was lined with the rage and exasperation of a master failed utterly by his servants. The skilled politician would look through this to recognize the desperation of a being that believes it is about to miss its only opportunity for survival.
Euryale's eyes took in all of this as the great doors swung open and admitted her to the room, along with one final similarity to the His Infernal Majesty’s court - the gutted carcass of overseer Oodusjarkethat still cooling on the floor. If Count and King shared anything, it was a healthy respect for the demonic tradition of taking out one’s frustrations on one’s underlings. That's the fourth one in as many days she thought. The interrogations were proving disastrous, not only had they failed to produce useful information, but they had cut production to barely a third of its normal level. The lack of success along with Belial's retribution was crippling the demon's morale.
She strode forward into the throne room, flanked on the left by the long slithering form of Baroness Yulupki. As the most powerful of Tartaruan naga, Belial had charged Yulupki with preparing the chorus that would provide most of the power for the portal ceremonies. The first of the foreign naga had begun to arrive, borne on makeshift litters slung between pairs of Great Beasts, and the baroness's already inflated pride had swelled to new heights as she began to drill her expanded chorus into harmony. Euryale was still technically in command of the portal opening, but it was a strained relationship at best. Yulupki wasted no opportunity to demonstrate her kind's great superiority in psychic strength over the gorgons.
Euryale reached the dais and kneeled perfunctorily, but the naga was even quicker.
"Count Belial, my chorusss stands ready. The firssst of the foreigners are being broken in and I forssseee no problems in producing the level of energy you requesssted.", Yulupki hissed eagerly.
She fancies herself a rival for the count's favor thought Euryale, what a ridiculous notion. For a start, she has completely misjudged his mood.
Sure enough, Belial rose to his feet and rebuffed the naga. "And of what use is your snake pile when we have no idea where to strike? Four days! Half our time gone and still no answers. How difficult could it be? Truly you are the dregs of hell, if I cannot even count on you to wring a few simple facts out of an ample supply of apes!"
Yulupki drew back, coiling upon herself and seemingly genuinely bewildered to be the target of the Count's ranting. "Sssire, we naga are ready to play our role... it was the gorgonsss, sssire, who were supposssed to drag the truth out of the humansss. It was Euryale who promisssed to find their armoriesss for you!"
It was an obvious move and Euryale was ready for it. "Sire, no demon can be blamed for the humans behaving so unreasonably. Something strange has gotten into them, something new, as it has their brethren on Earth. Your genius revealed the source of the earth human's new-found power and the stratagem to eliminate it. I am sure that we can discover the source of the slave's unexpected rebelliousness and counter it."
The flattery went down smoothly, and Belial sank back into his throne, his ranting abating to grumbling. "If that hag Deumos would just send me some succubi we'd have answers in no time."
Euryale gritted her teeth. Every gorgon quickly became used to being told they were not as effective at persuading humans as succubi, much weaker fliers than harpies, less powerful witches than naga, poorer fighters than a common lesser demon. And yet there was truth in his words, something odd had happened to Deumos over the last few days. She’d become reserved, distant as if she were watching and calculating rather than participating. That didn’t change the fact that few demons appreciated the flexibility and fewer still valued intelligence over brute strength. Belial usually did and that was the one thing that made being his consort tolerable, but sometimes even he succumbed to the official propaganda that cast the gorgon race as a failed experiment. She had long since learned to bide her time and treat the other demon's scorn as a blind spot to be exploited.
"Belial, succubi would not help. They'd get the humans talking all right, every single one would say whatever he thought the harlot wanted to hear. It would take weeks to sort out the sincere ones and even longer to find the useful ones." The truth of her words was plain, and the count slumped deeper into his throne.
Euryale paced in front of the dais, her tail lashing across the floor, thinking out loud. "Collective punishment isn't working. The humans were already becoming inured to torture and now they think they can accomplish something by resisting. There are far too many to interrogate each one fully in the time we have. They now resist enthrallment so strongly that when we barb them repeatedly, they go almost immediately from refusing to talk to say whatever they think we want to hear."
Her thoughts were interrupted by one of the barons speaking up. "With all the chaos out there, we can't afford to lose a significant number of humans anyway, who knows when we'd get fresh ones sent up." Others began to whisper to each other and murmuring filled the chamber.
Euryale shook her head. Guruktarqor's statement was correct but irrelevant. The key question was... where was the human resolve to deny them answers coming from? They were actively killing their own kind to deny the demon’s answers. She found it hard to believe they were just being perverse. What did it look like from the human’s point of view? Information about weapons, needed urgently, could only mean the demons were fighting humans somewhere. With that thought, understanding dawned.
"I see it now." Euryale's voice rang out clearly and caught the attention of every demon in the throne room. "By asking such direct questions, we have acted as unwitting carriers of the disease of hope. Clearly, all humans are inherently prone to the insane belief that they can prevail against the forces of hell. It took hold on earth and drove them to create magic weapons that seemed powerful enough to justify their belief. Now thanks to our actions it had taken hold here too."
"What is that antidote for hope?" she continued. "We know it well, despair, the proper natural state of a human. But merely restoring despair is not enough, for apathy does not serve our purpose. We must corrupt their newly minted hope into selfish desires, harness it to drive the humans we want, and only the humans we want, to step forward."
Euryale paused for a moment to let her words sink in and Yulupki took the opportunity to heckle. "Pretty ssspeech gorgon, but just how do you propossse to do that? You are no sssuccubusss, to manipulate the humansss emotionsss at a whim."
The gorgon flicked the naga a look of contempt, more for her utter predictability than anything else.
"I propose that we take the humans from one mine and have my gorgons enthrall them all. We will convince them that they are recent arrivals from the earth and that the armies of hell are already marching triumphantly across the planet. But there are many fortified cities that will take long sieges to reduce. We must make it clear that the humans are doomed, but that it will take us many years and many demons lives to eliminate them all unless we can strip them of their weapons. We will release these humans individually into the other mines. Finally, we will present the humans with a new, false hope. Any human who gives us the information we seek will be released from bondage and held in quarters on the surface. We will promise that should their information proves correct, the next human city to attempt surrender will be spared and given to them to rule. If it proves useless, they will suffer the personal attention of our best torturers and then be eaten alive."
The whole court was stunned. Euryale's plan was so radical, so ambitious in its exploitation of the human mindset that they did not know what to make of it. Every head turned to look at the Count, looking for his cue on whether to treat this gorgon as a genius or a lunatic. For a long moment, Belial's face remained impassive, unreadable. Then it broke into a vicious grin.
"I find your suggestion most suitable Euryale."
She inclined her head. "With my lord's permission."
"Granted. All of you, give her whatever she needs."
Euryale turned and fixed Yulupki with a predatory glare, which for a gorgon meant a scaled face framed by no less than twenty-four spine-fringed tendril eyes staring blankly at her target. The naga's will broke and she hung her head, coiling around herself and folding her own tentacles behind her back in submission. Thus vindicated, Euryale swept out of the throne room, her wings fluttering impatiently while she barked orders to the retinue now trailing behind her.
Belial was still smiling. She regularly failed to give him due respect, and this display had been forwardness bordering on insubordination, but somehow, he still enjoyed being reminded just why he kept that gorgon around.
Outer Ring, 7th Circle of Hell
The voice was urgent, omnipresent. Corporal Tucker McElroy! Do you hear me?
I hear you! McElroy screamed back in his mind. It wasn't because he realized that he was being contacted via some sort of telepathy; writhing in the river of lava for the last month or so had burned his lungs so badly that he couldn't speak, so this was his only option.
You were killed at Hit, correct?
Affirmative! McElroy bellowed back. I'm burning up here, so please, whoever you are, get me out of here. McElroy remembered his manners at the last moment. “Pardon my bluntness!
Not at all. My name is Kitten. I work for the government. We have been trying to contact all U.S. military personnel killed in action during the first battle with the baldricks. So, are you in a fire? Is there a way out?
It’s some sort of river, of lava. I’ve tried to get out, but I never make it very far. There are baldrick guards on the banks, sooner or later, one of them comes along and pushes me back in. Are you taking a survey or something?
Please climb out now. We're sending in some cover for you, but you need to be on survivable terrain.
That galvanized McElroy. He would have double-blinked if his seared eyelids were still functional. He half-leaped, half swam, and broke the surface of the lava stream. It wasn't quite liquid, wasn’t quite solid and it was certainly more substantial than flames, so with great effort, he could make his way through it. He didn't know how big the river of flaming lava was, but he couldn't see the far shore, in fact, he couldn’t see anything, and his eyeballs were also boiled into uselessness. In any case, he’d never ventured out far enough to try. Most people, including him, spent their burning time marshaling enough strength to crawl out onto the shores of the river for a brief respite. Then, a baldrick would come along, stab the unfortunate soul with a trident, or perhaps its claws, and hurl the screaming creature back into the lake.
McElroy lost count of how many times that had happened to him.
On my way! McElroy shouted. I'll let you know when I'm out.
It didn't take long. Panic-driven instinct combined with this glimmer of hope, and he scrambled out of the flames and onto the rocky shores of the lake. Unmindful of the sizzling hunks of flesh and fat that he left on the ground behind him, he crawled ten meters before he collapsed.
Clear!
He just wanted to close his eyes, but of course, he couldn't. He wanted to breathe again, but he couldn't. The agony slowly dimmed and to his amazement, his sight was already beginning to return. Dim and shadowy but returning. That wasn’t necessarily a good thing, he noted with detached amusement that a demon had already spotted him and was closing quickly, bellowing some pointless taunt or curse. Tucker couldn't tell because his ears were long gone.
Had he dreamed the whole thing? Hallucinating on top of burning in Hell. He would've smiled at the thought, but he already brandished a skeleton's grin. Maybe when his lips grew back, he'd smile again. Now, though, the demon was nearly upon him.
Oh well, back to the lake for him.
Then, the demon did a very strange thing. He was perhaps three meters away when he stopped. McElroy felt a distinct throbbing, a rapid whump-whump-whump of displaced air passing over him. He turned his head the other way.
A mini-Hellmouth dominated the background nearby. In front of it stood four uniformed soldiers, unmistakably United States Marines. They were all firing, unloading their weapons into the demon. It was quite thoroughly dead when they were done.
Corporal! Has the team arrived? Kitten spoke in his mind. The voice was in distinct pain, as though someone was squeezing all the air from Kitten's lungs. To have that kind of effect within thoughts...what the hell was Kitten going through to do this?
And how! They just smoked a baldrick. Merely thinking the words gave him strength enough to stand up. He mused that he must look like Anakin Skywalker at the end of the most recent Star Wars movie, all burnt and freakish. He turned to the four marines and saluted, and they matched him. One of them stepped forward and began to speak, his facemask wobbling slightly as his jaw moved beneath.
He was still deaf, so he couldn't hear what the Marine was saying. Hurry, please! Send them back! Kitten suddenly squealed.
McElroy held up his hand. Pointed to his ears, shook his head. Pointed at the marine, then the portal, and made shooshing motions. The marine stopped, nodded, and passed what looked like an old-fashioned rifle with a wooden stock and a rucksack to McElroy. The four Marines vanished into the portal, which itself closed a second later. He looked at the rifle, recognizing it as an M-1 Garand but with a bigger bore than any Garand he’d ever seen.
You're on your own, Corporal, Kitten said, voice weak and dim. Your orders are to evade and survive. You're among the first we've extracted and armed successfully, so you may be on your own for a while. I'll contact you from time to time. Understood?
Affirmative. Thank you, Kitten. Please pass along the word to my family that I'm out and kicking. He didn't get a reply, but that was alright. McElroy was already scanning the area. The wind was throwing dirt into his unprotected eyes, but he could already see better than just a few minutes before.
The shoreline was deserted, aside from the baldrick corpse. The stream of lava stretched on for miles in each direction, but there was cover further inland, or so it appeared. He squinted; maybe it was an edge of a forest? Or tall grass? Or just a rocky outcrop? His vision was still too bad to tell. At any rate, it would leave him less exposed. He was like a piece of metal in a sand tumbler out here, and the fresh burn wounds were all singing "Ave Maria" as the grime and grit blasted him. They were healing fast though, he could feel his ears returning already.
Placing the Garand and rucksack down for a moment, he went over to the baldrick. It was dead all right, big holes blasted in it and even bigger ones where the bullets had exited the wounds. The monster had nothing he could use, except its trident of course. McElroy hitched his pack to his back, slung the Garand over his shoulder, and took off, running up the shore towards what he could now clearly see was a forest.
Throne Room, Belial’s Palace, Tartarus
Belial's throne room was, in many ways a microcosm of his lord's. A mason would note that the columns were carved of adamantine rather than granite and inlaid with gold and silver rather than sheathed with brass. A soldier's eye would be drawn to the assorted barons in attendance; much of their forms were covered by burnished bronze plates, many with gaudy jewels. At no other court in hell would a demon show weakness by needing armor to protect themselves. Here in Tartarus, the master proclaimed dominance through superior arms and the servants competed to show their devotion to his principles. A politician would ignore these trappings and focus on the occupant of the throne. The Count's face was lined with the rage and exasperation of a master failed utterly by his servants. The skilled politician would look through this to recognize the desperation of a being that believes it is about to miss its only opportunity for survival.
Euryale's eyes took in all of this as the great doors swung open and admitted her to the room, along with one final similarity to the His Infernal Majesty’s court - the gutted carcass of overseer Oodusjarkethat still cooling on the floor. If Count and King shared anything, it was a healthy respect for the demonic tradition of taking out one’s frustrations on one’s underlings. That's the fourth one in as many days she thought. The interrogations were proving disastrous, not only had they failed to produce useful information, but they had cut production to barely a third of its normal level. The lack of success along with Belial's retribution was crippling the demon's morale.
She strode forward into the throne room, flanked on the left by the long slithering form of Baroness Yulupki. As the most powerful of Tartaruan naga, Belial had charged Yulupki with preparing the chorus that would provide most of the power for the portal ceremonies. The first of the foreign naga had begun to arrive, borne on makeshift litters slung between pairs of Great Beasts, and the baroness's already inflated pride had swelled to new heights as she began to drill her expanded chorus into harmony. Euryale was still technically in command of the portal opening, but it was a strained relationship at best. Yulupki wasted no opportunity to demonstrate her kind's great superiority in psychic strength over the gorgons.
Euryale reached the dais and kneeled perfunctorily, but the naga was even quicker.
"Count Belial, my chorusss stands ready. The firssst of the foreigners are being broken in and I forssseee no problems in producing the level of energy you requesssted.", Yulupki hissed eagerly.
She fancies herself a rival for the count's favor thought Euryale, what a ridiculous notion. For a start, she has completely misjudged his mood.
Sure enough, Belial rose to his feet and rebuffed the naga. "And of what use is your snake pile when we have no idea where to strike? Four days! Half our time gone and still no answers. How difficult could it be? Truly you are the dregs of hell, if I cannot even count on you to wring a few simple facts out of an ample supply of apes!"
Yulupki drew back, coiling upon herself and seemingly genuinely bewildered to be the target of the Count's ranting. "Sssire, we naga are ready to play our role... it was the gorgonsss, sssire, who were supposssed to drag the truth out of the humansss. It was Euryale who promisssed to find their armoriesss for you!"
It was an obvious move and Euryale was ready for it. "Sire, no demon can be blamed for the humans behaving so unreasonably. Something strange has gotten into them, something new, as it has their brethren on Earth. Your genius revealed the source of the earth human's new-found power and the stratagem to eliminate it. I am sure that we can discover the source of the slave's unexpected rebelliousness and counter it."
The flattery went down smoothly, and Belial sank back into his throne, his ranting abating to grumbling. "If that hag Deumos would just send me some succubi we'd have answers in no time."
Euryale gritted her teeth. Every gorgon quickly became used to being told they were not as effective at persuading humans as succubi, much weaker fliers than harpies, less powerful witches than naga, poorer fighters than a common lesser demon. And yet there was truth in his words, something odd had happened to Deumos over the last few days. She’d become reserved, distant as if she were watching and calculating rather than participating. That didn’t change the fact that few demons appreciated the flexibility and fewer still valued intelligence over brute strength. Belial usually did and that was the one thing that made being his consort tolerable, but sometimes even he succumbed to the official propaganda that cast the gorgon race as a failed experiment. She had long since learned to bide her time and treat the other demon's scorn as a blind spot to be exploited.
"Belial, succubi would not help. They'd get the humans talking all right, every single one would say whatever he thought the harlot wanted to hear. It would take weeks to sort out the sincere ones and even longer to find the useful ones." The truth of her words was plain, and the count slumped deeper into his throne.
Euryale paced in front of the dais, her tail lashing across the floor, thinking out loud. "Collective punishment isn't working. The humans were already becoming inured to torture and now they think they can accomplish something by resisting. There are far too many to interrogate each one fully in the time we have. They now resist enthrallment so strongly that when we barb them repeatedly, they go almost immediately from refusing to talk to say whatever they think we want to hear."
Her thoughts were interrupted by one of the barons speaking up. "With all the chaos out there, we can't afford to lose a significant number of humans anyway, who knows when we'd get fresh ones sent up." Others began to whisper to each other and murmuring filled the chamber.
Euryale shook her head. Guruktarqor's statement was correct but irrelevant. The key question was... where was the human resolve to deny them answers coming from? They were actively killing their own kind to deny the demon’s answers. She found it hard to believe they were just being perverse. What did it look like from the human’s point of view? Information about weapons, needed urgently, could only mean the demons were fighting humans somewhere. With that thought, understanding dawned.
"I see it now." Euryale's voice rang out clearly and caught the attention of every demon in the throne room. "By asking such direct questions, we have acted as unwitting carriers of the disease of hope. Clearly, all humans are inherently prone to the insane belief that they can prevail against the forces of hell. It took hold on earth and drove them to create magic weapons that seemed powerful enough to justify their belief. Now thanks to our actions it had taken hold here too."
"What is that antidote for hope?" she continued. "We know it well, despair, the proper natural state of a human. But merely restoring despair is not enough, for apathy does not serve our purpose. We must corrupt their newly minted hope into selfish desires, harness it to drive the humans we want, and only the humans we want, to step forward."
Euryale paused for a moment to let her words sink in and Yulupki took the opportunity to heckle. "Pretty ssspeech gorgon, but just how do you propossse to do that? You are no sssuccubusss, to manipulate the humansss emotionsss at a whim."
The gorgon flicked the naga a look of contempt, more for her utter predictability than anything else.
"I propose that we take the humans from one mine and have my gorgons enthrall them all. We will convince them that they are recent arrivals from the earth and that the armies of hell are already marching triumphantly across the planet. But there are many fortified cities that will take long sieges to reduce. We must make it clear that the humans are doomed, but that it will take us many years and many demons lives to eliminate them all unless we can strip them of their weapons. We will release these humans individually into the other mines. Finally, we will present the humans with a new, false hope. Any human who gives us the information we seek will be released from bondage and held in quarters on the surface. We will promise that should their information proves correct, the next human city to attempt surrender will be spared and given to them to rule. If it proves useless, they will suffer the personal attention of our best torturers and then be eaten alive."
The whole court was stunned. Euryale's plan was so radical, so ambitious in its exploitation of the human mindset that they did not know what to make of it. Every head turned to look at the Count, looking for his cue on whether to treat this gorgon as a genius or a lunatic. For a long moment, Belial's face remained impassive, unreadable. Then it broke into a vicious grin.
"I find your suggestion most suitable Euryale."
She inclined her head. "With my lord's permission."
"Granted. All of you, give her whatever she needs."
Euryale turned and fixed Yulupki with a predatory glare, which for a gorgon meant a scaled face framed by no less than twenty-four spine-fringed tendril eyes staring blankly at her target. The naga's will broke and she hung her head, coiling around herself and folding her own tentacles behind her back in submission. Thus vindicated, Euryale swept out of the throne room, her wings fluttering impatiently while she barked orders to the retinue now trailing behind her.
Belial was still smiling. She regularly failed to give him due respect, and this display had been forwardness bordering on insubordination, but somehow, he still enjoyed being reminded just why he kept that gorgon around.
Re: 2008 - Armageddon
Chapter Forty
The Phlegethon Bridge, Dysprosium Highway, Hell
“Well, it’s not boiling blood.” Captain Keisha Stevenson looked at the scene through her electro-optics. It was one of almost pastoral beauty, the angry, gray, and red sky, the yellow-green river, the blackened-red grass, and the shining black demons on guard around the bridge. Thinking over the definition of pastoral beauty, she decided that she had an unexpected talent for irony.
“Will you look at those mothers? Never seen anything like them before.” Baldy was using his gunner’s sight to look at the scene. “Big, aren’t they?”
“Big,” Stevenson spoke agreeably. “As big as the ones who started this whole mess off. That means they will take a battering before they go down. How many hits did that one outside Moscow take?”
“Most of a tank battalion so I heard. But then they didn’t know what we know now.”
“True. Okay. Load HEAT.” Stevenson flipped over to her company command net. “All Alpha vehicles, we have some new baldricks ahead of us. They look like the warriors we’ve been whacking to date but these ones are about 40 feet high. Force count is nine, one of their squads by the look of it. Alpha and Bravo platoons, we’ll attack them, nothing elaborate, straight at them shooting as we go. Charlie section keeps your Bradleys here, once we’ve cleared the big guys, you go straight over the bridge and lay that group of buildings to waste. Don’t leave anything standing. Then, get back this side and we’ll blow the bridge. Understood?”
The acknowledgments came over the radio. Stevenson flipped back to her intra-vehicle comms. “Right Biker takes us down. And try and keep it smooth, we’re a long way from home to be wasting ammo.”
Five thousand meters away, Sanskiworlanaskim was bitterly annoyed at being told to guard a bridge. Perhaps, guard was the wrong word, control might be a bit closer. There were rumors that the humans were raiding into Hell itself, their Iron Chariots ranging over Dysprosium, destroying everything they found. The stories were incomprehensible, the humans weren’t trying to seize anything, they just came, destroyed, and left. The accounts had to be those of terrified refugees, some of a steadily increasing stream that was coming back from the settlements on Dysprosium. That was why his unit, a part of Satan’s own private guard, was here on this bridge. The last thing His Infernal Majesty needed at this point was to have a load of cowardly refugees spreading their panic-stricken stories across Hell. His orders were quite clear, turn them back and if they wouldn’t go back, kill them.
“Turn Out the Guard!” The cry jarred Sanskiworlanaskim out of his reverie. He took an appalling look across the ground, there were eight clouds of dust moving towards the bridge. For a brief second, he thought they were more groups of refugees but that didn’t last for more than a second. At the foot of the cloud, moving terrifyingly fast were the squat shapes of Iron Chariots, the odd rectangular shape on top already swinging in his direction. Then, another cloud of dust, an odd one like a ball in front of the Chariot, and a red streak leaped out towards where the bridge guard was waiting. Sanskiworlanaskim saw it hit one of the guardsman square in the chest, rocking him back on his feet as an orange fireball erupted in front of him.
This was unthinkable, His Infernal Majesties own guard under attack? This was just not permitted, to disobey one of the Guard, let alone attack them was punishable by the most horrible death Satan could imagine. Sanskiworlanaskim admitted to himself that Satan really did have a vivid imagination of such things. In the brief second that the reflection had taken, the stricken guardsman had dropped to his knees, purple blood pouring from the gaping hole burned deep into his chest. More fire-lances struck around them, the ground erupting where they impacted. The humans were missing. The whispered rumors from the destruction of Abigor’s Army were that the human fire lances never missed. Or was that the Seeker Lances? Or both.
Then, a burning, agonizing pain in his leg. Sanskiworlanaskim looked down, the wound was a slight one, just a line slashed through his skin, but it burned as if he was in the lava pits of the depths. Then, he understood, that the wound was from a fire-lance fragment and the fragments were made of iron. Demons and iron didn’t get along very well. That’s why iron was forbidden in hell, another rule the humans were too treacherous to obey.
The Chariots had closed still further so Sanskiworlanaskim dropped to one knee and aimed his trident carefully. He could feel his body pouring magic into it, felt the energy surging through him and depositing in the shaft of the trident and boosting its power up higher. Then, when it could hold no more, he pushed the haft forward so that it contacted the copper core of the weapon, and the magic discharged in a brilliant lightning bolt that left the three tines and streaked across to hit one of the Iron Chariots.
“Wow, that smarts.” Stevenson had felt the electric shock in her seat, the tank’s frontal armor was non-conductive, but enough power had leaked through to give the crew a bad shock. “You guys?”
“I thought the electric chair had been declared unconstitutional?” Crabs sounded aggrieved.
“Fire control computer went down Hooters. It’s coming back up now, the Tempest hardening worked fine.”
Stevenson nodded to herself and flipped to the Company net. “Anyone else cop a burst like that?”
“Bravo-Three Ma’am. We took one as well and lost the fire control and engine control computers for a second. Back up now, no apparent damage. These guys throw the big bolts.”
“Sure do, take them down.” There was another crash as her tank’s main gun fired. The shot was wild, heading over the river to somewhere else. “All vehicles, slow right down and make aimed shots only.”
In the guard post by the bridge, Sanskiworlanaskim was trying to understand what was happening. The post itself had gone, fire lances had hit it and it had flown apart with the impact, dissolving in the red balls that marked the fire lance’s anger. Six of the guardsmen were down, their wounds bleeding purple and stained with copper. That was something else Sanskiworlanaskim could not understand, how did a fire lance blast copper so deep into its victims. One thing Sanskiworlanaskim did understand was that he too was dying. A fire lance had hit him low down in his stomach, and he could feel the burned tissue deep inside him. The copper was inside him as well, he could feel it grinding at his guts as it turned solid.
Out front the Iron Chariots had stopped and were standing off, firing their fire-lances into the wreckage of the bridge. His sight dimming, Sanskiworlanaskim saw another fire lance coming straight for him. He never got to see the explosion.
40 minutes later. The Phlegethon Bridge, Dysprosium Highway, Hell
“I didn’t expect to see you here.”
“We’ve got new engine filters and there’s an experimental coating on the blades. We’ve lost a lot of performance, but we can fly. Just keep it slow and steady.” The Osprey pilot looked at his cargo being unloaded. “And don’t overload the bird.”
“So we’ve got to stay here?” Stevenson’s voice was disbelieving.
“That’s right. This is the new forward base. You should see Hell-Alpha, there’s work all over. Even building a runway. Oh yes, Petraeus asked me to give you these.” Captain Mark Sheppard reached into a pocket and gave Stevenson a small box, one that contained two gold oak leaves. “Congratulations Major. The General asked me to reassure you that as soon as you’re relieved here, you’ll be going back to our world. I think he has a battalion waiting for you. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must get back to base before the engines seize up.” He looked fondly at the Osprey. “I sure do love this bird though.”
Overseer Barracks, Kubelethakka Drift Mine, Tartarus
"We are done here. Take it away, bring me a fresh one."
The overseer gave a sharp tug on the brass chain connected to the human's collar, jerking the still slightly dazed creature off its feet. Lakheenahuknaasi sighed. She had long since ceased to be amused by such petty cruelty, but the lesser demons never seemed to tire of it. Still, it might be uncreative, but every little torment contributed to keeping the humans bleeding out precious spiritual energy. Euryale's quotas were strict though and she wasn't going to let this simpleton make her miss it.
"Now!" Lakheenahuknaasi hissed, baring her black poison tentacles at the overseer, who grudgingly stopped kicking the fallen man and backed off. The human managed to regain its footing, only lightly gashed by the rocky floor, and was quickly dragged away. Within seconds a new human was shoved into her niche. This one had skin the color of sulfur. After a few centuries in hell, it took a lot to scare a typical human, but Lakheenahuknaasi's stare was enough to reduce most to gibbering. It wasn't so much her bronze-scaled face or slitted golden pupils as the writhing cloud of black and red tentacles that surrounded her head, each tipped by four spines and a single unblinking eye. This specimen was kept whispering "Yato-no-kami, Yato-no-kami!", whatever that meant.
Six ought to do it Lakheenahuknaasi thought, gauging the human's body mass. A pair of the red tentacles idly trained themselves on the prey, and with a wet crackling noise, a flurry of spines leaped from their tips to embed themselves in the man's shoulders. He screamed and writhed, futilely seeking some means of escape. The venom worked quickly however and in less than a minute his struggles had subsided into docility.
She shifted back on her haunches, considering what history to give this one. "What is your name?"
"Hijikata Katamori"
"You lived in Tokyo. It held for many weeks, but it was eventually reduced by the legions of Merafawlazes."
"No, I lived... wait... the forces of Yomi assaulted Edo? What became of Shogun Ieharu?"
"All the humans were slaughtered. Their defiance bought them only ruin. Their iron chariots killed many demons, but they could not save them in the end."
"Iron chariots?" asked Katamori, "That sounds impractical."
Lakheenahuknaasi slapped the human roughly across the face. Her claws left deep scratches on the man's cheek. "Listen carefully. You watched the fire throwers on the city walls kill many of our cavalry, but once they revealed themselves, they were destroyed by our fliers. You ran from the walls as they were scaled by our infantry. The lightning from their tridents cut down humans to your left, to your right, but you found shelter."
Katamori nodded vaguely, beginning to get into the fantasy. I hid behind an overturned cart. The lightning set it on fire.
"You tried to hide but it was hopeless."
"We hid in the ruins, but they had magic that could track us unfailingly!" Katamori could see the scene vividly in his mind.
"You were caught and executed."
"They ate the children as if they were delicacies! For a moment I thought I had been spared, but then flying beasts swooped down and set the whole city aflame! One passed over me... and... I was burned alive..." he sobbed.
And that's enough of that thought Lakheenahuknaasi. This one must be a peasant that he knows nothing of the iron chariots, probably died in a house fire, no sense wasting more time on him. Now for the finishing touch...
This time it was a black tentacle that fired a pair of spines, which bored straight into the human's neck. Again, the man reeled, trying to scream but this time no sound would come. Euryale had discovered this technique and instructed all the gorgons in its use; a moderate dose of poison delivered directly to the brain would scramble the human's memories just enough to imitate a fresh arrival, which was almost always slightly crazed. As a side benefit, it tended to hide the flaws in their stories.
Lakheenahuknaasi's forked tongue flicked out and licked the traces of blood from her claws. "This one is done. Next!"
Base Camp, Outer Ring, Seventh Circle of Hell
McElroy was running the hand-crank on the universal charger when Kitten's voice penetrated his thoughts. Corporal McElroy, are you there? May we speak now?
Sure thing, my dear. McElroy smiled, despite himself. How've you been? Are they treating' you OK?
I'm fine, and I've been treated very well.
Well, that's great to hear. McElroy stopped charging and lifted the lid on the laptop. It was a military-grade device, built to withstand just about anything you'd expect in a hostile environment. It booted to life quickly. Shall we get down to business?
Yes, please.
McElroy went over his notes. This appears to be a rural region of Hell. Based on the information contained in the laptop here, it'd be extremely difficult to hook up with any of the current cells of the PFLH. I've observed no geographical features or landmarks that match anything described or photographed by those cells. I have been photographing my surroundings and attempting to map my location, though I never was much for computers.
The Phlegethon Bridge, Dysprosium Highway, Hell
“Well, it’s not boiling blood.” Captain Keisha Stevenson looked at the scene through her electro-optics. It was one of almost pastoral beauty, the angry, gray, and red sky, the yellow-green river, the blackened-red grass, and the shining black demons on guard around the bridge. Thinking over the definition of pastoral beauty, she decided that she had an unexpected talent for irony.
“Will you look at those mothers? Never seen anything like them before.” Baldy was using his gunner’s sight to look at the scene. “Big, aren’t they?”
“Big,” Stevenson spoke agreeably. “As big as the ones who started this whole mess off. That means they will take a battering before they go down. How many hits did that one outside Moscow take?”
“Most of a tank battalion so I heard. But then they didn’t know what we know now.”
“True. Okay. Load HEAT.” Stevenson flipped over to her company command net. “All Alpha vehicles, we have some new baldricks ahead of us. They look like the warriors we’ve been whacking to date but these ones are about 40 feet high. Force count is nine, one of their squads by the look of it. Alpha and Bravo platoons, we’ll attack them, nothing elaborate, straight at them shooting as we go. Charlie section keeps your Bradleys here, once we’ve cleared the big guys, you go straight over the bridge and lay that group of buildings to waste. Don’t leave anything standing. Then, get back this side and we’ll blow the bridge. Understood?”
The acknowledgments came over the radio. Stevenson flipped back to her intra-vehicle comms. “Right Biker takes us down. And try and keep it smooth, we’re a long way from home to be wasting ammo.”
Five thousand meters away, Sanskiworlanaskim was bitterly annoyed at being told to guard a bridge. Perhaps, guard was the wrong word, control might be a bit closer. There were rumors that the humans were raiding into Hell itself, their Iron Chariots ranging over Dysprosium, destroying everything they found. The stories were incomprehensible, the humans weren’t trying to seize anything, they just came, destroyed, and left. The accounts had to be those of terrified refugees, some of a steadily increasing stream that was coming back from the settlements on Dysprosium. That was why his unit, a part of Satan’s own private guard, was here on this bridge. The last thing His Infernal Majesty needed at this point was to have a load of cowardly refugees spreading their panic-stricken stories across Hell. His orders were quite clear, turn them back and if they wouldn’t go back, kill them.
“Turn Out the Guard!” The cry jarred Sanskiworlanaskim out of his reverie. He took an appalling look across the ground, there were eight clouds of dust moving towards the bridge. For a brief second, he thought they were more groups of refugees but that didn’t last for more than a second. At the foot of the cloud, moving terrifyingly fast were the squat shapes of Iron Chariots, the odd rectangular shape on top already swinging in his direction. Then, another cloud of dust, an odd one like a ball in front of the Chariot, and a red streak leaped out towards where the bridge guard was waiting. Sanskiworlanaskim saw it hit one of the guardsman square in the chest, rocking him back on his feet as an orange fireball erupted in front of him.
This was unthinkable, His Infernal Majesties own guard under attack? This was just not permitted, to disobey one of the Guard, let alone attack them was punishable by the most horrible death Satan could imagine. Sanskiworlanaskim admitted to himself that Satan really did have a vivid imagination of such things. In the brief second that the reflection had taken, the stricken guardsman had dropped to his knees, purple blood pouring from the gaping hole burned deep into his chest. More fire-lances struck around them, the ground erupting where they impacted. The humans were missing. The whispered rumors from the destruction of Abigor’s Army were that the human fire lances never missed. Or was that the Seeker Lances? Or both.
Then, a burning, agonizing pain in his leg. Sanskiworlanaskim looked down, the wound was a slight one, just a line slashed through his skin, but it burned as if he was in the lava pits of the depths. Then, he understood, that the wound was from a fire-lance fragment and the fragments were made of iron. Demons and iron didn’t get along very well. That’s why iron was forbidden in hell, another rule the humans were too treacherous to obey.
The Chariots had closed still further so Sanskiworlanaskim dropped to one knee and aimed his trident carefully. He could feel his body pouring magic into it, felt the energy surging through him and depositing in the shaft of the trident and boosting its power up higher. Then, when it could hold no more, he pushed the haft forward so that it contacted the copper core of the weapon, and the magic discharged in a brilliant lightning bolt that left the three tines and streaked across to hit one of the Iron Chariots.
“Wow, that smarts.” Stevenson had felt the electric shock in her seat, the tank’s frontal armor was non-conductive, but enough power had leaked through to give the crew a bad shock. “You guys?”
“I thought the electric chair had been declared unconstitutional?” Crabs sounded aggrieved.
“Fire control computer went down Hooters. It’s coming back up now, the Tempest hardening worked fine.”
Stevenson nodded to herself and flipped to the Company net. “Anyone else cop a burst like that?”
“Bravo-Three Ma’am. We took one as well and lost the fire control and engine control computers for a second. Back up now, no apparent damage. These guys throw the big bolts.”
“Sure do, take them down.” There was another crash as her tank’s main gun fired. The shot was wild, heading over the river to somewhere else. “All vehicles, slow right down and make aimed shots only.”
In the guard post by the bridge, Sanskiworlanaskim was trying to understand what was happening. The post itself had gone, fire lances had hit it and it had flown apart with the impact, dissolving in the red balls that marked the fire lance’s anger. Six of the guardsmen were down, their wounds bleeding purple and stained with copper. That was something else Sanskiworlanaskim could not understand, how did a fire lance blast copper so deep into its victims. One thing Sanskiworlanaskim did understand was that he too was dying. A fire lance had hit him low down in his stomach, and he could feel the burned tissue deep inside him. The copper was inside him as well, he could feel it grinding at his guts as it turned solid.
Out front the Iron Chariots had stopped and were standing off, firing their fire-lances into the wreckage of the bridge. His sight dimming, Sanskiworlanaskim saw another fire lance coming straight for him. He never got to see the explosion.
40 minutes later. The Phlegethon Bridge, Dysprosium Highway, Hell
“I didn’t expect to see you here.”
“We’ve got new engine filters and there’s an experimental coating on the blades. We’ve lost a lot of performance, but we can fly. Just keep it slow and steady.” The Osprey pilot looked at his cargo being unloaded. “And don’t overload the bird.”
“So we’ve got to stay here?” Stevenson’s voice was disbelieving.
“That’s right. This is the new forward base. You should see Hell-Alpha, there’s work all over. Even building a runway. Oh yes, Petraeus asked me to give you these.” Captain Mark Sheppard reached into a pocket and gave Stevenson a small box, one that contained two gold oak leaves. “Congratulations Major. The General asked me to reassure you that as soon as you’re relieved here, you’ll be going back to our world. I think he has a battalion waiting for you. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must get back to base before the engines seize up.” He looked fondly at the Osprey. “I sure do love this bird though.”
Overseer Barracks, Kubelethakka Drift Mine, Tartarus
"We are done here. Take it away, bring me a fresh one."
The overseer gave a sharp tug on the brass chain connected to the human's collar, jerking the still slightly dazed creature off its feet. Lakheenahuknaasi sighed. She had long since ceased to be amused by such petty cruelty, but the lesser demons never seemed to tire of it. Still, it might be uncreative, but every little torment contributed to keeping the humans bleeding out precious spiritual energy. Euryale's quotas were strict though and she wasn't going to let this simpleton make her miss it.
"Now!" Lakheenahuknaasi hissed, baring her black poison tentacles at the overseer, who grudgingly stopped kicking the fallen man and backed off. The human managed to regain its footing, only lightly gashed by the rocky floor, and was quickly dragged away. Within seconds a new human was shoved into her niche. This one had skin the color of sulfur. After a few centuries in hell, it took a lot to scare a typical human, but Lakheenahuknaasi's stare was enough to reduce most to gibbering. It wasn't so much her bronze-scaled face or slitted golden pupils as the writhing cloud of black and red tentacles that surrounded her head, each tipped by four spines and a single unblinking eye. This specimen was kept whispering "Yato-no-kami, Yato-no-kami!", whatever that meant.
Six ought to do it Lakheenahuknaasi thought, gauging the human's body mass. A pair of the red tentacles idly trained themselves on the prey, and with a wet crackling noise, a flurry of spines leaped from their tips to embed themselves in the man's shoulders. He screamed and writhed, futilely seeking some means of escape. The venom worked quickly however and in less than a minute his struggles had subsided into docility.
She shifted back on her haunches, considering what history to give this one. "What is your name?"
"Hijikata Katamori"
"You lived in Tokyo. It held for many weeks, but it was eventually reduced by the legions of Merafawlazes."
"No, I lived... wait... the forces of Yomi assaulted Edo? What became of Shogun Ieharu?"
"All the humans were slaughtered. Their defiance bought them only ruin. Their iron chariots killed many demons, but they could not save them in the end."
"Iron chariots?" asked Katamori, "That sounds impractical."
Lakheenahuknaasi slapped the human roughly across the face. Her claws left deep scratches on the man's cheek. "Listen carefully. You watched the fire throwers on the city walls kill many of our cavalry, but once they revealed themselves, they were destroyed by our fliers. You ran from the walls as they were scaled by our infantry. The lightning from their tridents cut down humans to your left, to your right, but you found shelter."
Katamori nodded vaguely, beginning to get into the fantasy. I hid behind an overturned cart. The lightning set it on fire.
"You tried to hide but it was hopeless."
"We hid in the ruins, but they had magic that could track us unfailingly!" Katamori could see the scene vividly in his mind.
"You were caught and executed."
"They ate the children as if they were delicacies! For a moment I thought I had been spared, but then flying beasts swooped down and set the whole city aflame! One passed over me... and... I was burned alive..." he sobbed.
And that's enough of that thought Lakheenahuknaasi. This one must be a peasant that he knows nothing of the iron chariots, probably died in a house fire, no sense wasting more time on him. Now for the finishing touch...
This time it was a black tentacle that fired a pair of spines, which bored straight into the human's neck. Again, the man reeled, trying to scream but this time no sound would come. Euryale had discovered this technique and instructed all the gorgons in its use; a moderate dose of poison delivered directly to the brain would scramble the human's memories just enough to imitate a fresh arrival, which was almost always slightly crazed. As a side benefit, it tended to hide the flaws in their stories.
Lakheenahuknaasi's forked tongue flicked out and licked the traces of blood from her claws. "This one is done. Next!"
Base Camp, Outer Ring, Seventh Circle of Hell
McElroy was running the hand-crank on the universal charger when Kitten's voice penetrated his thoughts. Corporal McElroy, are you there? May we speak now?
Sure thing, my dear. McElroy smiled, despite himself. How've you been? Are they treating' you OK?
I'm fine, and I've been treated very well.
Well, that's great to hear. McElroy stopped charging and lifted the lid on the laptop. It was a military-grade device, built to withstand just about anything you'd expect in a hostile environment. It booted to life quickly. Shall we get down to business?
Yes, please.
McElroy went over his notes. This appears to be a rural region of Hell. Based on the information contained in the laptop here, it'd be extremely difficult to hook up with any of the current cells of the PFLH. I've observed no geographical features or landmarks that match anything described or photographed by those cells. I have been photographing my surroundings and attempting to map my location, though I never was much for computers.