2008 - Armageddon
Re: 2008 - Armageddon
Chapter Sixty-One
Comercia Tower, Detroit, Michigan
It was a nondescript conference room in a nondescript office in downtown Detroit. Oh, certainly some lawyer's name was on the door, but this was just a quiet place for two sons of Michigan's most powerful political family. "You know we must resolve the issue, Carl. You’d think she’d shut up when Barry got the nod." US Representative Sander Levin of Michigan's twelfth sighed. "We can't let those two-keep sniping at each other like a couple of fifth-graders, not when the world is going to hell."
"Hell's coming to the world is more like it, Sandy." Senator Carl Levin, Sander's younger brother, joked. "I know, it’s bad. But what do you want me to do? Anyway, I don't LIKE that woman. I'd rather have a baldrick on the ticket than her. At least then we know what we'd be getting."
Sander laughed and blocked out words with his hand. "Beelzebub-Levin in 08, why settle for a lesser evil?" He shook his head. "No, I think the best we can do is to keep supporting Barry, and ……" suddenly there was a rumble that turned into a steady vibration, and the lights in the room flickered.
The door burst open. "Sirs!" A secret-service agent stepped in, listening on his earpiece and with a weapon in hand. "A portal has opened pretty close to us, north of here. It’s looking like a replay of Sheffield, and we have orders to get you out of here." His voice made it clear it wasn't a request. After the incident with Bill Clinton, the Secret Service had mandated that all members of congress be always protected with at least one agent, to prevent demonic possession. "If you'll follow me to the street, we will evacuate you to the west, we have an airplane waiting but all of the metro airspace has been locked down."
Both men nodded grimly, and they began following their agents; the meeting room was on the twenty-second floor, and it was a long way down. Like every other stairwell downtown, the way out was clogged with a mass of people, and it only took a few to panic and fall to turn the evacuation into a crush. The secret service tried to clear a path, shouting “Federal Agents!” and “We have a US Representative, let us through!” but with little effect on the crowd. Their hopes picked up when one of the elevator doors began to open, but it revealed a car packed to bursting with bodies.
“Citizens, please, we have a senator and a congressman here, we need to evacuate them.” The men and women in the elevator stared back with panicked eyes. Two of them spilled out into the hallway, but the rest shrank back. The agents looked at each other, considering whether to press the issue, but it was rendered moot as the building suddenly lost power. With set expressions, they returned to trying to force a path for their charges through the crush.
Okthuura Yal-Gjaknaath, Tartaruan Range, borderlands of Hell
It was hopeless. No matter how she struggled her ripped wings couldn’t find enough purchase in the air. The magma level had already dropped noticeably, but the receding lava just exposed a steep, jagged rim of still-glowing rocks. To Euryale, it looked like a rack of red-hot knives ready to tear her apart. Already she seemed to be drowning in an ocean of merciless heat as she fell into the volcano’s throat, the rim drawing away even as the ground rushed closer. She knew it was hopeless, but instinct made her try to flare anyway, throwing away the last of her airspeed to prevent an instant crushing death on impact.
In what seemed like a miracle, as she hovered for that final two seconds the sharp glowing rocks were replaced by a shifting mass of gray-brown rubble. The gorgon landed heavily, splaying onto the still scorching-hot stones, and gaining a fresh set of sprains and bruises, but to her utter surprise, she was neither incinerated nor broken. Elation lasted for only a moment as Euryale realized that the lip had collapsed, and she was crawling on a landslide. Desperately she tried to out-pace the sliding rocks, scrabbling for purchase as the rim continued to crumble into the throat. At last, she was out, stumbling into the crater proper and panting despite the searing air.
She wasn’t out of danger yet though; the unstable portal was still churning the lava, which was spitting out globs of molten rock at random. She’d emerged near one of the shrines, a tattered mess of bent rods and half-melted wires, still sparking feebly with residual psychic energy. A half dozen naga lay collapsed in front of it, abandoned by their peers, who were slithering out the crater as fast as their coils could carry them. Euryale found most of the naga rather hard to tell apart, but one snakelike form was unmistakable; Yulupki had always had a taste for tacky jewelry and for the ritual she’d liberally festooned herself with beaten gold trinkets. Euryale had an overwhelming urge to leave her there. It would certainly make explaining the disaster easier. No, it didn’t make sense, too much was riding on Count Belial’s scheme, and losing Yulupki would be too much of a blow, to their portal capability and to morale.
As she got closer, she saw that the naga’s eyes were still open. “Baroness! Snap out of it! Come on, you can’t stay here!”
“It’s gone! My magic! I have no magic!” Yulupki wailed.
Euryale shook her head. She’d seen Megaaeraholrakni suffer the same thing when she pushed herself too far. It was temporary of course. Demons could recover from nearly anything that didn’t kill them outright, save the touch of iron. “Snap out of it witch. You’re mewling like a kidling.”
The naga didn’t seem to have heard her. “I can’t hear it… I can’t feel it… I am nothing…”
Euryale rolled her eyes and then slapped the baroness across the face. The naga hissed and bared her fangs, suddenly focused. “You’ll be fine… if you get out of here now. Come on. I can’t carry you.”
A thump followed by a sudden scream issued from nearby as a piece of lava narrowly missed another of the naga, spraying the creature with glowing fragments. Yulupki painfully began to slither up the slope towards the crater rim, while Euryale went to find a Great Beast to help her move the other wounded survivors.
Ford Field Stadium, Detroit, Michigan
Lieutenant Preston swept the binoculars across the smoke-shrouded asphalt, trying to verify the charge placement. The scene took him back to Kuwait, the same dirty haze backlit by towering flames. The plan was a desperation tactic to start with, worked out in haste at the marathon emergency civil defense meeting just two days ago. With only half his platoon available it would be a minor miracle if they pulled it off. Worse, breathing gear was in critically short supply, the best they could manage was taking gulps from medical oxygen bottles. Even up on top of the stadium’s parking deck, the noxious air was burning his throat and making his eyes water. His men down in the freeway cutting had it much worse.
The old-style surplus radio crackled to life. “Sir, I’m seeing lava flow under the Wilkins Street bridge, it’s gonna hit you in five to ten minutes. Over.”
“Got it Private. High tail it out of there. Have you got civvies on board?”
“Yes sir, Alan been picking up wounded, truck’s full of them.”
“Great. Get them clear. Out. Taguba, how are those charges coming?”
Sergeant Taguba’s voice came in ragged gasps. “Just doing the… last column now… Quarrie’s collapsed… put one of the bottles on him.”
Another higher-pitched voice cut in - Sergeant Sharoff’s squad had already finished the northern bridge and moved onto one of the ramps. “Sir, we ran out of satchels, were improvising with loose blocks but we’re still stringing detcord…”
Lieutenant Preston cut him off. “Sergeants, we’re out of time. Prepare to set timers, three minutes, on my mark.”
There was a long silence – on the radio at least. The city was anything but silent, with the wailing sirens, honking horns, roaring flames, human screams, drawn-out thumps of collapsing buildings, and the omnipresent deep rumble of the falling lava. Number four platoon, bravo company was the best approximation of a combat engineering unit the Third Volunteers could manage but faced with an attack on this scale the best they could hope for was buying a little time.
“Ready. My boys are pulling back.” Another pause. “Sharoff, in position.”
“Mark!”
“Timer set.” Pounding footsteps came over the voice as Taguba wasted no time pulling back.
“Timer ru… sir…” Sergeant Sharoff’s voice cut off.
” Well done, now haul ass! Samuels, stop the traffic now, any means necessary.”
“Yes sir.”
Preston could just make out diesel starting up as his men moved commandeered trucks to block the freeway overpass. The civvies would hate them for it, but better that than let them get blown up or dunked in lava. His knuckles went white as his grip on the binoculars tightened. The smoke completely obscured the ramps now, but there was a streak of movement… yes, yes! it was Taguba’s truck barreling down the freeway, his men piled into the bed. But where the hell was Sharoff?
“Sharoff? Report! Sharoff? Lee?” Preston tried to force back the growing sense of horror as the second pickup failed to appear. He dropped the binoculars and jumped back into the SUV, addressing his driver. “Take us out to the edge of the lot. As soon as the charges blow, we go down after our men, understand?”
Private Russell was only nineteen, a trainee machinist when he wasn’t drilling with the regiment. Preston guessed that the kid had spent a lot of his time fooling around with cars before the Message, judging by the work he’d done getting the ex-museum pieces back into working order. Russell’s hands were trembling on the wheel as he steered the Cherokee down the parking ramp, and he gulped before responding with a shaky “Sir yes sir.”
“Steady now. The rubble will hold back the lava, we’ll be in and out before the smoke gets us. If the gas has knocked them out, we’re their only hope…”
A deafening, stuttering series of cracks and booms drowned out the Lieutenant’s words. The smoke swirled and for a moment cleared to reveal the two freeway bridges collapsing in a tumble of concrete rumble. A second later one of the connector ramps came down, breaking into spinning chunks as its support columns cracked unevenly. The charge placement was supposed to tip the decks on end as they fell, and from here it looked like they’d not done too bad a job. Splashes of the color showed where cars had been on the bridges when they fell. Preston hoped they were abandoned, but if not… well, they were warned, and thousands of lives were at stake here.
Private Russell had the accelerator on the floor before the rubble had stopped falling and the SUV surged forward, smashing through a low metal barrier, crossing an on-ramp, and charging down the grassy slope towards the freeway proper. Visibility dropped to mere feet as they entered the now settling dust cloud. Suddenly the vehicle swerved left, braking hard and throwing Lieutenant Preston against the dash. Two shapes emerged out of the gloom, bent low and moving slowly, passing a bright red bottle back and forth between them. Preston shoved the door open, admitting a wash of heat and smoke to the cabin, and pulled the men into the back of the SUV.
“Did the others make it?”
Corporal Lee had a horribly pained look in his eyes. “No… don’t think so.” His voice was a croak.” Sharoff insisted on wiring more detcord! I think the gas got them; they weren’t moving. Sorry sir, no choice, had to leave them.”
A cracking, rumbling, groan proclaimed the arrival of the lava, punctuated by the distorted screams of tortured rebar. The makeshift barrier shifted but held, for now, checking the stream’s headlong rush towards downtown and the river. Preston nodded to Private Russell. “Go!” he shouted, then in a quieter voice, “we did what we could. Now let’s see where else we’re needed.” He reached for the radio again.
Congress Street, Downtown Detroit
At last, they had reached the lobby. Sander was breathing heavily, at sixty-seven he was hardly a young man. He paused to catch his breath, but what he saw outside snatched it away again. The sky was turning pitch black, and ash was falling like snow. Into the streets, they went, but traffic had long since ground to a halt as cars had stalled from the ash or been abandoned by their drivers. Coughing and stumbling, they made their way slowly through the deepening black. It was hard to keep a sense of direction; were they heading towards the river?
After what seemed like an eternity, a piercing scream cut through the darkness. They rounded a corner, only to see a city street backlit by a lava flow. A side channel of the main flow, it wasn't going at a breakneck speed, but it was steadily making its way down Randolph Street. Carl grimaced, knowing the park had to be in flames by now. But worse than that, if the lava reached the entrance of the tunnel to Windsor, a critical evacuation route would be cut. "We've got to do something!" He yelled through the din.
"Our job is to get you to safety, sir!" The agent grabbed his shoulder, but the Senator from Michigan refused to be moved. Lights flashed ahead, dimly in the smoke. A hulking yellow form resolved into a backhoe; it was an abandoned highway repair site.
"There!" He spied a dump truck with a bed full of gravel and ran to it. "We can put a bit.” Carl’s voice trailed off into a hacking cough…” A bit of a barrier up, we can dam the lava." The agents looked at each other, then at Sander, who nodded. They weren't likely to make it out of the city alive, but the longer they could keep the streets clear, the better chance other people would have. "I'll do it, sir. I was in the Army Corps." The agent climbed into the cab and fired up the engine.
Coach Insignia Restaurant, Renaissance Center, Downtown Detroit
Gloria had wept for a while, but the sorrow had receded for now. Perhaps it was the unreality of the situation, like a disaster movie. Possibly though it was what she’d been watching below because she’d never expected to see this much heroism in the face of hellfire and damnation itself. She had a fine view from the deserted restaurant, and she’d seen people dragging others out from burning buildings, others digging through the rubble of collapsed ones even as the lava closed in on them and private cars driving back into the city to pick up more survivors. She’d seen a news helicopter buzzing around lifting children off rooftops and another big helicopter dropping packages to the survivors – after watching for a few minutes she was pretty sure they were gas masks of some sort.
Then there were the barricades, springing up everywhere as people tried to hold back the burning tide for just a few more minutes. It had started with the freeway collapse, which had gone down and sent up a big cloud of dust right before the lava got to it, so it had to be deliberate. She wasn’t sure if that had been a good idea, the stadium had gone up in flames and then the molten rock had pooled and started heading west along the I75, cutting off escape to the north as it went. Then again, she’d probably be in hell already if they hadn’t damned the flow, along with thousands of others caught in downtown.
One particularly bold group had tried to block the road just in front of her skyscraper, piling up rubble and cars and trucks and all manner of junk right under the people mover track. The lava had already reached the barricade, which was burning and melting and shifting dangerously, yet they kept reinforcing it. Another rumble, another boom… another building was collapsing, just a hundred yards north of the barricade. The lava was closing in, seeming to come at the tower from every surrounding street. Weren’t they going to run? Didn’t they realize that this was the end? Gloria closed her eyes, wondering if a New Detroit would ever rise from the plains of Hell.
Brush Street, Downtown Detroit
Agent Drexler finally found the control that tilted the bed of the truck, and slowly drew a line of gravel three feet high across the street. Other people stopped, and seeing what they were doing, began to manhandle benches, tires, and any still-working cars into the line. After only a few minutes they had a barrier five feet high. The lava began to pool behind it, but as the rocks glowed, they fused into a solid berm. The lava swirled slowly.
Sander clapped his brother on the shoulder, and they both smiled. Before had a chance to say anything, a loud -CRACK- echoed above the din. On their right, a building bucked wildly, shedding a rain of cladding, and they both saw the lava pouring into the basement windows and storm drains. With all the heat, the foundations were giving way. The crack repeated, into a deafening roar as the building came down. The two brothers looked each other in the eyes, knowing they wouldn't see each other for a long time, bracing themselves for what was in store, as hundreds of tons of steel and masonry came down on them.
Neither flinched.
Free Hell, Swamps by the River Styx, Sixth Rings of Hell
In the distance, the Russian artillery rumbled, sounding for all the world like far-off thunder. Jade Kim could only imagine what it was like in the firing zone, or the hell on the receiving end of the steel rain. Once, she'd been near a single large howitzer firing; the sound had knocked the breath out of her and deafened her even through the headphones. And knowing the Russians, they'd lined up their artillery wheel-to-wheel for fifty miles. She wouldn't want to be in that big baldrick army assaulting the Russian positions right now.
Kim brought her mind back to Free Hell. Initial estimates put the number of people imprisoned in Free Hell at a bit over one hundred thousand. The sheer number still surprised Kim on a gut level when she thought about it, so she constantly had to remind herself that there were ninety billion people in the Pit alone, and the surveying flights had shown that Free Hell controlled little more than a mere millionth of the surface area of the Pit. Spread out before her was a rudimentary map of Free Hell. She was in between appointments in her command tent, contemplating the area they controlled. Marked were the major rock outcroppings, particularly dry and wet places, the courses of streams and rivers, baldrick roads, and known human and baldrick positions. She had also penciled in the locations of canals-in-progress and the small, growing city that housed all the freed humans.
Nearly one-third of Free Hell's border lay along the Styx. Along the other two-thirds, Tarrant had placed extensive minefields and regularly spaced small fortifications, generally taking advantage of particularly wet areas and clusters of boulders thrusting up through the mud. These had repulsed several weak baldrick assaults in the last few weeks; they'd taken no casualties, while the baldricks had gone down heavily.
But there wasn't enough information about the main baldrick forces. The noted baldrick strongholds were vague, and there were all too many question marks. She wasn't sure how many reinforcements had arrived, or even just how many baldricks had been under Asmodeus' command in the first place. This lack of knowledge was disturbing. Kim frowned. There were several token emplacements along the shore of the Styx, one monitoring the destroyed bridge and the others spaced evenly across the banks. The defenses there were too thin; Tarrant was relying too much on the Styx as a natural barrier. She made a note to speak to him about that later.
McInerny stuck his head in the tent. “Ell-tee?”
“Yeah, Mac?”
“Rahab is here with three men to see you.”
Ah, yes. Rahab and Julius Caesar. “Who are they?”
“One identifies himself as Julius Caesar and says the other two are his bodyguards.”
“Please show them in.” She made sure that her pistol was loose in its holster, just in case, and she'd have Mac here as well if things went sour. She had no intention of that happening, however.
The tent flap opened, and Rahab stepped through. She was followed by Caesar, a short man with thin, black hair and a wide mouth. After Caesar was two men. One was large and very muscular, with a forward-thrust head and short hair; the other was shorter, with curly blond hair and jutting eyebrows. Both were wearing scabbards, but no swords. Mac was on top of his game.
Rahab spoke first. “May I introduce Gaius Julius Caesar. With him are Titus Pullo and Lucius Vorenus, his bodyguards.”
Kim nodded. “Thank you, Rahab.” She rose and extended her hand. “I am Lieutenant (deceased) Jade Kim, commander of the People's Front for the Liberation of Hell and administrator of Free Hell.” Caesar passed her hand and clasped her wrist. After an instant, she grabbed his wrist. His grip was firm, and he squeezed for an instant before releasing.
“Please, take a seat.” Kim gestured to the chair in front of her desk and three others along the wall.
Licking her lips, Rahab said, “If you don't mind, I'll be going.”
“Suit yourself,” said Kim. Caesar, meanwhile, sat at the chair before her desk.
Kim looked inquiringly at Pullo and Vorenus. Vorenus shook his head and spoke for both. “If you don't mind, ma'am, we'll be standing.” Kim nodded. In the back of the tent, Mac stood unobtrusively.
“So, Mr. Caesar, how can I help you?”
Caesar smiled. “Please, call me Gaius. I'm here to offer you, my help.”
Kim raised an eyebrow. Caesar continued, “I know that you're surprised at the possibility I can help you. I've taken your man Dawkins into my protection. In conversing with him, I've learned much about what has happened since I arrived here in Hell, especially in the last few centuries. You have weapons that are far beyond anything I, or any Roman, could have dreamed of.”
Kim nodded her assent. “This is true.”
Caesar leaned forward. “But” he continued, “in establishing yourself here in Hell, you do lack one thing.”
“And what is that Gaius?”
“Manpower.” Caesar smiled. “Every year, since I arrived, I have freed men. They have gone onto free men, who have gone onto free men. I have created a network to shuttle these people to safety in areas the demons do not regularly patrol. There are small groups hiding out in the interiors of each ring, ready to act at my command.”
“And what good are they to me,” Kim asked, “if they don't know how to use my weapons?”
“They can be trained. So, this is what I propose, Lieutenant Kim. If you equip and train my army, it will be ready to revolt against the demons all at once, throughout Hell, at your command.”
“How many men do you have?”
“At this point, my people number over two and a half million.” Kim nodded, carefully concealing her surprise.
“Thank you, Gaius. We will be in contact. Can I put you and your men up here for the night?”
“We would be pleased to accept your offer, Lt. Kim.”
“Mac, would you find a place for them to stay over the night?” asked Kim. McInerny nodded. “Thank you.”
As Caesar and his two bodyguards exited the tent, Kim turned back to the map, her mind churning. After a moment, it began to settle. First things first – now to talk to Tarrant about the Styx line of defenses.
Bank of the River Styx, Fifth Ring of Hell
Xisorixus had been a nobody. During the last few millennia, however, he'd risen to his own fiefdom at a breakneck pace. Through a combination of military prowess, conniving wit, and sheer raw courage, he now commanded a large, prime piece of territory in the Sixth ring, under the (late) Duke Asmodeus. Now, with the death of Asmodeus and so many lords under him, Xisorixus was the senior demon in the legions remaining near the human-infested territory.
Although he was busy consolidating his control over the lands of those minor lords who had died – his holdings had tripled in the past few weeks – Xisorixus was also consolidating his command and beginning to lay plans for the feat that would cement his place in Hell's hierarchy for all eternity. Xisorixus was going to utterly destroy the humans who had freed themselves.
Through the past few weeks, he had been feinting at the humans, testing their defenses. They were thorough on the sides of the territories facing away from the Styx; Xisorixus harbored few illusions about the ability of his forces to storm through the magical defenses and emerge in enough strength to wipe out the humans on the other side.
But his eyes and ears had been busy gathering information. The overwhelming human defensive magic was indiscriminate, he'd learned; one of his spies had watched human mages preparing the spells, and one of the spells had accidentally exploded, leaving the human a bloody mess, screaming, and writhing in pain on the ground. This had given rise to the beginnings of an idea: if he could somehow get across the Styx and gain the upper hand against the humans, he could drive them back and trap them against their own magic.
To make the situation even better, Xisorixus had learned that only a few humans watched the Styx. His demons were now able to show themselves in full daylight without earning the slightest magery in retaliation, save in a few places. Once, he'd tried restarting construction on the demolished bridge, but the humans had unleashed their magic on him, and he'd lost nearly two hundred good demons.
He emerged from his tent into the bustle of Dis itself. This was the one place he could be assured that no humans would spy on him, so he'd asked permission to bring his legions here. Satan had absent-mindedly agreed – rather, one of the lower bureaucrats in the government had agreed – so his five remaining augmented legions had requisitioned, and were occupying, these few blocks of the city. He'd attached to each legion a fifth legion of flies; from the sizeable air force, he had accumulated in his rise to power.
Today was the day he was going to test his plan. In the courtyard of his headquarters, by his tethered wyvern, were ten curious wooden bundles. Standing by them were three wyverns, to which the bundles would be attached for transmission. His air guard snapped to attention as he exited and fell into escort around him. They would follow him through the air and to the testing grounds, at a wide, shallow part of the Styx between the human area and the waterfalls. There, a cohort of his troops awaited him.
Xisorixus smiled. The floating bridges would almost certainly work, and from there it would only be a few days before he joined the battle.
Comercia Tower, Detroit, Michigan
It was a nondescript conference room in a nondescript office in downtown Detroit. Oh, certainly some lawyer's name was on the door, but this was just a quiet place for two sons of Michigan's most powerful political family. "You know we must resolve the issue, Carl. You’d think she’d shut up when Barry got the nod." US Representative Sander Levin of Michigan's twelfth sighed. "We can't let those two-keep sniping at each other like a couple of fifth-graders, not when the world is going to hell."
"Hell's coming to the world is more like it, Sandy." Senator Carl Levin, Sander's younger brother, joked. "I know, it’s bad. But what do you want me to do? Anyway, I don't LIKE that woman. I'd rather have a baldrick on the ticket than her. At least then we know what we'd be getting."
Sander laughed and blocked out words with his hand. "Beelzebub-Levin in 08, why settle for a lesser evil?" He shook his head. "No, I think the best we can do is to keep supporting Barry, and ……" suddenly there was a rumble that turned into a steady vibration, and the lights in the room flickered.
The door burst open. "Sirs!" A secret-service agent stepped in, listening on his earpiece and with a weapon in hand. "A portal has opened pretty close to us, north of here. It’s looking like a replay of Sheffield, and we have orders to get you out of here." His voice made it clear it wasn't a request. After the incident with Bill Clinton, the Secret Service had mandated that all members of congress be always protected with at least one agent, to prevent demonic possession. "If you'll follow me to the street, we will evacuate you to the west, we have an airplane waiting but all of the metro airspace has been locked down."
Both men nodded grimly, and they began following their agents; the meeting room was on the twenty-second floor, and it was a long way down. Like every other stairwell downtown, the way out was clogged with a mass of people, and it only took a few to panic and fall to turn the evacuation into a crush. The secret service tried to clear a path, shouting “Federal Agents!” and “We have a US Representative, let us through!” but with little effect on the crowd. Their hopes picked up when one of the elevator doors began to open, but it revealed a car packed to bursting with bodies.
“Citizens, please, we have a senator and a congressman here, we need to evacuate them.” The men and women in the elevator stared back with panicked eyes. Two of them spilled out into the hallway, but the rest shrank back. The agents looked at each other, considering whether to press the issue, but it was rendered moot as the building suddenly lost power. With set expressions, they returned to trying to force a path for their charges through the crush.
Okthuura Yal-Gjaknaath, Tartaruan Range, borderlands of Hell
It was hopeless. No matter how she struggled her ripped wings couldn’t find enough purchase in the air. The magma level had already dropped noticeably, but the receding lava just exposed a steep, jagged rim of still-glowing rocks. To Euryale, it looked like a rack of red-hot knives ready to tear her apart. Already she seemed to be drowning in an ocean of merciless heat as she fell into the volcano’s throat, the rim drawing away even as the ground rushed closer. She knew it was hopeless, but instinct made her try to flare anyway, throwing away the last of her airspeed to prevent an instant crushing death on impact.
In what seemed like a miracle, as she hovered for that final two seconds the sharp glowing rocks were replaced by a shifting mass of gray-brown rubble. The gorgon landed heavily, splaying onto the still scorching-hot stones, and gaining a fresh set of sprains and bruises, but to her utter surprise, she was neither incinerated nor broken. Elation lasted for only a moment as Euryale realized that the lip had collapsed, and she was crawling on a landslide. Desperately she tried to out-pace the sliding rocks, scrabbling for purchase as the rim continued to crumble into the throat. At last, she was out, stumbling into the crater proper and panting despite the searing air.
She wasn’t out of danger yet though; the unstable portal was still churning the lava, which was spitting out globs of molten rock at random. She’d emerged near one of the shrines, a tattered mess of bent rods and half-melted wires, still sparking feebly with residual psychic energy. A half dozen naga lay collapsed in front of it, abandoned by their peers, who were slithering out the crater as fast as their coils could carry them. Euryale found most of the naga rather hard to tell apart, but one snakelike form was unmistakable; Yulupki had always had a taste for tacky jewelry and for the ritual she’d liberally festooned herself with beaten gold trinkets. Euryale had an overwhelming urge to leave her there. It would certainly make explaining the disaster easier. No, it didn’t make sense, too much was riding on Count Belial’s scheme, and losing Yulupki would be too much of a blow, to their portal capability and to morale.
As she got closer, she saw that the naga’s eyes were still open. “Baroness! Snap out of it! Come on, you can’t stay here!”
“It’s gone! My magic! I have no magic!” Yulupki wailed.
Euryale shook her head. She’d seen Megaaeraholrakni suffer the same thing when she pushed herself too far. It was temporary of course. Demons could recover from nearly anything that didn’t kill them outright, save the touch of iron. “Snap out of it witch. You’re mewling like a kidling.”
The naga didn’t seem to have heard her. “I can’t hear it… I can’t feel it… I am nothing…”
Euryale rolled her eyes and then slapped the baroness across the face. The naga hissed and bared her fangs, suddenly focused. “You’ll be fine… if you get out of here now. Come on. I can’t carry you.”
A thump followed by a sudden scream issued from nearby as a piece of lava narrowly missed another of the naga, spraying the creature with glowing fragments. Yulupki painfully began to slither up the slope towards the crater rim, while Euryale went to find a Great Beast to help her move the other wounded survivors.
Ford Field Stadium, Detroit, Michigan
Lieutenant Preston swept the binoculars across the smoke-shrouded asphalt, trying to verify the charge placement. The scene took him back to Kuwait, the same dirty haze backlit by towering flames. The plan was a desperation tactic to start with, worked out in haste at the marathon emergency civil defense meeting just two days ago. With only half his platoon available it would be a minor miracle if they pulled it off. Worse, breathing gear was in critically short supply, the best they could manage was taking gulps from medical oxygen bottles. Even up on top of the stadium’s parking deck, the noxious air was burning his throat and making his eyes water. His men down in the freeway cutting had it much worse.
The old-style surplus radio crackled to life. “Sir, I’m seeing lava flow under the Wilkins Street bridge, it’s gonna hit you in five to ten minutes. Over.”
“Got it Private. High tail it out of there. Have you got civvies on board?”
“Yes sir, Alan been picking up wounded, truck’s full of them.”
“Great. Get them clear. Out. Taguba, how are those charges coming?”
Sergeant Taguba’s voice came in ragged gasps. “Just doing the… last column now… Quarrie’s collapsed… put one of the bottles on him.”
Another higher-pitched voice cut in - Sergeant Sharoff’s squad had already finished the northern bridge and moved onto one of the ramps. “Sir, we ran out of satchels, were improvising with loose blocks but we’re still stringing detcord…”
Lieutenant Preston cut him off. “Sergeants, we’re out of time. Prepare to set timers, three minutes, on my mark.”
There was a long silence – on the radio at least. The city was anything but silent, with the wailing sirens, honking horns, roaring flames, human screams, drawn-out thumps of collapsing buildings, and the omnipresent deep rumble of the falling lava. Number four platoon, bravo company was the best approximation of a combat engineering unit the Third Volunteers could manage but faced with an attack on this scale the best they could hope for was buying a little time.
“Ready. My boys are pulling back.” Another pause. “Sharoff, in position.”
“Mark!”
“Timer set.” Pounding footsteps came over the voice as Taguba wasted no time pulling back.
“Timer ru… sir…” Sergeant Sharoff’s voice cut off.
” Well done, now haul ass! Samuels, stop the traffic now, any means necessary.”
“Yes sir.”
Preston could just make out diesel starting up as his men moved commandeered trucks to block the freeway overpass. The civvies would hate them for it, but better that than let them get blown up or dunked in lava. His knuckles went white as his grip on the binoculars tightened. The smoke completely obscured the ramps now, but there was a streak of movement… yes, yes! it was Taguba’s truck barreling down the freeway, his men piled into the bed. But where the hell was Sharoff?
“Sharoff? Report! Sharoff? Lee?” Preston tried to force back the growing sense of horror as the second pickup failed to appear. He dropped the binoculars and jumped back into the SUV, addressing his driver. “Take us out to the edge of the lot. As soon as the charges blow, we go down after our men, understand?”
Private Russell was only nineteen, a trainee machinist when he wasn’t drilling with the regiment. Preston guessed that the kid had spent a lot of his time fooling around with cars before the Message, judging by the work he’d done getting the ex-museum pieces back into working order. Russell’s hands were trembling on the wheel as he steered the Cherokee down the parking ramp, and he gulped before responding with a shaky “Sir yes sir.”
“Steady now. The rubble will hold back the lava, we’ll be in and out before the smoke gets us. If the gas has knocked them out, we’re their only hope…”
A deafening, stuttering series of cracks and booms drowned out the Lieutenant’s words. The smoke swirled and for a moment cleared to reveal the two freeway bridges collapsing in a tumble of concrete rumble. A second later one of the connector ramps came down, breaking into spinning chunks as its support columns cracked unevenly. The charge placement was supposed to tip the decks on end as they fell, and from here it looked like they’d not done too bad a job. Splashes of the color showed where cars had been on the bridges when they fell. Preston hoped they were abandoned, but if not… well, they were warned, and thousands of lives were at stake here.
Private Russell had the accelerator on the floor before the rubble had stopped falling and the SUV surged forward, smashing through a low metal barrier, crossing an on-ramp, and charging down the grassy slope towards the freeway proper. Visibility dropped to mere feet as they entered the now settling dust cloud. Suddenly the vehicle swerved left, braking hard and throwing Lieutenant Preston against the dash. Two shapes emerged out of the gloom, bent low and moving slowly, passing a bright red bottle back and forth between them. Preston shoved the door open, admitting a wash of heat and smoke to the cabin, and pulled the men into the back of the SUV.
“Did the others make it?”
Corporal Lee had a horribly pained look in his eyes. “No… don’t think so.” His voice was a croak.” Sharoff insisted on wiring more detcord! I think the gas got them; they weren’t moving. Sorry sir, no choice, had to leave them.”
A cracking, rumbling, groan proclaimed the arrival of the lava, punctuated by the distorted screams of tortured rebar. The makeshift barrier shifted but held, for now, checking the stream’s headlong rush towards downtown and the river. Preston nodded to Private Russell. “Go!” he shouted, then in a quieter voice, “we did what we could. Now let’s see where else we’re needed.” He reached for the radio again.
Congress Street, Downtown Detroit
At last, they had reached the lobby. Sander was breathing heavily, at sixty-seven he was hardly a young man. He paused to catch his breath, but what he saw outside snatched it away again. The sky was turning pitch black, and ash was falling like snow. Into the streets, they went, but traffic had long since ground to a halt as cars had stalled from the ash or been abandoned by their drivers. Coughing and stumbling, they made their way slowly through the deepening black. It was hard to keep a sense of direction; were they heading towards the river?
After what seemed like an eternity, a piercing scream cut through the darkness. They rounded a corner, only to see a city street backlit by a lava flow. A side channel of the main flow, it wasn't going at a breakneck speed, but it was steadily making its way down Randolph Street. Carl grimaced, knowing the park had to be in flames by now. But worse than that, if the lava reached the entrance of the tunnel to Windsor, a critical evacuation route would be cut. "We've got to do something!" He yelled through the din.
"Our job is to get you to safety, sir!" The agent grabbed his shoulder, but the Senator from Michigan refused to be moved. Lights flashed ahead, dimly in the smoke. A hulking yellow form resolved into a backhoe; it was an abandoned highway repair site.
"There!" He spied a dump truck with a bed full of gravel and ran to it. "We can put a bit.” Carl’s voice trailed off into a hacking cough…” A bit of a barrier up, we can dam the lava." The agents looked at each other, then at Sander, who nodded. They weren't likely to make it out of the city alive, but the longer they could keep the streets clear, the better chance other people would have. "I'll do it, sir. I was in the Army Corps." The agent climbed into the cab and fired up the engine.
Coach Insignia Restaurant, Renaissance Center, Downtown Detroit
Gloria had wept for a while, but the sorrow had receded for now. Perhaps it was the unreality of the situation, like a disaster movie. Possibly though it was what she’d been watching below because she’d never expected to see this much heroism in the face of hellfire and damnation itself. She had a fine view from the deserted restaurant, and she’d seen people dragging others out from burning buildings, others digging through the rubble of collapsed ones even as the lava closed in on them and private cars driving back into the city to pick up more survivors. She’d seen a news helicopter buzzing around lifting children off rooftops and another big helicopter dropping packages to the survivors – after watching for a few minutes she was pretty sure they were gas masks of some sort.
Then there were the barricades, springing up everywhere as people tried to hold back the burning tide for just a few more minutes. It had started with the freeway collapse, which had gone down and sent up a big cloud of dust right before the lava got to it, so it had to be deliberate. She wasn’t sure if that had been a good idea, the stadium had gone up in flames and then the molten rock had pooled and started heading west along the I75, cutting off escape to the north as it went. Then again, she’d probably be in hell already if they hadn’t damned the flow, along with thousands of others caught in downtown.
One particularly bold group had tried to block the road just in front of her skyscraper, piling up rubble and cars and trucks and all manner of junk right under the people mover track. The lava had already reached the barricade, which was burning and melting and shifting dangerously, yet they kept reinforcing it. Another rumble, another boom… another building was collapsing, just a hundred yards north of the barricade. The lava was closing in, seeming to come at the tower from every surrounding street. Weren’t they going to run? Didn’t they realize that this was the end? Gloria closed her eyes, wondering if a New Detroit would ever rise from the plains of Hell.
Brush Street, Downtown Detroit
Agent Drexler finally found the control that tilted the bed of the truck, and slowly drew a line of gravel three feet high across the street. Other people stopped, and seeing what they were doing, began to manhandle benches, tires, and any still-working cars into the line. After only a few minutes they had a barrier five feet high. The lava began to pool behind it, but as the rocks glowed, they fused into a solid berm. The lava swirled slowly.
Sander clapped his brother on the shoulder, and they both smiled. Before had a chance to say anything, a loud -CRACK- echoed above the din. On their right, a building bucked wildly, shedding a rain of cladding, and they both saw the lava pouring into the basement windows and storm drains. With all the heat, the foundations were giving way. The crack repeated, into a deafening roar as the building came down. The two brothers looked each other in the eyes, knowing they wouldn't see each other for a long time, bracing themselves for what was in store, as hundreds of tons of steel and masonry came down on them.
Neither flinched.
Free Hell, Swamps by the River Styx, Sixth Rings of Hell
In the distance, the Russian artillery rumbled, sounding for all the world like far-off thunder. Jade Kim could only imagine what it was like in the firing zone, or the hell on the receiving end of the steel rain. Once, she'd been near a single large howitzer firing; the sound had knocked the breath out of her and deafened her even through the headphones. And knowing the Russians, they'd lined up their artillery wheel-to-wheel for fifty miles. She wouldn't want to be in that big baldrick army assaulting the Russian positions right now.
Kim brought her mind back to Free Hell. Initial estimates put the number of people imprisoned in Free Hell at a bit over one hundred thousand. The sheer number still surprised Kim on a gut level when she thought about it, so she constantly had to remind herself that there were ninety billion people in the Pit alone, and the surveying flights had shown that Free Hell controlled little more than a mere millionth of the surface area of the Pit. Spread out before her was a rudimentary map of Free Hell. She was in between appointments in her command tent, contemplating the area they controlled. Marked were the major rock outcroppings, particularly dry and wet places, the courses of streams and rivers, baldrick roads, and known human and baldrick positions. She had also penciled in the locations of canals-in-progress and the small, growing city that housed all the freed humans.
Nearly one-third of Free Hell's border lay along the Styx. Along the other two-thirds, Tarrant had placed extensive minefields and regularly spaced small fortifications, generally taking advantage of particularly wet areas and clusters of boulders thrusting up through the mud. These had repulsed several weak baldrick assaults in the last few weeks; they'd taken no casualties, while the baldricks had gone down heavily.
But there wasn't enough information about the main baldrick forces. The noted baldrick strongholds were vague, and there were all too many question marks. She wasn't sure how many reinforcements had arrived, or even just how many baldricks had been under Asmodeus' command in the first place. This lack of knowledge was disturbing. Kim frowned. There were several token emplacements along the shore of the Styx, one monitoring the destroyed bridge and the others spaced evenly across the banks. The defenses there were too thin; Tarrant was relying too much on the Styx as a natural barrier. She made a note to speak to him about that later.
McInerny stuck his head in the tent. “Ell-tee?”
“Yeah, Mac?”
“Rahab is here with three men to see you.”
Ah, yes. Rahab and Julius Caesar. “Who are they?”
“One identifies himself as Julius Caesar and says the other two are his bodyguards.”
“Please show them in.” She made sure that her pistol was loose in its holster, just in case, and she'd have Mac here as well if things went sour. She had no intention of that happening, however.
The tent flap opened, and Rahab stepped through. She was followed by Caesar, a short man with thin, black hair and a wide mouth. After Caesar was two men. One was large and very muscular, with a forward-thrust head and short hair; the other was shorter, with curly blond hair and jutting eyebrows. Both were wearing scabbards, but no swords. Mac was on top of his game.
Rahab spoke first. “May I introduce Gaius Julius Caesar. With him are Titus Pullo and Lucius Vorenus, his bodyguards.”
Kim nodded. “Thank you, Rahab.” She rose and extended her hand. “I am Lieutenant (deceased) Jade Kim, commander of the People's Front for the Liberation of Hell and administrator of Free Hell.” Caesar passed her hand and clasped her wrist. After an instant, she grabbed his wrist. His grip was firm, and he squeezed for an instant before releasing.
“Please, take a seat.” Kim gestured to the chair in front of her desk and three others along the wall.
Licking her lips, Rahab said, “If you don't mind, I'll be going.”
“Suit yourself,” said Kim. Caesar, meanwhile, sat at the chair before her desk.
Kim looked inquiringly at Pullo and Vorenus. Vorenus shook his head and spoke for both. “If you don't mind, ma'am, we'll be standing.” Kim nodded. In the back of the tent, Mac stood unobtrusively.
“So, Mr. Caesar, how can I help you?”
Caesar smiled. “Please, call me Gaius. I'm here to offer you, my help.”
Kim raised an eyebrow. Caesar continued, “I know that you're surprised at the possibility I can help you. I've taken your man Dawkins into my protection. In conversing with him, I've learned much about what has happened since I arrived here in Hell, especially in the last few centuries. You have weapons that are far beyond anything I, or any Roman, could have dreamed of.”
Kim nodded her assent. “This is true.”
Caesar leaned forward. “But” he continued, “in establishing yourself here in Hell, you do lack one thing.”
“And what is that Gaius?”
“Manpower.” Caesar smiled. “Every year, since I arrived, I have freed men. They have gone onto free men, who have gone onto free men. I have created a network to shuttle these people to safety in areas the demons do not regularly patrol. There are small groups hiding out in the interiors of each ring, ready to act at my command.”
“And what good are they to me,” Kim asked, “if they don't know how to use my weapons?”
“They can be trained. So, this is what I propose, Lieutenant Kim. If you equip and train my army, it will be ready to revolt against the demons all at once, throughout Hell, at your command.”
“How many men do you have?”
“At this point, my people number over two and a half million.” Kim nodded, carefully concealing her surprise.
“Thank you, Gaius. We will be in contact. Can I put you and your men up here for the night?”
“We would be pleased to accept your offer, Lt. Kim.”
“Mac, would you find a place for them to stay over the night?” asked Kim. McInerny nodded. “Thank you.”
As Caesar and his two bodyguards exited the tent, Kim turned back to the map, her mind churning. After a moment, it began to settle. First things first – now to talk to Tarrant about the Styx line of defenses.
Bank of the River Styx, Fifth Ring of Hell
Xisorixus had been a nobody. During the last few millennia, however, he'd risen to his own fiefdom at a breakneck pace. Through a combination of military prowess, conniving wit, and sheer raw courage, he now commanded a large, prime piece of territory in the Sixth ring, under the (late) Duke Asmodeus. Now, with the death of Asmodeus and so many lords under him, Xisorixus was the senior demon in the legions remaining near the human-infested territory.
Although he was busy consolidating his control over the lands of those minor lords who had died – his holdings had tripled in the past few weeks – Xisorixus was also consolidating his command and beginning to lay plans for the feat that would cement his place in Hell's hierarchy for all eternity. Xisorixus was going to utterly destroy the humans who had freed themselves.
Through the past few weeks, he had been feinting at the humans, testing their defenses. They were thorough on the sides of the territories facing away from the Styx; Xisorixus harbored few illusions about the ability of his forces to storm through the magical defenses and emerge in enough strength to wipe out the humans on the other side.
But his eyes and ears had been busy gathering information. The overwhelming human defensive magic was indiscriminate, he'd learned; one of his spies had watched human mages preparing the spells, and one of the spells had accidentally exploded, leaving the human a bloody mess, screaming, and writhing in pain on the ground. This had given rise to the beginnings of an idea: if he could somehow get across the Styx and gain the upper hand against the humans, he could drive them back and trap them against their own magic.
To make the situation even better, Xisorixus had learned that only a few humans watched the Styx. His demons were now able to show themselves in full daylight without earning the slightest magery in retaliation, save in a few places. Once, he'd tried restarting construction on the demolished bridge, but the humans had unleashed their magic on him, and he'd lost nearly two hundred good demons.
He emerged from his tent into the bustle of Dis itself. This was the one place he could be assured that no humans would spy on him, so he'd asked permission to bring his legions here. Satan had absent-mindedly agreed – rather, one of the lower bureaucrats in the government had agreed – so his five remaining augmented legions had requisitioned, and were occupying, these few blocks of the city. He'd attached to each legion a fifth legion of flies; from the sizeable air force, he had accumulated in his rise to power.
Today was the day he was going to test his plan. In the courtyard of his headquarters, by his tethered wyvern, were ten curious wooden bundles. Standing by them were three wyverns, to which the bundles would be attached for transmission. His air guard snapped to attention as he exited and fell into escort around him. They would follow him through the air and to the testing grounds, at a wide, shallow part of the Styx between the human area and the waterfalls. There, a cohort of his troops awaited him.
Xisorixus smiled. The floating bridges would almost certainly work, and from there it would only be a few days before he joined the battle.
Re: 2008 - Armageddon
Chapter Sixty Two
Incident Command Center, Sheffield Airport, United Kingdom.
“I think me may have a little bit of a problem, Sir.” Colonel Mace said as he stepped back into the command trailer. “I’ve just been speaking to the Chief Constable, and it seems that two of his officers along with their vehicle have gone missing.”
“The situation in the city is pretty confused, Colonel.” Brigadier Lethbridge-Stewart replied. “I’ve been led to believe that the network that supports the emergency service’s radio network has been damaged, so it is hardly a surprise that officers may be out of contact.”
“Ordinarily that fact would not worry me, or the Chief Constable, Sir, but witnesses some of our men rescued in the city a short time ago have reported that the officers ejected them from their vehicle and placed a baldrick inside. Now no baldrick prisoner has been reported as being taken so…”
“Something was badly wrong.” Lethbridge-Stewart finished the sentence. “Intelligence does say that some baldricks may be able to exercise mind control by injecting their victims with poison. We’re overstretched as we are, but we better find this baldrick before it does any more damage. Put together a unit to go and hunt it down, I’ll ask Midlands Command if they can send us some Paras, or Marines to act as a hunter unit if necessary.”
“I’ll command it myself if I must, Sir,” Mace replied.
The Brigadier turned slightly as Keavy McManus stepped into the Command Trailer.
“Ah, Doctor, how can I help?”
“It’s just Mrs. McManus, Brigadier.” The vulcanologist corrected him.
“My apologies, Mrs. McManus, a habit from a previous posting,” Lethbridge-Stewart replied. “How is your survey team getting on?”
“Apology accepted, Brigadier.
“I just wanted to thank you for your assistance. I understand that you are very busy with rescue and recovery duties, not to mention Law and Order and providing a cordon, yet you have managed to spare manpower and vehicles to escort my team.” Keavy McManus told him.
“Always nice to be appreciated by the best in their business, Mrs. McManus.” The Brigadier told her. “Your work is extremely important; we need to learn how to deal with events like this. I think you must have heard the news from Detroit, we can be sure that it won’t be the last attack of its kind.”
Western Sheffield, United Kingdom.
The convoy transporting the survey team halted as it prepared to take more readings of the lava that covered much of the city. The army had managed to provide a rather eclectic group of vehicles from those it had assembled at the airport. Leading the group was a Land Rover SNATCH 2, carrying some of the RMP escort, which was followed by two Saxon Patrol APCs, which carried the personnel and equipment of the survey team; various aerials and sensors now poked out from the roof hatches; and a Fuchs Reconnaissance Vehicle, its NBC sensors adapted to detect the various products the portal was spewing out, the rest of the RMP escort was carried in a Vector armored patrol vehicle. Bringing up the rear was a Trojan Armored Vehicle Royal Engineers, the engineer variant of the Challenger 2. It was there in case anything large and heavy needed to be moved out of the way, it also had a GPMG mounted in a Remote Weapons Station which might come in handy.
Staff Sergeant John Mann, Royal Military Police, was not in a particularly good mood as he watched the survey team, who were all wearing protective suits, dismount from the two Saxons and start taking readings, assisted by some members of the 1st Royal Tank Regiment, who manned the Fuchs, from the Land Rover. Mann was a senior member of a Special Investigation Branch (known in the RMP as the ‘Branch’, and in the wider army as ‘Shit In Bulk’) team based in Midlands Command and felt that he should not be here; his job was to catch criminals in uniform, not shepherd civilian scientists. However, he had been available and many of his team had been dispatched to the city to reinforce members of a Territorial Army Provost Company. What Mann had seen today reminded him of something out of a disaster movie, or one of those nuclear war docudramas that had been popular during the Cold War. One image that had stayed with him was the sight of a Traffic Warden cradling an old SLR as he guarded a group of looters were they so short of manpower that somebody had decided to arm the Traffic Wardens?
Mann put on his mask and stepped out of the Land Rover, intending to check on the troops under his command. He trusted his fellow SIB and RMP soldiers, but he was not sure about the men from the Military Provost Guard Service sent to bolster the escort. Although they were exclusively recruited from ex-servicemen, they usually spent their days guarding base entrances and patrolling perimeters. He leaned back into the Land Rover and grabbed his L1A2 battle rifle; the TA and MPGS members of the escort still had L85A2s, L86A2s, and Light Machine Guns, all 5.56mm weapons, but as regulars Mann and his team were entitled to the latest small arms.
“Anything interesting happening, Sergeant?” Mann asked one of the senior NCOs manning the defensive perimeter.
“Not a thing, Staff, apart from some poor moggy that must have been killed by something.” Sergeant Jo McDonagh, a fellow member of Mann’s investigation team, replied.
“I reckon everyone must have self-evacuated out of here long ago; it was a pretty well-to-do area, so I hope nobody has been stupid enough to… Hey, you three! Yes you, halt!”
Sergeant McDonagh flinched as Mann suddenly yelled at full volume. His was a voice feared throughout the whole of the SIB. She spotted that he was yelling at three youths who had emerged from a house just beyond the perimeter carrying some plastic bags, they looked over their shoulders, saw the soldiers, and started to run.
Mann and McDonagh brought up their rifles, as did the other Red Caps present.
“Halt, or I fire!” Mann yelled.
The Emergency Powers only required that a member of the Security Forces give one warning before opening fire, and in extreme circumstances, they could fire without a warning. Mann technically obeyed the instructions, his shot coincided with the implied exclamation mark at the end of his shout. The .338 Lapua Magnum round inflicted terrible damage on the body of the looter. He was dead before he hit the ground. The other two stopped in their tracks, dropped what they were carrying, and put their hands up. Mann strode up to them and delivered a swift smack in the small of their backs with his rifle butt, knocking them to the ground.
“Do you two idiots know the penalty for looting then?” He snarled to the two terrified survivors. “Search and cuff them.” He ordered the other Redcaps. “Sergeant search the house in case there are more of them in there.”
“Yes, Staff,” McDonagh replied.
Sergeant McDonagh led half a dozen Redcaps into the semi-detached house. With the power cut, it was eerily quiet, though there was the distant sound of dripping water.
“Clear!” Each soldier shouted as he, or she cleared a room.
“There’s a door here, Sarge.” A corporal said to McDonagh. “I reckon it leads to a basement.”
“Right, Corporal, you go first. I’ll cover you.” McDonagh ordered, turning on the torch attached to her L1A2.
The Corporal kicked in the door.
“On the floor! Nobody moves!” He yelled as he charged through the door, Sergeant McDonagh close behind him.
He swung his L85A2 around the room until the torch tapped to it illuminated the body of a middle-aged man. His head had been caved in.
“Oh shit!” The Corporal breathed.
“Maybe later, Corporal, but now I think we’d better tell the Staff about this.”
“There were three bodies, Staff,” McDonagh said to Mann a few minutes later. “They’d been sheltering in their basement, who knows why. There was a middle-aged man and woman, I presume husband and wife; they’d both had their heads caved in; and an old woman, who looked like she was in her late seventies, or early eighties.”
“Had they killed her too?” Mann asked, the disgust dripping from his voice.
“There were no signs of violence, it looks like a heart attack.”
Mann kicked the nearest of the two looters savagely, hard enough to break his ribs.
“Is this your handiwork, you scum?”
“No, they were already like that when we got here!” The looter with broken ribs said through clenched teeth.
“It was ‘im!” The other looter protested, indicating the dead man.
“Get these two pricks out of here before I do something they regret.” Mann snarled at the other Redcaps, before storming back to his wagon.
“You heard the Staff, get them moving,” McDonagh ordered. “And don’t forget to bring the evidence.”
One of the MPGS soldiers searched through the plastic carriers. Rather surprisingly one of them was filled with food rather than valuables.
“There’s a packet of crisps in here.” He said to his ‘oppo’, holding up the bag.
“What flavor?”
“Prawn cocktail.”
“They would be, I hate prawn cocktail.
“We’d better get a shift on before Mr. Nasty notices we’re dawdling.”
“Did you get their names?” Mann asked McDonagh a few minutes later. “The stiffs, I mean?”
The sergeant reached into the pocket of her DPM jacket and pulled out a crumpled piece of paper.
“I found a gas bill by the door, it seems that they were a Mr. and Mrs. Beckett.”
“Well, that should help us to locate next of kin; as for the bodies, we’ll just let command deal with that.”
Sixth ring of Hell.
Corporal Louis Hoffman paused as he spotted some movement ahead, dropping to the ground and signaling the rest of the patrol to halt and take cover. In this part of Hell, it was probably a baldrick patrol, and while the patrol from Air Troop, G Squadron, 22 SAS, had enough strength and firepower to deal with any isolated group of baldricks they did not want to draw attention to themselves, at least not yet anyway. Hoffman carefully swung his L1A2 battle rifle from left to right, scanning the ground ahead. Neither his eyes nor the Combined Weapon Sight fitted to the rifle revealed anything.
“What is it, Louie?” The voice of Captain Patrick Fleming, the patrol commander, said on his headset.
“Thought I saw some movement ahead, Boss,” Hoffman replied. “I’m not sure now.”
“Seeing things now are we, Louie?” The voice of Staff Sergeant Henry ‘Don’t call me Henno’ Garvie remarked. “Better safe than sorry, though.
“Dave, go forward and support Louis. See if you can spot what’s up there.”
Now that the forces of Satan were on the back-foot, Hell was opening to human Special Forces, and Britain was one of the major providers. Patrols from both the Special Air Service and Special Boat Service were roaming the areas of Hell assigned to the UK, gathering intelligence, and rescuing inmates wherever possible. The Special Reconnaissance Regiment had established a number of Observation Posts from where they could watch the comings and goings of Hell’s military forces, and direct attacks, when necessary, while the Paras, Marines, and RAF Regiment Gunners of the UK Special Forces Support Group were on stand-by to support any patrol that got into difficulty or add extra muscle to any attack. The only constraints were the shortage of people who could contact and open a portal to hell and the deceased on the other side who were able to be contacted.
The various UK Special Forces patrols had already managed to rescue quite a few former military personnel, who had been marked down as a priority for recovery. These deceased personnel had then been transferred via portal to a safe area near the Hellmouth for rehabilitation. Encouragingly many, mainly amongst the more recently arrived, had volunteered their services.
The Staff & Personnel Support Branch of the Adjutant General's Corps now had the headache of working out the back-pay and allowances of these deceased soldiers. There had also been suggestions that it might be possible to use some of these troops as battle casualty replacements for units deployed in Hell, or to form new units. That didn’t solve the legal problems of course, after all, how does one pay the dead for their services, and what were the limits on service terms? Technically, those who were being found in Hell hadn’t yet fulfilled the terms of their enlistments and that raised even more legal questions. It was reputed that several members of the Pay Corps and Legal branch had already gone mad trying to think out the implications.
Corporal David ‘Dave’ Woolston carefully made his way forward. He was a large, powerfully built man of Afro-Caribbean extraction, and thus was one of the two members of the patrol carrying a GPMG, in this case, the new L7A3 variant, which was chambered for the same 8.58mm round as the L1A2.
“Spread out, but be careful, we don’t know what we are dealing with.” Captain Fleming ordered.
“Wait, I see something.” The patrol’s sniper, Corporal Finn Younger reported.
Corporal Younger normally carried an L115A1 Long Range Rifle, though for the deployment to Hell he had decided to draw an AW50F from the armory at Credenhill. It gave him an extra reach and the 12.7x99 Raufoss Mk.211 rounds it fired were extremely powerful.
Younger lined his weapon up on the target, preparing to fire if necessary. However, to his surprise, the figure in the sight resolved itself into a human shape rather than a baldrick. Even more surprisingly the figure seemed to be moving tactically rather than in the way a civilian might cross a piece of terrain.
“I think we have possible friendly forces ahead, Boss,” Younger reported.
“Right everybody, carefully stand-up, it’s time to reveal ourselves,” Fleming ordered. “Staff, Fin, Dave, Pete, you stay down, for now, to give us covering fire.”
The rest of the patrol slowly got to their feet to discover that they were being observed by two figures that were definitely human.
“Who are you?” Captain Fleming called out.
“Sergeant Tony Stevens, 2nd Royal Irish Rangers! Who are you?”
“Captain Patrick Fleming, Special…I mean 1st Scots Guards.”
“You’re one of THEM, eh, Sir.” The filthy bedraggled figure replied. “Don’t worry I have heard of you, I died back in 1978, an IRA sniper.
“This is Corporal James Beveridge of the Royal Engineers.”
The other figure nodded.
“If you want any tunneling done, I’m your man.” The engineer said. “Still, that’s what did for me in the end, bloody Bosche heard us coming and blew up ma tunnel.”
“How many of you are there?” Fleming asked.
“About twenty in this group, Sir.” Sergeant Stevens asked. “I think you’d better come and meet our Senior Officer.”
Sergeant Stevens led Captain Fleming and Staff Sergeant Garvie into a poorly lit cave. They could see that someone was sitting at the far end hunched over what looked like a table, though it was probably a large stone. Stevens saluted smartly and introduced the newcomers.
“Sir, this is Captain Fleming and Staff Sergeant Garvie of 22 SAS.”
“Which squadron?” The Senior Officer asked.
“G Squadron, Sir, Air Troop.” Fleming replied, saying ‘sir’ because the voice sounded like someone senior in rank to him.
The figure, a veritable giant of a man at just less than two meters in height, stood up and stepped forward into the light, Fleming and Garvie recognized him at once. After all, they had seen his photograph often enough.
“A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Captain Fleming, Staff Sergeant Garvie.” Colonel Sir Archibald David Stirling, formerly of the Scots Guards, 8 Commando and Special Air Service, said stretching out his right hand. “I take it you have orders to extract groups like mine?”
Fleming and Garvie had never shaken hand with a corpse or was he a soul, and it was a rather strange experience, yet Stirling seemed as alive as they did.
“Yes, Sir I have. Our orders are to gather intelligence and evacuate as many military personnel as to possible.
“Can I ask how many of you are there?”
“Twenty-three, some British, there are a few Aussies, Kiwis, Canadians, Indians, South Africans, and what not. We’ve got a Zulu here who died at Rorke’s Drift and his stories are going to change the history books. I think I can speak for everyone, but we are keen to do what we can to liberate this place, just give us the tools. I for one have been waiting for eighteen years to give something back to the daemons.”
“We’ll get evacuation laid on as soon as we can, Sir,” Fleming said. “Do you know of any other groups nearby?”
“There are small groups scattered all over now. Mostly, we’ve been keeping our heads down and trying not to get found but the war’s changed all that. You know there’s a liberated area up in the Fifth Circle?”
“Free Hell Sir. Run by the People’s Front for The Liberation of Hell. That’s mostly a Yank operation but we’re all involved in getting people out.”
“Well, Yanks or not, you better get word to them, they’re in trouble. Our OPs have spotted a big force of demons converging on the riverbank opposite the area they’re holding. About 30,000-foot sloggers and 1,300 fliers. No cavalry that we can see.”
Fleming and Garvie exchanged glances. Even with the influx of deceased volunteers and the support of special forces units from Earth, a force of over 30,000 baldricks was too much even for modern weaponry to cope with. If that attack got launched, it was going to overrun Free Hell. “Thank you, Sir. We’ll get the word straight through and see what can be done.”
DIMO(N) Transit Facility, Fort Bragg
“Colonel Aidan Dempsey, Sir, a pleasure to meet you.” The current commander of 22 SAS said once Stirling, who was the last man through, stepped into the transit facility.
“Likewise, Colonel.” Dempsey’s predecessor replied. “I can’t say I feel too clever though.”
“I’m afraid you can’t stay here too long, Sir. We haven’t solved the problem of bringing people back from Hell to Earth yet, but we’ll transfer you and your men to an area of Hell we control. I understand you wish to offer us your services?”
“Of course, Colonel. Both I and my men have been waiting for revenge for a long time, and I think we can help you locate more groups like us. Just give us the appropriate equipment and training and we’ll do the job.”
“It will be a pleasure to have you in this fight, Sir. If you’ll just follow me, I’ll take you to Camp Brimstone.”
Incident Command Center, Sheffield Airport, United Kingdom.
“I think me may have a little bit of a problem, Sir.” Colonel Mace said as he stepped back into the command trailer. “I’ve just been speaking to the Chief Constable, and it seems that two of his officers along with their vehicle have gone missing.”
“The situation in the city is pretty confused, Colonel.” Brigadier Lethbridge-Stewart replied. “I’ve been led to believe that the network that supports the emergency service’s radio network has been damaged, so it is hardly a surprise that officers may be out of contact.”
“Ordinarily that fact would not worry me, or the Chief Constable, Sir, but witnesses some of our men rescued in the city a short time ago have reported that the officers ejected them from their vehicle and placed a baldrick inside. Now no baldrick prisoner has been reported as being taken so…”
“Something was badly wrong.” Lethbridge-Stewart finished the sentence. “Intelligence does say that some baldricks may be able to exercise mind control by injecting their victims with poison. We’re overstretched as we are, but we better find this baldrick before it does any more damage. Put together a unit to go and hunt it down, I’ll ask Midlands Command if they can send us some Paras, or Marines to act as a hunter unit if necessary.”
“I’ll command it myself if I must, Sir,” Mace replied.
The Brigadier turned slightly as Keavy McManus stepped into the Command Trailer.
“Ah, Doctor, how can I help?”
“It’s just Mrs. McManus, Brigadier.” The vulcanologist corrected him.
“My apologies, Mrs. McManus, a habit from a previous posting,” Lethbridge-Stewart replied. “How is your survey team getting on?”
“Apology accepted, Brigadier.
“I just wanted to thank you for your assistance. I understand that you are very busy with rescue and recovery duties, not to mention Law and Order and providing a cordon, yet you have managed to spare manpower and vehicles to escort my team.” Keavy McManus told him.
“Always nice to be appreciated by the best in their business, Mrs. McManus.” The Brigadier told her. “Your work is extremely important; we need to learn how to deal with events like this. I think you must have heard the news from Detroit, we can be sure that it won’t be the last attack of its kind.”
Western Sheffield, United Kingdom.
The convoy transporting the survey team halted as it prepared to take more readings of the lava that covered much of the city. The army had managed to provide a rather eclectic group of vehicles from those it had assembled at the airport. Leading the group was a Land Rover SNATCH 2, carrying some of the RMP escort, which was followed by two Saxon Patrol APCs, which carried the personnel and equipment of the survey team; various aerials and sensors now poked out from the roof hatches; and a Fuchs Reconnaissance Vehicle, its NBC sensors adapted to detect the various products the portal was spewing out, the rest of the RMP escort was carried in a Vector armored patrol vehicle. Bringing up the rear was a Trojan Armored Vehicle Royal Engineers, the engineer variant of the Challenger 2. It was there in case anything large and heavy needed to be moved out of the way, it also had a GPMG mounted in a Remote Weapons Station which might come in handy.
Staff Sergeant John Mann, Royal Military Police, was not in a particularly good mood as he watched the survey team, who were all wearing protective suits, dismount from the two Saxons and start taking readings, assisted by some members of the 1st Royal Tank Regiment, who manned the Fuchs, from the Land Rover. Mann was a senior member of a Special Investigation Branch (known in the RMP as the ‘Branch’, and in the wider army as ‘Shit In Bulk’) team based in Midlands Command and felt that he should not be here; his job was to catch criminals in uniform, not shepherd civilian scientists. However, he had been available and many of his team had been dispatched to the city to reinforce members of a Territorial Army Provost Company. What Mann had seen today reminded him of something out of a disaster movie, or one of those nuclear war docudramas that had been popular during the Cold War. One image that had stayed with him was the sight of a Traffic Warden cradling an old SLR as he guarded a group of looters were they so short of manpower that somebody had decided to arm the Traffic Wardens?
Mann put on his mask and stepped out of the Land Rover, intending to check on the troops under his command. He trusted his fellow SIB and RMP soldiers, but he was not sure about the men from the Military Provost Guard Service sent to bolster the escort. Although they were exclusively recruited from ex-servicemen, they usually spent their days guarding base entrances and patrolling perimeters. He leaned back into the Land Rover and grabbed his L1A2 battle rifle; the TA and MPGS members of the escort still had L85A2s, L86A2s, and Light Machine Guns, all 5.56mm weapons, but as regulars Mann and his team were entitled to the latest small arms.
“Anything interesting happening, Sergeant?” Mann asked one of the senior NCOs manning the defensive perimeter.
“Not a thing, Staff, apart from some poor moggy that must have been killed by something.” Sergeant Jo McDonagh, a fellow member of Mann’s investigation team, replied.
“I reckon everyone must have self-evacuated out of here long ago; it was a pretty well-to-do area, so I hope nobody has been stupid enough to… Hey, you three! Yes you, halt!”
Sergeant McDonagh flinched as Mann suddenly yelled at full volume. His was a voice feared throughout the whole of the SIB. She spotted that he was yelling at three youths who had emerged from a house just beyond the perimeter carrying some plastic bags, they looked over their shoulders, saw the soldiers, and started to run.
Mann and McDonagh brought up their rifles, as did the other Red Caps present.
“Halt, or I fire!” Mann yelled.
The Emergency Powers only required that a member of the Security Forces give one warning before opening fire, and in extreme circumstances, they could fire without a warning. Mann technically obeyed the instructions, his shot coincided with the implied exclamation mark at the end of his shout. The .338 Lapua Magnum round inflicted terrible damage on the body of the looter. He was dead before he hit the ground. The other two stopped in their tracks, dropped what they were carrying, and put their hands up. Mann strode up to them and delivered a swift smack in the small of their backs with his rifle butt, knocking them to the ground.
“Do you two idiots know the penalty for looting then?” He snarled to the two terrified survivors. “Search and cuff them.” He ordered the other Redcaps. “Sergeant search the house in case there are more of them in there.”
“Yes, Staff,” McDonagh replied.
Sergeant McDonagh led half a dozen Redcaps into the semi-detached house. With the power cut, it was eerily quiet, though there was the distant sound of dripping water.
“Clear!” Each soldier shouted as he, or she cleared a room.
“There’s a door here, Sarge.” A corporal said to McDonagh. “I reckon it leads to a basement.”
“Right, Corporal, you go first. I’ll cover you.” McDonagh ordered, turning on the torch attached to her L1A2.
The Corporal kicked in the door.
“On the floor! Nobody moves!” He yelled as he charged through the door, Sergeant McDonagh close behind him.
He swung his L85A2 around the room until the torch tapped to it illuminated the body of a middle-aged man. His head had been caved in.
“Oh shit!” The Corporal breathed.
“Maybe later, Corporal, but now I think we’d better tell the Staff about this.”
“There were three bodies, Staff,” McDonagh said to Mann a few minutes later. “They’d been sheltering in their basement, who knows why. There was a middle-aged man and woman, I presume husband and wife; they’d both had their heads caved in; and an old woman, who looked like she was in her late seventies, or early eighties.”
“Had they killed her too?” Mann asked, the disgust dripping from his voice.
“There were no signs of violence, it looks like a heart attack.”
Mann kicked the nearest of the two looters savagely, hard enough to break his ribs.
“Is this your handiwork, you scum?”
“No, they were already like that when we got here!” The looter with broken ribs said through clenched teeth.
“It was ‘im!” The other looter protested, indicating the dead man.
“Get these two pricks out of here before I do something they regret.” Mann snarled at the other Redcaps, before storming back to his wagon.
“You heard the Staff, get them moving,” McDonagh ordered. “And don’t forget to bring the evidence.”
One of the MPGS soldiers searched through the plastic carriers. Rather surprisingly one of them was filled with food rather than valuables.
“There’s a packet of crisps in here.” He said to his ‘oppo’, holding up the bag.
“What flavor?”
“Prawn cocktail.”
“They would be, I hate prawn cocktail.
“We’d better get a shift on before Mr. Nasty notices we’re dawdling.”
“Did you get their names?” Mann asked McDonagh a few minutes later. “The stiffs, I mean?”
The sergeant reached into the pocket of her DPM jacket and pulled out a crumpled piece of paper.
“I found a gas bill by the door, it seems that they were a Mr. and Mrs. Beckett.”
“Well, that should help us to locate next of kin; as for the bodies, we’ll just let command deal with that.”
Sixth ring of Hell.
Corporal Louis Hoffman paused as he spotted some movement ahead, dropping to the ground and signaling the rest of the patrol to halt and take cover. In this part of Hell, it was probably a baldrick patrol, and while the patrol from Air Troop, G Squadron, 22 SAS, had enough strength and firepower to deal with any isolated group of baldricks they did not want to draw attention to themselves, at least not yet anyway. Hoffman carefully swung his L1A2 battle rifle from left to right, scanning the ground ahead. Neither his eyes nor the Combined Weapon Sight fitted to the rifle revealed anything.
“What is it, Louie?” The voice of Captain Patrick Fleming, the patrol commander, said on his headset.
“Thought I saw some movement ahead, Boss,” Hoffman replied. “I’m not sure now.”
“Seeing things now are we, Louie?” The voice of Staff Sergeant Henry ‘Don’t call me Henno’ Garvie remarked. “Better safe than sorry, though.
“Dave, go forward and support Louis. See if you can spot what’s up there.”
Now that the forces of Satan were on the back-foot, Hell was opening to human Special Forces, and Britain was one of the major providers. Patrols from both the Special Air Service and Special Boat Service were roaming the areas of Hell assigned to the UK, gathering intelligence, and rescuing inmates wherever possible. The Special Reconnaissance Regiment had established a number of Observation Posts from where they could watch the comings and goings of Hell’s military forces, and direct attacks, when necessary, while the Paras, Marines, and RAF Regiment Gunners of the UK Special Forces Support Group were on stand-by to support any patrol that got into difficulty or add extra muscle to any attack. The only constraints were the shortage of people who could contact and open a portal to hell and the deceased on the other side who were able to be contacted.
The various UK Special Forces patrols had already managed to rescue quite a few former military personnel, who had been marked down as a priority for recovery. These deceased personnel had then been transferred via portal to a safe area near the Hellmouth for rehabilitation. Encouragingly many, mainly amongst the more recently arrived, had volunteered their services.
The Staff & Personnel Support Branch of the Adjutant General's Corps now had the headache of working out the back-pay and allowances of these deceased soldiers. There had also been suggestions that it might be possible to use some of these troops as battle casualty replacements for units deployed in Hell, or to form new units. That didn’t solve the legal problems of course, after all, how does one pay the dead for their services, and what were the limits on service terms? Technically, those who were being found in Hell hadn’t yet fulfilled the terms of their enlistments and that raised even more legal questions. It was reputed that several members of the Pay Corps and Legal branch had already gone mad trying to think out the implications.
Corporal David ‘Dave’ Woolston carefully made his way forward. He was a large, powerfully built man of Afro-Caribbean extraction, and thus was one of the two members of the patrol carrying a GPMG, in this case, the new L7A3 variant, which was chambered for the same 8.58mm round as the L1A2.
“Spread out, but be careful, we don’t know what we are dealing with.” Captain Fleming ordered.
“Wait, I see something.” The patrol’s sniper, Corporal Finn Younger reported.
Corporal Younger normally carried an L115A1 Long Range Rifle, though for the deployment to Hell he had decided to draw an AW50F from the armory at Credenhill. It gave him an extra reach and the 12.7x99 Raufoss Mk.211 rounds it fired were extremely powerful.
Younger lined his weapon up on the target, preparing to fire if necessary. However, to his surprise, the figure in the sight resolved itself into a human shape rather than a baldrick. Even more surprisingly the figure seemed to be moving tactically rather than in the way a civilian might cross a piece of terrain.
“I think we have possible friendly forces ahead, Boss,” Younger reported.
“Right everybody, carefully stand-up, it’s time to reveal ourselves,” Fleming ordered. “Staff, Fin, Dave, Pete, you stay down, for now, to give us covering fire.”
The rest of the patrol slowly got to their feet to discover that they were being observed by two figures that were definitely human.
“Who are you?” Captain Fleming called out.
“Sergeant Tony Stevens, 2nd Royal Irish Rangers! Who are you?”
“Captain Patrick Fleming, Special…I mean 1st Scots Guards.”
“You’re one of THEM, eh, Sir.” The filthy bedraggled figure replied. “Don’t worry I have heard of you, I died back in 1978, an IRA sniper.
“This is Corporal James Beveridge of the Royal Engineers.”
The other figure nodded.
“If you want any tunneling done, I’m your man.” The engineer said. “Still, that’s what did for me in the end, bloody Bosche heard us coming and blew up ma tunnel.”
“How many of you are there?” Fleming asked.
“About twenty in this group, Sir.” Sergeant Stevens asked. “I think you’d better come and meet our Senior Officer.”
Sergeant Stevens led Captain Fleming and Staff Sergeant Garvie into a poorly lit cave. They could see that someone was sitting at the far end hunched over what looked like a table, though it was probably a large stone. Stevens saluted smartly and introduced the newcomers.
“Sir, this is Captain Fleming and Staff Sergeant Garvie of 22 SAS.”
“Which squadron?” The Senior Officer asked.
“G Squadron, Sir, Air Troop.” Fleming replied, saying ‘sir’ because the voice sounded like someone senior in rank to him.
The figure, a veritable giant of a man at just less than two meters in height, stood up and stepped forward into the light, Fleming and Garvie recognized him at once. After all, they had seen his photograph often enough.
“A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Captain Fleming, Staff Sergeant Garvie.” Colonel Sir Archibald David Stirling, formerly of the Scots Guards, 8 Commando and Special Air Service, said stretching out his right hand. “I take it you have orders to extract groups like mine?”
Fleming and Garvie had never shaken hand with a corpse or was he a soul, and it was a rather strange experience, yet Stirling seemed as alive as they did.
“Yes, Sir I have. Our orders are to gather intelligence and evacuate as many military personnel as to possible.
“Can I ask how many of you are there?”
“Twenty-three, some British, there are a few Aussies, Kiwis, Canadians, Indians, South Africans, and what not. We’ve got a Zulu here who died at Rorke’s Drift and his stories are going to change the history books. I think I can speak for everyone, but we are keen to do what we can to liberate this place, just give us the tools. I for one have been waiting for eighteen years to give something back to the daemons.”
“We’ll get evacuation laid on as soon as we can, Sir,” Fleming said. “Do you know of any other groups nearby?”
“There are small groups scattered all over now. Mostly, we’ve been keeping our heads down and trying not to get found but the war’s changed all that. You know there’s a liberated area up in the Fifth Circle?”
“Free Hell Sir. Run by the People’s Front for The Liberation of Hell. That’s mostly a Yank operation but we’re all involved in getting people out.”
“Well, Yanks or not, you better get word to them, they’re in trouble. Our OPs have spotted a big force of demons converging on the riverbank opposite the area they’re holding. About 30,000-foot sloggers and 1,300 fliers. No cavalry that we can see.”
Fleming and Garvie exchanged glances. Even with the influx of deceased volunteers and the support of special forces units from Earth, a force of over 30,000 baldricks was too much even for modern weaponry to cope with. If that attack got launched, it was going to overrun Free Hell. “Thank you, Sir. We’ll get the word straight through and see what can be done.”
DIMO(N) Transit Facility, Fort Bragg
“Colonel Aidan Dempsey, Sir, a pleasure to meet you.” The current commander of 22 SAS said once Stirling, who was the last man through, stepped into the transit facility.
“Likewise, Colonel.” Dempsey’s predecessor replied. “I can’t say I feel too clever though.”
“I’m afraid you can’t stay here too long, Sir. We haven’t solved the problem of bringing people back from Hell to Earth yet, but we’ll transfer you and your men to an area of Hell we control. I understand you wish to offer us your services?”
“Of course, Colonel. Both I and my men have been waiting for revenge for a long time, and I think we can help you locate more groups like us. Just give us the appropriate equipment and training and we’ll do the job.”
“It will be a pleasure to have you in this fight, Sir. If you’ll just follow me, I’ll take you to Camp Brimstone.”
Re: 2008 - Armageddon
Chapter Sixty-Three
Third Platoon, Second Company, Third Battalion, Fourth Regiment, 247th Motor Rifle Division, Phlegethon River Front
The BMP-2 was shut down, its hatches sealed and firmly dogged in place, overpressure system was to prevent harpy gas and flame from leaking in from outside. Bullets were rattling off the armor plate as the three MICVs machine-gunned each other to drive off the hordes of harpies that were swarming all over the vehicles, tearing at anything breakable. The last time Lieutenant Anatolii Ivanovich Pas'kov had looked through the turret optics, a dozen or more of the beasts were trying to bend the barrel of his 30mm cannon, he didn’t think they had succeeded but he was reluctant to fire the gun anyway. He hunched down, trying to ignore the acrid fumes from the gunfire that was creating havoc with the harpies outside. Only, some of the acrid stench wasn’t cordite residue, it was the smell of the harpies’ acidic blood attacking bare metal. Certainly, the chemical weapons-resistant paint on the BMP was protecting most of the hull from corrosion but there were still parts that were vulnerable to acid.
His little command had done well at first. The Tunguska had fired its eight laser-guided missiles and turned more than a dozen harpies into spiraling explosions, then its 30mm cannon had started chopping more out of the sky. The BMPs had joined in, their turret cannon selecting the closest harpies and shooting them out of the sky. But there had been so many of them, more than 200,000 so the intelligence reports said, and the hundred or so that the 30mm guns had killed were hardly noticeable. The rest had descended on the vehicles and started their assault. Oh, Pas’kov knew that their claws and teeth would not get through the armor, but the harpies had other weapons as well. They breathed fire and there was much on an armored vehicle that could burn. The Tunguska had already gone, its engine compartment had caught fire and its crew had been forced to abandon their vehicle into the flock of harpies. They’d tried to run for the BMPs, but they were brought down, torn apart, and eaten before they’d made more than a pace or two. Pas’kov had been glad of that in a way, he wouldn’t have opened his hatches to let them in any way.
“Ammunition is running out.” The cry was from one of the two riflemen in the fighting compartment of the vehicle. They were hosing fire out of the fighting ports in the rear compartment, the steel floor covered with their expended cartridge cases. The BMP was carrying more than its allowed load of munitions, but the rate of expenditure was such that even its enhanced stocks were getting short. Pas’kov swung the turret, feeling the power traverse fighting the harpies swarming outside, and let off a burst from his co-axial machine gun. The harpies trying to bend his 30mm cannon barrel were caught unawares and the heavy machine gun burst tore into them, spraying acid blood into the air and causing their flesh to char. The cordite smoke-laden air inside the BMP got denser if that was possible, the heat rising further.
“Get us out of here, we must pull back.”
“We cannot, the transmission is jammed.” The driver’s words didn’t make sense, but Pas’kov guessed what had happened, the suspension was being attacked by acid and the treads were jammed.
Instead, he got the radio, and with just a little luck, it might be working. The whip antenna had long gone, torn off by the harpies, but the little blade antenna might still be intact.
“Company, this is Three. We’re running out of ammunition and are trapped. Our AA vehicle is gone. We need the final protective fire now. Right on top of us.”
Pas’kov knew his company commander realized the same thing that Pas’kov himself had done. Calling fire directly on his position was suicide, the guns would tear the armored vehicles apart. But it was better to go that way than to be shredded and eaten by the harpies screaming outside.
“Request approved. Being passed up. Hold on Three. Seal down tight. Full protocol.”
Guards Special Mortar Regiment, Northern Front, Phlegethon River.
The great 300mm rockets loaded into the Smerch multiple-launch rocket system were black, with glaring yellow bands painted around their nose. No other rocket had quite such vivid or elaborate markings and for a very good reason, nobody wanted these rockets to be confused with anything else. Even the Smerch crews were afraid of them and their cargo. They’d taken them out of their storage boxes with painstaking care, only too aware that one accident, one slip meant a ghastly death for all around them. Guards Captain Yurii Leonidovich Zabelin had personally supervised the loading process himself and inspected all the firing connections and status checks before reporting his battery ready to fire. Then, he had been told to wait for the current barrage was the work of the heavy guns. The Smerch launchers with their deadly black rockets would have their time when the right moment came.
The radio in the command vehicle suddenly jumped to life. The right moment had come.
B-52H “Emma Peel” 28,000 feet over the Phlegethon River.
“That makes life a bit better.” The red-and-gray camouflaged B-52s had burst out of the murk at 28,000 feet and Colonel Hayman had pulled back on the lever that operated the engine filters. They’d rotated through 90 degrees, so they were now parallel to the airflow through the engines and the pick-up in power was immediate. The Gray Lady was back to performing the way she should, and the old adage held true again. Never underestimate the Gray Lady.
“Hammer Control, this is Storm flight, we’ve broken out of the clag at 28,000 feet. The air is clean up here. The light is still red, but the visibility is good. Tell the Bones to get up here if they want a long, fast cruise.”
“We’ll do that Hammer Flight. Be advised, that a pair of B-29s did test drops for you. Computed ballistic corrections hold true, no need to correct programming for bomb drops.”
“Thanks, Control. And thank the guys in the Superforts for us too.” Hayman sighed slightly in relief. That was one of the problems of fighting in non-Euclidean hell, there had been no guarantee that the bombs stuffed into Emma’s belly and hanging under her wings would drop true. The only way that anybody could find out was to try and that was what the B-29s had been doing. Drop bombs, compare impact points with those projected, and calculate corrections. It had been a long, arduous job, constantly dropping and recalculating, it was lucky the old Superforts had been available to do it. Otherwise more valuable aircraft would have had to be taken out of the line.
“Take everybody up to 32,000. We can expect the drop order soon.”
“Hey, wait for me.” The plaintive voice came from Major Hennessy at the back of the formation. His “Vengeance Is Mine” was the only B-52D in the group of 72 B-52s that were lining up ready for their strike. A museum recovery, it just didn’t have the engine power of the Gs and Hs.”
“Come on, hurry up old-timer. We haven’t got all day.”
“Hurry up? Hurry up!! I’ll have you know that at least our wings are level back here.”
Hayman snorted. The B-52s had all been through a very hurried “Big Belly” modification that had seen provision for 750-pound bombs increased from 51 to 80. The problem was that the G and H models had a lighter wing structure than earlier marks and now those wings were bent in a graceful curve from tip to root. Only the solitary D-model had wings that were still uncurved. It still carried more bombs as well, 88 instead of 80.
“OK, OK. All Storm birds. The Superforts have confirmed the corrections, we can use the programmed bomb drop. Waiting for word now.”
Command HQ, Camp Hell-Alpha, Hell
“How goes the day Tovarish General?” General David Petraeus stood in front of his view screen, looking at the Russian commander at the other end
General Ivan Semenovich Dorokhov was a harassed-looking man, already tired from the volume of fighting that was going on. “It is a bloody day Bratishka. We are holding them in the North at great cost but the force in the south has bitten deep into the defenses. The North too will start to collapse soon, we are already getting requests from the front line to bring down fire on our positions. The harpies in the north are pinning our men down, and our artillery is hammering the follow-on forces but soon they will have crossed the river, and then our positions will fall fast. Still, we have some tricks to play yet and your bombers are ready I think.”
“On your word Tovarish General, just give us the word. The good news is the air is clear up where they are, they can hold up there for longer than we thought. And in the South?”
“Bad. The enemy there is halfway through our defense zone. They are paying a terrible price, but they have naga carried by Rhinolobsters that are very effective and the Wyverns have done us some harm. But our artillery hit the nagas with white phosphorus and the Wyverns are no match for fighters. The advance there will run out of power soon. But we might need to counter-attack them before they can break through. It will be a finely judged thing, whether their advance runs out of energy before we stop them.”
“The German and Israeli armored divisions are well placed for that. Order them to make the attack.” Petraeus hesitated for a brief second. “Make sure the Israeli unit has plenty of space around it.”
Dorokhov frowned. “You expect treachery? Surely not.”
“Not treachery, stupidity. The Israelis are too trigger-happy for their good. They will not shoot up one of our units deliberately, but they are likely to do so by accident. We know that to our cost. It would be best to give them an end-run, so they are well clear of the rest of your forces. Get them over the Phlegethon so the rest of us are safe.”
The Russian General laughed. “Good advice Tovarish David. You heard the enemy used burning brimstone on our troops? Well, now we will show them what we can do when we wish.”
“Weapons Are Free General. And give us the word when you want the Gray Lady to come calling.”
Over the Northern Front, Phlegethon River
It had many names. Some called it 2-(Fluoro-methylphosphoryl) oxypropane, others preferred O-isopropyl methylphosphonofluoridate. The military eschewed such long-winded nomenclatures and just called it GB. The world at large knew it as Sarin.
The great black rockets with their gaudy yellow markings had been launched all down the line. This is what they had been waiting for when their ability to saturate an area with fire could be turned to their best advantage. As the rockets had started to descend, the outer casing had been discarded and the ranks of sub-munitions had been exposed. Further down, those sub-munitions had started to be launched and they had formed a spreading pattern that resembled a great shotgun blast. It was the same mechanism that the Americans had used to bring down the hideous steel rain that had destroyed Abigor’s Army. Only this time, when the sub-munitions detonated, they didn’t bring down a curtain of steel fragments or blast from shaped-charge munitions. First, they started to spin, and the action mixed the charges of methylphosphonyl difluoride and a mixture of isopropyl alcohol and isopropyl amine. They reacted to form the Sarin and then the sub-munitions burst to release a fine gentle rain, one that none of the screaming hordes of harpies below even noticed for the liquid was colorless and odorless. The only thing that Beelzebub and his Army did notice was that the human mage fire that was pounding the bank of the Phlegethon furthest from the Russian positions had ceased.
Every so often, in a battle, for no apparent reason, the noise stops. The gunfire, the roar of the artillery, the growls, whines, and snarls of engines, the demented shriek of depleted uranium bolts hitting steel armor, the crackling grumble of fires, the screams of dying men stop and there is an eerie silence. So, it was as the Sarin descended on the positions under harpy attack. The Russian guns stopped firing so that the passage of their shells through the air would not disturb the blanket of chemical warfare agent that had been so calculated. Beneath, the Russian motor rifle units were sealing down, hoping that the overpressure systems on their vehicles had survived the harpies and that their chemical warfare suits were proof against the gas. In case it wasn’t they had their atropine injectors ready, but the truth was that even if they used them the gas would wreck their bodies. With atropine, they would survive but they would never again be the men they had been once.
Uxaligantivaris concentrated on the Iron Chariot that was under her claws. She and her companions were ripping at it with their claws and breathing fire over it as fast as their bodies could recharge their gas sacks. They had used so much of the fire gas that they had lost the ability to fly but it didn’t matter that much. All that mattered was to keep the Iron Chariots under attack so that the foot soldiers following them could destroy the defenses. Then she shook her head slightly, Hell was a dim place, its light levels low and subdued but suddenly she could see everything was becoming bright and clear to her. So bright that the light was hurting her eyes in a way that she had never experienced before. She looked at another harpy that had stopped ripping at the iron projections on the chariot and saw that her flight mate’s eyes were strange, the slitted black pupil had contracted to a fine line, almost invisible in the yellow of her eyes. Her nose was running, mucus streaming out of it and coating her chest.
Uxaligantivaris touched her own nose and realized that she too was streaming fluids from her nose and that there was a strange tightness in her chest as if she was having problems breathing. In fact, she realized, that was exactly it, she was having problems getting her ribs to suck air into her lungs. The effort was making her feel sick and she could feel herself drooling uncontrollably. She couldn’t help herself; she vomited helplessly and felt her body losing strength. Across from her, the other harpies were collapsing as well, vomiting onto the Iron chariot that was now forgotten as the agony took hold of them. Her flight-mates were defecating and urinating like helpless kidling, their bodies twitching and jerking as they tried to escape the unseen thing that was inflicting this terrible end on them. Uxaligantivaris felt her muscles become paralyzed and she slipped down the side of the Iron chariot to lie on the ground spasming and writhing as the Sarin destroyed her nervous system. Eventually, what seemed like an age later, she found herself slipping into unconsciousness and never felt the series of massive convulsions that fractured her bones and tore her muscles while she died of suffocation.
Command Post, Northern Front, Phlegethon River Bulge, Hell
Beelzebub looked at the horrific scene with utter bewilderment. When the human mage-bolts had stopped hammering his forces, he had thought the battle was reaching its turning point, that the human mages had run out of their magic, and that now the humans would fight on even terms. He’s even welcomed the eerie silence that had descended on the battlefield. He wouldn’t make that mistake again, nor would he ever forget what he was seeing. The silence was part of a human magery that went beyond anything he could even imagine, more than he had ever experienced. Not even Uriel could do what the humans had done to his harpies for in the few seconds that the silence held, his great flock, still far more than 100,000 strong started to die. Not just die, but die in horrible, unspeakable ways, twitching and convulsing in a pool of their own body wastes. Where a few seconds earlier the human Iron Chariots had been swamped in a sea of harpies that were slowly reducing them to burning hulks, now they stood clear, surrounded by the dying remnants of Beelzebub’s prized force of Harpies.
That was when the silence broke for the iron chariots opened fire again, the mage-bolts pouring from the long staffs they carried, sending the orange-red fireflies lashing at Beelzebub’s foot soldiers on the other bank. They’d taken the quiet, the sudden end of the mage-bolts to try and rush the river. The forces at the back had pushed hard as they surged forward but those at the front had seen what was happening to the harpies, the terrible death that was engulfing them and they were reluctant to move. No warriors were braver or more contemptuous of death than the foot soldiers of Hell yet this magery that inflicted a silent convulsing death on its victims was hideous in a way nothing they had previously experienced could be. They hesitated and the combination of their immobility and the advance of those behind was squeezing the foot soldiers of Beelzebub’s army into a dense mass alongside the river.
The crackle of fire from the Iron Chariots was suddenly drowned out by the roar of human mage-bolts slamming into his force. For a moment, Beelzebub thought that the mage barrage had started again but he was wrong. For off to his left, a line of eighteen great explosions had torn into one flank of his Army. They were mage-bolts all right, but their size was greater by far than any he had seen to date. Even as he watched the first bolts swelling and bursting, another salvo landed just in front of them, and then another line just beyond them. Then, Beelzebub saw something that had never been seen in Hell before, ahead of the great mage-bolt blasts, a shimmering wall was starting to form, a faint whitish-blue cloud that strengthened with every salvo of bolts that landed and started to race across the crowded mass of his foot soldiers. The great orange and black balls of fire and smoke marched along behind the blue cloud. When both wall and bolts had passed, there was nothing left but the bare ground and chewed soil.
It wasn’t magical of course, it was just a matter of physics and the great bomb bays of the Gray Lady. The first of the 750-pound bombs that had poured from them had hit the ground where they had been aimed, hell’s atmosphere was dust-gorged and murky, but it also lacked the strong winds that distinguished Earth. For the Gray Lady, this was an easy assignment. The bombs had exploded and created a blast wave that had spread out in a hemispherical pattern from the impact point. Sideways, each blast wave had merged with the other 17 in that line to form a long cylinder, fronted by the shockwave and centered by a whirlwind of fire and steel fragments. Normally, with a few bombs, the blast wave would spread and dissipate but this was the Gray Lady, and her wrath was terrible. The next salvo of 750-pound bombs, released by the intervalometers in the B-52s at a carefully chosen interval, hit the ground just behind that advancing shockwave, adding its own fury to the wave that was racing across the ground. The third salvo did the same, each series of blasts adding its own power to the shockwave that built up in power with every series of bombs that pounded Beelzebub’s helpless foot soldiers. The shock wave wasn’t just the power of one bomb, it was the power of all of them added together, a cumulative effect that turned the blast into a solid, irresistible, and strangely beautiful wall that nothing human or demon could withstand. By the tenth bomb, the blast wave was invincible and there were seventy more to come before the second wave of B-52s took over and added their loads to the holocaust that was consuming Beelzebub’s army.
High overhead, so high where she couldn’t be seen or heard from the ground, the Gray Lady wrought death and destruction on the forces gathered below, an apocalyptic catastrophe that hell and its inhabitants had never even conceived. Watching from his hilltop as his army was consumed, Beelzebub, at last, understood what humans could do when they decided to stop playing with their enemies.
Third Platoon, Second Company, Third Battalion, Fourth Regiment, 247th Motor Rifle Division, Phlegethon River Front
The BMP-2 was shut down, its hatches sealed and firmly dogged in place, overpressure system was to prevent harpy gas and flame from leaking in from outside. Bullets were rattling off the armor plate as the three MICVs machine-gunned each other to drive off the hordes of harpies that were swarming all over the vehicles, tearing at anything breakable. The last time Lieutenant Anatolii Ivanovich Pas'kov had looked through the turret optics, a dozen or more of the beasts were trying to bend the barrel of his 30mm cannon, he didn’t think they had succeeded but he was reluctant to fire the gun anyway. He hunched down, trying to ignore the acrid fumes from the gunfire that was creating havoc with the harpies outside. Only, some of the acrid stench wasn’t cordite residue, it was the smell of the harpies’ acidic blood attacking bare metal. Certainly, the chemical weapons-resistant paint on the BMP was protecting most of the hull from corrosion but there were still parts that were vulnerable to acid.
His little command had done well at first. The Tunguska had fired its eight laser-guided missiles and turned more than a dozen harpies into spiraling explosions, then its 30mm cannon had started chopping more out of the sky. The BMPs had joined in, their turret cannon selecting the closest harpies and shooting them out of the sky. But there had been so many of them, more than 200,000 so the intelligence reports said, and the hundred or so that the 30mm guns had killed were hardly noticeable. The rest had descended on the vehicles and started their assault. Oh, Pas’kov knew that their claws and teeth would not get through the armor, but the harpies had other weapons as well. They breathed fire and there was much on an armored vehicle that could burn. The Tunguska had already gone, its engine compartment had caught fire and its crew had been forced to abandon their vehicle into the flock of harpies. They’d tried to run for the BMPs, but they were brought down, torn apart, and eaten before they’d made more than a pace or two. Pas’kov had been glad of that in a way, he wouldn’t have opened his hatches to let them in any way.
“Ammunition is running out.” The cry was from one of the two riflemen in the fighting compartment of the vehicle. They were hosing fire out of the fighting ports in the rear compartment, the steel floor covered with their expended cartridge cases. The BMP was carrying more than its allowed load of munitions, but the rate of expenditure was such that even its enhanced stocks were getting short. Pas’kov swung the turret, feeling the power traverse fighting the harpies swarming outside, and let off a burst from his co-axial machine gun. The harpies trying to bend his 30mm cannon barrel were caught unawares and the heavy machine gun burst tore into them, spraying acid blood into the air and causing their flesh to char. The cordite smoke-laden air inside the BMP got denser if that was possible, the heat rising further.
“Get us out of here, we must pull back.”
“We cannot, the transmission is jammed.” The driver’s words didn’t make sense, but Pas’kov guessed what had happened, the suspension was being attacked by acid and the treads were jammed.
Instead, he got the radio, and with just a little luck, it might be working. The whip antenna had long gone, torn off by the harpies, but the little blade antenna might still be intact.
“Company, this is Three. We’re running out of ammunition and are trapped. Our AA vehicle is gone. We need the final protective fire now. Right on top of us.”
Pas’kov knew his company commander realized the same thing that Pas’kov himself had done. Calling fire directly on his position was suicide, the guns would tear the armored vehicles apart. But it was better to go that way than to be shredded and eaten by the harpies screaming outside.
“Request approved. Being passed up. Hold on Three. Seal down tight. Full protocol.”
Guards Special Mortar Regiment, Northern Front, Phlegethon River.
The great 300mm rockets loaded into the Smerch multiple-launch rocket system were black, with glaring yellow bands painted around their nose. No other rocket had quite such vivid or elaborate markings and for a very good reason, nobody wanted these rockets to be confused with anything else. Even the Smerch crews were afraid of them and their cargo. They’d taken them out of their storage boxes with painstaking care, only too aware that one accident, one slip meant a ghastly death for all around them. Guards Captain Yurii Leonidovich Zabelin had personally supervised the loading process himself and inspected all the firing connections and status checks before reporting his battery ready to fire. Then, he had been told to wait for the current barrage was the work of the heavy guns. The Smerch launchers with their deadly black rockets would have their time when the right moment came.
The radio in the command vehicle suddenly jumped to life. The right moment had come.
B-52H “Emma Peel” 28,000 feet over the Phlegethon River.
“That makes life a bit better.” The red-and-gray camouflaged B-52s had burst out of the murk at 28,000 feet and Colonel Hayman had pulled back on the lever that operated the engine filters. They’d rotated through 90 degrees, so they were now parallel to the airflow through the engines and the pick-up in power was immediate. The Gray Lady was back to performing the way she should, and the old adage held true again. Never underestimate the Gray Lady.
“Hammer Control, this is Storm flight, we’ve broken out of the clag at 28,000 feet. The air is clean up here. The light is still red, but the visibility is good. Tell the Bones to get up here if they want a long, fast cruise.”
“We’ll do that Hammer Flight. Be advised, that a pair of B-29s did test drops for you. Computed ballistic corrections hold true, no need to correct programming for bomb drops.”
“Thanks, Control. And thank the guys in the Superforts for us too.” Hayman sighed slightly in relief. That was one of the problems of fighting in non-Euclidean hell, there had been no guarantee that the bombs stuffed into Emma’s belly and hanging under her wings would drop true. The only way that anybody could find out was to try and that was what the B-29s had been doing. Drop bombs, compare impact points with those projected, and calculate corrections. It had been a long, arduous job, constantly dropping and recalculating, it was lucky the old Superforts had been available to do it. Otherwise more valuable aircraft would have had to be taken out of the line.
“Take everybody up to 32,000. We can expect the drop order soon.”
“Hey, wait for me.” The plaintive voice came from Major Hennessy at the back of the formation. His “Vengeance Is Mine” was the only B-52D in the group of 72 B-52s that were lining up ready for their strike. A museum recovery, it just didn’t have the engine power of the Gs and Hs.”
“Come on, hurry up old-timer. We haven’t got all day.”
“Hurry up? Hurry up!! I’ll have you know that at least our wings are level back here.”
Hayman snorted. The B-52s had all been through a very hurried “Big Belly” modification that had seen provision for 750-pound bombs increased from 51 to 80. The problem was that the G and H models had a lighter wing structure than earlier marks and now those wings were bent in a graceful curve from tip to root. Only the solitary D-model had wings that were still uncurved. It still carried more bombs as well, 88 instead of 80.
“OK, OK. All Storm birds. The Superforts have confirmed the corrections, we can use the programmed bomb drop. Waiting for word now.”
Command HQ, Camp Hell-Alpha, Hell
“How goes the day Tovarish General?” General David Petraeus stood in front of his view screen, looking at the Russian commander at the other end
General Ivan Semenovich Dorokhov was a harassed-looking man, already tired from the volume of fighting that was going on. “It is a bloody day Bratishka. We are holding them in the North at great cost but the force in the south has bitten deep into the defenses. The North too will start to collapse soon, we are already getting requests from the front line to bring down fire on our positions. The harpies in the north are pinning our men down, and our artillery is hammering the follow-on forces but soon they will have crossed the river, and then our positions will fall fast. Still, we have some tricks to play yet and your bombers are ready I think.”
“On your word Tovarish General, just give us the word. The good news is the air is clear up where they are, they can hold up there for longer than we thought. And in the South?”
“Bad. The enemy there is halfway through our defense zone. They are paying a terrible price, but they have naga carried by Rhinolobsters that are very effective and the Wyverns have done us some harm. But our artillery hit the nagas with white phosphorus and the Wyverns are no match for fighters. The advance there will run out of power soon. But we might need to counter-attack them before they can break through. It will be a finely judged thing, whether their advance runs out of energy before we stop them.”
“The German and Israeli armored divisions are well placed for that. Order them to make the attack.” Petraeus hesitated for a brief second. “Make sure the Israeli unit has plenty of space around it.”
Dorokhov frowned. “You expect treachery? Surely not.”
“Not treachery, stupidity. The Israelis are too trigger-happy for their good. They will not shoot up one of our units deliberately, but they are likely to do so by accident. We know that to our cost. It would be best to give them an end-run, so they are well clear of the rest of your forces. Get them over the Phlegethon so the rest of us are safe.”
The Russian General laughed. “Good advice Tovarish David. You heard the enemy used burning brimstone on our troops? Well, now we will show them what we can do when we wish.”
“Weapons Are Free General. And give us the word when you want the Gray Lady to come calling.”
Over the Northern Front, Phlegethon River
It had many names. Some called it 2-(Fluoro-methylphosphoryl) oxypropane, others preferred O-isopropyl methylphosphonofluoridate. The military eschewed such long-winded nomenclatures and just called it GB. The world at large knew it as Sarin.
The great black rockets with their gaudy yellow markings had been launched all down the line. This is what they had been waiting for when their ability to saturate an area with fire could be turned to their best advantage. As the rockets had started to descend, the outer casing had been discarded and the ranks of sub-munitions had been exposed. Further down, those sub-munitions had started to be launched and they had formed a spreading pattern that resembled a great shotgun blast. It was the same mechanism that the Americans had used to bring down the hideous steel rain that had destroyed Abigor’s Army. Only this time, when the sub-munitions detonated, they didn’t bring down a curtain of steel fragments or blast from shaped-charge munitions. First, they started to spin, and the action mixed the charges of methylphosphonyl difluoride and a mixture of isopropyl alcohol and isopropyl amine. They reacted to form the Sarin and then the sub-munitions burst to release a fine gentle rain, one that none of the screaming hordes of harpies below even noticed for the liquid was colorless and odorless. The only thing that Beelzebub and his Army did notice was that the human mage fire that was pounding the bank of the Phlegethon furthest from the Russian positions had ceased.
Every so often, in a battle, for no apparent reason, the noise stops. The gunfire, the roar of the artillery, the growls, whines, and snarls of engines, the demented shriek of depleted uranium bolts hitting steel armor, the crackling grumble of fires, the screams of dying men stop and there is an eerie silence. So, it was as the Sarin descended on the positions under harpy attack. The Russian guns stopped firing so that the passage of their shells through the air would not disturb the blanket of chemical warfare agent that had been so calculated. Beneath, the Russian motor rifle units were sealing down, hoping that the overpressure systems on their vehicles had survived the harpies and that their chemical warfare suits were proof against the gas. In case it wasn’t they had their atropine injectors ready, but the truth was that even if they used them the gas would wreck their bodies. With atropine, they would survive but they would never again be the men they had been once.
Uxaligantivaris concentrated on the Iron Chariot that was under her claws. She and her companions were ripping at it with their claws and breathing fire over it as fast as their bodies could recharge their gas sacks. They had used so much of the fire gas that they had lost the ability to fly but it didn’t matter that much. All that mattered was to keep the Iron Chariots under attack so that the foot soldiers following them could destroy the defenses. Then she shook her head slightly, Hell was a dim place, its light levels low and subdued but suddenly she could see everything was becoming bright and clear to her. So bright that the light was hurting her eyes in a way that she had never experienced before. She looked at another harpy that had stopped ripping at the iron projections on the chariot and saw that her flight mate’s eyes were strange, the slitted black pupil had contracted to a fine line, almost invisible in the yellow of her eyes. Her nose was running, mucus streaming out of it and coating her chest.
Uxaligantivaris touched her own nose and realized that she too was streaming fluids from her nose and that there was a strange tightness in her chest as if she was having problems breathing. In fact, she realized, that was exactly it, she was having problems getting her ribs to suck air into her lungs. The effort was making her feel sick and she could feel herself drooling uncontrollably. She couldn’t help herself; she vomited helplessly and felt her body losing strength. Across from her, the other harpies were collapsing as well, vomiting onto the Iron chariot that was now forgotten as the agony took hold of them. Her flight-mates were defecating and urinating like helpless kidling, their bodies twitching and jerking as they tried to escape the unseen thing that was inflicting this terrible end on them. Uxaligantivaris felt her muscles become paralyzed and she slipped down the side of the Iron chariot to lie on the ground spasming and writhing as the Sarin destroyed her nervous system. Eventually, what seemed like an age later, she found herself slipping into unconsciousness and never felt the series of massive convulsions that fractured her bones and tore her muscles while she died of suffocation.
Command Post, Northern Front, Phlegethon River Bulge, Hell
Beelzebub looked at the horrific scene with utter bewilderment. When the human mage-bolts had stopped hammering his forces, he had thought the battle was reaching its turning point, that the human mages had run out of their magic, and that now the humans would fight on even terms. He’s even welcomed the eerie silence that had descended on the battlefield. He wouldn’t make that mistake again, nor would he ever forget what he was seeing. The silence was part of a human magery that went beyond anything he could even imagine, more than he had ever experienced. Not even Uriel could do what the humans had done to his harpies for in the few seconds that the silence held, his great flock, still far more than 100,000 strong started to die. Not just die, but die in horrible, unspeakable ways, twitching and convulsing in a pool of their own body wastes. Where a few seconds earlier the human Iron Chariots had been swamped in a sea of harpies that were slowly reducing them to burning hulks, now they stood clear, surrounded by the dying remnants of Beelzebub’s prized force of Harpies.
That was when the silence broke for the iron chariots opened fire again, the mage-bolts pouring from the long staffs they carried, sending the orange-red fireflies lashing at Beelzebub’s foot soldiers on the other bank. They’d taken the quiet, the sudden end of the mage-bolts to try and rush the river. The forces at the back had pushed hard as they surged forward but those at the front had seen what was happening to the harpies, the terrible death that was engulfing them and they were reluctant to move. No warriors were braver or more contemptuous of death than the foot soldiers of Hell yet this magery that inflicted a silent convulsing death on its victims was hideous in a way nothing they had previously experienced could be. They hesitated and the combination of their immobility and the advance of those behind was squeezing the foot soldiers of Beelzebub’s army into a dense mass alongside the river.
The crackle of fire from the Iron Chariots was suddenly drowned out by the roar of human mage-bolts slamming into his force. For a moment, Beelzebub thought that the mage barrage had started again but he was wrong. For off to his left, a line of eighteen great explosions had torn into one flank of his Army. They were mage-bolts all right, but their size was greater by far than any he had seen to date. Even as he watched the first bolts swelling and bursting, another salvo landed just in front of them, and then another line just beyond them. Then, Beelzebub saw something that had never been seen in Hell before, ahead of the great mage-bolt blasts, a shimmering wall was starting to form, a faint whitish-blue cloud that strengthened with every salvo of bolts that landed and started to race across the crowded mass of his foot soldiers. The great orange and black balls of fire and smoke marched along behind the blue cloud. When both wall and bolts had passed, there was nothing left but the bare ground and chewed soil.
It wasn’t magical of course, it was just a matter of physics and the great bomb bays of the Gray Lady. The first of the 750-pound bombs that had poured from them had hit the ground where they had been aimed, hell’s atmosphere was dust-gorged and murky, but it also lacked the strong winds that distinguished Earth. For the Gray Lady, this was an easy assignment. The bombs had exploded and created a blast wave that had spread out in a hemispherical pattern from the impact point. Sideways, each blast wave had merged with the other 17 in that line to form a long cylinder, fronted by the shockwave and centered by a whirlwind of fire and steel fragments. Normally, with a few bombs, the blast wave would spread and dissipate but this was the Gray Lady, and her wrath was terrible. The next salvo of 750-pound bombs, released by the intervalometers in the B-52s at a carefully chosen interval, hit the ground just behind that advancing shockwave, adding its own fury to the wave that was racing across the ground. The third salvo did the same, each series of blasts adding its own power to the shockwave that built up in power with every series of bombs that pounded Beelzebub’s helpless foot soldiers. The shock wave wasn’t just the power of one bomb, it was the power of all of them added together, a cumulative effect that turned the blast into a solid, irresistible, and strangely beautiful wall that nothing human or demon could withstand. By the tenth bomb, the blast wave was invincible and there were seventy more to come before the second wave of B-52s took over and added their loads to the holocaust that was consuming Beelzebub’s army.
High overhead, so high where she couldn’t be seen or heard from the ground, the Gray Lady wrought death and destruction on the forces gathered below, an apocalyptic catastrophe that hell and its inhabitants had never even conceived. Watching from his hilltop as his army was consumed, Beelzebub, at last, understood what humans could do when they decided to stop playing with their enemies.
Re: 2008 - Armageddon
Chapter Sixty-Four
Free Hell, Swamps by the River Styx, Fifth Ring of Hell
Human laughter was not a common commodity in hell. Demonic laughter was, but human mirth was rare in the extreme. So, the sound of three humans laughing uproariously struck Lieutenant (deceased) Jade Kim as worth investigating. Even as she made that decision, it struck her that she too had not laughed for a very long time.
“Whoever these people are, they certainly got you right eh Titus?” Caesar was wiping his eyes clear of the tears that helpless laughter had caused. The three men were gathered around a small portable DVD player, one whose eight-inch screen was showing the end credits from an episode of the HBO series ‘Rome”.
“Yeah, but Atia? She was too busy praying and trying to be sanctimonious to get up to any of that stuff. Now, if they’d said she was Fulvia….”
“Enjoying the show gentlemen?” Kim’s voice cut through the end music.
“Very much thank you. I was quite flattered by my depiction.” Caesar leaned back and started to sort through the disks for the next episode.
“I wasn’t. Bit harsh I thought.” Pullo’s expression belied his words, Kim got the impression he also was impressed by the television show. “And it got my army life really wrong.”
“That’s true Titus, you didn’t need to get drunk to do some stupid things. You nearly got us both killed repeatedly without the aid of bad wine.” Lucius Vorenus wasn’t laughing, his voice was quiet and melancholy.
“Yeah, but if we hadn’t kept going, the gods wouldn’t have taken a fancy to us, and we wouldn’t have gained their protection here would we.” Pullo’s chin jutted out, then his voice softened. “They got Niobe right didn’t they.”
Vorenus nodded. “She didn’t just do it. If I hadn’t lost my temper, she would have lived.”
“And so would I, Lucius.” Caesar’s voice was shot with mock severity. “Getting killed wasn’t in my plans you know.”
“She’s down here somewhere Lucius.” Kim tried to sound comforting. “She would have ended up here anyway as far as I can tell. We’ll find her and then you two can make your peace. If you want to.”
That was a good point and everybody around knew it. Sooner or later, it must be addressed, what would happen when couples who had been married were reunited. Would they want to be? Kim quickly considered the problems Henry VIII was likely to face and shuddered. Then she was aware of Caesar sitting close to her in an uncomfortably familiar way. That fitted what she knew of him from the histories, ‘every woman’s husband and every husband’s wife had been one of the ancient barbs thrown in his general direction.
“What happened to Servilia? Did she really die like that?”
“Nah, she outlived the lot of them.” Kim paused. “Gaius, you know what happens to women when they arrive down here?” Caesar nodded, guessing where this was going. “Well, I got all torn up inside.”
“We all heal fast down here Jade. We’re not the same bodies we had on Earth, look the same but we’re not. Your wounds have healed.”
“Not the ones up here.” She tapped her head. “I still feel all torn up. So, Gaius, no. Thank you, but, just, no.” Then she smiled quickly. “But I do have one thing to ask of you, personal favor?”
“Anything for the beautiful woman who has brought hope to hell.”
“I got my copies of ‘The Gallic War’ and ‘The Civil War’ brought through when I heard you were coming. Could you sign them for me?”
Caesar chuckled. “Of course. I….” Then he was interrupted by McInery entering the cave, very fast.
“Ell-tee got a radio message came in, top urgency.” He handed over a slip with the message printed on it. Kim read it and went white.
“Gaius, we got a problem. One of the Spec Ops teams down in the Sixth Circle has sent in a sighting report. There’s a major force of Baldricks, some 30,000 strong with about 1,500 harpies, moving along the Sixth Circle boundary towards us. They’re on the other side of the wall now but they can pass through the gates any point they want to. They’ll be here in two days, perhaps three.”
The amiable smile fell from Caesar’s face and suddenly he was the military commander known to history. “They’re coming here?”
“Pretty sure of it, nowhere else they could be going with a force like that. If they link up with the forces we have on either side of us, we got real problems.”
“Why would they want to do that? You’ve already stalled the demons there. They’ll hit the river flank. How many men do you have?”
“I’ve got about thirty soldiers trained to handle modern weapons. That’s it.”
Caesar smiled at the emphasis on ‘soldiers’ rather than ‘men’ but let it pass. “So, you can’t fortify the river boundary properly. I can get some people here, a thousand or more in a day or so and five thousand in two or three, but they won’t help much.”
“They won’t help at all, we haven’t a chance to train them to use rifles and we haven’t got the equipment for them even if we could. Humans don’t stand much of a chance against baldricks without them. Still, the river’s still on our side.”
The comment made Caesar’s mouth twist in despair. He kept forgetting that this woman was a Lieutenant only, she was a junior officer and had the training to match. In other words, not very much. “Jade, in Gaul I threw a bridge over the Rhine in a couple of days. The Rhine is bigger and faster flowing that the Styx. This river barrier you’re putting so much hope on counts for very little in the scheme of things. You need all your …. soldiers …. to hold the two end flanks. You can’t defend that river as well. If the enemy has 30,000 troops coming in, you’re done. Time to get out of here.”
“Can’t do it. We’ve got civilians now, we must get them out, and the dead we’ve rescued, we can’t hand them over”
“Ell-tee, the British want a word with you, they ran the special ops team that got this warning to us. They say they have some suggestions.”
British Expeditionary Force HQ, Camp Hell-Alpha, Hell
“Are you sure this is a good idea Sir?”
“Can you think of a better one?”
“Honestly Sir, yes. We’ve got the lift, evacuate the place.”
“Not good enough. Look, Colonel, Free Hell and the PFLH is about the only successful insurgency we’ve got running in Hell. Oh, the other groups are operating there, but they’ve all got tied down rescuing the prisoners and so on. Very estimable and good work but it isn’t fighting Hell. Only the PFLH has done that and they’re entirely an American operation. So, while the Spams run around making decisions, we do something to help the people on the sharp end. That way we get to muscle in on their operation, even take it over if everything goes right. The PFLH is run by a Lieutenant, so we send in 2 Para and its got a Colonel, you, in charge. That makes you the ranking officer on scene and puts you in command. And, once we’re in we stay in – with you in command. We’re doing them a big favor inside, that Lieutenant has done well but she’s way out of her depth. They need military expertise in there if they are going to survive.
“We’ve got Chinooks and Merlins to lift your battalion in. You’ll have Typhoon and Tornados for escort, more Tornados and Jags to give air support one everything drops in the pot.”
“Very good Sir.”
“Move out as soon as you can. And remember, you are the ranking officer down there.”
B-1B “Dragon Slayer” 128th Bomb Squadron, Georgia Air National Guard, Approaching Dis
“Everything dialed in?” Major Curtis Trafford looked at his WSO and got a thumbs up by way of response. The four B-1Bs were in a loose, finger-four formation, cruising at 29,000 feet. The discovery that the air was clear up here had been a major advantage, but it also meant that their target was lost in the rolling clouds of red dust underneath. The mapping radar was doing a good job of penetrating it though, the city of Dis was ahead of them and the long spur that stuck out into the great caldera of Hell showed up clearly. Their target was where that spur ended in a rounded promontory, for in the center of that feature was Satan’s palace.
Detroit was to be avenged and the United States Air Force did not take its revenge by striking at the inconsequential as many consumer advocates had put it, ‘if you want action, go right to the top’. There was another saying as well, ‘for delicate work, get a bigger hammer’. The hammer hanging under Dragon Slayer was the biggest conventional hammer the United States had at its disposal. The Massive Ordnance Penetrator, is a 30,000-pound bomb capable of tearing its way through at least 130 feet of moderately hard rock. What it would so to the rock Dis was built on was an interesting question. The hope was that it would collapse the whole spur and drop Satan, complete with his palace, right into the center of Hell.
The MOPs had been modified for this mission, normally they were GPS guided but the global positioning system was useless in Hell. No satellites and it was not certain whether there were anywhere for a satellite to fly or even anything for them to orbit. Hell wasn’t Kansas. Instead, the bombs had been equipped with an inertial system that was supposed to prevent them wandering off a true trajectory. That left the aiming job in the hands of the B-1s radar.
“We’ve got a radar picture now. The spur’s showing up clearly. Also showing was the red carat that marked the predicted impact point of the MOP. All four bombers were on slightly converging courses and the intention was that all four bombs should hit Satan’s palace at the same instant.
Beast Stables, City of Dis
“Take care of that wyvern. Feed him carefully, do not let him bloat. If he is made sick, I will flay you alive and have you eat your own skin.”
The orc blanched slightly and took the reins of the Wyvern away from Belial. In the back of the orc’s stunted mind, a memory stirred of the time before these creatures had come. Perhaps it was a genetic memory, perhaps the effect of stories quietly whispered in the dark of night, but there were memories, nonetheless. Of a time when the orcs had been free, and this had been their home. Before the demons had come, before the great eruption that had poisoned everything. Now, there were more whispers in the darkness, more words on the wind. Words that said the millennia of slavery to the demons was ending, that the demons had taken on a force too powerful even for them to handle. Words that said the orcs might be free again. And these words were backed by the thunder that never stopped, the thunder that came from the Phlegethon River.
Belial also heard the thunder of the Russian Artillery but it hardly registered. He had other things on his mind, how to present what had happened to his best advantage. He had fulfilled his promise all right, he had identified the two great arsenals of the humans and destroyed them both. The problem was that half his naga was dead and the rest were crippled, stunned by the accident that had taken place during the Dee-Troyt attack. He knew what the cause of that was, of course, the other lords had been told to send him their best covens of naga but what they had supplied was their youngest and least experienced. Lying crippled in her sick bed, Baroness Yalupki had told him of the trouble in getting the inexperienced naga to sing in chorus and how that had caused the portal to flare out of control. Thought of the crippled naga in her sick bed made Belial think quickly of Euryale but he dismissed the matter. She was a gorgon, in the final analysis replaceable. If she did die of her wounds, she could be replaced with a new consort, one more fitting to be seen at Satan’s Court. In the back of his mind was an uneasy idea that it all wouldn’t be quite that easy.
He shook himself and walked on. The highway to Satan’s palace, gleaming red-gold as its bronze plating reflected the fires of the hell-pit below, led along the promonto ry towards the domed island ahead. As always, Belial looked down at the tiers beneath, the nine great rings separated by high walls that defined Hell itself. Once he had been banished from the city to the wilds of the North and it had taken millennia to worm his way back in, and then only as something barely more than a court jester. Now he was entering as a potential great lord. One who would bask in the favor of Satan himself. Yes, the attacks on Sheffield and Dee-Troyt had gone very well indeed. All that he needed to do was to convince Satan of that.
Third Platoon, Second Company, Third Battalion, Fourth Regiment, 247th Motor Rifle Division, Phlegethon River Front
“Halt” The order was abrupt and there was a tremor of fear in it. The three BMPs approaching the decontamination facility had been right under the Sarin gas cloud that had scoured the harpies from the battlefield. They were doubtless soaked in nerve gas and there was no way anybody here was going to take chances. To either side of the vehicles, high-pressure hoses were already pumping out thick streams of alkaline slurry to coat the BMPs in their white paste. Then, a truck backed up, a jet engine on its back. The exhaust was played over the outside of the armored carriers, swiftly raising the temperatures to almost-intolerable levels. Almost, but not quite and the temperature was needed to hydrolyse the residue of nerve gas on the BMPs. Eventually, the jet engines and the sprays had done their work. Detector waved over the carriers remained silent and Pas’kov’s little command was ordered to one side.
Yet, the work wasn’t done. They opened the hatches on the BMPs, and the crews scrambled out, only to be sprayed with alkaline slurry and brushed down with brooms. Once again, the detectors remained silent and, at last, Pas’kov and his men could remove their chemical warfare suits.
“Well done Bratischka.” A Captain was standing to one side, his own suit still on. “You have fought as heroes today. We will repair your vehicles and send you back soon but until then you can rest. We have vodka for you, and fresh food.” Behind them, a group of men were being led away, gently but firmly. They looked healthy, but they moved with the shaking, trembling slowness of very old men. The captain looked at them sadly. “They were not so lucky. Their radio was down, and they did not get the word about the gas. Harpies had breached the seals on their vehicles, and they were contaminated, they used their antidotes but….” He shook his head.
Pas’kov knew what he meant. The atropine and pralidoxime injector had saved their lives but now they were old men in their twenties and would never be anything more. The gas had slaughtered the harpies in a way no other weapon could, but it had costs all of its own.
Assembly Area, Southern Flank, Phlegethon River Front
Major Evgenii Yakovlevich Galkin looked at the boxy vehicle next to his tank. One with red mottling applied over its dark gray paint, just as his was mottled with red over its moss green. The tank looked huge beside his sleek, curved T-90 but there was more to it than that to fill Galkin with unease. The tank was German.
“Tovarish major” The voice calling from below was in atrocious Russian, the accent making the simple words almost unintelligible. Still, Galkin understood and dropped off the turret of his tank to where the German was waiting.
“Soon we will fight together. I just wanted to wish you good hunting.” The words were a lot better this time, Galkin guessed that the German had carefully rehearsed the phrase to be friendly. Time to respond. Galkin’s German was better that the German’s Russian.
“May you have a good bag and a safe hunt.”
The German beamed in response, then caught the Russian looking at the Leopard. “Have you seen a Leopard II before?”
“Only at our tank museum in Kubinka. This is the first one I have seen in service.” The German officer’s eyebrows twitched, there wasn’t supposed to be a Leopard II at Kubinka. How had the Russians got hold of one? “Is this the first Russian tank you have seen?”
“For me yes. My father, he saw many of course.”
“In the Great Patriotic War?”
“He fought at Prokhorovka. With the Panzers, Heer, not SS.”
Galkin nodded. Odd coincidence. “My father also fought at Prokohorovka. And later.”
There was a long silence, neither man quite certain what to say next. Eventually Galkin spoke carefully. “Our fathers caused great destruction, between them, at Prokhorovka. Now we can join together and inflict the same those who threaten us both.”
The German nodded. “We can. As soon as our commanders let us off the leash.”
Free Hell, Swamps by the River Styx, Fifth Ring of Hell
Human laughter was not a common commodity in hell. Demonic laughter was, but human mirth was rare in the extreme. So, the sound of three humans laughing uproariously struck Lieutenant (deceased) Jade Kim as worth investigating. Even as she made that decision, it struck her that she too had not laughed for a very long time.
“Whoever these people are, they certainly got you right eh Titus?” Caesar was wiping his eyes clear of the tears that helpless laughter had caused. The three men were gathered around a small portable DVD player, one whose eight-inch screen was showing the end credits from an episode of the HBO series ‘Rome”.
“Yeah, but Atia? She was too busy praying and trying to be sanctimonious to get up to any of that stuff. Now, if they’d said she was Fulvia….”
“Enjoying the show gentlemen?” Kim’s voice cut through the end music.
“Very much thank you. I was quite flattered by my depiction.” Caesar leaned back and started to sort through the disks for the next episode.
“I wasn’t. Bit harsh I thought.” Pullo’s expression belied his words, Kim got the impression he also was impressed by the television show. “And it got my army life really wrong.”
“That’s true Titus, you didn’t need to get drunk to do some stupid things. You nearly got us both killed repeatedly without the aid of bad wine.” Lucius Vorenus wasn’t laughing, his voice was quiet and melancholy.
“Yeah, but if we hadn’t kept going, the gods wouldn’t have taken a fancy to us, and we wouldn’t have gained their protection here would we.” Pullo’s chin jutted out, then his voice softened. “They got Niobe right didn’t they.”
Vorenus nodded. “She didn’t just do it. If I hadn’t lost my temper, she would have lived.”
“And so would I, Lucius.” Caesar’s voice was shot with mock severity. “Getting killed wasn’t in my plans you know.”
“She’s down here somewhere Lucius.” Kim tried to sound comforting. “She would have ended up here anyway as far as I can tell. We’ll find her and then you two can make your peace. If you want to.”
That was a good point and everybody around knew it. Sooner or later, it must be addressed, what would happen when couples who had been married were reunited. Would they want to be? Kim quickly considered the problems Henry VIII was likely to face and shuddered. Then she was aware of Caesar sitting close to her in an uncomfortably familiar way. That fitted what she knew of him from the histories, ‘every woman’s husband and every husband’s wife had been one of the ancient barbs thrown in his general direction.
“What happened to Servilia? Did she really die like that?”
“Nah, she outlived the lot of them.” Kim paused. “Gaius, you know what happens to women when they arrive down here?” Caesar nodded, guessing where this was going. “Well, I got all torn up inside.”
“We all heal fast down here Jade. We’re not the same bodies we had on Earth, look the same but we’re not. Your wounds have healed.”
“Not the ones up here.” She tapped her head. “I still feel all torn up. So, Gaius, no. Thank you, but, just, no.” Then she smiled quickly. “But I do have one thing to ask of you, personal favor?”
“Anything for the beautiful woman who has brought hope to hell.”
“I got my copies of ‘The Gallic War’ and ‘The Civil War’ brought through when I heard you were coming. Could you sign them for me?”
Caesar chuckled. “Of course. I….” Then he was interrupted by McInery entering the cave, very fast.
“Ell-tee got a radio message came in, top urgency.” He handed over a slip with the message printed on it. Kim read it and went white.
“Gaius, we got a problem. One of the Spec Ops teams down in the Sixth Circle has sent in a sighting report. There’s a major force of Baldricks, some 30,000 strong with about 1,500 harpies, moving along the Sixth Circle boundary towards us. They’re on the other side of the wall now but they can pass through the gates any point they want to. They’ll be here in two days, perhaps three.”
The amiable smile fell from Caesar’s face and suddenly he was the military commander known to history. “They’re coming here?”
“Pretty sure of it, nowhere else they could be going with a force like that. If they link up with the forces we have on either side of us, we got real problems.”
“Why would they want to do that? You’ve already stalled the demons there. They’ll hit the river flank. How many men do you have?”
“I’ve got about thirty soldiers trained to handle modern weapons. That’s it.”
Caesar smiled at the emphasis on ‘soldiers’ rather than ‘men’ but let it pass. “So, you can’t fortify the river boundary properly. I can get some people here, a thousand or more in a day or so and five thousand in two or three, but they won’t help much.”
“They won’t help at all, we haven’t a chance to train them to use rifles and we haven’t got the equipment for them even if we could. Humans don’t stand much of a chance against baldricks without them. Still, the river’s still on our side.”
The comment made Caesar’s mouth twist in despair. He kept forgetting that this woman was a Lieutenant only, she was a junior officer and had the training to match. In other words, not very much. “Jade, in Gaul I threw a bridge over the Rhine in a couple of days. The Rhine is bigger and faster flowing that the Styx. This river barrier you’re putting so much hope on counts for very little in the scheme of things. You need all your …. soldiers …. to hold the two end flanks. You can’t defend that river as well. If the enemy has 30,000 troops coming in, you’re done. Time to get out of here.”
“Can’t do it. We’ve got civilians now, we must get them out, and the dead we’ve rescued, we can’t hand them over”
“Ell-tee, the British want a word with you, they ran the special ops team that got this warning to us. They say they have some suggestions.”
British Expeditionary Force HQ, Camp Hell-Alpha, Hell
“Are you sure this is a good idea Sir?”
“Can you think of a better one?”
“Honestly Sir, yes. We’ve got the lift, evacuate the place.”
“Not good enough. Look, Colonel, Free Hell and the PFLH is about the only successful insurgency we’ve got running in Hell. Oh, the other groups are operating there, but they’ve all got tied down rescuing the prisoners and so on. Very estimable and good work but it isn’t fighting Hell. Only the PFLH has done that and they’re entirely an American operation. So, while the Spams run around making decisions, we do something to help the people on the sharp end. That way we get to muscle in on their operation, even take it over if everything goes right. The PFLH is run by a Lieutenant, so we send in 2 Para and its got a Colonel, you, in charge. That makes you the ranking officer on scene and puts you in command. And, once we’re in we stay in – with you in command. We’re doing them a big favor inside, that Lieutenant has done well but she’s way out of her depth. They need military expertise in there if they are going to survive.
“We’ve got Chinooks and Merlins to lift your battalion in. You’ll have Typhoon and Tornados for escort, more Tornados and Jags to give air support one everything drops in the pot.”
“Very good Sir.”
“Move out as soon as you can. And remember, you are the ranking officer down there.”
B-1B “Dragon Slayer” 128th Bomb Squadron, Georgia Air National Guard, Approaching Dis
“Everything dialed in?” Major Curtis Trafford looked at his WSO and got a thumbs up by way of response. The four B-1Bs were in a loose, finger-four formation, cruising at 29,000 feet. The discovery that the air was clear up here had been a major advantage, but it also meant that their target was lost in the rolling clouds of red dust underneath. The mapping radar was doing a good job of penetrating it though, the city of Dis was ahead of them and the long spur that stuck out into the great caldera of Hell showed up clearly. Their target was where that spur ended in a rounded promontory, for in the center of that feature was Satan’s palace.
Detroit was to be avenged and the United States Air Force did not take its revenge by striking at the inconsequential as many consumer advocates had put it, ‘if you want action, go right to the top’. There was another saying as well, ‘for delicate work, get a bigger hammer’. The hammer hanging under Dragon Slayer was the biggest conventional hammer the United States had at its disposal. The Massive Ordnance Penetrator, is a 30,000-pound bomb capable of tearing its way through at least 130 feet of moderately hard rock. What it would so to the rock Dis was built on was an interesting question. The hope was that it would collapse the whole spur and drop Satan, complete with his palace, right into the center of Hell.
The MOPs had been modified for this mission, normally they were GPS guided but the global positioning system was useless in Hell. No satellites and it was not certain whether there were anywhere for a satellite to fly or even anything for them to orbit. Hell wasn’t Kansas. Instead, the bombs had been equipped with an inertial system that was supposed to prevent them wandering off a true trajectory. That left the aiming job in the hands of the B-1s radar.
“We’ve got a radar picture now. The spur’s showing up clearly. Also showing was the red carat that marked the predicted impact point of the MOP. All four bombers were on slightly converging courses and the intention was that all four bombs should hit Satan’s palace at the same instant.
Beast Stables, City of Dis
“Take care of that wyvern. Feed him carefully, do not let him bloat. If he is made sick, I will flay you alive and have you eat your own skin.”
The orc blanched slightly and took the reins of the Wyvern away from Belial. In the back of the orc’s stunted mind, a memory stirred of the time before these creatures had come. Perhaps it was a genetic memory, perhaps the effect of stories quietly whispered in the dark of night, but there were memories, nonetheless. Of a time when the orcs had been free, and this had been their home. Before the demons had come, before the great eruption that had poisoned everything. Now, there were more whispers in the darkness, more words on the wind. Words that said the millennia of slavery to the demons was ending, that the demons had taken on a force too powerful even for them to handle. Words that said the orcs might be free again. And these words were backed by the thunder that never stopped, the thunder that came from the Phlegethon River.
Belial also heard the thunder of the Russian Artillery but it hardly registered. He had other things on his mind, how to present what had happened to his best advantage. He had fulfilled his promise all right, he had identified the two great arsenals of the humans and destroyed them both. The problem was that half his naga was dead and the rest were crippled, stunned by the accident that had taken place during the Dee-Troyt attack. He knew what the cause of that was, of course, the other lords had been told to send him their best covens of naga but what they had supplied was their youngest and least experienced. Lying crippled in her sick bed, Baroness Yalupki had told him of the trouble in getting the inexperienced naga to sing in chorus and how that had caused the portal to flare out of control. Thought of the crippled naga in her sick bed made Belial think quickly of Euryale but he dismissed the matter. She was a gorgon, in the final analysis replaceable. If she did die of her wounds, she could be replaced with a new consort, one more fitting to be seen at Satan’s Court. In the back of his mind was an uneasy idea that it all wouldn’t be quite that easy.
He shook himself and walked on. The highway to Satan’s palace, gleaming red-gold as its bronze plating reflected the fires of the hell-pit below, led along the promonto ry towards the domed island ahead. As always, Belial looked down at the tiers beneath, the nine great rings separated by high walls that defined Hell itself. Once he had been banished from the city to the wilds of the North and it had taken millennia to worm his way back in, and then only as something barely more than a court jester. Now he was entering as a potential great lord. One who would bask in the favor of Satan himself. Yes, the attacks on Sheffield and Dee-Troyt had gone very well indeed. All that he needed to do was to convince Satan of that.
Third Platoon, Second Company, Third Battalion, Fourth Regiment, 247th Motor Rifle Division, Phlegethon River Front
“Halt” The order was abrupt and there was a tremor of fear in it. The three BMPs approaching the decontamination facility had been right under the Sarin gas cloud that had scoured the harpies from the battlefield. They were doubtless soaked in nerve gas and there was no way anybody here was going to take chances. To either side of the vehicles, high-pressure hoses were already pumping out thick streams of alkaline slurry to coat the BMPs in their white paste. Then, a truck backed up, a jet engine on its back. The exhaust was played over the outside of the armored carriers, swiftly raising the temperatures to almost-intolerable levels. Almost, but not quite and the temperature was needed to hydrolyse the residue of nerve gas on the BMPs. Eventually, the jet engines and the sprays had done their work. Detector waved over the carriers remained silent and Pas’kov’s little command was ordered to one side.
Yet, the work wasn’t done. They opened the hatches on the BMPs, and the crews scrambled out, only to be sprayed with alkaline slurry and brushed down with brooms. Once again, the detectors remained silent and, at last, Pas’kov and his men could remove their chemical warfare suits.
“Well done Bratischka.” A Captain was standing to one side, his own suit still on. “You have fought as heroes today. We will repair your vehicles and send you back soon but until then you can rest. We have vodka for you, and fresh food.” Behind them, a group of men were being led away, gently but firmly. They looked healthy, but they moved with the shaking, trembling slowness of very old men. The captain looked at them sadly. “They were not so lucky. Their radio was down, and they did not get the word about the gas. Harpies had breached the seals on their vehicles, and they were contaminated, they used their antidotes but….” He shook his head.
Pas’kov knew what he meant. The atropine and pralidoxime injector had saved their lives but now they were old men in their twenties and would never be anything more. The gas had slaughtered the harpies in a way no other weapon could, but it had costs all of its own.
Assembly Area, Southern Flank, Phlegethon River Front
Major Evgenii Yakovlevich Galkin looked at the boxy vehicle next to his tank. One with red mottling applied over its dark gray paint, just as his was mottled with red over its moss green. The tank looked huge beside his sleek, curved T-90 but there was more to it than that to fill Galkin with unease. The tank was German.
“Tovarish major” The voice calling from below was in atrocious Russian, the accent making the simple words almost unintelligible. Still, Galkin understood and dropped off the turret of his tank to where the German was waiting.
“Soon we will fight together. I just wanted to wish you good hunting.” The words were a lot better this time, Galkin guessed that the German had carefully rehearsed the phrase to be friendly. Time to respond. Galkin’s German was better that the German’s Russian.
“May you have a good bag and a safe hunt.”
The German beamed in response, then caught the Russian looking at the Leopard. “Have you seen a Leopard II before?”
“Only at our tank museum in Kubinka. This is the first one I have seen in service.” The German officer’s eyebrows twitched, there wasn’t supposed to be a Leopard II at Kubinka. How had the Russians got hold of one? “Is this the first Russian tank you have seen?”
“For me yes. My father, he saw many of course.”
“In the Great Patriotic War?”
“He fought at Prokhorovka. With the Panzers, Heer, not SS.”
Galkin nodded. Odd coincidence. “My father also fought at Prokohorovka. And later.”
There was a long silence, neither man quite certain what to say next. Eventually Galkin spoke carefully. “Our fathers caused great destruction, between them, at Prokhorovka. Now we can join together and inflict the same those who threaten us both.”
The German nodded. “We can. As soon as our commanders let us off the leash.”
Re: 2008 - Armageddon
Chapter Sixty-Five
Winder Street, Detroit, Michigan
“Go ahead and blow it Taguba.” Lieutenant Preston didn't need binoculars this time; the old factory was right in front of him. The weathered brick building appeared to have been a food processing plant, before being boarded up and abandoned. Now it would provide much-needed material for the bulldozers.
The demolition was on a smaller scale than the intersection they'd destroyed earlier, but at this range, it was just as loud. The building didn't collapse completely, but it was good enough for the dozers to get to work without the risk of being crushed. Right now, this was a relatively safe area, the lava seemed to be flowing down towards the river and the inrushing wind made Detroit's wide highways function as acceptable fire breaks. That situation could change at any moment though, and securing a safe perimeter was vital. The improvised levees and wide areas of cleared rubble behind them were the only way to do that.
“Good job.” Actually, it was pretty sloppy, Preston thought, but right now morale was a much higher priority than perfecting combat demolitions technique. “Move onto the next block.”
“Thank you, sir, will do, Taguba out.” The Sergeant's voice was muffled by the filter mask but still clearly enthusiastic. Probably adrenaline. Preston hoped he didn't use it all up too quickly, this was going to be a very long shift.
“Sir looks like those Guardians are back.” Private Russell was pointing to the south and sure enough, a pair of boxy, angular shapes were emerging from the gloom. The first one didn't slow, heading straight past them towards the field hospital still being set up at the outer perimeter. The trailing armored car rolled to a halt; much of the paintwork was burned black, the hull bore dents and gouges and smoking debris still clung to parts of the body. The side hatch swung open to reveal a familiar face.
“Lieutenant thought yah should know... the Lafayette's gone up completely now, we won't be pulling any more people out of there.” Preston nodded grimly. Neighborhoods full of trees were a death trap in a fire this big. The man continued; “The fire's moving west along the bank, it looks to me like the FD are gonna try and hold it at Chene Street.”
He was interrupted by a sudden drawn-out roar, distinct over the omnipresent deep rumble of the lesser collapses.
“Hell, that was probably the Ren-Cen going. One of the towers at least. The lava must've hit the river by now.”
“Thank you...” Preston struggled to remember the man's name. “...Mr. O'Reilly. We'll get down to Chene and see if we can help as soon as we're done here.”
“Right. We'd better drop this lot off and get back in there. Todd let's go.” The hatch slammed shut and the M-1117 moved off.
Looking back to the destroyed plant, Lieutenant Preston was glad to see one of the dozers already plowing through the far corner, pushing rubble towards the slowly growing levee.
Belial’s Stronghold, Tartaruan Range, Northern Region of Hell
“It's a simple question, Baroness, was it sabotage or incompetence? When our Master returns in triumph from Satan’s court, he will want an answer.” The emphasis Euryale put on the naga's rank dripped contempt. The gorgon stared down at the prostrate Yulupki, her pose imperious despite the nasty burns and tares that marked her bronze flesh. As soon as Belial had left for Satan’s court, Euryale had dropped the ‘critically injured’ pose and started to get her arrangements in order. “Of course, it amounts to the same thing, since you personally assured our Master that sabotage was impossible, and any attempt would be suicide for the naga that tried it.”
Baroness Yulupki was a much less imposing sight, sprawled on an unkempt couch and still writhing with pain from the injuries she had received in the disastrous ritual. “That would have been true if the witchesss the other nobles sent been worthy of the name!” she snapped back. “This group might as well have been hatchlingsss, it was obvious that they had never worked as a large chorusss before.” She glared at the memory of seeing yet another limp snakelike form being dragged over the crater rim by the winged silhouette of one of Euryale's handmaidens. The humiliation tasted bitter to the naga leader. “Of course, if I'd had a reassonable amount of time to train them...”
“So, what are you going to tell Belial? That his plan was unrealistic? Or that you could not make a gang of hatchlings obey you?”
“I will tell him that this disassster was the result of your ssservant's incompetence!” Yulupki was screaming at this point.” That a gorgon cannot be trussted with sseriousss witchcraft or expected to ssurvive the least bit of human resissstance!”
Euryale flashed a fanged smile back, but it was a humorless one. “You expect that to be believed, do you?”
She was confident that she could prevail over Yulupki, but a fight over blame would leave both looking bad. The plan could be disrupted even more, and she didn't put it past Belial to throw a tantrum and dismiss both – and if it hadn't been for the apparently successful destruction of the human city, the consequences would've been much worse. Euryale stared down at Yulupki, waiting for her to falter. It didn't take long. The naga looked away and began to hiss softly; “Well, I mean, I will make it clear...”
Euryale cut her off. “It was obviously sabotaged. You detected the culprits, but the unexpected incompetence of the foreign naga masked their actions until too late. They were in the delegation from...” The gorgon's voice trailed off expectantly.
Yulupki looked startled. “I can't be ssure, most likely thosse of Bezeelbub, but it could have been the ssenior ones from those that Asmodeusss ssent or even...”
“...the delegation from Asmodeus.” Euryale continued smoothly.” I hope at least one survived as you know how the Count enjoys dispensing appropriate punishment.”
Euryale sighed. From the look on her face Yulupki obviously still didn't get it. “Getting Belial angry at Bezeelbub will only cause unnecessary problems. Asmodeus on the other hand, firstly he is dead... oh, you didn't know? Of course not, silly me, your commendable dedication has left you a little out of the loop.” At this point, Euryale was simply toying with her rival. “Yes, Asmodeus is dead, and his outer holdings lie ripe for Belial's taking. I think a little extra incentive should get things moving nicely. Understand?”
Yulupki couldn't bring herself to reply but nodded silently.
“We understand each other then. Excellent.” It would be a long time before that one dared challenge her again, Euryale thought smugly.
Detroit River, Michigan
The Stormont plowed through the fast-flowing water, its engines straining hard to push the massive flat barge in front of it. Its usual cargo of trucks had been replaced with as many humans as would fit onto the deck; the ferry had become one of the few escape routes for residents trapped in the inferno that had been downtown Detroit.
In the wheelhouse Captain Marcie Mahaffey drummed her fingers on the throttle levers, trying to will the ship to go faster. As a girl, she’d always wanted to be a trucker, much to the derision of her male relatives. In retrospect, her ambitions had a lot to do with the fact that truckers spent most of their time in places more interesting than her hometown. Somehow, though, she’d ended up on the great lakes’ freighters, where it had taken nearly ten years of hard work before she got her master’s license. At last, she had a ship to call her own, even if it was just a tugboat. Now fate had come calling and it was up to the Stormont and her crew to save hundreds of lives.
Marcie’s eyes strained to pick out the far bank from the grey-orange glow. By now the entire downtown grid was an inferno and she wasn’t sure there would be any survivors left to pick up on this trip. On each landing, it had been agonizing pulling away, but once people started to be forced off the sides of the barge into the water she’d had no choice. Some people had been so desperate they’d thrown themselves into the river and swam for it. Their chances weren’t good; the Detroit River was notoriously treacherous under normal conditions, and with the thick smoke and drifting ash drowning was even more likely. She’d ordered the crew to tie lines strung with floats off the barge, and that seemed to have saved a few strong enough to hang on until they reached the back.
They were close enough to see the buildings now, backed by a bright glow – Marcie gulped as she realized that the lava was nearly at the bank Correction; was already spilling into the river. As she registered that fact a shuddering roar rattled the windows; something was falling, something very big. One of the Renaissance Center’s five towers had come down, briefly dimming the glow from the lava in a fresh cloud of smoke and dust.
Captain Mahaffey pulled the wheel over, steering the barge away from the deadly glow, and grabbed the PA microphone. “Now y’all hear, this is gonna be touch-and-go, the others ‘ll be down in a sec, the whole bank ‘ll be gone not soon after, and we ain’t hanging around for that.” Ahead she could see one fireboat still spraying the shore around the tunnel entrance, but no other ferries. There were even more bodies in the water than before, but there was nothing to be done about that. Marcie reversed the port engine, then a few seconds later the starboard one, trying to soften the barge’s impact on the quay. The thud as it struck the bank was still enough to throw her against the wheel.
The smoke was so thick it was difficult to see what was going on, but there seemed to be shapes moving on the flat deck of the barge. The roar came again, louder this time and longer; Marcie looked right to see the dim hulking shape of the Renaissance Center’s remaining towers collapse into a giant ball of smoke and flame. Cracks and clunks sounded as debris hit the tug; one window shattered violently and then the deck heaved as the wave from the displaced water spread from the impact point. Marcie had ducked for cover when the window shattered; she could barely hear the screams from out front confirming that the barge had also taken impacts. She looked up to see that the fireboat just upstream had been hit much worse. In fact, it looked like it had taken a beating; its superstructure was smashed in several places and its pumps had stopped spraying. As she watched it lost headway and began to drift downstream – directly towards the barge.
Captain Mahaffey shoved the throttles to full reverse, the Stormont’s twin diesels now straining to pull the barge out of the collision zone. With painful slowness, the tug-barge combination began to back off. She keyed the PA mike again, and this time it was to holler the one line every captain hoped they’d never say. “All hands, brace for impact!”
There just wasn’t enough time to clear the fireboat, and sure enough, the stern of the other ship slammed into the far end of the barge, forcing it away from the bank and spinning it almost ninety degrees. The tugboat was designed to push not pull, and the strain was too much for the coupling. The now-untethered cable whipped back to slap against the hull, the Stormont surged backward, and the hapless barge floated free.
Marcie struggled back to her feet, fighting a mild concussion resulting from the sudden encounter with the deck. Already painfully hot, the turgid air was becoming increasingly difficult to breathe, due to the vast amounts of steam being produced by the lava entering the water. Escaping downstream looked like a good idea at this point but left to its own devices that barge would likely ground again on the now-burning banks. So, she thrust the throttles forward once more, hoping the machinery (not to mention her crew) hadn’t been shocked damaged. The tug was built tough and didn’t disappoint her, surging forwards again to catch up with the errant barge. As she feared, it was bumping along the western bank and in danger of snagging on one of the piers. But before her own boat could reach it, the fireboat emerged from the smoke and pushed its prow against the barge’s stern. The two vessels pulled away from the bank; once they had reasonable clearance Mahaffey skillfully maneuvered the Stormont into place next to the fireboat. The lettering on its hull read ‘Anthony J. Celebreeze – Cleveland Fire Department’ - Marcie was surprised it had been able to get up to Detroit so quickly.
With the two boats pushing together the barge was soon downstream of the Ambassador bridge and clear of the steam and smoke. Marcie could now see the people on the deck clearly; most still slumped motionlessly, but a few moved around, trying to help the wounded. She let out a long, relieved whistle – these people were alive, and clear, thanks to her and the Stormont. Many more hadn’t made it through – and the current definitely seemed to be getting stronger, which meant the channel was becoming blocked. On the plus side, she thought blackly, a little flooding would make controlling the fires easier.
Lady Wood, near Grimethorpe, United Kingdom
“Sir, the dog team has found a body. Could be one of our officers.”
Inspector Heaton looked up from his clipboard, which held a map of the local area annotated in a felt-tip pen. Laptop computers had their uses, but he preferred good old hard copies where possible.
“Already? Where are they?”
“About a quarter-mile due north.”
The forensics team was still examining the rear of the abandoned van. “Mitchell, got a body for you, are you done there?”
“Pretty much Inspector. The blood is definitely Baldrick, no surprises there. Still no idea about those needles, we'll wait for the lab work.”
“Ok. Constable Dasari, escort them over to the K-9 team please. I'll shift the sweeps north... oh, and here come the squaddies.”
Inspector Heaton didn't recognize it, but the bulky 4x4 roaring down the track was a Panther CLV. He did recognize the machine gun and grenade launcher on its remote weapon mount, though he'd never seen both mounted together like that before. The vehicle came to a stop and Heaton found himself facing a dark-haired officer with a prominent mustache, flanked by two soldiers carrying battle rifles.
“Brigadier Lethbridge-Stewart.” The newcomer thrust out his hand and Heaton reflexively shook it. “I take it we have a confirmed Baldrick presence?”
“You could say that. That van was driven here from Sheffield and the back is coated in dried green blood. Plus, we've just found...”
Inspector Heaton clicked the channel selector on his radio and spoke into it. “Sergeant Taylor, any ID on the body yet?”
The voice that responded sounded vaguely sick. “Yes sir... make that two bodies. They're badly torn up but they're our lads. Sir, the way the entrails are torn out... I think the demon was eating them. They've got more of those needle things, sticking out of them.”
Lethbridge-Stewart's eyebrow shot up. “Inspector pull your men back. They're not trained for this.”
“And yours are?” Heaton was affronted at the implication that his officers couldn't handle one murderer, however vicious and depraved.
“Not just trained, combat tested. Don't ask, you're not cleared for it. Look, I see you've already got a perimeter in place, good work. You can hold that until my troops can relieve you. But more Baldricks could portal in at any moment.”
Heaton gulped. “Yes sir.” He started barking orders into the radio.
Somewhere in Hell, On the Way To Tartarus
Hello, Memnon, can we talk?”
Memnon recognized the voice in his head. One of the humans making a scheduled contact. The conversation would make a good excuse to rest.
Yes, I am resting for a while. Tell my Master Abigor that I am doing well, that I have covered almost two-thirds of the distance to Tartarus.
There was a brief pause and when the voice came back, it was tinged with respect. You have made good time then. We had expected you to be only halfway by now. Way to go Memnon!
Memnon basked in the praise, that was a nice thing about humans, when somebody did a good job, they noticed and praised it. Didn’t scream in rage and demand to know why the achievement hadn’t been commonplace in the past. Memnon thought about that, nobody in Hell really tried to exert themselves because if they excelled in anything, that would become the standard they would be held to from that point onwards. ‘Just good enough’ was the watchword.
My Lord demanded that I move as fast as I could. I just obeyed his commands
Nevertheless, you’ve done well and bought us a little time we didn’t expect. Take some of it to rest up. Is there anything you need? We can open a portal for you if we need to.
I am doing well thank you. I hunted on the way up and fed well. Soon I will be in Tartarus.
Good. Find yourself somewhere safe, not too far from Belial’s fortress so we can portal our team to you. We’ll be in contact again this time tomorrow.
Memnon settled back on his rocks and relaxed, feeling very good about himself. It was nice to work for people who appreciated his efforts.
CNO’s Office, the Pentagon, Washington D.C.
“We’ll need a portal at least 200 feet wide and at least the same high. For safety, three hundred feet. That’ll mean we can get a CVN through and run the SSNs submerged. How many of my CVNs do you want to send to hell.” Admiral Gary Roughead paused for a second. “I still can’t believe I just said that.”
Secretary Warner grinned in reply. “It does take getting used to doesn’t it. Anyway, we want to send two carriers through initially, with full air groups. By the way, they’ll be joined by Admiral Nakhimov and the Pyotr Veliky. They’re on their way over to Norfolk now. Screening ships as required.’
Roughead drummed his fingers. “That leaves us with eight CVNs this side. Pretty thin, even with Newport News working triple shifts on the two new ones. Overrunning Hell is one thing, but this is our home, we must be secure here.”
“The Lyndon Johnson and Herbert Hoover? Even working flat out, they’re four years away. We looked at commissioning some of the old dinosaur burners, but they’re too far gone. We’ll make do with eight this side I’m afraid.”
“And they’ve lost their E/F-model Superbugs. We can send Truman and Stennis through. They’ve got three squadrons of Bugs and one of Rhinos each. We’ve fleshed the squadrons out, they’re at eighteen birds each right now. Gives them 72 attack birds each. I wish we’d never pulled the A-6s from service. We’ve got some SLUFs coming back though. Question. How do they get back? I’m told it’s virtually impossible to hold a big gate open from this side.”
“It is, but we’re going to push this one through from hellside to the AUTEC site off Bermuda. We’re going to try and make it large enough so that it’s permanent, like the one in Iraq. That way, if we lose the Iraqi one, we’ve got this as a backup. Must be a sea gate so we can get freighters through to supply the forces we’ve got deployed in hell right now.” Secretary Warner thought for a second. “Like it or not Admiral, hell is part of our environment from now on. It’s there, no matter what happens. We must have solid contact with the place, communications, and everything else we take for granted. This second permanent portal won’t be the last, there’ll be more, many more. Our world literally has gotten to be a whole lot bigger.”
Winder Street, Detroit, Michigan
“Go ahead and blow it Taguba.” Lieutenant Preston didn't need binoculars this time; the old factory was right in front of him. The weathered brick building appeared to have been a food processing plant, before being boarded up and abandoned. Now it would provide much-needed material for the bulldozers.
The demolition was on a smaller scale than the intersection they'd destroyed earlier, but at this range, it was just as loud. The building didn't collapse completely, but it was good enough for the dozers to get to work without the risk of being crushed. Right now, this was a relatively safe area, the lava seemed to be flowing down towards the river and the inrushing wind made Detroit's wide highways function as acceptable fire breaks. That situation could change at any moment though, and securing a safe perimeter was vital. The improvised levees and wide areas of cleared rubble behind them were the only way to do that.
“Good job.” Actually, it was pretty sloppy, Preston thought, but right now morale was a much higher priority than perfecting combat demolitions technique. “Move onto the next block.”
“Thank you, sir, will do, Taguba out.” The Sergeant's voice was muffled by the filter mask but still clearly enthusiastic. Probably adrenaline. Preston hoped he didn't use it all up too quickly, this was going to be a very long shift.
“Sir looks like those Guardians are back.” Private Russell was pointing to the south and sure enough, a pair of boxy, angular shapes were emerging from the gloom. The first one didn't slow, heading straight past them towards the field hospital still being set up at the outer perimeter. The trailing armored car rolled to a halt; much of the paintwork was burned black, the hull bore dents and gouges and smoking debris still clung to parts of the body. The side hatch swung open to reveal a familiar face.
“Lieutenant thought yah should know... the Lafayette's gone up completely now, we won't be pulling any more people out of there.” Preston nodded grimly. Neighborhoods full of trees were a death trap in a fire this big. The man continued; “The fire's moving west along the bank, it looks to me like the FD are gonna try and hold it at Chene Street.”
He was interrupted by a sudden drawn-out roar, distinct over the omnipresent deep rumble of the lesser collapses.
“Hell, that was probably the Ren-Cen going. One of the towers at least. The lava must've hit the river by now.”
“Thank you...” Preston struggled to remember the man's name. “...Mr. O'Reilly. We'll get down to Chene and see if we can help as soon as we're done here.”
“Right. We'd better drop this lot off and get back in there. Todd let's go.” The hatch slammed shut and the M-1117 moved off.
Looking back to the destroyed plant, Lieutenant Preston was glad to see one of the dozers already plowing through the far corner, pushing rubble towards the slowly growing levee.
Belial’s Stronghold, Tartaruan Range, Northern Region of Hell
“It's a simple question, Baroness, was it sabotage or incompetence? When our Master returns in triumph from Satan’s court, he will want an answer.” The emphasis Euryale put on the naga's rank dripped contempt. The gorgon stared down at the prostrate Yulupki, her pose imperious despite the nasty burns and tares that marked her bronze flesh. As soon as Belial had left for Satan’s court, Euryale had dropped the ‘critically injured’ pose and started to get her arrangements in order. “Of course, it amounts to the same thing, since you personally assured our Master that sabotage was impossible, and any attempt would be suicide for the naga that tried it.”
Baroness Yulupki was a much less imposing sight, sprawled on an unkempt couch and still writhing with pain from the injuries she had received in the disastrous ritual. “That would have been true if the witchesss the other nobles sent been worthy of the name!” she snapped back. “This group might as well have been hatchlingsss, it was obvious that they had never worked as a large chorusss before.” She glared at the memory of seeing yet another limp snakelike form being dragged over the crater rim by the winged silhouette of one of Euryale's handmaidens. The humiliation tasted bitter to the naga leader. “Of course, if I'd had a reassonable amount of time to train them...”
“So, what are you going to tell Belial? That his plan was unrealistic? Or that you could not make a gang of hatchlings obey you?”
“I will tell him that this disassster was the result of your ssservant's incompetence!” Yulupki was screaming at this point.” That a gorgon cannot be trussted with sseriousss witchcraft or expected to ssurvive the least bit of human resissstance!”
Euryale flashed a fanged smile back, but it was a humorless one. “You expect that to be believed, do you?”
She was confident that she could prevail over Yulupki, but a fight over blame would leave both looking bad. The plan could be disrupted even more, and she didn't put it past Belial to throw a tantrum and dismiss both – and if it hadn't been for the apparently successful destruction of the human city, the consequences would've been much worse. Euryale stared down at Yulupki, waiting for her to falter. It didn't take long. The naga looked away and began to hiss softly; “Well, I mean, I will make it clear...”
Euryale cut her off. “It was obviously sabotaged. You detected the culprits, but the unexpected incompetence of the foreign naga masked their actions until too late. They were in the delegation from...” The gorgon's voice trailed off expectantly.
Yulupki looked startled. “I can't be ssure, most likely thosse of Bezeelbub, but it could have been the ssenior ones from those that Asmodeusss ssent or even...”
“...the delegation from Asmodeus.” Euryale continued smoothly.” I hope at least one survived as you know how the Count enjoys dispensing appropriate punishment.”
Euryale sighed. From the look on her face Yulupki obviously still didn't get it. “Getting Belial angry at Bezeelbub will only cause unnecessary problems. Asmodeus on the other hand, firstly he is dead... oh, you didn't know? Of course not, silly me, your commendable dedication has left you a little out of the loop.” At this point, Euryale was simply toying with her rival. “Yes, Asmodeus is dead, and his outer holdings lie ripe for Belial's taking. I think a little extra incentive should get things moving nicely. Understand?”
Yulupki couldn't bring herself to reply but nodded silently.
“We understand each other then. Excellent.” It would be a long time before that one dared challenge her again, Euryale thought smugly.
Detroit River, Michigan
The Stormont plowed through the fast-flowing water, its engines straining hard to push the massive flat barge in front of it. Its usual cargo of trucks had been replaced with as many humans as would fit onto the deck; the ferry had become one of the few escape routes for residents trapped in the inferno that had been downtown Detroit.
In the wheelhouse Captain Marcie Mahaffey drummed her fingers on the throttle levers, trying to will the ship to go faster. As a girl, she’d always wanted to be a trucker, much to the derision of her male relatives. In retrospect, her ambitions had a lot to do with the fact that truckers spent most of their time in places more interesting than her hometown. Somehow, though, she’d ended up on the great lakes’ freighters, where it had taken nearly ten years of hard work before she got her master’s license. At last, she had a ship to call her own, even if it was just a tugboat. Now fate had come calling and it was up to the Stormont and her crew to save hundreds of lives.
Marcie’s eyes strained to pick out the far bank from the grey-orange glow. By now the entire downtown grid was an inferno and she wasn’t sure there would be any survivors left to pick up on this trip. On each landing, it had been agonizing pulling away, but once people started to be forced off the sides of the barge into the water she’d had no choice. Some people had been so desperate they’d thrown themselves into the river and swam for it. Their chances weren’t good; the Detroit River was notoriously treacherous under normal conditions, and with the thick smoke and drifting ash drowning was even more likely. She’d ordered the crew to tie lines strung with floats off the barge, and that seemed to have saved a few strong enough to hang on until they reached the back.
They were close enough to see the buildings now, backed by a bright glow – Marcie gulped as she realized that the lava was nearly at the bank Correction; was already spilling into the river. As she registered that fact a shuddering roar rattled the windows; something was falling, something very big. One of the Renaissance Center’s five towers had come down, briefly dimming the glow from the lava in a fresh cloud of smoke and dust.
Captain Mahaffey pulled the wheel over, steering the barge away from the deadly glow, and grabbed the PA microphone. “Now y’all hear, this is gonna be touch-and-go, the others ‘ll be down in a sec, the whole bank ‘ll be gone not soon after, and we ain’t hanging around for that.” Ahead she could see one fireboat still spraying the shore around the tunnel entrance, but no other ferries. There were even more bodies in the water than before, but there was nothing to be done about that. Marcie reversed the port engine, then a few seconds later the starboard one, trying to soften the barge’s impact on the quay. The thud as it struck the bank was still enough to throw her against the wheel.
The smoke was so thick it was difficult to see what was going on, but there seemed to be shapes moving on the flat deck of the barge. The roar came again, louder this time and longer; Marcie looked right to see the dim hulking shape of the Renaissance Center’s remaining towers collapse into a giant ball of smoke and flame. Cracks and clunks sounded as debris hit the tug; one window shattered violently and then the deck heaved as the wave from the displaced water spread from the impact point. Marcie had ducked for cover when the window shattered; she could barely hear the screams from out front confirming that the barge had also taken impacts. She looked up to see that the fireboat just upstream had been hit much worse. In fact, it looked like it had taken a beating; its superstructure was smashed in several places and its pumps had stopped spraying. As she watched it lost headway and began to drift downstream – directly towards the barge.
Captain Mahaffey shoved the throttles to full reverse, the Stormont’s twin diesels now straining to pull the barge out of the collision zone. With painful slowness, the tug-barge combination began to back off. She keyed the PA mike again, and this time it was to holler the one line every captain hoped they’d never say. “All hands, brace for impact!”
There just wasn’t enough time to clear the fireboat, and sure enough, the stern of the other ship slammed into the far end of the barge, forcing it away from the bank and spinning it almost ninety degrees. The tugboat was designed to push not pull, and the strain was too much for the coupling. The now-untethered cable whipped back to slap against the hull, the Stormont surged backward, and the hapless barge floated free.
Marcie struggled back to her feet, fighting a mild concussion resulting from the sudden encounter with the deck. Already painfully hot, the turgid air was becoming increasingly difficult to breathe, due to the vast amounts of steam being produced by the lava entering the water. Escaping downstream looked like a good idea at this point but left to its own devices that barge would likely ground again on the now-burning banks. So, she thrust the throttles forward once more, hoping the machinery (not to mention her crew) hadn’t been shocked damaged. The tug was built tough and didn’t disappoint her, surging forwards again to catch up with the errant barge. As she feared, it was bumping along the western bank and in danger of snagging on one of the piers. But before her own boat could reach it, the fireboat emerged from the smoke and pushed its prow against the barge’s stern. The two vessels pulled away from the bank; once they had reasonable clearance Mahaffey skillfully maneuvered the Stormont into place next to the fireboat. The lettering on its hull read ‘Anthony J. Celebreeze – Cleveland Fire Department’ - Marcie was surprised it had been able to get up to Detroit so quickly.
With the two boats pushing together the barge was soon downstream of the Ambassador bridge and clear of the steam and smoke. Marcie could now see the people on the deck clearly; most still slumped motionlessly, but a few moved around, trying to help the wounded. She let out a long, relieved whistle – these people were alive, and clear, thanks to her and the Stormont. Many more hadn’t made it through – and the current definitely seemed to be getting stronger, which meant the channel was becoming blocked. On the plus side, she thought blackly, a little flooding would make controlling the fires easier.
Lady Wood, near Grimethorpe, United Kingdom
“Sir, the dog team has found a body. Could be one of our officers.”
Inspector Heaton looked up from his clipboard, which held a map of the local area annotated in a felt-tip pen. Laptop computers had their uses, but he preferred good old hard copies where possible.
“Already? Where are they?”
“About a quarter-mile due north.”
The forensics team was still examining the rear of the abandoned van. “Mitchell, got a body for you, are you done there?”
“Pretty much Inspector. The blood is definitely Baldrick, no surprises there. Still no idea about those needles, we'll wait for the lab work.”
“Ok. Constable Dasari, escort them over to the K-9 team please. I'll shift the sweeps north... oh, and here come the squaddies.”
Inspector Heaton didn't recognize it, but the bulky 4x4 roaring down the track was a Panther CLV. He did recognize the machine gun and grenade launcher on its remote weapon mount, though he'd never seen both mounted together like that before. The vehicle came to a stop and Heaton found himself facing a dark-haired officer with a prominent mustache, flanked by two soldiers carrying battle rifles.
“Brigadier Lethbridge-Stewart.” The newcomer thrust out his hand and Heaton reflexively shook it. “I take it we have a confirmed Baldrick presence?”
“You could say that. That van was driven here from Sheffield and the back is coated in dried green blood. Plus, we've just found...”
Inspector Heaton clicked the channel selector on his radio and spoke into it. “Sergeant Taylor, any ID on the body yet?”
The voice that responded sounded vaguely sick. “Yes sir... make that two bodies. They're badly torn up but they're our lads. Sir, the way the entrails are torn out... I think the demon was eating them. They've got more of those needle things, sticking out of them.”
Lethbridge-Stewart's eyebrow shot up. “Inspector pull your men back. They're not trained for this.”
“And yours are?” Heaton was affronted at the implication that his officers couldn't handle one murderer, however vicious and depraved.
“Not just trained, combat tested. Don't ask, you're not cleared for it. Look, I see you've already got a perimeter in place, good work. You can hold that until my troops can relieve you. But more Baldricks could portal in at any moment.”
Heaton gulped. “Yes sir.” He started barking orders into the radio.
Somewhere in Hell, On the Way To Tartarus
Hello, Memnon, can we talk?”
Memnon recognized the voice in his head. One of the humans making a scheduled contact. The conversation would make a good excuse to rest.
Yes, I am resting for a while. Tell my Master Abigor that I am doing well, that I have covered almost two-thirds of the distance to Tartarus.
There was a brief pause and when the voice came back, it was tinged with respect. You have made good time then. We had expected you to be only halfway by now. Way to go Memnon!
Memnon basked in the praise, that was a nice thing about humans, when somebody did a good job, they noticed and praised it. Didn’t scream in rage and demand to know why the achievement hadn’t been commonplace in the past. Memnon thought about that, nobody in Hell really tried to exert themselves because if they excelled in anything, that would become the standard they would be held to from that point onwards. ‘Just good enough’ was the watchword.
My Lord demanded that I move as fast as I could. I just obeyed his commands
Nevertheless, you’ve done well and bought us a little time we didn’t expect. Take some of it to rest up. Is there anything you need? We can open a portal for you if we need to.
I am doing well thank you. I hunted on the way up and fed well. Soon I will be in Tartarus.
Good. Find yourself somewhere safe, not too far from Belial’s fortress so we can portal our team to you. We’ll be in contact again this time tomorrow.
Memnon settled back on his rocks and relaxed, feeling very good about himself. It was nice to work for people who appreciated his efforts.
CNO’s Office, the Pentagon, Washington D.C.
“We’ll need a portal at least 200 feet wide and at least the same high. For safety, three hundred feet. That’ll mean we can get a CVN through and run the SSNs submerged. How many of my CVNs do you want to send to hell.” Admiral Gary Roughead paused for a second. “I still can’t believe I just said that.”
Secretary Warner grinned in reply. “It does take getting used to doesn’t it. Anyway, we want to send two carriers through initially, with full air groups. By the way, they’ll be joined by Admiral Nakhimov and the Pyotr Veliky. They’re on their way over to Norfolk now. Screening ships as required.’
Roughead drummed his fingers. “That leaves us with eight CVNs this side. Pretty thin, even with Newport News working triple shifts on the two new ones. Overrunning Hell is one thing, but this is our home, we must be secure here.”
“The Lyndon Johnson and Herbert Hoover? Even working flat out, they’re four years away. We looked at commissioning some of the old dinosaur burners, but they’re too far gone. We’ll make do with eight this side I’m afraid.”
“And they’ve lost their E/F-model Superbugs. We can send Truman and Stennis through. They’ve got three squadrons of Bugs and one of Rhinos each. We’ve fleshed the squadrons out, they’re at eighteen birds each right now. Gives them 72 attack birds each. I wish we’d never pulled the A-6s from service. We’ve got some SLUFs coming back though. Question. How do they get back? I’m told it’s virtually impossible to hold a big gate open from this side.”
“It is, but we’re going to push this one through from hellside to the AUTEC site off Bermuda. We’re going to try and make it large enough so that it’s permanent, like the one in Iraq. That way, if we lose the Iraqi one, we’ve got this as a backup. Must be a sea gate so we can get freighters through to supply the forces we’ve got deployed in hell right now.” Secretary Warner thought for a second. “Like it or not Admiral, hell is part of our environment from now on. It’s there, no matter what happens. We must have solid contact with the place, communications, and everything else we take for granted. This second permanent portal won’t be the last, there’ll be more, many more. Our world literally has gotten to be a whole lot bigger.”
Re: 2008 - Armageddon
Chapter Sixty-Six
Beelzebub’s Command Post, Northern Front, Phlegethon River
There was nothing left, nothing that Beelzebub could see anyway. He could see what was left of his harpy flock, the ground black with bodies where human magery had slaughtered them. A few survived, some because they were outside the area affected, others by some weird fluke that defied definition. Others were staggering around, their movements jerking and ill-coordinated. But of the foot-soldiers who had been caught under the dreadful barrage of mage-bolts, there was nothing left. The ground was bare, harrowed, even the vegetation was gone. Swallowed up by the blast that had thrown Beelzebub himself from his feet and shaken him until he thought every bone in his body would break.
He cudgeled his brain, trying to get the thoughts in his head back into some sort of order. The blow had been shattering, a huge part of his army had been squeezed along the banks of the Phlegethon, and most of his harpies had been concentrated over the human defenses. Just what had he got left of the 243 legions that had started this battle? Not all his legions had been in the waves that had fallen victim to the human mages, surely not all of them had died. He clawed his way to his feet, shouting for a harpy to carry his messages.
One presented himself, dirty, stained, muddy but alive. “Sire, I come from Pritograshnaris, Commander of the sixth line of your Army. He begs your forgiveness sire, but he reports that he must halt his advance while he re-organizes his force. His forty legions are in disarray my Lord.”
“Casualties?”
“Not many Sire, the human mage-fire fell short of his line. His formations were disrupted by the earthquake caused by the mage fire, the foot soldiers could not remain standing while the ground rolled under them. Many are injured but they can still fight….” The harpy stopped, awkwardly, not knowing quite what to say next. Or, rather, not knowing how to phrase the message so that he could survive delivering it.
“What.” Beelzebub snapped the response out.
“My Lord, the soldiers, they are reluctant to advance still further. They fear the mage-fire will come back for them and they fear the magery that destroyed the harpies still lingers there.” The harpy dropped his head and waited for death.
Beelzebub reflected that it had been a long time since he had last eaten, and he could use a snack. However, harpies were in short supply after that terrible mage blast. It was an unfamiliar feeling for a Lord who had built his forces around his harpy-flock. He needed this one alive. Snacks could wait. Anyway, his foot-soldiers were right, the human magery was lingering, he had seen some of them flee forward to escape the mage-fire, across the river and they had died convulsing and twitching just as the harpies had done. The human defenses were still there, he adjusted his vision to long-range and saw the hole in their lines, a hole that barely scratched its depths and one that new Iron Chariots were already moving in to fill. He knew what would come next, the chariots would charge and crush his force. It suddenly dawned on him that his 40 surviving legions were the only organized military force between the humans and Dis.
“Go to Pritograshnaris, tell him to suspend the attack. Form a defense line on the, no, behind the hills. If humans can fight from behind hills, then so can we. Dismount the naga from their beasts and get them ready to fire on the human attack. Human magery and mage-fire have broken this attack, now we must break theirs. After you have delivered that message fly south and see Chiknathragothem. Tell him that our attack here has stalled due to magery of unprecedented power. It is now down to him to break through the human defenses and repel their army. We shall block the road to Dis. He must be the hammer and we shall be the anvil with the humans crushed between us. Now go.”
Thankful to be alive, the harpy left. Beelzebub stared after him, then concentrated on the area in front of his position, where the first five lines of his army had once been. Incredibly, survivors were moving down there, pulling themselves out of the very earth itself. They were picking themselves up, retreating, staggering would be a better word, back to where his new defense line was forming. His decision to end the attack was the right one, but even if he hadn’t made it, what was left of his army would have made it for him. For the first time in his long life, Beelzebub knew the full meaning of defeat. It didn’t mean that the benefits of fighting did not match the costs, it meant that an army could no longer fight. In his heart, Beelzebub knew that this war was lost, that it had been lost before it had even started.
“Sire.” A Greater Herald was landing. Beelzebub was shocked, the creature was gray and visibly shaking. “Sire, something terrible had happened.”
Satan's Palace, City of Dis, Fifth Ring, Hell
The four B-1s had already made three runs over the target area, assembling their radar picture and ensuring the primary drop point had been properly identified. Their fourth run was the real thing. At almost the same instant, the four B-1Bs released the MOPs. The four massive bombs began accelerating at 0.8 Gs and quickly turned nose-down, presenting a small, hardened cross-section to the granite they were about to strike. As they fell, the radar in the nose of each B-1B tracked the fall and the approximate trajectory, and automatically radioed small corrections to each corresponding bomb, causing the fins to slightly turn, adjusting its course. In just under forty-seven seconds, the four bombs had all covered the five-and-a-half-mile drop, and at precisely the same time they struck the bronze roof of Satan's palace in a square twenty meters across.
As it happened, an unlucky orc was standing directly beneath one of the bombs, which was now hurtling down at more than 1,250 miles per hour; he was crushed into a paste before he realized what had hit him, and his remains were carried down in front of the bomb as it crashed through the floor into the basement, and then through the basement floor into the rock foundation of Satan's palace. Each of the four bombs traveled approximately 130 feet into the granite underneath Satan's palace before the fuses in their tails initiated. The combined 120,000 pounds of steel and high explosive detonated an instant thereafter.
Because granite is far denser than air, the speed of sound in the rock is much higher than the speed of sound in the air. In fact, the speed of sound in granite is approximately 19,500 feet per second. As the bombs detonated, a shockwave formed in the explosive material and hit the surrounding rock at more than 20,000 miles per hour, driven by the gas products of the reaction. The impact from the shockwave vaporized the granite surrounding the bombs, creating a core of superheated rock vapor which followed the pressure wall as it continued at half again the speed of sound through the granite, vaporizing the rock that it encountered.
The four roughly spherical shockwaves met each other in less than four-thousandths of a second. If an observer could have seen the meeting in a cross-section of the granite foundation of Satan's castle, he would have seen the four spheres of superheated gas seem to merge as they encompassed each other, merging into what would appear to be a flattened pancake, centered at the center of mass of the four bombs and traveling outward at Mach 1.5. Looking up, he would see Satan's castle -- and he would focus on the single wavefront traveling upward, about to reach the surface.
The rock holding back the volume of gas melted under the onslaught of the shockwave, draining energy from it and slowing it until it slipped under the threshold and became a particularly large and destructive pressure pulse, traveling at just under the speed of sound. Just under six-thousandths of a second after the bombs first initiated, the pulse from the blast reached the surface. When it did, several things happened at once. Where it touched foundation rocks, the stone out of which Satan had built his palace transmitted the pulse upward, buckling and crushing the huge building blocks where they stood. Where it touched nothing but air, the spalling effect threw huge chunks of rock into the air, jarring from the spur and turning them into missiles that arced upward and outward to descend in a ghoulish hail onto Dis.
As the pressure pulse reached the edge of the spur, the energy had nowhere to go. If the spur had been made of some extremely ductile metal, it would have sprung out and then back, reflecting the pressure wave back into the interior and causing it to ring like some gigantic, unimaginably deep brass gong. As it stands, granite is nowhere near as flexible; therefore, the pressure wave fragmented the surface of the spur into house-sized boulders and threw them out into the surrounding caldera like pebbles.
Meanwhile, at the top of the spur, the pressure pulse traveled up through Satan's palace until it reached the roof, which popped off like an immense champagne cork, jumping several feet before it started to fall back down into the interior as the support columns buckled. Seven-thousandths of a second after the detonation of the four MOPs, Satan's sprawling, magnificent fortress, built over a period of scores of millennia, began to crumble, its hard granite rock left with no more structural integrity than a sandcastle facing an incoming tide.
Out on the long causeway that led along the spur from the main circle of Dis to the promontory of Satan’s palace, Belial lay stunned by the bombs that had demolished the work of millennia. The rolling, heaving shockwaves had thrown him off his feet and tossed him around on the ground as if he were of no more account than a kidling. Once, in the great feasts at Tartarus, one of his minions had said that nobody could call themselves drunk unless they couldn’t lie on the floor without holding on. Now, Belial knew what that meant, he’d tried to hold onto the ground under him, but he had failed, and it had evaded his grasp at every turn. He was dazed, half-blinded by the great cloud of dust that was enveloping the whole area. Beneath his taloned feet, the ground was still shaking as the aftershocks reverberated in the structure or the rocks thrown high in the sky made their way back down. He tried to stand but the ground was too unstable, too riven by the blasts to allow him to do that. Instead, he crawled, trying to find some cover from the rain of fragments that descended around him. In one corner of his mind, he realized that this was the human response to his attacks on Sheffield and Dee-Troyt. Abigor had said that when the humans fought, they went for the top first, decapitated their enemy, and cut away his ability command. The humans had done as Abigor had warned, they had gone straight for the top. Then, another part of his brain told him that this was an insight he had better keep to himself. Speaking of it would mean a hideous death.
He tried to get to his feet again, this time making it as the rolling aftershocks faded away. The causeway in front of him was crumbling, even as he watched, another section broke away and fell into... what? He needed to see, to assess what damage had been done. It had to be huge, incomprehensible. Belial was beginning to know his enemy and when humans wrought destruction on their enemies, they tended to go for the huge and incomprehensible.
Slowly, carefully he made his way along the causeway, to where the crumbling lip marked the edge of the crater where the bombs, oh Belial knew the right words now, a bomb dropped by aircraft, not a mage bolt from a sky-chariot, had landed. Back in Tartarus, a few humans had turned their coats and told what they knew of human destructive powers. In some cases, they knew just the names, in others a bit about how the weapons worked. But this? None of them had mentioned this.
Nearer to the rim, the sentries that had guarded the entrance to Satan’s palace were dead, blood trickling from their noses and mouths. Other than that, there was no reason why they should be dead, there were no obvious wounds on their bodies. Had the bomb been poisoned? And if it was, why had Belial himself survived. There was much here to think upon and for a brief moment, Belial wished that Euryale was with him. The gorgon would see a pattern in this, somehow.
Then, Belial looked down and realized the full scale of the shattering blow the human aircraft had delivered. The whole of the promontory that had served as a base for Satan’s palace was crumbling, subsiding into the caldera below. He watched it falling, the ground slowly shifting downwards as it settled, spreading sideways as the weight of rocks above compressed that underneath. Somehow, without thinking it through, Belial knew that the settling would continue for days. There was no hope for those under the ruins, they were either being choked by the dust or crushed by the constantly settling rock. With another flash of insight, Belial realized that the demon’s superb resistance to wounds and infection was going to be a terrible curse here, death was inevitable but the process of having the life crushed out of them was going to take much longer.
Of Satan’s palace, there was no sign. Then he looked closer and realized he was wrong. There were signs of it in the settling debris below. Sheets of bronze from the roof, shattered pieces of statuary, blocks of dressed and polished stone. That was all. Satan’s palace had taken millennia to build and work on it had never really finished. Always there had been extra stones to add, extra rooms, crueler and deeper dungeons. Well, it was all over now, the palace had been destroyed and its monstrous occupant with it. Belial felt like screaming with despair, all that work, all that planning and scheming, the stunning success of Sheffield, the lesser success of Dee-Troyt, all had been aimed at restoring him to Satan’s favor. Now, Satan was dead or dying of slow suffocation in the ruins below. It had all been for nothing. Standing on the crater rim, looking down at the devastation, Belial wept with despair.
Free Hell, Banks of the Styx, Fifth Circle of Hell
The explosions had echoed and re-echoed around the great caldera of hell, stunning the demons and suffering humans alike. Lieutenant (deceased) Jade Kim saw the shining bronze palace on its rock high above and far away, start to crumble. In painfully slow motion, the whole great structure collapsed, the very rock it was based on falling into the caldera underneath. Kim realized that at least some of the debris was landing on humans, killing them (again) before they could be liberated. A sacrifice, but one merited by the majesty of the sight that was unfolding above her. ‘Shock and Awe’ she thought to herself, an overused and much-discredited phrase but one that was curiously appropriate to the sight.
“Way to go fly-boys.” Her voice seemed to blend in with the rumble of the collapsing rock. “That’s the Air Farce, go straight for the top with the biggest bombs they can carry. B-2s I guess, or B-1s.”
“You’re saying things we don’t understand again.” Titus Pullo couldn’t restrain himself from the half-joke, even in the face of the incredible sight before them.
“Sorry, Titus. We have big aircraft, bombers, to carry very large bombs. I guess the B-52s are being used elsewhere and the other types we have are B-1s and B-2s. They must have used bombs that penetrate deep into the rock and ruptured the very foundations of that place. There’s nobody left alive in there, that’s for certain.”
“Good, very good.” Lucius Vorenus was looking at the subsiding ruins with quiet satisfaction. “Then he’s dead.”
Kim was about to respond when she heard another sound, the sky-tearing noise of jet fighters moving fast. The six aircraft erupted out of the dusty sky, arching over Free Hell and orbiting around. They were loaded for air-to-air, she could see the batteries of missiles hanging under their wings.
“British, Typhoons.” Then there was another wound, one that she found achingly familiar, the rhythmic whoop-whoop noise of helicopter rotors. She’d never realized how much she had missed that noise before. They were helicopters all right, big ones. Single rotor amidships, which meant either Marine CH-53s, Russian Mi-171s, or British Merlins. Some were carrying slung loads, others were clean and one of them was coming straight in. She saw it touch down only a few dozen yards from her and figures started to pour out. Camouflaged figures wearing red berets. British paratroopers. One of the figures detached from the rest and came over to her.
“Lieutenant Jade Kim?” There was a heavy accent on her rank and she guessed what was coming next.
“Present Sir.”
“I’m Colonel Andy Jackson, commanding officer Two-Para. My compliments ma’am, you’ve done a splendid job here with vanishingly few resources. What you’ve created here is something of a military miracle. But, as I’m sure you must realize, this is getting to be a situation that requires a lot more force. I’ve brought my battalion in with men and we can set up quickly. As senior officer here, I’ll be taking over command. Could you bring me up to date on your defenses, please? I understand there’s some nausea coming this way.”
“Certainly Sir, I’ve got our maps at hand I’ll….”
“Welcome to Hell Colonel.” Jackson looked surprised, a man had just arrived, one with a vaguely familiar face. “Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Gaius Julius Caesar. Do you say you are a Colonel? That makes you the commander of a cohort?”
“Err, I think so.” Jackson thought quickly, his 700 men were about a cohort.
“But not the First Cohort though.” Caesar’s lips twitched slightly. “I am First Consul and commander of two legions in this area. That makes me a General, I think. And Jade King is the Second Consul of the forces in Free Hell, which includes one of my Legions. So, that makes me at least, the ranking officer here. And in any case, I represent the civil authority in this area. So, command authority falls to me I believe.”
“But you have no idea of what modern forces are capable of.” Jackson was caught completely off guard.
“I have some idea; Second Consul Kim is a good teacher. But you are right, so I must ask that you remain in your position, commanding your Para. Perhaps we can get together and work out how best we can deploy your men.”
“Sir, with all due respect, I must insist…”
“That’s very good then, after all, the principles of strategy don’t change much although weapons have obviously done so. Have you read my book on Strategic Principles?”
“It’s been lost I’m afraid.” Kim was trying to stop laughing. The sight of the British officer trying to think of reasons why this shouldn’t be happening was hilarious.
“Not anymore. With nothing else to do for 2,000 years, I’ve re-written all my books from memory. By the way, Jade, your translation of the Civil War is very incomplete, allow me to give you a full copy. I’ve signed it for you. Anyway, Colonel Jackson, what forces did you bring with you.”
“Err, my battalion, a battery of 105mm field guns, Land-Rovers with machine guns and grenade launchers. A lot of grenade machine guns. And we have a forward air observer group. We can pull in a lot of air power if we need it.” Jackson shook his head, he’d been outmaneuvered, and he know it. But then, it was no shame to be embarrassed by losing to Gaius Julius Caesar. Now he’d lost, the next priority was to do the best job humanly possible for his new commander. Honor demanded no less.
Beside him, Jade Kim felt a mixture of sadness and relief. Her little state had suddenly become a Roman province but at least she was out of the hot seat at last. Away from the dreadful nagging fear that her next move would be the mistake that brought everything crashing down around her ears.
Beelzebub’s Command Post, Northern Front, Phlegethon River
There was nothing left, nothing that Beelzebub could see anyway. He could see what was left of his harpy flock, the ground black with bodies where human magery had slaughtered them. A few survived, some because they were outside the area affected, others by some weird fluke that defied definition. Others were staggering around, their movements jerking and ill-coordinated. But of the foot-soldiers who had been caught under the dreadful barrage of mage-bolts, there was nothing left. The ground was bare, harrowed, even the vegetation was gone. Swallowed up by the blast that had thrown Beelzebub himself from his feet and shaken him until he thought every bone in his body would break.
He cudgeled his brain, trying to get the thoughts in his head back into some sort of order. The blow had been shattering, a huge part of his army had been squeezed along the banks of the Phlegethon, and most of his harpies had been concentrated over the human defenses. Just what had he got left of the 243 legions that had started this battle? Not all his legions had been in the waves that had fallen victim to the human mages, surely not all of them had died. He clawed his way to his feet, shouting for a harpy to carry his messages.
One presented himself, dirty, stained, muddy but alive. “Sire, I come from Pritograshnaris, Commander of the sixth line of your Army. He begs your forgiveness sire, but he reports that he must halt his advance while he re-organizes his force. His forty legions are in disarray my Lord.”
“Casualties?”
“Not many Sire, the human mage-fire fell short of his line. His formations were disrupted by the earthquake caused by the mage fire, the foot soldiers could not remain standing while the ground rolled under them. Many are injured but they can still fight….” The harpy stopped, awkwardly, not knowing quite what to say next. Or, rather, not knowing how to phrase the message so that he could survive delivering it.
“What.” Beelzebub snapped the response out.
“My Lord, the soldiers, they are reluctant to advance still further. They fear the mage-fire will come back for them and they fear the magery that destroyed the harpies still lingers there.” The harpy dropped his head and waited for death.
Beelzebub reflected that it had been a long time since he had last eaten, and he could use a snack. However, harpies were in short supply after that terrible mage blast. It was an unfamiliar feeling for a Lord who had built his forces around his harpy-flock. He needed this one alive. Snacks could wait. Anyway, his foot-soldiers were right, the human magery was lingering, he had seen some of them flee forward to escape the mage-fire, across the river and they had died convulsing and twitching just as the harpies had done. The human defenses were still there, he adjusted his vision to long-range and saw the hole in their lines, a hole that barely scratched its depths and one that new Iron Chariots were already moving in to fill. He knew what would come next, the chariots would charge and crush his force. It suddenly dawned on him that his 40 surviving legions were the only organized military force between the humans and Dis.
“Go to Pritograshnaris, tell him to suspend the attack. Form a defense line on the, no, behind the hills. If humans can fight from behind hills, then so can we. Dismount the naga from their beasts and get them ready to fire on the human attack. Human magery and mage-fire have broken this attack, now we must break theirs. After you have delivered that message fly south and see Chiknathragothem. Tell him that our attack here has stalled due to magery of unprecedented power. It is now down to him to break through the human defenses and repel their army. We shall block the road to Dis. He must be the hammer and we shall be the anvil with the humans crushed between us. Now go.”
Thankful to be alive, the harpy left. Beelzebub stared after him, then concentrated on the area in front of his position, where the first five lines of his army had once been. Incredibly, survivors were moving down there, pulling themselves out of the very earth itself. They were picking themselves up, retreating, staggering would be a better word, back to where his new defense line was forming. His decision to end the attack was the right one, but even if he hadn’t made it, what was left of his army would have made it for him. For the first time in his long life, Beelzebub knew the full meaning of defeat. It didn’t mean that the benefits of fighting did not match the costs, it meant that an army could no longer fight. In his heart, Beelzebub knew that this war was lost, that it had been lost before it had even started.
“Sire.” A Greater Herald was landing. Beelzebub was shocked, the creature was gray and visibly shaking. “Sire, something terrible had happened.”
Satan's Palace, City of Dis, Fifth Ring, Hell
The four B-1s had already made three runs over the target area, assembling their radar picture and ensuring the primary drop point had been properly identified. Their fourth run was the real thing. At almost the same instant, the four B-1Bs released the MOPs. The four massive bombs began accelerating at 0.8 Gs and quickly turned nose-down, presenting a small, hardened cross-section to the granite they were about to strike. As they fell, the radar in the nose of each B-1B tracked the fall and the approximate trajectory, and automatically radioed small corrections to each corresponding bomb, causing the fins to slightly turn, adjusting its course. In just under forty-seven seconds, the four bombs had all covered the five-and-a-half-mile drop, and at precisely the same time they struck the bronze roof of Satan's palace in a square twenty meters across.
As it happened, an unlucky orc was standing directly beneath one of the bombs, which was now hurtling down at more than 1,250 miles per hour; he was crushed into a paste before he realized what had hit him, and his remains were carried down in front of the bomb as it crashed through the floor into the basement, and then through the basement floor into the rock foundation of Satan's palace. Each of the four bombs traveled approximately 130 feet into the granite underneath Satan's palace before the fuses in their tails initiated. The combined 120,000 pounds of steel and high explosive detonated an instant thereafter.
Because granite is far denser than air, the speed of sound in the rock is much higher than the speed of sound in the air. In fact, the speed of sound in granite is approximately 19,500 feet per second. As the bombs detonated, a shockwave formed in the explosive material and hit the surrounding rock at more than 20,000 miles per hour, driven by the gas products of the reaction. The impact from the shockwave vaporized the granite surrounding the bombs, creating a core of superheated rock vapor which followed the pressure wall as it continued at half again the speed of sound through the granite, vaporizing the rock that it encountered.
The four roughly spherical shockwaves met each other in less than four-thousandths of a second. If an observer could have seen the meeting in a cross-section of the granite foundation of Satan's castle, he would have seen the four spheres of superheated gas seem to merge as they encompassed each other, merging into what would appear to be a flattened pancake, centered at the center of mass of the four bombs and traveling outward at Mach 1.5. Looking up, he would see Satan's castle -- and he would focus on the single wavefront traveling upward, about to reach the surface.
The rock holding back the volume of gas melted under the onslaught of the shockwave, draining energy from it and slowing it until it slipped under the threshold and became a particularly large and destructive pressure pulse, traveling at just under the speed of sound. Just under six-thousandths of a second after the bombs first initiated, the pulse from the blast reached the surface. When it did, several things happened at once. Where it touched foundation rocks, the stone out of which Satan had built his palace transmitted the pulse upward, buckling and crushing the huge building blocks where they stood. Where it touched nothing but air, the spalling effect threw huge chunks of rock into the air, jarring from the spur and turning them into missiles that arced upward and outward to descend in a ghoulish hail onto Dis.
As the pressure pulse reached the edge of the spur, the energy had nowhere to go. If the spur had been made of some extremely ductile metal, it would have sprung out and then back, reflecting the pressure wave back into the interior and causing it to ring like some gigantic, unimaginably deep brass gong. As it stands, granite is nowhere near as flexible; therefore, the pressure wave fragmented the surface of the spur into house-sized boulders and threw them out into the surrounding caldera like pebbles.
Meanwhile, at the top of the spur, the pressure pulse traveled up through Satan's palace until it reached the roof, which popped off like an immense champagne cork, jumping several feet before it started to fall back down into the interior as the support columns buckled. Seven-thousandths of a second after the detonation of the four MOPs, Satan's sprawling, magnificent fortress, built over a period of scores of millennia, began to crumble, its hard granite rock left with no more structural integrity than a sandcastle facing an incoming tide.
Out on the long causeway that led along the spur from the main circle of Dis to the promontory of Satan’s palace, Belial lay stunned by the bombs that had demolished the work of millennia. The rolling, heaving shockwaves had thrown him off his feet and tossed him around on the ground as if he were of no more account than a kidling. Once, in the great feasts at Tartarus, one of his minions had said that nobody could call themselves drunk unless they couldn’t lie on the floor without holding on. Now, Belial knew what that meant, he’d tried to hold onto the ground under him, but he had failed, and it had evaded his grasp at every turn. He was dazed, half-blinded by the great cloud of dust that was enveloping the whole area. Beneath his taloned feet, the ground was still shaking as the aftershocks reverberated in the structure or the rocks thrown high in the sky made their way back down. He tried to stand but the ground was too unstable, too riven by the blasts to allow him to do that. Instead, he crawled, trying to find some cover from the rain of fragments that descended around him. In one corner of his mind, he realized that this was the human response to his attacks on Sheffield and Dee-Troyt. Abigor had said that when the humans fought, they went for the top first, decapitated their enemy, and cut away his ability command. The humans had done as Abigor had warned, they had gone straight for the top. Then, another part of his brain told him that this was an insight he had better keep to himself. Speaking of it would mean a hideous death.
He tried to get to his feet again, this time making it as the rolling aftershocks faded away. The causeway in front of him was crumbling, even as he watched, another section broke away and fell into... what? He needed to see, to assess what damage had been done. It had to be huge, incomprehensible. Belial was beginning to know his enemy and when humans wrought destruction on their enemies, they tended to go for the huge and incomprehensible.
Slowly, carefully he made his way along the causeway, to where the crumbling lip marked the edge of the crater where the bombs, oh Belial knew the right words now, a bomb dropped by aircraft, not a mage bolt from a sky-chariot, had landed. Back in Tartarus, a few humans had turned their coats and told what they knew of human destructive powers. In some cases, they knew just the names, in others a bit about how the weapons worked. But this? None of them had mentioned this.
Nearer to the rim, the sentries that had guarded the entrance to Satan’s palace were dead, blood trickling from their noses and mouths. Other than that, there was no reason why they should be dead, there were no obvious wounds on their bodies. Had the bomb been poisoned? And if it was, why had Belial himself survived. There was much here to think upon and for a brief moment, Belial wished that Euryale was with him. The gorgon would see a pattern in this, somehow.
Then, Belial looked down and realized the full scale of the shattering blow the human aircraft had delivered. The whole of the promontory that had served as a base for Satan’s palace was crumbling, subsiding into the caldera below. He watched it falling, the ground slowly shifting downwards as it settled, spreading sideways as the weight of rocks above compressed that underneath. Somehow, without thinking it through, Belial knew that the settling would continue for days. There was no hope for those under the ruins, they were either being choked by the dust or crushed by the constantly settling rock. With another flash of insight, Belial realized that the demon’s superb resistance to wounds and infection was going to be a terrible curse here, death was inevitable but the process of having the life crushed out of them was going to take much longer.
Of Satan’s palace, there was no sign. Then he looked closer and realized he was wrong. There were signs of it in the settling debris below. Sheets of bronze from the roof, shattered pieces of statuary, blocks of dressed and polished stone. That was all. Satan’s palace had taken millennia to build and work on it had never really finished. Always there had been extra stones to add, extra rooms, crueler and deeper dungeons. Well, it was all over now, the palace had been destroyed and its monstrous occupant with it. Belial felt like screaming with despair, all that work, all that planning and scheming, the stunning success of Sheffield, the lesser success of Dee-Troyt, all had been aimed at restoring him to Satan’s favor. Now, Satan was dead or dying of slow suffocation in the ruins below. It had all been for nothing. Standing on the crater rim, looking down at the devastation, Belial wept with despair.
Free Hell, Banks of the Styx, Fifth Circle of Hell
The explosions had echoed and re-echoed around the great caldera of hell, stunning the demons and suffering humans alike. Lieutenant (deceased) Jade Kim saw the shining bronze palace on its rock high above and far away, start to crumble. In painfully slow motion, the whole great structure collapsed, the very rock it was based on falling into the caldera underneath. Kim realized that at least some of the debris was landing on humans, killing them (again) before they could be liberated. A sacrifice, but one merited by the majesty of the sight that was unfolding above her. ‘Shock and Awe’ she thought to herself, an overused and much-discredited phrase but one that was curiously appropriate to the sight.
“Way to go fly-boys.” Her voice seemed to blend in with the rumble of the collapsing rock. “That’s the Air Farce, go straight for the top with the biggest bombs they can carry. B-2s I guess, or B-1s.”
“You’re saying things we don’t understand again.” Titus Pullo couldn’t restrain himself from the half-joke, even in the face of the incredible sight before them.
“Sorry, Titus. We have big aircraft, bombers, to carry very large bombs. I guess the B-52s are being used elsewhere and the other types we have are B-1s and B-2s. They must have used bombs that penetrate deep into the rock and ruptured the very foundations of that place. There’s nobody left alive in there, that’s for certain.”
“Good, very good.” Lucius Vorenus was looking at the subsiding ruins with quiet satisfaction. “Then he’s dead.”
Kim was about to respond when she heard another sound, the sky-tearing noise of jet fighters moving fast. The six aircraft erupted out of the dusty sky, arching over Free Hell and orbiting around. They were loaded for air-to-air, she could see the batteries of missiles hanging under their wings.
“British, Typhoons.” Then there was another wound, one that she found achingly familiar, the rhythmic whoop-whoop noise of helicopter rotors. She’d never realized how much she had missed that noise before. They were helicopters all right, big ones. Single rotor amidships, which meant either Marine CH-53s, Russian Mi-171s, or British Merlins. Some were carrying slung loads, others were clean and one of them was coming straight in. She saw it touch down only a few dozen yards from her and figures started to pour out. Camouflaged figures wearing red berets. British paratroopers. One of the figures detached from the rest and came over to her.
“Lieutenant Jade Kim?” There was a heavy accent on her rank and she guessed what was coming next.
“Present Sir.”
“I’m Colonel Andy Jackson, commanding officer Two-Para. My compliments ma’am, you’ve done a splendid job here with vanishingly few resources. What you’ve created here is something of a military miracle. But, as I’m sure you must realize, this is getting to be a situation that requires a lot more force. I’ve brought my battalion in with men and we can set up quickly. As senior officer here, I’ll be taking over command. Could you bring me up to date on your defenses, please? I understand there’s some nausea coming this way.”
“Certainly Sir, I’ve got our maps at hand I’ll….”
“Welcome to Hell Colonel.” Jackson looked surprised, a man had just arrived, one with a vaguely familiar face. “Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Gaius Julius Caesar. Do you say you are a Colonel? That makes you the commander of a cohort?”
“Err, I think so.” Jackson thought quickly, his 700 men were about a cohort.
“But not the First Cohort though.” Caesar’s lips twitched slightly. “I am First Consul and commander of two legions in this area. That makes me a General, I think. And Jade King is the Second Consul of the forces in Free Hell, which includes one of my Legions. So, that makes me at least, the ranking officer here. And in any case, I represent the civil authority in this area. So, command authority falls to me I believe.”
“But you have no idea of what modern forces are capable of.” Jackson was caught completely off guard.
“I have some idea; Second Consul Kim is a good teacher. But you are right, so I must ask that you remain in your position, commanding your Para. Perhaps we can get together and work out how best we can deploy your men.”
“Sir, with all due respect, I must insist…”
“That’s very good then, after all, the principles of strategy don’t change much although weapons have obviously done so. Have you read my book on Strategic Principles?”
“It’s been lost I’m afraid.” Kim was trying to stop laughing. The sight of the British officer trying to think of reasons why this shouldn’t be happening was hilarious.
“Not anymore. With nothing else to do for 2,000 years, I’ve re-written all my books from memory. By the way, Jade, your translation of the Civil War is very incomplete, allow me to give you a full copy. I’ve signed it for you. Anyway, Colonel Jackson, what forces did you bring with you.”
“Err, my battalion, a battery of 105mm field guns, Land-Rovers with machine guns and grenade launchers. A lot of grenade machine guns. And we have a forward air observer group. We can pull in a lot of air power if we need it.” Jackson shook his head, he’d been outmaneuvered, and he know it. But then, it was no shame to be embarrassed by losing to Gaius Julius Caesar. Now he’d lost, the next priority was to do the best job humanly possible for his new commander. Honor demanded no less.
Beside him, Jade Kim felt a mixture of sadness and relief. Her little state had suddenly become a Roman province but at least she was out of the hot seat at last. Away from the dreadful nagging fear that her next move would be the mistake that brought everything crashing down around her ears.
Re: 2008 - Armageddon
Chapter Sixty-Seven
Chiknathragothem’s Command Post, Southern Front, Phlegethon River
The harpy landed, its wings shaking with exhaustion. “Sire, I bring much terrible news.”
“Speak.” Chiknathragothem didn’t have time to worry about the usual genuflections.
“My Lord, the humans have unleashed magery of unimaginable power. Beelzebub’s Army is stalled, and its casualties are beyond counting. He has forced a crossing of the Phlegethon but is unable to make headway into the human defenses. The human mages breathed death over his forces, their spells robbing his harpies of the breath from their bodies, of the very air from their lungs. His harpies died as one, nothing like it has ever been seen before.”
“That could well describe our whole war with these humans.” Chiknathragothem was impatient, he had better things to do than listen to a litany of disaster, even if opportunities lay in them. “Tell me something I have not heard before.”
The harpy gulped but he had been tasked to deliver a message and deliver it he would. “The humans also delivered a huge number of mage-bolts, so many that they blended into one huge cloud of death that drank Beelzebub’s army. Together, barely one demon in four survives his force. He has abandoned his attack and is pulling back in defense to block the road to Dis. He charges you with penetrating the human defenses and crushing them against that defense.”
“Is that all?” Chiknathragothem’s voice clearly indicated that he was contemplating a quick meal.
“No Sire, the worst is still to come. The humans hit the city of Dis itself. They have destroyed His Infernal Majesty’s palace, crumbled in and the rock it stood on so that only a pile of sand and ruins remains.”
“His Majesty…” Chiknathragothem had gone gray with shock. “Did he survive?”
“Nobody knows Sire. If he was in his palace, then he did not. More than forty Grand Dukes and Dukes are known to be dead, and the palace staff is all gone. The dead number in the thousands. And, My Lord Beelzebub says, if Yahweh gets to hear of this catastrophe, and he will, then there will be nothing to keep him out of Hell itself.”
Shocked to his core, Chiknathragothem stared into the distance, trying to imagine the full consequences of what had just happened. If Satan was dead, then the great bulwark against Yahweh absorbing Hell into his own domain had gone. There was more to it than that, the human life-energy that all demons gathered and paid as tribute to Satan was suddenly without purpose. Satan had used it to boost his faithful servants over the barrier that existed between this level and the next. That was, after all, what the great pit of Hell was all about. The demons served Satan and in exchange, he used the life energy he had gathered to save them for eternity in the next dimension. All of this would be lost if Yahweh was allowed to make his way in and seize Hell for his own. The celestial abode that had been split apart so many, many millennia ago, would be reunited once more.
Unless Chiknathragothem suddenly realized, that another took over the role of leader, seized power, and used the system Satan had devised to guarantee his own survival. In a flash of inspiration, he suddenly realized why Beelzebub was abandoning this fight, he wasn’t blocking the humans from Dis, he was advancing along that road himself, to seize power and take Satan’s throne. He, Chiknathragothem, was being left as the rear guard to distract the humans from pursuing Beelzebub. He was a sacrifice to Beelzebub’s ambition.
For a wild moment, Chiknathragothem thought of pulling back himself, of setting out for Dis to beat Beelzebub to the punch. Reality quickly intruded itself and squashed that idea. Beelzebub’s Army blocked the direct road and was much closer to Dis than Chiknathragothem’s. Beelzebub had the direct route, Chiknathragothem would just go around him. There was no way, no way at all, that Beelzebub could be beaten to Dis. Then, another thought entered Chiknathragothem’s mind. He had battered his way through most of the human defenses, and the end of the great zone of little fortresses that could do so much damage was in sight. One more push, one more effort, and he would be through. Then, the human army would collapse. Beelzebub might enter Dis first, but it would be at the head of a defeated army, a thin shadow of the great force that he had once commanded. On the other hand, once this battle was won, he, Chiknathragothem, could also enter Dis but at the head of a victorious army, one that had defeated the humans who had destroyed Abigor and so badly crippled Beelzebub. The inhabitants of Hell were practical, they would back a winner over a loser any time.
So, he had to win and had to win fast. That made his decision obvious. He would group his remaining forces here, at the point where victory was on the point of being won. The remaining naga, the remnants of Belial’s wyverns, all in a concentrated blow. Overhead, Chiknathragothem heard the wailing sound of the human sky-chariots as they tore into his dwindling flock of harpies. His army was mauled, badly mauled, but nothing like the scale of destruction that had been visited on Beelzebub. The white mage fire had been a shock, more for the horror of its effects than its real damage, but that was all. And there were fewer sky-chariots than there had been. His advancing foot-soldiers had found the wreckage of two, brought down by the wyverns with their great spiked tails, but it seemed as if the humans were running out of them. Everything suggested that this battle was at the point of balance. His one more push would win it and with it a far greater prize than was being contested here on the plains of the Phlegethon.
Command Cave, Free Hell, Banks of the Styx, Fifth Circle of Hell
“Estimated force of 35,000 baldricks, at least 30,000 foot, the rest harpies. They’re the dangerous ones, not much firepower but they can get at us and our ability to bring them down in droves is limited.” Colonel Jackson looked around at his companions. He’d had an embarrassing discussion over the radio with his commander when he’d had to admit that he’d been outmaneuvered, politically speaking of course. In retrospect, he couldn’t honestly critique his decisions. He’d had a very questionable maneuver to pull off, one that depended on a junior officer’s instinctive deference to an officer of much higher rank. He’d gone in hard, trying to bulldoze her out of the way and accept his command before she had time to think the situation through. It had worked too, only how could he have known he would run into Gaius Julius Caesar? Some historians had questioned Caesar’s skill as a politician, well, he had been on the receiving end of that expertise and could now testify that the reality of the man lived up to his reputation.
The infuriating thing was that he, Jackson, had been right and what he was seeing proved it. The young American Lieutenant had done well, that was certainly enough, but she’d done it through luck, guts, the inability of the baldricks to accept that humans could fight, and, most of all, her serene ignorance of the fact that what she was attempting was impossible. Her whole operation was running on borrowed time, if this crisis hadn’t arrived, something else would have done. Time to rub that in a little.
“So, how many troops do you have Lieutenant?”
“Armed with our weapons? Around thirty. Split equally between the two flanks. About sixty more with captured baldrick equipment, some reinforcing the positions on either flank, the rest string out along the river.” Jackson and Caesar exchanged glances, the Lieutenant was a pilot, not a ground-pounder and her dispositions had made that fact clear. They were an invitation to disaster. “I know, I know, but we’ve got some things running for us. The whole area on these flanks is a maze of minefields and demolition charges. Ever since we blew up Asmodeus, we’ve got the baldricks too scared to put their feet on the ground. Just often enough, when one of them does so, it kills them. The river is wide open, I know it, but we can’t be strong everywhere. He who tries to defend everything….”
“Defends nothing. Quite right Jade.” Caesar looked at the map, probably the first accurate one that had ever been drawn in Hell. “Colonel, you’re the expert, I’m just the representative of the free human population down here, what do you recommend?”
Jackson caught the fleeting smirk on Kim’s face and guessed that Caesar had been given a quick introductory lesson on the concept of civilian control of the military. And was now using it to his advantage. Oh, it was to his own advantage, Jackson knew that Gaius Julius Caesar was up to something. That insight came from the simple appreciation that Gaius Julius Caesar was always up to something, the only real question was, what? Jackson was highly doubtful that the man’s ambitions were restricted to a few square kilometers of mud on the banks of the Styx. Still, that matter could wait until later. As could the command issues that this whole little skirmish had highlighted. He had no doubt they were being discussed at a much higher level than his.
“We must assume the force moving along the river is our priority. I’ll string my battalion out along that front, it’s thin coverage but down here with modern weapons, we can hold much longer fronts than in normal wars. I’ll depend on your people to hold our flanks, Kim. But frankly, if the baldricks hit us with a coordinated attack, both flanks and the river, we’re gone. There is no possibility of us stopping an attack like that.”
Caesar got up and stared across at the great cloud of dust that hung over the site of Satan’s palace. “Well, we’ll make sure that doesn’t happen, won’t we?”
Palace of Deumos, City of Dis, Hell
Deumos stood on her balcony, looking at the same great cloud of dust. For weeks she had been struggling with the problem of what to do and where to cast her allegiance. At first, she had been swayed by her vassal Lugasharmanaska’s opinion that humans could not lose. She had seen them invade Hell, seen their columns first make the Martial Plain of Dysprosium untenable to the demons and then bring it under their sway. Then they had started to build up their defense along the Phlegethon and Deumos had been on the verge of casting her lot irrevocably in with them. Then, had come news of Belial’s success at Sheffield and she had hastily reconsidered, to make a firm decision might yet be premature. Dee-Troyt had confirmed that, or so she had thought.
Now the humans had struck at the very heart of Hell, they had destroyed Satan’s palace. And, presumably, Satan himself. That meant the great ruling force that dominated Hell had gone. As soon as Yahweh found out about that, he would be on the move, trying to reclaim the lands that had been torn from him at the end of the Great Celestial War. Deumos mustn’t have explained to her what that would mean for her and her kind. Succubi were despised in Hell but reviled in heaven. Yahweh’s return meant death for her and her vassals. Hell had to have a new leader, and quickly.
That led to the obvious question, who. Like any baldrick, Deumos had a simple answer to that, her. The question was, how. Once again, the simple fact that Succubi were despised in Hell stood in her way. To make her own power hold, she had to have powerful allies. Which Grand Duke would be willing to ally with her? Despised or not, her Succubi were powerful allies who could offer much intelligence and influence to the right duke. But who? Deumos realized she didn’t even know which Dukes were still alive.
Then, that thought made her kick herself. She had missed the obvious. The Dukes were not the most powerful forces in hell anymore. Humans were. The destruction of Satan’s palace proved that. She went to the couch in the corner of her room and sat down, her mind already roving across the gray expanse that marked some sort of dimension she could not describe or explain. There were bright lights in that expanse, the minds of her Succubi. Without being able to explain why she knew which light belonged to who. She was looking for one light in particular, one that would be far removed from the rest.
Luga, child are you there? Deumos’s mind had the sickly-sweet sound of an adult cooing to a child
Yes, my liege. How may I serve you?
Deumos was momentarily irritated, she expected a lot more groveling than that. Obviously too long an association with humans was having a bad effect on her. Still, punishing her for that could wait. Child, what is the situation on Earth? Are the humans in despair at the loss of their cities?
No, my Liege. Furiously angry would be the best description. There have been riots in the streets here, people demanding that the destruction of Sheffield and Detroit be avenged by the ‘nuking’ of all hell. I do not understand what they meant by nuking, but it does not sound friendly. You must have seen the action the humans have taken in response.
There were riots caused by our actions? The humans massacred their own then.
No, my liege. The police and Volunteers restored order and they arrested those who caused acts of violence, but the rest were allowed to demonstrate. It is their way. It was helped by the news that the volcano over Sheffield has finally stopped, and the Detroit attack is slackening quickly. Otherwise, the demands for a nuking might not have been so easy to ignore.
Luga, child, this war must end before even more die. I would wish to speak with the leaders of the humans. Perhaps together we can find a solution to this horror.
Lugasharmanaska’s mind voice betrayed her suspicion. Another thing for which Deumos decided that she would pay later. My Liege, I can arrange such a meeting, but I must counsel caution. The humans are in an uncompromising mood and will not listen to much in the way of appeasement. The leaders here speak of unconditional surrender when they think of the future of Hell. They will not settle for less than that. If you wish to influence them, then you must offer them a way to achieve that.
The impertinence of the comment ground further at Deumos’s nerves. How dare this minor vassal give her such advice? She would, Deumos decided, spend many, many years screaming in agony for such impudence. If she liked humans so much, perhaps tossing her into a boiling lava pit with them might be suitable. Your wise advice comforts me, child. I will think about this. But arrange for me to meet the leaders with whom you deal, and I will see what agreements we can make.
Deumos closed the contact and relaxed. Now, how could she bring enough Dukes into her orbit to make her an ally the humans would value?
Conference Room, White House Washington DC.
“Mister President, the supplemental funding is through. I just hope we can survive the peace when the war ends.”
“That may be a long time. What’s the progress in production.”
“It’s picking up, but we’re still expending munitions a lot faster than we can make them. We’re running low, the projections are that we’ll bottom out before we are completely expended but it’s going to be close. It’s lucky the Russians are carrying the load in the latest battle and that they can use a lot of Chinese stuff. Otherwise, we would be really hurting right now.
“Army’s doing OK, we’ve recommissioned most of the Abrams and Bradleys we had in storage and we’re working on the M113s right now. Light note Sir, we had some idiot called Sparks turning up and demanding we name the M113 the Gavin and build our forces around them. Anyway, we drafted him and sent him to Alaska. Apparently, there’s a shortage of latrines up there and he’d dig the new ones. Anyway, as fast as we get the vehicles, we’re building up new units around them. The veterans from the battles against Abigor are worth their weight in gold as cadre for the new divisions.
“Air Force, well, we’re desperately short of heavy bombers and it’ll be months before we get more. Northrop is working on a simplified B-2, they’re stripping out all the stealth stuff and that cuts cost and production time drastically. Boeing is doing the same with the B-1, they’re using the B-1A as a base, not the dash 1B. Northrop says they’ll have a prototype B-2B up by the end of the year, Boeing a B-1C at the same time.
“F-22 and F-15E production is ramping up fast, F-16 more slowly. F-18s are doing well and the first A-45s are coming off the lines. They’ll be going to the Navy for the carriers. The navy’s rebuilding some of its discarded ships, mostly Spru-Cans and Fig-sevens. Gas turbine ships we can bring back, the steam turbine ones are gone. It’ll be years before the Navy gets a lot of new construction though, we just don’t have the shipbuilding base we used to.”
“Any other problems we must deal with John?”
“One big one Sir. Command. We’ve done well so far but the command of the forces deployed is a mess. It’s just been thrown together as the forces arrived and the situation had been moving faster than we can get things tidied up. We’ve only got away with it this long because the guys at the top back there are professionals and are making it work. But we had a minor fracas with the British yesterday.”
“Not another friendly fire incident?”
“No, although we’ve had all too many of those. Our lodgment in Hell is about to come under attack and the British sent reinforcements. Their commander wanted operational control, which was quite reasonable of course, but there were some disagreements on that, and a local deceased human took over. One Gaius Julius Caesar.”
“I’ve heard of him.” Bush’s voice was reflective.
I should hope so thought Secretary Warner. “Anyway, it’s all sorted out and it never really amounted to much but it’s a warning. We’ve got to get a permanent, proper, flexible, and fast-reacting command structure sorted out. Otherwise, one day we’re going to have a real problem that’ll get people killed. A lot of them.
“Two final things. One is that the kiddies on Kos are claiming you and Halliburton conspired to get this war started so you could make money on the share prices.”
“Good idea, I wish we’d thought of it.”
“Quite Sir. The other is our contact with the Succubae in Hell has said that Deumos, the Succubae Leader has asked for a meeting, she wants to come over to our side.”
“Aren’t we grooming Abigor as our ruler down there?”
“We are Sir, but the faster we can bring about the collapse of hell the better. We’ve still got Heaven to deal with, they’re quiet now but how long they’ll stay that way is another matter. If this Deumos creature comes over to us, it might split hell up and bring them down. That’s why we whacked Satan after all. Any word on that?”
“No, Mister President. Pictures show the whole palace, and its foundation rock are gone, blasted to dust. But we still have no confirmation that he was in there. Abigor says he spends nearly all his time in that Palace so it’s pretty good odds we got him.”
“Hope so. Anyway, thank you, John. Condi, do you have any thoughts on this command issue?”
Chiknathragothem’s Command Post, Southern Front, Phlegethon River
The harpy landed, its wings shaking with exhaustion. “Sire, I bring much terrible news.”
“Speak.” Chiknathragothem didn’t have time to worry about the usual genuflections.
“My Lord, the humans have unleashed magery of unimaginable power. Beelzebub’s Army is stalled, and its casualties are beyond counting. He has forced a crossing of the Phlegethon but is unable to make headway into the human defenses. The human mages breathed death over his forces, their spells robbing his harpies of the breath from their bodies, of the very air from their lungs. His harpies died as one, nothing like it has ever been seen before.”
“That could well describe our whole war with these humans.” Chiknathragothem was impatient, he had better things to do than listen to a litany of disaster, even if opportunities lay in them. “Tell me something I have not heard before.”
The harpy gulped but he had been tasked to deliver a message and deliver it he would. “The humans also delivered a huge number of mage-bolts, so many that they blended into one huge cloud of death that drank Beelzebub’s army. Together, barely one demon in four survives his force. He has abandoned his attack and is pulling back in defense to block the road to Dis. He charges you with penetrating the human defenses and crushing them against that defense.”
“Is that all?” Chiknathragothem’s voice clearly indicated that he was contemplating a quick meal.
“No Sire, the worst is still to come. The humans hit the city of Dis itself. They have destroyed His Infernal Majesty’s palace, crumbled in and the rock it stood on so that only a pile of sand and ruins remains.”
“His Majesty…” Chiknathragothem had gone gray with shock. “Did he survive?”
“Nobody knows Sire. If he was in his palace, then he did not. More than forty Grand Dukes and Dukes are known to be dead, and the palace staff is all gone. The dead number in the thousands. And, My Lord Beelzebub says, if Yahweh gets to hear of this catastrophe, and he will, then there will be nothing to keep him out of Hell itself.”
Shocked to his core, Chiknathragothem stared into the distance, trying to imagine the full consequences of what had just happened. If Satan was dead, then the great bulwark against Yahweh absorbing Hell into his own domain had gone. There was more to it than that, the human life-energy that all demons gathered and paid as tribute to Satan was suddenly without purpose. Satan had used it to boost his faithful servants over the barrier that existed between this level and the next. That was, after all, what the great pit of Hell was all about. The demons served Satan and in exchange, he used the life energy he had gathered to save them for eternity in the next dimension. All of this would be lost if Yahweh was allowed to make his way in and seize Hell for his own. The celestial abode that had been split apart so many, many millennia ago, would be reunited once more.
Unless Chiknathragothem suddenly realized, that another took over the role of leader, seized power, and used the system Satan had devised to guarantee his own survival. In a flash of inspiration, he suddenly realized why Beelzebub was abandoning this fight, he wasn’t blocking the humans from Dis, he was advancing along that road himself, to seize power and take Satan’s throne. He, Chiknathragothem, was being left as the rear guard to distract the humans from pursuing Beelzebub. He was a sacrifice to Beelzebub’s ambition.
For a wild moment, Chiknathragothem thought of pulling back himself, of setting out for Dis to beat Beelzebub to the punch. Reality quickly intruded itself and squashed that idea. Beelzebub’s Army blocked the direct road and was much closer to Dis than Chiknathragothem’s. Beelzebub had the direct route, Chiknathragothem would just go around him. There was no way, no way at all, that Beelzebub could be beaten to Dis. Then, another thought entered Chiknathragothem’s mind. He had battered his way through most of the human defenses, and the end of the great zone of little fortresses that could do so much damage was in sight. One more push, one more effort, and he would be through. Then, the human army would collapse. Beelzebub might enter Dis first, but it would be at the head of a defeated army, a thin shadow of the great force that he had once commanded. On the other hand, once this battle was won, he, Chiknathragothem, could also enter Dis but at the head of a victorious army, one that had defeated the humans who had destroyed Abigor and so badly crippled Beelzebub. The inhabitants of Hell were practical, they would back a winner over a loser any time.
So, he had to win and had to win fast. That made his decision obvious. He would group his remaining forces here, at the point where victory was on the point of being won. The remaining naga, the remnants of Belial’s wyverns, all in a concentrated blow. Overhead, Chiknathragothem heard the wailing sound of the human sky-chariots as they tore into his dwindling flock of harpies. His army was mauled, badly mauled, but nothing like the scale of destruction that had been visited on Beelzebub. The white mage fire had been a shock, more for the horror of its effects than its real damage, but that was all. And there were fewer sky-chariots than there had been. His advancing foot-soldiers had found the wreckage of two, brought down by the wyverns with their great spiked tails, but it seemed as if the humans were running out of them. Everything suggested that this battle was at the point of balance. His one more push would win it and with it a far greater prize than was being contested here on the plains of the Phlegethon.
Command Cave, Free Hell, Banks of the Styx, Fifth Circle of Hell
“Estimated force of 35,000 baldricks, at least 30,000 foot, the rest harpies. They’re the dangerous ones, not much firepower but they can get at us and our ability to bring them down in droves is limited.” Colonel Jackson looked around at his companions. He’d had an embarrassing discussion over the radio with his commander when he’d had to admit that he’d been outmaneuvered, politically speaking of course. In retrospect, he couldn’t honestly critique his decisions. He’d had a very questionable maneuver to pull off, one that depended on a junior officer’s instinctive deference to an officer of much higher rank. He’d gone in hard, trying to bulldoze her out of the way and accept his command before she had time to think the situation through. It had worked too, only how could he have known he would run into Gaius Julius Caesar? Some historians had questioned Caesar’s skill as a politician, well, he had been on the receiving end of that expertise and could now testify that the reality of the man lived up to his reputation.
The infuriating thing was that he, Jackson, had been right and what he was seeing proved it. The young American Lieutenant had done well, that was certainly enough, but she’d done it through luck, guts, the inability of the baldricks to accept that humans could fight, and, most of all, her serene ignorance of the fact that what she was attempting was impossible. Her whole operation was running on borrowed time, if this crisis hadn’t arrived, something else would have done. Time to rub that in a little.
“So, how many troops do you have Lieutenant?”
“Armed with our weapons? Around thirty. Split equally between the two flanks. About sixty more with captured baldrick equipment, some reinforcing the positions on either flank, the rest string out along the river.” Jackson and Caesar exchanged glances, the Lieutenant was a pilot, not a ground-pounder and her dispositions had made that fact clear. They were an invitation to disaster. “I know, I know, but we’ve got some things running for us. The whole area on these flanks is a maze of minefields and demolition charges. Ever since we blew up Asmodeus, we’ve got the baldricks too scared to put their feet on the ground. Just often enough, when one of them does so, it kills them. The river is wide open, I know it, but we can’t be strong everywhere. He who tries to defend everything….”
“Defends nothing. Quite right Jade.” Caesar looked at the map, probably the first accurate one that had ever been drawn in Hell. “Colonel, you’re the expert, I’m just the representative of the free human population down here, what do you recommend?”
Jackson caught the fleeting smirk on Kim’s face and guessed that Caesar had been given a quick introductory lesson on the concept of civilian control of the military. And was now using it to his advantage. Oh, it was to his own advantage, Jackson knew that Gaius Julius Caesar was up to something. That insight came from the simple appreciation that Gaius Julius Caesar was always up to something, the only real question was, what? Jackson was highly doubtful that the man’s ambitions were restricted to a few square kilometers of mud on the banks of the Styx. Still, that matter could wait until later. As could the command issues that this whole little skirmish had highlighted. He had no doubt they were being discussed at a much higher level than his.
“We must assume the force moving along the river is our priority. I’ll string my battalion out along that front, it’s thin coverage but down here with modern weapons, we can hold much longer fronts than in normal wars. I’ll depend on your people to hold our flanks, Kim. But frankly, if the baldricks hit us with a coordinated attack, both flanks and the river, we’re gone. There is no possibility of us stopping an attack like that.”
Caesar got up and stared across at the great cloud of dust that hung over the site of Satan’s palace. “Well, we’ll make sure that doesn’t happen, won’t we?”
Palace of Deumos, City of Dis, Hell
Deumos stood on her balcony, looking at the same great cloud of dust. For weeks she had been struggling with the problem of what to do and where to cast her allegiance. At first, she had been swayed by her vassal Lugasharmanaska’s opinion that humans could not lose. She had seen them invade Hell, seen their columns first make the Martial Plain of Dysprosium untenable to the demons and then bring it under their sway. Then they had started to build up their defense along the Phlegethon and Deumos had been on the verge of casting her lot irrevocably in with them. Then, had come news of Belial’s success at Sheffield and she had hastily reconsidered, to make a firm decision might yet be premature. Dee-Troyt had confirmed that, or so she had thought.
Now the humans had struck at the very heart of Hell, they had destroyed Satan’s palace. And, presumably, Satan himself. That meant the great ruling force that dominated Hell had gone. As soon as Yahweh found out about that, he would be on the move, trying to reclaim the lands that had been torn from him at the end of the Great Celestial War. Deumos mustn’t have explained to her what that would mean for her and her kind. Succubi were despised in Hell but reviled in heaven. Yahweh’s return meant death for her and her vassals. Hell had to have a new leader, and quickly.
That led to the obvious question, who. Like any baldrick, Deumos had a simple answer to that, her. The question was, how. Once again, the simple fact that Succubi were despised in Hell stood in her way. To make her own power hold, she had to have powerful allies. Which Grand Duke would be willing to ally with her? Despised or not, her Succubi were powerful allies who could offer much intelligence and influence to the right duke. But who? Deumos realized she didn’t even know which Dukes were still alive.
Then, that thought made her kick herself. She had missed the obvious. The Dukes were not the most powerful forces in hell anymore. Humans were. The destruction of Satan’s palace proved that. She went to the couch in the corner of her room and sat down, her mind already roving across the gray expanse that marked some sort of dimension she could not describe or explain. There were bright lights in that expanse, the minds of her Succubi. Without being able to explain why she knew which light belonged to who. She was looking for one light in particular, one that would be far removed from the rest.
Luga, child are you there? Deumos’s mind had the sickly-sweet sound of an adult cooing to a child
Yes, my liege. How may I serve you?
Deumos was momentarily irritated, she expected a lot more groveling than that. Obviously too long an association with humans was having a bad effect on her. Still, punishing her for that could wait. Child, what is the situation on Earth? Are the humans in despair at the loss of their cities?
No, my Liege. Furiously angry would be the best description. There have been riots in the streets here, people demanding that the destruction of Sheffield and Detroit be avenged by the ‘nuking’ of all hell. I do not understand what they meant by nuking, but it does not sound friendly. You must have seen the action the humans have taken in response.
There were riots caused by our actions? The humans massacred their own then.
No, my liege. The police and Volunteers restored order and they arrested those who caused acts of violence, but the rest were allowed to demonstrate. It is their way. It was helped by the news that the volcano over Sheffield has finally stopped, and the Detroit attack is slackening quickly. Otherwise, the demands for a nuking might not have been so easy to ignore.
Luga, child, this war must end before even more die. I would wish to speak with the leaders of the humans. Perhaps together we can find a solution to this horror.
Lugasharmanaska’s mind voice betrayed her suspicion. Another thing for which Deumos decided that she would pay later. My Liege, I can arrange such a meeting, but I must counsel caution. The humans are in an uncompromising mood and will not listen to much in the way of appeasement. The leaders here speak of unconditional surrender when they think of the future of Hell. They will not settle for less than that. If you wish to influence them, then you must offer them a way to achieve that.
The impertinence of the comment ground further at Deumos’s nerves. How dare this minor vassal give her such advice? She would, Deumos decided, spend many, many years screaming in agony for such impudence. If she liked humans so much, perhaps tossing her into a boiling lava pit with them might be suitable. Your wise advice comforts me, child. I will think about this. But arrange for me to meet the leaders with whom you deal, and I will see what agreements we can make.
Deumos closed the contact and relaxed. Now, how could she bring enough Dukes into her orbit to make her an ally the humans would value?
Conference Room, White House Washington DC.
“Mister President, the supplemental funding is through. I just hope we can survive the peace when the war ends.”
“That may be a long time. What’s the progress in production.”
“It’s picking up, but we’re still expending munitions a lot faster than we can make them. We’re running low, the projections are that we’ll bottom out before we are completely expended but it’s going to be close. It’s lucky the Russians are carrying the load in the latest battle and that they can use a lot of Chinese stuff. Otherwise, we would be really hurting right now.
“Army’s doing OK, we’ve recommissioned most of the Abrams and Bradleys we had in storage and we’re working on the M113s right now. Light note Sir, we had some idiot called Sparks turning up and demanding we name the M113 the Gavin and build our forces around them. Anyway, we drafted him and sent him to Alaska. Apparently, there’s a shortage of latrines up there and he’d dig the new ones. Anyway, as fast as we get the vehicles, we’re building up new units around them. The veterans from the battles against Abigor are worth their weight in gold as cadre for the new divisions.
“Air Force, well, we’re desperately short of heavy bombers and it’ll be months before we get more. Northrop is working on a simplified B-2, they’re stripping out all the stealth stuff and that cuts cost and production time drastically. Boeing is doing the same with the B-1, they’re using the B-1A as a base, not the dash 1B. Northrop says they’ll have a prototype B-2B up by the end of the year, Boeing a B-1C at the same time.
“F-22 and F-15E production is ramping up fast, F-16 more slowly. F-18s are doing well and the first A-45s are coming off the lines. They’ll be going to the Navy for the carriers. The navy’s rebuilding some of its discarded ships, mostly Spru-Cans and Fig-sevens. Gas turbine ships we can bring back, the steam turbine ones are gone. It’ll be years before the Navy gets a lot of new construction though, we just don’t have the shipbuilding base we used to.”
“Any other problems we must deal with John?”
“One big one Sir. Command. We’ve done well so far but the command of the forces deployed is a mess. It’s just been thrown together as the forces arrived and the situation had been moving faster than we can get things tidied up. We’ve only got away with it this long because the guys at the top back there are professionals and are making it work. But we had a minor fracas with the British yesterday.”
“Not another friendly fire incident?”
“No, although we’ve had all too many of those. Our lodgment in Hell is about to come under attack and the British sent reinforcements. Their commander wanted operational control, which was quite reasonable of course, but there were some disagreements on that, and a local deceased human took over. One Gaius Julius Caesar.”
“I’ve heard of him.” Bush’s voice was reflective.
I should hope so thought Secretary Warner. “Anyway, it’s all sorted out and it never really amounted to much but it’s a warning. We’ve got to get a permanent, proper, flexible, and fast-reacting command structure sorted out. Otherwise, one day we’re going to have a real problem that’ll get people killed. A lot of them.
“Two final things. One is that the kiddies on Kos are claiming you and Halliburton conspired to get this war started so you could make money on the share prices.”
“Good idea, I wish we’d thought of it.”
“Quite Sir. The other is our contact with the Succubae in Hell has said that Deumos, the Succubae Leader has asked for a meeting, she wants to come over to our side.”
“Aren’t we grooming Abigor as our ruler down there?”
“We are Sir, but the faster we can bring about the collapse of hell the better. We’ve still got Heaven to deal with, they’re quiet now but how long they’ll stay that way is another matter. If this Deumos creature comes over to us, it might split hell up and bring them down. That’s why we whacked Satan after all. Any word on that?”
“No, Mister President. Pictures show the whole palace, and its foundation rock are gone, blasted to dust. But we still have no confirmation that he was in there. Abigor says he spends nearly all his time in that Palace so it’s pretty good odds we got him.”
“Hope so. Anyway, thank you, John. Condi, do you have any thoughts on this command issue?”
Re: 2008 - Armageddon
Chapter Sixty-Eight
Headquarters, 302nd Motor Rifle Division, Left Flank, Phlegethon River Front, Hell
“Lieutenant Edovin, Georgii Aleksandrovich reporting for duty Tovarish Colonel.”
Colonel Aleksandr Klavdievich Parfenov looked up at the young Lieutenant standing before his desk. Reinforcements were always needed but this was an inconvenient time, to say the least of it. The baldricks had ground their way through his division, at frightful cost, certainly but they had ground their way through. One of his regiments had been virtually destroyed, the other two had been badly mauled but they had done their duty. The baldricks had been pinned down by their defense, allowed to entrap themselves in the maze of strong points, minefields, and barbed wire. The harpies had exacted their toll and the wyverns had been a bad surprise certainly. The nagas strapped to the backs of rhinolobsters had also taken their toll. The real cost to the baldricks was that their unit structure had been destroyed by the defenses, where once they had been cleanly divided into their legions, cohorts, and maniples, now they were an amorphous mass of mixed units. What that mass didn’t know was that ahead of them, sitting quietly behind a ridgeline, were more than two divisions of tanks including his own tank regiment. What he didn’t need was another green Lieutenant.
“Transfer papers.” Parfenov stretched out his hand.
“I don’t have any Tovarish Colonel. But I am already assigned to your division.”
That triggered something in Parfenov’s memory. He dug through the status reports on his desk, trying to find the one he needed. As was always the case, it was on the bottom of the pile. As he had thought, the name was there on the casualty roster. “Edovin, Georgii Aleksandrovich, you are dead.”
“Yes, Tovarish Colonel. But I am reporting for duty still.”
That thought Parfenov represents dedication to duty even by Russian standards. This was something he had to find out more about. He would indulge himself; he had the time to listen before the tanks went in.
“Tovarish Lieutenant. Tell me what happened.”
“It was harpies Tovarish Colonel. They set the engine compartment of my Shilka on fire, and we had to bail out. We all got out of the ZSU all right, but the harpies got us as we were in the open. The BMPs we were covering tried to help us with their machine guns but there were too many of the harpies and they tore us apart. The next thing I remember was sailing through the air and landing in a river of molten lava. The pain was terrible, I was blinded and deafened, and all I could think of was to get out somehow. I tried to crawl, or swim, a mixture of both really, to where I remembered the shore was. I got there and got out of the lava and started to crawl away. My hearing came back first, I heard a crackle of gunfire, then my sight slowly came back.
“There were Marines there Tovarish Colonel, American Marines. They had shot down a group of six baldricks, the bodies were still on the shore, and they were helping the people escaping from the lava. One of them came to me and asked me who I was. I understood every word he said, even though he spoke in English. I identified myself and told him I had been killed in the fighting along the Phlegethon. He asked my unit, then called on the radio to report finding me. Soon a portal was opened that took me to somewhere in America and then another brought me back to the great American base at the Hellmouth. From there, one of the Americans gave me a lift in a Humvee so here I am. Reporting for duty, Tovarish Colonel.”
Parfenov shook his head. It was quite a story. It also put a quite different complexion on this war, if they could get their casualties back this way, it would solve many problems. Create a few as well but that was for others to think about. “Were other of our brothers there?”
“I think so Tovarish Colonel. The baldricks just stack people into their pits and swamps as they are received. So those who die together tend to stay together. I looked for my crew but did not find them before I was taken out. But the Marines are guarding the whole stretch of that lava river, if they can get out the lava, they will return.”
“Good, Bratischka, very good. I have an assignment for you. There is an American anti-harpy unit not far away, a trials unit. They need a Russian officer as a liaison, since you are dead and can thus understand Americans, I will assign you to them. Stay with them, help them as best you can, and remember to report anything interesting you learn.
Site of Satan’s Palace, City of Dis
Belial did not know how long he had been standing there, looking down at the settling ruins of Satan’s palace. Time had a different meaning in a hell where eternity was a real, present concept. It might have been a few seconds, perhaps longer. All he knew was that tears of rage and frustration were pouring down his cheeks at the sight. Then, slowly, he became aware of a growing crowd crossing the broken stones of the causeway and staring also at the ruins. That jerked him back into the present.
“You, all of you, get down there, start digging. There may be survivors down there, waiting for us to free them. Get to work.”
“Why?” One voice echoed from the crowd. “Leave us alone,” was another. “He’s dead at last,” was a third. Belial looked at the mutinous crowd of orcs and grabbed a trident from one of the dead guards. It was one of his best, he noted, a premium product as befitted Satan’s personal guard. As he charged it, he swung his eyes over the crowd.
“You don’t rule an……” The orc had spoken unwisely, while Belial was looking straight at him. The trident flashed, and the lightning bolt charred him instantly, his body collapsing on the stone. Next to him, two others were burned by the discharge and fell, wailing with the pain.
“Any more arguments?” Belial looked around grimly. The killing had made him feel a lot better. There was a rumble of discontent, but the outright mutiny had simmered down. For the moment. “Then get down there and start digging.”
The crowd edged over the rim and started to make their way down the wall of the crater to where the stone jumble started. Belial stood on the rim and watched, with more of the demons from the city joining him as word spread and curiosity brought out bystanders. Belial spread them along the crater rim so that the orcs working down below could be watched. The first down there had picked up bits of shattered rock and looked around for places to put them. Eventually, they set up a chain, carrying the rocks out of the crater and to the edge of the causeway where they could be dropped into the caldera far below. It took a long time but slowly a dent was made in the pile of wreckage that had once been Satan’s palace. It exposed the first victim, a crushed figure, lifeless.
Belial recognized her, it was Naphula. He recognized her griffin-like wings and the lion-like head. Once she had been a powerful Great Duke of Hell who had commanded thirty-six legions of demons. Belial had liked her; she had shared his taste for mechanical things and the unusual. Once he had even sought an alliance with her but his position as a virtual outcast, only just barely tolerated at court had precluded that. Her pride would not tolerate an alliance with as lowly a lord as he. Now, she was dead, and her crushed body looked small and useless. “Take her body out to the causeway and place it up there. Do the same with the rest of the bodies you find. And dig faster. We may find our master awaiting our rescue at any moment.”
F-105D “Frankenwhoosh” 273rd Fighter Group, Over the Sixth Ring of Hell
The fact that any F-105s had survived at all wasn’t so unusual, but the sheer number of them had been remarkable indeed. The search through the museums had found no less than 103 F-105s of assorted marks, in conditions varying from the derelict to the pristine. Some had even had their engines and cannon still installed and three had been in immediately flyable condition. Over the last three months, 15 more had joined the 273rd making up one of its squadrons. They were all a blend of the most intact airframes with parts taken from the airframes too far gone to bring back into service, hence they all bore names starting with “Franken”. The single-engine aircraft was old and tired, all the museum salvaged aircraft were that, but they could still fly and haul bombs. They would do, they would fill the gap until new aircraft came into service in enough numbers and the Thunderchiefs could return to their quiet life in the aircraft museums of America. Only this time, they would be sporting the red-and-gray camouflage scheme worn by the aircraft that fought in Hell.
Captain Casey “Loco” Jones angled his wings slightly and turned to follow the Styx as it meandered down below. The five other F-105s following him did the same. The aircraft was sluggish, the F-105 was stunningly fast low down but nobody had ever described it as agile. With six 750-pound bombs hanging under its belly, four more on each inner wing rack, and one on each outer, a total of 12,000 pounds, the old aircraft were hard to fly. It had been a wrench for him to be taken out of his Boeing 767 and put back into a Thud, but the old-timers who had flown the bird before were getting thin on the ground.
Down below, he could see a long black snake following the river. It was the column of baldricks he was hunting, they were advancing on an area of Hell that had been liberated. Well, there was something he could do about that.
“All Frankenstein aircraft, the target is below, roll out and follow me down.” Jones rolled his wings to vertical, feeling the aging spars and frames creaking in protest then pulled the stick back, hauling the nose of the Thunderchief around. Then, he leveled the wings, dropped the nose, and rammed the throttle all the way forward. The F-105 responded gallantly, its engine surging with power, even with the filters built into its engine intakes.
Under his nose, the column was now stretched out before him, his flight path taking him along its length. Something that hadn’t been obvious before, there was a wall between them and the river, an old-fashioned, crenelated wall that marked the division between the fifth and sixth circles of Hell. That wouldn’t make much difference, it offered little cover and wouldn’t even get in the way of the bombing and strafing passes.
The target below was growing rapidly, this was a part of the attack that needed care. The Thud dived very fast and was too ponderous to pull out quickly. More than one F-105 pilot had been so interested in strafing his target that he’d left pulling out too late and flown right into the ground. Gentle pressure on the stick, pull the nose back, and then release the bombs. Behind him, the dark green 750-pounders dropped clear, their tail fins spreading sideways as they opened to slow the fall of the bombs. Those retarding fins and the long fuse extenders made sure that the bombs would explode above the ground, maximizing the radius covered by their fragments. The F-105s streaked over the column of baldricks, unleashing their total of nearly a hundred bombs onto the figures below, then used the energy they had built up in their dive to get clear. By the time the bombs exploded, they were already miles away and thousands of feet above the devastation their bombs had caused.
At the top of his climb, Jones rolled over again and started his second pass. The bombs had mostly hit around the head of the column so he thought it would be only fair to give the rear some attention. He put the pipper of his cannon sight on the last ranks and squeezed the trigger, haring the vicious rasp of the M-61 as it pumped its shells into the scattering mass of baldricks. Then, he lifted the nose, marching the tracers along the column, only ending when he was getting too low for comfort. Still, he had some ammunition left and a part of it was used on a harpy that staggered across his nose. Then he was away again, once more climbing for altitude.
“Frankenstein aircraft, form on me, we’re going home to get some more goodies.” If there were any he thought quietly, the rate we’re using the stuff up, the day when we run out can’t be that far off.
The six Thunderchiefs formed up into a loose arrowhead and started back towards the Hellmouth and home. Up ahead of him, Jones saw something that he couldn’t quite identify so he angled his course to take a closer look. It was further away than he had thought, mainly because the objects were so much larger.
“Just what the blazes is that?” the voice on the radio wasn’t quite identifiable but Jones shared the sentiments. It was a huge, misshapen beast, flying in an ungainly pattern, not quite holding a true course or height. He looked harder, it had wings of course and a tail that seemed to act as a rudder. Then he caught his breath – it had seven heads.
“It’s a hydra, a flying hydra. And it’s huge, those wings must be three, four hundred feet across. Uh-oh, look out guys. There’s wyverns with it and we haven’t seen ones like this before.” The wyverns were far larger than any that had been reported to date and were a brilliant gold in color. Jones started to count them and as he got to twelve, they broke formation to attack his aircraft. Simultaneously, the hydra dived away and started to break for cover, it might be ungainly, but it was fast.
Jones picked out one of the Wyverns, the old Thud was no dogfighter, but this wasn’t the time to argue matters. Once again, he firewalled the throttle and felt the surge of power from his engine. The formation of six aircraft split into three pairs, one heading up and right, one up and left, and the center pair with Jones in the lead went straight up. He glanced at the speed tape gauge; he was pulling almost 18,000 feet per minute in a climb that was close to being straight up. As his speed bled off, he timed his climb, then rolled the F-105 over and dropped the nose. The wyverns were beneath him and his chosen target was in the perfect position for a gun pass. The Thud accelerated downwards, and he moved the pipper so that it was on the tail of the monster. Then his cannon rasped again, and he saw the tracers thudding into its body.
It was a short burst, it had to be. He’d used most of his ammunition up on the column of troops. He saw tracers flashing past his wing, his wingman was firing as well, using up what was left of his cannon ammunition on the stricken wyvern. The creature was flailing, dying, the ball that ended its tail whipping through the air. That ball was dangerous, it had already cost the humans aircraft and that had been from the much smaller wyverns seen over the Phlegethon. It didn’t matter though, the Thuds were clear and three of the wyverns were dying, shot to pieces by the 20mm Gatling guns in the nose of the F-105s.
“Any sign of that hydra?”
“It’s gone Loco.”
Jones swore quietly, that a modern aircraft would have an air-to-air radar that could have found the beast in the dust-laden air but the F-105 was old and obsolete. Still, she’d done her best at an age when any aircraft should have expected genteel retirement. The hydra had got away but the troops on the ground hadn’t. Nor had three wyverns.
Sixth Circle of Hell.
Xisorixus pulled himself out of the ditch that he had managed to find when the human sky chariots had found him. It had been so sudden he hadn’t had time to think about what to do, the chariots had screamed out of the sky and dropped their mage-bolts all over his column. Then they’d come back and repeated the performance, spraying fireflies into his foot soldiers. A few seconds was all it had taken. They’d gone and left this shamble behind them.
The road was torn up, the stones shattered and cast around by the mage bolts that had left craters where they had landed. Around them were torn fragments of black flesh that were all anybody would ever find of those unlucky enough to be hit. Further out from the mage-bolt craters the wounded were sprawled on the ground, wailing with pain from the injuries inflicted by the iron splinters in their bodies.
“Get up, get moving. His Infernal Majesty did you the honor of inspecting you in person. Now show yourselves worthy of that privilege.” Then Xisorixus looked up at the city of Dis towering overhead and saw the great cloud of dust that masked where Satan’s palace had once stood. Others were looking at it as well.
“He might do the inspecting but he’s not around to do the fighting is he?” The voice from his troops was unidentifiable but the murmur of agreement that swept through the ranks showed that the speaker had a lot of agreement. Xisorixus was about to challenge the speaker, whoever he was, but then he decided to let it slide.
“How many have we lost?” Instead, it was time to take stock of his losses.
“About eight hundred.” The reply was from the senior ‘Baron’ who Xisorixus had appointed to lead his first Legion. A ‘Baron’ who had led nothing larger than an octurbinium before and whose aristocratic rank was unrecognized by anybody outside Xisorixus’s hastily assembled Army.
Eight hundred out of Thirty thousand. A sharp loss for an attack that had been over in seconds but one that his army could swallow. The whispered words about the fighting on Earth and now along the Phlegethon were that a human attack usually created far more havoc than this.
“Resume our march. We will overrun the rebelling humans and gain great glory. And much favor in the eyes of His Majesty. We will have succeeded where Abigor and Beelzebub have failed!”
A ragged cheer went up and Xisorixus’s Army started to move again, leaving its dead beside the road. As they did, not a few were wondering when the Sky-Chariots would return and what form of death they would bring next time.
Headquarters, 302nd Motor Rifle Division, Left Flank, Phlegethon River Front, Hell
“Lieutenant Edovin, Georgii Aleksandrovich reporting for duty Tovarish Colonel.”
Colonel Aleksandr Klavdievich Parfenov looked up at the young Lieutenant standing before his desk. Reinforcements were always needed but this was an inconvenient time, to say the least of it. The baldricks had ground their way through his division, at frightful cost, certainly but they had ground their way through. One of his regiments had been virtually destroyed, the other two had been badly mauled but they had done their duty. The baldricks had been pinned down by their defense, allowed to entrap themselves in the maze of strong points, minefields, and barbed wire. The harpies had exacted their toll and the wyverns had been a bad surprise certainly. The nagas strapped to the backs of rhinolobsters had also taken their toll. The real cost to the baldricks was that their unit structure had been destroyed by the defenses, where once they had been cleanly divided into their legions, cohorts, and maniples, now they were an amorphous mass of mixed units. What that mass didn’t know was that ahead of them, sitting quietly behind a ridgeline, were more than two divisions of tanks including his own tank regiment. What he didn’t need was another green Lieutenant.
“Transfer papers.” Parfenov stretched out his hand.
“I don’t have any Tovarish Colonel. But I am already assigned to your division.”
That triggered something in Parfenov’s memory. He dug through the status reports on his desk, trying to find the one he needed. As was always the case, it was on the bottom of the pile. As he had thought, the name was there on the casualty roster. “Edovin, Georgii Aleksandrovich, you are dead.”
“Yes, Tovarish Colonel. But I am reporting for duty still.”
That thought Parfenov represents dedication to duty even by Russian standards. This was something he had to find out more about. He would indulge himself; he had the time to listen before the tanks went in.
“Tovarish Lieutenant. Tell me what happened.”
“It was harpies Tovarish Colonel. They set the engine compartment of my Shilka on fire, and we had to bail out. We all got out of the ZSU all right, but the harpies got us as we were in the open. The BMPs we were covering tried to help us with their machine guns but there were too many of the harpies and they tore us apart. The next thing I remember was sailing through the air and landing in a river of molten lava. The pain was terrible, I was blinded and deafened, and all I could think of was to get out somehow. I tried to crawl, or swim, a mixture of both really, to where I remembered the shore was. I got there and got out of the lava and started to crawl away. My hearing came back first, I heard a crackle of gunfire, then my sight slowly came back.
“There were Marines there Tovarish Colonel, American Marines. They had shot down a group of six baldricks, the bodies were still on the shore, and they were helping the people escaping from the lava. One of them came to me and asked me who I was. I understood every word he said, even though he spoke in English. I identified myself and told him I had been killed in the fighting along the Phlegethon. He asked my unit, then called on the radio to report finding me. Soon a portal was opened that took me to somewhere in America and then another brought me back to the great American base at the Hellmouth. From there, one of the Americans gave me a lift in a Humvee so here I am. Reporting for duty, Tovarish Colonel.”
Parfenov shook his head. It was quite a story. It also put a quite different complexion on this war, if they could get their casualties back this way, it would solve many problems. Create a few as well but that was for others to think about. “Were other of our brothers there?”
“I think so Tovarish Colonel. The baldricks just stack people into their pits and swamps as they are received. So those who die together tend to stay together. I looked for my crew but did not find them before I was taken out. But the Marines are guarding the whole stretch of that lava river, if they can get out the lava, they will return.”
“Good, Bratischka, very good. I have an assignment for you. There is an American anti-harpy unit not far away, a trials unit. They need a Russian officer as a liaison, since you are dead and can thus understand Americans, I will assign you to them. Stay with them, help them as best you can, and remember to report anything interesting you learn.
Site of Satan’s Palace, City of Dis
Belial did not know how long he had been standing there, looking down at the settling ruins of Satan’s palace. Time had a different meaning in a hell where eternity was a real, present concept. It might have been a few seconds, perhaps longer. All he knew was that tears of rage and frustration were pouring down his cheeks at the sight. Then, slowly, he became aware of a growing crowd crossing the broken stones of the causeway and staring also at the ruins. That jerked him back into the present.
“You, all of you, get down there, start digging. There may be survivors down there, waiting for us to free them. Get to work.”
“Why?” One voice echoed from the crowd. “Leave us alone,” was another. “He’s dead at last,” was a third. Belial looked at the mutinous crowd of orcs and grabbed a trident from one of the dead guards. It was one of his best, he noted, a premium product as befitted Satan’s personal guard. As he charged it, he swung his eyes over the crowd.
“You don’t rule an……” The orc had spoken unwisely, while Belial was looking straight at him. The trident flashed, and the lightning bolt charred him instantly, his body collapsing on the stone. Next to him, two others were burned by the discharge and fell, wailing with the pain.
“Any more arguments?” Belial looked around grimly. The killing had made him feel a lot better. There was a rumble of discontent, but the outright mutiny had simmered down. For the moment. “Then get down there and start digging.”
The crowd edged over the rim and started to make their way down the wall of the crater to where the stone jumble started. Belial stood on the rim and watched, with more of the demons from the city joining him as word spread and curiosity brought out bystanders. Belial spread them along the crater rim so that the orcs working down below could be watched. The first down there had picked up bits of shattered rock and looked around for places to put them. Eventually, they set up a chain, carrying the rocks out of the crater and to the edge of the causeway where they could be dropped into the caldera far below. It took a long time but slowly a dent was made in the pile of wreckage that had once been Satan’s palace. It exposed the first victim, a crushed figure, lifeless.
Belial recognized her, it was Naphula. He recognized her griffin-like wings and the lion-like head. Once she had been a powerful Great Duke of Hell who had commanded thirty-six legions of demons. Belial had liked her; she had shared his taste for mechanical things and the unusual. Once he had even sought an alliance with her but his position as a virtual outcast, only just barely tolerated at court had precluded that. Her pride would not tolerate an alliance with as lowly a lord as he. Now, she was dead, and her crushed body looked small and useless. “Take her body out to the causeway and place it up there. Do the same with the rest of the bodies you find. And dig faster. We may find our master awaiting our rescue at any moment.”
F-105D “Frankenwhoosh” 273rd Fighter Group, Over the Sixth Ring of Hell
The fact that any F-105s had survived at all wasn’t so unusual, but the sheer number of them had been remarkable indeed. The search through the museums had found no less than 103 F-105s of assorted marks, in conditions varying from the derelict to the pristine. Some had even had their engines and cannon still installed and three had been in immediately flyable condition. Over the last three months, 15 more had joined the 273rd making up one of its squadrons. They were all a blend of the most intact airframes with parts taken from the airframes too far gone to bring back into service, hence they all bore names starting with “Franken”. The single-engine aircraft was old and tired, all the museum salvaged aircraft were that, but they could still fly and haul bombs. They would do, they would fill the gap until new aircraft came into service in enough numbers and the Thunderchiefs could return to their quiet life in the aircraft museums of America. Only this time, they would be sporting the red-and-gray camouflage scheme worn by the aircraft that fought in Hell.
Captain Casey “Loco” Jones angled his wings slightly and turned to follow the Styx as it meandered down below. The five other F-105s following him did the same. The aircraft was sluggish, the F-105 was stunningly fast low down but nobody had ever described it as agile. With six 750-pound bombs hanging under its belly, four more on each inner wing rack, and one on each outer, a total of 12,000 pounds, the old aircraft were hard to fly. It had been a wrench for him to be taken out of his Boeing 767 and put back into a Thud, but the old-timers who had flown the bird before were getting thin on the ground.
Down below, he could see a long black snake following the river. It was the column of baldricks he was hunting, they were advancing on an area of Hell that had been liberated. Well, there was something he could do about that.
“All Frankenstein aircraft, the target is below, roll out and follow me down.” Jones rolled his wings to vertical, feeling the aging spars and frames creaking in protest then pulled the stick back, hauling the nose of the Thunderchief around. Then, he leveled the wings, dropped the nose, and rammed the throttle all the way forward. The F-105 responded gallantly, its engine surging with power, even with the filters built into its engine intakes.
Under his nose, the column was now stretched out before him, his flight path taking him along its length. Something that hadn’t been obvious before, there was a wall between them and the river, an old-fashioned, crenelated wall that marked the division between the fifth and sixth circles of Hell. That wouldn’t make much difference, it offered little cover and wouldn’t even get in the way of the bombing and strafing passes.
The target below was growing rapidly, this was a part of the attack that needed care. The Thud dived very fast and was too ponderous to pull out quickly. More than one F-105 pilot had been so interested in strafing his target that he’d left pulling out too late and flown right into the ground. Gentle pressure on the stick, pull the nose back, and then release the bombs. Behind him, the dark green 750-pounders dropped clear, their tail fins spreading sideways as they opened to slow the fall of the bombs. Those retarding fins and the long fuse extenders made sure that the bombs would explode above the ground, maximizing the radius covered by their fragments. The F-105s streaked over the column of baldricks, unleashing their total of nearly a hundred bombs onto the figures below, then used the energy they had built up in their dive to get clear. By the time the bombs exploded, they were already miles away and thousands of feet above the devastation their bombs had caused.
At the top of his climb, Jones rolled over again and started his second pass. The bombs had mostly hit around the head of the column so he thought it would be only fair to give the rear some attention. He put the pipper of his cannon sight on the last ranks and squeezed the trigger, haring the vicious rasp of the M-61 as it pumped its shells into the scattering mass of baldricks. Then, he lifted the nose, marching the tracers along the column, only ending when he was getting too low for comfort. Still, he had some ammunition left and a part of it was used on a harpy that staggered across his nose. Then he was away again, once more climbing for altitude.
“Frankenstein aircraft, form on me, we’re going home to get some more goodies.” If there were any he thought quietly, the rate we’re using the stuff up, the day when we run out can’t be that far off.
The six Thunderchiefs formed up into a loose arrowhead and started back towards the Hellmouth and home. Up ahead of him, Jones saw something that he couldn’t quite identify so he angled his course to take a closer look. It was further away than he had thought, mainly because the objects were so much larger.
“Just what the blazes is that?” the voice on the radio wasn’t quite identifiable but Jones shared the sentiments. It was a huge, misshapen beast, flying in an ungainly pattern, not quite holding a true course or height. He looked harder, it had wings of course and a tail that seemed to act as a rudder. Then he caught his breath – it had seven heads.
“It’s a hydra, a flying hydra. And it’s huge, those wings must be three, four hundred feet across. Uh-oh, look out guys. There’s wyverns with it and we haven’t seen ones like this before.” The wyverns were far larger than any that had been reported to date and were a brilliant gold in color. Jones started to count them and as he got to twelve, they broke formation to attack his aircraft. Simultaneously, the hydra dived away and started to break for cover, it might be ungainly, but it was fast.
Jones picked out one of the Wyverns, the old Thud was no dogfighter, but this wasn’t the time to argue matters. Once again, he firewalled the throttle and felt the surge of power from his engine. The formation of six aircraft split into three pairs, one heading up and right, one up and left, and the center pair with Jones in the lead went straight up. He glanced at the speed tape gauge; he was pulling almost 18,000 feet per minute in a climb that was close to being straight up. As his speed bled off, he timed his climb, then rolled the F-105 over and dropped the nose. The wyverns were beneath him and his chosen target was in the perfect position for a gun pass. The Thud accelerated downwards, and he moved the pipper so that it was on the tail of the monster. Then his cannon rasped again, and he saw the tracers thudding into its body.
It was a short burst, it had to be. He’d used most of his ammunition up on the column of troops. He saw tracers flashing past his wing, his wingman was firing as well, using up what was left of his cannon ammunition on the stricken wyvern. The creature was flailing, dying, the ball that ended its tail whipping through the air. That ball was dangerous, it had already cost the humans aircraft and that had been from the much smaller wyverns seen over the Phlegethon. It didn’t matter though, the Thuds were clear and three of the wyverns were dying, shot to pieces by the 20mm Gatling guns in the nose of the F-105s.
“Any sign of that hydra?”
“It’s gone Loco.”
Jones swore quietly, that a modern aircraft would have an air-to-air radar that could have found the beast in the dust-laden air but the F-105 was old and obsolete. Still, she’d done her best at an age when any aircraft should have expected genteel retirement. The hydra had got away but the troops on the ground hadn’t. Nor had three wyverns.
Sixth Circle of Hell.
Xisorixus pulled himself out of the ditch that he had managed to find when the human sky chariots had found him. It had been so sudden he hadn’t had time to think about what to do, the chariots had screamed out of the sky and dropped their mage-bolts all over his column. Then they’d come back and repeated the performance, spraying fireflies into his foot soldiers. A few seconds was all it had taken. They’d gone and left this shamble behind them.
The road was torn up, the stones shattered and cast around by the mage bolts that had left craters where they had landed. Around them were torn fragments of black flesh that were all anybody would ever find of those unlucky enough to be hit. Further out from the mage-bolt craters the wounded were sprawled on the ground, wailing with pain from the injuries inflicted by the iron splinters in their bodies.
“Get up, get moving. His Infernal Majesty did you the honor of inspecting you in person. Now show yourselves worthy of that privilege.” Then Xisorixus looked up at the city of Dis towering overhead and saw the great cloud of dust that masked where Satan’s palace had once stood. Others were looking at it as well.
“He might do the inspecting but he’s not around to do the fighting is he?” The voice from his troops was unidentifiable but the murmur of agreement that swept through the ranks showed that the speaker had a lot of agreement. Xisorixus was about to challenge the speaker, whoever he was, but then he decided to let it slide.
“How many have we lost?” Instead, it was time to take stock of his losses.
“About eight hundred.” The reply was from the senior ‘Baron’ who Xisorixus had appointed to lead his first Legion. A ‘Baron’ who had led nothing larger than an octurbinium before and whose aristocratic rank was unrecognized by anybody outside Xisorixus’s hastily assembled Army.
Eight hundred out of Thirty thousand. A sharp loss for an attack that had been over in seconds but one that his army could swallow. The whispered words about the fighting on Earth and now along the Phlegethon were that a human attack usually created far more havoc than this.
“Resume our march. We will overrun the rebelling humans and gain great glory. And much favor in the eyes of His Majesty. We will have succeeded where Abigor and Beelzebub have failed!”
A ragged cheer went up and Xisorixus’s Army started to move again, leaving its dead beside the road. As they did, not a few were wondering when the Sky-Chariots would return and what form of death they would bring next time.
Re: 2008 - Armageddon
Chapter Sixty-Nine
RAF Akrotiri, Cyprus.
Wing Commander Martin Winters eased Vulcan B.2 XH558 down onto the air station’s long runway after taking her up for an air test. RAF Akrotiri was being used by the RAF as a staging post for aircraft bound for Iraq and onwards for operations in Hell.
The station was crowded with military aircraft and was busier than it had been at any point in its history, since the old days of the Near East Air Force anyway. In fact, apart from more modern aircraft like Typhoons and Tornados it even looked like something out of the old NEAF days. Other than XH558 there were three other operational Vulcans and two Victor K.2s, a line-up of twelve Buccaneer S.2s, some of which had come all the way from South Africa, now wearing the markings of a reformed 208 Squadron, while four Phantom FGR.2s sat at the end of the row of Buccaneers, their paintwork looking a little faded, but were every bit operational. On the opposite side of the runway parked among ultra-modern Typhoons were a pair of Canberra PR.9s and a T.4. Winters expected to see the Battle of Britain flight with its Spitfires, Hurricane, and other Word War Two veterans turning up at any moment. Then he reminded himself that those aircraft had been assigned to the Home Guard and were patrolling over cities in case of any more lava attacks. Of course, there was always the Shuttleworth Trust……
Ground Traffic Control was bleating, as usual, they just weren’t used to having this many aircraft on the ground at once nor were they accustomed to the big bombers being around. Wing Commander Winters taxied the big bomber to the end of the row where the rest of the V-Bomber Flight was parked and shut down the four Rolls Royce Olympus 201 engines. Within seconds with the air conditioning turned off the cockpit began to get unbearably hot.
“Come on, lads, let’s get out of here before we all fry.” Winters said jocularly to his crew.
Like most, Winters was a recalled pilot who had last flown the Vulcan in the early 1980s. The flight had the highest average age of aircrew of any unit in the Royal Air Force, and the highest average seniority, there were far more Wing Commanders and Squadron Leaders in such a relatively small unit than there normally would be. The air force was now attempting to rectify this situation by transferring some aircrew from the Nimrod and Tornado force to the V bombers. Since the RAF was hoping to buy some of the B-1Cs that the Americans were planning to put back in production the experience of flying large bomber aircraft would be valuable. Just as was happening all over the world, the museum pieces were filling the gap until new production could replace them and allow them to return to retirement.
Winters climbed down the crew ladder, making sure he remained in the shadow of the big bat-winged bomber while he waited for the four other men to climb down. While he was doing so, he heard the sound of another pair of aircraft making their approach. He did not recognize the engine sound and decided to go look, perhaps it was a visiting aircraft from another NATO unit.
“Bloody hell!” He remarked in astonishment as he saw the first of the pair of new aircraft flare out and release its braking parachute.
The large white aircraft’s nose wheel touched down and it began to decelerate, demonstrating the short-field capability that had been designed from the start. As it passed XH558 Winters took in its pale, bleached national roundels and its serial number – XR220.
The Vulcan’s co-pilot, Squadron Leader David Maxwell, noticed that Winters was standing as if he was in a daze. He had not yet noticed either of the two arrivals.
“What is it, Boss…?” He said just in time to see the second aircraft, XR222, taxi past. “No…that couldn’t be! Tell me the Sun has finally gotten to me and that was a Tornado, not what I just thought it was.”
“I’m afraid that’s what you thought it was, it’s the second one in fact,” Winters replied.
“Well, they kept that quiet, Boss. I never heard so much as a peep that anybody was working on them.”
“Considering that they’ve got no hours on the airframe and have been cosseted for the last forty-odd years it must have been easy to get them flying again. Depends on how extensive the internal damage was I guess; I’d heard Healey had ordered them cut up inside. Either the staff fixed them up while they were on show or the orders sort of got lost. I suppose they looted the Concorde program for engines and spares. I always heard Maggie Thatcher wanted the aircraft to put back in production so some work must have been done back then as well.”
“Way, I heard it, it was just the electrical wiring that was hacked up, they even cut the cabling rather than disconnecting it. But they’ve been in temperature-controlled and air-conditioned environments so the wiring may have been the only thing that needed replacing. Winters turned to the great bomber above and behind him. “Sorry, Old Girl, I’m afraid you’re no longer the star of the show.”
Winters could swear that he heard the bomber ‘harrumph’, evidently, she disapproved of such show-offs as the ‘White Ghost’. On the other hand, it could just be the airframe expanding and contracting as some bits of it heated up in the Sun and others cooled down.
The two new arrivals taxied to the end of the line of Buccaneers, shut down their Olympus 22R engines, and opened their cockpit canopies. Winters and Maxwell recognized their aircrew as belonging to the Fast Jet and Weapons Operational Evaluation Unit, which until recently had the number plate of 41 Squadron, though that unit had reformed as a Jaguar GR.3A squadron. Since nobody had flown an aircraft like these since Roland Beamont had test flown the first prototype it was probably quite sensible to have the most experienced pilots in the service fly them.
Behind him, Maxwell shook his head. If this looting of museums went on, there wouldn’t be an aviation collection left intact. Idly, he wondered what the Russians were recovering from Monino and whether the Chinese would let the Americans have their U-2 back. Then it struck him that this showed just how seriously humans were taking this war. They were prepared to destroy their past, their history, their background, and everything that they normally held dear if by doing so they could get one more combat aircraft, one more ship, one more tank into the battle zone. They were fighting this war regardless of cost, regardless of effort. All that mattered to them was winning. Suddenly he felt quite sorry for Yahweh and Satan whose posturing had unleashed this fury upon them.
Mission Control, Detroit
“Now, this is going to present an interesting problem.”
“I thought this test shot was pretty well worked out. There’s nothing that problematical about a radio-controlled aircraft surely?”
“Not that. The test will work, or it won’t. We’ll just wait and see.” The Targeteer gestured at the newspaper that was folded up and discarded on the desk. “That will.”
Doctor Kuroneko looked confused. “The election.”
“That? It won’t really make that much difference who wins. The Republic is stronger than a retired warhorse and a jackass combined. No, I meant the court ruling from Texas. They’ve just sentenced a sex offender called James Kevin Pope to 40 life prison terms — one for each sex assault conviction — and 20 years for each of the three sexual performance of a child convictions. They’ve made the sentences consecutive, so he’s got 4,060 years. He will be eligible for parole in the year 3209.”
Doctor Kuroneko still looked confused. The problem with the targeteers was that their disinterested, inflexionless voices gave no hint as to whether they were joking or not. “I’m sorry, I still don’t follow.”
“Well, in the past, all such jail sentences were a bit absurd, after all, what were they going to do? Hold parole hearings around a two millennia-old grave? But what happens now? Pope goes to jail and dies in his cell sooner or later, probably sooner, ordinary decent criminals don’t like child molesters, and go up to the next level. Does he serve out the rest of his sentence there? Or does he get a pass since he’s dead? And if you think we had trouble over capital punishment in the past, wait until everybody starts arguing the issue now.”
“Excuse me, Sir, the transport aircraft is approaching the portal now.”
“Thank you, Captain. Any problems?”
“No Sir, the C-119 is behaving like a charm. A very well-behaved old lady. The museum we got it from looked after her well. It’s a pity to blow her up really.”
“Not really, the other option is to waste modern transport, and we need all the ones we can get.”
In the distance, the great waterfall of molten rock was still pouring down over the city of Detroit. Most of the city itself was hidden behind the clouds of smoke and steam that were rising from the blocked river and the burning city center. Detroit had been a horrifying experience for everybody involved, much worse than the disaster that had engulfed Sheffield. The river had been the real factor that had made everything so grim, after the lava flow had blocked it, the city had been flooded, drowning many of the trapped people before they could be rescued. New Orleans had been bad enough, Katrina had left the city so badly damaged it was doubtful if it would ever fully recover but Detroit was worse. Even with FEMA doing their job this time, Detroit was still far worse.
The electro-optical display showed the view from the cockpit of the remote-controlled C-119. The torrent of lava was filling the screen and the temperature readout was reaching critical levels.
“It’s time, touch her off.”
“Sorry old girl.” The captain at the remote flight controls whispered, turned a key on the control board, then lifted a switch cover and pressed the button it concealed. Just below the sky volcano, a brilliant flash momentarily eclipsed the orange-crimson stream.
The watchers held their breath while the blast was absorbed by the portal. The lava stream seemed to falter, spluttering as the black ellipse of the portal fluctuated in size. There was a breath pause, the darkness seeming intense without the great luminous stream.
“Do you think it…” Doctor Kuroneko could hardly bring himself to say the word ‘worked’.
“No.” The targeteer stared at the ellipse, it was reopening, and a surge of lava poured through, a much greater torrent than there had been before the blast. It faded away again as the pent-up mass dropped through but only to return to its previous volume.
“I was afraid of that.” Kuroneko sounded distressed. “I think we’ll explode the bomb from the other side to close the portal.”
“No problem. We’ve got a for that plan in place. Several in fact.”
Site of Satan’s Palace. City of Dis, Hell
“Work faster you lazy fools. Our master may be waiting for you.” Belial screamed out the challenge. He had assumed responsibility for the rescue effort, sending out his demons to bring in every orc they could find. Now the crater was full of them, digging out the shattered stone. Some had already been killed when the stones had shifted and they had fallen into a void, only to be crushed when the stones moved again.
Belial looked down in growing frustration, there had been no survivors found yet and his hopes were fading fast. All his efforts to win his way back into Satan’s favor couldn’t be wasted, could they? Then, he was aware of a darkening, a shadow over him. He turned and looked up; afraid this may be yet another devilish human trick. But it wasn’t, with a surge of relief he recognized the great wings and the seven heads that looked down on him. Euryale had bred this creature herself, using all the skills and magics she could bring. A crossbreed of a Greater Harpy and a Hydra, a mount that had no equal anywhere else in Hell. It had been a gift for Satan, a great mount that was unique, that Satan could use to overawe any who saw him. The seven great heads stared at him, and he wondered if they knew it was to his house that they owed their existence. Or if they cared. The implication of the sight dawned on him, and relief surged through his body.
“Your Infernal Majesty. You live!”
Satan looked down at the figure below him. “Belial, you brought the humans here! You betrayed me to them.”
“No Sire, I was on my way here myself when the human aircraft struck. They dropped their bombs, but I was just far enough away to live.”
Satan stared at him still, weighing up the scene before him. “And you started the rescue effort. How many other Lords of Hell aided you?”
“None, Your Majesty.” Because they are all dead, he thought but no need to say that. “But the lesser demons you see here rallied around to aid. All they needed was direction. We gathered the orcs and started digging. We will not stop until we have an accounting.”
Satan nodded slowly and looked at Belial’s face, seeing the traces of his tears from frustration and rage. “And you wept for me Belial.” Satan’s voice was dumbfounded, disbelieving. “You wept for me and fought for my life while others scurried away to save themselves. Such bravery and loyalty deserve recognition. The realms of Asmodeus remain unawarded. From now on they shall be the realms of Belial. I give them to you, holding them of course is up to you.”
Belial looked around, he was heir to Asmodeus and faced wealth unparalleled. Then he frowned slightly, Euryale hadn’t just created the giant flying hydra, she had bred the golden wyverns, greater by far than the normal breed, as its bodyguard. She had created twelve of them but there were only nine surrounding the crater.
Satan saw him look and designed to give an explanation to his now-favored vassal. “I was meeting with my Greater Heralds for information on the battle for they can be trusted when the reports of others cannot. I was there with them when this happened. On the way back, a group of human sky-chariots, you called them aircraft? attacked us. Three of my wyverns were killed. They attacked me!” Satan’s voice went into a pitched, intense scream. “I must have revenge. How well went the attacks you promised to succeed?”
“Beyond our best hopes Your Majesty. Sheffield and Dee-troyt have been destroyed, one of my agents on Earth reports that the human herald Cee-En-En says that many factories have been destroyed. My promise is fulfilled Your Majesty, I await your further orders.”
“Destroy more cities. And your next target will be?”
“Turin Your Majesty. One prisoner identified it as a great arsenal city also. And there is something strangely satisfying about the idea of pouring white-hot lava over Turin. But Sire, we will need more Naga, to open more portals.”
“Then take what you need from the other Lords.” Satan looked down at the pit where the orcs were laboring to excavate the ruins. “And when those orcs have finished digging down there, kill them all. I do not want their stories being told.”
RAF Akrotiri, Cyprus.
Wing Commander Martin Winters eased Vulcan B.2 XH558 down onto the air station’s long runway after taking her up for an air test. RAF Akrotiri was being used by the RAF as a staging post for aircraft bound for Iraq and onwards for operations in Hell.
The station was crowded with military aircraft and was busier than it had been at any point in its history, since the old days of the Near East Air Force anyway. In fact, apart from more modern aircraft like Typhoons and Tornados it even looked like something out of the old NEAF days. Other than XH558 there were three other operational Vulcans and two Victor K.2s, a line-up of twelve Buccaneer S.2s, some of which had come all the way from South Africa, now wearing the markings of a reformed 208 Squadron, while four Phantom FGR.2s sat at the end of the row of Buccaneers, their paintwork looking a little faded, but were every bit operational. On the opposite side of the runway parked among ultra-modern Typhoons were a pair of Canberra PR.9s and a T.4. Winters expected to see the Battle of Britain flight with its Spitfires, Hurricane, and other Word War Two veterans turning up at any moment. Then he reminded himself that those aircraft had been assigned to the Home Guard and were patrolling over cities in case of any more lava attacks. Of course, there was always the Shuttleworth Trust……
Ground Traffic Control was bleating, as usual, they just weren’t used to having this many aircraft on the ground at once nor were they accustomed to the big bombers being around. Wing Commander Winters taxied the big bomber to the end of the row where the rest of the V-Bomber Flight was parked and shut down the four Rolls Royce Olympus 201 engines. Within seconds with the air conditioning turned off the cockpit began to get unbearably hot.
“Come on, lads, let’s get out of here before we all fry.” Winters said jocularly to his crew.
Like most, Winters was a recalled pilot who had last flown the Vulcan in the early 1980s. The flight had the highest average age of aircrew of any unit in the Royal Air Force, and the highest average seniority, there were far more Wing Commanders and Squadron Leaders in such a relatively small unit than there normally would be. The air force was now attempting to rectify this situation by transferring some aircrew from the Nimrod and Tornado force to the V bombers. Since the RAF was hoping to buy some of the B-1Cs that the Americans were planning to put back in production the experience of flying large bomber aircraft would be valuable. Just as was happening all over the world, the museum pieces were filling the gap until new production could replace them and allow them to return to retirement.
Winters climbed down the crew ladder, making sure he remained in the shadow of the big bat-winged bomber while he waited for the four other men to climb down. While he was doing so, he heard the sound of another pair of aircraft making their approach. He did not recognize the engine sound and decided to go look, perhaps it was a visiting aircraft from another NATO unit.
“Bloody hell!” He remarked in astonishment as he saw the first of the pair of new aircraft flare out and release its braking parachute.
The large white aircraft’s nose wheel touched down and it began to decelerate, demonstrating the short-field capability that had been designed from the start. As it passed XH558 Winters took in its pale, bleached national roundels and its serial number – XR220.
The Vulcan’s co-pilot, Squadron Leader David Maxwell, noticed that Winters was standing as if he was in a daze. He had not yet noticed either of the two arrivals.
“What is it, Boss…?” He said just in time to see the second aircraft, XR222, taxi past. “No…that couldn’t be! Tell me the Sun has finally gotten to me and that was a Tornado, not what I just thought it was.”
“I’m afraid that’s what you thought it was, it’s the second one in fact,” Winters replied.
“Well, they kept that quiet, Boss. I never heard so much as a peep that anybody was working on them.”
“Considering that they’ve got no hours on the airframe and have been cosseted for the last forty-odd years it must have been easy to get them flying again. Depends on how extensive the internal damage was I guess; I’d heard Healey had ordered them cut up inside. Either the staff fixed them up while they were on show or the orders sort of got lost. I suppose they looted the Concorde program for engines and spares. I always heard Maggie Thatcher wanted the aircraft to put back in production so some work must have been done back then as well.”
“Way, I heard it, it was just the electrical wiring that was hacked up, they even cut the cabling rather than disconnecting it. But they’ve been in temperature-controlled and air-conditioned environments so the wiring may have been the only thing that needed replacing. Winters turned to the great bomber above and behind him. “Sorry, Old Girl, I’m afraid you’re no longer the star of the show.”
Winters could swear that he heard the bomber ‘harrumph’, evidently, she disapproved of such show-offs as the ‘White Ghost’. On the other hand, it could just be the airframe expanding and contracting as some bits of it heated up in the Sun and others cooled down.
The two new arrivals taxied to the end of the line of Buccaneers, shut down their Olympus 22R engines, and opened their cockpit canopies. Winters and Maxwell recognized their aircrew as belonging to the Fast Jet and Weapons Operational Evaluation Unit, which until recently had the number plate of 41 Squadron, though that unit had reformed as a Jaguar GR.3A squadron. Since nobody had flown an aircraft like these since Roland Beamont had test flown the first prototype it was probably quite sensible to have the most experienced pilots in the service fly them.
Behind him, Maxwell shook his head. If this looting of museums went on, there wouldn’t be an aviation collection left intact. Idly, he wondered what the Russians were recovering from Monino and whether the Chinese would let the Americans have their U-2 back. Then it struck him that this showed just how seriously humans were taking this war. They were prepared to destroy their past, their history, their background, and everything that they normally held dear if by doing so they could get one more combat aircraft, one more ship, one more tank into the battle zone. They were fighting this war regardless of cost, regardless of effort. All that mattered to them was winning. Suddenly he felt quite sorry for Yahweh and Satan whose posturing had unleashed this fury upon them.
Mission Control, Detroit
“Now, this is going to present an interesting problem.”
“I thought this test shot was pretty well worked out. There’s nothing that problematical about a radio-controlled aircraft surely?”
“Not that. The test will work, or it won’t. We’ll just wait and see.” The Targeteer gestured at the newspaper that was folded up and discarded on the desk. “That will.”
Doctor Kuroneko looked confused. “The election.”
“That? It won’t really make that much difference who wins. The Republic is stronger than a retired warhorse and a jackass combined. No, I meant the court ruling from Texas. They’ve just sentenced a sex offender called James Kevin Pope to 40 life prison terms — one for each sex assault conviction — and 20 years for each of the three sexual performance of a child convictions. They’ve made the sentences consecutive, so he’s got 4,060 years. He will be eligible for parole in the year 3209.”
Doctor Kuroneko still looked confused. The problem with the targeteers was that their disinterested, inflexionless voices gave no hint as to whether they were joking or not. “I’m sorry, I still don’t follow.”
“Well, in the past, all such jail sentences were a bit absurd, after all, what were they going to do? Hold parole hearings around a two millennia-old grave? But what happens now? Pope goes to jail and dies in his cell sooner or later, probably sooner, ordinary decent criminals don’t like child molesters, and go up to the next level. Does he serve out the rest of his sentence there? Or does he get a pass since he’s dead? And if you think we had trouble over capital punishment in the past, wait until everybody starts arguing the issue now.”
“Excuse me, Sir, the transport aircraft is approaching the portal now.”
“Thank you, Captain. Any problems?”
“No Sir, the C-119 is behaving like a charm. A very well-behaved old lady. The museum we got it from looked after her well. It’s a pity to blow her up really.”
“Not really, the other option is to waste modern transport, and we need all the ones we can get.”
In the distance, the great waterfall of molten rock was still pouring down over the city of Detroit. Most of the city itself was hidden behind the clouds of smoke and steam that were rising from the blocked river and the burning city center. Detroit had been a horrifying experience for everybody involved, much worse than the disaster that had engulfed Sheffield. The river had been the real factor that had made everything so grim, after the lava flow had blocked it, the city had been flooded, drowning many of the trapped people before they could be rescued. New Orleans had been bad enough, Katrina had left the city so badly damaged it was doubtful if it would ever fully recover but Detroit was worse. Even with FEMA doing their job this time, Detroit was still far worse.
The electro-optical display showed the view from the cockpit of the remote-controlled C-119. The torrent of lava was filling the screen and the temperature readout was reaching critical levels.
“It’s time, touch her off.”
“Sorry old girl.” The captain at the remote flight controls whispered, turned a key on the control board, then lifted a switch cover and pressed the button it concealed. Just below the sky volcano, a brilliant flash momentarily eclipsed the orange-crimson stream.
The watchers held their breath while the blast was absorbed by the portal. The lava stream seemed to falter, spluttering as the black ellipse of the portal fluctuated in size. There was a breath pause, the darkness seeming intense without the great luminous stream.
“Do you think it…” Doctor Kuroneko could hardly bring himself to say the word ‘worked’.
“No.” The targeteer stared at the ellipse, it was reopening, and a surge of lava poured through, a much greater torrent than there had been before the blast. It faded away again as the pent-up mass dropped through but only to return to its previous volume.
“I was afraid of that.” Kuroneko sounded distressed. “I think we’ll explode the bomb from the other side to close the portal.”
“No problem. We’ve got a for that plan in place. Several in fact.”
Site of Satan’s Palace. City of Dis, Hell
“Work faster you lazy fools. Our master may be waiting for you.” Belial screamed out the challenge. He had assumed responsibility for the rescue effort, sending out his demons to bring in every orc they could find. Now the crater was full of them, digging out the shattered stone. Some had already been killed when the stones had shifted and they had fallen into a void, only to be crushed when the stones moved again.
Belial looked down in growing frustration, there had been no survivors found yet and his hopes were fading fast. All his efforts to win his way back into Satan’s favor couldn’t be wasted, could they? Then, he was aware of a darkening, a shadow over him. He turned and looked up; afraid this may be yet another devilish human trick. But it wasn’t, with a surge of relief he recognized the great wings and the seven heads that looked down on him. Euryale had bred this creature herself, using all the skills and magics she could bring. A crossbreed of a Greater Harpy and a Hydra, a mount that had no equal anywhere else in Hell. It had been a gift for Satan, a great mount that was unique, that Satan could use to overawe any who saw him. The seven great heads stared at him, and he wondered if they knew it was to his house that they owed their existence. Or if they cared. The implication of the sight dawned on him, and relief surged through his body.
“Your Infernal Majesty. You live!”
Satan looked down at the figure below him. “Belial, you brought the humans here! You betrayed me to them.”
“No Sire, I was on my way here myself when the human aircraft struck. They dropped their bombs, but I was just far enough away to live.”
Satan stared at him still, weighing up the scene before him. “And you started the rescue effort. How many other Lords of Hell aided you?”
“None, Your Majesty.” Because they are all dead, he thought but no need to say that. “But the lesser demons you see here rallied around to aid. All they needed was direction. We gathered the orcs and started digging. We will not stop until we have an accounting.”
Satan nodded slowly and looked at Belial’s face, seeing the traces of his tears from frustration and rage. “And you wept for me Belial.” Satan’s voice was dumbfounded, disbelieving. “You wept for me and fought for my life while others scurried away to save themselves. Such bravery and loyalty deserve recognition. The realms of Asmodeus remain unawarded. From now on they shall be the realms of Belial. I give them to you, holding them of course is up to you.”
Belial looked around, he was heir to Asmodeus and faced wealth unparalleled. Then he frowned slightly, Euryale hadn’t just created the giant flying hydra, she had bred the golden wyverns, greater by far than the normal breed, as its bodyguard. She had created twelve of them but there were only nine surrounding the crater.
Satan saw him look and designed to give an explanation to his now-favored vassal. “I was meeting with my Greater Heralds for information on the battle for they can be trusted when the reports of others cannot. I was there with them when this happened. On the way back, a group of human sky-chariots, you called them aircraft? attacked us. Three of my wyverns were killed. They attacked me!” Satan’s voice went into a pitched, intense scream. “I must have revenge. How well went the attacks you promised to succeed?”
“Beyond our best hopes Your Majesty. Sheffield and Dee-troyt have been destroyed, one of my agents on Earth reports that the human herald Cee-En-En says that many factories have been destroyed. My promise is fulfilled Your Majesty, I await your further orders.”
“Destroy more cities. And your next target will be?”
“Turin Your Majesty. One prisoner identified it as a great arsenal city also. And there is something strangely satisfying about the idea of pouring white-hot lava over Turin. But Sire, we will need more Naga, to open more portals.”
“Then take what you need from the other Lords.” Satan looked down at the pit where the orcs were laboring to excavate the ruins. “And when those orcs have finished digging down there, kill them all. I do not want their stories being told.”
Re: 2008 - Armageddon
Chapter Seventy
Recreational Hall, Camp Hell-Alpha, Hell
“Aces and Eights with a Queen on the side. Read’em and weep.” Sergeant (deceased) Tucker McElroy reached out and scooped the pool off the table with a flourish.
Corporal Gerry Links looked miserably at the empty table and his depleted stake. “I guess you had to come up with the Dead Man’s Hand, didn’t you? That a common deal down here?”
“Depends on the dealer.” McElroy leaned back and tried to make his mind up what to do with his winnings. That was the trouble with Hell, there just wasn’t that much to spend money on. No economy as yet, not for humans anyway. His reverie was interrupted by a whack on his back.
“Hey, Tucker dude, Good to see you. I heard you got killed up at Hit.” Elmer Carleton was an old acquaintance of McElroy’s, now part of the 1st Brigade.
“I was.” McElroy eyed him to see the effect. Living humans hadn’t quite got used to the idea of speaking with the dead yet. Not in social circumstances anyway. Carleton didn’t disappoint him, the corporal’s eyes started to bulge.
“So you’re dead, dude.” The words were interspaced with disbelief and confusion.
“Sure am. Are you sitting in on the game? Got a stake?”
“No, unless you want to stake me.”
“You know the rules down here Elmer. I give you a stake, you got to sign your soul over to me as security. Now, if you’ll just sign here, in the blood of course….” McElroy looked at the retreating back of the Corporal with great satisfaction, then turned to Links. “Never fails. Too many Hollywood movies. Looks like the games over Gerry, want to go for a burger?”
“I didn’t think you dead ones ate?”
“We don’t have to but we still like food. Don’t have to sleep either but it’s good too. Demons eat, don’t ask me why we don’t, and they do. Leave them questions to the eggheads. Let’s go get that burger.”
Field Trials Unit, Left Flank, Phlegethon River Front, Hell
It didn’t quite look like any vehicle Edovin had seen before. A bit like an American Bradley but it had eight roadwheels and a lower, sleeker superstructure topped with a bulky turret. For all the vehicle’s size, the gun mounted in that turret seemed remarkably small. At the back of the gun mount was a drum-like radar.
“Lieutenant Edovin, Georgii Aleksandrovich reporting for duty Tovarish Lieutenant.”
The American officer turned around and looked quickly at the Russian. “Ah, you’re our liaison officer. I’m Mickey Marston. Good to have you on board. The ole’ bus will be a bit cramped until we’ve shot off some of the ammunition, but it’ll be OK afterward. Make yourself at home. Got any kit with you? That’ll go inside, new rules, nothing flammable outside the armor. Too many vehicles lost to harpy-fire already.”
“Yes bratischka, my Shilka was one of them. What is this vehicle.”
The American laughed. “A bit of everything. It’s basically an M-2 Bradley, believe it or not. We had a thing called the Future Combat System, a crackpot scheme to have a new standard vehicle for the Army that would do anything. Well, the contractor had to produce something to show where the money went so, they built this stretched Bradley. Fooled the Congresscritters into thinking something was happening. Then, The Message came, and the war started. FCS was canceled and the production of Abrams and Bradleys got restarted. This was shoved into a shed somewhere until we realized how dangerous the harpies were and it got dug out. Now, the Navy had just adopted a Swedish 57mm gun for a couple of its programs, they’ve been canceled as well of course, so GD Land Systems stuck the gun in a new turret, fitted a radar stripped out of old F-18s for fire control and kludged the whole thing together. So here we are, four prototype vehicles each with a radar-controlled 57mm gun and 1,200 rounds of ammunition.
“Rate of fire?” Edovin looked at the vehicle, for a hastily thrown together improvision it looked remarkably capable, if ungainly.
“240 rounds per minute. Three-round burst limiter on the gun. Throws a six-pound shell.”
“Sir, we got the mount-up order.” One of the vehicle crew, presumably who had been on radio watch, yelled out the message.
“Right, Georgy, mount up, we got to go shooting.”
The American Lieutenant had been right, the vehicle was cramped inside despite its size. Ammunition everywhere, some in ready-to-use racks, the rest stowed around wherever space could be found. That was something humans were learning fast, combat vehicles needed ammunition stowage above pretty much everything else. There were information screens as well, but they were mostly turned off, the Russian Army just didn’t have the combat information systems the Americans had, but then few did. Once the screen was lighted and it showed the dots that represented the airborne harpies over the remains of the attacking baldrick formation. The baldricks were perilously close to breaking through. Marston flipped some more switches and additional screens lit up. They were fuzzy for a second and then cleared, showing the array of tanks that were waiting. Over a thousand after the latest reinforcements had arrived, mostly Russian but a division of Germans, a brigade of Indian T-72s, and even some Turkish M48s. The old M48s were more useful than might be suspected, their 90mm guns could kill a baldrick just as well as a 125 but the M48s had twice as much ammunition as the more modern vehicles.
“Roll.” Marston’s voice snapped out the order and the anti-harpy vehicle started forward, its three companions keeping alongside it, spaced out to cover the maximum amount of front. Edovin looked at one of the displays, it showed the long barrel of the 57mm gun, it was probably the electro-optical sight. Without warning he was thrown off his feet as the turret swung fast to a new bearing and the gun cracked out three rounds, so fast the bursts seemed to blend into each other. On the electro-optical screen, a harpy exploded as the rounds tore into it. Edovin had barely time to register the score when the turret lurched again, and another burst cracked out.
“Sorry about the turret,” Marston yelled over the noise of the diesel and the sound of the 57mm ammunition sliding around. “Navy thing, swinging it so fast.”
That made sense for a point-defense gun. Edovin thought and wondered if somewhere surplus Russian Navy point defense guns were being mounted in a chassis for this role. If not, it would be a good idea to report the idea. He bounced off the side of the turret again, the swings of the gun and the rapid cracks of its shots were almost continuous as the experimental gun started carving the surviving harpies out of the sky. Beside them, the waves of tanks accelerated towards the baldricks ahead,
140th Guards Tank Regiment, 5th Guards Tank Division “Don” Southern Flank, Phlegethon River
This was it, the great scything blow that would send the baldricks staggering back across the river in defeat. Just as Zhukov’s tanks had once advanced through the mud to send the fascists back across the Dneiper and the Dneister rivers. Major Evgenii Yakovlevich Galkin knew his history well, one German Army had been destroyed at Stalingrad but six had been wiped out in the great Mud Campaign in those first months of 1944, and three Panzer armies had been wrecked so badly they were never worth much afterward. Today, it would be the start of equal destruction, one that would be known to the world in a way the great Mud Campaign had never been.
The baldricks had forced their way through the Russian defenses, at last, it had taken time and they’d been bloodied terribly in doing so but they had made it through. Now, just when they thought they could see the clear ground beyond the killing fields, this mighty wave of tanks would sweep them away. Glakin looked quickly through the remote control on his turret top machine gun, the briefing had been very clear. The flying harpies were the main threat, they could hurt armor with their fire. Kill them first. The baldricks foot soldiers were less of a threat, they could be shot and crushed just as tanks had always crushed the infantry that had dared to oppose them. The briefing was being obeyed, the sky over the baldricks was black with anti-harpy fire. Every gun that could be found was here, there were even ancient ZSU-57s, twin 57mm guns in an open turret on an old T-54 tank chassis. Their crews had courage for their turret gave them no protection if the harpies got close.
Off to the right were the Americans with their experimental anti-harpy tank. They were struggling to keep up with the fast Russian tanks and their gun was swinging wildly, with short bursts at odd intervals. At first, Galkin thought the American crew was panicking but then he realized those short bursts were tearing the closest harpies out of the sky. It was the speed of reaction, not panic and Galkin was suddenly impressed. Around the tanks and anti-harpy vehicles were armored personnel carriers. This time they were not carrying infantry to screen the tanks, they were the refuge for any crew that lost their vehicle. If a crew had to bail out, the nearest APC would hasten over to pick them up before the harpies could kill them.
Speaking of harpies, Galkin saw one staggering close to his tank. His machine-gun spat out a burst and the creature flopped from the sky. It had probably been dying anyway but it never hurt to make sure. Then the tank lurched slightly as it ran over the body. Never hurt to make very sure. Galkin looked at the sky again, the anti-harpy fire was slackening off to a faint shadow of its previous self, the gunners running out of targets at last. As if to confirm his thoughts, the radio crackled briefly, orders for all guns to cease firing on airborne targets and concentrate on the ground. Then the message was suddenly reinforced, friendly aircraft were coming in. Galkin grinned to himself, the baldricks were about to learn the joys of being on the receiving end of close air support.
He looked again, this time at the baldricks up ahead. Mostly just a battered, exhausted mass of foot soldiers but he could see one of the great rhinolobsters with a coiled naga on its back. The lightning was flickering out from the creature as it attacked one of the vehicles racing across the plain. Then, Galkin saw the aircraft coming in. he ran through the shape in his head, straight wings, twin tail, two engines, between the wings and the tail, an American A-10. This, he thought, should be good.
It was, the A-10’s nose erupted into flame and the Rhinolobster and its burden vanished under a cloud of dirt and dust thrown up by the torrents of shells. When it faded, the creatures were lying on the ground, smashed and eviscerated. The A-10 turned slightly, climbed a little then changed course to unleash a hail of rockets onto another group of baldricks off to the left. The aircraft knew exactly where to go, Galkin guessed that they were being steered in by the Americans somehow, by an airborne command aircraft perhaps? Or even those new anti-harpy vehicles?
The lines of baldricks were approaching fast and it was time for the Don Division to strike its own blows. The foot soldiers had lined up, forming ranks as the tanks had appeared, now those ranks vanished as the 125mm shells tore into them. Galkin could almost sense the weariness and despair in their minds as they saw their lightning bolts bouncing off the tanks and realized that the tanks were not going to stop. The turret of his tank was filling with smoke as his gun swung from one group of baldricks to the next, firing their shots into the mass of infantry. They were close enough now so he could see individual features of the baldricks as they crumpled and died under the onslaught. He had his own commander’s gun firing, sweeping the tracer bullets across the enemy ranks, watching the baldricks fold as they were mown down. The tank’s main gun was silent, the last few rounds were being kept for emergencies and the gunner was using his co-axial machine gun in its place.
Still closer, the baldricks were still there – and then they broke, they broke and ran from the tanks that were already far too close for any retreat to bring safety. Galkin’s tank tore into the mass, its machine guns still firing, the driver spinning the T-80U on its tracks, grinding the baldricks underneath the vehicle as it plowed through their ranks. They were running, all around the tanks they were running, the machine gunners spraying them with fire, chasing them down and crushing them. Galkin could hear the rattle as bullets bounced off his armor, the tanks were hitting each other in the wild frenzy of the slaughter but it didn’t matter. Machine gun bullets couldn’t hurt the tanks. Nor could the baldricks although they tried, breaking their tridents on the armor, trying to tear at the tanks with their hands. They fought, hopelessly, bravely, uselessly.
Off to his left, Galkin saw baldricks, a dozen or more of them in a ditch, behind a mound. Were they hiding? Or wounded and looking for a place to die? It didn’t matter, he gave his orders and the tank swung around, parallel with the ditch. Then he felt one side drop as the treads went into the ditch and he drove along with it, crushing the baldricks sheltering within. Glakin heard screams, perhaps the baldricks, perhaps just the metal tracks as they ran over the suspension rollers. Then his tank leveled again, and he made another turn back to his original route. The Phlegethon River lay ahead, the gains the baldrick army had fought for two days to secure and for which they had sacrificed so much had been wiped out by the tanks in less than twenty minutes.
South of the City of Dis
This time Belial had taken his wyvern low, down beneath the dusty brown overcast that was nearly ubiquitous in hell. With the human 'aircraft' still very evident, screaming and roaring somewhere over the Phlegethon River, Belial thought it best to stay inconspicuous. What he saw beneath him steadily drained away from the elation from his sudden elevation. Countless demon warriors, streaming towards Dis, some still as ordered legions but many as individual squads or even disorganized crowds. The horrible wounds that marked many of the demons, the battered or missing equipment, and the cries, and wails both audible and telepathic, all made it clear that this was an army retreating in defeat. Belial had cast his mind out, trying to contact a commander to learn what manner of catastrophe had inflicted such ruin on the grand armies of hell. It was no use though, despite being leagues from the front lines his mind still rang from the impossibly powerful psychic emanations from the massed human mages. The din made it impossible to hold a coherent conversation from a thousand feet up and Belial couldn't risk stopping. 'But where are all the harpies?' he thought.
Belial soon reached the far edge of the ragged demon column and had resigned himself to remaining ignorant of the details until he next returned to Dis. As he looked up from the ground a flicker of movement caught his eye. Sure enough, at the far end of a low valley, he could make out a group of tiny flapping shapes. He spurred his mount to greater effort, and it surged ahead, making up the distance to the other flyers which quickly resolved themselves into six of his own wyvern riders. The beast was flying slowly; two had flanks marked with horrible gashes and burns and another had wing membranes so shredded that Belial was surprised it was still airborne. The riders didn't look much better.
Count Belial! Aaesurnarthuse's tone betrayed a strange mix of surprise, relief, fear, and exhaustion. The humans... it was a slaughter. Great flocks of harpies, torn from the sky or poisoned on the ground. Fire lances and iron pellets were everywhere. Ikaarithanjuur went down on our third strike, they hit him with two huge fire lances... Beelzebub's forces started to retreat... I took command and ordered a withdrawal. It sounded better than 'I ran away', but not much.
It is Grand Duke Belial now. Are there any more of you? Did any others escape? These are all that is left? Belial couldn’t keep the shock out of his mind-voice. A niggling voice told him that Euryale would be furious when she found that her prized war-wyverns had been slaughtered. Furious and heartbroken, Belial thought and was surprised to realize that the thought of her grief saddened him
Belial's wyvern reached the formation and they automatically fell into a V behind him, the wounded beasts struggling to keep up. Mere hours ago, he would have had the flight leader executed for cowardice, but after the events at Satan's palace he was beginning to understand what fighting the humans must be like. This wasn't war as demons understood it. It wasn't even the war he'd imagined, a decades-long conflict between dug-in formations that could be won by disrupting the human's supply of magic weapons. This was annihilation, this was vengeance come swift and terrible to smash their strongest holdings and humble their greatest generals, this was... with rising horror Belial realized that this was exactly what the demons had done to hundreds of lower plane worlds, but with speed and efficiency, the legions of hell could only dream of. If the humans could not be stopped, and after what he'd seen today that seemed like very real danger, then the entire demon realm and every demon in it would be slaughtered.
I can't say, my lord. I saw others flying away from the battle, but sky chariots pursued them. I fear only a handful made it.
Your two uninjured riders will fly a search pattern and round up any survivors. They are to return to Tartarus after four days at the latest. Your injured riders are to stay together and return at the best speed they can manage. Avoid the humans at all costs. With most of his prized war wyverns destroyed, the count was in no position to write off injured troops. You will escort me and tell me everything you can of the battle. These humans must have weaknesses, and we must identify them. He nearly added 'before it's too late', but there was no point further demoralizing his troops. Quite the opposite, if this continued the demon armies would need hope that the humans could be defeated at all, and he was the only one who could give them that. The secret of Palelabor could be kept no longer.
Recreational Hall, Camp Hell-Alpha, Hell
“Aces and Eights with a Queen on the side. Read’em and weep.” Sergeant (deceased) Tucker McElroy reached out and scooped the pool off the table with a flourish.
Corporal Gerry Links looked miserably at the empty table and his depleted stake. “I guess you had to come up with the Dead Man’s Hand, didn’t you? That a common deal down here?”
“Depends on the dealer.” McElroy leaned back and tried to make his mind up what to do with his winnings. That was the trouble with Hell, there just wasn’t that much to spend money on. No economy as yet, not for humans anyway. His reverie was interrupted by a whack on his back.
“Hey, Tucker dude, Good to see you. I heard you got killed up at Hit.” Elmer Carleton was an old acquaintance of McElroy’s, now part of the 1st Brigade.
“I was.” McElroy eyed him to see the effect. Living humans hadn’t quite got used to the idea of speaking with the dead yet. Not in social circumstances anyway. Carleton didn’t disappoint him, the corporal’s eyes started to bulge.
“So you’re dead, dude.” The words were interspaced with disbelief and confusion.
“Sure am. Are you sitting in on the game? Got a stake?”
“No, unless you want to stake me.”
“You know the rules down here Elmer. I give you a stake, you got to sign your soul over to me as security. Now, if you’ll just sign here, in the blood of course….” McElroy looked at the retreating back of the Corporal with great satisfaction, then turned to Links. “Never fails. Too many Hollywood movies. Looks like the games over Gerry, want to go for a burger?”
“I didn’t think you dead ones ate?”
“We don’t have to but we still like food. Don’t have to sleep either but it’s good too. Demons eat, don’t ask me why we don’t, and they do. Leave them questions to the eggheads. Let’s go get that burger.”
Field Trials Unit, Left Flank, Phlegethon River Front, Hell
It didn’t quite look like any vehicle Edovin had seen before. A bit like an American Bradley but it had eight roadwheels and a lower, sleeker superstructure topped with a bulky turret. For all the vehicle’s size, the gun mounted in that turret seemed remarkably small. At the back of the gun mount was a drum-like radar.
“Lieutenant Edovin, Georgii Aleksandrovich reporting for duty Tovarish Lieutenant.”
The American officer turned around and looked quickly at the Russian. “Ah, you’re our liaison officer. I’m Mickey Marston. Good to have you on board. The ole’ bus will be a bit cramped until we’ve shot off some of the ammunition, but it’ll be OK afterward. Make yourself at home. Got any kit with you? That’ll go inside, new rules, nothing flammable outside the armor. Too many vehicles lost to harpy-fire already.”
“Yes bratischka, my Shilka was one of them. What is this vehicle.”
The American laughed. “A bit of everything. It’s basically an M-2 Bradley, believe it or not. We had a thing called the Future Combat System, a crackpot scheme to have a new standard vehicle for the Army that would do anything. Well, the contractor had to produce something to show where the money went so, they built this stretched Bradley. Fooled the Congresscritters into thinking something was happening. Then, The Message came, and the war started. FCS was canceled and the production of Abrams and Bradleys got restarted. This was shoved into a shed somewhere until we realized how dangerous the harpies were and it got dug out. Now, the Navy had just adopted a Swedish 57mm gun for a couple of its programs, they’ve been canceled as well of course, so GD Land Systems stuck the gun in a new turret, fitted a radar stripped out of old F-18s for fire control and kludged the whole thing together. So here we are, four prototype vehicles each with a radar-controlled 57mm gun and 1,200 rounds of ammunition.
“Rate of fire?” Edovin looked at the vehicle, for a hastily thrown together improvision it looked remarkably capable, if ungainly.
“240 rounds per minute. Three-round burst limiter on the gun. Throws a six-pound shell.”
“Sir, we got the mount-up order.” One of the vehicle crew, presumably who had been on radio watch, yelled out the message.
“Right, Georgy, mount up, we got to go shooting.”
The American Lieutenant had been right, the vehicle was cramped inside despite its size. Ammunition everywhere, some in ready-to-use racks, the rest stowed around wherever space could be found. That was something humans were learning fast, combat vehicles needed ammunition stowage above pretty much everything else. There were information screens as well, but they were mostly turned off, the Russian Army just didn’t have the combat information systems the Americans had, but then few did. Once the screen was lighted and it showed the dots that represented the airborne harpies over the remains of the attacking baldrick formation. The baldricks were perilously close to breaking through. Marston flipped some more switches and additional screens lit up. They were fuzzy for a second and then cleared, showing the array of tanks that were waiting. Over a thousand after the latest reinforcements had arrived, mostly Russian but a division of Germans, a brigade of Indian T-72s, and even some Turkish M48s. The old M48s were more useful than might be suspected, their 90mm guns could kill a baldrick just as well as a 125 but the M48s had twice as much ammunition as the more modern vehicles.
“Roll.” Marston’s voice snapped out the order and the anti-harpy vehicle started forward, its three companions keeping alongside it, spaced out to cover the maximum amount of front. Edovin looked at one of the displays, it showed the long barrel of the 57mm gun, it was probably the electro-optical sight. Without warning he was thrown off his feet as the turret swung fast to a new bearing and the gun cracked out three rounds, so fast the bursts seemed to blend into each other. On the electro-optical screen, a harpy exploded as the rounds tore into it. Edovin had barely time to register the score when the turret lurched again, and another burst cracked out.
“Sorry about the turret,” Marston yelled over the noise of the diesel and the sound of the 57mm ammunition sliding around. “Navy thing, swinging it so fast.”
That made sense for a point-defense gun. Edovin thought and wondered if somewhere surplus Russian Navy point defense guns were being mounted in a chassis for this role. If not, it would be a good idea to report the idea. He bounced off the side of the turret again, the swings of the gun and the rapid cracks of its shots were almost continuous as the experimental gun started carving the surviving harpies out of the sky. Beside them, the waves of tanks accelerated towards the baldricks ahead,
140th Guards Tank Regiment, 5th Guards Tank Division “Don” Southern Flank, Phlegethon River
This was it, the great scything blow that would send the baldricks staggering back across the river in defeat. Just as Zhukov’s tanks had once advanced through the mud to send the fascists back across the Dneiper and the Dneister rivers. Major Evgenii Yakovlevich Galkin knew his history well, one German Army had been destroyed at Stalingrad but six had been wiped out in the great Mud Campaign in those first months of 1944, and three Panzer armies had been wrecked so badly they were never worth much afterward. Today, it would be the start of equal destruction, one that would be known to the world in a way the great Mud Campaign had never been.
The baldricks had forced their way through the Russian defenses, at last, it had taken time and they’d been bloodied terribly in doing so but they had made it through. Now, just when they thought they could see the clear ground beyond the killing fields, this mighty wave of tanks would sweep them away. Glakin looked quickly through the remote control on his turret top machine gun, the briefing had been very clear. The flying harpies were the main threat, they could hurt armor with their fire. Kill them first. The baldricks foot soldiers were less of a threat, they could be shot and crushed just as tanks had always crushed the infantry that had dared to oppose them. The briefing was being obeyed, the sky over the baldricks was black with anti-harpy fire. Every gun that could be found was here, there were even ancient ZSU-57s, twin 57mm guns in an open turret on an old T-54 tank chassis. Their crews had courage for their turret gave them no protection if the harpies got close.
Off to the right were the Americans with their experimental anti-harpy tank. They were struggling to keep up with the fast Russian tanks and their gun was swinging wildly, with short bursts at odd intervals. At first, Galkin thought the American crew was panicking but then he realized those short bursts were tearing the closest harpies out of the sky. It was the speed of reaction, not panic and Galkin was suddenly impressed. Around the tanks and anti-harpy vehicles were armored personnel carriers. This time they were not carrying infantry to screen the tanks, they were the refuge for any crew that lost their vehicle. If a crew had to bail out, the nearest APC would hasten over to pick them up before the harpies could kill them.
Speaking of harpies, Galkin saw one staggering close to his tank. His machine-gun spat out a burst and the creature flopped from the sky. It had probably been dying anyway but it never hurt to make sure. Then the tank lurched slightly as it ran over the body. Never hurt to make very sure. Galkin looked at the sky again, the anti-harpy fire was slackening off to a faint shadow of its previous self, the gunners running out of targets at last. As if to confirm his thoughts, the radio crackled briefly, orders for all guns to cease firing on airborne targets and concentrate on the ground. Then the message was suddenly reinforced, friendly aircraft were coming in. Galkin grinned to himself, the baldricks were about to learn the joys of being on the receiving end of close air support.
He looked again, this time at the baldricks up ahead. Mostly just a battered, exhausted mass of foot soldiers but he could see one of the great rhinolobsters with a coiled naga on its back. The lightning was flickering out from the creature as it attacked one of the vehicles racing across the plain. Then, Galkin saw the aircraft coming in. he ran through the shape in his head, straight wings, twin tail, two engines, between the wings and the tail, an American A-10. This, he thought, should be good.
It was, the A-10’s nose erupted into flame and the Rhinolobster and its burden vanished under a cloud of dirt and dust thrown up by the torrents of shells. When it faded, the creatures were lying on the ground, smashed and eviscerated. The A-10 turned slightly, climbed a little then changed course to unleash a hail of rockets onto another group of baldricks off to the left. The aircraft knew exactly where to go, Galkin guessed that they were being steered in by the Americans somehow, by an airborne command aircraft perhaps? Or even those new anti-harpy vehicles?
The lines of baldricks were approaching fast and it was time for the Don Division to strike its own blows. The foot soldiers had lined up, forming ranks as the tanks had appeared, now those ranks vanished as the 125mm shells tore into them. Galkin could almost sense the weariness and despair in their minds as they saw their lightning bolts bouncing off the tanks and realized that the tanks were not going to stop. The turret of his tank was filling with smoke as his gun swung from one group of baldricks to the next, firing their shots into the mass of infantry. They were close enough now so he could see individual features of the baldricks as they crumpled and died under the onslaught. He had his own commander’s gun firing, sweeping the tracer bullets across the enemy ranks, watching the baldricks fold as they were mown down. The tank’s main gun was silent, the last few rounds were being kept for emergencies and the gunner was using his co-axial machine gun in its place.
Still closer, the baldricks were still there – and then they broke, they broke and ran from the tanks that were already far too close for any retreat to bring safety. Galkin’s tank tore into the mass, its machine guns still firing, the driver spinning the T-80U on its tracks, grinding the baldricks underneath the vehicle as it plowed through their ranks. They were running, all around the tanks they were running, the machine gunners spraying them with fire, chasing them down and crushing them. Galkin could hear the rattle as bullets bounced off his armor, the tanks were hitting each other in the wild frenzy of the slaughter but it didn’t matter. Machine gun bullets couldn’t hurt the tanks. Nor could the baldricks although they tried, breaking their tridents on the armor, trying to tear at the tanks with their hands. They fought, hopelessly, bravely, uselessly.
Off to his left, Galkin saw baldricks, a dozen or more of them in a ditch, behind a mound. Were they hiding? Or wounded and looking for a place to die? It didn’t matter, he gave his orders and the tank swung around, parallel with the ditch. Then he felt one side drop as the treads went into the ditch and he drove along with it, crushing the baldricks sheltering within. Glakin heard screams, perhaps the baldricks, perhaps just the metal tracks as they ran over the suspension rollers. Then his tank leveled again, and he made another turn back to his original route. The Phlegethon River lay ahead, the gains the baldrick army had fought for two days to secure and for which they had sacrificed so much had been wiped out by the tanks in less than twenty minutes.
South of the City of Dis
This time Belial had taken his wyvern low, down beneath the dusty brown overcast that was nearly ubiquitous in hell. With the human 'aircraft' still very evident, screaming and roaring somewhere over the Phlegethon River, Belial thought it best to stay inconspicuous. What he saw beneath him steadily drained away from the elation from his sudden elevation. Countless demon warriors, streaming towards Dis, some still as ordered legions but many as individual squads or even disorganized crowds. The horrible wounds that marked many of the demons, the battered or missing equipment, and the cries, and wails both audible and telepathic, all made it clear that this was an army retreating in defeat. Belial had cast his mind out, trying to contact a commander to learn what manner of catastrophe had inflicted such ruin on the grand armies of hell. It was no use though, despite being leagues from the front lines his mind still rang from the impossibly powerful psychic emanations from the massed human mages. The din made it impossible to hold a coherent conversation from a thousand feet up and Belial couldn't risk stopping. 'But where are all the harpies?' he thought.
Belial soon reached the far edge of the ragged demon column and had resigned himself to remaining ignorant of the details until he next returned to Dis. As he looked up from the ground a flicker of movement caught his eye. Sure enough, at the far end of a low valley, he could make out a group of tiny flapping shapes. He spurred his mount to greater effort, and it surged ahead, making up the distance to the other flyers which quickly resolved themselves into six of his own wyvern riders. The beast was flying slowly; two had flanks marked with horrible gashes and burns and another had wing membranes so shredded that Belial was surprised it was still airborne. The riders didn't look much better.
Count Belial! Aaesurnarthuse's tone betrayed a strange mix of surprise, relief, fear, and exhaustion. The humans... it was a slaughter. Great flocks of harpies, torn from the sky or poisoned on the ground. Fire lances and iron pellets were everywhere. Ikaarithanjuur went down on our third strike, they hit him with two huge fire lances... Beelzebub's forces started to retreat... I took command and ordered a withdrawal. It sounded better than 'I ran away', but not much.
It is Grand Duke Belial now. Are there any more of you? Did any others escape? These are all that is left? Belial couldn’t keep the shock out of his mind-voice. A niggling voice told him that Euryale would be furious when she found that her prized war-wyverns had been slaughtered. Furious and heartbroken, Belial thought and was surprised to realize that the thought of her grief saddened him
Belial's wyvern reached the formation and they automatically fell into a V behind him, the wounded beasts struggling to keep up. Mere hours ago, he would have had the flight leader executed for cowardice, but after the events at Satan's palace he was beginning to understand what fighting the humans must be like. This wasn't war as demons understood it. It wasn't even the war he'd imagined, a decades-long conflict between dug-in formations that could be won by disrupting the human's supply of magic weapons. This was annihilation, this was vengeance come swift and terrible to smash their strongest holdings and humble their greatest generals, this was... with rising horror Belial realized that this was exactly what the demons had done to hundreds of lower plane worlds, but with speed and efficiency, the legions of hell could only dream of. If the humans could not be stopped, and after what he'd seen today that seemed like very real danger, then the entire demon realm and every demon in it would be slaughtered.
I can't say, my lord. I saw others flying away from the battle, but sky chariots pursued them. I fear only a handful made it.
Your two uninjured riders will fly a search pattern and round up any survivors. They are to return to Tartarus after four days at the latest. Your injured riders are to stay together and return at the best speed they can manage. Avoid the humans at all costs. With most of his prized war wyverns destroyed, the count was in no position to write off injured troops. You will escort me and tell me everything you can of the battle. These humans must have weaknesses, and we must identify them. He nearly added 'before it's too late', but there was no point further demoralizing his troops. Quite the opposite, if this continued the demon armies would need hope that the humans could be defeated at all, and he was the only one who could give them that. The secret of Palelabor could be kept no longer.
Re: 2008 - Armageddon
Chapter Seventy-One
Dis-Dysprosium Highway, Hell
His army was disintegrating, dissolving into chaos even while he watched. It had sounded so easy, so sensible, to drop back to a defensible line where he could hold and block the human advance. Demonic warfare had few concepts for defensive operations, mostly the two armies just attacked each other, but the defense was the only option he had. Or thought he had for it had turned out that the option existed in name only.
He had picked his defensive ground carefully, a low line of hills, steep on the face the humans would climb, gentle behind it. It had been good ground; a good defensive line and the humans had got there first. While one of their armies had pinned him on the Phlegethon, another had outflanked him and already taken the position he had picked with such care. What was left of his army had crumpled against their gunfire. His last organized legions had been shattered by mage bolts and sky-chariots that had swarmed all over them
Beelzebub heard the scream that announced the arrival of more sky-chariots and cursed Belial. It was that pathetic minor lord with his wyverns who had given the humans the idea of using their sky chariots to attack forces on the ground. If he’d minded his own business and left war to the Great Dukes who were practiced in it, then his force would not be subject to these shattering attacks. Over his columns of retreating legions, two white sky-chariots made their pass, a stream of objects falling from their bellies and under their wings. The objects stopped abruptly in the air as their tails spread out, then shed a cloud of small balls that dropped over the heads of his soldiers before exploding. By the time the smoke cleared, a gaping rent had been cleared in one of his columns, another legion savagely mauled.
Overhead, four more sky-chariots were already closing in, ugly, ungainly-looking beasts compared with the sleek white creations than had just passed. They had flown overhead high up, then one had turned and dived, the others following their leader. They were slower too, much slower and Beelzebub briefly wondered where his harpies were, they could destroy beasts like that. Then he remembered, they were dead, wiped out by sky chariots and a magery too horrible to name or even envisage. His pride, his flock of harpies that had gained him his name of ‘Lord of the Flies’ were dead, their corpses already rotting on the accursed field of the Phlegethon.
Beelzebub watched with resignation as the Sky Chariots got to work, pouring fire-lances into a mass of his foot soldiers that were clustered on the road. What was it for? His army was gone, defeated, destroyed, savaging the remnants like this made no sense at all. Then his spine started to bristle for two of the sky chariots had turned and seemed to be heading for him. He heard a weird noise that drowned out the wail of their battle cry a rasping, crackling noise that coincided with a fire burning in their nose. A few trident lengths short of his, the ground erupted in a cloud of dust and broken rock, a cloud that raced across the stony soil of Hell and embraced him. Beelzebub felt the slam as the mage bolts tore into his body, felt them bite deep, spreading sickness and destruction permeating him. Without being aware of it, he had dropped to his knees, and he was too tired to move. So tired, tiredness he had never felt before, the weakness that made him want to give up and sleep. Overhead, the other two Sky Chariots made their passes and fired two more fire lances. Had Beelzebub been aware they were called Mavericks, he might have appreciated knowing the name of his killer, but he didn’t and their impact sent him spiraling down into the sleep that he craved.
Cliffton Council Estate, Nottingham, United Kingdom
It had been ten days now, ten days of being forced to sit here all day staring at the news channels until he had passed out from exhaustion. Even that brought little respite, the foul presence made sure that his sleep was uneasy and his dreams visions of fire and pain. The demons had relaxed their mental leash from time to time, just long enough to see to essential bodily functions, but Christopher was still unable to do so much as leave the house. Every time he'd tried the crushing pain overwhelmed him; after the third day, he simply had no fight left in him. The presence did seem to change from day to day as if different minds were taking control, but he hadn't been able to identify specific demons.
They'd made him watch Detroit burn and the feeling of glee had been even stronger than for Sheffield. The demons seemed certain that the destruction of humanity was inevitable, and Christopher had despaired. But when President Bush had made his defiant speech promising swift retaliation, a flicker of hope had returned – not because of the man's inarticulate rhetoric, but because the echoes of harsh laughter in his head had rung hollow somehow. Finally, the pictures had come, supposedly 'before and after' infra-red images of 'Satan's greatest stronghold'. The reaction from the hellish presence was difficult to read but seemed to be disbelief. Christopher could feel them prying at his mind, trying to use his own memories to justify the idea that the whole thing was a sham. Before the possession, he would indeed have been the first to proclaim the reports a hoax, but now he took a bizarre pleasure in telling himself that it was the unvarnished truth. It was a small victory, but it seemed to be enough to make the demon’s presence lapse into silence.
The low throbbing of a diesel engine became audible over the television before cutting off. Someone was coming, in a van by the sound of it. Christopher jerked his head around to stare at the front door, struck by a sudden mix of fear and hope. 15 Psyops group perhaps? There had been rumors of a British counter-possession unit on all the blogs... The doorbell rang, its cheerful little electronic tones seeming surreal in the nightmarish situation, and suddenly his body was moving, his possessor operating him like a puppet. He pulled the door back to reveal a lanky youth with a mop of jet-black hair. He looked haggard and strangely blank. Behind him was a large yellow van, parked on the street in front of the house and bearing a logo for 'Dynaflow Plumbing and Electrical - Grimthorpe'.
"Mr. Hughes?" Christopher nodded.
"She wants you to come with us. Do you know who I mean?" Christopher had no idea but apparently, the demon did because he found himself nodding again.
"Into the back then, please. Come on."
The newcomer pulled the house door shut. Christopher wanted to protest but of course, he was powerless to do so. The rear windows of the van were blacked out. He got a brief glimpse of bronze scales and glittering eyes before he was shoved roughly inside and the doors clanged shut, trapping him in the dark interior. There was a brief pause before the engine started up again and the van moved off. He had no way of telling where it was going and, in any case, the prospect of meeting a demon in the flesh was occupying all his attention.
With a click the darkness was replaced by the sight of a humanoid shape crouching on the floor, clad only in metallic scales and possessing great bat-like wings, a twitching tail, and a face taken straight from a nightmare. The thing held a fluorescent lantern in one hand and seemed vaguely female. Then there was pain, something lancing into his chest accompanied by a sputtering crack. Christopher cried out and pawed at his ribs, his fingers closing around a handful of quills, which he pulled out. The demon presence was still there but it seemed content to allow him to act on his own initiative for now. For a second, he considered attacking the demon but that would be suicide, it had claws that looked razor-sharp and more of the quills sticking out of the snake-like growths around its head. A minute passed in silence, save for the sound of the van's engine.
Christopher was finding it hard to focus. The creature was staring at him, it didn't seem to want to attack. Finally, his curiosity triumphed over his fear.
"Who are you? What are you? Why am I here? What do..."
His voice trailed off as the demoness put a finger to her lips.
"My name is Lakheenahuknaasi, and I am your goddess." Her voice was still raspy, but to Christopher, it seemed like honey. "I see evil has made you its servant, but not willingly. I will rid you of it."
That's enough Zatheoplekkar, I'll take it from here
Are you sure? The count ordered me to keep this one alive and possessed.
This is how the angels operated, and you know how devoted their servants were. I will take all responsibility. Release him... please.
Very well.
The winged bronze woman made an extravagant gesture and Christopher slumped forward, suddenly in control of his own body again. The demon presence seemed to be completely gone from his mind! All thanks to this creature, who was seeming more pleasant by the minute. "Thank you... thank you..." The combination of stress, exhaustion, and the drug infusion was too much, and Christopher collapsed to the floor, out cold.
Lakheenahuknaasi snorted. The earth-humans were so weak. No matter, she would continue later. She turned back to the magic tome the younger human had given her, unfolding it and waiting for it to come alive again. The human device was a marvel. Specifically, it was a marvel of foolishness. The humans had somehow crammed the contents of a vast library into a single tome, but they had filled that library with details of their entire magical arsenal and handed out copies to their most minor laborers. Her tame human had shown her the invocations of 'goo gul' and 'Wiccan pee-dee-ah', which had revealed to her a treasure trove of secrets. The last was protected by an insidious spell that caused her to constantly lose track of what she was looking for, flipping from page to page until she was reading irrelevant nonsense about 'collectible card games' and 'sonic the hedgehog'. She persevered though, as it clearly warranted such protection because it was so rich in secrets. The task was made even harder by the casual way in which the humans seemed to mix reality and legend. She was sure that this 'James Bond' was a most dangerous enemy assassin, but the notion of whole cities being destroyed by pieces of the sun was clearly either mythology or propaganda. The 'yoo tuub' and cee-enn-enn spells had shown her images from Abigor's pathetic defeat – for all his failures, his warriors had managed to slay some humans. She was sure that if the humans had possessed such impossible magic, they would have destroyed his army outright rather than face the demons at such close quarters.
Lakheenahuknaasi had already conveyed more valuable information back to Queen Euryale on her own than Deumos had obtained (or at least, shared with the other demons) with all her thousands of succubae. Her wounds were almost healed, and she was fairly sure she could fly again if she had to. The next step was to acquire more worshippers. Here on earth her enthrallment darts held for days at a time, so she could easily build a small cult around herself. She would work her way up into the higher ranks and discover the human's most secret plans. Clearly, she would at least be made a baroness for her accomplishments.
Broken Skull Gallery, Shaft 14, Slocum Mine, Tartarus
Reusikaanophaar stalked through the tunnel, his hooves crunching on the gravel. He was in a particularly foul mood; all the demons were. The humans seemed to have settled down again, but there was still something wrong with them, something he couldn't quite put his talon on. Still, he'd heard that the Count's attacks on the humans had been a resounding success. If Satan granted Belial new lands to rule, then he'd be sending his loyal servants to occupy them, and with luck that could mean a posting on the surface for Reusikaanophaar.
The light here was very dim, but there was something moving ahead. The demon strained to pick out the details... definitely, a human, and its chain was broken off.
"Human! On your knees! What are you doing..."
Instead of throwing himself to the ground in the usual manner, the human had taken to his heels and sprinted away. Reusikaanophaar bellowed as he brought his trident up, then let loose with a lightning bolt. He'd had little practice with the weapon in the last few centuries and the bolt went wide, drawing a spray of rock chips from the wall. The human darted into a side tunnel before he could fire again. The demon roared again and charged after the man, now thoroughly incensed. The stupid little thing couldn't escape, all the passages here were dead ends. But he probably wouldn't be allowed to eat it; apparently, the convoys of fresh humans from the pit had been interrupted, which meant no killings unless the human fought back. Then again, in this remote part of the mine, who'd know?
Ah, there was the human, waiting at the next bend. Probably frozen in fear. Reusikaanophaar closed the distance, bringing his trident up again... and found himself suddenly weightless, surrounded by snapping planks and falling rock. Before he could realize what was happening, there was a horrible impact and he found himself flat on his back, writhing in pain from the bronze spikes piercing his torso. With a roar that was almost a scream, he tried to lever himself back up. He was at the bottom of a twenty-foot pit, filled with splinters and gravel. The bottom had pick-ax heads set into it, now dripping with his own blood. The deep wounds hurt terribly but his limbs seemed to be intact, so he should still be able to climb out. Reusikaanophaar looked up to see the face of the human staring down at him. It was a trap of course; it knew it had no chance in honorable combat and had resorted to this cowardly pit. He cast about for his trident and soon enough his hand closed around its hilt, half-buried in the rubble. But before he could bring it to bear a great lump of rock landed on his arm, shattering the bones. Reusikaanophaar screamed and looked up - there were more human faces up there now, and more rocks coming down. He screamed in pain before one boulder mercifully fell straight on his skull and finished the job. The demon's last thought was regret that he'd never see his mate again.
"Well done, Simplicus. Going out to face that demon unarmed, that took true courage."
Publius had been overjoyed to find another of the legions here in the underworld mines, even though their lives had been separated by over a century. He had no idea who this 'Mithras' character the man kept mentioning was, but he clearly felt betrayed by him. In any case, Simplicus was a reliable recruit with a good sense of discipline, and right now that was what he needed most.
"It was nothing. Those brutes are thoroughly predictable. I doubt they've had an original thought in the last ten thousand years."
The younger man's words were modest, but his tone was full of enthusiasm - Publius couldn't remember the last time he'd heard that. He'd spent many hours telling his men that the demons weren't invincible, that they would die like all flesh and blood if they could be hurt badly enough, but here was the proof.
"These ones may be, the leaders though..." But now was not time to discuss what he'd learned about the demon activity on the surface.
"Come on men, let's get this leveled off and concealed. We don't want to give away our tricks before we must."
Division Wall Between 5th and 6th Circles of Hell
“Looks like they are coming.” Colonel Andy Jackson looked across the Styx at the great wall that separated the fifth and sixth circles of Hell. Gates were opening at regular intervals along its base and troops were starting to pour out. “Time for some action I think.” He dropped his hand to the Bowman radio and patched through to his battery of 105mm guns. “Battery, target reference……” A quick check with the laser rangefinder built into his binoculars and a frown. The dust in the Hell atmosphere played havoc with laser-based equipment. The range read-out was flickering and changing Jackson made a quick guess and read out a six-figure set of coordinates. A ‘best guess’ was better than nothing.
The gunners had their pieces loaded and ready to go, it took only a few seconds for three shells to whistle overhead and explode on the far bank of the Styx. Jackson winced slightly; the shells were well short. “Up 300, fire for effect.” The train-like roar of the shells passing overhead was immensely satisfying. This salvo landed directly in front of one of the gates, turning the baldricks pouring through it into a tangled mass of casualties. Very impressive Jackson thought, but that’s just one gate of the eight or ten the baldricks are using. The rest of them are getting out and forming up unscathed. Time to do something about that.
“Support group, bring down mortar fire on the area between the wall and the riverbank. Grenade machine guns do the same, open fire as soon as baldrick formations are within range. Artillery keeps hitting the present target until I tell you differently. Forward observer, we need some air support, now.”
“We have Jags coming in Sir. They’ll be here in five minutes. Cluster bombs and cannon.”
“Very good, what the hell do you want here.” The last remark was addressed to Jade Kim who had dropped into place beside him.
“Situation report Sir.”
“You’re supposed to be with the flanking forces.”
“Yes Sir. But the people I’ve got there are perfectly capable and don’t need me to look over their shoulders.”
At least she knows how to delegate. Jackson thought, for a junior officer, she’s got a lot of promise. She’d probably go far if she weren’t dead. “Very good then. Now situation?”
“No movement on our flanks Sir. I’ve got my gun-armed people and those who are trained to handle guns but haven’t got them yet spread out. We’ll do it Russian style, the ones who haven’t got guns can pick up ones the casualties don’t need anymore. Caesar’s bringing up reinforcements, he’ll throw them in at the right moment.” Kim grinned to herself; Caesar had been very busy for the last 24 hours. She had watched him and realized exactly why poor old Gnaeus Pompeius Magnus had never stood a chance.
“As long as he doesn’t get them in the way.” Jackson didn’t like the way Caesar was operating, he had no idea of what modern weaponry could do or the effects that it could have on the recipient of the firepower it generated. He could screw the whole battle up by getting his untrained personnel into the kill zones Jackson had so carefully set up. “Thank you, Lieutenant, return to your flank command and hold there.”
“Sir.” Kim slid backward and set off for her command. In theory, anyway, in fact, it was very important she didn’t go too far.
Across the river, the baldricks were forming up on the banks and starting to throw things into the water, things that floated. Others were carrying planks, the makings of a floating bridge. The mortars and artillery weren’t putting down enough firepower to stop them. That would change, Jackson thought. As he watched, he heard the grenade machine guns coughing and starting to pump their 40mm grenades into the teams assembling the bridges
The baldrick response was almost instantaneous; from along the top of the wall opposite, a great streak of lightning flashed out, lashing at the human-held bank of the river. Jackson guessed that the baldrick commander had a high proportion of his force up on that wall and was firing down at his positions to suppress fire. They learn very fast, very fast indeed ran through his mind. The fire wasn’t, couldn’t, cause many casualties but it would pin down his men and allow the baldricks to build their bridges and cross the river.
“Sir. Large baldrick movement on our right flank. At least four of their legions are moving up to the flank positions in regular formations.” Jackson grimaced as the radio spat out the message. That was it, game over. Kim’s tiny force couldn’t hold against an attack of that size, not even with the minefields and booby traps she had set up. Then the Bowman crackled again. “Sir, Harpies taking off from behind the wall.”
Jackson cursed then looked at the wall through his binoculars. The harpies were there all right, rising from behind the wall as reported. He did a quick count, gave up, and made a guess. Eight hundred or so? He knew the enemy force had taken a heavy pounding from an air attack on the way down but even the force left was more than he could cope with. What else did he face? He looked off to the right and saw the four great black squares of the baldrick legions advancing in column. They had harpies as well, a great cloud of them. Half a legion, 3,000 or more? This situation wasn’t just critical, it was a catastrophe in the making. Jackson had a nasty feeling that 2 PARA was about to join the Gloucesters as a part of the British Army’s list of gallant last stands. Then his grim thoughts were interrupted by Kim rejoining him.
“Lieutenant, what the hell are you doing here I ordered you to…”
“Sorry Sir, but I must be here. Your Bowmans don’t talk to our SINCGARS, and we need both communications nets working. Anyway, I’m here in my capacity as Caesar’s First Tribune, not as a U.S. Army Lieutenant.”
“Lieutenant, or whatever you want to call yourself, you are going to regret this.”
“Probably Colonel. But please look to your right.”
Jackson followed the suggestion. The great black blocks of the baldrick legions had advanced right up to the point where the human defenses started and then stopped. Then, as he watched, they changed subtly although he couldn’t work out why or how. The harpies overhead had also changed, they were splitting into two groups. Then, the ripple of lightning flashes erupted from the baldrick legions, not from the front as he had expected, but from the sides, directed over the river. The salvo tore into the baldricks trying to build the bridges, scattering them. As Jackson watched in disbelief, the harpy cloud crossed the river, the smaller group tackling the harpies rising from behind the wall, the larger group descending on the crenellations that topped that wall. Abruptly the barrage of lightning fire from the wall stopped as the baldricks up there stopped to fight off the harpies that were attacking them.
“Caesar’s brought up his reinforcements Colonel. Four legions of foot soldiers and a half-legion of harpies. The whole of the baldrick army that was on our right flank. Under the command of Plomniferasticas. He used to be one of Asmodeus’s lieutenants but when Asmodeus was killed, he was left in command of the force Asmodeus had brought down. He didn’t have a liege-lord anymore and wasn’t given one. So, Caesar persuaded him to change sides. The baldricks on our left flank are also under the command of Plomniferasticas and they’ve changed sides as well. Plomniferasticas has sworn allegiance to Caesar, and to me by the way as Caesar’s tribune. The left flank force is the anvil, and the right flank under Caesar is the hammer. Hold one.”
The radio in Kim’s hand was crackling. Kim lifted it to her ear and spoke quietly.
While she did so, Jackson took another look through his binoculars. Overhead was a swirling mass of harpies, studded with fire as the two flocks fought. The wall over the river looked like it was crowned with fire, lightning bolts sparkling as the garrison tried to fight off the harpies. Far off to the left, he saw the shapes of four RAF Jaguars hurtling through the overcast, bearing down on the baldrick force between the wall and the river. “Forward air control, tell those Jaguars, on no account to hit anything our side of the river, no matter what it looks like.” Jackson looked back at the baldrick force on his right, still pumping lightning bolts into the enemy ahead of them. Then the carnage caused by their fire was blanketed out by the greater slaughter of the cluster bombs exploding over the baldrick force gathered between the wall and the river. As the jets howled away, the legion at the far end of the baldrick line started to move forward, crossing the river.
“Caesar loves radios, Sir.” Kim had finished taking her orders from Caesar. “He’s crossing the Styx now, his force will swing through 90 degrees, then advance with the wall on one flank and the river on the other, rolling up the enemy line. He wants 2 PARA to concentrate its fire, especially the artillery, on the baldricks ahead of him so they don’t get a chance to form up. Baldrick warfare depends on rigid formations, so if they can’t form up, they’ll be destroyed.”
Jackson nodded and gave the necessary orders over the radio. The artillery and mortar fire shifted, concentrating on the baldricks who had survived the cluster bombs. By the time he had his orders issued, Caesar had his legions across the river and had executed his change of front. Jackson watched fascinated, knowing he was the first living human to watch demons fighting demons. The front rank of Caesar’s legions fired their tridents at the disorganized mass in front of them, then dropped to one knee to recharge. The next rank passed through them, fired, and dropped as well, followed by the third and fourth ranks. The effect was a constant ripple of fire that ground into the baldrick ranks. The fire from 2 PARA completed the job and in front of him, Jackson saw the force that had threatened Free Hell was dissolving into chaos.
“How did he do it, Lieutenant?”
“He took my DVD player Sir. And disks we got last night of the fighting along the Phlegethon. He just told Plomniferasticas that he could be with us, then showed him film of the gas attack on the harpies and the Russian tanks smashing Beelzebub’s right-wing. Or he could be against us and then he showed him the film of the battlefield, carpeted with layers of dead baldricks, mile after mile of them. Baldricks aren’t fools Sir, Plomniferasticas knew he couldn’t win against us so he changed sides.”
“But we couldn’t have stopped him. Not with them as well.”
“I know that Sir, you know that Caesar knew that. Plomniferasticas didn’t know that. To him, we are the Lords of War, unbeatable. We even blew up Satan’s palace, we didn’t get Satan himself by the way. Plomniferasticas isn’t afraid of Satan anymore sir, but he’s mortally afraid of us. Oh, by the way, the army in front of us is commanded by one Xisorixus. Another Lieutenant of Asmodeus was left adrift when the Grand Duke was killed. His army was basically Asmodeus’s portion of the sixth ring garrison plus odds and ends he scraped up. Not real legions at all. Plomniferasticas has real legions. Look.”
Jackson did as he was told. Across the river, Xisorixus’s army was collapsing, large portions were throwing down their arms, and the rest were being driven into small groups and cut down. At the forefront of the advancing legions was a single figure in polished bronze armor. Jackson didn’t need to be told that was Caesar. He was directing the troops, sending groups forward, and navigating the advance so that it would do the maximum damage possible.
Kim’s radio crackled again. She listened and then smiled. “Cease fire, Sir. Xisorixus has just been taken, prisoner. It’s all over. He’s quite a man, isn’t he?”
Jackson looked sharply at Kim. She was smiling gently and there had been a lot more than just professional respect in her voice.
Dis-Dysprosium Highway, Hell
His army was disintegrating, dissolving into chaos even while he watched. It had sounded so easy, so sensible, to drop back to a defensible line where he could hold and block the human advance. Demonic warfare had few concepts for defensive operations, mostly the two armies just attacked each other, but the defense was the only option he had. Or thought he had for it had turned out that the option existed in name only.
He had picked his defensive ground carefully, a low line of hills, steep on the face the humans would climb, gentle behind it. It had been good ground; a good defensive line and the humans had got there first. While one of their armies had pinned him on the Phlegethon, another had outflanked him and already taken the position he had picked with such care. What was left of his army had crumpled against their gunfire. His last organized legions had been shattered by mage bolts and sky-chariots that had swarmed all over them
Beelzebub heard the scream that announced the arrival of more sky-chariots and cursed Belial. It was that pathetic minor lord with his wyverns who had given the humans the idea of using their sky chariots to attack forces on the ground. If he’d minded his own business and left war to the Great Dukes who were practiced in it, then his force would not be subject to these shattering attacks. Over his columns of retreating legions, two white sky-chariots made their pass, a stream of objects falling from their bellies and under their wings. The objects stopped abruptly in the air as their tails spread out, then shed a cloud of small balls that dropped over the heads of his soldiers before exploding. By the time the smoke cleared, a gaping rent had been cleared in one of his columns, another legion savagely mauled.
Overhead, four more sky-chariots were already closing in, ugly, ungainly-looking beasts compared with the sleek white creations than had just passed. They had flown overhead high up, then one had turned and dived, the others following their leader. They were slower too, much slower and Beelzebub briefly wondered where his harpies were, they could destroy beasts like that. Then he remembered, they were dead, wiped out by sky chariots and a magery too horrible to name or even envisage. His pride, his flock of harpies that had gained him his name of ‘Lord of the Flies’ were dead, their corpses already rotting on the accursed field of the Phlegethon.
Beelzebub watched with resignation as the Sky Chariots got to work, pouring fire-lances into a mass of his foot soldiers that were clustered on the road. What was it for? His army was gone, defeated, destroyed, savaging the remnants like this made no sense at all. Then his spine started to bristle for two of the sky chariots had turned and seemed to be heading for him. He heard a weird noise that drowned out the wail of their battle cry a rasping, crackling noise that coincided with a fire burning in their nose. A few trident lengths short of his, the ground erupted in a cloud of dust and broken rock, a cloud that raced across the stony soil of Hell and embraced him. Beelzebub felt the slam as the mage bolts tore into his body, felt them bite deep, spreading sickness and destruction permeating him. Without being aware of it, he had dropped to his knees, and he was too tired to move. So tired, tiredness he had never felt before, the weakness that made him want to give up and sleep. Overhead, the other two Sky Chariots made their passes and fired two more fire lances. Had Beelzebub been aware they were called Mavericks, he might have appreciated knowing the name of his killer, but he didn’t and their impact sent him spiraling down into the sleep that he craved.
Cliffton Council Estate, Nottingham, United Kingdom
It had been ten days now, ten days of being forced to sit here all day staring at the news channels until he had passed out from exhaustion. Even that brought little respite, the foul presence made sure that his sleep was uneasy and his dreams visions of fire and pain. The demons had relaxed their mental leash from time to time, just long enough to see to essential bodily functions, but Christopher was still unable to do so much as leave the house. Every time he'd tried the crushing pain overwhelmed him; after the third day, he simply had no fight left in him. The presence did seem to change from day to day as if different minds were taking control, but he hadn't been able to identify specific demons.
They'd made him watch Detroit burn and the feeling of glee had been even stronger than for Sheffield. The demons seemed certain that the destruction of humanity was inevitable, and Christopher had despaired. But when President Bush had made his defiant speech promising swift retaliation, a flicker of hope had returned – not because of the man's inarticulate rhetoric, but because the echoes of harsh laughter in his head had rung hollow somehow. Finally, the pictures had come, supposedly 'before and after' infra-red images of 'Satan's greatest stronghold'. The reaction from the hellish presence was difficult to read but seemed to be disbelief. Christopher could feel them prying at his mind, trying to use his own memories to justify the idea that the whole thing was a sham. Before the possession, he would indeed have been the first to proclaim the reports a hoax, but now he took a bizarre pleasure in telling himself that it was the unvarnished truth. It was a small victory, but it seemed to be enough to make the demon’s presence lapse into silence.
The low throbbing of a diesel engine became audible over the television before cutting off. Someone was coming, in a van by the sound of it. Christopher jerked his head around to stare at the front door, struck by a sudden mix of fear and hope. 15 Psyops group perhaps? There had been rumors of a British counter-possession unit on all the blogs... The doorbell rang, its cheerful little electronic tones seeming surreal in the nightmarish situation, and suddenly his body was moving, his possessor operating him like a puppet. He pulled the door back to reveal a lanky youth with a mop of jet-black hair. He looked haggard and strangely blank. Behind him was a large yellow van, parked on the street in front of the house and bearing a logo for 'Dynaflow Plumbing and Electrical - Grimthorpe'.
"Mr. Hughes?" Christopher nodded.
"She wants you to come with us. Do you know who I mean?" Christopher had no idea but apparently, the demon did because he found himself nodding again.
"Into the back then, please. Come on."
The newcomer pulled the house door shut. Christopher wanted to protest but of course, he was powerless to do so. The rear windows of the van were blacked out. He got a brief glimpse of bronze scales and glittering eyes before he was shoved roughly inside and the doors clanged shut, trapping him in the dark interior. There was a brief pause before the engine started up again and the van moved off. He had no way of telling where it was going and, in any case, the prospect of meeting a demon in the flesh was occupying all his attention.
With a click the darkness was replaced by the sight of a humanoid shape crouching on the floor, clad only in metallic scales and possessing great bat-like wings, a twitching tail, and a face taken straight from a nightmare. The thing held a fluorescent lantern in one hand and seemed vaguely female. Then there was pain, something lancing into his chest accompanied by a sputtering crack. Christopher cried out and pawed at his ribs, his fingers closing around a handful of quills, which he pulled out. The demon presence was still there but it seemed content to allow him to act on his own initiative for now. For a second, he considered attacking the demon but that would be suicide, it had claws that looked razor-sharp and more of the quills sticking out of the snake-like growths around its head. A minute passed in silence, save for the sound of the van's engine.
Christopher was finding it hard to focus. The creature was staring at him, it didn't seem to want to attack. Finally, his curiosity triumphed over his fear.
"Who are you? What are you? Why am I here? What do..."
His voice trailed off as the demoness put a finger to her lips.
"My name is Lakheenahuknaasi, and I am your goddess." Her voice was still raspy, but to Christopher, it seemed like honey. "I see evil has made you its servant, but not willingly. I will rid you of it."
That's enough Zatheoplekkar, I'll take it from here
Are you sure? The count ordered me to keep this one alive and possessed.
This is how the angels operated, and you know how devoted their servants were. I will take all responsibility. Release him... please.
Very well.
The winged bronze woman made an extravagant gesture and Christopher slumped forward, suddenly in control of his own body again. The demon presence seemed to be completely gone from his mind! All thanks to this creature, who was seeming more pleasant by the minute. "Thank you... thank you..." The combination of stress, exhaustion, and the drug infusion was too much, and Christopher collapsed to the floor, out cold.
Lakheenahuknaasi snorted. The earth-humans were so weak. No matter, she would continue later. She turned back to the magic tome the younger human had given her, unfolding it and waiting for it to come alive again. The human device was a marvel. Specifically, it was a marvel of foolishness. The humans had somehow crammed the contents of a vast library into a single tome, but they had filled that library with details of their entire magical arsenal and handed out copies to their most minor laborers. Her tame human had shown her the invocations of 'goo gul' and 'Wiccan pee-dee-ah', which had revealed to her a treasure trove of secrets. The last was protected by an insidious spell that caused her to constantly lose track of what she was looking for, flipping from page to page until she was reading irrelevant nonsense about 'collectible card games' and 'sonic the hedgehog'. She persevered though, as it clearly warranted such protection because it was so rich in secrets. The task was made even harder by the casual way in which the humans seemed to mix reality and legend. She was sure that this 'James Bond' was a most dangerous enemy assassin, but the notion of whole cities being destroyed by pieces of the sun was clearly either mythology or propaganda. The 'yoo tuub' and cee-enn-enn spells had shown her images from Abigor's pathetic defeat – for all his failures, his warriors had managed to slay some humans. She was sure that if the humans had possessed such impossible magic, they would have destroyed his army outright rather than face the demons at such close quarters.
Lakheenahuknaasi had already conveyed more valuable information back to Queen Euryale on her own than Deumos had obtained (or at least, shared with the other demons) with all her thousands of succubae. Her wounds were almost healed, and she was fairly sure she could fly again if she had to. The next step was to acquire more worshippers. Here on earth her enthrallment darts held for days at a time, so she could easily build a small cult around herself. She would work her way up into the higher ranks and discover the human's most secret plans. Clearly, she would at least be made a baroness for her accomplishments.
Broken Skull Gallery, Shaft 14, Slocum Mine, Tartarus
Reusikaanophaar stalked through the tunnel, his hooves crunching on the gravel. He was in a particularly foul mood; all the demons were. The humans seemed to have settled down again, but there was still something wrong with them, something he couldn't quite put his talon on. Still, he'd heard that the Count's attacks on the humans had been a resounding success. If Satan granted Belial new lands to rule, then he'd be sending his loyal servants to occupy them, and with luck that could mean a posting on the surface for Reusikaanophaar.
The light here was very dim, but there was something moving ahead. The demon strained to pick out the details... definitely, a human, and its chain was broken off.
"Human! On your knees! What are you doing..."
Instead of throwing himself to the ground in the usual manner, the human had taken to his heels and sprinted away. Reusikaanophaar bellowed as he brought his trident up, then let loose with a lightning bolt. He'd had little practice with the weapon in the last few centuries and the bolt went wide, drawing a spray of rock chips from the wall. The human darted into a side tunnel before he could fire again. The demon roared again and charged after the man, now thoroughly incensed. The stupid little thing couldn't escape, all the passages here were dead ends. But he probably wouldn't be allowed to eat it; apparently, the convoys of fresh humans from the pit had been interrupted, which meant no killings unless the human fought back. Then again, in this remote part of the mine, who'd know?
Ah, there was the human, waiting at the next bend. Probably frozen in fear. Reusikaanophaar closed the distance, bringing his trident up again... and found himself suddenly weightless, surrounded by snapping planks and falling rock. Before he could realize what was happening, there was a horrible impact and he found himself flat on his back, writhing in pain from the bronze spikes piercing his torso. With a roar that was almost a scream, he tried to lever himself back up. He was at the bottom of a twenty-foot pit, filled with splinters and gravel. The bottom had pick-ax heads set into it, now dripping with his own blood. The deep wounds hurt terribly but his limbs seemed to be intact, so he should still be able to climb out. Reusikaanophaar looked up to see the face of the human staring down at him. It was a trap of course; it knew it had no chance in honorable combat and had resorted to this cowardly pit. He cast about for his trident and soon enough his hand closed around its hilt, half-buried in the rubble. But before he could bring it to bear a great lump of rock landed on his arm, shattering the bones. Reusikaanophaar screamed and looked up - there were more human faces up there now, and more rocks coming down. He screamed in pain before one boulder mercifully fell straight on his skull and finished the job. The demon's last thought was regret that he'd never see his mate again.
"Well done, Simplicus. Going out to face that demon unarmed, that took true courage."
Publius had been overjoyed to find another of the legions here in the underworld mines, even though their lives had been separated by over a century. He had no idea who this 'Mithras' character the man kept mentioning was, but he clearly felt betrayed by him. In any case, Simplicus was a reliable recruit with a good sense of discipline, and right now that was what he needed most.
"It was nothing. Those brutes are thoroughly predictable. I doubt they've had an original thought in the last ten thousand years."
The younger man's words were modest, but his tone was full of enthusiasm - Publius couldn't remember the last time he'd heard that. He'd spent many hours telling his men that the demons weren't invincible, that they would die like all flesh and blood if they could be hurt badly enough, but here was the proof.
"These ones may be, the leaders though..." But now was not time to discuss what he'd learned about the demon activity on the surface.
"Come on men, let's get this leveled off and concealed. We don't want to give away our tricks before we must."
Division Wall Between 5th and 6th Circles of Hell
“Looks like they are coming.” Colonel Andy Jackson looked across the Styx at the great wall that separated the fifth and sixth circles of Hell. Gates were opening at regular intervals along its base and troops were starting to pour out. “Time for some action I think.” He dropped his hand to the Bowman radio and patched through to his battery of 105mm guns. “Battery, target reference……” A quick check with the laser rangefinder built into his binoculars and a frown. The dust in the Hell atmosphere played havoc with laser-based equipment. The range read-out was flickering and changing Jackson made a quick guess and read out a six-figure set of coordinates. A ‘best guess’ was better than nothing.
The gunners had their pieces loaded and ready to go, it took only a few seconds for three shells to whistle overhead and explode on the far bank of the Styx. Jackson winced slightly; the shells were well short. “Up 300, fire for effect.” The train-like roar of the shells passing overhead was immensely satisfying. This salvo landed directly in front of one of the gates, turning the baldricks pouring through it into a tangled mass of casualties. Very impressive Jackson thought, but that’s just one gate of the eight or ten the baldricks are using. The rest of them are getting out and forming up unscathed. Time to do something about that.
“Support group, bring down mortar fire on the area between the wall and the riverbank. Grenade machine guns do the same, open fire as soon as baldrick formations are within range. Artillery keeps hitting the present target until I tell you differently. Forward observer, we need some air support, now.”
“We have Jags coming in Sir. They’ll be here in five minutes. Cluster bombs and cannon.”
“Very good, what the hell do you want here.” The last remark was addressed to Jade Kim who had dropped into place beside him.
“Situation report Sir.”
“You’re supposed to be with the flanking forces.”
“Yes Sir. But the people I’ve got there are perfectly capable and don’t need me to look over their shoulders.”
At least she knows how to delegate. Jackson thought, for a junior officer, she’s got a lot of promise. She’d probably go far if she weren’t dead. “Very good then. Now situation?”
“No movement on our flanks Sir. I’ve got my gun-armed people and those who are trained to handle guns but haven’t got them yet spread out. We’ll do it Russian style, the ones who haven’t got guns can pick up ones the casualties don’t need anymore. Caesar’s bringing up reinforcements, he’ll throw them in at the right moment.” Kim grinned to herself; Caesar had been very busy for the last 24 hours. She had watched him and realized exactly why poor old Gnaeus Pompeius Magnus had never stood a chance.
“As long as he doesn’t get them in the way.” Jackson didn’t like the way Caesar was operating, he had no idea of what modern weaponry could do or the effects that it could have on the recipient of the firepower it generated. He could screw the whole battle up by getting his untrained personnel into the kill zones Jackson had so carefully set up. “Thank you, Lieutenant, return to your flank command and hold there.”
“Sir.” Kim slid backward and set off for her command. In theory, anyway, in fact, it was very important she didn’t go too far.
Across the river, the baldricks were forming up on the banks and starting to throw things into the water, things that floated. Others were carrying planks, the makings of a floating bridge. The mortars and artillery weren’t putting down enough firepower to stop them. That would change, Jackson thought. As he watched, he heard the grenade machine guns coughing and starting to pump their 40mm grenades into the teams assembling the bridges
The baldrick response was almost instantaneous; from along the top of the wall opposite, a great streak of lightning flashed out, lashing at the human-held bank of the river. Jackson guessed that the baldrick commander had a high proportion of his force up on that wall and was firing down at his positions to suppress fire. They learn very fast, very fast indeed ran through his mind. The fire wasn’t, couldn’t, cause many casualties but it would pin down his men and allow the baldricks to build their bridges and cross the river.
“Sir. Large baldrick movement on our right flank. At least four of their legions are moving up to the flank positions in regular formations.” Jackson grimaced as the radio spat out the message. That was it, game over. Kim’s tiny force couldn’t hold against an attack of that size, not even with the minefields and booby traps she had set up. Then the Bowman crackled again. “Sir, Harpies taking off from behind the wall.”
Jackson cursed then looked at the wall through his binoculars. The harpies were there all right, rising from behind the wall as reported. He did a quick count, gave up, and made a guess. Eight hundred or so? He knew the enemy force had taken a heavy pounding from an air attack on the way down but even the force left was more than he could cope with. What else did he face? He looked off to the right and saw the four great black squares of the baldrick legions advancing in column. They had harpies as well, a great cloud of them. Half a legion, 3,000 or more? This situation wasn’t just critical, it was a catastrophe in the making. Jackson had a nasty feeling that 2 PARA was about to join the Gloucesters as a part of the British Army’s list of gallant last stands. Then his grim thoughts were interrupted by Kim rejoining him.
“Lieutenant, what the hell are you doing here I ordered you to…”
“Sorry Sir, but I must be here. Your Bowmans don’t talk to our SINCGARS, and we need both communications nets working. Anyway, I’m here in my capacity as Caesar’s First Tribune, not as a U.S. Army Lieutenant.”
“Lieutenant, or whatever you want to call yourself, you are going to regret this.”
“Probably Colonel. But please look to your right.”
Jackson followed the suggestion. The great black blocks of the baldrick legions had advanced right up to the point where the human defenses started and then stopped. Then, as he watched, they changed subtly although he couldn’t work out why or how. The harpies overhead had also changed, they were splitting into two groups. Then, the ripple of lightning flashes erupted from the baldrick legions, not from the front as he had expected, but from the sides, directed over the river. The salvo tore into the baldricks trying to build the bridges, scattering them. As Jackson watched in disbelief, the harpy cloud crossed the river, the smaller group tackling the harpies rising from behind the wall, the larger group descending on the crenellations that topped that wall. Abruptly the barrage of lightning fire from the wall stopped as the baldricks up there stopped to fight off the harpies that were attacking them.
“Caesar’s brought up his reinforcements Colonel. Four legions of foot soldiers and a half-legion of harpies. The whole of the baldrick army that was on our right flank. Under the command of Plomniferasticas. He used to be one of Asmodeus’s lieutenants but when Asmodeus was killed, he was left in command of the force Asmodeus had brought down. He didn’t have a liege-lord anymore and wasn’t given one. So, Caesar persuaded him to change sides. The baldricks on our left flank are also under the command of Plomniferasticas and they’ve changed sides as well. Plomniferasticas has sworn allegiance to Caesar, and to me by the way as Caesar’s tribune. The left flank force is the anvil, and the right flank under Caesar is the hammer. Hold one.”
The radio in Kim’s hand was crackling. Kim lifted it to her ear and spoke quietly.
While she did so, Jackson took another look through his binoculars. Overhead was a swirling mass of harpies, studded with fire as the two flocks fought. The wall over the river looked like it was crowned with fire, lightning bolts sparkling as the garrison tried to fight off the harpies. Far off to the left, he saw the shapes of four RAF Jaguars hurtling through the overcast, bearing down on the baldrick force between the wall and the river. “Forward air control, tell those Jaguars, on no account to hit anything our side of the river, no matter what it looks like.” Jackson looked back at the baldrick force on his right, still pumping lightning bolts into the enemy ahead of them. Then the carnage caused by their fire was blanketed out by the greater slaughter of the cluster bombs exploding over the baldrick force gathered between the wall and the river. As the jets howled away, the legion at the far end of the baldrick line started to move forward, crossing the river.
“Caesar loves radios, Sir.” Kim had finished taking her orders from Caesar. “He’s crossing the Styx now, his force will swing through 90 degrees, then advance with the wall on one flank and the river on the other, rolling up the enemy line. He wants 2 PARA to concentrate its fire, especially the artillery, on the baldricks ahead of him so they don’t get a chance to form up. Baldrick warfare depends on rigid formations, so if they can’t form up, they’ll be destroyed.”
Jackson nodded and gave the necessary orders over the radio. The artillery and mortar fire shifted, concentrating on the baldricks who had survived the cluster bombs. By the time he had his orders issued, Caesar had his legions across the river and had executed his change of front. Jackson watched fascinated, knowing he was the first living human to watch demons fighting demons. The front rank of Caesar’s legions fired their tridents at the disorganized mass in front of them, then dropped to one knee to recharge. The next rank passed through them, fired, and dropped as well, followed by the third and fourth ranks. The effect was a constant ripple of fire that ground into the baldrick ranks. The fire from 2 PARA completed the job and in front of him, Jackson saw the force that had threatened Free Hell was dissolving into chaos.
“How did he do it, Lieutenant?”
“He took my DVD player Sir. And disks we got last night of the fighting along the Phlegethon. He just told Plomniferasticas that he could be with us, then showed him film of the gas attack on the harpies and the Russian tanks smashing Beelzebub’s right-wing. Or he could be against us and then he showed him the film of the battlefield, carpeted with layers of dead baldricks, mile after mile of them. Baldricks aren’t fools Sir, Plomniferasticas knew he couldn’t win against us so he changed sides.”
“But we couldn’t have stopped him. Not with them as well.”
“I know that Sir, you know that Caesar knew that. Plomniferasticas didn’t know that. To him, we are the Lords of War, unbeatable. We even blew up Satan’s palace, we didn’t get Satan himself by the way. Plomniferasticas isn’t afraid of Satan anymore sir, but he’s mortally afraid of us. Oh, by the way, the army in front of us is commanded by one Xisorixus. Another Lieutenant of Asmodeus was left adrift when the Grand Duke was killed. His army was basically Asmodeus’s portion of the sixth ring garrison plus odds and ends he scraped up. Not real legions at all. Plomniferasticas has real legions. Look.”
Jackson did as he was told. Across the river, Xisorixus’s army was collapsing, large portions were throwing down their arms, and the rest were being driven into small groups and cut down. At the forefront of the advancing legions was a single figure in polished bronze armor. Jackson didn’t need to be told that was Caesar. He was directing the troops, sending groups forward, and navigating the advance so that it would do the maximum damage possible.
Kim’s radio crackled again. She listened and then smiled. “Cease fire, Sir. Xisorixus has just been taken, prisoner. It’s all over. He’s quite a man, isn’t he?”
Jackson looked sharply at Kim. She was smiling gently and there had been a lot more than just professional respect in her voice.
Re: 2008 - Armageddon
Chapter Seventy-Two
Four Leagues West of Belial’s Stronghold, Tartaruan Range, Northern Region of Hell
Memnon settled back and closed his eyes. He was almost gray with exhaustion, but he’d made it up and found a good place to hide. One concealed from Belial’s stronghold yet with good observation points near to it. Now, all he had to do was to make contact.
Hello, humans. Can anybody answer? This is Memnon speaking.
Memnon? Where are you? Is anything wrong?
Memnon stirred with pleasure; it was the human female with the rich mind-voice that sounded like water running over stones. The one who had praised his earlier efforts. Nothing wrong, I just wished to report that I have reached Belial’s stronghold. I am four leagues west of it now and ready to receive the humans.
There was a startled silence at the other end. Wow. You must have moved very fast. Well done, Memnon. You wait until I tell the Generals this, they’ll want to give you a medal or something. How are your wings?
Memnon was happy, at hearing praise again, and at the fact, that one of his masters cared about his health. They ache but they will be better with rest. I had to get here fast so I could arrive when the light dimmed. Nobody will have seen me come.”
That’s great. I’ll get word that you’re in place out, we’ll open a portal to you soon.
Memnon relaxed back on his rock and got ready to doze. His wings hurt and he was hungry, but he didn’t care.
Recreational Hall, Camp Hell-Alpha, Hell
“McElroy? McElroy?”
“Here, Sir.” The Special Forces Lieutenant looked a bit harassed; he’d been told to find the dead sergeant quickly and it had taken longer than he had expected. And in any case, he felt awkward speaking to somebody who was dead. It was something a lot of people were going to have to get used to.
“Get your team together. Quickly, the mission is a go. Get your kit as well, we’ll be gating you to Earth and then to your operational location. Be at the portal hut in twenty minutes.”
“Very good Sir.” McElroy saluted, mentally debating whether he could get away with saluting with the wrong hand and explaining it as being one of the curious effects of being dead. Not worth trying, he decided. Not now at any rate. The Lieutenant, now definitely relieved, vanished in the direction of the command hut.
“Cassidy, DeVanzo and Walsch. Get the rest of the team together, we’re moving out. Mikkelson, get a work detail, draw our gear, and get it over to the portal hut. Let’s roll guys, we’re on our way.”
McElroy turned and headed for the door, almost bumping into a figure as he went. He stopped for a second, hardly recognizing the man in the red-mottled BDUs. “Hey, Aeneas, how goes things?”
“Not fit work for a man. Teaching scholars about what really went on in Sparta and Thermopylae. One of them insulted Queen Gorgo and when I disciplined him, there was much trouble over that.”
McElroy was fascinated. “Disciplined him? How?”
“He wrote lies about our Queen. So, I broke every bone in his writing hand. I thought it was only just, but the others were most displeased with me. I wish I were going with you and the rest of the gang.”
“I wish you and Ori were coming but the brass says otherwise. This is a modern-soldier job. Where is Ori by the way?”
“Teaching some Japanese about the way of life in his era.” Aeneas shook his head. “The ideas you people have are so strange, when they speak of us it is like we see ourselves in a mirror coated with mist. The form is there, but the details…. Anyway, take care, my friend. I will tell Ori that you remembered him. And kill baldricks.”
McElroy left and ran over to his quarters, picking up the bankroll he had won at poker over the last few days. One thing that didn’t change was the laws of chance and the fact that people couldn’t understand the mathematics of odds. He had a nice roll of bills for his family, enough to keep them going anyway.
By the time he got to the portal hut, his team was assembled, eight modern soldiers, all dead, none more than twenty years ago. All loaded down with the electronics gear for the mission.
“Ready to go everybody? You know the drill, spot Belial’s fortress, then set up the navigation beacon and wait for the B-1s. No fighting, no hunting, no shooting except if we get discovered.”
There was a series of nods, then a pasty-faced, sulky-looking man settled back on the portal generation couch. There was a quick hum and the familiar black ellipse opened.
“That’s quick.” McElroy was impressed.
“Our gear’s a lot better than the early versions, and it’s easy to push a portal through from this side. You wait, tomorrow we’re opening a portal big enough to bring a carrier through.” The technical sergeant grinned. “I’ve even heard that Enterprise is being fitted to generate her own portals.”
McElroy stepped through the ellipse and found himself in the hangar. Once again, a few families were there to greet the relatives they’d never thought they would see again. McElroy found his brother and slipped him the roll of cash. A few hugs and back-slaps later, he was on his way back. An Indian woman in a royal blue sari was taken to the technical operators.
“Excuse me, you must be Indira Singh. I’m Tucker McElroy. I’m sorry to trouble you, but do you know how Kitten is?”
“It is no trouble, Tucker. Kitten is doing well; she had her last operation three days ago and is recovering properly in the best hospital money can buy. She has many visitors, she is something of a hero for the way she held the portals open by herself while other sensitives were being located. She is much honored.”
“Operation? Nobody told us she was sick as well as suffering from keeping the portals open. What was the matter with her?”
“Oh she was not ill, but she completed her gender reassignment surgery. Because of her efforts, the governments picked up the charges to make sure she had the very best.” Singh looked at the shock on McElroys’s face. “You did not know that Kitten was a trans-sexual?”
“No.” McElroy was aghast. In his pocket was a long letter he had written to Kitten, expressing his gratitude for all she had gone through on his behalf. Then to find out she was a……… McElroy stopped himself, hard. She still had gone through all that hadn’t she, still suffered so the people she was supporting in hell could get the tools they needed to stay free and out of torment. How dare he criticize her when she’d done all that? Inbred prejudice and irrational bigotry warred with McElroy’s reason and sense of justice. Reason and justice won out and he reached into a pocket. “Indira, could you see Kitten gets this, please. And send her our love, that’s from all of us. Tell her we’ll never forget what she did for us, and we hope we’ll see her again but if we don’t, we hope she’ll be very happy. And tell her she won’t worry about going to hell anymore because she’ll have lots of friends there ready to look after her.”
His team assembled, and McElroy looked around. Singh was already on the portal-opening couch, searching for Memnon’s mind. She found it and locked on. Then she started to shudder as the electronic equipment opened the portal. McElroy stepped through and found himself back in Hell, but in a vastly different Hell from his previous experience. The mountains were stark, mostly volcanic, but the valleys between them were covered with vegetation, green and purple. It was warm and relatively pleasant, even the choking dust of Hell was less pronounced here. In front of him, the hulking black shape of Memnon was looking at him curiously.
“Sergeant (deceased) Tucker McElroy. We’ll take over the surveillance from here. You are Memnon, aren’t you?”
“I am.” Memnon was amused by the way the question had come last. Humans were so confident their machines would work. “I must brief you on this area and where are the things you seek. Then I must fly back to Dysprosium.”
“Why don’t you portal back? We can open a gate easily enough. Just rest up until the next scheduled contact and then we’ll gate you back. No need to work harder than you must.”
Memnon thought it over. He’d assumed he would just fly back but the human was right. There was no need to, not now. The humans had a staging point near Belial’s fortress, why should he fly?
The Collegium of Fornessa, City of Dis, Hell
“You have heard the fate of Beelzebub?” Deumos sat elegantly in the luxurious seat she had brought with her.
“That he had been defeated, yes.”
“Not defeated. Killed. In an attack by human aircraft. They shot him with their cannon and blew him up with their missiles. He died like an orc, sniveling and weak.”
Dagon looked around at the decaying building that housed the meeting. He needed time to think over the news that Beelzebub had followed Asmodeus into the void. Followed him and all the others. The ranks of the Hell aristocracy had been thinned in a way none could remember. Not even the Great Celestial War had caused carnage like this. So, he decided to stall for that time. “Why must we meet here? In this disgusting place overrun with orcs?”
Deumos recognized the stall for what it was and knew she had shocked the Great Duke. Time to answer a question with a question. “And where is Satan?”
“He moves from place to place, hiding from the humans and their aircraft. Never stays in the same place long for fear of them finding him and sending their bombers after him.”
“Satan fears the humans. Yet he asks us to fight them while he runs and hides.”
“Lady, those words are treasonous.”
“Does that make them untrue? How many millions have died already? I know you don’t know, so I will tell you. More than 3,5000,000. Of Beelzebub’s army, 476 legions, only 39,000 survive of the more than 3 million who set out. The rest are rotting on the banks of the Phlegethon River. And the humans advance on Dis even while we sit here speaking.”
Deumos’s words were interrupted by the howl of jet fighters overhead. Both Great Dukes paused and looked up. The jet noise receded and was followed by the dull sound of explosions, a long way off. Somebody had just been bombed. The noise did not cause any great surprise, the sounds of human aircraft and their deadly cargoes were familiar. Familiar but still terrifying.
“And their aircraft fly over Dis without opposition.” Deumos smiled briefly. “And what are your plans Dagon.”
“I have been ordered to fight. To attack the human armies. Those orders still stand.” Dagon was uncomfortable, he had chosen to sit far away from Deumos, by an open window so the air gods would protect him from the strange magic that the Succubae used to bend others to their will.
“You will fight.” There was a note of derision in Deumos’s voice. “To what end? How will your army achieve that which eluded Beelzebub?”
“I do not know.”
“I do. You will fight, you will lose, your army will be destroyed, and you will be killed. The end. Have you learned anything? The humans are the Lords of War, they cannot be defeated. They squash our armies with casual ease, and they still hold back the most powerful and deadly of their weapons. For every move we make, they have a counter, already sitting in their arsenal, ready to be used.”
“But Yahweh?”
“You think Yahweh will aid us? He will sit and watch Hell and Human fight until one is gone, then he will attack the survivor. That is what humans think, it is what I and my Succubae think, and we can be very sure it is what Yahweh thinks. And the end of Hell is coming fast Dagon. It is days away, perhaps weeks at most. Have you heard the news from the pit?” Dagon shook his head. “An entire army, ten legions that were once part of the host of Asmodeus, have rebelled. They have declared their fealty to the humans and attacked those who would make war on the humans. In the pit, humans and demons now fight side by side, as allies. A great area of the pit, a segment of the Fifth Ring, and a smaller section of the Sixth are now in human hands and those still faithful to Satan die if they go there. That area spreads hourly as the humans rescue their dead and many of them join the human army. Free Hell, they call it.”
The demons rebelled and joined the humans. It seemed incomprehensible. Not just joining the humans but doing so as the junior partners in the alliance. Dagon shook his head, Deumos was right, Hell was dying. His mind ran over the options available to his army. They were few indeed and all of them led to death.
“What do you suggest Lady?” Dagon asked the question, but he knew the answer.
“The humans hold Satan responsible for what has happened here. The legions in the pit have the right answer and we must follow their example. We must make peace with the humans; we must pay whatever price they ask for that peace. And the first thing they ask will be Satan’s head. Detached from the rest of his body and very, very dead. You have said how Satan moves around too much for the humans to catch him. So, we must do the deed. Kill him and set up new rulership in hell, one that can make peace with the humans.”
“With you as ruler.” Dagon’s voice was openly scornful. The Succubae were despised, and the idea of one ruling Hell was unthinkable. Most demons would die rather than allow it.
“Of course not. I am not stupid Dagon; I know what will be accepted and what will not. I cannot be ruler in Hell. But you Dagon, you can be. You are one of the very few surviving Great Dukes, you have your army to keep order. You have not fought the humans yet, they do not know much about you. We can turn that to our advantage. For we must make you acceptable to the humans, a leader they can accept.”
Ruler of Hell, successor to Satan Mekratrig. Dagon rolled the idea around in his mind. It beat inevitable death on the battlefield. “And how shall we do that, Lady?”
“The humans are driven by the way we treat their dead. So, we try to show you did what you could to help them We will set up an underground movement, we will call it.” Deumos ran the information Lugasharmanaska had sent her, searching for a suitable name. “Demons for the Ethical Treatment of Humans”. We will forge documents, and information, to show the humans we were trying to stop the torment of Hell and have been doing so for many years. Humans will see these and accept us. And make you the new ruler of Hell. All that we need is for Satan to die.”
Dagon ran the picture through his mind, then came across a great block that stood in the way. “But without the life energy from humans, how do we ascend to the next level. Satan collects it, it is our tribute to him. He uses it to boost us to the next level when we die. What will happen when he is gone.”
“Then we will control the human life energy. And we can use the existing energy stored for our own ends, to cement the allegiance of those underneath us. And we will make an agreement with the humans, we will continue to milk the energy from some and release the rest. They will agree to that.”
Dagon nodded. “It is agreed, Lady. Now, how do we make this fine-sounding plan reality?”
Belial’s Stronghold, Tartaruan Range, Northern Region of Hell
Euryale smoothed lotion on her burns and relaxed on her couch. Quietly, she closed her eyes and sent her mind searching for Lakheenahuknaasi. She found the mind she sought and opened contact, feeling the mind-voice in her head, sensed the respect tempered with ambition.
“What have you learned Lakheenahuknaasi?”
“Much, Highness. I have learned about human weapons and seen what they have. Highness, we have not seen a tenth of what they can do.” The near-panic in Lakheenahuknaasi’s mind-voice was evident. “The deadliest weapons they have are still unknown to us.”
“But you have learned how to make them?”
“Highness, I have learned we cannot make them. The instructions in the magic tome are here but they are full of things we do not understand. And when we look up the things we do not understand, those descriptions also are filled with things we do not comprehend. Everywhere we look, we are faced with the impossible. All I have studied has shown us how little we know, and what we do not know will kill us. Above all, Highness, know this. The humans have no magic. None at all.”
“Impossible. We have seen what their magery does.”
“No Highness, we have seen what their machines can do. They have no magic, in fact, the best and cleverest of the humans laugh at the very idea of magic. They say it is a foolish game to amuse little children. They call it conjuring and those who practice it do not pretend it is anything but trickery. The humans have no magic, so they build machines to do magical things for them. And those machines are what destroy us. Highness. I will say more. There is no magic, for I no longer believe we have magic either. There are simply things we do not understand.”
“Very good Lakheenahuknaasi. Anything else?”
“Yes, Highness. Our Lord was wrong when he said there were a few great places that build the human machines. There are not. The places that make human machines are everywhere and now they all build weapons. What we face is not a stockpile that has been built up over thousands of human years but what they produce today. We cannot destroy them by striking at their production, we must strike their leadership.”
“And do you know where that is?”
“Yes. In a city called London. A place called Pah-Lee-Amant.”
Four Leagues West of Belial’s Stronghold, Tartaruan Range, Northern Region of Hell
Memnon settled back and closed his eyes. He was almost gray with exhaustion, but he’d made it up and found a good place to hide. One concealed from Belial’s stronghold yet with good observation points near to it. Now, all he had to do was to make contact.
Hello, humans. Can anybody answer? This is Memnon speaking.
Memnon? Where are you? Is anything wrong?
Memnon stirred with pleasure; it was the human female with the rich mind-voice that sounded like water running over stones. The one who had praised his earlier efforts. Nothing wrong, I just wished to report that I have reached Belial’s stronghold. I am four leagues west of it now and ready to receive the humans.
There was a startled silence at the other end. Wow. You must have moved very fast. Well done, Memnon. You wait until I tell the Generals this, they’ll want to give you a medal or something. How are your wings?
Memnon was happy, at hearing praise again, and at the fact, that one of his masters cared about his health. They ache but they will be better with rest. I had to get here fast so I could arrive when the light dimmed. Nobody will have seen me come.”
That’s great. I’ll get word that you’re in place out, we’ll open a portal to you soon.
Memnon relaxed back on his rock and got ready to doze. His wings hurt and he was hungry, but he didn’t care.
Recreational Hall, Camp Hell-Alpha, Hell
“McElroy? McElroy?”
“Here, Sir.” The Special Forces Lieutenant looked a bit harassed; he’d been told to find the dead sergeant quickly and it had taken longer than he had expected. And in any case, he felt awkward speaking to somebody who was dead. It was something a lot of people were going to have to get used to.
“Get your team together. Quickly, the mission is a go. Get your kit as well, we’ll be gating you to Earth and then to your operational location. Be at the portal hut in twenty minutes.”
“Very good Sir.” McElroy saluted, mentally debating whether he could get away with saluting with the wrong hand and explaining it as being one of the curious effects of being dead. Not worth trying, he decided. Not now at any rate. The Lieutenant, now definitely relieved, vanished in the direction of the command hut.
“Cassidy, DeVanzo and Walsch. Get the rest of the team together, we’re moving out. Mikkelson, get a work detail, draw our gear, and get it over to the portal hut. Let’s roll guys, we’re on our way.”
McElroy turned and headed for the door, almost bumping into a figure as he went. He stopped for a second, hardly recognizing the man in the red-mottled BDUs. “Hey, Aeneas, how goes things?”
“Not fit work for a man. Teaching scholars about what really went on in Sparta and Thermopylae. One of them insulted Queen Gorgo and when I disciplined him, there was much trouble over that.”
McElroy was fascinated. “Disciplined him? How?”
“He wrote lies about our Queen. So, I broke every bone in his writing hand. I thought it was only just, but the others were most displeased with me. I wish I were going with you and the rest of the gang.”
“I wish you and Ori were coming but the brass says otherwise. This is a modern-soldier job. Where is Ori by the way?”
“Teaching some Japanese about the way of life in his era.” Aeneas shook his head. “The ideas you people have are so strange, when they speak of us it is like we see ourselves in a mirror coated with mist. The form is there, but the details…. Anyway, take care, my friend. I will tell Ori that you remembered him. And kill baldricks.”
McElroy left and ran over to his quarters, picking up the bankroll he had won at poker over the last few days. One thing that didn’t change was the laws of chance and the fact that people couldn’t understand the mathematics of odds. He had a nice roll of bills for his family, enough to keep them going anyway.
By the time he got to the portal hut, his team was assembled, eight modern soldiers, all dead, none more than twenty years ago. All loaded down with the electronics gear for the mission.
“Ready to go everybody? You know the drill, spot Belial’s fortress, then set up the navigation beacon and wait for the B-1s. No fighting, no hunting, no shooting except if we get discovered.”
There was a series of nods, then a pasty-faced, sulky-looking man settled back on the portal generation couch. There was a quick hum and the familiar black ellipse opened.
“That’s quick.” McElroy was impressed.
“Our gear’s a lot better than the early versions, and it’s easy to push a portal through from this side. You wait, tomorrow we’re opening a portal big enough to bring a carrier through.” The technical sergeant grinned. “I’ve even heard that Enterprise is being fitted to generate her own portals.”
McElroy stepped through the ellipse and found himself in the hangar. Once again, a few families were there to greet the relatives they’d never thought they would see again. McElroy found his brother and slipped him the roll of cash. A few hugs and back-slaps later, he was on his way back. An Indian woman in a royal blue sari was taken to the technical operators.
“Excuse me, you must be Indira Singh. I’m Tucker McElroy. I’m sorry to trouble you, but do you know how Kitten is?”
“It is no trouble, Tucker. Kitten is doing well; she had her last operation three days ago and is recovering properly in the best hospital money can buy. She has many visitors, she is something of a hero for the way she held the portals open by herself while other sensitives were being located. She is much honored.”
“Operation? Nobody told us she was sick as well as suffering from keeping the portals open. What was the matter with her?”
“Oh she was not ill, but she completed her gender reassignment surgery. Because of her efforts, the governments picked up the charges to make sure she had the very best.” Singh looked at the shock on McElroys’s face. “You did not know that Kitten was a trans-sexual?”
“No.” McElroy was aghast. In his pocket was a long letter he had written to Kitten, expressing his gratitude for all she had gone through on his behalf. Then to find out she was a……… McElroy stopped himself, hard. She still had gone through all that hadn’t she, still suffered so the people she was supporting in hell could get the tools they needed to stay free and out of torment. How dare he criticize her when she’d done all that? Inbred prejudice and irrational bigotry warred with McElroy’s reason and sense of justice. Reason and justice won out and he reached into a pocket. “Indira, could you see Kitten gets this, please. And send her our love, that’s from all of us. Tell her we’ll never forget what she did for us, and we hope we’ll see her again but if we don’t, we hope she’ll be very happy. And tell her she won’t worry about going to hell anymore because she’ll have lots of friends there ready to look after her.”
His team assembled, and McElroy looked around. Singh was already on the portal-opening couch, searching for Memnon’s mind. She found it and locked on. Then she started to shudder as the electronic equipment opened the portal. McElroy stepped through and found himself back in Hell, but in a vastly different Hell from his previous experience. The mountains were stark, mostly volcanic, but the valleys between them were covered with vegetation, green and purple. It was warm and relatively pleasant, even the choking dust of Hell was less pronounced here. In front of him, the hulking black shape of Memnon was looking at him curiously.
“Sergeant (deceased) Tucker McElroy. We’ll take over the surveillance from here. You are Memnon, aren’t you?”
“I am.” Memnon was amused by the way the question had come last. Humans were so confident their machines would work. “I must brief you on this area and where are the things you seek. Then I must fly back to Dysprosium.”
“Why don’t you portal back? We can open a gate easily enough. Just rest up until the next scheduled contact and then we’ll gate you back. No need to work harder than you must.”
Memnon thought it over. He’d assumed he would just fly back but the human was right. There was no need to, not now. The humans had a staging point near Belial’s fortress, why should he fly?
The Collegium of Fornessa, City of Dis, Hell
“You have heard the fate of Beelzebub?” Deumos sat elegantly in the luxurious seat she had brought with her.
“That he had been defeated, yes.”
“Not defeated. Killed. In an attack by human aircraft. They shot him with their cannon and blew him up with their missiles. He died like an orc, sniveling and weak.”
Dagon looked around at the decaying building that housed the meeting. He needed time to think over the news that Beelzebub had followed Asmodeus into the void. Followed him and all the others. The ranks of the Hell aristocracy had been thinned in a way none could remember. Not even the Great Celestial War had caused carnage like this. So, he decided to stall for that time. “Why must we meet here? In this disgusting place overrun with orcs?”
Deumos recognized the stall for what it was and knew she had shocked the Great Duke. Time to answer a question with a question. “And where is Satan?”
“He moves from place to place, hiding from the humans and their aircraft. Never stays in the same place long for fear of them finding him and sending their bombers after him.”
“Satan fears the humans. Yet he asks us to fight them while he runs and hides.”
“Lady, those words are treasonous.”
“Does that make them untrue? How many millions have died already? I know you don’t know, so I will tell you. More than 3,5000,000. Of Beelzebub’s army, 476 legions, only 39,000 survive of the more than 3 million who set out. The rest are rotting on the banks of the Phlegethon River. And the humans advance on Dis even while we sit here speaking.”
Deumos’s words were interrupted by the howl of jet fighters overhead. Both Great Dukes paused and looked up. The jet noise receded and was followed by the dull sound of explosions, a long way off. Somebody had just been bombed. The noise did not cause any great surprise, the sounds of human aircraft and their deadly cargoes were familiar. Familiar but still terrifying.
“And their aircraft fly over Dis without opposition.” Deumos smiled briefly. “And what are your plans Dagon.”
“I have been ordered to fight. To attack the human armies. Those orders still stand.” Dagon was uncomfortable, he had chosen to sit far away from Deumos, by an open window so the air gods would protect him from the strange magic that the Succubae used to bend others to their will.
“You will fight.” There was a note of derision in Deumos’s voice. “To what end? How will your army achieve that which eluded Beelzebub?”
“I do not know.”
“I do. You will fight, you will lose, your army will be destroyed, and you will be killed. The end. Have you learned anything? The humans are the Lords of War, they cannot be defeated. They squash our armies with casual ease, and they still hold back the most powerful and deadly of their weapons. For every move we make, they have a counter, already sitting in their arsenal, ready to be used.”
“But Yahweh?”
“You think Yahweh will aid us? He will sit and watch Hell and Human fight until one is gone, then he will attack the survivor. That is what humans think, it is what I and my Succubae think, and we can be very sure it is what Yahweh thinks. And the end of Hell is coming fast Dagon. It is days away, perhaps weeks at most. Have you heard the news from the pit?” Dagon shook his head. “An entire army, ten legions that were once part of the host of Asmodeus, have rebelled. They have declared their fealty to the humans and attacked those who would make war on the humans. In the pit, humans and demons now fight side by side, as allies. A great area of the pit, a segment of the Fifth Ring, and a smaller section of the Sixth are now in human hands and those still faithful to Satan die if they go there. That area spreads hourly as the humans rescue their dead and many of them join the human army. Free Hell, they call it.”
The demons rebelled and joined the humans. It seemed incomprehensible. Not just joining the humans but doing so as the junior partners in the alliance. Dagon shook his head, Deumos was right, Hell was dying. His mind ran over the options available to his army. They were few indeed and all of them led to death.
“What do you suggest Lady?” Dagon asked the question, but he knew the answer.
“The humans hold Satan responsible for what has happened here. The legions in the pit have the right answer and we must follow their example. We must make peace with the humans; we must pay whatever price they ask for that peace. And the first thing they ask will be Satan’s head. Detached from the rest of his body and very, very dead. You have said how Satan moves around too much for the humans to catch him. So, we must do the deed. Kill him and set up new rulership in hell, one that can make peace with the humans.”
“With you as ruler.” Dagon’s voice was openly scornful. The Succubae were despised, and the idea of one ruling Hell was unthinkable. Most demons would die rather than allow it.
“Of course not. I am not stupid Dagon; I know what will be accepted and what will not. I cannot be ruler in Hell. But you Dagon, you can be. You are one of the very few surviving Great Dukes, you have your army to keep order. You have not fought the humans yet, they do not know much about you. We can turn that to our advantage. For we must make you acceptable to the humans, a leader they can accept.”
Ruler of Hell, successor to Satan Mekratrig. Dagon rolled the idea around in his mind. It beat inevitable death on the battlefield. “And how shall we do that, Lady?”
“The humans are driven by the way we treat their dead. So, we try to show you did what you could to help them We will set up an underground movement, we will call it.” Deumos ran the information Lugasharmanaska had sent her, searching for a suitable name. “Demons for the Ethical Treatment of Humans”. We will forge documents, and information, to show the humans we were trying to stop the torment of Hell and have been doing so for many years. Humans will see these and accept us. And make you the new ruler of Hell. All that we need is for Satan to die.”
Dagon ran the picture through his mind, then came across a great block that stood in the way. “But without the life energy from humans, how do we ascend to the next level. Satan collects it, it is our tribute to him. He uses it to boost us to the next level when we die. What will happen when he is gone.”
“Then we will control the human life energy. And we can use the existing energy stored for our own ends, to cement the allegiance of those underneath us. And we will make an agreement with the humans, we will continue to milk the energy from some and release the rest. They will agree to that.”
Dagon nodded. “It is agreed, Lady. Now, how do we make this fine-sounding plan reality?”
Belial’s Stronghold, Tartaruan Range, Northern Region of Hell
Euryale smoothed lotion on her burns and relaxed on her couch. Quietly, she closed her eyes and sent her mind searching for Lakheenahuknaasi. She found the mind she sought and opened contact, feeling the mind-voice in her head, sensed the respect tempered with ambition.
“What have you learned Lakheenahuknaasi?”
“Much, Highness. I have learned about human weapons and seen what they have. Highness, we have not seen a tenth of what they can do.” The near-panic in Lakheenahuknaasi’s mind-voice was evident. “The deadliest weapons they have are still unknown to us.”
“But you have learned how to make them?”
“Highness, I have learned we cannot make them. The instructions in the magic tome are here but they are full of things we do not understand. And when we look up the things we do not understand, those descriptions also are filled with things we do not comprehend. Everywhere we look, we are faced with the impossible. All I have studied has shown us how little we know, and what we do not know will kill us. Above all, Highness, know this. The humans have no magic. None at all.”
“Impossible. We have seen what their magery does.”
“No Highness, we have seen what their machines can do. They have no magic, in fact, the best and cleverest of the humans laugh at the very idea of magic. They say it is a foolish game to amuse little children. They call it conjuring and those who practice it do not pretend it is anything but trickery. The humans have no magic, so they build machines to do magical things for them. And those machines are what destroy us. Highness. I will say more. There is no magic, for I no longer believe we have magic either. There are simply things we do not understand.”
“Very good Lakheenahuknaasi. Anything else?”
“Yes, Highness. Our Lord was wrong when he said there were a few great places that build the human machines. There are not. The places that make human machines are everywhere and now they all build weapons. What we face is not a stockpile that has been built up over thousands of human years but what they produce today. We cannot destroy them by striking at their production, we must strike their leadership.”
“And do you know where that is?”
“Yes. In a city called London. A place called Pah-Lee-Amant.”
Re: 2008 - Armageddon
Chapter Seventy-Three
Vulcan XH-558, Over Western Iraq.
XH558 was flying her first operational sortie since returning to RAF service, a survey flight of Hell. With her long endurance, she could stay on station for a long time and increase humanity’s knowledge of the geography of Hell. Wing Commander Winters was quietly proud of what the British had achieved in mobilizing their air force, pulling it back from the shadow it had nearly become to a viable multi-role force with a seriously destructive capability. They had managed to put a higher percentage of their museum and reserve aircraft back into service than the Spams had managed. Winters wondered if that meant that British museums kept their exhibits in better condition or that the RAF was simply that much more desperate? Even the old Swordfish from the Battle of Britain Flight was back on duty, patrolling over coastal cities in case a Gorgon turned up to open the skies and pour lava over them. There was a joke running around, if one of the amphibious baldricks turned up, it would get an 18-inch airborne torpedo right where it hurt most.
While the other three Vulcans, XL426, XM584, and XM603 were being loaded up with 1,000lb bombs in preparation for bombing missions in support of British troops in Hell, XH-558 had received a different fit. In the forward part of the bomb bay was a reconnaissance crate containing a number of different radars, IR, and visual sensors which would record the ground conditions below the bomber. They would record to digital storage in the aircraft but could also download to ground stations. As well as the ultra-modern sensors in the bomb bay the Vulcan would be using its H2S bombing radar and a digital video camera someone had installed in the visual bomb aiming blister. Two air sampling pods were also being carried under the wings.
Unlike the Americans, the RAF had not bothered to alter the tactical camouflage schemes of its aircraft, yet. They did not have the manpower to spare now, and to be honest, were not really convinced that it was necessary. The most they were willing to do was to paint the two TSR.2s into a similar two-tone grey to that worn by the Tornado GR.4 and Buccaneer S.2B and they hadn’t even done that yet. The aircraft had carried out their first strikes in their gleaming white prototype paint. Repainting the Vulcans wasn’t even on the cards, so the Vulcans were still resplendent in their green and grey wrap-around tactical schemes.
In the aft portion of the bomb bay was an additional fuel tank to reduce the aircraft’s dependence on air-to-air refueling, something that had not yet been practiced in Hell, at least not by the RAF. That was about to change. The Spams were counting on aerial refueling to get their bombers all the way up to Belial’s stronghold and they needed a test of the system to see whether it worked. XH-558 had got that job as well. Plus, one or two more. The Vulcan currently had its H2S radar radiating as it closed with a tanker aircraft to top up its tanks before entering the Hellmouth. The first of three planned refuelings, two of which would take place in hell itself.
“You should see her soon, Skipper.” The Radar Navigator, Squadron Leader James Bolam reported.
Wing Commander Winters strained his eyes to see their tanker, reflecting on the fact that his eyesight was not quite as good as it had once been. There, he spotted an object ahead of them trailing a vapor trail.
“I’ve got her, Jimmy, shut down the radar so that we don’t microwave the crew,” Winter said.
“Right, David, let’s see if we can put all that refueling practice to practical use.”
“X-Ray Hotel Five, Five Eight, this is Spartan One, is that you lighting up my ECM display, over?” A voice in Winters’ and Maxwell’s ears said rather unexpectedly.
“Yes it’s me, Spartan One, good to hear your voice, Stu; I’d heard that you were back flying tankers,” Winters replied. “Are you ready to give me some fuel, over?”
“Yup, we have the center hose trailing, now be gentle with me.” The tanker pilot replied, using a feminine voice to finish the sentence.
As XH558 closed in on the tanker it revealed itself as hemp painted Victor K.2, in this case, XL231, Lusty Linda / Spirit of Godfrey Lee. The Victor was one of the many RAF aircraft that had been forward deployed to Basra airport, it had seemed appropriate to refuel one V-bomber with another one.
While Winters carefully lined up the Vulcan behind the Victor Maxwell maintained careful control of the throttles. The refueling probe contacted the basket the first time and the transfer began, though as usual aviation fuel leaked over the bomber’s canopy, partially obscuring the view. This was a problem that had first arisen during the ‘Black Buck’ missions of the Falklands War. The RAF engineers had never quite found out yet why the probes, which had been perfectly serviceable in the nineteen sixties until they had been removed, should now leak fuel like it was going out of fashion.
“Ooh, you are a big boy.” A sultry female voice said over the radio.
Winters looked at Maxwell somewhat surprised. Below him, he could hear the rest of the crew roaring with laughter.
“Ah, do you have a split, sorry female crew member, Stu?” He asked.
“Wouldn’t you like to know, lover?” The same voice said.
“Err…can we land somewhere soon, Boss.” The Tactical navigator said, choking back laughter. “I think I need to visit the bog.”
“I’m not landing so you can knock one out, Flight Lieutenant Pervert,” Winter replied laughing.
Once the tanks were filled up again Winters dropped back and took station off Victor’s port wing.
“Thanks for the top-up, Stu. I think we’re going to need it, over.”
“You’re welcome, Martin. Good luck, I would say ‘see you in Hell’, but I think that would be inappropriate, over.”
“See you when we come back out.”
Twenty minutes later, systems check complete, Winters and Maxwell stared at the dark ellipse of the Hellmouth. They had seen it on footage from UAVs and combat aircraft and had it described by fellow RAF aircrew, but nothing really prepared them for the sight if the thing itself. Maxwell throttled back and engaged the filters that would protect the Olympus engines from the various kinds of filth found at low levels in Hell.
“Oh well, here goes nothing.” Winters said as the Hellmouth began to fill his forward vision. “Hold onto your hats, lads.”
The change from the skies of Earth to Hell was sudden and rather unexpected, catching both Winters and Maxwell by surprise. There was no transition, one moment the Vulcan was in the clear blue skies of Iraq, the next in the red, cloudy murk of Hell. The Vulcan was already starting to climb when they saw another old aircraft making its landing run on the airfield at Hell-Alpha. One of the B-29s the Spams had brought back into service for second-line work. Both pilots peered hard at the veteran, but it was too far away, and the air was too foul to make out its name. They’d heard the Enola Gay was back in service and wondered if it had been her.
That made Winters reflect on something he had seen just before launching from RAF Akrotiri. Two Globemaster C.1s; the new fifth and six aircraft; of 99 Squadron had landed and taxied to a remote part of the air station where they had been placed under heavy RAF Police and Regiment guard. Rumor had it that their cargo consisted of ‘special weapons’ and having seen the level of security Winter had no doubt that for once the rumors were true. It was logical of course, he did know that someone in the MoD had realized that it would be somewhat difficult to use the navy’s Trident missiles against Hell, so some of the Trident warheads had been remanufactured into free-fall bombs. AWRE Aldermaston and ROF Burghfield had used the most recent design of weapons as the basis of these new ones – the WE.177A/B/C, and they were also working on a warhead for an extended-range version of the Storm Shadow.
Hellmouth Air Traffic Control Center, Camp Hell-Alpha, Hell
Sergeant Stephanie ‘Stevie’ Moss liked being an Air Traffic Controller. It gave her a real feeling of power over the officers that flew the RAF’s aircraft. To help manage the flow of aircraft around the Hellmouth Number 1 Air Control Center had deployed a Type 101 radar and a Tactical Air Control Center. Some of the ATC staff were less than pleased to be deployed to Hell, but Moss did not mind, it would be the first chance for her to earn a campaign medal, and besides they did have the entirety of 1 Squadron, RAF Regiment defending the radar site, so she was not particularly worried.
She watched as the blip she had been expecting appeared out of the Hellmouth.
“X-Ray Five, Five, Eight, this is GCI. Welcome to Hell, gentlemen. You are clear to climb to operational altitude, over. Always keep alert, the air here is crowded, and poor visibility means you will have very little warning of any aircraft out of their approved flight path.” Most pilots were doing their best in the unfamiliar conditions but there were some who just did what they wanted and left everybody else to sort out the problems.
Vulcan XH-558, Over Hell
It was reassuring to hear a familiar accent from ground control. “Thank you, GCI, climbing to cruising altitude, over.”
As expected at 28,000 feet the Vulcan broke through the clag and Squadron Leader Maxwell pulled back on the lever that opened the filters. The power from the engines surged and the bomber immediately began to climb more rapidly, up to its operational ceiling of 55,000 feet.
“Okay, open the bomb bay doors. Time to start our Cranberry impression.”
Underneath, the mapping radars scanned through the murk and started to record the terrain that lay under the reddish fog that masked Hell. The minutes ticked past and turned into hours as the maps were generated, watching his displays Winters wondered how long it would be before there was a Google-Hell to partner Google-Earth. Even the thought suggested to him that Hell had irreversibly changed since The Message had arrived eight long months ago; no matter what happened in the war, it would never be the same again. While the radar system mapped the ground hidden in the murk below, the optical equipment started measuring the density of the dust suspended in the atmosphere, trying to gauge the size of the plume that extended from the giant caldera that formed the hell-pit. Above them, the sky was a red glare, no sign of anything to break the uniform light. Or to indicate what the light was for that matter, a problem that was believed to have given several physicists nervous breakdowns.
“Any sign of anything interesting down there?” Winters nodded towards the H2S display. As primarily a bombing radar, it was good at picking up the rectangles of habitations. Human ones anyway, yet another reason for this flight. Nobody really knows how the baldricks lived. Did they have houses? Or live in caves? Nobody really knew.
Maxwell shook his head. “Nothing. This place seems almost unoccupied apart from the concentration around Dis.” He looked down at the flight instrumentation. “Time for a tank-up Boss.”
‘Dropping down to 30,000 feet. That’ll be above the clag, but the tanker should be able to manage it. Who have we got?
Maxwell looked at the roster. “Lion-Oh-Three. Singapore Air Force KC-135. I’ve got his beacon up.”
“Fair enough, I’ll give him a bell.”
The refueling went efficiently enough, without the backchat that distinguished the RAF-only refueling hookups. Winters got the impression that the Singapore Air Force crew were going out of their way to seem professional and efficient on this, Hell’s first aerial refueling. Other than the inevitable fuel leak, the hook-up went fine, and the tanker peeled away to return to its base back on Earth.
“Humorless lot aren’t they.” Winters was relaxing as XH-558 climbed back to her operational altitude. “Still, coming from a country where one must get a police permit before chewing gum…”
“Is that true? I thought it was an urban legend.” Maxwell stopped suddenly. “Whoa, now that’s one thing we wanted to see. The beacon is up.”
Sure enough, the navigation display showed a bright light far to the north of them. The beacon was set up by a Special Undead Forces team to steer the heavy bombers to their target. Winters didn’t hesitate. “Control, this is XH-558. We have the Belial Beacon on our display. We read location as….” He hesitated and read the numbers on the display. “Have you got that? Then tell the spams their Bones are in business.”
Market Place. City of Dis, Hell
Yellithanakstra went around the stalls in the market, looking for food for herself and her mate. And their kidling of course. Sometimes she had to remember that there were more than just the two of them now. There were some small food beasts around, but the choice had dropped dramatically. Word was spreading across Dis despite the efforts of the surviving Dukes to stop it, Beelzebub’s army had been smashed, and destroyed. The humans had slaughtered his forces just as efficiently as they had destroyed those of Abigor. Now they were spreading out, surrounding the city, slowly cutting it off from its sources of supply. As they did so, their aircraft were pounding targets across the city.
Even as she thought of the humans and their machines, a wailing noise erupted from the roofs and walls of the city. The watchers had seen more human aircraft coming in and were blowing their horns to warn the demons in the city to take cover. Yellithanakstra looked around, some of the demons here were already scrambling for cover, trying to hide under abutments and arches from the bombs that would soon be raining down. The older hands, like Yellithanakstra, didn’t bother. The human aircraft, she rolled the new word around on her tongue, might be fast but they were incredibly accurate. Their bombs, another new word to savor, always hit the targets they were aimed at. Mostly the palaces of the powerful dukes, the barracks where their legions lived, and the fields where they trained. They never scattered their bombs at random across the city. Yellithanakstra wondered that, if they did, just bombed at random, they could create panic and chaos in Dis.
She looked at the aircraft approaching fast. Big aircraft with strange wings that could flap forwards and backward. Their camouflage made them hard to see against the red-gray sky, but she caught a brief glimpse of the red stars on the wings and tails of the four aircraft. Then they were overhead, their howl making her head shake, and she saw them bank before releasing a rain of bombs. Underneath them, the palace of Naberius disintegrated into a cloud of dust shrouding a pile of collapsing stone. The humans weren’t perfect, she thought, Naberius had been killed when Satan’s own palace had been bombed. Or perhaps they had decided to destroy the palace anyway in case somebody had taken Naberius’s place.
Yellithanakstra sighed and started to return to her home. Her mate would be off duty soon, returning from the walls where he and his legion were waiting for the human assault they knew had to come. Demon armies fighting humans in the open had been destroyed. Would they have any better luck fighting from behind stone walls? She was so absorbed with her worries and the sight of the human bombers flying effortlessly overhead that she never saw the wooden pole being pushed out from behind a cart. It was beautifully timed, going between her legs and catching her feet, sending her sprawling to the ground.
For a second, she lay there, on the cobblestones, stunned by her fall. When she had collected her wits, she started to get up again but a violent blow to the back of her head sent her back to the ground. Half-stunned, she looked around and saw greenish, scaly legs surrounding her. Bewildered, she looked more and realized she was surrounded by a group of orcs, almost a dozen of them, all carrying heavy clubs. They were jabbering at each other, rattling away in a language she couldn’t understand. Orcs never spoke in the presence of a demon, to do so was to invite death and so few demons understood orcish. Whatever the argument was about, one of the orcs solved it by taking his club and swinging down, hitting Yellithanakstra on the back.
She screamed in rage and tried to summon up magic to drive them away, but the rest had been encouraged by the success of the attack and they joined in, swinging their clubs down on her with all the force they could manage. Yellithanakstra felt the bones in her body breaking with the impacts. The ones to her head driving away from her the ability to concentrate for the generation of magic or even to think. She tried to crawl away, but the orcs followed her, still battering her with their clubs. Eventually, she collapsed, her body shaking as the street faded away from her sight.
The orcs looked down on the body of their victim, a few still taking a few last swings although the demon was obviously dead. Then, they heard other demons running toward them and they scattered, running through the narrow alleyways and into the drains. Soon, they would gather and try and set up another ambush for an unwary demon.
Al Sahra Airfield, Iraq
”What a show, what a fight,
we really hit our target for tonight,
though with one engine gone we will still carry on
coming in on a wing but with flair.
The chorus of the old song reverberated around the beams of the mess. Al Sahra had been one of Saddam Hussein’s bases, now it was the home of the B-1Bs of the 128th Bomb Squadron, Georgia Air National Guard. Major Curtis Trafford gave out a cheer as the song ended and he finished off his drink. Coca Cola as it happened since he was on alert, waiting for the word to come that the beacon was up and the strike waiting in the dispersal areas could head off for Beelzebub’s fortress. Six B-1s, two of them were carrying the massive EBU-5(1) Mod.1 bomb intended to close off the portals showering lava onto Sheffield and Detroit. The other four were loaded down with conventional bombs, some unitary penetrators designed to knock down fortifications, others anti-personnel bomblets to slaughter any baldricks caught in the open.
“Attention, your attention please.” General Graydon was standing on a chair at the end of the room. A dangerous thing to do in a mess full of rowdy pilots. “We have just heard from the Brits, a Vulcan they have up has picked up the beacon from Tartarus. The raid is on. All assigned crews, report to your aircraft. The tankers are already taking off. You have already had your briefings, be ready to follow them. Thank you.” Graydon stood down and left the room.
Across the mess, the 24 crewmen assigned to the strike quietly got up and left, collecting back-slaps and salutes as they went. Trafford followed them, out to where Dragon Slayer was waiting. The mission was a complex one, already tankers would be converging on the strike route, some to refuel the B-1s, others to refuel the tankers. It took 14 tankers to get each of the B-1s to their target and back and more than a few of those tankers would be flying two missions. It was a 22,000-mile flight in total, making this the longest-range bombing mission that had ever been attempted. It was one for the history books, and it was one to avenge Detroit.
Trafford started to climb into his aircraft then stopped halfway in, reaching out to pat the airframe. “Well, honey-bunny, we’re on our way at last.”
Vulcan XH-558, Over Western Iraq.
XH558 was flying her first operational sortie since returning to RAF service, a survey flight of Hell. With her long endurance, she could stay on station for a long time and increase humanity’s knowledge of the geography of Hell. Wing Commander Winters was quietly proud of what the British had achieved in mobilizing their air force, pulling it back from the shadow it had nearly become to a viable multi-role force with a seriously destructive capability. They had managed to put a higher percentage of their museum and reserve aircraft back into service than the Spams had managed. Winters wondered if that meant that British museums kept their exhibits in better condition or that the RAF was simply that much more desperate? Even the old Swordfish from the Battle of Britain Flight was back on duty, patrolling over coastal cities in case a Gorgon turned up to open the skies and pour lava over them. There was a joke running around, if one of the amphibious baldricks turned up, it would get an 18-inch airborne torpedo right where it hurt most.
While the other three Vulcans, XL426, XM584, and XM603 were being loaded up with 1,000lb bombs in preparation for bombing missions in support of British troops in Hell, XH-558 had received a different fit. In the forward part of the bomb bay was a reconnaissance crate containing a number of different radars, IR, and visual sensors which would record the ground conditions below the bomber. They would record to digital storage in the aircraft but could also download to ground stations. As well as the ultra-modern sensors in the bomb bay the Vulcan would be using its H2S bombing radar and a digital video camera someone had installed in the visual bomb aiming blister. Two air sampling pods were also being carried under the wings.
Unlike the Americans, the RAF had not bothered to alter the tactical camouflage schemes of its aircraft, yet. They did not have the manpower to spare now, and to be honest, were not really convinced that it was necessary. The most they were willing to do was to paint the two TSR.2s into a similar two-tone grey to that worn by the Tornado GR.4 and Buccaneer S.2B and they hadn’t even done that yet. The aircraft had carried out their first strikes in their gleaming white prototype paint. Repainting the Vulcans wasn’t even on the cards, so the Vulcans were still resplendent in their green and grey wrap-around tactical schemes.
In the aft portion of the bomb bay was an additional fuel tank to reduce the aircraft’s dependence on air-to-air refueling, something that had not yet been practiced in Hell, at least not by the RAF. That was about to change. The Spams were counting on aerial refueling to get their bombers all the way up to Belial’s stronghold and they needed a test of the system to see whether it worked. XH-558 had got that job as well. Plus, one or two more. The Vulcan currently had its H2S radar radiating as it closed with a tanker aircraft to top up its tanks before entering the Hellmouth. The first of three planned refuelings, two of which would take place in hell itself.
“You should see her soon, Skipper.” The Radar Navigator, Squadron Leader James Bolam reported.
Wing Commander Winters strained his eyes to see their tanker, reflecting on the fact that his eyesight was not quite as good as it had once been. There, he spotted an object ahead of them trailing a vapor trail.
“I’ve got her, Jimmy, shut down the radar so that we don’t microwave the crew,” Winter said.
“Right, David, let’s see if we can put all that refueling practice to practical use.”
“X-Ray Hotel Five, Five Eight, this is Spartan One, is that you lighting up my ECM display, over?” A voice in Winters’ and Maxwell’s ears said rather unexpectedly.
“Yes it’s me, Spartan One, good to hear your voice, Stu; I’d heard that you were back flying tankers,” Winters replied. “Are you ready to give me some fuel, over?”
“Yup, we have the center hose trailing, now be gentle with me.” The tanker pilot replied, using a feminine voice to finish the sentence.
As XH558 closed in on the tanker it revealed itself as hemp painted Victor K.2, in this case, XL231, Lusty Linda / Spirit of Godfrey Lee. The Victor was one of the many RAF aircraft that had been forward deployed to Basra airport, it had seemed appropriate to refuel one V-bomber with another one.
While Winters carefully lined up the Vulcan behind the Victor Maxwell maintained careful control of the throttles. The refueling probe contacted the basket the first time and the transfer began, though as usual aviation fuel leaked over the bomber’s canopy, partially obscuring the view. This was a problem that had first arisen during the ‘Black Buck’ missions of the Falklands War. The RAF engineers had never quite found out yet why the probes, which had been perfectly serviceable in the nineteen sixties until they had been removed, should now leak fuel like it was going out of fashion.
“Ooh, you are a big boy.” A sultry female voice said over the radio.
Winters looked at Maxwell somewhat surprised. Below him, he could hear the rest of the crew roaring with laughter.
“Ah, do you have a split, sorry female crew member, Stu?” He asked.
“Wouldn’t you like to know, lover?” The same voice said.
“Err…can we land somewhere soon, Boss.” The Tactical navigator said, choking back laughter. “I think I need to visit the bog.”
“I’m not landing so you can knock one out, Flight Lieutenant Pervert,” Winter replied laughing.
Once the tanks were filled up again Winters dropped back and took station off Victor’s port wing.
“Thanks for the top-up, Stu. I think we’re going to need it, over.”
“You’re welcome, Martin. Good luck, I would say ‘see you in Hell’, but I think that would be inappropriate, over.”
“See you when we come back out.”
Twenty minutes later, systems check complete, Winters and Maxwell stared at the dark ellipse of the Hellmouth. They had seen it on footage from UAVs and combat aircraft and had it described by fellow RAF aircrew, but nothing really prepared them for the sight if the thing itself. Maxwell throttled back and engaged the filters that would protect the Olympus engines from the various kinds of filth found at low levels in Hell.
“Oh well, here goes nothing.” Winters said as the Hellmouth began to fill his forward vision. “Hold onto your hats, lads.”
The change from the skies of Earth to Hell was sudden and rather unexpected, catching both Winters and Maxwell by surprise. There was no transition, one moment the Vulcan was in the clear blue skies of Iraq, the next in the red, cloudy murk of Hell. The Vulcan was already starting to climb when they saw another old aircraft making its landing run on the airfield at Hell-Alpha. One of the B-29s the Spams had brought back into service for second-line work. Both pilots peered hard at the veteran, but it was too far away, and the air was too foul to make out its name. They’d heard the Enola Gay was back in service and wondered if it had been her.
That made Winters reflect on something he had seen just before launching from RAF Akrotiri. Two Globemaster C.1s; the new fifth and six aircraft; of 99 Squadron had landed and taxied to a remote part of the air station where they had been placed under heavy RAF Police and Regiment guard. Rumor had it that their cargo consisted of ‘special weapons’ and having seen the level of security Winter had no doubt that for once the rumors were true. It was logical of course, he did know that someone in the MoD had realized that it would be somewhat difficult to use the navy’s Trident missiles against Hell, so some of the Trident warheads had been remanufactured into free-fall bombs. AWRE Aldermaston and ROF Burghfield had used the most recent design of weapons as the basis of these new ones – the WE.177A/B/C, and they were also working on a warhead for an extended-range version of the Storm Shadow.
Hellmouth Air Traffic Control Center, Camp Hell-Alpha, Hell
Sergeant Stephanie ‘Stevie’ Moss liked being an Air Traffic Controller. It gave her a real feeling of power over the officers that flew the RAF’s aircraft. To help manage the flow of aircraft around the Hellmouth Number 1 Air Control Center had deployed a Type 101 radar and a Tactical Air Control Center. Some of the ATC staff were less than pleased to be deployed to Hell, but Moss did not mind, it would be the first chance for her to earn a campaign medal, and besides they did have the entirety of 1 Squadron, RAF Regiment defending the radar site, so she was not particularly worried.
She watched as the blip she had been expecting appeared out of the Hellmouth.
“X-Ray Five, Five, Eight, this is GCI. Welcome to Hell, gentlemen. You are clear to climb to operational altitude, over. Always keep alert, the air here is crowded, and poor visibility means you will have very little warning of any aircraft out of their approved flight path.” Most pilots were doing their best in the unfamiliar conditions but there were some who just did what they wanted and left everybody else to sort out the problems.
Vulcan XH-558, Over Hell
It was reassuring to hear a familiar accent from ground control. “Thank you, GCI, climbing to cruising altitude, over.”
As expected at 28,000 feet the Vulcan broke through the clag and Squadron Leader Maxwell pulled back on the lever that opened the filters. The power from the engines surged and the bomber immediately began to climb more rapidly, up to its operational ceiling of 55,000 feet.
“Okay, open the bomb bay doors. Time to start our Cranberry impression.”
Underneath, the mapping radars scanned through the murk and started to record the terrain that lay under the reddish fog that masked Hell. The minutes ticked past and turned into hours as the maps were generated, watching his displays Winters wondered how long it would be before there was a Google-Hell to partner Google-Earth. Even the thought suggested to him that Hell had irreversibly changed since The Message had arrived eight long months ago; no matter what happened in the war, it would never be the same again. While the radar system mapped the ground hidden in the murk below, the optical equipment started measuring the density of the dust suspended in the atmosphere, trying to gauge the size of the plume that extended from the giant caldera that formed the hell-pit. Above them, the sky was a red glare, no sign of anything to break the uniform light. Or to indicate what the light was for that matter, a problem that was believed to have given several physicists nervous breakdowns.
“Any sign of anything interesting down there?” Winters nodded towards the H2S display. As primarily a bombing radar, it was good at picking up the rectangles of habitations. Human ones anyway, yet another reason for this flight. Nobody really knows how the baldricks lived. Did they have houses? Or live in caves? Nobody really knew.
Maxwell shook his head. “Nothing. This place seems almost unoccupied apart from the concentration around Dis.” He looked down at the flight instrumentation. “Time for a tank-up Boss.”
‘Dropping down to 30,000 feet. That’ll be above the clag, but the tanker should be able to manage it. Who have we got?
Maxwell looked at the roster. “Lion-Oh-Three. Singapore Air Force KC-135. I’ve got his beacon up.”
“Fair enough, I’ll give him a bell.”
The refueling went efficiently enough, without the backchat that distinguished the RAF-only refueling hookups. Winters got the impression that the Singapore Air Force crew were going out of their way to seem professional and efficient on this, Hell’s first aerial refueling. Other than the inevitable fuel leak, the hook-up went fine, and the tanker peeled away to return to its base back on Earth.
“Humorless lot aren’t they.” Winters was relaxing as XH-558 climbed back to her operational altitude. “Still, coming from a country where one must get a police permit before chewing gum…”
“Is that true? I thought it was an urban legend.” Maxwell stopped suddenly. “Whoa, now that’s one thing we wanted to see. The beacon is up.”
Sure enough, the navigation display showed a bright light far to the north of them. The beacon was set up by a Special Undead Forces team to steer the heavy bombers to their target. Winters didn’t hesitate. “Control, this is XH-558. We have the Belial Beacon on our display. We read location as….” He hesitated and read the numbers on the display. “Have you got that? Then tell the spams their Bones are in business.”
Market Place. City of Dis, Hell
Yellithanakstra went around the stalls in the market, looking for food for herself and her mate. And their kidling of course. Sometimes she had to remember that there were more than just the two of them now. There were some small food beasts around, but the choice had dropped dramatically. Word was spreading across Dis despite the efforts of the surviving Dukes to stop it, Beelzebub’s army had been smashed, and destroyed. The humans had slaughtered his forces just as efficiently as they had destroyed those of Abigor. Now they were spreading out, surrounding the city, slowly cutting it off from its sources of supply. As they did so, their aircraft were pounding targets across the city.
Even as she thought of the humans and their machines, a wailing noise erupted from the roofs and walls of the city. The watchers had seen more human aircraft coming in and were blowing their horns to warn the demons in the city to take cover. Yellithanakstra looked around, some of the demons here were already scrambling for cover, trying to hide under abutments and arches from the bombs that would soon be raining down. The older hands, like Yellithanakstra, didn’t bother. The human aircraft, she rolled the new word around on her tongue, might be fast but they were incredibly accurate. Their bombs, another new word to savor, always hit the targets they were aimed at. Mostly the palaces of the powerful dukes, the barracks where their legions lived, and the fields where they trained. They never scattered their bombs at random across the city. Yellithanakstra wondered that, if they did, just bombed at random, they could create panic and chaos in Dis.
She looked at the aircraft approaching fast. Big aircraft with strange wings that could flap forwards and backward. Their camouflage made them hard to see against the red-gray sky, but she caught a brief glimpse of the red stars on the wings and tails of the four aircraft. Then they were overhead, their howl making her head shake, and she saw them bank before releasing a rain of bombs. Underneath them, the palace of Naberius disintegrated into a cloud of dust shrouding a pile of collapsing stone. The humans weren’t perfect, she thought, Naberius had been killed when Satan’s own palace had been bombed. Or perhaps they had decided to destroy the palace anyway in case somebody had taken Naberius’s place.
Yellithanakstra sighed and started to return to her home. Her mate would be off duty soon, returning from the walls where he and his legion were waiting for the human assault they knew had to come. Demon armies fighting humans in the open had been destroyed. Would they have any better luck fighting from behind stone walls? She was so absorbed with her worries and the sight of the human bombers flying effortlessly overhead that she never saw the wooden pole being pushed out from behind a cart. It was beautifully timed, going between her legs and catching her feet, sending her sprawling to the ground.
For a second, she lay there, on the cobblestones, stunned by her fall. When she had collected her wits, she started to get up again but a violent blow to the back of her head sent her back to the ground. Half-stunned, she looked around and saw greenish, scaly legs surrounding her. Bewildered, she looked more and realized she was surrounded by a group of orcs, almost a dozen of them, all carrying heavy clubs. They were jabbering at each other, rattling away in a language she couldn’t understand. Orcs never spoke in the presence of a demon, to do so was to invite death and so few demons understood orcish. Whatever the argument was about, one of the orcs solved it by taking his club and swinging down, hitting Yellithanakstra on the back.
She screamed in rage and tried to summon up magic to drive them away, but the rest had been encouraged by the success of the attack and they joined in, swinging their clubs down on her with all the force they could manage. Yellithanakstra felt the bones in her body breaking with the impacts. The ones to her head driving away from her the ability to concentrate for the generation of magic or even to think. She tried to crawl away, but the orcs followed her, still battering her with their clubs. Eventually, she collapsed, her body shaking as the street faded away from her sight.
The orcs looked down on the body of their victim, a few still taking a few last swings although the demon was obviously dead. Then, they heard other demons running toward them and they scattered, running through the narrow alleyways and into the drains. Soon, they would gather and try and set up another ambush for an unwary demon.
Al Sahra Airfield, Iraq
”What a show, what a fight,
we really hit our target for tonight,
though with one engine gone we will still carry on
coming in on a wing but with flair.
The chorus of the old song reverberated around the beams of the mess. Al Sahra had been one of Saddam Hussein’s bases, now it was the home of the B-1Bs of the 128th Bomb Squadron, Georgia Air National Guard. Major Curtis Trafford gave out a cheer as the song ended and he finished off his drink. Coca Cola as it happened since he was on alert, waiting for the word to come that the beacon was up and the strike waiting in the dispersal areas could head off for Beelzebub’s fortress. Six B-1s, two of them were carrying the massive EBU-5(1) Mod.1 bomb intended to close off the portals showering lava onto Sheffield and Detroit. The other four were loaded down with conventional bombs, some unitary penetrators designed to knock down fortifications, others anti-personnel bomblets to slaughter any baldricks caught in the open.
“Attention, your attention please.” General Graydon was standing on a chair at the end of the room. A dangerous thing to do in a mess full of rowdy pilots. “We have just heard from the Brits, a Vulcan they have up has picked up the beacon from Tartarus. The raid is on. All assigned crews, report to your aircraft. The tankers are already taking off. You have already had your briefings, be ready to follow them. Thank you.” Graydon stood down and left the room.
Across the mess, the 24 crewmen assigned to the strike quietly got up and left, collecting back-slaps and salutes as they went. Trafford followed them, out to where Dragon Slayer was waiting. The mission was a complex one, already tankers would be converging on the strike route, some to refuel the B-1s, others to refuel the tankers. It took 14 tankers to get each of the B-1s to their target and back and more than a few of those tankers would be flying two missions. It was a 22,000-mile flight in total, making this the longest-range bombing mission that had ever been attempted. It was one for the history books, and it was one to avenge Detroit.
Trafford started to climb into his aircraft then stopped halfway in, reaching out to pat the airframe. “Well, honey-bunny, we’re on our way at last.”
Re: 2008 - Armageddon
Chapter Seventy-Four
USS Turner Joy, On Trials Before Leaving for The AUTEC Transition Point
"Kind friends and companions, come join me in rhyme.
Come lift your voices in chorus with mine.
Come drink and be merry, from grief we'll refrain.
For we know not when we will all meet again.
So, here's a health to our company and one to my lass,
We'll drink and be merry all out of one glass,
We'll drink and be merry, from grief we'll refrain,
For we know not when we'll all meet again!"
"But we WILL meet again!" Rochelle Emerson added with a dark laugh as the chorus faded off, their voices are hoarse from shouting over the noise of the turbines and various gear. "Even if it be in the burning lakes of Hell!"
"Does the ship actually have alcohol on board?" Lieutenant Travis frowned for a moment and then looked rather hopeful.
Chief Robert 'Bob" Gaussington, who was effectively heading the revitalization efforts that culminated today, seemed like he had just spat. "I hope they find Josephus Daniels last, with respect, Lieutenant."
He'd lost his right leg in a car accident in '96, and that was why he wasn't called back to the colors himself, blast it all. Particularly since the car accident had cost him his wife; as far as he was concerned, the war was an intensely personal thing. His course in virtually delivering their proud ship to the Navy single-handed had been the best he could contribute not merely to revenge but liberation for the woman he had loved. He masked his dedication with an incredible sense of humor which had carried through all the engineering students he had recruited.
And why not? It's better than never seeing someone ever again. Sophia Metaxas thought to herself as she listened to the banter about the Chief's ability as a civilian to explain to a lieutenant precisely why Josephus Daniels deserved to burn in Hell longer than any other person so condemned. Also, he could hide the location of the liquor store which would just happen to all must be consumed before tomorrow. Then, if all went well, USS Turner Joy DD-951, would gain her commissioning pennant once more and become one of the last operational steam warships in the navy.
Decommissioned on November 11th, 1982, she was handed over to a preservation society in Bremerton, Washington, in the year 1990 after being struck from the reserves, and the Turner Joy's new owners had found themselves with a luckily well-preserved ship, and enough money to make her last. Almost two years of extensive reconstruction and preservation efforts had followed, and the ship that came out looked almost exactly as she did in 1982 when still in regular service and might have even been in better condition. And they'd kept her that way: Her hull and her interior and engines bore no sign of rust, her 5in rifles had never been demilitarized, nor her torpedo tubes and her masts had not been cut nor most of her electronics fully stripped.
Bob Gaussington had been one of the half a dozen or so men who had committed themselves to spend a great chunk of their retirement maintaining the ship. When the general mobilization could not, of course, include him, he went back to work at the shipyards from which he'd only recently retired. But then he'd heard that the steam warships still preserved would not be considered for restoration to active service. And it had irritated him, severely. He'd gotten the rest of the volunteers together, mostly also workers at the shipyard, and they'd spread the word at the 'yards.
Then he'd talked to Dr. Brown, the head of the engineering department at Olympic College, and obtained permission for his students--exempted from the draft due to their needed profession--to abandon their free time with the promise that "we can damn well make her sail again, Doctor." And so, more and more men had started pouring in from the shipyards, volunteering their time off to the effort--and with a benevolent ‘official’ eye turned, borrowing equipment not needed for anything else now.
Several weeks later the Navy had got wind of it and been goaded into sending a survey party. Two days later, everything had kicked into high gear; the poor USS Barry at the Washington Navy Yard and the Forrest Sherman and Edson, both retained for future donation as museums, were ripped apart at the docks where they lay by navy teams for any spare parts that could possibly be redeemed for use, in the same way, the few surviving Charlie Adams' had been stripped to support the Germans in recommissioning the Mölders. The work teams had been made official, and additional weapons and electronics started arriving for the ship.
And now under a short crew with most of her civilian workers onboard, monitoring the ship's machinery and running final tests, she was making ten knots through the shipping channel of Rich Passage out to Puget Sound for the speed trials which would put her boilers to the test.
"Sophia!?" Dr. Brown stepped down into the engine room, as unflappably calm about the situation as might be expected, even when he had to shout to be heard. "Can you check some of the connections on the foremast!? We're having some problems in CIC with the radar feed from the SPS-64!"
"And I'm the only one who won't fall off the mast, right, because everyone else is a fat nerd."
"Hey! I resemble that remark!" Mark, it turned out, still had enough of his hearing left that he could hear her from his position next to her.
"Yes! Yes, you do! Watch the pressure for me?"
"No problem!"
She left the engine room in some relief and climbed up to where the usual Washington rain met her. That, and the other ship that the Engineering students had been tapped into working with, to her surprise and delight--the ferry Kalakala, miraculously restored from a rusting hulk--well, she was still a rusting hulk, but one that worked, hauling a load of shipyard workers in from Seattle on the cross-sound run, her direct drive diesel sounding like it would destroy the army of Hell by sound alone. Along with the four Steel Electrics and the Olympic, they filled out the ferry service while the Super's had been pulled from the regular routes to do commuter service between Seattle and Boeing Everett via Mukilteo, and Todd in Tacoma on the other side of things, also replacing many rationed cars. In some respects, it was a return to the 1880s for the region--every single boat which could carry large numbers of passengers was pressed into service as a new Mosquito fleet now gas rationing was taking effect and they could supplement buses on land. Even the rusted and battered old Kalakala would last just long enough for new vessels to be built.
Just like the Turner Joy would. Sophia reached the foretop with some pride in the fast of even a light breeze, the Kalakala hammering her way to Bremerton in their wake, Rich Passage churned with the speed of her effort, all concerns over shore erosion gone, and the destroyer, for her part, was now at last rounding Bainbridge island with the open waters of the Sound ready for their speed run north through Admiralty Inlet to the Strait of Juan de Fuca, the national flag crisp in the wind, though for the moment there was no jack. Sophia got to work with her diagnostic equipment--it turned out to be just another artifact of the rush job, and five minutes of twisting and adjustment solved the problem. The climb back down came just in time, too, as Commander Reynolds brought them around to port and rang up revolutions for twenty-five knots. The brave old lady dug in her heels and surged forward. Everything worked perfectly as billows of oil smoke trailed behind her.
They brought their course a bit to starboard to avoid the huge M/V Spokane as she made the Bainbridge Island run, and then leveled off north by northwest while Sophia stepped in to make her report to Doctor Brown--and then to Commander Reynolds, who, effective tomorrow, would be kicking them all off and turning the Turner Joy back into a warship. So, life went in the age of gasoline rationing and electronics doubling in price as the industry retooled for War, of vehicles emptying from the dealerships back near home on Auto Center Way, and not being replaced. Of a country, after more than sixty years, united in will and purpose to fight a war for the liberation of their forefathers.
Sophia stepped back out on deck to clamber below to return to the engine room. Commander Reynolds ordered revolutions for thirtytwo knots rung up. Now the old lady bit her heels in as far as she could and surged north, under the black trail only an oil-fired steam man-of-war could make and aimed her bow for Admiralty Inlet, the deep dark waters of the sound combing off and around her and lashing Sophia with spray. She lingered for a moment, looking fore to aft: Three 5in/54cal rapid-fire guns and three twin Type B 40mm DARDO mounts. The Italians had come up trumps there. The OTO Melara facility in Turin was working triple shifts to turn the mounts out and had donated the three mounts ‘for the common good’. Two of the twin-forties replaced her long-gone 3in/50's, the third was amidships. Elsewhere six single unstabilized 25mm mounts were cramming the decks in every place they could be laid, triple torpedo tubes again ready to be fired, and depth charge racks aft.
She was ready to fight; but Sophia didn't want the ship fighting for her family, in a perverse way she still felt guilty about it. Her parents and grandparents had died with The Message, religious to a fault and obedient to an end. They had laid down and refused to move or indeed do anything at all, and within a couple of days, simply died where they had been, as they had been ordered to do, of natural causes--while she cried and screamed and tore herself to pieces trying to save them, even ripping the earrings out of her mother's ears in a last desperate hope that pain might bring her back where love had failed, and where the emergency services were far to overwhelmed by the scale of the task involved in simply removing the bodies to offer any aide.
The ship thrummed comfortingly below her, and Sophia climbed back inside and below decks. She had helped bring the Turner Joy back to life, but she hoped the ship wouldn't bring her parents back to life. The months of scar tissue, and the searing memory of their brutal abandonment of her and her fourteen-year-old sister, had turned into bitter hate that left her to whisper, lost over the engines, "I hope they find you last, right goddamned next to Josephus Daniels." Back to work. They were making 32kts, after all, and engines didn't do that without help.
Belial's Palace, Tartarus, Hell
Euryale had been in the wyvern caves when the lookouts spotted Belial's meager formation, and by the time she'd glided down to the courtyard he'd already gone inside. The gorgon caught up with the count in the throne room, where he was already issuing orders.
“...full mobilization immediately, you will lead them down into to Asphodel Plains tomorrow. Satan has granted me the whole province, but there may be some foolhardy barons who... Euryale!”
As she made eye contact with her lord, she saw something she'd never seen before. Euryale had seen Belial frightened before, many times when he had pushed one of the dukes too far and Tartarus had come close to being invaded, but there was none of the bluster this time. His gaze was flat and hard, weary yet manically determined. She couldn't put her talon on what this meant and that worried her, though he did seem genuinely pleased to see her.
“I'll need you too, await me in my study.” Belial jerked his head in the appropriate direction and then turned back to his officers.
Euryale arrived to find Baron Trajakrithoth already there. The huge brown demon was wearing his greasy bronze armor as usual – Euryale couldn't remember ever seeing him without it – and cradling the 'gun' he'd spent so much time working on. From what she'd overhead in the throne room it seemed that Belial would want to talk about occupying territory, so she made herself useful by retrieving the largest map of hell from its bronze storage tube and spreading it on the table. The ornate map was covered in tiny images of monstrous creatures and blocky keeps.
The Count arrived, at last, accompanied by Castellean Zatheoplekkar, the most trusted of his officers. He was the only one of Belial's original legion commanders to stay with his lord through disgrace, exile, and all the millennia of obscurity and ridicule since. Perhaps now that loyalty would pay off if the Count had really been awarded the former holdings of Asmodeus. At a gesture from his lord, Zatheoplekkar slammed and barred the heavy doors. Belial sat down on his throne and stared off into space for a moment, before fixing each of them with his gaze.
“Our lord Satan has decreed that knowing what I am about to tell you is grounds for immediate execution. I will not hesitate to enforce this order if I discover that you have revealed the situation to any others without my express permission.” Belial paused for a second to allow this to sink in.
“Three days ago, the humans used their 'aircraft' to smash the tip of Lucifer's Finger. Satan's place was destroyed, rendered into rubble along with everything nearby. I commanded near a hundred orcs to dig through the ruins for half a day, but we found no survivors. Our lord survived only because he was away, sightseeing over the pit on that monstrosity Euryale made for him.”
“You understand what this means? Humans can destroy any strong point, anywhere. Their sky chariots fly too fast, too high to be stopped. With what we've done, and with that traitor Abigor...” Belial's tone dripped with contempt for the turncoat general “...must be telling them, it's only a matter of time before they come here.”
The room fell silent. The destruction of Satan's palace was nearly unthinkable, no one knew how to respond to it. Yet Belial still had more bad news to deliver.
“As I returned from Dis, I overflew Beezelbub's army, or rather the tattered remnants of it. The humans had destroyed it almost completely. Our wyvern riders – the few who survived – speak of poison fog that strikes down all who enter and rolling thunder that obliterates everything in its path. In short, the human used their magery to destroy our grand army, while suffering trivial casualties in return.”
Belial looked upon the faces of his servants and saw shock, horror, and poorly concealed disbelief. “There can be no denying this. We thought we were going to earth to exterminate the humans, but in truth, exactly the opposite is happening. They have come here to destroy us utterly, to slaughter every demon in hell, and so far, our armies have been as helpless against theirs as theirs once were against us.”
Euryale spoke at last. “Count Belial, you make our doom sound almost inevitable. Yet you do not despair. So, you must have a plan to stop the humans?”
“It’s Grand Duke Belial now, for what that's worth. I am Satan's favored servant, at least for as long as our Lord can evade the hunting aircraft.”
“I am certain that the humans will strike Tartarus the way they struck Lucifer's Finger. It is only a matter of time. I intend to preserve my own forces at all costs and rally what I can of the Asmodeus's reserves. We will move into Asphodel immediately. Zatheoplekkar, you will devise marching orders that avoid concentrating our troops in obvious strong points or large formations. The humans are moving on Dis and despite their magery, it will take time to reduce a city of that size. We have some time to prepare defenses.”
Zatheoplekkar was staring at the map, a charcoal stick clutched in one hand. “My lord, we can occupy the territory, but if what you say is true what good will it do us? If the Lord of the Flies could not stop them...”
Belial cut him off. “Your goal is to buy time. Perhaps you can draw inspiration from the defensive tactics the humans use - I will have you question the wyvern riders about what they saw of the battle later. For any hope of success, we rely on the efforts of Trajakrithoth and Euryale.” He turned to the hulking forge master. “What progress have you to report?”
The baron had been eager to demonstrate his new weapon, but now the obvious inadequacy of it in the face of the situation made him almost ashamed. He had no choice but to proceed through.
“The humans call this a 'shotgun'. The escort we sent with that first gorgon, they brought it back from earth. We can't make an exact duplicate, but we can make something that works well enough. I'll show you.”
Trajakrithoth raised the black double-tube, gripping the bulging end with a single massive hand. The weapon now possessed a pair of tiny holes in the top of the chamber, each with a ring of bronze soldered clumsily around it. The demon pulled out a vial of powder and tipped a tiny amount into one of the bronze rings, then drew out a taper and lit it from one of the candles. He pointed the weapon at a wall and touched the burning taper to the improvised flash pan.
Flame spewed from the barrel, accompanied by a retort that was deafeningly loud in the enclosed space. The thick cloud of acrid smoke made the demon's eyes water as it dispersed into the room. The stones in the far wall had cracked and now had several lumps of jagged iron embedded in them.
“The weapons we are making now will be easier to fire of course, though harder to reload, as we have not found a way to make the barrel break open” 'At least not without exploding' Trajakrithoth thought, but no need for his lord to know that.
“Euryale's handmaiden described something called 'flintlocks', which would be even better, but for now we are making what she called 'matchlocks'...”
Trajakrithoth's voice trailed off. Belial had leaped to his feet and his expression has furious.
“Toys! Worthless toys!” The horned demon lord grabbed the improvised arquebus from his servant's hands. “You expect this to stop an iron chariot? How am I to defeat the humans with such pitiful weapons?”
Despite his bulk, Trajakrithoth was cowering and for a moment Euryale expected Belial to kill him right there, but amazingly Belial managed to reign in his rage. His expression softened and he handed the gun back to the other demon, then grabbed his shoulders.
“Trajakrithoth, I am certain this would have been a useful terror weapon if we were fighting demon armies. But the situation has changed. You must give me a way to stop the aircraft and the iron chariots. You must find it soon or we are all food for the humans. Do you understand me?”
“My lord, I... what you ask... I don't know if it is even possible...”
“Euryale, you still have those human traitors who claimed to know how to build their weapons, yes?”
“Yes, my lord. They are here in the palace. I assigned some of my gorgons to continue manipulating them, cementing their loyalties.”
“Send them all down to Palelabor with Trajakrithoth. Secrecy is irrelevant now. Do whatever you must, tell them whatever you must, and ignore any traditions that get in the way. Just find me a way to destroy those iron chariots.”
Trajakrithoth still looked dazed by this radical turn of events; meanwhile, Euryale was calculating furiously. Belial frowned. “The humans draw closer every moment. Move!” Shocked out of his stupor, Trajakrithoth bowed clumsily and ran from the room.
As soon as the doors had slammed shut, Euryale spoke up. “Are we to continue the lava attacks on the human cities?”
“Of course. Satan commands it. More importantly, it would be pointless to stop now. The humans will be coming for us either way, so we might as well inflict what wounds we can on them.”
“But if they do strike, destroy your palace, would it not be best to stop attacking, make them think they killed you? If your goal is to buy time...”
Belial stared at Euryale. “I will decide policy here. What news from your servant on earth? Has she identified more targets for us?”
“My lord not only has she done that, but she also believes she can attack them even without portals. She has built up quite a cult and her humans have been telling her about 'karr bombs' and 'EyeEeeDees'...”
Belial waved dismissively. “Fine, tell her to continue. But I have a more urgent task for you. The humans have revealed themselves to be a more formidable enemy than the Enemy himself ever was. It is time to see whether the enemy of our enemy might be our friend.”
Deep Beneath the Tartauran Range
The rough-hewn tunnel went on and on, descending deeper than Herwijer had thought possible given the demon's primitive tools. The huge, armored demon seemed to read his mind; "It took hundreds of slaves a score of human lifetimes to reach the veins I scried, and two scores more to dig out the complex itself." The huge platform bumped and swayed as it ran on into the darkness, its bronze wheels screaming in the complaint as they rounded the sharper turns. The hot, dead air suddenly became damp, and presently the walls fell away as they passed over a rough stone bridge spanning a vast chasm. The torches on the cart could reveal nothing in that vast space to human eyes, but Herwijer thought he could make out the faint splashing and roaring of running water before they plunged into the opposite wall. They continued for another ten minutes, the monotony now broken by the occasional side tunnel, all of which looked thoroughly abandoned.
Presently the tracks emerged into another vast cavern, but this time there was no water, and the air became suffocatingly close. Instead, Herwijer caught a brief glimpse of monstrous shapes, seemingly half-man and half-rat, clinging onto the walls of the cavern. Their eyes flashed red with hatred and fear before they scurried away into the darkness. The platform began to slow as it passed over the second bridge, a persistent whine building into an ear-splitting scream as the servitor demon applied the brakes. Huge piles of smashed rock were visible to either side of the track, the spoil of uncounted centuries of mining. A dim glow appeared ahead, resolving into a pair of ornate bronze doors set in a carved stone archway that must be a hundred feet high. Numerous burning torches protruded from niches in the stonework, maintaining the cavern's smoky atmosphere and giving the whole scene an appropriately hellish glow. For a moment it appeared that they were not slowing fast enough and every human on the platform braced in anticipation of hitting the doors, but with a great crack, they split apart, drawing open at the pull of creaking chains.
The platform screeched to a stop in the entrance hall. Great carved columns supported the roof of a vast space, mostly filled with crates, barrels, and neatly stacked metal bars. The humans stared around them, seeing a maze of tunnels leading off in every direction. A steady yellow glow lit many of the lower tunnels, suggesting open lava flows close by. Swarming everywhere were short but stocky demons, with grey skin and hairless but for a mass of bedraggled, matted fur hanging from the bottom of their wizened faces. Most of them were carrying picks, axes, and tongs. They seemed to move with furious industry; they barely paused to incline their heads to Trajakrithoth before continuing with whatever tasks they were set. Herwijer blinked and looked closer. The tools they were carrying were made of iron.
Trajakrithoth spoke, at last, his voice filled with pride. "Humans, know that you are uniquely privileged, for of all your kind you are the first to ever enter the Fortress of Palelabor."
USS Turner Joy, On Trials Before Leaving for The AUTEC Transition Point
"Kind friends and companions, come join me in rhyme.
Come lift your voices in chorus with mine.
Come drink and be merry, from grief we'll refrain.
For we know not when we will all meet again.
So, here's a health to our company and one to my lass,
We'll drink and be merry all out of one glass,
We'll drink and be merry, from grief we'll refrain,
For we know not when we'll all meet again!"
"But we WILL meet again!" Rochelle Emerson added with a dark laugh as the chorus faded off, their voices are hoarse from shouting over the noise of the turbines and various gear. "Even if it be in the burning lakes of Hell!"
"Does the ship actually have alcohol on board?" Lieutenant Travis frowned for a moment and then looked rather hopeful.
Chief Robert 'Bob" Gaussington, who was effectively heading the revitalization efforts that culminated today, seemed like he had just spat. "I hope they find Josephus Daniels last, with respect, Lieutenant."
He'd lost his right leg in a car accident in '96, and that was why he wasn't called back to the colors himself, blast it all. Particularly since the car accident had cost him his wife; as far as he was concerned, the war was an intensely personal thing. His course in virtually delivering their proud ship to the Navy single-handed had been the best he could contribute not merely to revenge but liberation for the woman he had loved. He masked his dedication with an incredible sense of humor which had carried through all the engineering students he had recruited.
And why not? It's better than never seeing someone ever again. Sophia Metaxas thought to herself as she listened to the banter about the Chief's ability as a civilian to explain to a lieutenant precisely why Josephus Daniels deserved to burn in Hell longer than any other person so condemned. Also, he could hide the location of the liquor store which would just happen to all must be consumed before tomorrow. Then, if all went well, USS Turner Joy DD-951, would gain her commissioning pennant once more and become one of the last operational steam warships in the navy.
Decommissioned on November 11th, 1982, she was handed over to a preservation society in Bremerton, Washington, in the year 1990 after being struck from the reserves, and the Turner Joy's new owners had found themselves with a luckily well-preserved ship, and enough money to make her last. Almost two years of extensive reconstruction and preservation efforts had followed, and the ship that came out looked almost exactly as she did in 1982 when still in regular service and might have even been in better condition. And they'd kept her that way: Her hull and her interior and engines bore no sign of rust, her 5in rifles had never been demilitarized, nor her torpedo tubes and her masts had not been cut nor most of her electronics fully stripped.
Bob Gaussington had been one of the half a dozen or so men who had committed themselves to spend a great chunk of their retirement maintaining the ship. When the general mobilization could not, of course, include him, he went back to work at the shipyards from which he'd only recently retired. But then he'd heard that the steam warships still preserved would not be considered for restoration to active service. And it had irritated him, severely. He'd gotten the rest of the volunteers together, mostly also workers at the shipyard, and they'd spread the word at the 'yards.
Then he'd talked to Dr. Brown, the head of the engineering department at Olympic College, and obtained permission for his students--exempted from the draft due to their needed profession--to abandon their free time with the promise that "we can damn well make her sail again, Doctor." And so, more and more men had started pouring in from the shipyards, volunteering their time off to the effort--and with a benevolent ‘official’ eye turned, borrowing equipment not needed for anything else now.
Several weeks later the Navy had got wind of it and been goaded into sending a survey party. Two days later, everything had kicked into high gear; the poor USS Barry at the Washington Navy Yard and the Forrest Sherman and Edson, both retained for future donation as museums, were ripped apart at the docks where they lay by navy teams for any spare parts that could possibly be redeemed for use, in the same way, the few surviving Charlie Adams' had been stripped to support the Germans in recommissioning the Mölders. The work teams had been made official, and additional weapons and electronics started arriving for the ship.
And now under a short crew with most of her civilian workers onboard, monitoring the ship's machinery and running final tests, she was making ten knots through the shipping channel of Rich Passage out to Puget Sound for the speed trials which would put her boilers to the test.
"Sophia!?" Dr. Brown stepped down into the engine room, as unflappably calm about the situation as might be expected, even when he had to shout to be heard. "Can you check some of the connections on the foremast!? We're having some problems in CIC with the radar feed from the SPS-64!"
"And I'm the only one who won't fall off the mast, right, because everyone else is a fat nerd."
"Hey! I resemble that remark!" Mark, it turned out, still had enough of his hearing left that he could hear her from his position next to her.
"Yes! Yes, you do! Watch the pressure for me?"
"No problem!"
She left the engine room in some relief and climbed up to where the usual Washington rain met her. That, and the other ship that the Engineering students had been tapped into working with, to her surprise and delight--the ferry Kalakala, miraculously restored from a rusting hulk--well, she was still a rusting hulk, but one that worked, hauling a load of shipyard workers in from Seattle on the cross-sound run, her direct drive diesel sounding like it would destroy the army of Hell by sound alone. Along with the four Steel Electrics and the Olympic, they filled out the ferry service while the Super's had been pulled from the regular routes to do commuter service between Seattle and Boeing Everett via Mukilteo, and Todd in Tacoma on the other side of things, also replacing many rationed cars. In some respects, it was a return to the 1880s for the region--every single boat which could carry large numbers of passengers was pressed into service as a new Mosquito fleet now gas rationing was taking effect and they could supplement buses on land. Even the rusted and battered old Kalakala would last just long enough for new vessels to be built.
Just like the Turner Joy would. Sophia reached the foretop with some pride in the fast of even a light breeze, the Kalakala hammering her way to Bremerton in their wake, Rich Passage churned with the speed of her effort, all concerns over shore erosion gone, and the destroyer, for her part, was now at last rounding Bainbridge island with the open waters of the Sound ready for their speed run north through Admiralty Inlet to the Strait of Juan de Fuca, the national flag crisp in the wind, though for the moment there was no jack. Sophia got to work with her diagnostic equipment--it turned out to be just another artifact of the rush job, and five minutes of twisting and adjustment solved the problem. The climb back down came just in time, too, as Commander Reynolds brought them around to port and rang up revolutions for twenty-five knots. The brave old lady dug in her heels and surged forward. Everything worked perfectly as billows of oil smoke trailed behind her.
They brought their course a bit to starboard to avoid the huge M/V Spokane as she made the Bainbridge Island run, and then leveled off north by northwest while Sophia stepped in to make her report to Doctor Brown--and then to Commander Reynolds, who, effective tomorrow, would be kicking them all off and turning the Turner Joy back into a warship. So, life went in the age of gasoline rationing and electronics doubling in price as the industry retooled for War, of vehicles emptying from the dealerships back near home on Auto Center Way, and not being replaced. Of a country, after more than sixty years, united in will and purpose to fight a war for the liberation of their forefathers.
Sophia stepped back out on deck to clamber below to return to the engine room. Commander Reynolds ordered revolutions for thirtytwo knots rung up. Now the old lady bit her heels in as far as she could and surged north, under the black trail only an oil-fired steam man-of-war could make and aimed her bow for Admiralty Inlet, the deep dark waters of the sound combing off and around her and lashing Sophia with spray. She lingered for a moment, looking fore to aft: Three 5in/54cal rapid-fire guns and three twin Type B 40mm DARDO mounts. The Italians had come up trumps there. The OTO Melara facility in Turin was working triple shifts to turn the mounts out and had donated the three mounts ‘for the common good’. Two of the twin-forties replaced her long-gone 3in/50's, the third was amidships. Elsewhere six single unstabilized 25mm mounts were cramming the decks in every place they could be laid, triple torpedo tubes again ready to be fired, and depth charge racks aft.
She was ready to fight; but Sophia didn't want the ship fighting for her family, in a perverse way she still felt guilty about it. Her parents and grandparents had died with The Message, religious to a fault and obedient to an end. They had laid down and refused to move or indeed do anything at all, and within a couple of days, simply died where they had been, as they had been ordered to do, of natural causes--while she cried and screamed and tore herself to pieces trying to save them, even ripping the earrings out of her mother's ears in a last desperate hope that pain might bring her back where love had failed, and where the emergency services were far to overwhelmed by the scale of the task involved in simply removing the bodies to offer any aide.
The ship thrummed comfortingly below her, and Sophia climbed back inside and below decks. She had helped bring the Turner Joy back to life, but she hoped the ship wouldn't bring her parents back to life. The months of scar tissue, and the searing memory of their brutal abandonment of her and her fourteen-year-old sister, had turned into bitter hate that left her to whisper, lost over the engines, "I hope they find you last, right goddamned next to Josephus Daniels." Back to work. They were making 32kts, after all, and engines didn't do that without help.
Belial's Palace, Tartarus, Hell
Euryale had been in the wyvern caves when the lookouts spotted Belial's meager formation, and by the time she'd glided down to the courtyard he'd already gone inside. The gorgon caught up with the count in the throne room, where he was already issuing orders.
“...full mobilization immediately, you will lead them down into to Asphodel Plains tomorrow. Satan has granted me the whole province, but there may be some foolhardy barons who... Euryale!”
As she made eye contact with her lord, she saw something she'd never seen before. Euryale had seen Belial frightened before, many times when he had pushed one of the dukes too far and Tartarus had come close to being invaded, but there was none of the bluster this time. His gaze was flat and hard, weary yet manically determined. She couldn't put her talon on what this meant and that worried her, though he did seem genuinely pleased to see her.
“I'll need you too, await me in my study.” Belial jerked his head in the appropriate direction and then turned back to his officers.
Euryale arrived to find Baron Trajakrithoth already there. The huge brown demon was wearing his greasy bronze armor as usual – Euryale couldn't remember ever seeing him without it – and cradling the 'gun' he'd spent so much time working on. From what she'd overhead in the throne room it seemed that Belial would want to talk about occupying territory, so she made herself useful by retrieving the largest map of hell from its bronze storage tube and spreading it on the table. The ornate map was covered in tiny images of monstrous creatures and blocky keeps.
The Count arrived, at last, accompanied by Castellean Zatheoplekkar, the most trusted of his officers. He was the only one of Belial's original legion commanders to stay with his lord through disgrace, exile, and all the millennia of obscurity and ridicule since. Perhaps now that loyalty would pay off if the Count had really been awarded the former holdings of Asmodeus. At a gesture from his lord, Zatheoplekkar slammed and barred the heavy doors. Belial sat down on his throne and stared off into space for a moment, before fixing each of them with his gaze.
“Our lord Satan has decreed that knowing what I am about to tell you is grounds for immediate execution. I will not hesitate to enforce this order if I discover that you have revealed the situation to any others without my express permission.” Belial paused for a second to allow this to sink in.
“Three days ago, the humans used their 'aircraft' to smash the tip of Lucifer's Finger. Satan's place was destroyed, rendered into rubble along with everything nearby. I commanded near a hundred orcs to dig through the ruins for half a day, but we found no survivors. Our lord survived only because he was away, sightseeing over the pit on that monstrosity Euryale made for him.”
“You understand what this means? Humans can destroy any strong point, anywhere. Their sky chariots fly too fast, too high to be stopped. With what we've done, and with that traitor Abigor...” Belial's tone dripped with contempt for the turncoat general “...must be telling them, it's only a matter of time before they come here.”
The room fell silent. The destruction of Satan's palace was nearly unthinkable, no one knew how to respond to it. Yet Belial still had more bad news to deliver.
“As I returned from Dis, I overflew Beezelbub's army, or rather the tattered remnants of it. The humans had destroyed it almost completely. Our wyvern riders – the few who survived – speak of poison fog that strikes down all who enter and rolling thunder that obliterates everything in its path. In short, the human used their magery to destroy our grand army, while suffering trivial casualties in return.”
Belial looked upon the faces of his servants and saw shock, horror, and poorly concealed disbelief. “There can be no denying this. We thought we were going to earth to exterminate the humans, but in truth, exactly the opposite is happening. They have come here to destroy us utterly, to slaughter every demon in hell, and so far, our armies have been as helpless against theirs as theirs once were against us.”
Euryale spoke at last. “Count Belial, you make our doom sound almost inevitable. Yet you do not despair. So, you must have a plan to stop the humans?”
“It’s Grand Duke Belial now, for what that's worth. I am Satan's favored servant, at least for as long as our Lord can evade the hunting aircraft.”
“I am certain that the humans will strike Tartarus the way they struck Lucifer's Finger. It is only a matter of time. I intend to preserve my own forces at all costs and rally what I can of the Asmodeus's reserves. We will move into Asphodel immediately. Zatheoplekkar, you will devise marching orders that avoid concentrating our troops in obvious strong points or large formations. The humans are moving on Dis and despite their magery, it will take time to reduce a city of that size. We have some time to prepare defenses.”
Zatheoplekkar was staring at the map, a charcoal stick clutched in one hand. “My lord, we can occupy the territory, but if what you say is true what good will it do us? If the Lord of the Flies could not stop them...”
Belial cut him off. “Your goal is to buy time. Perhaps you can draw inspiration from the defensive tactics the humans use - I will have you question the wyvern riders about what they saw of the battle later. For any hope of success, we rely on the efforts of Trajakrithoth and Euryale.” He turned to the hulking forge master. “What progress have you to report?”
The baron had been eager to demonstrate his new weapon, but now the obvious inadequacy of it in the face of the situation made him almost ashamed. He had no choice but to proceed through.
“The humans call this a 'shotgun'. The escort we sent with that first gorgon, they brought it back from earth. We can't make an exact duplicate, but we can make something that works well enough. I'll show you.”
Trajakrithoth raised the black double-tube, gripping the bulging end with a single massive hand. The weapon now possessed a pair of tiny holes in the top of the chamber, each with a ring of bronze soldered clumsily around it. The demon pulled out a vial of powder and tipped a tiny amount into one of the bronze rings, then drew out a taper and lit it from one of the candles. He pointed the weapon at a wall and touched the burning taper to the improvised flash pan.
Flame spewed from the barrel, accompanied by a retort that was deafeningly loud in the enclosed space. The thick cloud of acrid smoke made the demon's eyes water as it dispersed into the room. The stones in the far wall had cracked and now had several lumps of jagged iron embedded in them.
“The weapons we are making now will be easier to fire of course, though harder to reload, as we have not found a way to make the barrel break open” 'At least not without exploding' Trajakrithoth thought, but no need for his lord to know that.
“Euryale's handmaiden described something called 'flintlocks', which would be even better, but for now we are making what she called 'matchlocks'...”
Trajakrithoth's voice trailed off. Belial had leaped to his feet and his expression has furious.
“Toys! Worthless toys!” The horned demon lord grabbed the improvised arquebus from his servant's hands. “You expect this to stop an iron chariot? How am I to defeat the humans with such pitiful weapons?”
Despite his bulk, Trajakrithoth was cowering and for a moment Euryale expected Belial to kill him right there, but amazingly Belial managed to reign in his rage. His expression softened and he handed the gun back to the other demon, then grabbed his shoulders.
“Trajakrithoth, I am certain this would have been a useful terror weapon if we were fighting demon armies. But the situation has changed. You must give me a way to stop the aircraft and the iron chariots. You must find it soon or we are all food for the humans. Do you understand me?”
“My lord, I... what you ask... I don't know if it is even possible...”
“Euryale, you still have those human traitors who claimed to know how to build their weapons, yes?”
“Yes, my lord. They are here in the palace. I assigned some of my gorgons to continue manipulating them, cementing their loyalties.”
“Send them all down to Palelabor with Trajakrithoth. Secrecy is irrelevant now. Do whatever you must, tell them whatever you must, and ignore any traditions that get in the way. Just find me a way to destroy those iron chariots.”
Trajakrithoth still looked dazed by this radical turn of events; meanwhile, Euryale was calculating furiously. Belial frowned. “The humans draw closer every moment. Move!” Shocked out of his stupor, Trajakrithoth bowed clumsily and ran from the room.
As soon as the doors had slammed shut, Euryale spoke up. “Are we to continue the lava attacks on the human cities?”
“Of course. Satan commands it. More importantly, it would be pointless to stop now. The humans will be coming for us either way, so we might as well inflict what wounds we can on them.”
“But if they do strike, destroy your palace, would it not be best to stop attacking, make them think they killed you? If your goal is to buy time...”
Belial stared at Euryale. “I will decide policy here. What news from your servant on earth? Has she identified more targets for us?”
“My lord not only has she done that, but she also believes she can attack them even without portals. She has built up quite a cult and her humans have been telling her about 'karr bombs' and 'EyeEeeDees'...”
Belial waved dismissively. “Fine, tell her to continue. But I have a more urgent task for you. The humans have revealed themselves to be a more formidable enemy than the Enemy himself ever was. It is time to see whether the enemy of our enemy might be our friend.”
Deep Beneath the Tartauran Range
The rough-hewn tunnel went on and on, descending deeper than Herwijer had thought possible given the demon's primitive tools. The huge, armored demon seemed to read his mind; "It took hundreds of slaves a score of human lifetimes to reach the veins I scried, and two scores more to dig out the complex itself." The huge platform bumped and swayed as it ran on into the darkness, its bronze wheels screaming in the complaint as they rounded the sharper turns. The hot, dead air suddenly became damp, and presently the walls fell away as they passed over a rough stone bridge spanning a vast chasm. The torches on the cart could reveal nothing in that vast space to human eyes, but Herwijer thought he could make out the faint splashing and roaring of running water before they plunged into the opposite wall. They continued for another ten minutes, the monotony now broken by the occasional side tunnel, all of which looked thoroughly abandoned.
Presently the tracks emerged into another vast cavern, but this time there was no water, and the air became suffocatingly close. Instead, Herwijer caught a brief glimpse of monstrous shapes, seemingly half-man and half-rat, clinging onto the walls of the cavern. Their eyes flashed red with hatred and fear before they scurried away into the darkness. The platform began to slow as it passed over the second bridge, a persistent whine building into an ear-splitting scream as the servitor demon applied the brakes. Huge piles of smashed rock were visible to either side of the track, the spoil of uncounted centuries of mining. A dim glow appeared ahead, resolving into a pair of ornate bronze doors set in a carved stone archway that must be a hundred feet high. Numerous burning torches protruded from niches in the stonework, maintaining the cavern's smoky atmosphere and giving the whole scene an appropriately hellish glow. For a moment it appeared that they were not slowing fast enough and every human on the platform braced in anticipation of hitting the doors, but with a great crack, they split apart, drawing open at the pull of creaking chains.
The platform screeched to a stop in the entrance hall. Great carved columns supported the roof of a vast space, mostly filled with crates, barrels, and neatly stacked metal bars. The humans stared around them, seeing a maze of tunnels leading off in every direction. A steady yellow glow lit many of the lower tunnels, suggesting open lava flows close by. Swarming everywhere were short but stocky demons, with grey skin and hairless but for a mass of bedraggled, matted fur hanging from the bottom of their wizened faces. Most of them were carrying picks, axes, and tongs. They seemed to move with furious industry; they barely paused to incline their heads to Trajakrithoth before continuing with whatever tasks they were set. Herwijer blinked and looked closer. The tools they were carrying were made of iron.
Trajakrithoth spoke, at last, his voice filled with pride. "Humans, know that you are uniquely privileged, for of all your kind you are the first to ever enter the Fortress of Palelabor."
Re: 2008 - Armageddon
Chapter Seventy-Five
RAF Scampton, Lincolnshire, UK.
Flight Sergeant John Archibald wiped his brow, reflecting on the fact that changing the gun pack on a Hunter FGA.9 had never been as hard work ‘back in the day’, at least it was not a Lightning ‘quick change pack’. If ever there was a misnamed piece of equipment, that was it. Still, he and the other ‘old timers’ needed to show these young National Servicemen and women how to do the job of rearming an aircraft and demonstrate that they were still up to the job themselves.
“And that, boys and girls is how we change the gun pack on a Hunter.” He paused for a second to let a patrol of Hawk T.1A trainers, once painted in bright red and white colors, but now hastily painted grey and armed with AIM-9Ls and a 30mm gun pod, take off behind them. “Not as difficult as you might have thought, was it? “We’ll get you started on changing gun packs today and once you’re proficient on that we’ll move onto something more challenging like a SNEB rocket pod, or one-thousand-pound bomb.”
Before retiring from RAF service as a sergeant Archibald had been an armorer, mainly working on Lightning and Phantoms. Amongst the milestones of his career had been when a Phantom FGR.2 he had been responsible for had managed to accidentally shoot down a Jaguar GR.1. He had also once managed to trick an airman into standing guard over a WE.177 that was supposedly leaking ‘liquid plutonium’. His face, when the ‘clean-up crew’ arrived in full NBC gear, had been a picture; sadly, the RAF Police had been less impressed by the joke. Like so many other service pensioners once Queen’s Order Two had been signed he had found himself back in RAF blue, though at least he now wore a crown above the three chevrons of his former rank.
The RAF had deliberately chosen to form several new squadrons equipped with the Hunter. There were still many of them around in airworthy condition, the Avon engine was still in production for industrial use, they were rugged aircraft, not so sophisticated that they would need lots of technical support, yet fast enough to be able to deal with Harpies if necessary and had a useful ground attack capability. The first source of Hunters that the RAF had turned to had been the one’s the service owned itself, aircraft in taxiable condition that were used for ground movements training, and British museums. After that they had gone abroad, buying some Swiss Hunters, before going as far afield as Zimbabwe, India, and Chile, looking for potential airframes. Fortunately, the majority of those aircraft exported were either FGA.9 or had been based on that model, so commonality was not too much of a problem, though the most troublesome aircraft had been the ex-Royal Navy GA.11s which had to have ADEN cannons and ‘Sabrinas’ fitted to them, both of which were not always easy to source.
One other advantage of using the Hunter was that it was a good aircraft to teach newly qualified pilots and ground crew on. The RAF had also been lucky that the Hunter had survived in such prolific numbers and that there was no great shortage of spares. Besides learning to manufacture some spare parts on a lathe was good training for some of the conscripts. Some Hunters had already joined the Tornado F.3s and Hawk T.1As in performing Combat Air Patrol duties over the UK while the small number of FR.10s and similar Photo Reconnaissance variants had already proven themselves to be a useful Tac Recce asset to CINC-Combined UK Land Forces.
One other somewhat newer aircraft the RAF had considered was the English Electric Lightning. The problem with this aircraft was that it could only carry out the air-to-air mission and was rather lightly armed for the anti-Harpy role. Still, the air force could not really afford to ignore a potential combat aircraft, at least not until more Typhoons, Tornado GR.4s, and the new Hawk FGR.2 were delivered. Even the Tornado F.3 had managed to diversify into the anti-Harpy mission and the RAF was now looking at adopting some of the F.3s it had brought out of storage to carry other types of air-to-ground ordnance Given his experience working on the Lightning it was inevitable that Flight Sergeant Archibald would also be assigned to the Lightning Training Flight that had been established at Scampton. Once he was able to hand over supervision of the trainees to a sergeant, he drove over to the dispersal of the LTF, which was currently made up of four two-seat T.5s and five F.6s. The air force was hoping to get a few more F.6s and F.53s operational, but for now, this small force was it.
The first problem after restoring the aircraft that the RAF had faced was arming them, while 30mm ADEN shells were plentiful enough and still in production, there were not exactly lots of Red Top missiles around. Back in the 1970s, the RAF had trialed fitting AIM-9 Sidewinders to a Lightning F.6 as a possible replacement for the Red Top, though the MoD had decided that there was no money available for such a modification to an aircraft soon to leave service. Now the armorers of the LTF were working on fitting AIM-9Ls to their aircraft and getting missile and weapons computers to talk to each other.
“How’s it going?” He asked another Flight Sergeant armorer once he had arrived.
“It’s not bloody well going, Jack. The ruddy missile will fit.” He said pointing to an AIM-9L attached to the nearest Lightning. “But the bloody plane’s weapons computer, such as it is, doesn’t want to know. The damned thing has less processing power than my watch.
“I don’t suppose somebody has found a bunker full of Red Tops so we can knock this on the head by any chance.”
“Sadly not, this is something we’ll need to crack on. You be nice to the Lightning, and it will eventually do what you want it to.”
Archibald shook his head, perhaps the Lightning was going a step too far. It was just at the awkward point of development, too complex to run as a simple gun truck like the Hunter, not complex enough to carry modern equipment. That brought him to the next item on his list of duties, one he was looking forward to. He had to go to Nottingham and pick up a cache of electronics equipment and technicians then bring them back to this base. It really was amazing what the RAF had stashed away over the years and, in many cases, forgotten that they ever had it. Perhaps the idea of a bunker full of Red Top missiles wasn’t so outlandish after all. Anyway, he had to take a small convoy of trucks over and that was the pleasant bit. Just over 100 kilometers and petrol rationing meant that the roads would be clear. A pleasant drive in the countryside was just what was needed to take thoughts of the Lightning’s balky computer out of his mind.
Three hours later, he was on the outskirts of Nottingham, doing the unthinkable. He was asking for directions. His little convoy had managed to take a wrong turning and somehow got hopelessly off course. The problem was that somebody, in a fit if excessive zeal or perhaps ingrained memory of anti-paratrooper precautions from World War Two, had taken down all the street names. Rather than waste precious petrol he’d stopped at the first large store he’d seen, a garden supply center, and gone in to find out where he was and what he had to do to go where he was supposed to. His uniform had got him some quick attention.
“Twelve sacks of fertilizer.” The voice came from behind him, from a man speaking to one of the service clerks.
“Any particular kind sir?”
“Nutrafin.”
That made the staff pay attention and Archibald’s ears pricked up. Nutrafin was an ammonium nitrate fertilizer and, while not exactly a controlled substance anymore, it was an ‘object of interest’ when purchased in bulk. Twelve sacks of the stuff we’re more than slightly ‘bulk’. That made the purchase more than slightly ‘interesting’.
Discretely, Archibald turned around and looked at the would-be purchaser. He was unkempt, dirty, and disheveled. A man who spent his time working on other people’s gardens and didn’t get paid more than a basic wage could well look like that. There was something else about him though, something that Archibald couldn’t quite put his finger on. It was as if he wasn’t quite here, as if a part of him was detached. Perhaps he was educationally sub-normal, and this was the best job he could get? But if that was the case, why would he have been trusted with what had to be a major purchase?
“I’m afraid we’ll get an order that large from the warehouse, Sir. It’ll take a while; would you mind waiting? Or perhaps you’d like to come back for it?”
“I’ll wait. And hurry up, the Goddess is waiting.”
Normally a remark like that would have added at least 30 minutes to his wait time but the garden center staff had noted there was something odd about this man as well and wanted him out. Archibald sympathized with them, but the incongruity of the remark nagged at him. A worker might well refer to an imperious and demanding female manager as “the goddess” but there was something in the man’s voice that belied that explanation. There had been an echo of love. Adoration even? For a brief second, Archibald toyed with the idea that the man might be the bottom in a BDSM relationship, but his sordid appearance didn’t fit that either. Then his distanced attitude clicked in Archibald’s mind. He’d read an intelligence report about the gorgon incidents around Sheffield, how they appeared to be able to control people, even those who were wearing their tinfoil hats. Eyewitnesses to the two doomed police officers had remarked on their distant, remote appearance. And the gorgon had vanished despite an intense hunt.
“Look, do you have a large-scale map of the area in your back office? That would make sorting me out a lot easier.” Archibald spoke easily and was relieved that the on-the-ball manager picked up the hint.
“Yes, of course, Flight Sergeant. Should have thought of that myself. Come with me.” The two men walked away, into a back office where there was no map, but which did possess a telephone with an outside line.
“Thanks. Can you stall that man until I get help?” The manager nodded and quietly left for the warehouse. Delays were about to multiply drastically. After all, nobody could work slower than a British worker when he put his mind to the problem. Behind him, Archibald picked up the phone, punched “9” and then dialed the number for the service hotline.
“This is Flight Sergeant Archibald here. Could I speak with the duty officer please?”
“Captain Mannock here Sergeant.”
“Sir, I’m at the Moors Garden Center, just outside Nottingham. A man’s just come in here, asking for twelve sacks of ammonium nitrate fertilizer. He’s an odd one Sir, I may be all wet, but I think he’s entranced. He’s acting just like the descriptions of those two coppers the gorgon killed. And nobody buys that much ammonium nitrate for their backyard.”
At the other end of the line, Richard Mannock drummed his pencil on the desk. It was weak, certainly, but this came from an NCO, almost certainly a recalled veteran. Such men did not jump at shadows. Anyway, the leads on the missing gorgon had dried up and there was nothing else to follow. And if gorgons could entrance people, then it was possible they might be able to exploit their knowledge. Most people knew how to make ANFO.
“Well done Sergeant. Can you follow him when he leaves?”
“I’ve got RAF trucks here Sir bit obvious for a tail. Hold one.” He covered the mouthpiece with his hand and looked at the manager who was just re-entering the room. “We think we’ve got a line on the gorgon that did for Sheffield. Have you got a van or car I can borrow? And a cell phone?”
“We’ve got the garden center van, it’s just a plain white one. And you can have my cell phone. But the petrol?”
“If the van’s full and we get the gorgon, I don’t think you’ll ever worry about petrol again. Thanks, mate.” Archibald took his hand off the mouthpiece. “Got both Sir. We owe the garden center manager who’s arranged them. Owe him a lot.”
“Noted Sergeant. Get on with the tail and don’t be seen. Call us when you’ve found where he’s going or if you lose him. We’re sending a team down now; they’ll be there in an hour or so. Even if this guy isn’t entranced and it’s something else, it’s still worth looking into.” The telephone clicked and Archibald guessed that the wheels were already starting to turn very fast.
“Here’s the keys Flight Sergeant.” The manager handed them over and Archibald left by the back door, clutching a local map in one hand. A few minutes later, the suspect finished loading the sacks into the back of his car and, with the rear suspension sagging dangerously, left. Archibald eased out and followed him, trying to keep at least one car between them. It wasn’t hard, the man was driving slowly and steadily, apparently not paying any attention to what was happening around him. That caused a few outraged honks from horns, but he apparently ignored them.
Eventually, he turned into the driveway of a detached house in what looked like a council housing complex. He got out of the car and opened the garage door, allowing Archibald to see more sacks of fertilizer stacked up inside. The Sergeant drove past, stopped a hundred yards or so down the road, and then got on the cellphone. This time he got straight through to the duty officer.
“Captain Mannock Sir? Sergeant Archibald again. I’ve followed the suspect to his home, there’s a lot more fertilizer in his garage, saw it as I drove past. The address is.” Archibald fumbled the map for a second. “18 Grays Lane, Clifton Council Housing Estate.”
“Good man. An emergency response team is already on its way down. Wait where you are, and they’ll be with you soon.” Mannock hesitated slightly, the Sergeant had done well, and he didn’t want to sound as if he was putting the man down. “We’re sending in the heavy mob so they can do the rough stuff. We need you to identify the man from the garden store after they’ve finished cracking skulls.”
Archibald grinned to himself; he’d been in the RAF long enough to recognize a tactful ‘stay out of their way’ when he heard it. “Very good Sir. Message understood.”
He settled back in the driver’s seat and, on a whim, opened the glove compartment. To his delight, there was a Mars bar and a Twix pack in there. Munching on the chocolate and watching the house through his mirror, he almost missed the sight of two Chinook helicopters passing overhead.
B-1B “Dragon Slayer” 128th Bomb Squadron, Georgia Air National Guard, On the Way to Tartarus
Major Curtis Trafford shifted uncomfortably in his seat, knowing that it was going to get a lot worse. He had been airborne for ten hours, Dragon Slayer pounding north, over the sea of murk that represented the dust clouds covering Hell. They had traveled more than six thousand miles since take-off, and he was already aware that he was now deeper into Hell than any living human had ever gone. He also knew that his status in that respect was increasing every minute as the B-1s continued their marathon flight and that meant the aircraft’s fuel tanks were steadily being depleted. Coming up was their first refueling point, the tankers were already closing in on the agreed rendezvous point and their beacons showed clearly on the navigational displays.
The aerial refueling arrangements were a thing of beauty. The tankers themselves, a mix of existing KC-10As and newly modified KC-10Bs had already refueled once on the way to the rendezvous and would refuel again on the way back. The arrangements for the next refueling of the B-1s, after they had completed their strike was even more complex, the KC-10s would refuel twice before making the rendezvous with each of their tankers themselves having to be refueled in mid-air on the way. Overall, more than 100 tankers were assigned to this mission and that didn’t change the fact that it only needed one of the B-1s to develop problems with its air-to-air refueling system and that aircraft would be inevitably lost. The only air base that could take them was 6,000 miles behind them and there were no alternatives or emergency landing fields.
On the other hand, this mission was the only way humans could strike at the source of the attacks that had destroyed Sheffield and Detroit. Not to mention the only way any further attacks of the kind could be prevented. There were special forces in the vicinity of Belial’s fortress, the radar beacon they were using for navigation proved that, but they lacked the strength and firepower to do much about the place. A long way south, two human aircraft carrier battle groups were due to enter the Hellish Sea and start pounding their way up north but even flat out it would be two weeks before they were on the station – and supporting them this far away from a home base would be a real pain. No, for the moment, the bombers were it, the best and most plausible form of striking at the source of the sky-volcanos.
“Tankers ahead Curt.” The co-pilot’s voice was relieved. It hadn’t quite been decided what to do if the complex refueling arrangements hadn’t worked. The B-1s couldn’t make it to the target area without refueling so if the refueling went sour, the aircraft went down. Trafford assumed that the only course of action would be to walk out but 6,000 miles was a long way by B-1. On foot, it was an impossibility even forgetting the hostile environment of Hell. So, seeing the glint of red as the light flashed off the silver wings of the tankers was a great relief.
“Got them. This is Foxhound Leader to all Foxhounds. Tankers in sight, prepare for refueling.” Trafford relaxed a little and shifted in his seat again. “3,750 miles out, none of us are going to walk right for a month after this.”
“There’s always the steam baths and massages.” His co-pilot’s voice was droll, the idea came from an old film starring Jimmy Stewart and its ideas on post-flight treatment were a long-standing bomber crew joke.
“Yeah, right. It looks to you like the clag is a bit thinner up here? Sometimes I’d swear I can almost see the ground down below.”
“Just your imagination Curt. Take two reality pills and remember we’re bombing the crap out of Hell.”
RAF Scampton, Lincolnshire, UK.
Flight Sergeant John Archibald wiped his brow, reflecting on the fact that changing the gun pack on a Hunter FGA.9 had never been as hard work ‘back in the day’, at least it was not a Lightning ‘quick change pack’. If ever there was a misnamed piece of equipment, that was it. Still, he and the other ‘old timers’ needed to show these young National Servicemen and women how to do the job of rearming an aircraft and demonstrate that they were still up to the job themselves.
“And that, boys and girls is how we change the gun pack on a Hunter.” He paused for a second to let a patrol of Hawk T.1A trainers, once painted in bright red and white colors, but now hastily painted grey and armed with AIM-9Ls and a 30mm gun pod, take off behind them. “Not as difficult as you might have thought, was it? “We’ll get you started on changing gun packs today and once you’re proficient on that we’ll move onto something more challenging like a SNEB rocket pod, or one-thousand-pound bomb.”
Before retiring from RAF service as a sergeant Archibald had been an armorer, mainly working on Lightning and Phantoms. Amongst the milestones of his career had been when a Phantom FGR.2 he had been responsible for had managed to accidentally shoot down a Jaguar GR.1. He had also once managed to trick an airman into standing guard over a WE.177 that was supposedly leaking ‘liquid plutonium’. His face, when the ‘clean-up crew’ arrived in full NBC gear, had been a picture; sadly, the RAF Police had been less impressed by the joke. Like so many other service pensioners once Queen’s Order Two had been signed he had found himself back in RAF blue, though at least he now wore a crown above the three chevrons of his former rank.
The RAF had deliberately chosen to form several new squadrons equipped with the Hunter. There were still many of them around in airworthy condition, the Avon engine was still in production for industrial use, they were rugged aircraft, not so sophisticated that they would need lots of technical support, yet fast enough to be able to deal with Harpies if necessary and had a useful ground attack capability. The first source of Hunters that the RAF had turned to had been the one’s the service owned itself, aircraft in taxiable condition that were used for ground movements training, and British museums. After that they had gone abroad, buying some Swiss Hunters, before going as far afield as Zimbabwe, India, and Chile, looking for potential airframes. Fortunately, the majority of those aircraft exported were either FGA.9 or had been based on that model, so commonality was not too much of a problem, though the most troublesome aircraft had been the ex-Royal Navy GA.11s which had to have ADEN cannons and ‘Sabrinas’ fitted to them, both of which were not always easy to source.
One other advantage of using the Hunter was that it was a good aircraft to teach newly qualified pilots and ground crew on. The RAF had also been lucky that the Hunter had survived in such prolific numbers and that there was no great shortage of spares. Besides learning to manufacture some spare parts on a lathe was good training for some of the conscripts. Some Hunters had already joined the Tornado F.3s and Hawk T.1As in performing Combat Air Patrol duties over the UK while the small number of FR.10s and similar Photo Reconnaissance variants had already proven themselves to be a useful Tac Recce asset to CINC-Combined UK Land Forces.
One other somewhat newer aircraft the RAF had considered was the English Electric Lightning. The problem with this aircraft was that it could only carry out the air-to-air mission and was rather lightly armed for the anti-Harpy role. Still, the air force could not really afford to ignore a potential combat aircraft, at least not until more Typhoons, Tornado GR.4s, and the new Hawk FGR.2 were delivered. Even the Tornado F.3 had managed to diversify into the anti-Harpy mission and the RAF was now looking at adopting some of the F.3s it had brought out of storage to carry other types of air-to-ground ordnance Given his experience working on the Lightning it was inevitable that Flight Sergeant Archibald would also be assigned to the Lightning Training Flight that had been established at Scampton. Once he was able to hand over supervision of the trainees to a sergeant, he drove over to the dispersal of the LTF, which was currently made up of four two-seat T.5s and five F.6s. The air force was hoping to get a few more F.6s and F.53s operational, but for now, this small force was it.
The first problem after restoring the aircraft that the RAF had faced was arming them, while 30mm ADEN shells were plentiful enough and still in production, there were not exactly lots of Red Top missiles around. Back in the 1970s, the RAF had trialed fitting AIM-9 Sidewinders to a Lightning F.6 as a possible replacement for the Red Top, though the MoD had decided that there was no money available for such a modification to an aircraft soon to leave service. Now the armorers of the LTF were working on fitting AIM-9Ls to their aircraft and getting missile and weapons computers to talk to each other.
“How’s it going?” He asked another Flight Sergeant armorer once he had arrived.
“It’s not bloody well going, Jack. The ruddy missile will fit.” He said pointing to an AIM-9L attached to the nearest Lightning. “But the bloody plane’s weapons computer, such as it is, doesn’t want to know. The damned thing has less processing power than my watch.
“I don’t suppose somebody has found a bunker full of Red Tops so we can knock this on the head by any chance.”
“Sadly not, this is something we’ll need to crack on. You be nice to the Lightning, and it will eventually do what you want it to.”
Archibald shook his head, perhaps the Lightning was going a step too far. It was just at the awkward point of development, too complex to run as a simple gun truck like the Hunter, not complex enough to carry modern equipment. That brought him to the next item on his list of duties, one he was looking forward to. He had to go to Nottingham and pick up a cache of electronics equipment and technicians then bring them back to this base. It really was amazing what the RAF had stashed away over the years and, in many cases, forgotten that they ever had it. Perhaps the idea of a bunker full of Red Top missiles wasn’t so outlandish after all. Anyway, he had to take a small convoy of trucks over and that was the pleasant bit. Just over 100 kilometers and petrol rationing meant that the roads would be clear. A pleasant drive in the countryside was just what was needed to take thoughts of the Lightning’s balky computer out of his mind.
Three hours later, he was on the outskirts of Nottingham, doing the unthinkable. He was asking for directions. His little convoy had managed to take a wrong turning and somehow got hopelessly off course. The problem was that somebody, in a fit if excessive zeal or perhaps ingrained memory of anti-paratrooper precautions from World War Two, had taken down all the street names. Rather than waste precious petrol he’d stopped at the first large store he’d seen, a garden supply center, and gone in to find out where he was and what he had to do to go where he was supposed to. His uniform had got him some quick attention.
“Twelve sacks of fertilizer.” The voice came from behind him, from a man speaking to one of the service clerks.
“Any particular kind sir?”
“Nutrafin.”
That made the staff pay attention and Archibald’s ears pricked up. Nutrafin was an ammonium nitrate fertilizer and, while not exactly a controlled substance anymore, it was an ‘object of interest’ when purchased in bulk. Twelve sacks of the stuff we’re more than slightly ‘bulk’. That made the purchase more than slightly ‘interesting’.
Discretely, Archibald turned around and looked at the would-be purchaser. He was unkempt, dirty, and disheveled. A man who spent his time working on other people’s gardens and didn’t get paid more than a basic wage could well look like that. There was something else about him though, something that Archibald couldn’t quite put his finger on. It was as if he wasn’t quite here, as if a part of him was detached. Perhaps he was educationally sub-normal, and this was the best job he could get? But if that was the case, why would he have been trusted with what had to be a major purchase?
“I’m afraid we’ll get an order that large from the warehouse, Sir. It’ll take a while; would you mind waiting? Or perhaps you’d like to come back for it?”
“I’ll wait. And hurry up, the Goddess is waiting.”
Normally a remark like that would have added at least 30 minutes to his wait time but the garden center staff had noted there was something odd about this man as well and wanted him out. Archibald sympathized with them, but the incongruity of the remark nagged at him. A worker might well refer to an imperious and demanding female manager as “the goddess” but there was something in the man’s voice that belied that explanation. There had been an echo of love. Adoration even? For a brief second, Archibald toyed with the idea that the man might be the bottom in a BDSM relationship, but his sordid appearance didn’t fit that either. Then his distanced attitude clicked in Archibald’s mind. He’d read an intelligence report about the gorgon incidents around Sheffield, how they appeared to be able to control people, even those who were wearing their tinfoil hats. Eyewitnesses to the two doomed police officers had remarked on their distant, remote appearance. And the gorgon had vanished despite an intense hunt.
“Look, do you have a large-scale map of the area in your back office? That would make sorting me out a lot easier.” Archibald spoke easily and was relieved that the on-the-ball manager picked up the hint.
“Yes, of course, Flight Sergeant. Should have thought of that myself. Come with me.” The two men walked away, into a back office where there was no map, but which did possess a telephone with an outside line.
“Thanks. Can you stall that man until I get help?” The manager nodded and quietly left for the warehouse. Delays were about to multiply drastically. After all, nobody could work slower than a British worker when he put his mind to the problem. Behind him, Archibald picked up the phone, punched “9” and then dialed the number for the service hotline.
“This is Flight Sergeant Archibald here. Could I speak with the duty officer please?”
“Captain Mannock here Sergeant.”
“Sir, I’m at the Moors Garden Center, just outside Nottingham. A man’s just come in here, asking for twelve sacks of ammonium nitrate fertilizer. He’s an odd one Sir, I may be all wet, but I think he’s entranced. He’s acting just like the descriptions of those two coppers the gorgon killed. And nobody buys that much ammonium nitrate for their backyard.”
At the other end of the line, Richard Mannock drummed his pencil on the desk. It was weak, certainly, but this came from an NCO, almost certainly a recalled veteran. Such men did not jump at shadows. Anyway, the leads on the missing gorgon had dried up and there was nothing else to follow. And if gorgons could entrance people, then it was possible they might be able to exploit their knowledge. Most people knew how to make ANFO.
“Well done Sergeant. Can you follow him when he leaves?”
“I’ve got RAF trucks here Sir bit obvious for a tail. Hold one.” He covered the mouthpiece with his hand and looked at the manager who was just re-entering the room. “We think we’ve got a line on the gorgon that did for Sheffield. Have you got a van or car I can borrow? And a cell phone?”
“We’ve got the garden center van, it’s just a plain white one. And you can have my cell phone. But the petrol?”
“If the van’s full and we get the gorgon, I don’t think you’ll ever worry about petrol again. Thanks, mate.” Archibald took his hand off the mouthpiece. “Got both Sir. We owe the garden center manager who’s arranged them. Owe him a lot.”
“Noted Sergeant. Get on with the tail and don’t be seen. Call us when you’ve found where he’s going or if you lose him. We’re sending a team down now; they’ll be there in an hour or so. Even if this guy isn’t entranced and it’s something else, it’s still worth looking into.” The telephone clicked and Archibald guessed that the wheels were already starting to turn very fast.
“Here’s the keys Flight Sergeant.” The manager handed them over and Archibald left by the back door, clutching a local map in one hand. A few minutes later, the suspect finished loading the sacks into the back of his car and, with the rear suspension sagging dangerously, left. Archibald eased out and followed him, trying to keep at least one car between them. It wasn’t hard, the man was driving slowly and steadily, apparently not paying any attention to what was happening around him. That caused a few outraged honks from horns, but he apparently ignored them.
Eventually, he turned into the driveway of a detached house in what looked like a council housing complex. He got out of the car and opened the garage door, allowing Archibald to see more sacks of fertilizer stacked up inside. The Sergeant drove past, stopped a hundred yards or so down the road, and then got on the cellphone. This time he got straight through to the duty officer.
“Captain Mannock Sir? Sergeant Archibald again. I’ve followed the suspect to his home, there’s a lot more fertilizer in his garage, saw it as I drove past. The address is.” Archibald fumbled the map for a second. “18 Grays Lane, Clifton Council Housing Estate.”
“Good man. An emergency response team is already on its way down. Wait where you are, and they’ll be with you soon.” Mannock hesitated slightly, the Sergeant had done well, and he didn’t want to sound as if he was putting the man down. “We’re sending in the heavy mob so they can do the rough stuff. We need you to identify the man from the garden store after they’ve finished cracking skulls.”
Archibald grinned to himself; he’d been in the RAF long enough to recognize a tactful ‘stay out of their way’ when he heard it. “Very good Sir. Message understood.”
He settled back in the driver’s seat and, on a whim, opened the glove compartment. To his delight, there was a Mars bar and a Twix pack in there. Munching on the chocolate and watching the house through his mirror, he almost missed the sight of two Chinook helicopters passing overhead.
B-1B “Dragon Slayer” 128th Bomb Squadron, Georgia Air National Guard, On the Way to Tartarus
Major Curtis Trafford shifted uncomfortably in his seat, knowing that it was going to get a lot worse. He had been airborne for ten hours, Dragon Slayer pounding north, over the sea of murk that represented the dust clouds covering Hell. They had traveled more than six thousand miles since take-off, and he was already aware that he was now deeper into Hell than any living human had ever gone. He also knew that his status in that respect was increasing every minute as the B-1s continued their marathon flight and that meant the aircraft’s fuel tanks were steadily being depleted. Coming up was their first refueling point, the tankers were already closing in on the agreed rendezvous point and their beacons showed clearly on the navigational displays.
The aerial refueling arrangements were a thing of beauty. The tankers themselves, a mix of existing KC-10As and newly modified KC-10Bs had already refueled once on the way to the rendezvous and would refuel again on the way back. The arrangements for the next refueling of the B-1s, after they had completed their strike was even more complex, the KC-10s would refuel twice before making the rendezvous with each of their tankers themselves having to be refueled in mid-air on the way. Overall, more than 100 tankers were assigned to this mission and that didn’t change the fact that it only needed one of the B-1s to develop problems with its air-to-air refueling system and that aircraft would be inevitably lost. The only air base that could take them was 6,000 miles behind them and there were no alternatives or emergency landing fields.
On the other hand, this mission was the only way humans could strike at the source of the attacks that had destroyed Sheffield and Detroit. Not to mention the only way any further attacks of the kind could be prevented. There were special forces in the vicinity of Belial’s fortress, the radar beacon they were using for navigation proved that, but they lacked the strength and firepower to do much about the place. A long way south, two human aircraft carrier battle groups were due to enter the Hellish Sea and start pounding their way up north but even flat out it would be two weeks before they were on the station – and supporting them this far away from a home base would be a real pain. No, for the moment, the bombers were it, the best and most plausible form of striking at the source of the sky-volcanos.
“Tankers ahead Curt.” The co-pilot’s voice was relieved. It hadn’t quite been decided what to do if the complex refueling arrangements hadn’t worked. The B-1s couldn’t make it to the target area without refueling so if the refueling went sour, the aircraft went down. Trafford assumed that the only course of action would be to walk out but 6,000 miles was a long way by B-1. On foot, it was an impossibility even forgetting the hostile environment of Hell. So, seeing the glint of red as the light flashed off the silver wings of the tankers was a great relief.
“Got them. This is Foxhound Leader to all Foxhounds. Tankers in sight, prepare for refueling.” Trafford relaxed a little and shifted in his seat again. “3,750 miles out, none of us are going to walk right for a month after this.”
“There’s always the steam baths and massages.” His co-pilot’s voice was droll, the idea came from an old film starring Jimmy Stewart and its ideas on post-flight treatment were a long-standing bomber crew joke.
“Yeah, right. It looks to you like the clag is a bit thinner up here? Sometimes I’d swear I can almost see the ground down below.”
“Just your imagination Curt. Take two reality pills and remember we’re bombing the crap out of Hell.”
Re: 2008 - Armageddon
Chapter Seventy-Six
Walls of Dis, Hell
This wasn’t like normal sieges. The rules of a siege were well-established; the defenders mounted guards on the walls of the besieged fortress, and the attackers started to build their own fortifications around that fortress. Their aim was to cut supplies to the besieged garrison and eventually bring about its surrender. If that didn’t seem likely, they would concentrate on the weakest point of the line and breakthrough there. Or try to, a wise garrison commander kept a force in reserve for exactly that eventuality. The reserve force could be used another way, if the food was running out, it could launch an attack on the weakest point of the counter fortifications and break out. If there was a reserve.
Nobody had ever besieged Dis before, not even during the Great Celestial War. It was too big, its walls too long. It would require more than the total armies of Hell, even before the humans had set about decimating them, to set up a proper siege. Garrisoning Dis was even more impossible. Dagon had 243 legions, of whom 24 were Krakens and 16 of cavalry. That left him with 203 legions of foot soldiers, 1,350,000 in total. That meant he had one soldier for every 50 feet of wall. That wasn’t a garrison, it was a fig leaf. Dagon snorted at the use of the old Earth religious reference. These humans weren’t the blind, foolish followers of superstition that the Demons had known. They were supremely logical, supremely practical, utterly ruthless killers. And nobody had told them that putting Dis under siege was impossible, so they had gone ahead and done it.
At first, Dagon didn’t even believe that the city had been put under siege. There were no earthen walls being thrown up, no garrison surrounding the city. The humans had started to arrive and set up their camps, scattered around the city, wherever they felt the ground suited them. Isolated encampments, just their tanks, and mickvees parked on the plains, surrounded by a wall of earth. And their artillery of course, Briefly Dagon wondered at how Belial had got to know all the names for the human weapons, was he in league with them? That was a question better not asked because Belial was now Satan’s favorite and to criticize him meant death. Anyway, the names were good, ‘aircraft’ made much more sense than ‘sky chariot’ and few now used the original demon names. That was good for the old names implied magic and there was no magic in the human’s arsenal. They used machines instead. Engineering had met magic and engineering’s victory was absolute. Dagon knew Dis would fall, his paper-thin screen of soldiers couldn’t stop the human onslaught.
Dagon shook his head and returned to the problems of the siege. He had more soldiers, more by far than the humans. The human encampments hadn’t linked up, they were still separate entities. Last night, some demons outside had tried to get caravans of supplies through to the city, knowing that prices within the walls were already soaring. The great camps between the human positions had seemed an open invitation and that was just what they had been. An invitation to destruction. The caravans had set out and died under a hail of mage bolts – Dagon stopped himself and carefully used the right words. A hail of artillery fire. The caravans had been destroyed, when the light had returned, all that was left of them was charred wreckage. The siege was as tight as if the humans had surrounded Dis. How they’d done it, Dagon didn’t understand but they had and that was all that mattered.
“Keep down My Lord.” One of the foot soldiers near him whispered urgently. That was something else Dagon had noted. The soldiers up here crouched behind the stone crenellation and spoke in whispers. They were afraid, mortally afraid, and once more Dagon knew that the fall of Dis was inevitable.
“You fear the humans?” Dagon’s voice was silky as he asked the question that was also a threat.
“Humans, no. Their magery yes. “The new words hadn’t spread down to the rank and file yet. “My Lord, if they see you, you will die. They can see in the dark and strike without warning.”
The ranker measured distances and the route that Dagon had used to approach. “My Lord, they are watching now for you. They saw you come to us and now they wait for you. When you appear again, if you appear again, you will die. Watch this.”
The soldier placed a spare helmet, Dagon didn’t like to think of how the helmet had become a spare, on a trident and lifted it where Dagon’s head would be if he stood up. There was a dull thud and the helmet lurched and spun. When Dagon looked at it, there was a hole the size of his talon punched in the front, but the back was a gaping void, its edges hot and singed.
“Three soldiers we’ve lost tonight to that magery, on just this section of the wall. How many more, I don’t know but if the rest of the walls are like this….”
The soldier didn’t need to finish the thought, but Dagon did it for him, silently, in his head. If this rate of attrition kept up, he wouldn’t even have a paper-thin defense when the assault came. He had a mental picture of what that would mean, the humans breaking through the walls, their tanks, and mickvees plowing through the streets, their artillery devastating the city as they took it by storm. Every demon knew what happened when a fortress fell to attack by storm, a day-long orgy of looting, rape, pillage, and torture that would only end when there was nothing left to kill and destroy. If the humans were as efficient at storming fortresses as they were at destroying armies in the field, and there was no reason why they should not be, then Dis was indeed doomed. And with it the whole demon race.
Dis could not be stormed, its surrender had to be negotiated before the humans got to work. Deumos had been right, somebody had to contact the humans and ask for terms. But nobody could do that while Satan still lived. The answer was obvious although millennia of loyalty screamed in protest at the inevitable conclusion. Satan had to go. That meant Dagon had to see Deumos and throw his lot in with her plan. Now, quickly because the humans would attack soon, and then it would be too late for Dis and everybody who lived within it.
B-1B “Strawberry Bitch” 128th Bomb Squadron, Georgia Air National Guard, Over Tartarus
“I guess that must be the first target?” Major Andrea Czernick swung Strawberry Bitch around in a wide circle, looking at the great black ellipse beneath them. “Sheffield or Detroit do you reckon?”
“No way of knowing is there? Hang on a minute, Sheffield’s lava outfall has stopped, Detroit’s hasn’t. The portal in that crater is clear of lava. Looks like it’s building up though and will lap over again soon but it's clear now. So that must be Sheffield. Damn.”
Strawberry Bitch had been allocated the southern portal, a few miles away, Shoo Shoo Baby was lining up on the other. It looked like Shoo Shoo Baby had got lucky and drawn the Detroit portal.
“Look on the side Jim, at least if this thing works, we’ll stop the Sheffield attack resuming.”
“If it works, I hear the first test was a flop. Lining up Andy?”
“Lined up. Bomb-nav system on, target designated, approach height 29,000 feet, speed 454 knots. All data entered. Take it from here, Strawberry Bitch.”
The B-1B settled into its bomb run, the attack-navigation system taking data from the flight computer and bombing radar and transforming it into precise flight commands. Humanity had come a long, long way from the crude Norden bombsight in the B-24 whose name the B-1 carried. At a precisely calculated moment, the aircraft lurched as the EBU-5 dropped clear of the bomb bay and arced downwards. Czernik held her breath as she watched it fall in a perfect ballistic arc that terminated in the center of the portal. There was a brilliant flash, one that seemed unnaturally bright against the black of the portal, a flash that seemed to grow out of all proportion to the size of the bomb she had just dropped. The black ellipse of the portal seemed to flicker, its edges pulsating as they absorbed the blast from the bomb. Then the portal started to swell outwards, doubling, or tripling in size, before it collapsed and vanished.
“Yee-hah!” Czernik’s scream of triumph was echoed throughout Strawberry Bitch as her crew looked at the featureless crater that now lacked its black crown. A split second later a similar scream of triumph came over the radio from Shoo Shoo Baby. Obviously, the Detroit sky volcano had just been shut down as well. Czernik pulled the control column back, bringing Strawberry Bitch into a gentle climb away from the target location. The first responsibility was to clear the target area for the formation of four B-1s that were targeting Belial’s fortress. The second was to send a message home. She thumbed the button on the radio that selected long-range communications and composed her voice into its best neutral-official tone. “This is Foxhound-Electric-Leader to Rivet Crown. Do you read me?”
“Rivet Crown here. Receiving you.” That was a relief, there were no satellites in Hell and the eggheads seemed to believe there never could be so relay aircraft were being used. Rivet Crown was an old EC-121 that had been ‘borrowed’ from a museum and pulled back into service while Boeing 747s were converted to take her place. She had last directed air intercepts over the Gulf of Tonkin more than forty years before. Another old lady doing her best.
“Report Operation Electric Strike successful. Repeat Operation Electric Strike successfully. Both portals were hit by bombs and closed. Both portals shut completely. No sign of further sky volcano action here.”
“Confirming that Electric Strike Leader. Both portals shut down. Wait for one.” There was a long humming crackle of static and Czernik thought she could hear the drone of the relay aircraft’s piston engines. “Electric Strike Leader, we have word from Detroit. Sky volcano has vanished, the lava has ceased to fall, and the portal has closed. Mission confirmed as successful. Rivet Crown out.”
Czernik relaxed in her seat, as much as was possible in the poopy suit she was wearing. That was one thing the air force still had to sort out, a decent means of in-flight relief for female crew members. And it was still a long way home.
B-1B “Dragon Slayer” 128th Bomb Squadron, Georgia Air National Guard, Over Tartarus
“The sky volcanoes are down!” Rivet Crown just confirms shut-off.” Trafford relayed the message to the crews and heard the explosion of cheering in the four aircraft. “Now let’s get that bastard Belial.”
Even if this part of the strike were a failure, the mission would still count as a success. The volcanoes had to come first, partly so the bombing conditions for the two Foxhound-Electric aircraft would be perfect but also, as the old proverb insisted, the business had to come before pleasure. So, taking out Belial and his fortress had to wait for second place. But the main formation’s time had come and the four B-1s dropped into the appropriate formation.
“Bomb-nav system on, target designated, approach height 45,000 feet, speed 522 knots. Intervalometer on. All Foxhound aircraft synchronize now.” The master bombing system on Dragon Slayer sent out an electronic bleep that aligned all four bomb-nav systems on the aircraft to within a thousandth of a second. Ahead of them was the great square that Abigor had described as “The Adamantine Fortress” and carefully drawn for them. The special forces team that was on the ground below had photographed the installation as well and those illustrations had made up the target pack. Now, the bombers had a radar image of the target and the set was complete.
A mix of BLU-116 Advanced Unitary Penetrator bombs and Mark 83 conventional bombs were stowed within the cavernous forward bomb bay of the B-1s. Trafford had wondered why the BLU-116s were being used rather than the Massive Ordnance Penetrators that had made such a spectacular ruin of Satan’s palace but it had been explained that there were mines underneath the Adamantine Fortress and there were human slaves in those mines. It was, therefore, desirable to destroy the fortress without too high a probability of caving into the mines underneath. The BLU-116 fulfilled that role perfectly. The Mark 83s had been substituted for anti-personnel cluster bombs at the last minute, supplies of the cluster bombs were running very low and they were being saved for even more pressing targets. With the assault on Dis just days away, Trafford could see why.
He felt the snap as the bomb bay doors opened and the vibration as the aircraft’s bomb load started to pour out of its forward bay. That would give the aircraft a C-of-G problem until the fuel in the tank occupying the aft bomb bay had been consumed. But that extra fuel tank gave them a margin of safety in the event of problems with the intricate chain of tankers that were supposed to get the bombers home. Beneath him, Trafford saw the target area disappearing under a rolling cloud of explosions. Mission accomplished.
South of the Adamantine Fortress, Hell
“Will you look at that!” Tucker McElroy whooped and smacked the nearest member of his team soundly on the back as the fortress they were observing disintegrated into a rolling cloud of brilliant orange and black explosions, punctuated by the roar of the blasts and brilliant flashes of light as the structure of the building shattered under the hammering of the bombs. The whole of his team was dancing with delight as the ground shook under their feet and the air around them roiled from the devastating destruction that was being meted out. Through the blasts, McElroy could see the whole structure collapsing into a pile of formless wreckage. Revenge was an under-rated pastime he reflected.
Beside him Memnon watched the bombing with awe, he’d heard claims that Satan’s palace had been destroyed but he had dismissed them as exaggerations and propaganda. Now, with Belial’s palace crumbling before his eyes he forced himself to remember that where destruction was concerned, nothing was beyond the abilities of the humans. Nothing in hell anyway.
“That’s showed the bastard not to pour lava on our cities.” McElroy was still whooping with delight. “And once we’ve finished with this place, we’ve got a few other scores to settle as well.”
“With Yahweh?” Memnon was curious. “You humans plan to deal with him as well.”
“Of course.” McElroy paused. “We’ve already got one of his minions. Some bastard called Apollyon or something. One of our tank heads blew him away in Iraq. The shit had slaughtered an entire family and sat there drinking tea surrounded by the bodies. Until an Abrams turned up and blasted him. He died, just like the ones down here.”
Memnon remembered the incident and thought about correcting McElroy’s version of events but decided it probably wouldn’t be a good idea. Anyway, if the mistake meant the humans were going after Yahweh as well, who was he to argue? Yahweh had always been a great one for saying nothing happened without a reason, so he couldn’t complain about this could he? Besides, only two beings, Apollyon, and Memnon knew what had really happened that night and Apollyon wasn’t talking. That made Memnon think back on the creature he had been then and compared it with his present status. The thought made him uneasy, these people had taken him in, cared for him, cured his wounds, respected him for his abilities, and applauded his efforts. Compared with the savagery of the demons and the arrogant, supercilious cruelty of the angels, weren’t they the examples to be upheld and emulated?
“Beware, for the angels have powers and abilities all of their own,” Memnon spoke slowly. “We beat them in the Great Celestial War only by great efforts and much sacrifice. You will not find them as easy to beat as the enemy here. I know some, Abigor knows more. What we know we will tell you, but I warn you there are many more weapons that the angels can deploy against us than we know.” Memnon looked again at the crumbling ruin of Belial’s fortress then frowned. He focused his vision great distances and saw the columns heading north. “And I fear Belial anticipated your raid. He had evacuated the Adamantine Fortress and headed north. Why I cannot tell you.”
Cabinet Conference Room, The White House, Washington D.C.
The conference room was bitterly cold, primarily because the air conditioning had been turned up to its maximum setting. Demons liked the warmth and President George Bush saw no reason why their visitor should be comfortable. Also, the air purification system was running full blast, and the air current out through the vents in the floor was enough to rustle papers.
“This is crunch time Lugasharmanaska.”
“Crunch time Sir?”
“Time to make a choice. You’ve been playing both ends against the middle ever since you surrendered to us. We knew it of course and it suited us to let it continue. Now, it doesn’t. You’re going to have to pick a side. You’re either with us or with Deumos. That means with us or against us. Which? Make up your mind.” Bush sat in his seat with a gentle smile on his face. One he usually reserved for people allowed to hang themselves.
Lugasharmanaska stared back. She’d long accepted that her miasma no longer worked but the blunt statement shocked her. Succubae wasn’t used to being given ultimatums. She tried to buy time, to think this through. “My choices Sir?”
“You can stay here with us, work with us without reservations, or go back with Deumos. Take your pick.”
The succubus weighed options briefly. “I will work with you, Sir. My place is here now.” It hadn’t taken much, when Deumos had contacted her, asking to arrange this meeting Lugasharmanaska had quickly probed her mind, as much as she was able, and detected a tinge of anticipation that did not bode well for her. She had a strong suspicion that despite her efforts, Deumos did not look well upon her and had an act of gruesome revenge in mind. The humans were a safer bet, much safer.
“Good. Welcome to the team. You may leave now.” Lugasharmanaska left with her guards. She may have joined the team, but Bush intended to take no chances. “Show Deumos in.”
The Queen of the Succubae or whatever she chose to call herself, was big, Bush reflected. The creature was walking crouched and bent over and was still finding it hard to fit into the confined spaces of the White House. Even when she sat on the floor by the table, her horns still nearly touched the roof. Bush had no doubt that the gas chromatographs measuring pheromone levels in the room were going off the chart.
“You are Deumos.” That was a nice, stupid way to start the conversation Bush thought, years in politics had proved to him that being underestimated was a valuable attribute. “To what do we owe the honor of this visit?”
“There may soon be some changes in the power structure of Hell. I wish to discuss a way of ending this war with you.” Deumos’s voice was a deep, grinding rasp that she probably thought was seductive.
“We can do that. Your unconditional surrender should do the trick.”
Deumos barely managed to conceal her shock. Wars always ended in compromise and with terms. Never a bland demand for complete surrender. Even the Great Celestial War had ended with terms demanded and given. Internally, she was worried, normally when she spoke her miasma made them accept what she said. “I and my colleagues plan to remove Satan from power. Very soon, at a meeting to discuss the strategy of the war.” Where Satan thinks he will be giving the orders she thought. “Once that is done, we will take power and we will declare the war over. For that, we will demand one-third of your dead so we may extract energy from them and the support of your armies against any who stay loyal to Satan. Is this agreed?”
Bush grinned to himself, reveling in the degree to which Deumos was talking herself into a hole. It was true what Ronald Reagan had always said. Just keep smiling and people always hanged themselves. “A very interesting offer Deumos. I can safely say that you will have an answer in accordance with our traditions very shortly and I am certain you will find it assertive. Thank you for attending this meeting.”
Bush watched while Deumos shuffled out, barely fitting through the double doors. Then he thumbed a button on his intercom. “She’s gone. Bring Luga in.”
It was a relief to be dealing with a normal-sized figure again. “Lugasharmanaska, you can lock in on Deumos’s mind at any time?”
“Yes Sir.
“Good.” Bush pressed another button on his intercom. “Condi, please call Vladimir in Moscow. There’s some equipment we need to borrow.”
“Very good Sir. Oh, Sir, there’s something on television you should watch. The Pope’s issued a statement.”
“I thought he was laying low. Oh well. Thank you, Condi.” He switched the intercom off and went into an anteroom where a large flat-screen television was set up. His aides checked the channel was set to Fox News and turned it on. Fox’s Rome anchorman was speaking.
“And we have just received the news of the Papal statement. The full version will be issued in about three hours’ time, but we have an advanced abstract now. It reads as follows.
“Current events have challenged the very core of our beliefs and thrown all that we believed into doubt. One thing must remain clear, that we follow the teachings of Jesus Christ that provide a good and just basis for all human conduct. But we cannot deny that these have been corrupted and misapplied, that grave mistakes have been made, and that crimes of great magnitude committed. At times like this, we must believe that we have been misled and deceived by imposters and deceivers who succeeded in leading us down a false path. We can be sure that the ‘God’ whose misdirection has led us down this false path is not the God of whom our Lord Jesus Christ speaks. We can be sure it is those deceivers and imposters and those who lead them, that are responsible for the grievous errors that have been committed in our Church’s name. we must cast out such deceivers and purify ourselves so that we can, once more, follow the teachings of Christ as they were meant to be followed.
“To do this I call upon other religions to join the Holy Catholic Church when we excommunicate God.”
Walls of Dis, Hell
This wasn’t like normal sieges. The rules of a siege were well-established; the defenders mounted guards on the walls of the besieged fortress, and the attackers started to build their own fortifications around that fortress. Their aim was to cut supplies to the besieged garrison and eventually bring about its surrender. If that didn’t seem likely, they would concentrate on the weakest point of the line and breakthrough there. Or try to, a wise garrison commander kept a force in reserve for exactly that eventuality. The reserve force could be used another way, if the food was running out, it could launch an attack on the weakest point of the counter fortifications and break out. If there was a reserve.
Nobody had ever besieged Dis before, not even during the Great Celestial War. It was too big, its walls too long. It would require more than the total armies of Hell, even before the humans had set about decimating them, to set up a proper siege. Garrisoning Dis was even more impossible. Dagon had 243 legions, of whom 24 were Krakens and 16 of cavalry. That left him with 203 legions of foot soldiers, 1,350,000 in total. That meant he had one soldier for every 50 feet of wall. That wasn’t a garrison, it was a fig leaf. Dagon snorted at the use of the old Earth religious reference. These humans weren’t the blind, foolish followers of superstition that the Demons had known. They were supremely logical, supremely practical, utterly ruthless killers. And nobody had told them that putting Dis under siege was impossible, so they had gone ahead and done it.
At first, Dagon didn’t even believe that the city had been put under siege. There were no earthen walls being thrown up, no garrison surrounding the city. The humans had started to arrive and set up their camps, scattered around the city, wherever they felt the ground suited them. Isolated encampments, just their tanks, and mickvees parked on the plains, surrounded by a wall of earth. And their artillery of course, Briefly Dagon wondered at how Belial had got to know all the names for the human weapons, was he in league with them? That was a question better not asked because Belial was now Satan’s favorite and to criticize him meant death. Anyway, the names were good, ‘aircraft’ made much more sense than ‘sky chariot’ and few now used the original demon names. That was good for the old names implied magic and there was no magic in the human’s arsenal. They used machines instead. Engineering had met magic and engineering’s victory was absolute. Dagon knew Dis would fall, his paper-thin screen of soldiers couldn’t stop the human onslaught.
Dagon shook his head and returned to the problems of the siege. He had more soldiers, more by far than the humans. The human encampments hadn’t linked up, they were still separate entities. Last night, some demons outside had tried to get caravans of supplies through to the city, knowing that prices within the walls were already soaring. The great camps between the human positions had seemed an open invitation and that was just what they had been. An invitation to destruction. The caravans had set out and died under a hail of mage bolts – Dagon stopped himself and carefully used the right words. A hail of artillery fire. The caravans had been destroyed, when the light had returned, all that was left of them was charred wreckage. The siege was as tight as if the humans had surrounded Dis. How they’d done it, Dagon didn’t understand but they had and that was all that mattered.
“Keep down My Lord.” One of the foot soldiers near him whispered urgently. That was something else Dagon had noted. The soldiers up here crouched behind the stone crenellation and spoke in whispers. They were afraid, mortally afraid, and once more Dagon knew that the fall of Dis was inevitable.
“You fear the humans?” Dagon’s voice was silky as he asked the question that was also a threat.
“Humans, no. Their magery yes. “The new words hadn’t spread down to the rank and file yet. “My Lord, if they see you, you will die. They can see in the dark and strike without warning.”
The ranker measured distances and the route that Dagon had used to approach. “My Lord, they are watching now for you. They saw you come to us and now they wait for you. When you appear again, if you appear again, you will die. Watch this.”
The soldier placed a spare helmet, Dagon didn’t like to think of how the helmet had become a spare, on a trident and lifted it where Dagon’s head would be if he stood up. There was a dull thud and the helmet lurched and spun. When Dagon looked at it, there was a hole the size of his talon punched in the front, but the back was a gaping void, its edges hot and singed.
“Three soldiers we’ve lost tonight to that magery, on just this section of the wall. How many more, I don’t know but if the rest of the walls are like this….”
The soldier didn’t need to finish the thought, but Dagon did it for him, silently, in his head. If this rate of attrition kept up, he wouldn’t even have a paper-thin defense when the assault came. He had a mental picture of what that would mean, the humans breaking through the walls, their tanks, and mickvees plowing through the streets, their artillery devastating the city as they took it by storm. Every demon knew what happened when a fortress fell to attack by storm, a day-long orgy of looting, rape, pillage, and torture that would only end when there was nothing left to kill and destroy. If the humans were as efficient at storming fortresses as they were at destroying armies in the field, and there was no reason why they should not be, then Dis was indeed doomed. And with it the whole demon race.
Dis could not be stormed, its surrender had to be negotiated before the humans got to work. Deumos had been right, somebody had to contact the humans and ask for terms. But nobody could do that while Satan still lived. The answer was obvious although millennia of loyalty screamed in protest at the inevitable conclusion. Satan had to go. That meant Dagon had to see Deumos and throw his lot in with her plan. Now, quickly because the humans would attack soon, and then it would be too late for Dis and everybody who lived within it.
B-1B “Strawberry Bitch” 128th Bomb Squadron, Georgia Air National Guard, Over Tartarus
“I guess that must be the first target?” Major Andrea Czernick swung Strawberry Bitch around in a wide circle, looking at the great black ellipse beneath them. “Sheffield or Detroit do you reckon?”
“No way of knowing is there? Hang on a minute, Sheffield’s lava outfall has stopped, Detroit’s hasn’t. The portal in that crater is clear of lava. Looks like it’s building up though and will lap over again soon but it's clear now. So that must be Sheffield. Damn.”
Strawberry Bitch had been allocated the southern portal, a few miles away, Shoo Shoo Baby was lining up on the other. It looked like Shoo Shoo Baby had got lucky and drawn the Detroit portal.
“Look on the side Jim, at least if this thing works, we’ll stop the Sheffield attack resuming.”
“If it works, I hear the first test was a flop. Lining up Andy?”
“Lined up. Bomb-nav system on, target designated, approach height 29,000 feet, speed 454 knots. All data entered. Take it from here, Strawberry Bitch.”
The B-1B settled into its bomb run, the attack-navigation system taking data from the flight computer and bombing radar and transforming it into precise flight commands. Humanity had come a long, long way from the crude Norden bombsight in the B-24 whose name the B-1 carried. At a precisely calculated moment, the aircraft lurched as the EBU-5 dropped clear of the bomb bay and arced downwards. Czernik held her breath as she watched it fall in a perfect ballistic arc that terminated in the center of the portal. There was a brilliant flash, one that seemed unnaturally bright against the black of the portal, a flash that seemed to grow out of all proportion to the size of the bomb she had just dropped. The black ellipse of the portal seemed to flicker, its edges pulsating as they absorbed the blast from the bomb. Then the portal started to swell outwards, doubling, or tripling in size, before it collapsed and vanished.
“Yee-hah!” Czernik’s scream of triumph was echoed throughout Strawberry Bitch as her crew looked at the featureless crater that now lacked its black crown. A split second later a similar scream of triumph came over the radio from Shoo Shoo Baby. Obviously, the Detroit sky volcano had just been shut down as well. Czernik pulled the control column back, bringing Strawberry Bitch into a gentle climb away from the target location. The first responsibility was to clear the target area for the formation of four B-1s that were targeting Belial’s fortress. The second was to send a message home. She thumbed the button on the radio that selected long-range communications and composed her voice into its best neutral-official tone. “This is Foxhound-Electric-Leader to Rivet Crown. Do you read me?”
“Rivet Crown here. Receiving you.” That was a relief, there were no satellites in Hell and the eggheads seemed to believe there never could be so relay aircraft were being used. Rivet Crown was an old EC-121 that had been ‘borrowed’ from a museum and pulled back into service while Boeing 747s were converted to take her place. She had last directed air intercepts over the Gulf of Tonkin more than forty years before. Another old lady doing her best.
“Report Operation Electric Strike successful. Repeat Operation Electric Strike successfully. Both portals were hit by bombs and closed. Both portals shut completely. No sign of further sky volcano action here.”
“Confirming that Electric Strike Leader. Both portals shut down. Wait for one.” There was a long humming crackle of static and Czernik thought she could hear the drone of the relay aircraft’s piston engines. “Electric Strike Leader, we have word from Detroit. Sky volcano has vanished, the lava has ceased to fall, and the portal has closed. Mission confirmed as successful. Rivet Crown out.”
Czernik relaxed in her seat, as much as was possible in the poopy suit she was wearing. That was one thing the air force still had to sort out, a decent means of in-flight relief for female crew members. And it was still a long way home.
B-1B “Dragon Slayer” 128th Bomb Squadron, Georgia Air National Guard, Over Tartarus
“The sky volcanoes are down!” Rivet Crown just confirms shut-off.” Trafford relayed the message to the crews and heard the explosion of cheering in the four aircraft. “Now let’s get that bastard Belial.”
Even if this part of the strike were a failure, the mission would still count as a success. The volcanoes had to come first, partly so the bombing conditions for the two Foxhound-Electric aircraft would be perfect but also, as the old proverb insisted, the business had to come before pleasure. So, taking out Belial and his fortress had to wait for second place. But the main formation’s time had come and the four B-1s dropped into the appropriate formation.
“Bomb-nav system on, target designated, approach height 45,000 feet, speed 522 knots. Intervalometer on. All Foxhound aircraft synchronize now.” The master bombing system on Dragon Slayer sent out an electronic bleep that aligned all four bomb-nav systems on the aircraft to within a thousandth of a second. Ahead of them was the great square that Abigor had described as “The Adamantine Fortress” and carefully drawn for them. The special forces team that was on the ground below had photographed the installation as well and those illustrations had made up the target pack. Now, the bombers had a radar image of the target and the set was complete.
A mix of BLU-116 Advanced Unitary Penetrator bombs and Mark 83 conventional bombs were stowed within the cavernous forward bomb bay of the B-1s. Trafford had wondered why the BLU-116s were being used rather than the Massive Ordnance Penetrators that had made such a spectacular ruin of Satan’s palace but it had been explained that there were mines underneath the Adamantine Fortress and there were human slaves in those mines. It was, therefore, desirable to destroy the fortress without too high a probability of caving into the mines underneath. The BLU-116 fulfilled that role perfectly. The Mark 83s had been substituted for anti-personnel cluster bombs at the last minute, supplies of the cluster bombs were running very low and they were being saved for even more pressing targets. With the assault on Dis just days away, Trafford could see why.
He felt the snap as the bomb bay doors opened and the vibration as the aircraft’s bomb load started to pour out of its forward bay. That would give the aircraft a C-of-G problem until the fuel in the tank occupying the aft bomb bay had been consumed. But that extra fuel tank gave them a margin of safety in the event of problems with the intricate chain of tankers that were supposed to get the bombers home. Beneath him, Trafford saw the target area disappearing under a rolling cloud of explosions. Mission accomplished.
South of the Adamantine Fortress, Hell
“Will you look at that!” Tucker McElroy whooped and smacked the nearest member of his team soundly on the back as the fortress they were observing disintegrated into a rolling cloud of brilliant orange and black explosions, punctuated by the roar of the blasts and brilliant flashes of light as the structure of the building shattered under the hammering of the bombs. The whole of his team was dancing with delight as the ground shook under their feet and the air around them roiled from the devastating destruction that was being meted out. Through the blasts, McElroy could see the whole structure collapsing into a pile of formless wreckage. Revenge was an under-rated pastime he reflected.
Beside him Memnon watched the bombing with awe, he’d heard claims that Satan’s palace had been destroyed but he had dismissed them as exaggerations and propaganda. Now, with Belial’s palace crumbling before his eyes he forced himself to remember that where destruction was concerned, nothing was beyond the abilities of the humans. Nothing in hell anyway.
“That’s showed the bastard not to pour lava on our cities.” McElroy was still whooping with delight. “And once we’ve finished with this place, we’ve got a few other scores to settle as well.”
“With Yahweh?” Memnon was curious. “You humans plan to deal with him as well.”
“Of course.” McElroy paused. “We’ve already got one of his minions. Some bastard called Apollyon or something. One of our tank heads blew him away in Iraq. The shit had slaughtered an entire family and sat there drinking tea surrounded by the bodies. Until an Abrams turned up and blasted him. He died, just like the ones down here.”
Memnon remembered the incident and thought about correcting McElroy’s version of events but decided it probably wouldn’t be a good idea. Anyway, if the mistake meant the humans were going after Yahweh as well, who was he to argue? Yahweh had always been a great one for saying nothing happened without a reason, so he couldn’t complain about this could he? Besides, only two beings, Apollyon, and Memnon knew what had really happened that night and Apollyon wasn’t talking. That made Memnon think back on the creature he had been then and compared it with his present status. The thought made him uneasy, these people had taken him in, cared for him, cured his wounds, respected him for his abilities, and applauded his efforts. Compared with the savagery of the demons and the arrogant, supercilious cruelty of the angels, weren’t they the examples to be upheld and emulated?
“Beware, for the angels have powers and abilities all of their own,” Memnon spoke slowly. “We beat them in the Great Celestial War only by great efforts and much sacrifice. You will not find them as easy to beat as the enemy here. I know some, Abigor knows more. What we know we will tell you, but I warn you there are many more weapons that the angels can deploy against us than we know.” Memnon looked again at the crumbling ruin of Belial’s fortress then frowned. He focused his vision great distances and saw the columns heading north. “And I fear Belial anticipated your raid. He had evacuated the Adamantine Fortress and headed north. Why I cannot tell you.”
Cabinet Conference Room, The White House, Washington D.C.
The conference room was bitterly cold, primarily because the air conditioning had been turned up to its maximum setting. Demons liked the warmth and President George Bush saw no reason why their visitor should be comfortable. Also, the air purification system was running full blast, and the air current out through the vents in the floor was enough to rustle papers.
“This is crunch time Lugasharmanaska.”
“Crunch time Sir?”
“Time to make a choice. You’ve been playing both ends against the middle ever since you surrendered to us. We knew it of course and it suited us to let it continue. Now, it doesn’t. You’re going to have to pick a side. You’re either with us or with Deumos. That means with us or against us. Which? Make up your mind.” Bush sat in his seat with a gentle smile on his face. One he usually reserved for people allowed to hang themselves.
Lugasharmanaska stared back. She’d long accepted that her miasma no longer worked but the blunt statement shocked her. Succubae wasn’t used to being given ultimatums. She tried to buy time, to think this through. “My choices Sir?”
“You can stay here with us, work with us without reservations, or go back with Deumos. Take your pick.”
The succubus weighed options briefly. “I will work with you, Sir. My place is here now.” It hadn’t taken much, when Deumos had contacted her, asking to arrange this meeting Lugasharmanaska had quickly probed her mind, as much as she was able, and detected a tinge of anticipation that did not bode well for her. She had a strong suspicion that despite her efforts, Deumos did not look well upon her and had an act of gruesome revenge in mind. The humans were a safer bet, much safer.
“Good. Welcome to the team. You may leave now.” Lugasharmanaska left with her guards. She may have joined the team, but Bush intended to take no chances. “Show Deumos in.”
The Queen of the Succubae or whatever she chose to call herself, was big, Bush reflected. The creature was walking crouched and bent over and was still finding it hard to fit into the confined spaces of the White House. Even when she sat on the floor by the table, her horns still nearly touched the roof. Bush had no doubt that the gas chromatographs measuring pheromone levels in the room were going off the chart.
“You are Deumos.” That was a nice, stupid way to start the conversation Bush thought, years in politics had proved to him that being underestimated was a valuable attribute. “To what do we owe the honor of this visit?”
“There may soon be some changes in the power structure of Hell. I wish to discuss a way of ending this war with you.” Deumos’s voice was a deep, grinding rasp that she probably thought was seductive.
“We can do that. Your unconditional surrender should do the trick.”
Deumos barely managed to conceal her shock. Wars always ended in compromise and with terms. Never a bland demand for complete surrender. Even the Great Celestial War had ended with terms demanded and given. Internally, she was worried, normally when she spoke her miasma made them accept what she said. “I and my colleagues plan to remove Satan from power. Very soon, at a meeting to discuss the strategy of the war.” Where Satan thinks he will be giving the orders she thought. “Once that is done, we will take power and we will declare the war over. For that, we will demand one-third of your dead so we may extract energy from them and the support of your armies against any who stay loyal to Satan. Is this agreed?”
Bush grinned to himself, reveling in the degree to which Deumos was talking herself into a hole. It was true what Ronald Reagan had always said. Just keep smiling and people always hanged themselves. “A very interesting offer Deumos. I can safely say that you will have an answer in accordance with our traditions very shortly and I am certain you will find it assertive. Thank you for attending this meeting.”
Bush watched while Deumos shuffled out, barely fitting through the double doors. Then he thumbed a button on his intercom. “She’s gone. Bring Luga in.”
It was a relief to be dealing with a normal-sized figure again. “Lugasharmanaska, you can lock in on Deumos’s mind at any time?”
“Yes Sir.
“Good.” Bush pressed another button on his intercom. “Condi, please call Vladimir in Moscow. There’s some equipment we need to borrow.”
“Very good Sir. Oh, Sir, there’s something on television you should watch. The Pope’s issued a statement.”
“I thought he was laying low. Oh well. Thank you, Condi.” He switched the intercom off and went into an anteroom where a large flat-screen television was set up. His aides checked the channel was set to Fox News and turned it on. Fox’s Rome anchorman was speaking.
“And we have just received the news of the Papal statement. The full version will be issued in about three hours’ time, but we have an advanced abstract now. It reads as follows.
“Current events have challenged the very core of our beliefs and thrown all that we believed into doubt. One thing must remain clear, that we follow the teachings of Jesus Christ that provide a good and just basis for all human conduct. But we cannot deny that these have been corrupted and misapplied, that grave mistakes have been made, and that crimes of great magnitude committed. At times like this, we must believe that we have been misled and deceived by imposters and deceivers who succeeded in leading us down a false path. We can be sure that the ‘God’ whose misdirection has led us down this false path is not the God of whom our Lord Jesus Christ speaks. We can be sure it is those deceivers and imposters and those who lead them, that are responsible for the grievous errors that have been committed in our Church’s name. we must cast out such deceivers and purify ourselves so that we can, once more, follow the teachings of Christ as they were meant to be followed.
“To do this I call upon other religions to join the Holy Catholic Church when we excommunicate God.”
Re: 2008 - Armageddon
Chapter Seventy-Seven
Plateau of Minos, Hell
By the standards of Hell, the Plateau of Minos was well-organized. It was dominated by the great black gate at one end, a gate that had all the appearances of a transit portal but was set in the rocky face of the Hell-pit, in the mouth of a cave that defined its shape. Nobody knew what lay beyond that gate, the Demons who had been brave enough to try crossing it, or had been unfortunate enough to fall through it, had never returned. One thing that the demons working on the Plateau did know was that it was through that gate that the human dead arrived in Hell.
Once working on the Plateau had been an easy position, only a trickle of dead humans arrived to be processed, but that had changed. The demons working on the Plateau of Minos had been the first ones to be aware of the changes on Earth. For millennia, the rate at which the human dead had arrived had been constant but suddenly in a mere few centuries that changed. The trickle had become a stream, the stream a river, and the river had turned into a flood. Now, three bodies arrived every second and any break in the routine would cause a disastrous backlog. The fact that there were worse disasters than a work backlog never dawned on the demons who worked on the Plateau, but it should have done. If they looked over the chasm that separated the Plateau of Minos from Lucifer’s Finger, they would have seen the crumbled ruin of the great spur of rock and the palace that had once stood on it.
But, bowed down by the routine demanded by the constant stream of bodies emerging from the gate, they didn’t. Instead, the ancient tradition held sway. Two demons would pick up unconscious human dead and carry them over to one of the lines of hydras waiting on the edge of the Plateau. The command would form in the hydra’s heads, it would wrap its tail several times around the human and then flick it out across the chasm to the Hell-Pit. The number of times the tail was wrapped around the victim determined which circle it would land in. Down there, other demons would receive it, make the preparations needed and the victim would awake to begin an eternity of torment. On his throne above the plateau, Minos himself sat, commanding the work of the line of 27 hydra that worked on the limits of his domain. Minos had by far the smallest holding of any Lord of Hell, but he was also the most important. Without him, no dead human would reach its proper place in Hell.
This morning, Minos wasn’t feeling particularly well. He had a headache, one that had led him to assign the arriving humans to the most agonizing of Hell’s circles. In the last few minutes, his headache had been joined by a curious throbbing sensation, one that seemed to vibrate the air around him and make the dust on his throne bounce. It wasn’t the human aircraft overhead, they were a familiar sight by this time, streaking through the comforting dust of Hell’s atmosphere and then swooping down to pound some selected target in Dis. A palace perhaps? Or a barracks? There were times when Minos was grateful that his realm was so tiny.
What happened next defied his whole concept of reality. A formation of human aircraft, not the sleek ones overhead but ungainly-looking things with wings loaded with weapons and a strange set of whirling blades above them. Painted red and gray like so many other human aircraft but with a blue, six-pointed star on the body. One of them rotated towards him and its wings erupted in fire. Minos barely had the chance to see 16 missiles streaking off their racks towards him before his headache was cured forever.
Beneath him, the laboring demons were stunned into immobility as the AH-64D helicopters rose over the rim to pour 30mm gunfire, rockets, and Hellfire missiles into the mass of demons in front of them. It was a slaughter, pure, unmitigated, and relentless. The gunners in the helicopters unleashed salvo after salvo of unguided rockets into the mass in front of them, playing their gunnery controls as if they were musical instruments, switching from rockets to cannon and back again as they split the mob of screaming demons into small groups and then cut those groups down. The demons were unarmed, defenseless, their command cut off by the first salvo of Hellfires that had slammed into Minos and cut him down from his throne. Now, an Apache was hovering over his body, studding it with 30mm cannon fire to make sure he was truly and irrecoverably dead. His minions were workers on the plateau, they didn’t even have their tridents and all they could do was run. Only, there was nowhere to run to, the gunships were advancing slowly across the plateau, mercilessly cutting the demons down no matter whether they stood or ran. As they did, they taught a grim lesson to the shrinking numbers of survivors. This is what helicopter gunships do. This is what they are for.
The demons were driven backward, always backward, away from the Plateau rim, towards the great black stain in the wall that represented the death gate. Then, there was nowhere further they could retreat to, some took the dreadful chance and dived through the blackness to escape the relentless hammering of the gunships, the others gave up and stood by the cliff face until the helicopters killed them.
Behind the first line of eight AH-64s, the second group of eight hovered over the hydras that writhed and screamed on the plateau rim. More Hellfire missiles slashed out, thumping into their bodies, ripping them open, and sending multi-colored sprays of demon blood arching through the air. In their death spasms, some fell off the edge, screaming and falling into the hell-pit where they had thrown so many unnumbered billions of humans. Others thrashed around for a few minutes before the combination of Hellfires and gunfire stilled them forever.
The Plateau was silent except for the thudding noise of the gunships as they circled overhead, looking for any sign of resistance (by which the pilots and gunners meant any sign of life). At the cliff face, the pile of human bodies arriving through the gate was rising steadily, well, the second wave of the assault would handle that. It was already arriving, nine UH-60 Blackhawks loaded with Israeli commandos, their command section, and one very special, indispensable passenger. The Blackhawks touched down, the commandos spreading rapidly across the plateau, quickly ensuring that the dead demons strewing the rocky surface were indeed dead. There were some dead humans in there as well, those unfortunate enough to have arrived just as the assault was starting. They had died with their demon captors although the unconscious humans had never been aware of how little they had missed salvation.
With the plateau secured, the commandos started picking up the human bodies that were still pouring through and moving them to safety. Another small group disappeared down the tunnel that marked the only access to the Plateau of Minos and started setting explosive charges on the tunnel wall. The men were experts, demolition men who had set more charges than most people would be able to count. A few seconds after they emerged from the tunnel, a dull blast and a cloud of choking gray smoke marked the success of their latest labors. A couple of them went back into the tunnel and re-emerged, their thumbs raised. It would be years before anybody used that access route again.
In his command helicopter, Colonel Jonathan ben Amiel picked up his radio microphone and clicked it to break squelch. “This is Strike Force Deliverance. The objective is secure, and hostile access is denied. Minos is dead and the transfer of souls to the Hell-pit has been stopped. We are setting up the gate now.”
Amidst the helicopters, a young Indian girl found a comfortable piece of ground near one corner of the plateau, close to the gaping black void of the existing gate. She closed her eyes and concentrated, seeking out the minds of her colleagues on the ‘other side’. Then, almost like opening a door, contact was made, and the portal began to form in front of her.
DIMO(N) Facility, Fort Bragg, North Carolina
“We’ve got contact! Get the equipment fired up!” Colonel Warhol stopped to stroke his brand-new rank insignia as he gave the orders. One thing about this war, promotion was fast. Pre-war Lieutenants, especially those with experience in Afghanistan and Iraq (which meant nearly all of them) were already Captains and Majors. Warhol guessed that unless he screwed up this mission badly, he’d be a General within a month or so. After all, this was the most important mission DIMO(N) had ever staged. A mission aimed at nothing less than cutting the flow of deceased humans to Hell and redirecting them to a refugee facility in the Phelan Plain.
Warhol grinned quietly to himself. What had once been the Martial Plain of Dysprosium had been renamed after the security guard in a Chicago Mall who had sacrificed his life to save a group of schoolgirls from a Baldrick berserker. Philip Phelan had to be out there somewhere, and Warhol wondered what his reaction would be when he found an entire region of Hell had been named in his honor. Then his mind snapped back to the task at hand. Sisse Petersen, a recently arrived Danish sensitive, but one with remarkable linking powers was on the couch surrounded by the latest Mark 3 amplifiers. They caused a lot less discomfort than the earlier versions despite generating more power. Even better, once the portal was open, the Mark 3 could keep it that way without a human operator.
“We’re through, portal opening now.” Sure enough, the portal opened and spread until it was wide enough to take the equipment planned for it. Then, Petersen stepped off the couch and the portal was steady. A cheer went up.
“I will take the next one now.” Her voice was uncompromising, she’d started this job, and now she would finish it. She took up position on the next couch and waited for the push from the other side. It came soon enough, and the second portal was opened. Now, there were two ellipses, about twelve feet apart. Time for the engineers.
The equipment was already waiting. A skid-mounted set of rollers and a belt were pushed through the first portal. Unseen hands on the other side grabbed it and stretched it out. Then the process was repeated with the other side. Once again, the unseen hands there quickly stretched it out. Then, the engineers in between the portals adjusted the tension in the conveyor belt and the job was done. With a flourish, the commander of the Army engineer detachment pressed a button and an electric motor spun to life. There was a rattle and crash, then the conveyor belt began to move.
“I’m glad that worked.” Warhol hardly dared breathe.
“No reason why it shouldn’t. The fuel pipeline through the Hellgate is working OK. And we’re getting aircraft and equipment through no problem. So, this should be fine. Ah, here we go.”
The first deceased humans were on the conveyor belt that had accelerated to full speed. The pile of bodies appeared at one portal, rolled across the gap between them, and disappeared back through the other. Warhol sighed with relief. Human dead were no longer going to hell, now they were being transferred directly to the waiting refugee camp. One part of the promise had been kept, no human would ever go to suffer eternal torment in the Hell-Pit again.
Refugee Transit Facility, The Phelan Plain, Human-Occupied Hell
Janice Haggerty woke up very carefully. She was in a great room; far larger than any hospital ward she had ever seen. There was a dull reddish light that was permeating through from outside, was this a tent? Where was she? The last thing she remembered was a tree leaping at her out of the darkness. Then, she looked down and realized she was on a hospital-style bed, naked and uncovered. She yelped and tried to cover herself with her hands.
“Don’t worry, we’re all like that.” A man on a bed looked at her appreciatively in a way that Haggerty found upsetting.
“He’s wrong.” Haggerty sighed with relief, a nurse had appeared, her face oddly obscured by a mask. Surely a little nurse-to-nurse professional courtesy could get her some clothes?
“Where are we?”
“We’re in Hell dear. You’re dead I’m afraid. If you’re strong enough to walk, we need you outside for reception and task assignments. Every dead human from Earth and Hell is coming through here and this place is only just large enough. With three of you arriving every second.”
“Three of us every second.” Haggerty tried to wrap her mind around the number. It was hard to imagine that was the number of people who died all the time.
“Yes, and it’s never going to end so please, hurry up and vacate this bed, we’re going to need it soon.”
“I’d like to rest for a while.” It was the man on the next bed.
“I’m sure you would, but this is a temporary facility only. Just while you regain consciousness. Now, move on please, we need this bed.”
Haggerty got up and, to her relief, found there was a hospital-style robe at the foot of the bed. She slipped it on and stepped through the opening, she had been right, the facility was a series of huge tents. Somewhere near was a powerful electric motor running. Ahead of her were lines of people forming and she joined what looked like the shortest one. The man who had been on the next bed pushed in front of her at the last moment. Hell seemed to have the same problems as Earth she reflected. The woman sitting behind a computer screen looked at the man expressionlessly.
“Name and nationality?”
“George Tubshaw, Irish-American.”
“Cause of Death?”
“Choked on a pretzel.”
“Any military service?”
“No, I always thought I could serve more effectively by working in the private sector.” There was a snort from another line at that.
“Qualifications?”
“Degree in History of Folk Music.”
The woman behind the computer pursed her lips and entered “Useless” into the field for qualifications. “Very well Tubshaw, we’re assigning you to a construction gang. Somebody will teach you how to hit nails with a hammer or use a spade. Next.”
“But… I’m an administrator.”
“Why didn’t you say that before, what did you administer?”
“Well, a music appreciation course in community college.”
“Construction gang. Next.”
“Janice Haggerty, British, no military service.”
“What did you do Janice? And your cause of death?”
“I was a nurse. I was in a traffic accident. We’d been treating casualties from Sheffield, there were so many badly burned people to look after. I must have fallen asleep driving home because the last thing I remember is a tree.”
“A nurse. That’s good. Do you fancy working with people recovering from the Hell-Pit? A lot of them are badly traumatized, they need sympathetic handling. You’d be doing a really needed job.”
“Please, umm Miss, excuse me asking but….”
“The name is Fiona. Yes, I’m dead as well. I died in the Great Influenza of 1919. I wasn’t as lucky as you, I spent the last century being drowned in a cesspit until some Quakers rescued me. So, you see, I know how much you’ll be needed. Thanks for helping Janice. Next.”
Haggerty walked away, hearing the voice behind her. “Nguyen Huu Phai, Vietnamese, two years military service in the Vietnamese People’s Liberation Army. Died of snake bite.”
“Right, the military authorities will want to speak with you. Please go over there and wait for a truck.”
A truck, Haggerty thought, obviously, the fuel shortage that permeated Earth wasn’t affecting hell, or at least not the Armies fighting in Hell. Overhead she heard the scream of jet aircraft and saw two white-painted military jets making their landing runs, their bleached-out roundels showing them to be British. The TSR-2s, the press had been full of their exploits before she had died. They’d made it sound like the “White Ghosts” were winning the war single-handed. She chuckled; poor old Dennis Healey had been excoriated in the press for canceling them so many years ago.
There was a blast on a horn, and she stopped short, the blacktop of a road was in front of her and she’d nearly stepped out in front of a huge tank. She looked around and saw a black American woman officer in a Humvee parked by the side of the road.
“Hokay, you want to die twice in one day? Look where you’re going, girl. Them Abrams will squash you flat.”
“I’m sorry, can you tell me where the treatment area for people who have been recovered from the hell pit is?”
“Sure can. We’ll be passing right by it. I’ll drop you off, get in.”
“Thank you.” Haggerty climbed awkwardly into a Humvee. “Last time I was in a vehicle I went to sleep and that got me here. I’m Janice Haggerty, the nurse.”
“Keisha Stevenson, Colonel United States Army. My battalion just got here.”
“You’re new here too?”
“Nah. The last time I was here, this was all Baldrick country. Now it’s just like downtown Bayonne. There’s even a MacDonalds as if hell weren’t bad enough on its own.” The Humvee swerved through the column of tanks and dropped off the blacktop onto a dirt road. “Hell pit recoverees are just ahead. Some of them are in a pitiful state. Been in torment so long they can’t remember anything else. You gonna be doing a worthwhile thing there girl. Okay, this is your stop. Keep the faith.”
Haggerty started. “What faith.”
Stevenson smiled broadly. “Why faith in science, engineering, and applied firepower of course. What other faith could there be?”
Plateau of Minos, Hell
By the standards of Hell, the Plateau of Minos was well-organized. It was dominated by the great black gate at one end, a gate that had all the appearances of a transit portal but was set in the rocky face of the Hell-pit, in the mouth of a cave that defined its shape. Nobody knew what lay beyond that gate, the Demons who had been brave enough to try crossing it, or had been unfortunate enough to fall through it, had never returned. One thing that the demons working on the Plateau did know was that it was through that gate that the human dead arrived in Hell.
Once working on the Plateau had been an easy position, only a trickle of dead humans arrived to be processed, but that had changed. The demons working on the Plateau of Minos had been the first ones to be aware of the changes on Earth. For millennia, the rate at which the human dead had arrived had been constant but suddenly in a mere few centuries that changed. The trickle had become a stream, the stream a river, and the river had turned into a flood. Now, three bodies arrived every second and any break in the routine would cause a disastrous backlog. The fact that there were worse disasters than a work backlog never dawned on the demons who worked on the Plateau, but it should have done. If they looked over the chasm that separated the Plateau of Minos from Lucifer’s Finger, they would have seen the crumbled ruin of the great spur of rock and the palace that had once stood on it.
But, bowed down by the routine demanded by the constant stream of bodies emerging from the gate, they didn’t. Instead, the ancient tradition held sway. Two demons would pick up unconscious human dead and carry them over to one of the lines of hydras waiting on the edge of the Plateau. The command would form in the hydra’s heads, it would wrap its tail several times around the human and then flick it out across the chasm to the Hell-Pit. The number of times the tail was wrapped around the victim determined which circle it would land in. Down there, other demons would receive it, make the preparations needed and the victim would awake to begin an eternity of torment. On his throne above the plateau, Minos himself sat, commanding the work of the line of 27 hydra that worked on the limits of his domain. Minos had by far the smallest holding of any Lord of Hell, but he was also the most important. Without him, no dead human would reach its proper place in Hell.
This morning, Minos wasn’t feeling particularly well. He had a headache, one that had led him to assign the arriving humans to the most agonizing of Hell’s circles. In the last few minutes, his headache had been joined by a curious throbbing sensation, one that seemed to vibrate the air around him and make the dust on his throne bounce. It wasn’t the human aircraft overhead, they were a familiar sight by this time, streaking through the comforting dust of Hell’s atmosphere and then swooping down to pound some selected target in Dis. A palace perhaps? Or a barracks? There were times when Minos was grateful that his realm was so tiny.
What happened next defied his whole concept of reality. A formation of human aircraft, not the sleek ones overhead but ungainly-looking things with wings loaded with weapons and a strange set of whirling blades above them. Painted red and gray like so many other human aircraft but with a blue, six-pointed star on the body. One of them rotated towards him and its wings erupted in fire. Minos barely had the chance to see 16 missiles streaking off their racks towards him before his headache was cured forever.
Beneath him, the laboring demons were stunned into immobility as the AH-64D helicopters rose over the rim to pour 30mm gunfire, rockets, and Hellfire missiles into the mass of demons in front of them. It was a slaughter, pure, unmitigated, and relentless. The gunners in the helicopters unleashed salvo after salvo of unguided rockets into the mass in front of them, playing their gunnery controls as if they were musical instruments, switching from rockets to cannon and back again as they split the mob of screaming demons into small groups and then cut those groups down. The demons were unarmed, defenseless, their command cut off by the first salvo of Hellfires that had slammed into Minos and cut him down from his throne. Now, an Apache was hovering over his body, studding it with 30mm cannon fire to make sure he was truly and irrecoverably dead. His minions were workers on the plateau, they didn’t even have their tridents and all they could do was run. Only, there was nowhere to run to, the gunships were advancing slowly across the plateau, mercilessly cutting the demons down no matter whether they stood or ran. As they did, they taught a grim lesson to the shrinking numbers of survivors. This is what helicopter gunships do. This is what they are for.
The demons were driven backward, always backward, away from the Plateau rim, towards the great black stain in the wall that represented the death gate. Then, there was nowhere further they could retreat to, some took the dreadful chance and dived through the blackness to escape the relentless hammering of the gunships, the others gave up and stood by the cliff face until the helicopters killed them.
Behind the first line of eight AH-64s, the second group of eight hovered over the hydras that writhed and screamed on the plateau rim. More Hellfire missiles slashed out, thumping into their bodies, ripping them open, and sending multi-colored sprays of demon blood arching through the air. In their death spasms, some fell off the edge, screaming and falling into the hell-pit where they had thrown so many unnumbered billions of humans. Others thrashed around for a few minutes before the combination of Hellfires and gunfire stilled them forever.
The Plateau was silent except for the thudding noise of the gunships as they circled overhead, looking for any sign of resistance (by which the pilots and gunners meant any sign of life). At the cliff face, the pile of human bodies arriving through the gate was rising steadily, well, the second wave of the assault would handle that. It was already arriving, nine UH-60 Blackhawks loaded with Israeli commandos, their command section, and one very special, indispensable passenger. The Blackhawks touched down, the commandos spreading rapidly across the plateau, quickly ensuring that the dead demons strewing the rocky surface were indeed dead. There were some dead humans in there as well, those unfortunate enough to have arrived just as the assault was starting. They had died with their demon captors although the unconscious humans had never been aware of how little they had missed salvation.
With the plateau secured, the commandos started picking up the human bodies that were still pouring through and moving them to safety. Another small group disappeared down the tunnel that marked the only access to the Plateau of Minos and started setting explosive charges on the tunnel wall. The men were experts, demolition men who had set more charges than most people would be able to count. A few seconds after they emerged from the tunnel, a dull blast and a cloud of choking gray smoke marked the success of their latest labors. A couple of them went back into the tunnel and re-emerged, their thumbs raised. It would be years before anybody used that access route again.
In his command helicopter, Colonel Jonathan ben Amiel picked up his radio microphone and clicked it to break squelch. “This is Strike Force Deliverance. The objective is secure, and hostile access is denied. Minos is dead and the transfer of souls to the Hell-pit has been stopped. We are setting up the gate now.”
Amidst the helicopters, a young Indian girl found a comfortable piece of ground near one corner of the plateau, close to the gaping black void of the existing gate. She closed her eyes and concentrated, seeking out the minds of her colleagues on the ‘other side’. Then, almost like opening a door, contact was made, and the portal began to form in front of her.
DIMO(N) Facility, Fort Bragg, North Carolina
“We’ve got contact! Get the equipment fired up!” Colonel Warhol stopped to stroke his brand-new rank insignia as he gave the orders. One thing about this war, promotion was fast. Pre-war Lieutenants, especially those with experience in Afghanistan and Iraq (which meant nearly all of them) were already Captains and Majors. Warhol guessed that unless he screwed up this mission badly, he’d be a General within a month or so. After all, this was the most important mission DIMO(N) had ever staged. A mission aimed at nothing less than cutting the flow of deceased humans to Hell and redirecting them to a refugee facility in the Phelan Plain.
Warhol grinned quietly to himself. What had once been the Martial Plain of Dysprosium had been renamed after the security guard in a Chicago Mall who had sacrificed his life to save a group of schoolgirls from a Baldrick berserker. Philip Phelan had to be out there somewhere, and Warhol wondered what his reaction would be when he found an entire region of Hell had been named in his honor. Then his mind snapped back to the task at hand. Sisse Petersen, a recently arrived Danish sensitive, but one with remarkable linking powers was on the couch surrounded by the latest Mark 3 amplifiers. They caused a lot less discomfort than the earlier versions despite generating more power. Even better, once the portal was open, the Mark 3 could keep it that way without a human operator.
“We’re through, portal opening now.” Sure enough, the portal opened and spread until it was wide enough to take the equipment planned for it. Then, Petersen stepped off the couch and the portal was steady. A cheer went up.
“I will take the next one now.” Her voice was uncompromising, she’d started this job, and now she would finish it. She took up position on the next couch and waited for the push from the other side. It came soon enough, and the second portal was opened. Now, there were two ellipses, about twelve feet apart. Time for the engineers.
The equipment was already waiting. A skid-mounted set of rollers and a belt were pushed through the first portal. Unseen hands on the other side grabbed it and stretched it out. Then the process was repeated with the other side. Once again, the unseen hands there quickly stretched it out. Then, the engineers in between the portals adjusted the tension in the conveyor belt and the job was done. With a flourish, the commander of the Army engineer detachment pressed a button and an electric motor spun to life. There was a rattle and crash, then the conveyor belt began to move.
“I’m glad that worked.” Warhol hardly dared breathe.
“No reason why it shouldn’t. The fuel pipeline through the Hellgate is working OK. And we’re getting aircraft and equipment through no problem. So, this should be fine. Ah, here we go.”
The first deceased humans were on the conveyor belt that had accelerated to full speed. The pile of bodies appeared at one portal, rolled across the gap between them, and disappeared back through the other. Warhol sighed with relief. Human dead were no longer going to hell, now they were being transferred directly to the waiting refugee camp. One part of the promise had been kept, no human would ever go to suffer eternal torment in the Hell-Pit again.
Refugee Transit Facility, The Phelan Plain, Human-Occupied Hell
Janice Haggerty woke up very carefully. She was in a great room; far larger than any hospital ward she had ever seen. There was a dull reddish light that was permeating through from outside, was this a tent? Where was she? The last thing she remembered was a tree leaping at her out of the darkness. Then, she looked down and realized she was on a hospital-style bed, naked and uncovered. She yelped and tried to cover herself with her hands.
“Don’t worry, we’re all like that.” A man on a bed looked at her appreciatively in a way that Haggerty found upsetting.
“He’s wrong.” Haggerty sighed with relief, a nurse had appeared, her face oddly obscured by a mask. Surely a little nurse-to-nurse professional courtesy could get her some clothes?
“Where are we?”
“We’re in Hell dear. You’re dead I’m afraid. If you’re strong enough to walk, we need you outside for reception and task assignments. Every dead human from Earth and Hell is coming through here and this place is only just large enough. With three of you arriving every second.”
“Three of us every second.” Haggerty tried to wrap her mind around the number. It was hard to imagine that was the number of people who died all the time.
“Yes, and it’s never going to end so please, hurry up and vacate this bed, we’re going to need it soon.”
“I’d like to rest for a while.” It was the man on the next bed.
“I’m sure you would, but this is a temporary facility only. Just while you regain consciousness. Now, move on please, we need this bed.”
Haggerty got up and, to her relief, found there was a hospital-style robe at the foot of the bed. She slipped it on and stepped through the opening, she had been right, the facility was a series of huge tents. Somewhere near was a powerful electric motor running. Ahead of her were lines of people forming and she joined what looked like the shortest one. The man who had been on the next bed pushed in front of her at the last moment. Hell seemed to have the same problems as Earth she reflected. The woman sitting behind a computer screen looked at the man expressionlessly.
“Name and nationality?”
“George Tubshaw, Irish-American.”
“Cause of Death?”
“Choked on a pretzel.”
“Any military service?”
“No, I always thought I could serve more effectively by working in the private sector.” There was a snort from another line at that.
“Qualifications?”
“Degree in History of Folk Music.”
The woman behind the computer pursed her lips and entered “Useless” into the field for qualifications. “Very well Tubshaw, we’re assigning you to a construction gang. Somebody will teach you how to hit nails with a hammer or use a spade. Next.”
“But… I’m an administrator.”
“Why didn’t you say that before, what did you administer?”
“Well, a music appreciation course in community college.”
“Construction gang. Next.”
“Janice Haggerty, British, no military service.”
“What did you do Janice? And your cause of death?”
“I was a nurse. I was in a traffic accident. We’d been treating casualties from Sheffield, there were so many badly burned people to look after. I must have fallen asleep driving home because the last thing I remember is a tree.”
“A nurse. That’s good. Do you fancy working with people recovering from the Hell-Pit? A lot of them are badly traumatized, they need sympathetic handling. You’d be doing a really needed job.”
“Please, umm Miss, excuse me asking but….”
“The name is Fiona. Yes, I’m dead as well. I died in the Great Influenza of 1919. I wasn’t as lucky as you, I spent the last century being drowned in a cesspit until some Quakers rescued me. So, you see, I know how much you’ll be needed. Thanks for helping Janice. Next.”
Haggerty walked away, hearing the voice behind her. “Nguyen Huu Phai, Vietnamese, two years military service in the Vietnamese People’s Liberation Army. Died of snake bite.”
“Right, the military authorities will want to speak with you. Please go over there and wait for a truck.”
A truck, Haggerty thought, obviously, the fuel shortage that permeated Earth wasn’t affecting hell, or at least not the Armies fighting in Hell. Overhead she heard the scream of jet aircraft and saw two white-painted military jets making their landing runs, their bleached-out roundels showing them to be British. The TSR-2s, the press had been full of their exploits before she had died. They’d made it sound like the “White Ghosts” were winning the war single-handed. She chuckled; poor old Dennis Healey had been excoriated in the press for canceling them so many years ago.
There was a blast on a horn, and she stopped short, the blacktop of a road was in front of her and she’d nearly stepped out in front of a huge tank. She looked around and saw a black American woman officer in a Humvee parked by the side of the road.
“Hokay, you want to die twice in one day? Look where you’re going, girl. Them Abrams will squash you flat.”
“I’m sorry, can you tell me where the treatment area for people who have been recovered from the hell pit is?”
“Sure can. We’ll be passing right by it. I’ll drop you off, get in.”
“Thank you.” Haggerty climbed awkwardly into a Humvee. “Last time I was in a vehicle I went to sleep and that got me here. I’m Janice Haggerty, the nurse.”
“Keisha Stevenson, Colonel United States Army. My battalion just got here.”
“You’re new here too?”
“Nah. The last time I was here, this was all Baldrick country. Now it’s just like downtown Bayonne. There’s even a MacDonalds as if hell weren’t bad enough on its own.” The Humvee swerved through the column of tanks and dropped off the blacktop onto a dirt road. “Hell pit recoverees are just ahead. Some of them are in a pitiful state. Been in torment so long they can’t remember anything else. You gonna be doing a worthwhile thing there girl. Okay, this is your stop. Keep the faith.”
Haggerty started. “What faith.”
Stevenson smiled broadly. “Why faith in science, engineering, and applied firepower of course. What other faith could there be?”
Re: 2008 - Armageddon
Chapter Seventy-Eight
Grays Lane, Clifton Council Housing Estate, Outside Nottingham
Time, tide and the SAS wait for no man. Gorgons were something different. Gorgons needed care; the available intelligence pointed out that they were uniquely dangerous. They had a means, yet unidentified, of entrancing humans even when their victims were firmly clad in a good–quality tinfoil hat. The experts had been consulted and the results were disquieting, they suggested that the gorgons could entrance a human just by staring at them. Fortunately, the bit about them turning a human into stone had been discounted, it was believed that they were just a greatly exaggerated version of entrancement. It did appear, though, that the gorgons could kill as well as entrance. Some of their victims had been found with curious spines in them, that was a hint as to how they managed both entrancement and killing.
So, the SAS troops were kitted out in head-to-toe Kevlar, woven to give anti-stab protection as well as against bullet strikes. Of course, that wouldn’t help any if the gorgon started throwing lightning bolts around, but one took what one could get. All in all, Captain Greg Crowleigh felt he had taken every precaution he could, the SAS might have a reputation for charging into situations but, a vast amount of careful planning went on first. This strike had been no different although Crowleigh was grimly aware that he and his men were considered the B-team if that. The best of the SAS personnel had been deployed to Hell where they were raising their own brand of chaos. Well, now was the time to show the powers that be what his people could do.
“Ready Sergeant?”
The figure behind the grenade launcher nodded although the motion was barely visible behind the gas mask.
“In your own time then. Your shot is the go-signal.” There had been no need to repeat that, it had been stressed in the briefings often enough, but Crowleigh was taking no chances. He hadn’t quite got the self-confidence to trust himself to get the message over. Although he didn’t realize it, that was why he was on the B-team.
The grenade launcher coughed, sending a 40mm tear gas grenade through the downstairs window of the house. An instant afterward, four more launchers sent similar grenades through the other windows at the front, sending white smoke boiling upwards. Crowleigh started his run, jumping up from cover behind the hedge and heading for the bay windows that marked the living room. The house was a standard council property, like thousands of others scattered all over the U.K. This one hadn’t been bought by its occupiers during the 1980s but that wouldn’t change its floor plan. If anything, it made the assault easier for the tenants and wouldn’t have made any radical changes the way an owner might.
Two blasts from the automatic shotgun he carried dealt with the window itself, then Crowleigh dived through the shattered glass, landing on the carpet inside in a smooth roll. A figure, human, was staggering around in the white haze of tear gas, wailing, and holding its eyes. Then, it saw the black shape as Crowleigh rose to his feet.
“Goddess, you’ve come down to save us!” Then there was a brief pause as the human stared at the new visitor through streaming eyes. “You’re not our Goddess, get out of our temple.”
The figure lunged for Crowleigh with hands raised in claws. The Captain didn’t hesitate, one shotgun blast threw the human back against a wall, and a second sent it tumbling to the floor. As he died, a Sergeant moved past him and flipped the internal door open. It led to the hallway, stairs to the top floor leading off from one corner. Another figure was standing on those stairs, holding a piece of wood as a club. The Sergeant didn’t let it speak, although it was so racked by coughing that speech seemed unlikely. The burst from the shotgun blew the figure into rags.
Crowleigh and his men quickly fanned out through the tear-gas-ridden house. Individual shotgun blasts or short bursts marked the demise of more members of the cult who had made this house their ‘temple’. The old days of HK-5 sub-machine guns had long gone; pistol bullets just didn’t work well enough against Demons. Two more cult members tried to escape out the back doors but were shot down by snipers who were part of the perimeter that isolated the building. The gorgon inside had evaded capture at least twice already, it wouldn’t make it three times on Crowleigh’s watch. The neighbors had been quietly evacuated, the surrounding buildings checked out, and then used to house the SAS personnel who were conducting the raid. Further out, a second perimeter reinforced the first. Nothing got through either without being very carefully searched.
Upstairs, Lakheenahuknaasi heard the crash of the windows breaking and the sound of gunfire as the members of her cult were cut down. That didn’t worry her, they were expendable and could easily be replaced if she got the chance. That was the problem, if. The house was filled with a strange white smoke that caused her eyes to stream and her lungs to sear. Worse, the same smoke was having the same effects on the tendrils that adorned her head, they were writhing in an uncontrollable red and black mass. Completely useless and without their protection, Lakheenahuknaasi felt hideously exposed as she heard the pounding on the stairs that presaged the door of her room exploding inwards.
Sergeant Doyle saw the ghastly figure in the back of the room, its golden scales not hiding the horror of its appearance. Its head was crowned by a mass of red and black snakes that seemed to have gone berserk, they were flailing about uncontrollably, but he could still see the single eye that dominated each. The snakes were shooting off barbs, mostly hitting the walls and ceiling, but a few came Doyle’s way and that was enough. He leveled his shotgun and fired round after round into the struggling gorgon.
Lakheenahuknaasi felt the shots hit her and knew it was over. She had failed her mistress and her time on earth was done. It had been nice being a Goddess for a while and she had had an insight into what made Yahweh tick. It was good to be adored, even if the adoration was forced on an unwilling subject. The human was standing over her with his shotgun leveled and that was the last thing she saw as the world faded out around her.
“That is one ugly mother.” Crowleigh looked down at the mutilated gorgon on the floor. “Is it dead?”
“I do sincerely hope so Sir. I put ten slugs into it.” Sergeant Doyle had already reloaded his shotgun just in case.
“The orders were to take no chances. Tell Private Bodie to get the refrigerated van over here. The medics will want to dissect this one before it rots too much. And wrap that head up in something, the last thing we want is those blasted snakes shooting off more spines.”
Crowleigh left the house and watched the bodies being assembled on the pavement. More than a dozen humans, some men, some women, all entranced by that single gorgon. It had been busy during its brief stay on Earth. Around the barriers set up by the police, a small crowd was growing, mostly just staring at the bodies as the line grew. The sky volcano over what was left of Sheffield had gone, the gorgon responsible had been killed at last. It had proved a reasonably good day after all.
Underground Fortress of Palelabour, Tartarus, Hell
Euryale woke with a shock, her eyes quickly scanning her lair for an assassin who might have crept in. The cave seemed empty; it wasn’t an intruder who had wakened her so abruptly. On an instinct, she started to scan across the gorgons who had made the trip to Palelabour. They were all present, but one mind, one far removed from the rest was gone. Euryale knew who that mind was and could guess why it was no longer showing up on her scan. Lakheenahuknaasi are you there my child?
Silence.
Euryale repeated the call over and over but there was no response. Her fears were confirmed, Lakheenahuknaasi was dead. She had expected it; the earth-bound gorgon had lasted longer than she had expected and the information she had brought back was more than valuable. It had given Euryale an insight into human habits and capabilities that had stunned her. She had shared only a little of that information with Belial, keeping most of it close to her chest because the implications were so overwhelming. Besides, information was a treasure, and nobody parted with treasure when they didn’t have to. Now, the source of that treasure was cut off and Euryale would make do with what she had.
One thing stuck in her mind. Lakheenahuknaasi had told her humans were vengeful and held grudges for a long time. She had told Euryale of historical disputes that had gone on for centuries over some small, insignificant patch of land. In some parts of the human realm, feuds had gone on for centuries over some minor insult whose original cause had been long forgotten. When she had heard that, Euryale realized that the humans would not forgive the destruction of Detroit and Sheffield. They would want vengeance and would go to any lengths to achieve it. The destruction of the Adamantine Fortress had shown that. Euryale had flown over to it, seeing how it had been crushed into ruins. If Belial hadn’t had the insight to get them out, he and all his clan would now be dead.
Euryale relaxed back on her bed, staring at the ceiling of her lair. Human vengeance was a certain factor, and they would not stop until they got it. So how would she and her gorgons survive the impending disaster? That was the question and it still nagged at her mind until she slipped back into sleep.
The Ultimate Temple, Heaven
This, Michael-lan thought was going to be tricky.
Yahweh was sitting on his throne, in the same half-bemused position that he had occupied when Michael-lan had last seen him. His eyes were remote, unfocussed, hypnotized by the rhythmic chants of praise that filled the air around him. Combined with the clouds of incense, they created a glurge of adoring worship that quite turned Michael’s stomach.
“Oh Great and Eternal Father of us All. I bring news of the great conflict between Earth and Hell and of the fate of our Eternal Enemy.”
Yahweh’s eyes snapped out of his trance and focused on Michael. “And have the humans been defeated? Has Satan done as we wished and taken them into his domain?”
Here we go. Michael’s inner mind relished the effect that his news was going to have on Yahweh. And let the good times roll. Michael-lan had liked New Orleans almost as much as he liked Las Vegas. He had been really upset with Yahweh when, in a fit of pique over something or other, Yahweh had turned the course of Hurricane Katrina onto New Orleans.
“No, Eternal Father. In fact, it is our Eternal Enemy who faces defeat. The humans go from strength to strength, they have smashed the armies of Hell, and killed many of the leading commanders. Beelzebub is dead, and Asmodeus also, both killed by humans. Many more, too many to name now, although we have the list. The humans bombed the Eternal Enemy’s own palace, reducing it to rubble and killing all who attended him. The Eternal Enemy was spared only by chance. Dis itself is under siege and the Eternal Enemy is trapped inside. The humans command the skies over Hell, they have occupied much of its ground. Their armies go where they wish and destroy all who stand before them.
“But this is not all. Eternal Father, Highest of the High, Ruler of the Heavens” Michael left the ‘and Earth’ bit off, partly to annoy Yahweh, partly out of regard for the truth, but mostly because he’d get to that bit later. “The Humans have struck at the Plateau of Minos. They have killed Minos and all who labored with him, and they have seized the plateau. All the humans who die are now transported to the parts of Hell occupied by humans. Not one human soul goes to Hell.”
Yahweh exploded with rage, his fury causing the clouds of incense to roll back and forth. “They have done what? It was my eternal will that humans should suffer for all eternity save those I thought worthy of salvation. And none now are worthy of that. You tell me they have once more rejected my divine commands?”
Oh, this was good thought, Michael. Brightens up a dull millennium perfectly. He hadn’t had so much fun since he’d slipped Saint Peter a large dose of LSD he’d obtained on a trip to ‘Vegas.
“There is more O Immaculate One. The human church has repudiated you. They have excommunicated you. They have declared you a false god and affirmed that their beliefs apply to a true god whom you usurped.”
That did it. To Michael’s unrevealed delight, Yahweh went ballistic. Lightning bolts flashed around the throne room of the Ultimate Temple and ricocheted off the walls, sending showers of pristine diamond flakes spiraling through the air. Thunder racked and rolled the air of heaven, sending people scurrying through the alabaster streets, seeking cover from the wrath that all too obviously centered on the Ultimate Temple. Eventually, the air calmed down and Yahweh started making sense again.
“Which church did this?”
“The Christians Eternal Father.”
“The one that idiot son of mine invented? Is he involved in this? What is the stupid moron up to now anyway?”
“I believe he is in retreat Eternal Father. Meditating on his existence to improve himself. By which I mean mentally added Michael He is getting ready to try out some good grass I scored on my last trip to Earth. And I’ll be joining him as soon as I’ve got this tiresome chore out of the way. Anyway, blaming him for this mess is quite unreasonable, we all told you that the humans were advancing faster than anybody could expect but did you listen? Oh no, you had to be the one who knows what is best, didn’t you?
Yahweh nodded, his rage subsiding. “Is there anything else?”
“Not much O Heavenly Father. Only some humans called lawyers have sued you in the Louisiana Supreme Court for damages resulting from Hurricane Katrina’s destruction of New Orleans. The Church described that as an act of God and that’s taken as an admission of guilt. According to the judge, you owe the State of Louisiana eighty billion dollars.
That did it, more lightning flashes battered the already-scarred walls of the throne room. For a moment Michael thought Yahweh was going to have a seizure but he controlled himself. “And what am I expected to do about that?”
“Well, you could pay them. Or you could appeal to the U.S. Supreme Court. That would mean you must hire some lawyers though and most of them work for the Eternal Enemy. Or you could ignore them but then the humans might send an Army to collect it.”
This time the lightning flashes were multi-colored and went on for a long time. My patience is at an end. Uriel’s plans are laid, and the cups of wrath are ready to be poured. We will inflict tribulations on the humans that they can’t imagine even in their wildest nightmares. Order Uriel to set forth without further delay. The humans will weep for their insults to me.
“Your will be done, Eternal Father.” Michael took a step backward and headed out of the palace. He’d been right, it had been a tricky meeting, but he’d pulled it off. Uriel would set forth and, if Michael was any judge of the way things were going, he wouldn’t find it a happy experience. Anyway, that was for the future and, contrary to Yahweh’s frequently voiced opinions, the future could be trusted to take care of itself. For now, Michael planned to get stoned.
The Oval Office, The White House, Washington D.C.
“Are we all set up?”
“Yes, Mister President. The equipment we asked for has arrived, four AN-124 transports landed with them on board a few hours ago. Putin sent the crews as well, so we wouldn’t waste time training our own people. So, all we need is the word and we’re set to go.
“Apart from that, everything is going well. The last organized demonic armies in hell have been dispersed, and the city of Dis is cut off. We’ve seized the reception area for our dead and redirected them towards our own territory. That’s going well, Expedia.com are even advertising trips to our refugee and recovery area in hell so grieving relatives can welcome their deceased family members into the next life. Bit pricey but if that’s what the market demands… Anyway, if they don’t interrupt the logistics streams into Hell, that doesn’t worry us. The sky volcanoes have been shut down and the source of them bombed.”
“An interesting thing there Sir.” Doctor Surlethe cut across Secretary Warner when the Senator paused to catch his breath. “As far as we can make out, Tartarus is the contra-coup from the Hell Pit.”
“What?” President Bush looked confused. That was the sort of statement that made his headache.
“It’s like this Sir.” Surlethe produced a strip of paper, gave it a half-twist, and stuck the ends together with tape. “Any dimension in hell is like this a Moebius Strip. The whole of hell is like this, we can’t visualize it because it needs extra dimensions, but it does. Now, look at this.” He took a pencil and drew a line on the paper, around the circle. It kept going, without the point being lifted from the paper until eventually, it reached its starting point. “You see Sir, the paper only has one surface, a loop without the twist has two, Hell is like this Sir, no matter which way you go, we always end up where we started, in every dimension. Now, the bombers flew to Tartarus and back, it’s exactly halfway around the world from the Hell Pit. So, if we draw that in the Moebius Strip, we see that halfway around is exactly where the Hell Pit is on the other side of the dimension. Mathematically, that’s fascinating.”
“I’m sure Doctor. Secretary Warner, despite all the good news and the progress we have made, I trust nobody is going to declare that we have reached the end of major combat operations?”
“No Sir. That caused enough trouble the last time.”
“Good. Thank you for the briefing. Oh, Doctor Surlethe. You said this Moebius Strip effect works for all dimensions in the Hell-dimension? So surely it should apply to time as well?”
Grays Lane, Clifton Council Housing Estate, Outside Nottingham
Time, tide and the SAS wait for no man. Gorgons were something different. Gorgons needed care; the available intelligence pointed out that they were uniquely dangerous. They had a means, yet unidentified, of entrancing humans even when their victims were firmly clad in a good–quality tinfoil hat. The experts had been consulted and the results were disquieting, they suggested that the gorgons could entrance a human just by staring at them. Fortunately, the bit about them turning a human into stone had been discounted, it was believed that they were just a greatly exaggerated version of entrancement. It did appear, though, that the gorgons could kill as well as entrance. Some of their victims had been found with curious spines in them, that was a hint as to how they managed both entrancement and killing.
So, the SAS troops were kitted out in head-to-toe Kevlar, woven to give anti-stab protection as well as against bullet strikes. Of course, that wouldn’t help any if the gorgon started throwing lightning bolts around, but one took what one could get. All in all, Captain Greg Crowleigh felt he had taken every precaution he could, the SAS might have a reputation for charging into situations but, a vast amount of careful planning went on first. This strike had been no different although Crowleigh was grimly aware that he and his men were considered the B-team if that. The best of the SAS personnel had been deployed to Hell where they were raising their own brand of chaos. Well, now was the time to show the powers that be what his people could do.
“Ready Sergeant?”
The figure behind the grenade launcher nodded although the motion was barely visible behind the gas mask.
“In your own time then. Your shot is the go-signal.” There had been no need to repeat that, it had been stressed in the briefings often enough, but Crowleigh was taking no chances. He hadn’t quite got the self-confidence to trust himself to get the message over. Although he didn’t realize it, that was why he was on the B-team.
The grenade launcher coughed, sending a 40mm tear gas grenade through the downstairs window of the house. An instant afterward, four more launchers sent similar grenades through the other windows at the front, sending white smoke boiling upwards. Crowleigh started his run, jumping up from cover behind the hedge and heading for the bay windows that marked the living room. The house was a standard council property, like thousands of others scattered all over the U.K. This one hadn’t been bought by its occupiers during the 1980s but that wouldn’t change its floor plan. If anything, it made the assault easier for the tenants and wouldn’t have made any radical changes the way an owner might.
Two blasts from the automatic shotgun he carried dealt with the window itself, then Crowleigh dived through the shattered glass, landing on the carpet inside in a smooth roll. A figure, human, was staggering around in the white haze of tear gas, wailing, and holding its eyes. Then, it saw the black shape as Crowleigh rose to his feet.
“Goddess, you’ve come down to save us!” Then there was a brief pause as the human stared at the new visitor through streaming eyes. “You’re not our Goddess, get out of our temple.”
The figure lunged for Crowleigh with hands raised in claws. The Captain didn’t hesitate, one shotgun blast threw the human back against a wall, and a second sent it tumbling to the floor. As he died, a Sergeant moved past him and flipped the internal door open. It led to the hallway, stairs to the top floor leading off from one corner. Another figure was standing on those stairs, holding a piece of wood as a club. The Sergeant didn’t let it speak, although it was so racked by coughing that speech seemed unlikely. The burst from the shotgun blew the figure into rags.
Crowleigh and his men quickly fanned out through the tear-gas-ridden house. Individual shotgun blasts or short bursts marked the demise of more members of the cult who had made this house their ‘temple’. The old days of HK-5 sub-machine guns had long gone; pistol bullets just didn’t work well enough against Demons. Two more cult members tried to escape out the back doors but were shot down by snipers who were part of the perimeter that isolated the building. The gorgon inside had evaded capture at least twice already, it wouldn’t make it three times on Crowleigh’s watch. The neighbors had been quietly evacuated, the surrounding buildings checked out, and then used to house the SAS personnel who were conducting the raid. Further out, a second perimeter reinforced the first. Nothing got through either without being very carefully searched.
Upstairs, Lakheenahuknaasi heard the crash of the windows breaking and the sound of gunfire as the members of her cult were cut down. That didn’t worry her, they were expendable and could easily be replaced if she got the chance. That was the problem, if. The house was filled with a strange white smoke that caused her eyes to stream and her lungs to sear. Worse, the same smoke was having the same effects on the tendrils that adorned her head, they were writhing in an uncontrollable red and black mass. Completely useless and without their protection, Lakheenahuknaasi felt hideously exposed as she heard the pounding on the stairs that presaged the door of her room exploding inwards.
Sergeant Doyle saw the ghastly figure in the back of the room, its golden scales not hiding the horror of its appearance. Its head was crowned by a mass of red and black snakes that seemed to have gone berserk, they were flailing about uncontrollably, but he could still see the single eye that dominated each. The snakes were shooting off barbs, mostly hitting the walls and ceiling, but a few came Doyle’s way and that was enough. He leveled his shotgun and fired round after round into the struggling gorgon.
Lakheenahuknaasi felt the shots hit her and knew it was over. She had failed her mistress and her time on earth was done. It had been nice being a Goddess for a while and she had had an insight into what made Yahweh tick. It was good to be adored, even if the adoration was forced on an unwilling subject. The human was standing over her with his shotgun leveled and that was the last thing she saw as the world faded out around her.
“That is one ugly mother.” Crowleigh looked down at the mutilated gorgon on the floor. “Is it dead?”
“I do sincerely hope so Sir. I put ten slugs into it.” Sergeant Doyle had already reloaded his shotgun just in case.
“The orders were to take no chances. Tell Private Bodie to get the refrigerated van over here. The medics will want to dissect this one before it rots too much. And wrap that head up in something, the last thing we want is those blasted snakes shooting off more spines.”
Crowleigh left the house and watched the bodies being assembled on the pavement. More than a dozen humans, some men, some women, all entranced by that single gorgon. It had been busy during its brief stay on Earth. Around the barriers set up by the police, a small crowd was growing, mostly just staring at the bodies as the line grew. The sky volcano over what was left of Sheffield had gone, the gorgon responsible had been killed at last. It had proved a reasonably good day after all.
Underground Fortress of Palelabour, Tartarus, Hell
Euryale woke with a shock, her eyes quickly scanning her lair for an assassin who might have crept in. The cave seemed empty; it wasn’t an intruder who had wakened her so abruptly. On an instinct, she started to scan across the gorgons who had made the trip to Palelabour. They were all present, but one mind, one far removed from the rest was gone. Euryale knew who that mind was and could guess why it was no longer showing up on her scan. Lakheenahuknaasi are you there my child?
Silence.
Euryale repeated the call over and over but there was no response. Her fears were confirmed, Lakheenahuknaasi was dead. She had expected it; the earth-bound gorgon had lasted longer than she had expected and the information she had brought back was more than valuable. It had given Euryale an insight into human habits and capabilities that had stunned her. She had shared only a little of that information with Belial, keeping most of it close to her chest because the implications were so overwhelming. Besides, information was a treasure, and nobody parted with treasure when they didn’t have to. Now, the source of that treasure was cut off and Euryale would make do with what she had.
One thing stuck in her mind. Lakheenahuknaasi had told her humans were vengeful and held grudges for a long time. She had told Euryale of historical disputes that had gone on for centuries over some small, insignificant patch of land. In some parts of the human realm, feuds had gone on for centuries over some minor insult whose original cause had been long forgotten. When she had heard that, Euryale realized that the humans would not forgive the destruction of Detroit and Sheffield. They would want vengeance and would go to any lengths to achieve it. The destruction of the Adamantine Fortress had shown that. Euryale had flown over to it, seeing how it had been crushed into ruins. If Belial hadn’t had the insight to get them out, he and all his clan would now be dead.
Euryale relaxed back on her bed, staring at the ceiling of her lair. Human vengeance was a certain factor, and they would not stop until they got it. So how would she and her gorgons survive the impending disaster? That was the question and it still nagged at her mind until she slipped back into sleep.
The Ultimate Temple, Heaven
This, Michael-lan thought was going to be tricky.
Yahweh was sitting on his throne, in the same half-bemused position that he had occupied when Michael-lan had last seen him. His eyes were remote, unfocussed, hypnotized by the rhythmic chants of praise that filled the air around him. Combined with the clouds of incense, they created a glurge of adoring worship that quite turned Michael’s stomach.
“Oh Great and Eternal Father of us All. I bring news of the great conflict between Earth and Hell and of the fate of our Eternal Enemy.”
Yahweh’s eyes snapped out of his trance and focused on Michael. “And have the humans been defeated? Has Satan done as we wished and taken them into his domain?”
Here we go. Michael’s inner mind relished the effect that his news was going to have on Yahweh. And let the good times roll. Michael-lan had liked New Orleans almost as much as he liked Las Vegas. He had been really upset with Yahweh when, in a fit of pique over something or other, Yahweh had turned the course of Hurricane Katrina onto New Orleans.
“No, Eternal Father. In fact, it is our Eternal Enemy who faces defeat. The humans go from strength to strength, they have smashed the armies of Hell, and killed many of the leading commanders. Beelzebub is dead, and Asmodeus also, both killed by humans. Many more, too many to name now, although we have the list. The humans bombed the Eternal Enemy’s own palace, reducing it to rubble and killing all who attended him. The Eternal Enemy was spared only by chance. Dis itself is under siege and the Eternal Enemy is trapped inside. The humans command the skies over Hell, they have occupied much of its ground. Their armies go where they wish and destroy all who stand before them.
“But this is not all. Eternal Father, Highest of the High, Ruler of the Heavens” Michael left the ‘and Earth’ bit off, partly to annoy Yahweh, partly out of regard for the truth, but mostly because he’d get to that bit later. “The Humans have struck at the Plateau of Minos. They have killed Minos and all who labored with him, and they have seized the plateau. All the humans who die are now transported to the parts of Hell occupied by humans. Not one human soul goes to Hell.”
Yahweh exploded with rage, his fury causing the clouds of incense to roll back and forth. “They have done what? It was my eternal will that humans should suffer for all eternity save those I thought worthy of salvation. And none now are worthy of that. You tell me they have once more rejected my divine commands?”
Oh, this was good thought, Michael. Brightens up a dull millennium perfectly. He hadn’t had so much fun since he’d slipped Saint Peter a large dose of LSD he’d obtained on a trip to ‘Vegas.
“There is more O Immaculate One. The human church has repudiated you. They have excommunicated you. They have declared you a false god and affirmed that their beliefs apply to a true god whom you usurped.”
That did it. To Michael’s unrevealed delight, Yahweh went ballistic. Lightning bolts flashed around the throne room of the Ultimate Temple and ricocheted off the walls, sending showers of pristine diamond flakes spiraling through the air. Thunder racked and rolled the air of heaven, sending people scurrying through the alabaster streets, seeking cover from the wrath that all too obviously centered on the Ultimate Temple. Eventually, the air calmed down and Yahweh started making sense again.
“Which church did this?”
“The Christians Eternal Father.”
“The one that idiot son of mine invented? Is he involved in this? What is the stupid moron up to now anyway?”
“I believe he is in retreat Eternal Father. Meditating on his existence to improve himself. By which I mean mentally added Michael He is getting ready to try out some good grass I scored on my last trip to Earth. And I’ll be joining him as soon as I’ve got this tiresome chore out of the way. Anyway, blaming him for this mess is quite unreasonable, we all told you that the humans were advancing faster than anybody could expect but did you listen? Oh no, you had to be the one who knows what is best, didn’t you?
Yahweh nodded, his rage subsiding. “Is there anything else?”
“Not much O Heavenly Father. Only some humans called lawyers have sued you in the Louisiana Supreme Court for damages resulting from Hurricane Katrina’s destruction of New Orleans. The Church described that as an act of God and that’s taken as an admission of guilt. According to the judge, you owe the State of Louisiana eighty billion dollars.
That did it, more lightning flashes battered the already-scarred walls of the throne room. For a moment Michael thought Yahweh was going to have a seizure but he controlled himself. “And what am I expected to do about that?”
“Well, you could pay them. Or you could appeal to the U.S. Supreme Court. That would mean you must hire some lawyers though and most of them work for the Eternal Enemy. Or you could ignore them but then the humans might send an Army to collect it.”
This time the lightning flashes were multi-colored and went on for a long time. My patience is at an end. Uriel’s plans are laid, and the cups of wrath are ready to be poured. We will inflict tribulations on the humans that they can’t imagine even in their wildest nightmares. Order Uriel to set forth without further delay. The humans will weep for their insults to me.
“Your will be done, Eternal Father.” Michael took a step backward and headed out of the palace. He’d been right, it had been a tricky meeting, but he’d pulled it off. Uriel would set forth and, if Michael was any judge of the way things were going, he wouldn’t find it a happy experience. Anyway, that was for the future and, contrary to Yahweh’s frequently voiced opinions, the future could be trusted to take care of itself. For now, Michael planned to get stoned.
The Oval Office, The White House, Washington D.C.
“Are we all set up?”
“Yes, Mister President. The equipment we asked for has arrived, four AN-124 transports landed with them on board a few hours ago. Putin sent the crews as well, so we wouldn’t waste time training our own people. So, all we need is the word and we’re set to go.
“Apart from that, everything is going well. The last organized demonic armies in hell have been dispersed, and the city of Dis is cut off. We’ve seized the reception area for our dead and redirected them towards our own territory. That’s going well, Expedia.com are even advertising trips to our refugee and recovery area in hell so grieving relatives can welcome their deceased family members into the next life. Bit pricey but if that’s what the market demands… Anyway, if they don’t interrupt the logistics streams into Hell, that doesn’t worry us. The sky volcanoes have been shut down and the source of them bombed.”
“An interesting thing there Sir.” Doctor Surlethe cut across Secretary Warner when the Senator paused to catch his breath. “As far as we can make out, Tartarus is the contra-coup from the Hell Pit.”
“What?” President Bush looked confused. That was the sort of statement that made his headache.
“It’s like this Sir.” Surlethe produced a strip of paper, gave it a half-twist, and stuck the ends together with tape. “Any dimension in hell is like this a Moebius Strip. The whole of hell is like this, we can’t visualize it because it needs extra dimensions, but it does. Now, look at this.” He took a pencil and drew a line on the paper, around the circle. It kept going, without the point being lifted from the paper until eventually, it reached its starting point. “You see Sir, the paper only has one surface, a loop without the twist has two, Hell is like this Sir, no matter which way you go, we always end up where we started, in every dimension. Now, the bombers flew to Tartarus and back, it’s exactly halfway around the world from the Hell Pit. So, if we draw that in the Moebius Strip, we see that halfway around is exactly where the Hell Pit is on the other side of the dimension. Mathematically, that’s fascinating.”
“I’m sure Doctor. Secretary Warner, despite all the good news and the progress we have made, I trust nobody is going to declare that we have reached the end of major combat operations?”
“No Sir. That caused enough trouble the last time.”
“Good. Thank you for the briefing. Oh, Doctor Surlethe. You said this Moebius Strip effect works for all dimensions in the Hell-dimension? So surely it should apply to time as well?”
Re: 2008 - Armageddon
Chapter Seventy-Nine
Bravo Portal, Off Bermuda, Earth
The black ellipse had mushroomed open and now dominated the Great Sound of Bermuda. The shipping channel into the ellipse was guarded, for what came one way through the Hellgate could be matched by what came in the opposite direction. Naval Base Hell-Bravo was as much a defensive installation as an offensive one.
Out in the shipping channel, the aircraft carrier USS Harry S Truman, CVN-75, was making her way slowly up towards the Hellgate, surrounded by a bevy of tugs that were working overtime to keep her within the strict navigational limits. She was a big ship; she drew a lot of water and the last thing anybody needed was an unexpected accidental grounding. Up in front of her, two fire tugs were directing their hoses into the sky, the brilliant sunshine turning the spray of water into a myriad of colors. It was incredibly beautiful. Once again, Captain Herman A. Shelanski reminded himself that pulling into a foreign port was an experience that made all the sacrifices of living in the Navy worthwhile.
“Give ‘Em Hell Harry!” The woman was speaking through a bullhorn from a speedboat that was racing alongside the great carrier. A Cyclone class PC was keeping between her small craft and the side of the carrier, this may be the Salvation War, but nobody had forgotten what had happened to the USS Cole. That wasn’t going to be the case here though, the speedboat curved away and then made another run alongside the Truman. This time, the girl in the back pulled the bra of her bikini down and did as good an imitation of a pole dance as was possible under the circumstances. The roar of cheering from the seamen manning the rails on the carrier drowned out the diesels on the tugs. Once again, the speedboat peeled away, this time it was for good because the ellipse was near, and the girls wanted to repeat their performance on the John C Stennis following behind. Idly, Shelanski wondered what the Russian crew on the Piotr Veliky, third in line, would make of the display.
“Ready for hell Transit.” It was an order, not a question.
“Aye Aye Sir. Ready for Transit.” Master Chief Walker glanced out at the deck beneath him. The Truman was up to her full complement of aircraft for the first time in many years even if some of them were refugees from the boneyard or a museum. The backbone of the group was the 54 F-18 Electric Bugs, backed up by 18 F-4 Rhinos. Then there was the new addition to the group, the 18 AT-45Ds, a single-seat strike version of the T-45 Goshawk. They’d only just arrived in time for the transit, the last had made it on board just as Truman swung to enter the navigational channel. With her six E-2 Hawkeyes and eight SH-60R helicopters, the big carrier had 104 aircraft on board. Too many, her decks were cramped and Shelanski had already decided to off-load nine of the AT-45s to the Stennis
“They’re going to be worn out by the time the group’s through.” Shelanski’s Exec, Captain Ronald Reis waved at the cheering crowds on the jetties that separated the Little Sound from the Great Sound. It looked like the whole population of Bermuda had turned out. As Truman’s bow started to touch the great ellipse, a burst of fireworks exploded overhead. Then, the clear blue sky of the earth was replaced by the filthy red murk of Hell.
The tugs had peeled away at the last moment, but Truman was not alone. Six DDG-51 Arleigh Burke-class destroyers and a pair of CG-47 Ticonderoga class cruisers were waiting for her with another, a similar group waiting to screen the Stennis. They were making the air crackle with the power output from the SPY-1 radars of their AEGIS systems and their sonars were lashing the water at full power. Here in Hell, there was no worry that the sonar emissions would harm the local wildlife, in fact creating as much havoc as possible was the reason why the big SQS-53s were cranked up to maximum power. The early battle Astute had fought against one of the Greater Heralds so many months ago had shown just how effective low-frequency sonar pulses could be against the Baldricks.
“Clearing transit area now, Sir.” Navigation passed confirmation up to the bridge.
“Screen forming around us. Johnny Reb is emerging from the portal.” Behind them, the Stennis was half through Hellgate Bravo and Shelanski wondered what would happen to her if the portal shut down for some reason at this precise moment. Anyway, it was pointless speculation since CVN-74 was already emerging from the gate.
“She’s through Sir. Piotr Veliky will be next. As soon as she’s arrived, we’ll be on our way.”
Shelanski nodded. On the bridge above his, the Admiral was doubtless working out the routing that would take the two carriers all the way north to Tartarus. They wouldn’t be the first human naval assets on their way there; all three Seawolf-class submarines had transited the portal days earlier and were already heading for Tartarus at maximum speed. They’d already be almost halfway there, and they had a load-out that featured a lot of Tomahawk cruise missiles.
Nor would the two carrier battle groups be the last. Once they had finished transiting Hellgate Bravo, the long line of amphibious warfare ships and their screens would start. A Marine division, rich in helicopters, Harrier aircraft, and armor, aboard an imposing array of LHDs, LPDs, and LSDs, a British brigade group with their LPH and transports, an equivalent French force, and another made up of the smaller European Navies. Even the Peruvian Navy was represented, they’d sent the cruiser Almirante Grau, with her six-inch guns, she had the heaviest battery in the fleet.
The Baldricks had all their remaining armies bottled up in Dis, besieged and isolated. They had no idea of the amphibious hammer blow that was about to land on the far north of the land they had once claimed as their own. Shelanski felt the vibration building up under his feet. His ship was picking up speed for the long run to Tartarus.
1/33 Battalion, Third Brigade, Third Armored Division, Ninth U.S. Corps. North of Dis.
The Third Armored was officially designated as the Spearhead Division although it was less formally known as the “Third Herd”. And a herd it was, thundering north as fast as its tracks could carry it, modified only by a degree of prudence. The baldricks had nothing that could stop a tank, nothing that was known, anyway. Still, it paid to be prudent.
Keisha Stevenson looked around at the array of armored vehicles sweeping across the countryside. Things had changed since her first tentative forays into Hell months before. A handful of vehicles she’d had then, and they were all of the human forces in hell, stepping gingerly into unknown and hostile terrain. Now she had a full combined arms battalion, two companies of Abrams tanks, two of mechanized infantry in Bradleys, and a battery of the new 57mm armed anti-harpy vehicles. A force that dwarfed her previous command and yet was a tiny part of the armored avalanche descending on anything that dared to get in its way. It wasn’t just Third Armored; alongside them and off to the east was Sixth Armored and to the West was the Fourth Mechanized Infantry Division with the 30th Mechanized Infantry following as Corps reserve. Just to complete the formation was another reformed unit, the 26th Armored Cavalry Regiment. Stevenson shook her head, four whole divisions and an armored cavalry outfit that was called a regiment but was closer to a small division all by itself. Times had surely changed.
“Village up ahead Colonel.”
“Deploy, standard drill.” Since her return to Hell, her battalion had done this operation several times. This was the first time that they’d been out of the area that fed and supported Dis though, it wasn’t likely that would make any difference. She looked through the tank’s optics and saw an embankment, a few pitiful feet tall crossing the track that led into the scattering of small huts beyond. She knew what was beyond it, a ditch, digging that had provided the red soil that made the fortifications. She almost snorted at that and then remembered her dignity as a Colonel. Lieutenants snorted, and Colonels looked fierce. She had to remember that. Even if she had only been a colonel for a few days and had spent barely more time in the ranks between.
“Hokay, all units, on the barricade, high explosive, open fire.”
ThirtyAbrams tanks fired in a single salvo, hiding the earth embankment behind the rolling orange balls as the 120mm guns sent their shells downrange. The two Bradley companies held their fire, they were on overwatch, waiting for any harpies to appear. Stevenson looked at the destruction developing the baldrick position and shook her head quietly to herself. This wasn’t war, it was getting to have the unpleasant characteristics of a massacre.
“Cease fire. Advance slowly, prepare to open again if there’s any resistance.” The tanks jerked and then started their slow roll forward. There was no hurry, the 120mms were loaded and ready to fire. Her battalion had older Abrams tanks, ones pulled from the boneyard and refurbished. The new production tanks had 90mm guns, once mounted in M47s and M48s and stored away. Those new Abrams were called stubbies and their crews were the butts of crude jokes about the size of their equipment. Stevenson shook her head obviously, jokes like that were never a problem she’d had to face. In truth, 90mm killed a baldrick just as dead as 120mm. The smaller gun allowed the tank to carry twice as much ammo.
“Will you look at that?” The voice came over the vehicle intercom. Her Abrams was cresting the battered remnants of the barricade and the crew could see the baldricks who’d been sheltering behind that. “Colonel, I thought you said these things were big.”
“They are, or the ones we met so far were. Eight feet, sometimes ten or eleven.”
“Well, these ain’t. The same size as us I’d say. Six feet tops. And they don’t even have tridents. Looks to me like those poor bastards have got farm tools for weapons.”
Stevenson looked down, at the bodies surrounding the tank. They were smaller than the ones she’d seen on her first tour all right. And their weapons? She could see a pitchfork and a scythe. One had a wooden pole with what looked like a knife tied to the end. A crude spear. They’d faced up to tanks and they’d been armed only with farm implements?
She flipped to the battalion command frequency. “Hokay, we take the village. Don’t shoot if you don’t have to, the baldricks over here are just farmers. Remember, a scythe can kill you just as dead as a 120 so if anybody fights, waste them. But if they don’t fight, we don’t shoot, got it?”
Her tank nosed forward again, heading for the gap between the rows of huts that served as the main street. There was nobody in sight, no barricades, nothing. It was an eerie sensation, the words ‘it’s quiet, too darned quiet’ ran through her mind. Then, from one of the buildings a baldrick ran out, one more of the size she remembered and this one did have a trident. She reacted instantly, the remote-controlled machine gun mounted over the main gun swiveled and fired a burst. The baldrick lurched as the .50 caliber bullets tore home, then collapsed as a second burst finished it off.
The mechanized infantry was dismounting from their carriers, spreading out through the huts. Stevenson joined the lead group (much to the private dismay of the Lieutenant who was also leading it) and waited while two of the men moved up to the building. The job was done in standard style, they kicked the crude door in, it was barely more than a collection of brushwood anyway, and a second pair dived through, rolling as they landed, their M4 carbines scanning for targets. Stevenson followed them in, just in time to hear the scream from the dimly lit room.
“No, please, don’t kill them.” A female baldrick was in one corner of the hut, crouched over something, her arms spread protectively over whatever it was she was hiding. “Kill me but don’t kill them.”
Stevenson looked closely and listened. There was a thin wailing from under the baldrick, one she recognized from her childhood. An infant that had picked up on its mother’s terror and was itself terrified although it didn’t know why.
“Hold fire, she’s protecting her kids.” Stevenson looked again, more closely. “There’s two of them. Get a light over here.”
One of the infantrymen brought a flashlight over and shone it on the female baldrick. She was still sprawled over the infants and moaning gently. “Not my kidlings no.”
“Aww, ell-tee look at this. Their babies. Cute little things even got little beards.” The private looked at his battalion commander. “Sorry, Ma’am. Forgot you were here for a moment.”
“Forget it private, I guess I shouldn’t be.” Stevenson turned her attention to the female. “It’s all right, we’re not going to hurt them. You don’t fight us; we don’t fight you. Have your food for them?”
The female nodded, her yellow-slitted eyes looking around suspiciously.
One of the soldiers had come over and was looking down at the babies. “They really are cute.” He dug in a pocket and got out a candy bar. “Reckon they can eat this all right?”
Stevenson nodded. “Saw it back at Hell-Alpha. Abigor’s people love chocolate. Even the kidlings. Ma’am, is it all right for us to give your kids some candy?”
The female still looked suspicious, so the soldier broke off a piece and ate it himself. Then he broke off another piece and gave it to the kidling who seized it and started to chew. The chocolate vanished with astounding speed.
“Here, kid, have another piece. YOW! Hey Colonel, ell-tee, be careful they bite.”
Stevenson remembered her job. “Check this place for weapons then move out.” She left the hut, watching the soldier give his candy bar to the female as they left.
Out in the center of the village, her medical team was working on another female, this one smeared with bright yellow blood. “Colonel, we need help. This one caught a stray fifty-cal. Hurt bad.”
A brief nod, one thing her division wasn’t short of was medical facilities. The ToE was built around a reasonable casualty level, not this walk-over. Once again, her conscience started pricking her. I’ll get a medevac for her. Lieutenant see to it.
Most of the other villagers were kneeling in the dust of the street, their hands clasped behind their heads. They were all much smaller than the ones she’d seen before, the baldrick her tank had killed had been the only one comparable with them. That thought gave her a clue. “Was that your leader?”
“He was our Lord, yes.” A baldrick, perhaps a little braver than the rest spoke up.
“A lord who sent you out to die and hid himself? Hokay, you didn’t get lucky with your choice of a lord, did you?” There was a stir of agreement at that. “Look, we don’t want to hurt you.”
“You will not kill us all?”
“Of course not.” Stevenson was painfully aware that she could easily have done that. All it would have taken was a lightning bolt and the chocolate-loving kidling would have been blasted as the tanks drove through. “We try not to kill those who don’t fight us. You spread the word to the other villages, if they don’t fight us, we won’t hurt them.”
There was a stir in the assembled baldricks, a mixture of hope and disbelief. She went over to her command track, one she very rarely used. She just felt better riding in a tank. “Patch me through to Brigade.”
There was a wait for a few seconds while the signal went through. One nice thing about Hell, with the baldricks not having electronics, there was no interference or jamming to worry about. “Sir, we’ve got a situation here.”
“Resistance Stevenson?” She picked up on the note of surprise.
“No Sir. Oh, they blocked the road, but we blew that away, killed some of them I regret to say, but the village is ours. No fighting in the populated area. We killed the village lord though; he went for a tank with a trident. One other civilian was wounded, the rest are fine. They seem harmless.
“They are. Stevenson, according to the scientists, these baldricks are Minor Demons. The ones we have been fighting and seen in the hell-pit and around Dis are Lesser Demons, the next size up. These Minor Demons are peasants, serfs, and little more than slaves themselves. We’re getting the same reports across the whole front. You say you killed their lord?”
“Yes Sir?”
“That means you are their new lord. Promotion by assassination is something the Baldricks understand. How does it feel to be the Lady of the Manor?” There was a degree of humor in the brigade commander’s voice.
“I don’t think my momma would believe it, Sir.”
“Well, you’re stuck with the job until we can get civilian affairs up there. Do the best you can.”
“Very good Sir. I’m sending villagers out to tell the surrounding settlements, don’t fight us, and we won’t hurt you.”
“Good move. Brigade out.”
Stevenson thought for a few seconds then turned to the baldricks kneeling in the dirt. “Hokay, I’m your new lord.” There was a stir of satisfaction and relief. The baldricks accepted that they weren’t all about to be killed. “And stand up, we’re your lords now and we don’t like people who grovel in the dirt. And we really don’t like people who make others do that. Have you all got food here?”
There was silence, the baldricks glancing at each other. Stevenson sighed and pointed at one, the same one who had spoken up earlier. “You, has the village got enough food?”
“We have some noble lord.”
“Enough?”
The baldrick shook his head. “The lords took it for Dis.”
Stevenson’s mouth twitched. Her unit was carrying supplies, mostly MREs. They’d do. “Hokay. There are crops on your farms, will they be ready soon?”
“Yes, Noble lord. You will be taking them?” There was hopelessness in the voice.
“Of course not. We will give you some of our food. Until your crops are ready, or we can arrange something more permanent.”
The shock on the baldrick face was immediate. As the realization spread, Stevenson saw the baldricks expression change to one of hope. The females were first, they realized that they would have food for their kidlings after all. The surviving males picked up on their relief and started to relax. Stevenson looked around and decided there could be something in this 'Lord' business.
Bravo Portal, Off Bermuda, Earth
The black ellipse had mushroomed open and now dominated the Great Sound of Bermuda. The shipping channel into the ellipse was guarded, for what came one way through the Hellgate could be matched by what came in the opposite direction. Naval Base Hell-Bravo was as much a defensive installation as an offensive one.
Out in the shipping channel, the aircraft carrier USS Harry S Truman, CVN-75, was making her way slowly up towards the Hellgate, surrounded by a bevy of tugs that were working overtime to keep her within the strict navigational limits. She was a big ship; she drew a lot of water and the last thing anybody needed was an unexpected accidental grounding. Up in front of her, two fire tugs were directing their hoses into the sky, the brilliant sunshine turning the spray of water into a myriad of colors. It was incredibly beautiful. Once again, Captain Herman A. Shelanski reminded himself that pulling into a foreign port was an experience that made all the sacrifices of living in the Navy worthwhile.
“Give ‘Em Hell Harry!” The woman was speaking through a bullhorn from a speedboat that was racing alongside the great carrier. A Cyclone class PC was keeping between her small craft and the side of the carrier, this may be the Salvation War, but nobody had forgotten what had happened to the USS Cole. That wasn’t going to be the case here though, the speedboat curved away and then made another run alongside the Truman. This time, the girl in the back pulled the bra of her bikini down and did as good an imitation of a pole dance as was possible under the circumstances. The roar of cheering from the seamen manning the rails on the carrier drowned out the diesels on the tugs. Once again, the speedboat peeled away, this time it was for good because the ellipse was near, and the girls wanted to repeat their performance on the John C Stennis following behind. Idly, Shelanski wondered what the Russian crew on the Piotr Veliky, third in line, would make of the display.
“Ready for hell Transit.” It was an order, not a question.
“Aye Aye Sir. Ready for Transit.” Master Chief Walker glanced out at the deck beneath him. The Truman was up to her full complement of aircraft for the first time in many years even if some of them were refugees from the boneyard or a museum. The backbone of the group was the 54 F-18 Electric Bugs, backed up by 18 F-4 Rhinos. Then there was the new addition to the group, the 18 AT-45Ds, a single-seat strike version of the T-45 Goshawk. They’d only just arrived in time for the transit, the last had made it on board just as Truman swung to enter the navigational channel. With her six E-2 Hawkeyes and eight SH-60R helicopters, the big carrier had 104 aircraft on board. Too many, her decks were cramped and Shelanski had already decided to off-load nine of the AT-45s to the Stennis
“They’re going to be worn out by the time the group’s through.” Shelanski’s Exec, Captain Ronald Reis waved at the cheering crowds on the jetties that separated the Little Sound from the Great Sound. It looked like the whole population of Bermuda had turned out. As Truman’s bow started to touch the great ellipse, a burst of fireworks exploded overhead. Then, the clear blue sky of the earth was replaced by the filthy red murk of Hell.
The tugs had peeled away at the last moment, but Truman was not alone. Six DDG-51 Arleigh Burke-class destroyers and a pair of CG-47 Ticonderoga class cruisers were waiting for her with another, a similar group waiting to screen the Stennis. They were making the air crackle with the power output from the SPY-1 radars of their AEGIS systems and their sonars were lashing the water at full power. Here in Hell, there was no worry that the sonar emissions would harm the local wildlife, in fact creating as much havoc as possible was the reason why the big SQS-53s were cranked up to maximum power. The early battle Astute had fought against one of the Greater Heralds so many months ago had shown just how effective low-frequency sonar pulses could be against the Baldricks.
“Clearing transit area now, Sir.” Navigation passed confirmation up to the bridge.
“Screen forming around us. Johnny Reb is emerging from the portal.” Behind them, the Stennis was half through Hellgate Bravo and Shelanski wondered what would happen to her if the portal shut down for some reason at this precise moment. Anyway, it was pointless speculation since CVN-74 was already emerging from the gate.
“She’s through Sir. Piotr Veliky will be next. As soon as she’s arrived, we’ll be on our way.”
Shelanski nodded. On the bridge above his, the Admiral was doubtless working out the routing that would take the two carriers all the way north to Tartarus. They wouldn’t be the first human naval assets on their way there; all three Seawolf-class submarines had transited the portal days earlier and were already heading for Tartarus at maximum speed. They’d already be almost halfway there, and they had a load-out that featured a lot of Tomahawk cruise missiles.
Nor would the two carrier battle groups be the last. Once they had finished transiting Hellgate Bravo, the long line of amphibious warfare ships and their screens would start. A Marine division, rich in helicopters, Harrier aircraft, and armor, aboard an imposing array of LHDs, LPDs, and LSDs, a British brigade group with their LPH and transports, an equivalent French force, and another made up of the smaller European Navies. Even the Peruvian Navy was represented, they’d sent the cruiser Almirante Grau, with her six-inch guns, she had the heaviest battery in the fleet.
The Baldricks had all their remaining armies bottled up in Dis, besieged and isolated. They had no idea of the amphibious hammer blow that was about to land on the far north of the land they had once claimed as their own. Shelanski felt the vibration building up under his feet. His ship was picking up speed for the long run to Tartarus.
1/33 Battalion, Third Brigade, Third Armored Division, Ninth U.S. Corps. North of Dis.
The Third Armored was officially designated as the Spearhead Division although it was less formally known as the “Third Herd”. And a herd it was, thundering north as fast as its tracks could carry it, modified only by a degree of prudence. The baldricks had nothing that could stop a tank, nothing that was known, anyway. Still, it paid to be prudent.
Keisha Stevenson looked around at the array of armored vehicles sweeping across the countryside. Things had changed since her first tentative forays into Hell months before. A handful of vehicles she’d had then, and they were all of the human forces in hell, stepping gingerly into unknown and hostile terrain. Now she had a full combined arms battalion, two companies of Abrams tanks, two of mechanized infantry in Bradleys, and a battery of the new 57mm armed anti-harpy vehicles. A force that dwarfed her previous command and yet was a tiny part of the armored avalanche descending on anything that dared to get in its way. It wasn’t just Third Armored; alongside them and off to the east was Sixth Armored and to the West was the Fourth Mechanized Infantry Division with the 30th Mechanized Infantry following as Corps reserve. Just to complete the formation was another reformed unit, the 26th Armored Cavalry Regiment. Stevenson shook her head, four whole divisions and an armored cavalry outfit that was called a regiment but was closer to a small division all by itself. Times had surely changed.
“Village up ahead Colonel.”
“Deploy, standard drill.” Since her return to Hell, her battalion had done this operation several times. This was the first time that they’d been out of the area that fed and supported Dis though, it wasn’t likely that would make any difference. She looked through the tank’s optics and saw an embankment, a few pitiful feet tall crossing the track that led into the scattering of small huts beyond. She knew what was beyond it, a ditch, digging that had provided the red soil that made the fortifications. She almost snorted at that and then remembered her dignity as a Colonel. Lieutenants snorted, and Colonels looked fierce. She had to remember that. Even if she had only been a colonel for a few days and had spent barely more time in the ranks between.
“Hokay, all units, on the barricade, high explosive, open fire.”
ThirtyAbrams tanks fired in a single salvo, hiding the earth embankment behind the rolling orange balls as the 120mm guns sent their shells downrange. The two Bradley companies held their fire, they were on overwatch, waiting for any harpies to appear. Stevenson looked at the destruction developing the baldrick position and shook her head quietly to herself. This wasn’t war, it was getting to have the unpleasant characteristics of a massacre.
“Cease fire. Advance slowly, prepare to open again if there’s any resistance.” The tanks jerked and then started their slow roll forward. There was no hurry, the 120mms were loaded and ready to fire. Her battalion had older Abrams tanks, ones pulled from the boneyard and refurbished. The new production tanks had 90mm guns, once mounted in M47s and M48s and stored away. Those new Abrams were called stubbies and their crews were the butts of crude jokes about the size of their equipment. Stevenson shook her head obviously, jokes like that were never a problem she’d had to face. In truth, 90mm killed a baldrick just as dead as 120mm. The smaller gun allowed the tank to carry twice as much ammo.
“Will you look at that?” The voice came over the vehicle intercom. Her Abrams was cresting the battered remnants of the barricade and the crew could see the baldricks who’d been sheltering behind that. “Colonel, I thought you said these things were big.”
“They are, or the ones we met so far were. Eight feet, sometimes ten or eleven.”
“Well, these ain’t. The same size as us I’d say. Six feet tops. And they don’t even have tridents. Looks to me like those poor bastards have got farm tools for weapons.”
Stevenson looked down, at the bodies surrounding the tank. They were smaller than the ones she’d seen on her first tour all right. And their weapons? She could see a pitchfork and a scythe. One had a wooden pole with what looked like a knife tied to the end. A crude spear. They’d faced up to tanks and they’d been armed only with farm implements?
She flipped to the battalion command frequency. “Hokay, we take the village. Don’t shoot if you don’t have to, the baldricks over here are just farmers. Remember, a scythe can kill you just as dead as a 120 so if anybody fights, waste them. But if they don’t fight, we don’t shoot, got it?”
Her tank nosed forward again, heading for the gap between the rows of huts that served as the main street. There was nobody in sight, no barricades, nothing. It was an eerie sensation, the words ‘it’s quiet, too darned quiet’ ran through her mind. Then, from one of the buildings a baldrick ran out, one more of the size she remembered and this one did have a trident. She reacted instantly, the remote-controlled machine gun mounted over the main gun swiveled and fired a burst. The baldrick lurched as the .50 caliber bullets tore home, then collapsed as a second burst finished it off.
The mechanized infantry was dismounting from their carriers, spreading out through the huts. Stevenson joined the lead group (much to the private dismay of the Lieutenant who was also leading it) and waited while two of the men moved up to the building. The job was done in standard style, they kicked the crude door in, it was barely more than a collection of brushwood anyway, and a second pair dived through, rolling as they landed, their M4 carbines scanning for targets. Stevenson followed them in, just in time to hear the scream from the dimly lit room.
“No, please, don’t kill them.” A female baldrick was in one corner of the hut, crouched over something, her arms spread protectively over whatever it was she was hiding. “Kill me but don’t kill them.”
Stevenson looked closely and listened. There was a thin wailing from under the baldrick, one she recognized from her childhood. An infant that had picked up on its mother’s terror and was itself terrified although it didn’t know why.
“Hold fire, she’s protecting her kids.” Stevenson looked again, more closely. “There’s two of them. Get a light over here.”
One of the infantrymen brought a flashlight over and shone it on the female baldrick. She was still sprawled over the infants and moaning gently. “Not my kidlings no.”
“Aww, ell-tee look at this. Their babies. Cute little things even got little beards.” The private looked at his battalion commander. “Sorry, Ma’am. Forgot you were here for a moment.”
“Forget it private, I guess I shouldn’t be.” Stevenson turned her attention to the female. “It’s all right, we’re not going to hurt them. You don’t fight us; we don’t fight you. Have your food for them?”
The female nodded, her yellow-slitted eyes looking around suspiciously.
One of the soldiers had come over and was looking down at the babies. “They really are cute.” He dug in a pocket and got out a candy bar. “Reckon they can eat this all right?”
Stevenson nodded. “Saw it back at Hell-Alpha. Abigor’s people love chocolate. Even the kidlings. Ma’am, is it all right for us to give your kids some candy?”
The female still looked suspicious, so the soldier broke off a piece and ate it himself. Then he broke off another piece and gave it to the kidling who seized it and started to chew. The chocolate vanished with astounding speed.
“Here, kid, have another piece. YOW! Hey Colonel, ell-tee, be careful they bite.”
Stevenson remembered her job. “Check this place for weapons then move out.” She left the hut, watching the soldier give his candy bar to the female as they left.
Out in the center of the village, her medical team was working on another female, this one smeared with bright yellow blood. “Colonel, we need help. This one caught a stray fifty-cal. Hurt bad.”
A brief nod, one thing her division wasn’t short of was medical facilities. The ToE was built around a reasonable casualty level, not this walk-over. Once again, her conscience started pricking her. I’ll get a medevac for her. Lieutenant see to it.
Most of the other villagers were kneeling in the dust of the street, their hands clasped behind their heads. They were all much smaller than the ones she’d seen before, the baldrick her tank had killed had been the only one comparable with them. That thought gave her a clue. “Was that your leader?”
“He was our Lord, yes.” A baldrick, perhaps a little braver than the rest spoke up.
“A lord who sent you out to die and hid himself? Hokay, you didn’t get lucky with your choice of a lord, did you?” There was a stir of agreement at that. “Look, we don’t want to hurt you.”
“You will not kill us all?”
“Of course not.” Stevenson was painfully aware that she could easily have done that. All it would have taken was a lightning bolt and the chocolate-loving kidling would have been blasted as the tanks drove through. “We try not to kill those who don’t fight us. You spread the word to the other villages, if they don’t fight us, we won’t hurt them.”
There was a stir in the assembled baldricks, a mixture of hope and disbelief. She went over to her command track, one she very rarely used. She just felt better riding in a tank. “Patch me through to Brigade.”
There was a wait for a few seconds while the signal went through. One nice thing about Hell, with the baldricks not having electronics, there was no interference or jamming to worry about. “Sir, we’ve got a situation here.”
“Resistance Stevenson?” She picked up on the note of surprise.
“No Sir. Oh, they blocked the road, but we blew that away, killed some of them I regret to say, but the village is ours. No fighting in the populated area. We killed the village lord though; he went for a tank with a trident. One other civilian was wounded, the rest are fine. They seem harmless.
“They are. Stevenson, according to the scientists, these baldricks are Minor Demons. The ones we have been fighting and seen in the hell-pit and around Dis are Lesser Demons, the next size up. These Minor Demons are peasants, serfs, and little more than slaves themselves. We’re getting the same reports across the whole front. You say you killed their lord?”
“Yes Sir?”
“That means you are their new lord. Promotion by assassination is something the Baldricks understand. How does it feel to be the Lady of the Manor?” There was a degree of humor in the brigade commander’s voice.
“I don’t think my momma would believe it, Sir.”
“Well, you’re stuck with the job until we can get civilian affairs up there. Do the best you can.”
“Very good Sir. I’m sending villagers out to tell the surrounding settlements, don’t fight us, and we won’t hurt you.”
“Good move. Brigade out.”
Stevenson thought for a few seconds then turned to the baldricks kneeling in the dirt. “Hokay, I’m your new lord.” There was a stir of satisfaction and relief. The baldricks accepted that they weren’t all about to be killed. “And stand up, we’re your lords now and we don’t like people who grovel in the dirt. And we really don’t like people who make others do that. Have you all got food here?”
There was silence, the baldricks glancing at each other. Stevenson sighed and pointed at one, the same one who had spoken up earlier. “You, has the village got enough food?”
“We have some noble lord.”
“Enough?”
The baldrick shook his head. “The lords took it for Dis.”
Stevenson’s mouth twitched. Her unit was carrying supplies, mostly MREs. They’d do. “Hokay. There are crops on your farms, will they be ready soon?”
“Yes, Noble lord. You will be taking them?” There was hopelessness in the voice.
“Of course not. We will give you some of our food. Until your crops are ready, or we can arrange something more permanent.”
The shock on the baldrick face was immediate. As the realization spread, Stevenson saw the baldricks expression change to one of hope. The females were first, they realized that they would have food for their kidlings after all. The surviving males picked up on their relief and started to relax. Stevenson looked around and decided there could be something in this 'Lord' business.
Re: 2008 - Armageddon
Chapter Eighty
The Amphitheater of Tranios, Underneath the City of Dis, Hell
It had once been a gigantic volcanic bubble, a chamber filled with lava from the vents underneath. Then, during the great eruption that had created the Hell Pit super-caldera, the bubble had vented to the outside and the magma had drained away. All that had been left was this great cavern buried deep in the super-volcano mount, its vents long sealed by the action of time and rock. Above it, hundreds of feet of solid rock, far below it, the lava still roiled and grumbled but never tried to make its way to the surface for another devastating eruption. Would it do so one day? Nobody knew but everybody present in the great chamber did understand it was much safer to be down here than on the surface where the human aircraft prowled overhead.
The demons didn’t know the term ‘air supremacy’, not the ones here anyway. They understood the concept though, they were in process of being given a post-graduate education in it. It meant they couldn’t move without being bombed. Yes, down here in the great volcanic bubble was much safer. Or, to be more precise, the risks were ones they well understood. Most of them centered around the huge red figure at the end of the hall, sitting on a throne hurriedly carved from the volcanic rock. The throne was rough, unpolished, and simple, a spectacle far removed from the ornate structure now laying crushed to powder in the ruins of Satan’s palace. If Satan lost his temper, even the Greater Demons here could die. On the other hand, being seen on the surface meant they would die. Could beat would.
“Your Majesty, I must report that the city is completely isolated from the rest of hell. The humans control all the access points, and their troops increase in number every day. Their artillery has already started firing on the walls of Dis.”
Satan listened to the report quietly. Those in the chamber noted this, Satan had changed, dramatically so. The destruction of his palace, his near-death at the hands of human aircraft, his life on the run from the humans who made no secret of their intense desire to kill him. “The walls are standing?”
“Yes, Your Majesty. Even the human artillery cannot penetrate them.” That was hardly surprising, the walls were 200 feet high and more than 100 thick, made of the hardest volcanic rock that could be found in Hell. In truth, the walls of Dis were an architectural marvel that made the Great Wall of China seem inconsequential. “But they are battering them with their guns. And slowly the walls crumble at the points they have chosen. One day, the walls will fall. And then we will see them attack. When we do, we cannot stop them, our best troops lie dead at the Phlegethon River. My troops, the last of our trained professionals, hold the city walls but they do so as lightly as dust falling on a glass sheet. Every day their number gets fewer as the humans pick them off, one by one.”
“Sire, there is another problem. The humans have seized the Plateau of Minos. Minos is dead, and the workforce is exterminated. The humans redirect their dead to their camps in Hell. Since the assault, not one dead human has been received by the Lords of Hell.”
“Then kill the humans and take the Plateau back.” Satan’s scream was an echo of the Lordly Demon he had once been.
“We have tried Your Majesty,” Dagon spoke quietly, soothingly. The time was not quite right yet. The hopelessness of the situation had to be made clear to all so that when he made his move, he would have the support of all here. Quietly he wondered how many of the surviving Greater Demons, the Dukes of Hell, Deumos had recruited to their cause. And what she had promised them. “We launched an assault with harpies and the few Wyverns we have left. The attack failed, the human aircraft wiped out the formations and the few that got through were destroyed by the garrison the humans left on the Plateau. We lost much and gained nothing.” And that, Dagon thought, is the story of this war.
“The supplies of new human life-energy have also stopped; all we have are the supplies from those already in the pit. Those grow fewer every day, the loss is slow, but it never stops. Humans now dominate large areas of the pit and as they take over each new area, they remove their dead from it and send them out. Our troops in the pit are defecting to the humans in ever-greater numbers and they help the humans recover their dead. Already, armies that are part-human, and part-demon are forming. Demons are armed with human weapons and taught to fight in the human manner. The forces that remain loyal to you cannot stand against that combination.”
A shudder ran around the room. Humans and human weapons were bad enough but demons with human weapons and human war-fighting methods? It was worse than a nightmare.
“Even Dis itself is not secure. The orcs are rising. Many areas of the city are such that a single demon cannot walk alone. Those that try are found beaten to death in the alleys. Even broad daylight is no defense, many of those who died did so in the full light of day. Your Majesty, we have lost the war. It is time we sued for peace.”
“This will not be!” Satan’s demented scream rang around the chamber, echoing off the roof so that it seemed like a great choir was raging at the security report. “Belial burned their cities; we will burn more. It is your cowardice Dagon that is costing us this war.” Satan summoned himself to swat Dagon, to reduce him to a pulp on the floor. Before he could do so, Deumos’s voice cut across his scream.
“Dagon speaks the truth. We must sue for peace. Terms have been discussed with the humans; we demanded a third of their dead for our energy. They said they would make their response clear to us and they have. By seizing the Plateau of Minos, they have shown us they will comply with our demand. They have taken all their dead so they can give us the third we demand.”
Deumos looked around, in this confined space, her miasma was effective, and people were listening to her. She had spent her time well, bringing Duke after Duke into her web, each with the promise that, once Satan was deposed, they would be the ones she supported for his successor. They would fight over the succession, and she could step forward as the compromise candidate that nobody liked but one that was better than interminable fighting. And a Succubus could reign in Hell at last. She glanced around, looking at the painfully thinned ranks of Dukes. What was left of Hell, anyway? Then she became aware of a tickling sensation in her mind. She sensed it; it was Lugasharmansaka trying to make contact. Not now child, affairs of state are in progress.
Dagon still stood, defying Satan’s wrath. “Sire, if you cannot make peace with the humans to save what is left, then you must stand aside and let those of us who can rule!”
There was a gasp, of shock, horror, and fear. The idea of a direct challenge to Satan was unimaginable to those not already in the plot. Even Satan was momentarily taken aback by the challenge.
Watching in the audience, Deumos felt the tickle in her mind again. I said, not now she thought irritably. Then the tickle changed to cold, lifeless, impersonal fingers that sank deep into her mind and took hold, twisting her brain around as they established a grip that even her powers were helpless to break. There was a shadow of Lugasharmanaska in the fingers but only that. As if she was steering the power that held Deumos’s brain captive. She howled with the pain, saw her vision blurring, and saw the black ellipse of a portal forming.
Aberdeen Proving Ground, Maryland.
“We’re through.” General Schatten’s cry of triumph overwhelmed the rumble of the diesels in the four large trucks far behind him. They looked like fuel bowsers with the great cylinders on their backs, but they weren’t. Anyway, all the real fuel bowsers were in Iraq, supplying the armored forces in Hell. In front of him, a black ellipse was forming, poised between the antennas that directed their effort. Off to one side, Lugasharmanaska was writhing on a couch, whimpering, mucus pouring from her nose and mixing with drool from her mouth.
“Hang on, we’re getting there.” James Randi looked at the succubus on the couch, she was certainly proving her new loyalty the hard way. She was in agony and would stay that way until the other side of the portal was secure enough to get a sensitive through and punch a gate from that side back to here. He shook his head quietly to himself, when he had been asked to use his foundation’s expertise in exposing fraudulent psychics, he’d had no idea it would lead to this.
Behind him the trucks gunned their engines and the great cylinders on their backs started to rise, elevating until they were at a 35-degree angle. Their crews were already lifting metal screens over the glass in the truck cabs. Behind them. In the control cabin, the launch crews were already waiting for the final order.
“Fire Missile One.” The button was pressed, the booster rockets fired, and the missile left its launch tube, slowly at first but with increasing speed. Then the turbojet on the Progress anti-ship missile cut in and the missile arched upwards towards the gate that was almost five miles away. In the control cabin, the operator acquired it with his command guidance system and steered it to the very center of the black ellipse. He had little time, but he managed it and the missile flew straight through the gate, parallel to the ground.
The Amphitheater of Tranios, Underneath the City of Dis, Hell
The great green monster flew through the gate, its roaring flames filling the chamber with smoke and heat. A few feet from the gate, Deumos felt the blast from the engines shriveling her skin, burning her with an agony that made the pain in her head seem inconsequential. She was blinded by the blast, so she didn’t see what the missile did next nor did she see the fine fiber-optic wires it was trailing behind it.
Satan saw it and he saw that the missile was coming straight at him. He tried to summon up the magic needed to throw the missile away. It just needed a second or so to summon up the power but that was time he just didn’t have.
The S-35 Progress missile was doing more than 600 miles per hour when it hit Satan in the chest. The kinetic energy of the blow alone was enough to send Satan reeling backward but that was inconsequential. The missile also had a 3,300-pound explosive warhead that was configured as a shaped charge. Normally it had a copper lining but this one had been modified with an iron liner and sintered iron powder in the cavity. One thing hadn’t changed; the warhead on Progress was behind the main fuel tank and that tank was filled with jet engine fuel.
The explosion as the warhead went off was powerful enough to bring rocks down from the ceiling and enough even to roil the lava far below. It blasted a mixture of iron plasma, powdered iron, and blazing jet fuel deep into Satan’s chest, leaving him blasted burned, and poisoned. The great figure, its chest ripped open and splayed apart staggered backward, slumping down to the floor to sprawl out in a pool of boiling purple blood. Incredibly, the body was already beginning to repair itself when a second missile erupted through the portal.
The operator had done a fine job with the first missile, he’d hit a small moving target with a weapon never designed for the task and which had been hastily modified. The second shot was much easier. Satan’s body was almost still and the few twitches it made didn’t affect the firing solution. The second Progress missile plowed straight into Satan’s head, vaporizing it completely. The great body gave one more jerk and was still. Satan was dead.
As the echoes following the scream of the missiles and the terrible blasts, a great silence fell on the Amphitheater of Tranios. It was interrupted by only the falling of the rocks shaken loose from the roof and the whimpering of those burned by the blast of the missile engines. Shock paralyzed and silenced every demon present, even those in the plot to remove Satan from power had never contemplated this. Dagon was first to recover his senses although his head felt stuffed with mud and neither his eyes nor his ears were working right.
“By right of succession I claim….” He got no further for another roar filled the chamber, this time one which too many demons knew all too well. The roar of human diesel engines.
A strange vehicle emerged from the portal, one with tracks like the tanks but with high sides and an open back. It had been built as a carrier for Lance missiles, but that weapon had been declared obsolete and the M667 carriers built for it had been in storage for years. Then, they’d been found, and it had been realized they made perfect armored carriers for Abigor’s troops. In it were sitting figures, large ones and not human despite their similar equipment. More vehicles followed the first, one occupied by a single very large figure that the Dukes recognized instantly. Despite his human-design (if greatly enlarged) battledress, helmet, and body armor, the figure was known to them all. It was Abigor, commander of the Free Hell Army.
In the background, unnoticed, a Humvee skidded through the portal and a single small figure climbed out, awkwardly and unsteadily. Kitten was still recovering from her surgery and was technically unfit for duty, but this operation had needed the best sensitive DIMO(N) had, and she was it. So, for the first time, Kitten was standing in the hell her visions had warned her of so often and now she was instrumental in destroying it.
“OK Luga, I’ve got the portal. I’m punching it through from this side.”
Aberdeen Proving Ground, Maryland.
The portal shivered slightly then enlarged. Punched through from Hell-side it was much more stable than before. It would have to be, in addition to Abigor’s armored personnel carriers, an entire Marine battalion task group was ready to roll in. The two companies of tanks and a company of infantry in AAV-7s would be the punch backing up Abigor.
Over by the gate, Luga was being disconnected from the equipment that created and amplified the portal. She was so gray that she seemed almost white and was too weak to stand. Medics surrounded her, working to help her recover from the tremendous strain she had been other. Quietly, General Schatten made his way over to the scene.
“Luga, we pulled it off. Thank’s to you. Keeping a gate like that open so long, was gallantry above and beyond the call of duty. I’ll see to it that you get recognized for what you have done today. Now rest.”
The Amphitheater of Tranios, Underneath the City of Dis, Hell
Abigor glanced down at the badly burned Deumos as his armored carrier passed. She had been quite incredibly stupid, she had been so sure that the humans could only agree to her demands, that she’d failed to see the emphatic refusal that the attack on the Plateau of Minos had been. Then he transferred his attention to Dagon who was standing with his mouth hanging open, his claim for power cut off mid-sentence. His APC mounted the steps that led to the throne Satan had occupied and stopped, just a few feet from the cooling corpse of Hell’s last ruler. The noise of diesels was deafening as the coup forces moved in. Around the perimeter of the amphitheater, humans and their tanks were beginning to form up, their weapons covering the assembled crowd. Abigor noticed, with some grim amusement that they looked at his troops with amazement, but they watched the humans with fear.
When the roar quieted down, Abigor picked up his rifle, a conversion of a British 30mm Rarden gun, and stalked over to the platform that overlooked the crowd. Dagon was still standing there. “You were saying Dagon?”
Dagon looked at the humans and their tanks that had forced their way into the great amphitheater. An amphitheater that, despite its size, was getting crowded. He shook his head; he knew a losing battle when he saw one.
Abigor nodded and raised his voice. “Satan is dead. Humans killed him with their weapons. With their weapons, not with magic for magic and superstition is powerless in the face of human science. We are powerless in the face of human engineering. They have won this war and nothing we say or do can change that. Hell is changed forever and nothing we can do will change that either. The humans wish me to be the new leader in Hell, answerable only to them. I have agreed. If you do not like the idea of me as your leader, don’t tell me.” Abigor gestured at the Marines and their vehicles. “TELL THEM!”
There was silence once again as the echoes of Abigor’s shout faded away. Then, around the great hall, figures started to sink to their knees. Dagon looked around and followed suit, a move that caused the rest to follow him. Around the room, the chant grew, faint at first but growing louder and more certain. “Ab-ig-or. AB-IG-OR, AB-IG-OR
Abigor let the chant carry on for a minute or two and then silenced it with a chop of his hand. The fact it was the hand holding his rifle was a mere coincidence. “For my first official command.” He waved at the ruined body of Satan. “Somebody, clear away that trash.”
The Amphitheater of Tranios, Underneath the City of Dis, Hell
It had once been a gigantic volcanic bubble, a chamber filled with lava from the vents underneath. Then, during the great eruption that had created the Hell Pit super-caldera, the bubble had vented to the outside and the magma had drained away. All that had been left was this great cavern buried deep in the super-volcano mount, its vents long sealed by the action of time and rock. Above it, hundreds of feet of solid rock, far below it, the lava still roiled and grumbled but never tried to make its way to the surface for another devastating eruption. Would it do so one day? Nobody knew but everybody present in the great chamber did understand it was much safer to be down here than on the surface where the human aircraft prowled overhead.
The demons didn’t know the term ‘air supremacy’, not the ones here anyway. They understood the concept though, they were in process of being given a post-graduate education in it. It meant they couldn’t move without being bombed. Yes, down here in the great volcanic bubble was much safer. Or, to be more precise, the risks were ones they well understood. Most of them centered around the huge red figure at the end of the hall, sitting on a throne hurriedly carved from the volcanic rock. The throne was rough, unpolished, and simple, a spectacle far removed from the ornate structure now laying crushed to powder in the ruins of Satan’s palace. If Satan lost his temper, even the Greater Demons here could die. On the other hand, being seen on the surface meant they would die. Could beat would.
“Your Majesty, I must report that the city is completely isolated from the rest of hell. The humans control all the access points, and their troops increase in number every day. Their artillery has already started firing on the walls of Dis.”
Satan listened to the report quietly. Those in the chamber noted this, Satan had changed, dramatically so. The destruction of his palace, his near-death at the hands of human aircraft, his life on the run from the humans who made no secret of their intense desire to kill him. “The walls are standing?”
“Yes, Your Majesty. Even the human artillery cannot penetrate them.” That was hardly surprising, the walls were 200 feet high and more than 100 thick, made of the hardest volcanic rock that could be found in Hell. In truth, the walls of Dis were an architectural marvel that made the Great Wall of China seem inconsequential. “But they are battering them with their guns. And slowly the walls crumble at the points they have chosen. One day, the walls will fall. And then we will see them attack. When we do, we cannot stop them, our best troops lie dead at the Phlegethon River. My troops, the last of our trained professionals, hold the city walls but they do so as lightly as dust falling on a glass sheet. Every day their number gets fewer as the humans pick them off, one by one.”
“Sire, there is another problem. The humans have seized the Plateau of Minos. Minos is dead, and the workforce is exterminated. The humans redirect their dead to their camps in Hell. Since the assault, not one dead human has been received by the Lords of Hell.”
“Then kill the humans and take the Plateau back.” Satan’s scream was an echo of the Lordly Demon he had once been.
“We have tried Your Majesty,” Dagon spoke quietly, soothingly. The time was not quite right yet. The hopelessness of the situation had to be made clear to all so that when he made his move, he would have the support of all here. Quietly he wondered how many of the surviving Greater Demons, the Dukes of Hell, Deumos had recruited to their cause. And what she had promised them. “We launched an assault with harpies and the few Wyverns we have left. The attack failed, the human aircraft wiped out the formations and the few that got through were destroyed by the garrison the humans left on the Plateau. We lost much and gained nothing.” And that, Dagon thought, is the story of this war.
“The supplies of new human life-energy have also stopped; all we have are the supplies from those already in the pit. Those grow fewer every day, the loss is slow, but it never stops. Humans now dominate large areas of the pit and as they take over each new area, they remove their dead from it and send them out. Our troops in the pit are defecting to the humans in ever-greater numbers and they help the humans recover their dead. Already, armies that are part-human, and part-demon are forming. Demons are armed with human weapons and taught to fight in the human manner. The forces that remain loyal to you cannot stand against that combination.”
A shudder ran around the room. Humans and human weapons were bad enough but demons with human weapons and human war-fighting methods? It was worse than a nightmare.
“Even Dis itself is not secure. The orcs are rising. Many areas of the city are such that a single demon cannot walk alone. Those that try are found beaten to death in the alleys. Even broad daylight is no defense, many of those who died did so in the full light of day. Your Majesty, we have lost the war. It is time we sued for peace.”
“This will not be!” Satan’s demented scream rang around the chamber, echoing off the roof so that it seemed like a great choir was raging at the security report. “Belial burned their cities; we will burn more. It is your cowardice Dagon that is costing us this war.” Satan summoned himself to swat Dagon, to reduce him to a pulp on the floor. Before he could do so, Deumos’s voice cut across his scream.
“Dagon speaks the truth. We must sue for peace. Terms have been discussed with the humans; we demanded a third of their dead for our energy. They said they would make their response clear to us and they have. By seizing the Plateau of Minos, they have shown us they will comply with our demand. They have taken all their dead so they can give us the third we demand.”
Deumos looked around, in this confined space, her miasma was effective, and people were listening to her. She had spent her time well, bringing Duke after Duke into her web, each with the promise that, once Satan was deposed, they would be the ones she supported for his successor. They would fight over the succession, and she could step forward as the compromise candidate that nobody liked but one that was better than interminable fighting. And a Succubus could reign in Hell at last. She glanced around, looking at the painfully thinned ranks of Dukes. What was left of Hell, anyway? Then she became aware of a tickling sensation in her mind. She sensed it; it was Lugasharmansaka trying to make contact. Not now child, affairs of state are in progress.
Dagon still stood, defying Satan’s wrath. “Sire, if you cannot make peace with the humans to save what is left, then you must stand aside and let those of us who can rule!”
There was a gasp, of shock, horror, and fear. The idea of a direct challenge to Satan was unimaginable to those not already in the plot. Even Satan was momentarily taken aback by the challenge.
Watching in the audience, Deumos felt the tickle in her mind again. I said, not now she thought irritably. Then the tickle changed to cold, lifeless, impersonal fingers that sank deep into her mind and took hold, twisting her brain around as they established a grip that even her powers were helpless to break. There was a shadow of Lugasharmanaska in the fingers but only that. As if she was steering the power that held Deumos’s brain captive. She howled with the pain, saw her vision blurring, and saw the black ellipse of a portal forming.
Aberdeen Proving Ground, Maryland.
“We’re through.” General Schatten’s cry of triumph overwhelmed the rumble of the diesels in the four large trucks far behind him. They looked like fuel bowsers with the great cylinders on their backs, but they weren’t. Anyway, all the real fuel bowsers were in Iraq, supplying the armored forces in Hell. In front of him, a black ellipse was forming, poised between the antennas that directed their effort. Off to one side, Lugasharmanaska was writhing on a couch, whimpering, mucus pouring from her nose and mixing with drool from her mouth.
“Hang on, we’re getting there.” James Randi looked at the succubus on the couch, she was certainly proving her new loyalty the hard way. She was in agony and would stay that way until the other side of the portal was secure enough to get a sensitive through and punch a gate from that side back to here. He shook his head quietly to himself, when he had been asked to use his foundation’s expertise in exposing fraudulent psychics, he’d had no idea it would lead to this.
Behind him the trucks gunned their engines and the great cylinders on their backs started to rise, elevating until they were at a 35-degree angle. Their crews were already lifting metal screens over the glass in the truck cabs. Behind them. In the control cabin, the launch crews were already waiting for the final order.
“Fire Missile One.” The button was pressed, the booster rockets fired, and the missile left its launch tube, slowly at first but with increasing speed. Then the turbojet on the Progress anti-ship missile cut in and the missile arched upwards towards the gate that was almost five miles away. In the control cabin, the operator acquired it with his command guidance system and steered it to the very center of the black ellipse. He had little time, but he managed it and the missile flew straight through the gate, parallel to the ground.
The Amphitheater of Tranios, Underneath the City of Dis, Hell
The great green monster flew through the gate, its roaring flames filling the chamber with smoke and heat. A few feet from the gate, Deumos felt the blast from the engines shriveling her skin, burning her with an agony that made the pain in her head seem inconsequential. She was blinded by the blast, so she didn’t see what the missile did next nor did she see the fine fiber-optic wires it was trailing behind it.
Satan saw it and he saw that the missile was coming straight at him. He tried to summon up the magic needed to throw the missile away. It just needed a second or so to summon up the power but that was time he just didn’t have.
The S-35 Progress missile was doing more than 600 miles per hour when it hit Satan in the chest. The kinetic energy of the blow alone was enough to send Satan reeling backward but that was inconsequential. The missile also had a 3,300-pound explosive warhead that was configured as a shaped charge. Normally it had a copper lining but this one had been modified with an iron liner and sintered iron powder in the cavity. One thing hadn’t changed; the warhead on Progress was behind the main fuel tank and that tank was filled with jet engine fuel.
The explosion as the warhead went off was powerful enough to bring rocks down from the ceiling and enough even to roil the lava far below. It blasted a mixture of iron plasma, powdered iron, and blazing jet fuel deep into Satan’s chest, leaving him blasted burned, and poisoned. The great figure, its chest ripped open and splayed apart staggered backward, slumping down to the floor to sprawl out in a pool of boiling purple blood. Incredibly, the body was already beginning to repair itself when a second missile erupted through the portal.
The operator had done a fine job with the first missile, he’d hit a small moving target with a weapon never designed for the task and which had been hastily modified. The second shot was much easier. Satan’s body was almost still and the few twitches it made didn’t affect the firing solution. The second Progress missile plowed straight into Satan’s head, vaporizing it completely. The great body gave one more jerk and was still. Satan was dead.
As the echoes following the scream of the missiles and the terrible blasts, a great silence fell on the Amphitheater of Tranios. It was interrupted by only the falling of the rocks shaken loose from the roof and the whimpering of those burned by the blast of the missile engines. Shock paralyzed and silenced every demon present, even those in the plot to remove Satan from power had never contemplated this. Dagon was first to recover his senses although his head felt stuffed with mud and neither his eyes nor his ears were working right.
“By right of succession I claim….” He got no further for another roar filled the chamber, this time one which too many demons knew all too well. The roar of human diesel engines.
A strange vehicle emerged from the portal, one with tracks like the tanks but with high sides and an open back. It had been built as a carrier for Lance missiles, but that weapon had been declared obsolete and the M667 carriers built for it had been in storage for years. Then, they’d been found, and it had been realized they made perfect armored carriers for Abigor’s troops. In it were sitting figures, large ones and not human despite their similar equipment. More vehicles followed the first, one occupied by a single very large figure that the Dukes recognized instantly. Despite his human-design (if greatly enlarged) battledress, helmet, and body armor, the figure was known to them all. It was Abigor, commander of the Free Hell Army.
In the background, unnoticed, a Humvee skidded through the portal and a single small figure climbed out, awkwardly and unsteadily. Kitten was still recovering from her surgery and was technically unfit for duty, but this operation had needed the best sensitive DIMO(N) had, and she was it. So, for the first time, Kitten was standing in the hell her visions had warned her of so often and now she was instrumental in destroying it.
“OK Luga, I’ve got the portal. I’m punching it through from this side.”
Aberdeen Proving Ground, Maryland.
The portal shivered slightly then enlarged. Punched through from Hell-side it was much more stable than before. It would have to be, in addition to Abigor’s armored personnel carriers, an entire Marine battalion task group was ready to roll in. The two companies of tanks and a company of infantry in AAV-7s would be the punch backing up Abigor.
Over by the gate, Luga was being disconnected from the equipment that created and amplified the portal. She was so gray that she seemed almost white and was too weak to stand. Medics surrounded her, working to help her recover from the tremendous strain she had been other. Quietly, General Schatten made his way over to the scene.
“Luga, we pulled it off. Thank’s to you. Keeping a gate like that open so long, was gallantry above and beyond the call of duty. I’ll see to it that you get recognized for what you have done today. Now rest.”
The Amphitheater of Tranios, Underneath the City of Dis, Hell
Abigor glanced down at the badly burned Deumos as his armored carrier passed. She had been quite incredibly stupid, she had been so sure that the humans could only agree to her demands, that she’d failed to see the emphatic refusal that the attack on the Plateau of Minos had been. Then he transferred his attention to Dagon who was standing with his mouth hanging open, his claim for power cut off mid-sentence. His APC mounted the steps that led to the throne Satan had occupied and stopped, just a few feet from the cooling corpse of Hell’s last ruler. The noise of diesels was deafening as the coup forces moved in. Around the perimeter of the amphitheater, humans and their tanks were beginning to form up, their weapons covering the assembled crowd. Abigor noticed, with some grim amusement that they looked at his troops with amazement, but they watched the humans with fear.
When the roar quieted down, Abigor picked up his rifle, a conversion of a British 30mm Rarden gun, and stalked over to the platform that overlooked the crowd. Dagon was still standing there. “You were saying Dagon?”
Dagon looked at the humans and their tanks that had forced their way into the great amphitheater. An amphitheater that, despite its size, was getting crowded. He shook his head; he knew a losing battle when he saw one.
Abigor nodded and raised his voice. “Satan is dead. Humans killed him with their weapons. With their weapons, not with magic for magic and superstition is powerless in the face of human science. We are powerless in the face of human engineering. They have won this war and nothing we say or do can change that. Hell is changed forever and nothing we can do will change that either. The humans wish me to be the new leader in Hell, answerable only to them. I have agreed. If you do not like the idea of me as your leader, don’t tell me.” Abigor gestured at the Marines and their vehicles. “TELL THEM!”
There was silence once again as the echoes of Abigor’s shout faded away. Then, around the great hall, figures started to sink to their knees. Dagon looked around and followed suit, a move that caused the rest to follow him. Around the room, the chant grew, faint at first but growing louder and more certain. “Ab-ig-or. AB-IG-OR, AB-IG-OR
Abigor let the chant carry on for a minute or two and then silenced it with a chop of his hand. The fact it was the hand holding his rifle was a mere coincidence. “For my first official command.” He waved at the ruined body of Satan. “Somebody, clear away that trash.”