Armageddon
Eagle Flight, Over the Eastern Pacific
“I, Satan Mekratrig, Lord of Hell, Commander of the Legions of the Damned do hereby declare my dominion over the earth and all that it contains. Crawl to me, humans, knowing the eternity of torment that awaits you.”
“Oh, piss off,” said Lieutenant Michael Wong. The voice that had come over the radio link, booming in the cockpit of his F/A-18E, had distracted him from paying proper attention to the cockpit display of his APG-79 radar. The new AESA radar was a vast improvement over the older APG-73 but that was, as always, a slight problem all its own. Until the pilots learned how to take full advantage of the improved data flow, they could be swamped with it. Wong was experiencing that problem now, the resolution of the new radar was phenomenal, but it seemed to indicate that the wings on the targets 60 nautical miles out in front of him were flapping.
“Full of himself, isn’t he? Or should it be ‘it’?” Lieutenant Anthony Squires was genuinely interested, he was renowned as being the Ronald Reagan air group’s grammar geek.
“Try a ‘that’.” Wong wasn’t interested, the targets in front of him were behaving oddly. They were slow, 180 miles per hour at most. They had a strong radar image yet seemed to have no infra-red signature. That was an odd combination, to put it mildly. The bombastic message that had interrupted his concentration was irritating, no more than that. So, what were those contacts in front of him? Birds? They were too fast for that surely? The Peregrine Falcon was the fastest bird known and that could, just, hit 180 mph in a steep dive. These were doing that in level flight. So, they had to be some form of aircraft. That was assuming the AESA radar wasn’t generating a completely false image of course. And who knew how the electronic systems were malfunctioning following the delivery of The Message three days ago? There was one way to find out.
“Buster, this is Eagle Flight, 200 miles out, bearing 353, we have an anomalous radar contact some 60 miles out in front of us. Please confirm.”
There was a pause for a few seconds, electrostatic discharges in the atmosphere were playing havoc with radio communications but the systems filtering programs quickly cleared the white noise from the channel. “Confirm contact Eagle Flight. Bearing 358, the range from Buster is 66.6 nautical miles. Target speed 184 knots, course one-three-fiver. For your information, Crown and Scepter are tracking also. They have locks.” There was a pause, a series of crackles on the radio, then the message resumed. “If targets are hostile, you are cleared to engage.”
Wong translated the message in his head. ‘Buster’ was CVN-76 USS Ronald Reagan, ‘Crown’ was CG-70 USS Lake Erie, an AEGIS cruiser, while ‘Scepter’ was DDG-93 USS Chung-Hoon, one of the Arleigh Burke-class destroyers that now dominated the fleet’s surface combatant force. Also, AEGIS-equipped, which meant whatever the targets were, they were now being tracked by three of the most advanced radar systems in the U.S. Navy. The ‘lock’ part of the message was interesting, that suggested the order to open fire was already being passed out.
That didn’t surprise Wong, human reaction to The Message had split neatly down religious lines. Those whose religion had demanded blind submission to the ‘Will of God’ had accepted it without a struggle and more or less laid down and died. They just weren’t around anymore. The rest of the world’s population had followed the example set by Britain’s Prime Minister Gordon Brown. His reply to The Message had been “Sod off, Baldrick,” followed by a reassuring message to the British people that he had a cunning plan to deal with the situation. The British had enjoyed the joke, whatever it was, and collectively told Satan to perform some highly improbable obscenities on himself. They’d been the first only by a matter of minutes as most of the other countries in the world have replied with similar messages. Ever since then, The Message had been repeated at regular intervals, almost as if the concept of human defiance was so completely unexpected that the powers ‘up there’ couldn’t comprehend its existence. Well, if that was the case, the powers ‘up there’ didn’t know the human race very well.
The three days since the first reception of The Message had been something of a standoff. Humans had waited for the next development, allowing the situation to mature in military parlance, while the only response to their defiance had been the repeated proclamations. No effort to force compliance, not yet at any rate. And no overt human resistance. Wong got the feeling that was all about to change.
“All members, Eagle Flight, increase to fiver-six-zero knots, say again increase to fiver-six-zero knots. Intercept targets in front, range, five-eight nautical miles. Weapons are free, say again, weapons are free. Good hunting Eagle Flight.”
The four F/A-18Es accelerated out of cruise speed, building up to maximum subsonic. The E model had more range and fuel than the older As and Cs but fuel status was always a serious concern to Hornet drivers. Wong had listened with envy to those who had flown the now-gone Tomcats or even longer-lost Intruders. Then, he glanced down at his radar scope again. There were four targets, apparently blissfully ignorant of the Super-Hornets bearing down on them. That was neat, one each.
“Eagle Flight, we are swinging around behind them. I have radar paints on all four, but no infra-red signature yet. Each Eagle aircraft take a target corresponding to your flight position, from the left. Use AIM-120 then close in for 20-mike-mike. Not sure AIM-9 will work unless we can get a heat signature off whatever is out there. We’ll get a visual ID first.”
The U.S. Navy Hornets got their visual ID at twelve nautical miles range. The contacts were four giant creatures, jet black in color, looking like a hideous cross between a gorilla and a bird. Four limbs, two wings, flying in an unconcerned, oblivious line.
“Just what the hell are those?”
Wong wasn’t sure which pilot had breathed the comment into the radio. Didn’t matter, they all knew what to do. So, did he come to that. “Buster, this is Eagle. Targets are visually identified, large flying humanoids about the same size as a Super-Bug. The wingspan is at least twice as great as ours, probably much larger. Engaging.”
“Eagle, this is Buster. Acknowledged. Targets are designated as demons. Good luck Eagle Flight.” A few days earlier the fighter controller might have added “And may God go with you” but not after The Message and the betrayal it had represented.
Wong switched the annunciator on his AIM-120s on. They were growling gently, a sustained continuous note that indicated their homing heads were logged onto his selected target, the demon second from the left. The F/A-18s were closing fast, the range was dropping to the point where the hits would be almost instantaneous. “Eagle Flight, open fire.”
Wong’s pressure on the firing button was almost simultaneous with his order. A pair of AIM-120 missiles streaked ahead of his aircraft, curving after the demon he had picked out for his target. He’d been right, the gap was so short that the target couldn’t have evaded even if it had wanted to. It never even tried.
Demon Shingroleth was aware of the approaching fighters, he’d seen them when they were still 15 miles out, far beyond the range of any human eye, so he had assumed their presence was coincidental. He had other problems to worry about, a few inconsequential humans were of no significant account one way or the other. What concerned him was the way his skin was itching; it had started a few minutes before and was getting steadily worse. Maddening. He hadn’t even
worried when the four human machines had swung in behind his group and started to close the range on them. That had been when his skin itch had become intolerable. Then, the humans had done something strange; odd streaks of smoke came out from under their flying machines. Surely, they couldn’t be resisting the all-powerful armies of the damned?
The AIM-120s worked as advertised. They were good missiles, well designed, well-tested, and they had a target that was proving cooperative to the point of suicide. No maneuvering, no electronic warfare, no interference, if the guidance had been capable of human thought it would have been vaguely offended at being asked to solve a task so undemanding.
The first missile exploded between Shingroleth’s legs, just underneath his tail. The 50-pound explosive warhead was wrapped with heavy-gauge pre-notched wire that disintegrated into an annular hail of pre-formed fragments when the missile’s proximity fuse set off the explosive charge. Some of those razor-sharp fragments slashed through Shingroleth’s tail, severing it at the root and sending it spinning off in a long arc. Others ripped into his legs and genitals, tearing open the great arteries, sending his fire and acid blood spraying over his body, and mangling his reproductive organs beyond recognition. Shingroleth’s scream of demented agony was heard even in the sound-insulated cockpits of the F/A-18s.
The second missile did really serious damage. Its proximity fuse initiated it right underneath Shingroleth’s belly. The holocaust of tungsten-steel fragments ripped open his stomach and tore his abdominal cavity to shreds. Even in a mind crazed by the ghastly pain from the first hit, Shingroleth noticed the sudden drop in weight as his intestines dropped out of his body. Then his fire-and-acid blood, spraying from more wounds than could reasonably be counted, set fire to his flesh. Shingroleth tumbled downwards, all hope of control had gone when he had lost his stabilizing tail. By the time his remains hit sea level, all that was left of him was fine carbon dust.
Immediately on firing, Wong had firewalled his throttles, cut in reheat, and taken his F/A-18 up into a steep climb. The last thing he had wanted to do was get too close to those things. As he rolled over at the top of the climb, he could see the havoc his attack had wrought on the demon formation below. His target had gone, its death marked by a black streak towards the sea far below. Another one of the formations had taken hits from four AIM-120s, for some reason two F/A-18s had fired on the same aircraft, well, that sort of thing happened. It had meant that the demon had been quite literally torn apart by the storm of fragments and blast of the explosions. More than 200 pounds of the best explosive American dollars could buy had vented its wrath on the hideous creature and all that was left of it was a shower of burning fragments. A third demon was staggering away, it had been the last to get hit and had escaped the eviscerating body hits. Instead, one of its wings had been torn to tiny fragments and it was going down in a helpless spin. Even as Wong watched, two of his F-18s were closing on it.
Prigrathrath was desperately trying to control his descent. One of his wings had gone, it was just a mass of torn flesh and spurting blood. The only thing that was saving him was that his flight path was keeping the blood and acid away from his body, the fate of Shingroleth and Caranaskatos had shown him what would happen when demon blood and body parts mixed. Two of the gray-painted human machines were coming after him, he could see them, but with his crippled wings, there was little he could do about it. It was odd, there was a strange twinkling light coming from the front of the two flying machines. Then Prigrathrath’s lights went out.
Squires had fired a much longer burst than was normal for the M61 cannon in the nose of his F/A-18. He and his wingman had aimed very carefully, using the plane’s onboard computer and continuously computed impact point sights to place all 100 rounds of their bursts square into the demon’s face. The effect was more than either pilot could have hoped. The great, hideously malformed head had just disintegrated as the armor-piercing incendiary shells ripped through the skin and shattered the bones underneath. The demon’s eyes, in fact, every feature of its face, had been destroyed in the hail of cannon shells tearing through its structure. Once again, fire-and-acid blood spraying from the ruptured veins and arteries finished the job of destruction that fragments, explosions, and blasts had started. The demon erupted into flames and dropped like a stone towards the sea below.
That had left one demon, untouched, unharmed by the sudden, vicious attack. Quellarastis simply couldn’t believe that the humans had dared to attack him and his colleagues, let alone that they had killed three of his flight-mates with such contemptuous ease. Filled with unrighteous wrath at the effrontery of the attack, he swerved to retaliate at the pair of human flying machines that were coming straight at him. Now, they would learn what the wrath of a demon meant. He opened his mouth and blasted terrifying hellfire straight at them.
In Eagle-One, Wong saw the fireball leave the demon’s mouth and flipped the ailerons over, pulling the stick back in a barrel roll around the jet of flame. It wasn’t precisely a hard maneuver; the demon may have had powerful lungs, but they could only drive a jet of flame so fast. Compared with the problems posed by trying to dodge a multi-Mach missile, the flame was easy to avoid. Even better, the jet of fire was a perfect infra-red source for his AIM-9 Sidewinders. Both annunciators were screaming with the demand to be let loose and Wong obliged them both. They streaked from his wingtip mounts, heading straight for the inferno of heat that was the fire-breathing demon’s mouth.
Quellarastis did the worst thing he could possibly do under the circumstances. He gulped in shock as the two missiles hurtled into his mouth. Once again, proximity fuses worked to perfection, preformed fragments slashed out, ripping through the slate-black flesh of the demon. Some went up into his brain, bouncing around inside his skull until all that lay within was reduced to a finely-ground slush. Others sawed down through the demon’s chest, carving into his heart and lungs. More fragments, from the missile Quellarastis had accidentally swallowed tore the demon’s neck apart, severing his spinal column and paralyzing him. That was mercy for Quellarastis, it meant that he did feel it when his blood set his flesh on fire and he vanished within a ball of fire.
“Buster, this is Eagle. All four demons engaged and destroyed. Inform all Buster elements, they blow up and burn if you hit them hard enough. We’re on our way back, we’re hitting bingo fuel out here.”
“Eagle Flight, this is buster. Come on home, the party is just starting down here.”
Wong relaxed in his seat. His Eagle-One had two confirmed kills, Eagle-Three and Eagle-Four had one each. Not ace status yet, but a good start.
National Command Post, Washington D.C.
“Mister President, a message from the Ronald Reagan battle group out in the Pacific. They’ve engaged four flying demons and killed all of them. No casualties on our side. Whatever these things are, they aren’t immortal or invulnerable. They burn and die, just like we do.”
President Bush looked dully at Secretary Gates. The betrayal that had been represented by The Message had hit him deep, torn apart the faith that had kept him going even in the darkest years of his presidency. Then, with his opinion poll figures trending up, at last, this had to happen. He shook his head, tried to clear the clouds of despair from his mind, and absorbed the information. As he did so, his eyes lit up for the first time in three days.
“Get the word out to all our armed forces. Tell them to engage these, these things, at every opportunity. Shoot first, hit hard, and keep hitting them. Let them know that we may go down, but it won’t be without one hell of a fight.”
“Them Sir?”
“Them. Everybody. Our forces, the religious leaders who brought that message to us, those who the message came from. I don’t care who “they” are, either they attacked us, or they betrayed us and I don’t see the difference between those who promise us an eternity of torture or those who would hand us over to that fate. They’re both our enemies now. And we’ll fight them. All of them.” Bush’s voice had gained strength and he made his commitment. “We may have believed in higher powers once, but they’ve forfeited any loyalty we may have owed them. Secretary Gates get the word out. We fight.”
“Sir, I must warn you, this may well be committing a war crime. We haven’t had United Nations approval for any action and without a vote in the UN, we are committing an act of aggressive war, which is a war crime. I, therefore, rule that we must hold off any action until there had been a full meeting of the Security Council. I will also issue orders for the pilots involved in this incident to be arrested and brought up on war crimes charges.”
There was a rumble of discontent around the war room. Bush heard it and that made up his mind. He looked at the JAG officer with contempt. “Place this man under arrest. Remove him, get rid of him. From now on, the United States will act in its own best interests and defend itself as best it can. Any other nations who want to join in this struggle are welcome to do so.”
“There might be quite a few of those Mister President.” Secretary Rice was carrying a mass of message flimsies. “We’re getting messages from other countries right now. The first one is from Mr. George Yong-Boon Yeo, Minister of Foreign Affairs in Singapore. Apparently, a demon landed there, carrying a demand for Singapore’s submission.”
“What did he do?”
“Nothing Sir. The demon’s demand was wrapped up in some sort of parchment and he dropped it on landing. Littering is a serious offense in Singapore Sir, and the Singapore police riddled the demon with bullets and then beat it to death. Anyway, Mr. Yeo says that Singapore’s going to fight, and they’d appreciate our help.”
“He’s got it. Who else?”
“Another one landed in Bangkok, Thailand. That one didn’t get very far either. It wouldn’t bribe the police at a checkpoint to let it through and then it got stuck in the Bangkok traffic jams. The Army blew it away. With tanks. Apparently, local street traders are selling bits of demons to the tourists. Anyway, the same message from the Thais, they’re going to fight, and they’d appreciate any help we can send, only they’re adding if we need any aid, we only must ask.”
“Nice of them. Well, people, it looks like the war has started. Let’s try to do a better job this time around, right?”
2008 - Armageddon
Re: 2008 - Armageddon
Chapter Two
HMS Astute, On Sea Trials, North Atlantic
“Any idea what it is?”
The Sonar Operator shook his head. The Type 2076 sonar system was the most advanced the Royal Navy had ever deployed. One Admiral had tried to describe its capability by saying a submarine in Winchester could use that sonar to track a bus going around Hyde Park Corner in London. That comparison wasn’t true, but the real capability of 2076 was a closely guarded secret. Tracking buses at that range was child’s play compared with what it could really do.
The waterfall display on the sonar panel was showing the target track, it was diverging from the norm slightly, first one way and then the other, as if the unidentified contact were snaking in the water. It always came back to the same course though. That course took it to London. Eventually. That was another problem, the target track indicated a speed of around 12 knots. Not the sort of speed that made much sense. Too fast for economy, too slow for a speed run.
“I’m not getting any blade beat Sir. None. In fact, I’m getting no machinery noise at all. No pompholugopaphlasmasin.” The sonar operator got the odd word out without missing a beat. He was referring to the odd selection of pops, hisses, squeaks, and rattles made by machinery as it went about its daily tasks, an odd selection that was a clear signature to a passive sonar system. “I’m getting broad-band flow noise and that’s about it.”
“Biological?” Whales, clouds of shrimp, and schools of fish, all give strange sonar readings. Pompholugopaphlasmasin was the sonar operator’s best tool to distinguish man-made equipment from the natural sounds of the sea. And there wasn’t any. That would normally point to a biological but the one thing these times were not was normal. There was a body in the submarine’s freezer to prove that. The Ship’s Chaplain had committed suicide when the full implication of The Message had sunk home.
“Not at 12 knots Sir. A biological will either drift or move slowly in random directions. One holding 12 knots would be attacking something and this one isn’t. Then, there’s its course. Straight for London, never changing. No Sir, this isn’t a biological but that doesn’t change the fact that we can’t pick up anything on our narrow-band demodulated noise tracker.”
“You don’t suppose it could be….” Lieutenant-Commander Michael Murphy adopted an exaggerated expression of terror. “….the Red October.” Across Astute’s control room, the duty crew rolled their eyes in disgust, then shook their heads. That wretched author had caused so much trouble.
“No Sir. But respectfully Sir, we are on trials. FOSM may have slipped us a weirdness just to find out what we would do with it.”
Murphy nodded. Flag Officer, Submarines was known for doing things like that. “Right, Atkins. We’ll treat this like a hostile.” His eyes flipped to the tactical display where a long oval marked the position of the anomalous contact. Passive sonar could give fine cuts on the bearing, but its range data was much less precise. “We need to fine that up a bit. We’ll establish a baseline. Make course one-eight zero, speed 34 knots, and hold for 20 minutes. Anybody wants to take a head break, now’s the time, we won’t be tracking anything at that speed.”
That was true enough, Astute didn’t have the phenomenal underwater speed of the American Seawolf-class but then few other submarines did. Astute was still fast enough for the flow noise over her hull to blank out her sonar. Murphy checked the plot again and thumbed the intercom. “Captain to the bridge.”
Captain Phillips materialized almost immediately. Captains tended to do that when trouble was brewing. “Problems Number One?”
“Don’t know sir, we have a highly anomalous contact. Behaves like a submarine but has the signature of a biological. It’s maintaining 12 knots; the course takes it to London. I’m establishing a baseline for the range now.”
“Very good Number One.” Phillips studied the tactical plot with great care. When a new submarine ran sea trials, it wasn’t only the ship that was being tested. Her crew was under the microscope as well. “Very good Number One. I have the con. You take over the attack team. If this is FOSM playing games, we’ll go along with it.”
The crew felt the vibration from the submarine’s machinery build up under their feet. One advantage, one of many, held by the nuclear-powered boats was that they never had to worry about fuel status or battery charge. The Royal Navy nuke drivers pitied their NATO allies who were stuck in diesel electrics and spent their lives with one eye glued to their battery charge meters. Astute was barreling through the water, putting distance between herself and the scene of her first set of track readings. Once she got a second set, the cross-bearings would give her the range data she needed.
Twenty minutes later, Astute dropped back down to her four-knot observation speed. The sonar team dropped their relaxed air and immediately got down to work, trying to re-acquire the anomalous signature. That didn’t take much effort, they knew where to look, and the weird flow noise was distinctive enough.
“Got it, Sir. Range 18,000 meters.” On the tactical display, a second-long oval appeared. The computers eliminated the time delay that had taken place and then superimposed the two sets of reading. What had once been long, thin ovals now crossed and gave a single precise point. Then the screen blinked again as the computers applied the range data, they had just calculated to the bearing figures already on file. A single green line now appeared on the tactical display, one that gave both range and bearing. All that was, in fact, needed for an attack.
Phillips thought quickly. “Stream towed array, sonar team check on passive for any emissions, anything at all. Every frequency band you can think of whatever we’re tracking doesn’t must be using what we are.”
It took a few more minutes but the result was worth waiting for. “Got him, Sir. Active emission, very high frequency, much higher than ours.” Atkins’ voice was triumphant. “It’s like a biological, well more like a bat really, but it isn’t. Power too high. I’d guess it’s a navigational or mine avoidance sonar but it’s nothing like anything we have on the books. That’s why the computer didn’t call it.”
“Very good. Helm take us up to periscope deck and sensors prepare to extend the radio mast. We’d better call this in.” Phillips disappeared into the radio room for several minutes. When he came back, his face was a mixture of grimness and elation.
“Word direct from Ops.” A stir went around the control room, when the Directorate of Operations gave the orders, things were happening. “The situation is breaking loose. The Spams shot down four Baldricks a few hours ago. Been a few other similar incidents around the world. The old stories be damned, the Baldricks are not invulnerable, and we aren’t going down without a fight. There’s nothing friendly out here so we can presume that any unidentifiable target we’re tracking is hostile. Torpedo room load two Spearfish, tubes one and two. Load sub-Harpoon into three and four. Helm, take her down to two hundred feet, make speed 34 knots, course one-six-three.”
Helm punched the figure into the computers. The tactical display flickered again, the green track turning to red, and a blue line superimposed on it. That gave the relative position of Astute and the target. Phillips looked at the position. “Make that 35 knots and one-six-one.” A tiny refinement that would put Astute into a perfect position for a torpedo attack.
Phillips watched the display as the carat marking Astute’s position moved along the blue projected course line. Mentally, he was calculating angles and ranges, the computer could do that for him, but he preferred to do his own check. “Drop speed to four knots, say again, to four knots. Bring bows to oh-one-oh. Open bow doors, tubes one and two. Sonar hit that thing with a low-frequency pulse to check range. One pulse.” Phillips took his authorization card from around his neck and inserted it into a slot in the sonar control console. By using active sonar, Astute was announcing her presence and positionto the world at large, That was why using active sonar required the captain’s explicit authorization. Once the card was in place, the BA-WHOOM from the sonar array in the submarine’s bows could be heard throughout the boat.
Ralaraspanathsis was swimming quietly through the ocean of this strange planet, his great tail swinging from side to side as it drove him through the water. As one of the Corps of Diabolical Heralds, his job was quite simple, he had to go to the designated place where the humans gathered and give them the message that informed them of their fate. Not that their fate was ever in any doubt, but it seemed as if the powers higher up had got bored with playing their little games with this dimension and decided to wrap things up. Ralaraspanathsis slightly regretted that, this wasn’t the first time he’d been on this planet, and he’d rather enjoyed the way the humans had cowered before him on his first visit. Still, perhaps his master would allow him to play with some once they were all in his domain.
It was halfway through that pleasurable thought when the pain hit Ralaraspanathsis. His head seemed to explode; his ears crushed by a terrible pressure that shattered the bones in his inner ears. His forearms moved, almost of their own accord, covering his eardrums, trying to shut out the dreadful crushing noise. Then, almost before he could think again, the terrible noise was gone.
“Wow, will you look at that?” Atkin’s voice was awed. The contact was spinning in circles, threshing in the water creating a maelstrom of flow noise emissions. “It didn’t like that at all.”
“Hit it again. Full power to the forward sonar transducers.” The contact had been settling down when the second pulse hit it. If anything, the threshing was even worse than with the first pulse. “That’s a Baldrick, no doubt. Weapons, fire tubes one and two. Target that thing.”
Taking four tons off the extreme end of the moment arm caused Astute’s bow to dip. It didn’t matter to the torpedoes; they were already out and climbing to the shallower water near the surface. Once there, they kicked up to 81 knots and ran out to the estimated position of the target. At that point, they dropped their guidance wires and dived vertically on the contact below them.
A shaped charge can penetrate six times its diameter; that gave the pair of Spearfish torpedoes a theoretical penetration of 126 inches. In fact, they did a bit better than that, blasting deep cavities in Ralaraspanathsis’s back, severing his spinal column, and burning deep into his vital organs. His body tissues, vaporized by the blast, sprayed out and down, searing and cooking his internal organs and bursting open the swim bladder that kept him afloat. Crippled and dying, he felt himself floating upwards towards the surface. Confusion filled his mind; he was a herald. How could they have done this?
“Well, there’s no doubt about it, we just scored a Baldrick.” A cheer went up around the control room. Ever since Prime Minister Gordon Brown had quoted ‘Blackadder’ in his initial announcement, the British had taken to calling the denizens of hell, ‘Baldricks’. It had a nice, contemptuous air about it, one that was beginning to catch on. “Number One, take the boat to the surface, we need to collect samples.”
Phillips looked through the periscope again. “In fact, if we can tow that wreck in, so much the better. Environmental, keep a check on water conditions, the Spams said the ones they shot down had acid blood. We don’t want our hull plating corroded, the taxpayers would get perturbed.”
Tamanskoya Motor Rifle Division, Outskirts of Moscow
“Remember Bratishka. Rodina, chest, slava! Let the name of the Chertkovsky Tank Regiment chill the very fires of hell!”
The Americans had killed four of the demons, others had killed one each. Now it was time for the Rodina to strike its blow against these arrogant beasts who had dared to declare their dominion over humanity. The demon had appeared an hour or so earlier and was walking across the countryside towards the Kremlin. If the pattern from earlier encounters was holding true, it was making for Russia’s capital. Well, it wouldn’t get there, not if the Chertkovsky Tank Regiment had its way. Colonel Mikhail Suranov had worked on the presumption that the beast was heading for the city and set up a neat L-shaped ambush. The kill zone was covered by the 125mm guns on his tanks and, just to make sure, he had his Smerch multiple rocket artillery systems dialed in.
Berwaniklasnin had his message to deliver, as a herald that was his infernal duty and he was going to do it. The problem was word had started to spread that the humans weren’t cowering in fear the way they were supposed to before it had only taken a single appearance to throw them into a panic. Now, there was a whisper they were fighting back. Not just fighting back but showing uncanny skill in doing so. That was a troubling concept. Berwaniklasnin felt a sudden itch on his skin, there were ten or more brilliant green dots on his hide, points where his flesh was beginning to swell. One of his arms moved to cover them, and as he did so, the dot vanished from his hide but appeared on the back of his hand. A beam of some sort? He never had a chance to work it out because a massive blow struck his chest and sent him staggering backward.
The first shot had sent the HVDUAPCFSDS bolt screaming into the beast’s chest, sending it reeling backward. An instant later the nine other T-90S tanks of the first company fired in salvo, their shots striking home as almost a single blow. The Russian tank gunners had been told that the Thais had killed one of these beasts with their pathetic little M-41s, the Russian T-90S could do better than that surely? There was an unspoken message, it had better. And it could. The beast was down, battered off its feet by the depleted uranium bolts that had smashed into it. Even as the gunners watched, the beats tried to get back to their feet, but Second Company was waiting. A brief interval as their laser rangefinders locked in, then another salvo of shots. These ones struck low, sheering the beast’s legs from its body. It rolled to the ground, trying to pull itself upright.
What criminality was this? Berwaniklasnin couldn’t believe what was taking place. He was a herald, one of those charged with carrying messages to the others. By all the laws and customs, he was granted immunity from attack for how could wars be fought if neither side could talk? But these humans had opened up on him without warning. It was a hideous crime for which the wrath of the higher powers would be terrible. Berwaniklasnin shook his head, he was crippled, his legs gone, his green blood soaking into the earth. Even as he looked around another salvo of shells struck him, ripping his arms from his body. He crashed onto his back, helpless and dying.
Suranov looked up at the beast dying on the ground. It had taken 30 hits from 125mm guns to bring it down and it wasn’t dead yet. If these things’ resistance to damage was as high as that, these beasts were going to be trouble.
“Tovarish Colonel. Please ask your men to help me. I need to sit on the beast’s chest.” It was one of the politicians from Moscow. It didn’t take long to help him up, a T-90 pulled alongside the beast and the politician was unceremoniously hauled up into place. Somebody handed up a camp stool and he carefully selected a spot overlooking the beast’s head, one clear of the bubbling craters where the armor-piercing shots had torn through the beast.
“Beast. Before you should die, I believe you should know who it is you are waging war upon. I will therefore read you some of President Putin’s speeches. Listen well and learn of your folly.”
“I can almost feel sorry for the beast.” An engineer sergeant placing the demolition charges around the great body spoke quietly, but his team heard and laughed. The word spread amongst the tank crews and the chuckles spread there as well. The politician appeared not to have heard, his droning monotone carried on unaffected.
A few minutes later, the preparations were ready. Suranov looked up at the politician who was starting the third speech of his program. “Tovarish. We are about to blow the beast. Please come down.”
“But I must finish the President’s Speech to the Iron Workers Union.”
There was a hideous racking groan from the beast, muted only by its failing strength. Suranov got a clear mental picture of it begging to be put out of its misery, anything other than to must listen to another speech. The Colonel could see its point. “Now, Tovarish, my orders are to destroy this thing and then bring samples back for analysis.
The politician reluctantly agreed, and the charges were detonated. Looking around, something puzzled Suranov. “Didn’t the Americans say these beasts had acid blood? Because this one doesn’t.”
James Randi Educational Foundation, Florida, USA
“Thank you for seeing me at such short notice, Sir.” The woman was Thai, middle-aged, still poised, elegant, and attractive. She also had the hardest, coldest black eyes, James Randi, aka The Amazing Randi, had ever seen.
“I am pleased to make your acquaintance Ma’am.”
“Major-General. Sir, for many years your organization has run a million-dollar prize for evidence of people with supernatural abilities.”
“That is correct General. We were going to end the challenge in a couple of years but now, after these events….”
“Sir, that is why we wish to speak with you. The events of the last few days have changed everything. You and your organization have decades of experience in exposing frauds and discrediting psychics. You probably have more practical experience in this than anyone else. My government, and quite a few others I believe, need to exploit that experience. We believe that buried amongst all the frauds and imposters there may be a few who really can talk to the dead. If there are such people, we need to speak with them very badly. We want you and your organization to find them for us. Mr. Randi, I do not exaggerate when I say that the whole future of humanity may depend upon us finding such people.
Randi looked at the woman sitting before him. “In that case, how can I refuse?”
National Command Post, Washington D.C.
“Congratulations Prime Minister. And yes, we gladly accept your offer of cooperation in analyzing the body your submarine is towing in. We have heard from the Russians; they also have samples they are prepared to share with us. The more information we have the better, there appear to be significant differences between these recent kills and the ones shot down by our pilots. By the way, Gordon, are your legal people giving you trouble? Ours are claiming all sorts of strange things. Their latest one is that these are peace emissaries and we’re committing war crimes by killing them.
“We have had some such troubles yes. I suggest, Mister President, that you tell your people what I told mine. In view of the circumstances, Britannia waives the rules.”
HMS Astute, On Sea Trials, North Atlantic
“Any idea what it is?”
The Sonar Operator shook his head. The Type 2076 sonar system was the most advanced the Royal Navy had ever deployed. One Admiral had tried to describe its capability by saying a submarine in Winchester could use that sonar to track a bus going around Hyde Park Corner in London. That comparison wasn’t true, but the real capability of 2076 was a closely guarded secret. Tracking buses at that range was child’s play compared with what it could really do.
The waterfall display on the sonar panel was showing the target track, it was diverging from the norm slightly, first one way and then the other, as if the unidentified contact were snaking in the water. It always came back to the same course though. That course took it to London. Eventually. That was another problem, the target track indicated a speed of around 12 knots. Not the sort of speed that made much sense. Too fast for economy, too slow for a speed run.
“I’m not getting any blade beat Sir. None. In fact, I’m getting no machinery noise at all. No pompholugopaphlasmasin.” The sonar operator got the odd word out without missing a beat. He was referring to the odd selection of pops, hisses, squeaks, and rattles made by machinery as it went about its daily tasks, an odd selection that was a clear signature to a passive sonar system. “I’m getting broad-band flow noise and that’s about it.”
“Biological?” Whales, clouds of shrimp, and schools of fish, all give strange sonar readings. Pompholugopaphlasmasin was the sonar operator’s best tool to distinguish man-made equipment from the natural sounds of the sea. And there wasn’t any. That would normally point to a biological but the one thing these times were not was normal. There was a body in the submarine’s freezer to prove that. The Ship’s Chaplain had committed suicide when the full implication of The Message had sunk home.
“Not at 12 knots Sir. A biological will either drift or move slowly in random directions. One holding 12 knots would be attacking something and this one isn’t. Then, there’s its course. Straight for London, never changing. No Sir, this isn’t a biological but that doesn’t change the fact that we can’t pick up anything on our narrow-band demodulated noise tracker.”
“You don’t suppose it could be….” Lieutenant-Commander Michael Murphy adopted an exaggerated expression of terror. “….the Red October.” Across Astute’s control room, the duty crew rolled their eyes in disgust, then shook their heads. That wretched author had caused so much trouble.
“No Sir. But respectfully Sir, we are on trials. FOSM may have slipped us a weirdness just to find out what we would do with it.”
Murphy nodded. Flag Officer, Submarines was known for doing things like that. “Right, Atkins. We’ll treat this like a hostile.” His eyes flipped to the tactical display where a long oval marked the position of the anomalous contact. Passive sonar could give fine cuts on the bearing, but its range data was much less precise. “We need to fine that up a bit. We’ll establish a baseline. Make course one-eight zero, speed 34 knots, and hold for 20 minutes. Anybody wants to take a head break, now’s the time, we won’t be tracking anything at that speed.”
That was true enough, Astute didn’t have the phenomenal underwater speed of the American Seawolf-class but then few other submarines did. Astute was still fast enough for the flow noise over her hull to blank out her sonar. Murphy checked the plot again and thumbed the intercom. “Captain to the bridge.”
Captain Phillips materialized almost immediately. Captains tended to do that when trouble was brewing. “Problems Number One?”
“Don’t know sir, we have a highly anomalous contact. Behaves like a submarine but has the signature of a biological. It’s maintaining 12 knots; the course takes it to London. I’m establishing a baseline for the range now.”
“Very good Number One.” Phillips studied the tactical plot with great care. When a new submarine ran sea trials, it wasn’t only the ship that was being tested. Her crew was under the microscope as well. “Very good Number One. I have the con. You take over the attack team. If this is FOSM playing games, we’ll go along with it.”
The crew felt the vibration from the submarine’s machinery build up under their feet. One advantage, one of many, held by the nuclear-powered boats was that they never had to worry about fuel status or battery charge. The Royal Navy nuke drivers pitied their NATO allies who were stuck in diesel electrics and spent their lives with one eye glued to their battery charge meters. Astute was barreling through the water, putting distance between herself and the scene of her first set of track readings. Once she got a second set, the cross-bearings would give her the range data she needed.
Twenty minutes later, Astute dropped back down to her four-knot observation speed. The sonar team dropped their relaxed air and immediately got down to work, trying to re-acquire the anomalous signature. That didn’t take much effort, they knew where to look, and the weird flow noise was distinctive enough.
“Got it, Sir. Range 18,000 meters.” On the tactical display, a second-long oval appeared. The computers eliminated the time delay that had taken place and then superimposed the two sets of reading. What had once been long, thin ovals now crossed and gave a single precise point. Then the screen blinked again as the computers applied the range data, they had just calculated to the bearing figures already on file. A single green line now appeared on the tactical display, one that gave both range and bearing. All that was, in fact, needed for an attack.
Phillips thought quickly. “Stream towed array, sonar team check on passive for any emissions, anything at all. Every frequency band you can think of whatever we’re tracking doesn’t must be using what we are.”
It took a few more minutes but the result was worth waiting for. “Got him, Sir. Active emission, very high frequency, much higher than ours.” Atkins’ voice was triumphant. “It’s like a biological, well more like a bat really, but it isn’t. Power too high. I’d guess it’s a navigational or mine avoidance sonar but it’s nothing like anything we have on the books. That’s why the computer didn’t call it.”
“Very good. Helm take us up to periscope deck and sensors prepare to extend the radio mast. We’d better call this in.” Phillips disappeared into the radio room for several minutes. When he came back, his face was a mixture of grimness and elation.
“Word direct from Ops.” A stir went around the control room, when the Directorate of Operations gave the orders, things were happening. “The situation is breaking loose. The Spams shot down four Baldricks a few hours ago. Been a few other similar incidents around the world. The old stories be damned, the Baldricks are not invulnerable, and we aren’t going down without a fight. There’s nothing friendly out here so we can presume that any unidentifiable target we’re tracking is hostile. Torpedo room load two Spearfish, tubes one and two. Load sub-Harpoon into three and four. Helm, take her down to two hundred feet, make speed 34 knots, course one-six-three.”
Helm punched the figure into the computers. The tactical display flickered again, the green track turning to red, and a blue line superimposed on it. That gave the relative position of Astute and the target. Phillips looked at the position. “Make that 35 knots and one-six-one.” A tiny refinement that would put Astute into a perfect position for a torpedo attack.
Phillips watched the display as the carat marking Astute’s position moved along the blue projected course line. Mentally, he was calculating angles and ranges, the computer could do that for him, but he preferred to do his own check. “Drop speed to four knots, say again, to four knots. Bring bows to oh-one-oh. Open bow doors, tubes one and two. Sonar hit that thing with a low-frequency pulse to check range. One pulse.” Phillips took his authorization card from around his neck and inserted it into a slot in the sonar control console. By using active sonar, Astute was announcing her presence and positionto the world at large, That was why using active sonar required the captain’s explicit authorization. Once the card was in place, the BA-WHOOM from the sonar array in the submarine’s bows could be heard throughout the boat.
Ralaraspanathsis was swimming quietly through the ocean of this strange planet, his great tail swinging from side to side as it drove him through the water. As one of the Corps of Diabolical Heralds, his job was quite simple, he had to go to the designated place where the humans gathered and give them the message that informed them of their fate. Not that their fate was ever in any doubt, but it seemed as if the powers higher up had got bored with playing their little games with this dimension and decided to wrap things up. Ralaraspanathsis slightly regretted that, this wasn’t the first time he’d been on this planet, and he’d rather enjoyed the way the humans had cowered before him on his first visit. Still, perhaps his master would allow him to play with some once they were all in his domain.
It was halfway through that pleasurable thought when the pain hit Ralaraspanathsis. His head seemed to explode; his ears crushed by a terrible pressure that shattered the bones in his inner ears. His forearms moved, almost of their own accord, covering his eardrums, trying to shut out the dreadful crushing noise. Then, almost before he could think again, the terrible noise was gone.
“Wow, will you look at that?” Atkin’s voice was awed. The contact was spinning in circles, threshing in the water creating a maelstrom of flow noise emissions. “It didn’t like that at all.”
“Hit it again. Full power to the forward sonar transducers.” The contact had been settling down when the second pulse hit it. If anything, the threshing was even worse than with the first pulse. “That’s a Baldrick, no doubt. Weapons, fire tubes one and two. Target that thing.”
Taking four tons off the extreme end of the moment arm caused Astute’s bow to dip. It didn’t matter to the torpedoes; they were already out and climbing to the shallower water near the surface. Once there, they kicked up to 81 knots and ran out to the estimated position of the target. At that point, they dropped their guidance wires and dived vertically on the contact below them.
A shaped charge can penetrate six times its diameter; that gave the pair of Spearfish torpedoes a theoretical penetration of 126 inches. In fact, they did a bit better than that, blasting deep cavities in Ralaraspanathsis’s back, severing his spinal column, and burning deep into his vital organs. His body tissues, vaporized by the blast, sprayed out and down, searing and cooking his internal organs and bursting open the swim bladder that kept him afloat. Crippled and dying, he felt himself floating upwards towards the surface. Confusion filled his mind; he was a herald. How could they have done this?
“Well, there’s no doubt about it, we just scored a Baldrick.” A cheer went up around the control room. Ever since Prime Minister Gordon Brown had quoted ‘Blackadder’ in his initial announcement, the British had taken to calling the denizens of hell, ‘Baldricks’. It had a nice, contemptuous air about it, one that was beginning to catch on. “Number One, take the boat to the surface, we need to collect samples.”
Phillips looked through the periscope again. “In fact, if we can tow that wreck in, so much the better. Environmental, keep a check on water conditions, the Spams said the ones they shot down had acid blood. We don’t want our hull plating corroded, the taxpayers would get perturbed.”
Tamanskoya Motor Rifle Division, Outskirts of Moscow
“Remember Bratishka. Rodina, chest, slava! Let the name of the Chertkovsky Tank Regiment chill the very fires of hell!”
The Americans had killed four of the demons, others had killed one each. Now it was time for the Rodina to strike its blow against these arrogant beasts who had dared to declare their dominion over humanity. The demon had appeared an hour or so earlier and was walking across the countryside towards the Kremlin. If the pattern from earlier encounters was holding true, it was making for Russia’s capital. Well, it wouldn’t get there, not if the Chertkovsky Tank Regiment had its way. Colonel Mikhail Suranov had worked on the presumption that the beast was heading for the city and set up a neat L-shaped ambush. The kill zone was covered by the 125mm guns on his tanks and, just to make sure, he had his Smerch multiple rocket artillery systems dialed in.
Berwaniklasnin had his message to deliver, as a herald that was his infernal duty and he was going to do it. The problem was word had started to spread that the humans weren’t cowering in fear the way they were supposed to before it had only taken a single appearance to throw them into a panic. Now, there was a whisper they were fighting back. Not just fighting back but showing uncanny skill in doing so. That was a troubling concept. Berwaniklasnin felt a sudden itch on his skin, there were ten or more brilliant green dots on his hide, points where his flesh was beginning to swell. One of his arms moved to cover them, and as he did so, the dot vanished from his hide but appeared on the back of his hand. A beam of some sort? He never had a chance to work it out because a massive blow struck his chest and sent him staggering backward.
The first shot had sent the HVDUAPCFSDS bolt screaming into the beast’s chest, sending it reeling backward. An instant later the nine other T-90S tanks of the first company fired in salvo, their shots striking home as almost a single blow. The Russian tank gunners had been told that the Thais had killed one of these beasts with their pathetic little M-41s, the Russian T-90S could do better than that surely? There was an unspoken message, it had better. And it could. The beast was down, battered off its feet by the depleted uranium bolts that had smashed into it. Even as the gunners watched, the beats tried to get back to their feet, but Second Company was waiting. A brief interval as their laser rangefinders locked in, then another salvo of shots. These ones struck low, sheering the beast’s legs from its body. It rolled to the ground, trying to pull itself upright.
What criminality was this? Berwaniklasnin couldn’t believe what was taking place. He was a herald, one of those charged with carrying messages to the others. By all the laws and customs, he was granted immunity from attack for how could wars be fought if neither side could talk? But these humans had opened up on him without warning. It was a hideous crime for which the wrath of the higher powers would be terrible. Berwaniklasnin shook his head, he was crippled, his legs gone, his green blood soaking into the earth. Even as he looked around another salvo of shells struck him, ripping his arms from his body. He crashed onto his back, helpless and dying.
Suranov looked up at the beast dying on the ground. It had taken 30 hits from 125mm guns to bring it down and it wasn’t dead yet. If these things’ resistance to damage was as high as that, these beasts were going to be trouble.
“Tovarish Colonel. Please ask your men to help me. I need to sit on the beast’s chest.” It was one of the politicians from Moscow. It didn’t take long to help him up, a T-90 pulled alongside the beast and the politician was unceremoniously hauled up into place. Somebody handed up a camp stool and he carefully selected a spot overlooking the beast’s head, one clear of the bubbling craters where the armor-piercing shots had torn through the beast.
“Beast. Before you should die, I believe you should know who it is you are waging war upon. I will therefore read you some of President Putin’s speeches. Listen well and learn of your folly.”
“I can almost feel sorry for the beast.” An engineer sergeant placing the demolition charges around the great body spoke quietly, but his team heard and laughed. The word spread amongst the tank crews and the chuckles spread there as well. The politician appeared not to have heard, his droning monotone carried on unaffected.
A few minutes later, the preparations were ready. Suranov looked up at the politician who was starting the third speech of his program. “Tovarish. We are about to blow the beast. Please come down.”
“But I must finish the President’s Speech to the Iron Workers Union.”
There was a hideous racking groan from the beast, muted only by its failing strength. Suranov got a clear mental picture of it begging to be put out of its misery, anything other than to must listen to another speech. The Colonel could see its point. “Now, Tovarish, my orders are to destroy this thing and then bring samples back for analysis.
The politician reluctantly agreed, and the charges were detonated. Looking around, something puzzled Suranov. “Didn’t the Americans say these beasts had acid blood? Because this one doesn’t.”
James Randi Educational Foundation, Florida, USA
“Thank you for seeing me at such short notice, Sir.” The woman was Thai, middle-aged, still poised, elegant, and attractive. She also had the hardest, coldest black eyes, James Randi, aka The Amazing Randi, had ever seen.
“I am pleased to make your acquaintance Ma’am.”
“Major-General. Sir, for many years your organization has run a million-dollar prize for evidence of people with supernatural abilities.”
“That is correct General. We were going to end the challenge in a couple of years but now, after these events….”
“Sir, that is why we wish to speak with you. The events of the last few days have changed everything. You and your organization have decades of experience in exposing frauds and discrediting psychics. You probably have more practical experience in this than anyone else. My government, and quite a few others I believe, need to exploit that experience. We believe that buried amongst all the frauds and imposters there may be a few who really can talk to the dead. If there are such people, we need to speak with them very badly. We want you and your organization to find them for us. Mr. Randi, I do not exaggerate when I say that the whole future of humanity may depend upon us finding such people.
Randi looked at the woman sitting before him. “In that case, how can I refuse?”
National Command Post, Washington D.C.
“Congratulations Prime Minister. And yes, we gladly accept your offer of cooperation in analyzing the body your submarine is towing in. We have heard from the Russians; they also have samples they are prepared to share with us. The more information we have the better, there appear to be significant differences between these recent kills and the ones shot down by our pilots. By the way, Gordon, are your legal people giving you trouble? Ours are claiming all sorts of strange things. Their latest one is that these are peace emissaries and we’re committing war crimes by killing them.
“We have had some such troubles yes. I suggest, Mister President, that you tell your people what I told mine. In view of the circumstances, Britannia waives the rules.”
Re: 2008 - Armageddon
Chapter Three
Cabinet Conference Room, White House, Washington D.C.
“Condi, could you summarize the international situation at this point?”
“Mister President. So far, more than two dozen of these invaders, Baldricks the Brits call them, have been killed around the world. The latest was off Tokyo where a monster like the one killed by HMS Astute came ashore. It was engaged by the Japanese Ground Self Defense Forces and destroyed. According to the Japanese Ambassador, all that time spent shooting at Godzilla finally paid off.” A laugh ran around the room, partly a release of nervous tension but mostly in appreciation of the unexpected sense of humor shown by Ambassador Nishamura. “Most of the Far Eastern countries are coming on board quickly. China, of course, has taken an early stand. The People’s Liberation Army, Army Air Force, and Army Navy have all gone to full alert. Europe’s following the same approach, they’re all shooting at any Baldricks that appear on their territory.
“On the debit side, South America and Southern Europe appear to be in shock still. Christianity was deeply rooted there, and The Message struck them very hard. The idea that they’ve been systematically deceived by the very being they worshipped has left them adrift.” Secretary Rice paused for a moment. Coming from a religious background herself, she could empathize with the degree of bewilderment that was paralyzing so many governments around the world. “The Middle East is a mixed bag. We’d expected the area to be virtually depopulated; after all the word Islam means submission to the will of God and we assumed that the populations there would just lie down and die according to demand. Well, that hasn’t happened, not universally at any rate. It’s hard to work out exactly what is going on, but it seems as if, with radical Islam being discredited by The Message, the alternative philosophy of assertive Arab nationalism is returning. The largely socialist Arab nationalist movements have been eclipsed by the Jihadists in recent years but now, they’re coming back and coming back strong. Of course, the Sunnis are blaming the Shia and the Shia are blaming the Sunnis for The Message and they both blame us. Business as usual there. Equally predictably, the Israelis have gone to work with a vengeance. One of the Russian Baldricks appeared there, homing in on Jerusalem and the Israeli Defense Forces shot it to pieces. According to the Israeli Ambassador, 120mm shells are much more effective than sounding trumpets. They’ve sent word, by the way, don’t use armor-piercing shots to take the Baldricks down. Just whips straight through them. HEAT, high explosive, and canister all work much better.”
“You like the term Baldrick then Condi?” Department of Energy Secretary Bodman seemed to favor the expression as well.
“I do Sammy, it has a nice, contemptuous ring to it. But, much more importantly I think it is very important to distinguish between the mythological demon and the creatures we face. There is little doubt that the monsters we face today are the source of the myths we have all read about, but I believe we must make the difference between the two very clear. There is nothing ghostly or ethereal about the Baldricks, they are very solid reality. As to what their powers are, that we must find out.”
“On that note, we need some scientific input. Thank you, Condi. I have asked the Department of Defense to coordinate the scientific research into these Baldricks. Secretary Gates has resigned from his position as head of Defense, I have appointed, subject to confirmation by the Senate, Senator John Warner to be the new SecDef. John?”
“Thank you, Mister President. Now we know very little about these creatures. Factually, we have identified three separate types which have very different characteristics.
“The first is the flying Baldricks we shot down off California. They’re the same ones that were whacked in Singapore and Bangkok. Working on camera gun footage from the F-18s, we can size them at around 30 feet long from tip of horns to root of the tail with a wingspan of around 60 feet.” Warner gestured, and a picture was projected onto the screen at the end of the Cabinet Room. “As you can see, they look rather like the traditional depiction of a demon or a cartoon devil. Horns, tail pointed beard. Two arms, two legs, two wings. This raises an interesting point; the combination of weight and musculature mean these things can’t possibly fly.”
“Just like a bumblebee?” Education Secretary Margaret Spellings tossed the quip in, one that gained her a reproachful glance from the President.
“In a way yes. You see, the musculature of the back doesn’t give any great strength to the wings, it can’t the bone structure won’t support it. The only way this thing can fly is if it weighs virtually nothing, so its wings provide propulsion and lift, not steerage. The only way we can think of doing that is if the body contains a lot of very light gas, probably hydrogen. We think that is why they burned so fiercely when they were hit. The pilots reported that the creature’s blood set them on fire, we can only think that there’s some sort of body process in there where very acid blood reacts with a mineral to give off the hydrogen needed. That would allow the Baldrick to breathe fire as well. There are things about these flying Baldricks that are reminiscent of humans, it’s almost as if they were a parallel evolutionary path from a common ancestor somewhere.
“The second class we’ve run into are the aquatic ones. According to Astute, the one they killed was more than a hundred feet long, about 20 feet in diameter, and has flipper-like legs, six of them. They did careful pH testing on the water as they closed on the corpse and detected no sign of acidity. Also, note, that despite being hit by two torpedoes, it didn’t burn. So, our working hypothesis is that this one doesn’t have acid blood. The one that came ashore near Tokyo walked on its flipper legs, all six of them. It fought by shooting jets of water at things. Anyway, the JMSDF-GF will be sending over information as it develops. One thing they have said is the flesh doesn’t make good Sushi. I’m not sure what worries me most about that, the fact that it doesn’t make good Sushi or that somebody tried it. Either way, now we’ll know more about the Aquatic ones than the others soon.
“The third group are the land ones. These have just started to appear. According to the Russians, they’re about Thirtyfeet tall. They’re tough, they walk on their hind legs using their forearms to strike blows. They have vestigial wings only. No acid blood again. The few that appeared have been killed so quickly we have no idea whether they breathe fire or what.”
“We’re going to need names for all these types. Baldrick’s good enough for a generic name, I agree with Condi, we must distinguish between the mythology we’ve all read and the reality we have to fight.” President Bush leaned back in his seat, rubbing his eyes. “Does it seem to anybody that these Baldricks are getting tougher?”
“Certainly Sir.” Senator Warner tapped the pictures of the three types of demons. “There’s a definite progression here. There’s another thing, we have people going through ancient records, demonologies, grimoires that sort of stuff. Now, the information in there is undoubtedly corrupted and distorted but we’re hoping it gives us some form of a clue as to what we can expect. One thing we have noted. You’ll note that these Baldricks haven’t come in blasting. We would, under the same circumstances, we’d be advancing behind a wall of missiles, tactical air, and artillery fire. These just cruised straight into our defenses and died on them.
“We think we may have discovered the reason for this. One of our early readings found a mention of demonic heralds who were supposed to carry the word of their master to his new subjects. They would just appear in a population center, announce that all within were now subjects of their master, and carry them off to hell. As far as we can see, nobody ever resisted. There’s even a suggestion that, by some sort of celestial Geneva Convention, these heralds are immune from attack.”
Bush frowned. “Attorney General Mukasey, has the United States ever signed an agreement to that effect.”
“No Sir, we have not.”
“Good, it doesn’t apply to us then. Tell everybody to keep shooting. A question John does ‘immune from attack’ means that they can’t be shot at or that they are immune to weapons fire?”
“Our guess at this time Sir is that the second lead to the former. People found their bows and arrows and so on didn’t work against them, so they rationalized it by creating the former. Of course, we could be wrong on that. But the key point is if these are the heralds referred to in the Grimoire, the real armies of hell are still to get here. We must stack our defenses ready.”
“I agree, Henry.” Treasury Secretary Paulson started. “Henry, we need supplementals, huge ones. This is a war; we must fund it as such. We’re going to be spending serious money. Organize it. Elaine, Carlos, get to work shifting our industry to a war footing, get the missile factories and tank lines on triple shifts. Tell Boeing we’ll take every F-22 they can build, on a cost-plus basis. I believe the B-2 jigs and tooling are still in storage, if they are, get the Spirit back into production. Same with the Bone. What we can’t build, we’ll buy from abroad.
“Oh and John. Defense is fine, but nobody ever won a war by defending. We must go onto the offensive and attack. Find out how.”
Throne Room Infernal Palace of Dis, Hell.
“They have done what?” The infernal voice boomed across the hall, making the thick red vapor boil and eddy as the banners of long-forgotten kingdoms twisted and furled in the smog.
“Your Eminence, I cower at your feet.
“I know. Do it some more. Then tell me what you meant.”
Abigor cringed on the ground at Satan’s feet, his tongue flicking over the great hooked claws. “Sire forgive me”
“No. But continue.”
“Sire, they killed your heralds.”
“My gentlemen!” The scream of anger made the very foundations of hell shake. Across the fields of burning rock where the souls of the dead were forever held in torment, the devils looked up from their work and shuddered in fear. “They killed my gentlemen. It is laid down by our immortal will that the heralds shall be forever immune from attack.”
“Sire.” Abigor whimpered and abased himself still further. If he had been human, he would have lost control of his bowels several minutes ago. “We believe that one of the heralds may have lived long enough to say that.”
“And what did those insignificant humans say to that? Do they cry for my forgiveness? Not that they’ll get it.”
“No Sire. It is reported they replied, ‘screw you and the horse you rode in on’. We don’t quite understand that Sire.”
“Then they must learn obedience. I blame this all on Yahweh. He was supposed to have softened this lot up, got them to believe anything, and obey everything. I thought he had to. Abigor, you will rectify this. You command 60 of the 6,666 legions of Hell. You will take them and wipe these upstarts out.”
“Sire, may I beg your indulgence for one moment of your time.”
“No.”
“But Sire, the heralds are dead, and we do not know how or why. The impossible, the impermissible, the unforgivable has been done and we know nothing of this. Sire, we should find out before we invade, then we can inflict yet greater suffering and despair upon them.”
“Greater suffering and despair, I like the sound of that. What do you propose?”
“Sire, I suggest that I ask Deumos to send the comeliest and most seductive of her Succubi to Washington, capital of the greatest nation on Earth. There is one there, peculiarly susceptible to her charms who might be seduced into telling us what we need to know. Think, Sire, of his grief when he learns his lusts have betrayed all humanity.”
Macdonald’s Restaurant, just off Pennsylvania Avenue, Washington D.C.
Former President William Jefferson Clinton jogged up to the restaurant and headed through the doors, his Secret Service detail following behind. He stopped to mop his forehead, his sides heaving with the exercise. He carefully did not look at the two Secret Service agents, he guessed that they were unmoved by his evening routine. He doubted if they were even breathing heavily. Fortunately, the place was empty, or nearly so. It pretty much always was this late at night.
“Can I help you, Sir?” The young Latina girl behind the counter was too tired to recognize the former President.
“I’ll have a double quarter-pounder with extra cheese, two super-size portions of fries, oh, and a small diet soda please.”
“Coming right up Sir.” The girl got her order from the pass and gave it to Clinton. He paid his bill and went to a table.
“Hi Sir, mind if a girl sits with you? Don’t want to be on my own this late at night.” Clinton glanced up. The woman waiting politely by his table had a mane of jet-black hair that fell in curls halfway down her back. Great, luminous black eyes and a mouth that promised everything imaginable without saying a word. “I’m Sheba, please I won’t bother you, you’re such a big, strong man. I’m sure I’ll be safe with you.”
A few feet away, the two Secret Service agents registered the scene with horror. How in hell had she slipped in there? It was appalling, a total breach of security, one which the senior agent had to do something about.
“Hey, Lady get away from here. Don’t you know who….” Sheba looked at him her eyes pleading for understanding. “Well, alright I suppose it’ll be OK.”
Clinton finished his snack, leaving the garbage to be thrown away by one of the Secret Service men. As he left the restaurant, the girl was trotting along beside him. Clinton kept throwing calculating glances at her, she was, perhaps, a little on the heavy side but that mouth was so enticing.
“This is so wonderful, what is it?” Sheba was stroking the great, black-wheeled vehicle that stood on the road.
“A Chevvy Suburban. It belongs to my bodyguards.” Clinton threw another calculating glance at Sheba. “Would you like to see inside?”
“Oh, yes please.” Sheba peered in, the front seat was like any other automobile, with controls, a steering wheel, and pedals on the floor. “How many horses does it take.”
“Three hundred and thirtyfive.” Sheba blinked trying to imagine the sight.
“The front’s standard, all the good stuff is in the back.” He turned to his Secret Service men. “Open up the back please?”
“But Sir...”
“Open it up please.” Clinton’s voice was insistent. The agent sighed and did as he was told. A lot of the equipment in the back was classified. “Isn’t that one of the new automatic shotguns?”
Clinton took the nod for an answer and reached in, picking the heavy weapon up. With slickness born of long practice, he spun around, racking the mechanism as he did. Then, with the barrel less than a foot from Sheba’s stomach, he pulled the trigger.
The long roaring burst drowned out her scream and the blasts of buckshot hurled her backward across the sidewalk, rolling her over as she started to fall apart. The Secret Servicemen’s faces were expressions of utter horror at the scene, the horror that was replaced by revulsion as the figure sprawled on the ground began to change, its flesh going black, horns growing from its head, a tail sprouting from under the absurdly short skirt. Their reactions were, under the circumstances commendable. They stopped their dive for Clinton in mid-lunge, spun, drew their SIG-Sauer P-229s, and each emptied all twelve rounds of .357SIG into the writhing demon. Clinton had dropped the empty magazine of his shotgun, loaded another and a second roar finished the job. The demon was dead, its bright yellow blood spreading across the sidewalk.
“It was a demon.”
“Hey, Bill’s killed a demon.”
The whispers from the crowd grew as they recovered from the shock of the violent confrontation. One man, obviously the worse for drink, staggered up and smacked Clinton on the back. “Well done, Bill. Have a drink.” Clinton grabbed the bottle in its brown paper bag and took a swig.
The senior of the secret servicemen was speaking on the radio. “Stay away from the body please, we don’t know what we’re dealing with here.” Then he turned to Clinton. “Well done sir, but how did you know?”
Clinton grinned the easy, friendly grin that won him election after election. “I’ve been married to Hilary for Thirtyyears. Believe me, after going through that, I can recognize a fiend from hell.”
Cabinet Conference Room, White House, Washington D.C.
“Condi, could you summarize the international situation at this point?”
“Mister President. So far, more than two dozen of these invaders, Baldricks the Brits call them, have been killed around the world. The latest was off Tokyo where a monster like the one killed by HMS Astute came ashore. It was engaged by the Japanese Ground Self Defense Forces and destroyed. According to the Japanese Ambassador, all that time spent shooting at Godzilla finally paid off.” A laugh ran around the room, partly a release of nervous tension but mostly in appreciation of the unexpected sense of humor shown by Ambassador Nishamura. “Most of the Far Eastern countries are coming on board quickly. China, of course, has taken an early stand. The People’s Liberation Army, Army Air Force, and Army Navy have all gone to full alert. Europe’s following the same approach, they’re all shooting at any Baldricks that appear on their territory.
“On the debit side, South America and Southern Europe appear to be in shock still. Christianity was deeply rooted there, and The Message struck them very hard. The idea that they’ve been systematically deceived by the very being they worshipped has left them adrift.” Secretary Rice paused for a moment. Coming from a religious background herself, she could empathize with the degree of bewilderment that was paralyzing so many governments around the world. “The Middle East is a mixed bag. We’d expected the area to be virtually depopulated; after all the word Islam means submission to the will of God and we assumed that the populations there would just lie down and die according to demand. Well, that hasn’t happened, not universally at any rate. It’s hard to work out exactly what is going on, but it seems as if, with radical Islam being discredited by The Message, the alternative philosophy of assertive Arab nationalism is returning. The largely socialist Arab nationalist movements have been eclipsed by the Jihadists in recent years but now, they’re coming back and coming back strong. Of course, the Sunnis are blaming the Shia and the Shia are blaming the Sunnis for The Message and they both blame us. Business as usual there. Equally predictably, the Israelis have gone to work with a vengeance. One of the Russian Baldricks appeared there, homing in on Jerusalem and the Israeli Defense Forces shot it to pieces. According to the Israeli Ambassador, 120mm shells are much more effective than sounding trumpets. They’ve sent word, by the way, don’t use armor-piercing shots to take the Baldricks down. Just whips straight through them. HEAT, high explosive, and canister all work much better.”
“You like the term Baldrick then Condi?” Department of Energy Secretary Bodman seemed to favor the expression as well.
“I do Sammy, it has a nice, contemptuous ring to it. But, much more importantly I think it is very important to distinguish between the mythological demon and the creatures we face. There is little doubt that the monsters we face today are the source of the myths we have all read about, but I believe we must make the difference between the two very clear. There is nothing ghostly or ethereal about the Baldricks, they are very solid reality. As to what their powers are, that we must find out.”
“On that note, we need some scientific input. Thank you, Condi. I have asked the Department of Defense to coordinate the scientific research into these Baldricks. Secretary Gates has resigned from his position as head of Defense, I have appointed, subject to confirmation by the Senate, Senator John Warner to be the new SecDef. John?”
“Thank you, Mister President. Now we know very little about these creatures. Factually, we have identified three separate types which have very different characteristics.
“The first is the flying Baldricks we shot down off California. They’re the same ones that were whacked in Singapore and Bangkok. Working on camera gun footage from the F-18s, we can size them at around 30 feet long from tip of horns to root of the tail with a wingspan of around 60 feet.” Warner gestured, and a picture was projected onto the screen at the end of the Cabinet Room. “As you can see, they look rather like the traditional depiction of a demon or a cartoon devil. Horns, tail pointed beard. Two arms, two legs, two wings. This raises an interesting point; the combination of weight and musculature mean these things can’t possibly fly.”
“Just like a bumblebee?” Education Secretary Margaret Spellings tossed the quip in, one that gained her a reproachful glance from the President.
“In a way yes. You see, the musculature of the back doesn’t give any great strength to the wings, it can’t the bone structure won’t support it. The only way this thing can fly is if it weighs virtually nothing, so its wings provide propulsion and lift, not steerage. The only way we can think of doing that is if the body contains a lot of very light gas, probably hydrogen. We think that is why they burned so fiercely when they were hit. The pilots reported that the creature’s blood set them on fire, we can only think that there’s some sort of body process in there where very acid blood reacts with a mineral to give off the hydrogen needed. That would allow the Baldrick to breathe fire as well. There are things about these flying Baldricks that are reminiscent of humans, it’s almost as if they were a parallel evolutionary path from a common ancestor somewhere.
“The second class we’ve run into are the aquatic ones. According to Astute, the one they killed was more than a hundred feet long, about 20 feet in diameter, and has flipper-like legs, six of them. They did careful pH testing on the water as they closed on the corpse and detected no sign of acidity. Also, note, that despite being hit by two torpedoes, it didn’t burn. So, our working hypothesis is that this one doesn’t have acid blood. The one that came ashore near Tokyo walked on its flipper legs, all six of them. It fought by shooting jets of water at things. Anyway, the JMSDF-GF will be sending over information as it develops. One thing they have said is the flesh doesn’t make good Sushi. I’m not sure what worries me most about that, the fact that it doesn’t make good Sushi or that somebody tried it. Either way, now we’ll know more about the Aquatic ones than the others soon.
“The third group are the land ones. These have just started to appear. According to the Russians, they’re about Thirtyfeet tall. They’re tough, they walk on their hind legs using their forearms to strike blows. They have vestigial wings only. No acid blood again. The few that appeared have been killed so quickly we have no idea whether they breathe fire or what.”
“We’re going to need names for all these types. Baldrick’s good enough for a generic name, I agree with Condi, we must distinguish between the mythology we’ve all read and the reality we have to fight.” President Bush leaned back in his seat, rubbing his eyes. “Does it seem to anybody that these Baldricks are getting tougher?”
“Certainly Sir.” Senator Warner tapped the pictures of the three types of demons. “There’s a definite progression here. There’s another thing, we have people going through ancient records, demonologies, grimoires that sort of stuff. Now, the information in there is undoubtedly corrupted and distorted but we’re hoping it gives us some form of a clue as to what we can expect. One thing we have noted. You’ll note that these Baldricks haven’t come in blasting. We would, under the same circumstances, we’d be advancing behind a wall of missiles, tactical air, and artillery fire. These just cruised straight into our defenses and died on them.
“We think we may have discovered the reason for this. One of our early readings found a mention of demonic heralds who were supposed to carry the word of their master to his new subjects. They would just appear in a population center, announce that all within were now subjects of their master, and carry them off to hell. As far as we can see, nobody ever resisted. There’s even a suggestion that, by some sort of celestial Geneva Convention, these heralds are immune from attack.”
Bush frowned. “Attorney General Mukasey, has the United States ever signed an agreement to that effect.”
“No Sir, we have not.”
“Good, it doesn’t apply to us then. Tell everybody to keep shooting. A question John does ‘immune from attack’ means that they can’t be shot at or that they are immune to weapons fire?”
“Our guess at this time Sir is that the second lead to the former. People found their bows and arrows and so on didn’t work against them, so they rationalized it by creating the former. Of course, we could be wrong on that. But the key point is if these are the heralds referred to in the Grimoire, the real armies of hell are still to get here. We must stack our defenses ready.”
“I agree, Henry.” Treasury Secretary Paulson started. “Henry, we need supplementals, huge ones. This is a war; we must fund it as such. We’re going to be spending serious money. Organize it. Elaine, Carlos, get to work shifting our industry to a war footing, get the missile factories and tank lines on triple shifts. Tell Boeing we’ll take every F-22 they can build, on a cost-plus basis. I believe the B-2 jigs and tooling are still in storage, if they are, get the Spirit back into production. Same with the Bone. What we can’t build, we’ll buy from abroad.
“Oh and John. Defense is fine, but nobody ever won a war by defending. We must go onto the offensive and attack. Find out how.”
Throne Room Infernal Palace of Dis, Hell.
“They have done what?” The infernal voice boomed across the hall, making the thick red vapor boil and eddy as the banners of long-forgotten kingdoms twisted and furled in the smog.
“Your Eminence, I cower at your feet.
“I know. Do it some more. Then tell me what you meant.”
Abigor cringed on the ground at Satan’s feet, his tongue flicking over the great hooked claws. “Sire forgive me”
“No. But continue.”
“Sire, they killed your heralds.”
“My gentlemen!” The scream of anger made the very foundations of hell shake. Across the fields of burning rock where the souls of the dead were forever held in torment, the devils looked up from their work and shuddered in fear. “They killed my gentlemen. It is laid down by our immortal will that the heralds shall be forever immune from attack.”
“Sire.” Abigor whimpered and abased himself still further. If he had been human, he would have lost control of his bowels several minutes ago. “We believe that one of the heralds may have lived long enough to say that.”
“And what did those insignificant humans say to that? Do they cry for my forgiveness? Not that they’ll get it.”
“No Sire. It is reported they replied, ‘screw you and the horse you rode in on’. We don’t quite understand that Sire.”
“Then they must learn obedience. I blame this all on Yahweh. He was supposed to have softened this lot up, got them to believe anything, and obey everything. I thought he had to. Abigor, you will rectify this. You command 60 of the 6,666 legions of Hell. You will take them and wipe these upstarts out.”
“Sire, may I beg your indulgence for one moment of your time.”
“No.”
“But Sire, the heralds are dead, and we do not know how or why. The impossible, the impermissible, the unforgivable has been done and we know nothing of this. Sire, we should find out before we invade, then we can inflict yet greater suffering and despair upon them.”
“Greater suffering and despair, I like the sound of that. What do you propose?”
“Sire, I suggest that I ask Deumos to send the comeliest and most seductive of her Succubi to Washington, capital of the greatest nation on Earth. There is one there, peculiarly susceptible to her charms who might be seduced into telling us what we need to know. Think, Sire, of his grief when he learns his lusts have betrayed all humanity.”
Macdonald’s Restaurant, just off Pennsylvania Avenue, Washington D.C.
Former President William Jefferson Clinton jogged up to the restaurant and headed through the doors, his Secret Service detail following behind. He stopped to mop his forehead, his sides heaving with the exercise. He carefully did not look at the two Secret Service agents, he guessed that they were unmoved by his evening routine. He doubted if they were even breathing heavily. Fortunately, the place was empty, or nearly so. It pretty much always was this late at night.
“Can I help you, Sir?” The young Latina girl behind the counter was too tired to recognize the former President.
“I’ll have a double quarter-pounder with extra cheese, two super-size portions of fries, oh, and a small diet soda please.”
“Coming right up Sir.” The girl got her order from the pass and gave it to Clinton. He paid his bill and went to a table.
“Hi Sir, mind if a girl sits with you? Don’t want to be on my own this late at night.” Clinton glanced up. The woman waiting politely by his table had a mane of jet-black hair that fell in curls halfway down her back. Great, luminous black eyes and a mouth that promised everything imaginable without saying a word. “I’m Sheba, please I won’t bother you, you’re such a big, strong man. I’m sure I’ll be safe with you.”
A few feet away, the two Secret Service agents registered the scene with horror. How in hell had she slipped in there? It was appalling, a total breach of security, one which the senior agent had to do something about.
“Hey, Lady get away from here. Don’t you know who….” Sheba looked at him her eyes pleading for understanding. “Well, alright I suppose it’ll be OK.”
Clinton finished his snack, leaving the garbage to be thrown away by one of the Secret Service men. As he left the restaurant, the girl was trotting along beside him. Clinton kept throwing calculating glances at her, she was, perhaps, a little on the heavy side but that mouth was so enticing.
“This is so wonderful, what is it?” Sheba was stroking the great, black-wheeled vehicle that stood on the road.
“A Chevvy Suburban. It belongs to my bodyguards.” Clinton threw another calculating glance at Sheba. “Would you like to see inside?”
“Oh, yes please.” Sheba peered in, the front seat was like any other automobile, with controls, a steering wheel, and pedals on the floor. “How many horses does it take.”
“Three hundred and thirtyfive.” Sheba blinked trying to imagine the sight.
“The front’s standard, all the good stuff is in the back.” He turned to his Secret Service men. “Open up the back please?”
“But Sir...”
“Open it up please.” Clinton’s voice was insistent. The agent sighed and did as he was told. A lot of the equipment in the back was classified. “Isn’t that one of the new automatic shotguns?”
Clinton took the nod for an answer and reached in, picking the heavy weapon up. With slickness born of long practice, he spun around, racking the mechanism as he did. Then, with the barrel less than a foot from Sheba’s stomach, he pulled the trigger.
The long roaring burst drowned out her scream and the blasts of buckshot hurled her backward across the sidewalk, rolling her over as she started to fall apart. The Secret Servicemen’s faces were expressions of utter horror at the scene, the horror that was replaced by revulsion as the figure sprawled on the ground began to change, its flesh going black, horns growing from its head, a tail sprouting from under the absurdly short skirt. Their reactions were, under the circumstances commendable. They stopped their dive for Clinton in mid-lunge, spun, drew their SIG-Sauer P-229s, and each emptied all twelve rounds of .357SIG into the writhing demon. Clinton had dropped the empty magazine of his shotgun, loaded another and a second roar finished the job. The demon was dead, its bright yellow blood spreading across the sidewalk.
“It was a demon.”
“Hey, Bill’s killed a demon.”
The whispers from the crowd grew as they recovered from the shock of the violent confrontation. One man, obviously the worse for drink, staggered up and smacked Clinton on the back. “Well done, Bill. Have a drink.” Clinton grabbed the bottle in its brown paper bag and took a swig.
The senior of the secret servicemen was speaking on the radio. “Stay away from the body please, we don’t know what we’re dealing with here.” Then he turned to Clinton. “Well done sir, but how did you know?”
Clinton grinned the easy, friendly grin that won him election after election. “I’ve been married to Hilary for Thirtyyears. Believe me, after going through that, I can recognize a fiend from hell.”
Re: 2008 - Armageddon
Chapter Four
Oval Office, White House, Washington D.C.
“Sir, newsflash just in, Former President Clinton has just killed a baldrick at the McDonalds just down the road.”
“Damn, that will cost us at least one more seat in the House.” President Bush looked pensive for a moment. “I don’t suppose we could get my pappy to whack one?”
His public relations advisor shrugged, if one turned up in the right place it could be arranged, probably. But that was asking too much. “No Sir, not that we can rely on anyway.”
Bush’s mouth twisted, a pity to be disappointed so late in the evening. “How did it happen anyway? How did Bill, I suppose we’ll call him Wild Bill now, manage it? And what was the Secret Service up to?”
“The details are very brief, Sir. He just blasted the baldrick with an automatic shotgun. Doctor Surlethe, the National Science Advisor is waiting outside, perhaps he can give you some more details.”
A sigh wafted gently across the room, President Bush didn’t like being briefed by scientists. They tended to use such long words. Like any good politician, Bush knew that the time taken to say a four-syllable word was greater than the attention span of the audience. “Trot him in.”
Bush leaned forward in his seat, giving the impression of studiously examining the papers on the Presidential desk. “Doctor Surlethe, good to see you. A great achievement by the former President, but one that raises a few questions I think?”
“Indeed so sir. Mr. Clinton was very lucky that the baldrick in question was a new type, one that has some unnerving capabilities. In accordance with your instructions, we’ve started naming the baldrick types we encounter based on the Grimoires we have accessed. For example, we’ve designated the flying baldricks as harpies, the aquatic ones as krakens, and the land-based ones as behemoths. The one killed by Mr. Clinton was human-sized and gave every appearance of being a human female, a very seductive one. It changed appearance into what we assume was its real form only when blasted with several dozen rounds of double-ought buckshot and automatic pistol fire.”
“Wait a minute, this thing was able to simulate people’s appearance? It’s a shape shifter? That means it could be anybody, you, me, anybody could be killed and replaced by one of those things.”
“Yes Sir, although things may not be quite that bad. The other thing is that this baldrick, we’re going to call this type a succubus, just materialized by the former President’s table, and started to speak to him. The Secret Service men thought they’d fouled up badly, but nobody saw that thing before it was standing next to the former President and speaking. It’s as if it simply materialized there.”
“That’s appalling. It means nobody is safe, one could materialize here and now.”
“Well, that all depends, Mister President. There are pretty much two possibilities. The first is that the succubus really is a shapeshifter and can teleport around. If that is the case, then we can take the entire science section of the Library of Congress and toss it into the landfill. Everything we thought about the physical world is wrong. However, the other possibility is much more probable and something we can handle.” Doctor Surlethe paused for a second. This was going to be the tricky bit. “This option is that the succubus doesn’t change shape or teleport, it simply makes us think it looks the way it does.”
“How can it do that?” Here come the long words Bush thought to himself.
“Mister President, are you familiar with the concept of quantum entanglement.”
Knew it Bush thought. Four syllables at least. “I’ve heard the term.”
That means no. Doctor Surlethe said ruefully to himself. Oh well, here we go. “Quantum entanglement is a phenomenon in which two or more objects influence each other at a quantum level even though the individual objects may be spatially separated. This leads to correlations between observable physical properties of the systems. For example, measurements performed on one system seem to be instantaneously influencing other systems entangled with it.”
Surlethe looked at the President, he wasn’t sure, but Bush’s eyes seemed to be rotating in different directions. “What this means is that one quantum state can duplicate itself, transit information on itself if you like, to another without direct contact. This has been experimentally demonstrated within a laboratory and we are just beginning to appreciate the implications of the phenomena. Now, the workings of the brain and nerves all use various kinds of energy fields, you’ve heard of brainwave measurement and things like that. We’ve been doing that for years. Now, theoretically, it’s possible that the succubus can entangle its energy field with those around it so that it transmits informationto them, in effect it duplicates itself in them. So, the succubus holds a mental image of itself in its mind and uses this ability to entangle the sense transmissions in those around it, so it duplicates that image in them. In short, all those around the succubus see it the way the succubus wants them to see it. It doesn’t change shape, it simply changes the way people see its shape.”
“And the teleport thing.”
“Easy, the succubus simply transmits an image of itself that isn’t there. It isn’t invisible, it simply tells the senses in its victim that it isn’t present. Now, if this is correct, we should be able to detect that energy field, there isn’t a part of the electromagnetic spectrum we can’t detect and measure and work out a way to stop it. Only, we’ll need a live succubus for that, and we haven’t got one. Until we get one, we won’t know which explanation is correct.”
“We don’t need a succubus Doctor, we’ve got the evidence we need.” Bush grinned to himself. Just because he didn’t like using four-syllable words and usually mispronounced them when he did, didn’t mean he couldn’t understand them.
“We have Mister President?”
“This is Washington Doctor. The city with one of the highest crime rates in America. Knocking off fast-food restaurants and shooting the staff is a daily event. Or was, until the places started installing video surveillance cameras. Now, if I follow your explanation properly, the entanglement thing you talk about works on the energy fields in the brain. Surveillance cameras don’t have brains. The film should show us what is there, not what it wants us to think is there. So, let’s get that film.”
It took just under an hour. The manager of the 19th Street McDonalds had the interesting experience of FBI Director Robert S. Mueller, III arriving to collect his video surveillance tapes personally. Director Mueller carried the tapes back to the White House where they were set up in the projection office just off the Conference Room. In less than an hour, the audience had assembled, and the tapes were run.
“Right, here we are, we can see the former President and his two Secret Service men entering the restaurant. Will you look at that!” Mueller’s voice was incredulous. A jet-black figure, human-sized but with a set of rounded stub horns and a long-pointed tail entered through the open doors of the restaurant, only a foot or so behind the rear Secret Service man. By the time the doors had closed, it was inside. “He’s getting his food, going to the table.” The succubus had walked less than a couple of feet in front of the Secret Service agents, both had looked directly at it, but neither of them had seen it. The succubus spoke with Clinton while he ate, then the two left together. A few seconds after they left, there were brilliant flashes of gunfire outside.
“There we are, Doctor Surlethe, it doesn’t teleport, and it doesn’t shift shape. It just makes us think it does, so you can start to look for your energy field, right?”
“Yes Sir.”
Bush relaxed in his seat, running the implications of the scene in his mind. “Doctor Surlethe, your Quantum Entanglement theory was very interesting and, as far as I can make out, plausible. Don’t concentrate on it to the exclusion of other theories though. I’ve seen that happen all too often.
“Gentlemen, we’ve proved something else today. We can rely on our optical sensors even if we can’t rely on our own eyes and ears. That’s worth spreading to the troops, to everybody. I doubt that this succubus thing that Bill killed so emphatically will be the only one that we run into, there will be more, and we need to be on our guard against them. Closed-circuit television surveillance, and remote surveillance so that the operator isn’t within the zone of control of these things, are essential. By Executive Order, I’m making the installation of such equipment a tax-deductible expense now. See that gets out as fast as possible.”
James Randi Educational Foundation, Florida, USA
James Randi rubbed his eyes. The last few days had been tiresome in the extreme, ever since the announcement that all mediums were being tested so that their abilities, if any, could be used in the war effort went out, the Foundation had been besieged by applicants. The big names, of course, had refused to show their faces. They were scared spitless of The Amazing Randi and with good reason. He knew the tricks they used and how to expose them, submitting them to tests by him would destroy their livelihood. That reasoning hadn’t helped them, they had found themselves being picked up by the FBI, bundled into the back of a Chevvy Suburban, and brought down to the Foundation. A few hours later, they had been on their way back, their fraudulent claims exposed and discredited.
“Not one. Not one genuine medium in the whole lot. There was a time when that would have delighted me but not now. We know there’s something out there, but we can’t get at it. It was easier being an atheist, now I don’t know what to believe. Guess that makes me agnostic.”
“No, James. I know that the idea of an agnostic lies between the extremes of atheism and religious fanaticism, but it does not. It is a separate line of thought. An atheist denies the existence of any sort of god, the theist affirms it. An agnostic believes that the existence or non-existence of a god can never be proven, the Gnostic believes that the existence or non-existence of a god is subject to rational proof. If I understand your position correctly, you were a Gnostic Atheist. You denied the existence of a god and thought you could prove that your denial was correct.”
“And I was wrong, General.”
“Why James? We know now that there is life after death. That is undeniable. We know that the afterlife is ruled by beings. Why do you believe those beings are gods? We have already proved we can kill their servants with almost absurd ease. Why cannot we kill them as well? They’re probably more trouble than they are worth anyway.”
“We don’t like our gods, so we kill them. Now that’s a true soldier talking.”
“No James, it is not. A soldier fights for those who cannot fight for themselves. Today we fight for all those who have died, who are being held in horrid slavery. We fight for all humanity, past, present, and future. You are part of that fight, don’t forget it. In this war, you are as much a soldier as I.”
“General, while we are speaking on this subject, may I ask something? How does The Message affect you and your people? Many of you are Christian.”
“On one level James, The Message does not concern us. I am a Buddhist, so are more than 90 percent of my people. The Lord Buddha was not a god, he was a man. A very wise man who laid down rules for living one’s life as well as possible on an imperfect earth. Good rules that when applied mean one lives a good life. To us, being a Buddhist simply means following those teachings, I could give you a long lecture on what that means but here is neither the time nor the place. When we meditate, we simply ponder the teachings of the Lord Buddha and try to seek enlightenment on how they can solve our problems. When we pray to him, we simply are asking him what he would do under these circumstances. Any question of gods or devils is quite irrelevant to that center’s core belief. In my country, we are animists, we believe that everything has a spirit that lives in it, a spirit we can talk to and who will talk back to us. So, The Message didn’t affect us much. On another level, what does affect us is the assertion that all humans go to eternal punishment no matter what they believe. The Message made no distinction between the religions or stated that one would be exempt while another was condemned. All humans are subject to the same fate. So, we fight. That’s why governments pay us the big bucks.”
“Which brings us back to where we started. We’ve been pulling in every psychic, medium, and fortune-teller we can find. When we’ve exhausted this country’s supply, we’ll start abroad. Yet, despite all our efforts, we have not come up with a single person who can actually speak to the dead. What if there are none? What if the dead are indeed beyond contact?”
The General finished her whisky and refilled her glass. “Perhaps we are looking in the wrong place. Perhaps we should consider the possibility that so-called mediums cannot speak to the dead but that those who can speak to the dead are not mediums. After all, let us suppose that one can communicate with the dead. What will we learn? That the dead are subject to an eternity of hideous torture, without hope of end or reprieve. That the same fate awaits us all. Now, the grieving family of a dead person turns up on our doorstep. They want reassurance, they want to know that their beloved husband or wife, parents or children have gone to the better place promised, that they are happy in their afterlife. Would you tell them the truth? What a terrible fate has fallen on them and that the same awaits their relatives?”
Randi shook his head. Such cruelty would be inconceivable. Thinking about it, The Message itself was an act of diabolical cruelty, one that only a truly foul mind could conceive. When Satan had proclaimed his dominion over the Earth and proclaimed that all its souls belonged to him, regardless of virtue or cause, he had fully lived up to his reputation. “So where do we look?”
The General sipped her whisky, savoring its smoky taste. “Imagine yourself as someone who can speak to the damned dead, know their pain and anguish, feel their agony, know that the same fate awaits you and that there is no hope, that the fate ahead is what inevitably awaits you. What would you do?”
Randi thought for a second. “I think I would go mad.”
The General looked over the rim of her glass. “Quite. So, shouldn’t we start looking amongst the mad? Looking at those who hear voices, voices whose messages are so dreadful that they have driven the listener insane? All through history, there have been those who have claimed they have heard voices that drove them to acts of rage or despair. They’ve always been treated as though they were insane but suppose they were not? Suppose they really did hear voices, either accidentally or deliberately. In ancient times, such people were described as possessed but, in our arrogance, we assumed otherwise. We assumed that they were sick, that they had a mental defect that we could treat. Perhaps they were not, perhaps they really were possessed by the demons who now assail us. That they were victims of the hideous game we are now playing to its final act.”
“So we should start looking amongst the mentally ill. That will be a long job.”
“It will indeed, James, but it is one we can move fast on. We are looking for specific kinds of people, those who hear voices that drive them insane. I think computers can help with this; we need to have the records searched so that we can find the most promising cases. Then we can bring them here.”
Office of the National Science Advisor, Washington D.C.
“Call for you, Doctor Surlethe. From Florida.”
“Thank you, put it through.” Surlethe waited for a moment. “Surlethe here.”
“Doctor, this is the James Randi Educational Foundation.” Surlethe recognized the contralto voice, one that had a threatening growl underneath it. A well-fed tiger was eying a small animal with the thought that it had just a little room left in its stomach.
“Ah yes, General. How is the research going down there?”
“We’ve hit a dead-end; our initial concept was wrong so we’re changing tack. We’re writing off the known mediums etc. as source material, it’s obvious they’re all frauds and confidence tricksters. Instead, we’re going to start looking at people who claim to hear voices in their heads and are under treatment for such ‘delusions’.”
“So you and The Amazing Randi think that some of them really do hear voices.” Surlethe’s voice was bitter. Scientists had never forgiven Randi for exposing tricksters whose acts had fooled ‘scientific’ testing. Randi had pointed out that the skills needed to expose a fraud were different from those needed to conduct an experiment. It hadn’t helped if anything it had made things worse.
“We do. What we need you to do is to get as much information on such cases to us as possible, so we can start working through them. Also, I read the note about the search for energy fields? Can you get some instrumentation down here quick, if we do start finding what we’re looking for, we should be able to measure what it is they’re hearing.”
“I’ll get the equipment sent down, along with some experts to install it. Thank you, General, and good luck.”
Surlethe leaned back in his seat. A new front had been opened against the forces that were threatening humanity. While the armed forces were picking off the baldricks who appeared on earth, science and reason were striking at the very heart of their power. For the first time since The Message, Surlethe felt good.
Oval Office, White House, Washington D.C.
“Sir, newsflash just in, Former President Clinton has just killed a baldrick at the McDonalds just down the road.”
“Damn, that will cost us at least one more seat in the House.” President Bush looked pensive for a moment. “I don’t suppose we could get my pappy to whack one?”
His public relations advisor shrugged, if one turned up in the right place it could be arranged, probably. But that was asking too much. “No Sir, not that we can rely on anyway.”
Bush’s mouth twisted, a pity to be disappointed so late in the evening. “How did it happen anyway? How did Bill, I suppose we’ll call him Wild Bill now, manage it? And what was the Secret Service up to?”
“The details are very brief, Sir. He just blasted the baldrick with an automatic shotgun. Doctor Surlethe, the National Science Advisor is waiting outside, perhaps he can give you some more details.”
A sigh wafted gently across the room, President Bush didn’t like being briefed by scientists. They tended to use such long words. Like any good politician, Bush knew that the time taken to say a four-syllable word was greater than the attention span of the audience. “Trot him in.”
Bush leaned forward in his seat, giving the impression of studiously examining the papers on the Presidential desk. “Doctor Surlethe, good to see you. A great achievement by the former President, but one that raises a few questions I think?”
“Indeed so sir. Mr. Clinton was very lucky that the baldrick in question was a new type, one that has some unnerving capabilities. In accordance with your instructions, we’ve started naming the baldrick types we encounter based on the Grimoires we have accessed. For example, we’ve designated the flying baldricks as harpies, the aquatic ones as krakens, and the land-based ones as behemoths. The one killed by Mr. Clinton was human-sized and gave every appearance of being a human female, a very seductive one. It changed appearance into what we assume was its real form only when blasted with several dozen rounds of double-ought buckshot and automatic pistol fire.”
“Wait a minute, this thing was able to simulate people’s appearance? It’s a shape shifter? That means it could be anybody, you, me, anybody could be killed and replaced by one of those things.”
“Yes Sir, although things may not be quite that bad. The other thing is that this baldrick, we’re going to call this type a succubus, just materialized by the former President’s table, and started to speak to him. The Secret Service men thought they’d fouled up badly, but nobody saw that thing before it was standing next to the former President and speaking. It’s as if it simply materialized there.”
“That’s appalling. It means nobody is safe, one could materialize here and now.”
“Well, that all depends, Mister President. There are pretty much two possibilities. The first is that the succubus really is a shapeshifter and can teleport around. If that is the case, then we can take the entire science section of the Library of Congress and toss it into the landfill. Everything we thought about the physical world is wrong. However, the other possibility is much more probable and something we can handle.” Doctor Surlethe paused for a second. This was going to be the tricky bit. “This option is that the succubus doesn’t change shape or teleport, it simply makes us think it looks the way it does.”
“How can it do that?” Here come the long words Bush thought to himself.
“Mister President, are you familiar with the concept of quantum entanglement.”
Knew it Bush thought. Four syllables at least. “I’ve heard the term.”
That means no. Doctor Surlethe said ruefully to himself. Oh well, here we go. “Quantum entanglement is a phenomenon in which two or more objects influence each other at a quantum level even though the individual objects may be spatially separated. This leads to correlations between observable physical properties of the systems. For example, measurements performed on one system seem to be instantaneously influencing other systems entangled with it.”
Surlethe looked at the President, he wasn’t sure, but Bush’s eyes seemed to be rotating in different directions. “What this means is that one quantum state can duplicate itself, transit information on itself if you like, to another without direct contact. This has been experimentally demonstrated within a laboratory and we are just beginning to appreciate the implications of the phenomena. Now, the workings of the brain and nerves all use various kinds of energy fields, you’ve heard of brainwave measurement and things like that. We’ve been doing that for years. Now, theoretically, it’s possible that the succubus can entangle its energy field with those around it so that it transmits informationto them, in effect it duplicates itself in them. So, the succubus holds a mental image of itself in its mind and uses this ability to entangle the sense transmissions in those around it, so it duplicates that image in them. In short, all those around the succubus see it the way the succubus wants them to see it. It doesn’t change shape, it simply changes the way people see its shape.”
“And the teleport thing.”
“Easy, the succubus simply transmits an image of itself that isn’t there. It isn’t invisible, it simply tells the senses in its victim that it isn’t present. Now, if this is correct, we should be able to detect that energy field, there isn’t a part of the electromagnetic spectrum we can’t detect and measure and work out a way to stop it. Only, we’ll need a live succubus for that, and we haven’t got one. Until we get one, we won’t know which explanation is correct.”
“We don’t need a succubus Doctor, we’ve got the evidence we need.” Bush grinned to himself. Just because he didn’t like using four-syllable words and usually mispronounced them when he did, didn’t mean he couldn’t understand them.
“We have Mister President?”
“This is Washington Doctor. The city with one of the highest crime rates in America. Knocking off fast-food restaurants and shooting the staff is a daily event. Or was, until the places started installing video surveillance cameras. Now, if I follow your explanation properly, the entanglement thing you talk about works on the energy fields in the brain. Surveillance cameras don’t have brains. The film should show us what is there, not what it wants us to think is there. So, let’s get that film.”
It took just under an hour. The manager of the 19th Street McDonalds had the interesting experience of FBI Director Robert S. Mueller, III arriving to collect his video surveillance tapes personally. Director Mueller carried the tapes back to the White House where they were set up in the projection office just off the Conference Room. In less than an hour, the audience had assembled, and the tapes were run.
“Right, here we are, we can see the former President and his two Secret Service men entering the restaurant. Will you look at that!” Mueller’s voice was incredulous. A jet-black figure, human-sized but with a set of rounded stub horns and a long-pointed tail entered through the open doors of the restaurant, only a foot or so behind the rear Secret Service man. By the time the doors had closed, it was inside. “He’s getting his food, going to the table.” The succubus had walked less than a couple of feet in front of the Secret Service agents, both had looked directly at it, but neither of them had seen it. The succubus spoke with Clinton while he ate, then the two left together. A few seconds after they left, there were brilliant flashes of gunfire outside.
“There we are, Doctor Surlethe, it doesn’t teleport, and it doesn’t shift shape. It just makes us think it does, so you can start to look for your energy field, right?”
“Yes Sir.”
Bush relaxed in his seat, running the implications of the scene in his mind. “Doctor Surlethe, your Quantum Entanglement theory was very interesting and, as far as I can make out, plausible. Don’t concentrate on it to the exclusion of other theories though. I’ve seen that happen all too often.
“Gentlemen, we’ve proved something else today. We can rely on our optical sensors even if we can’t rely on our own eyes and ears. That’s worth spreading to the troops, to everybody. I doubt that this succubus thing that Bill killed so emphatically will be the only one that we run into, there will be more, and we need to be on our guard against them. Closed-circuit television surveillance, and remote surveillance so that the operator isn’t within the zone of control of these things, are essential. By Executive Order, I’m making the installation of such equipment a tax-deductible expense now. See that gets out as fast as possible.”
James Randi Educational Foundation, Florida, USA
James Randi rubbed his eyes. The last few days had been tiresome in the extreme, ever since the announcement that all mediums were being tested so that their abilities, if any, could be used in the war effort went out, the Foundation had been besieged by applicants. The big names, of course, had refused to show their faces. They were scared spitless of The Amazing Randi and with good reason. He knew the tricks they used and how to expose them, submitting them to tests by him would destroy their livelihood. That reasoning hadn’t helped them, they had found themselves being picked up by the FBI, bundled into the back of a Chevvy Suburban, and brought down to the Foundation. A few hours later, they had been on their way back, their fraudulent claims exposed and discredited.
“Not one. Not one genuine medium in the whole lot. There was a time when that would have delighted me but not now. We know there’s something out there, but we can’t get at it. It was easier being an atheist, now I don’t know what to believe. Guess that makes me agnostic.”
“No, James. I know that the idea of an agnostic lies between the extremes of atheism and religious fanaticism, but it does not. It is a separate line of thought. An atheist denies the existence of any sort of god, the theist affirms it. An agnostic believes that the existence or non-existence of a god can never be proven, the Gnostic believes that the existence or non-existence of a god is subject to rational proof. If I understand your position correctly, you were a Gnostic Atheist. You denied the existence of a god and thought you could prove that your denial was correct.”
“And I was wrong, General.”
“Why James? We know now that there is life after death. That is undeniable. We know that the afterlife is ruled by beings. Why do you believe those beings are gods? We have already proved we can kill their servants with almost absurd ease. Why cannot we kill them as well? They’re probably more trouble than they are worth anyway.”
“We don’t like our gods, so we kill them. Now that’s a true soldier talking.”
“No James, it is not. A soldier fights for those who cannot fight for themselves. Today we fight for all those who have died, who are being held in horrid slavery. We fight for all humanity, past, present, and future. You are part of that fight, don’t forget it. In this war, you are as much a soldier as I.”
“General, while we are speaking on this subject, may I ask something? How does The Message affect you and your people? Many of you are Christian.”
“On one level James, The Message does not concern us. I am a Buddhist, so are more than 90 percent of my people. The Lord Buddha was not a god, he was a man. A very wise man who laid down rules for living one’s life as well as possible on an imperfect earth. Good rules that when applied mean one lives a good life. To us, being a Buddhist simply means following those teachings, I could give you a long lecture on what that means but here is neither the time nor the place. When we meditate, we simply ponder the teachings of the Lord Buddha and try to seek enlightenment on how they can solve our problems. When we pray to him, we simply are asking him what he would do under these circumstances. Any question of gods or devils is quite irrelevant to that center’s core belief. In my country, we are animists, we believe that everything has a spirit that lives in it, a spirit we can talk to and who will talk back to us. So, The Message didn’t affect us much. On another level, what does affect us is the assertion that all humans go to eternal punishment no matter what they believe. The Message made no distinction between the religions or stated that one would be exempt while another was condemned. All humans are subject to the same fate. So, we fight. That’s why governments pay us the big bucks.”
“Which brings us back to where we started. We’ve been pulling in every psychic, medium, and fortune-teller we can find. When we’ve exhausted this country’s supply, we’ll start abroad. Yet, despite all our efforts, we have not come up with a single person who can actually speak to the dead. What if there are none? What if the dead are indeed beyond contact?”
The General finished her whisky and refilled her glass. “Perhaps we are looking in the wrong place. Perhaps we should consider the possibility that so-called mediums cannot speak to the dead but that those who can speak to the dead are not mediums. After all, let us suppose that one can communicate with the dead. What will we learn? That the dead are subject to an eternity of hideous torture, without hope of end or reprieve. That the same fate awaits us all. Now, the grieving family of a dead person turns up on our doorstep. They want reassurance, they want to know that their beloved husband or wife, parents or children have gone to the better place promised, that they are happy in their afterlife. Would you tell them the truth? What a terrible fate has fallen on them and that the same awaits their relatives?”
Randi shook his head. Such cruelty would be inconceivable. Thinking about it, The Message itself was an act of diabolical cruelty, one that only a truly foul mind could conceive. When Satan had proclaimed his dominion over the Earth and proclaimed that all its souls belonged to him, regardless of virtue or cause, he had fully lived up to his reputation. “So where do we look?”
The General sipped her whisky, savoring its smoky taste. “Imagine yourself as someone who can speak to the damned dead, know their pain and anguish, feel their agony, know that the same fate awaits you and that there is no hope, that the fate ahead is what inevitably awaits you. What would you do?”
Randi thought for a second. “I think I would go mad.”
The General looked over the rim of her glass. “Quite. So, shouldn’t we start looking amongst the mad? Looking at those who hear voices, voices whose messages are so dreadful that they have driven the listener insane? All through history, there have been those who have claimed they have heard voices that drove them to acts of rage or despair. They’ve always been treated as though they were insane but suppose they were not? Suppose they really did hear voices, either accidentally or deliberately. In ancient times, such people were described as possessed but, in our arrogance, we assumed otherwise. We assumed that they were sick, that they had a mental defect that we could treat. Perhaps they were not, perhaps they really were possessed by the demons who now assail us. That they were victims of the hideous game we are now playing to its final act.”
“So we should start looking amongst the mentally ill. That will be a long job.”
“It will indeed, James, but it is one we can move fast on. We are looking for specific kinds of people, those who hear voices that drive them insane. I think computers can help with this; we need to have the records searched so that we can find the most promising cases. Then we can bring them here.”
Office of the National Science Advisor, Washington D.C.
“Call for you, Doctor Surlethe. From Florida.”
“Thank you, put it through.” Surlethe waited for a moment. “Surlethe here.”
“Doctor, this is the James Randi Educational Foundation.” Surlethe recognized the contralto voice, one that had a threatening growl underneath it. A well-fed tiger was eying a small animal with the thought that it had just a little room left in its stomach.
“Ah yes, General. How is the research going down there?”
“We’ve hit a dead-end; our initial concept was wrong so we’re changing tack. We’re writing off the known mediums etc. as source material, it’s obvious they’re all frauds and confidence tricksters. Instead, we’re going to start looking at people who claim to hear voices in their heads and are under treatment for such ‘delusions’.”
“So you and The Amazing Randi think that some of them really do hear voices.” Surlethe’s voice was bitter. Scientists had never forgiven Randi for exposing tricksters whose acts had fooled ‘scientific’ testing. Randi had pointed out that the skills needed to expose a fraud were different from those needed to conduct an experiment. It hadn’t helped if anything it had made things worse.
“We do. What we need you to do is to get as much information on such cases to us as possible, so we can start working through them. Also, I read the note about the search for energy fields? Can you get some instrumentation down here quick, if we do start finding what we’re looking for, we should be able to measure what it is they’re hearing.”
“I’ll get the equipment sent down, along with some experts to install it. Thank you, General, and good luck.”
Surlethe leaned back in his seat. A new front had been opened against the forces that were threatening humanity. While the armed forces were picking off the baldricks who appeared on earth, science and reason were striking at the very heart of their power. For the first time since The Message, Surlethe felt good.
Re: 2008 - Armageddon
Chapter Five
Martial Field of Dysprosium, Hell.
His troops were formed up on the field, awaiting his inspection. 60 legions, each with 6,666 demons, a total force of over 400,000 demons if Abigor’s own command staff were included. By far the largest force that Hell had ever sent to another world, yet it was only a tiny fraction of the army that Hell could deploy if it wished. There were 6,666 legions in hell, a total of 44,500,000 demons under arms, a mighty host that had never in its history been deployed against a single foe. There had never been a single foe whose ability had demanded that level of force. Always, those lower down the scale of existence had cowered in fear when the demons had arrived, genuflecting at the appearance of the creatures from a greater dimension. Mostly, the armies of Hell had never been needed, the Heralds had been terrifying enough to put their victims into a state of catatonic terror.
Only, not this time. This time the creatures from the lower dimensions had the temerity to fight back, even more than that, they had killed the Heralds. That had disturbed Abigor more than he let on. If the Heralds could be killed, what did that mean for the demons in his ranks? The Heralds were deliberately created to be awe-inspiring, and terrifying by virtue of their size and apparent invulnerability, yet the humans below had fought back and killed them. Individually, the demons in the ranks of his legions were much less formidable than the great Heralds. They were formidable enough, that was true, their tough hides were impervious to arrows and the blows of swords yet would that be enough? What did the humans have that could kill so effectively?
There was another point that worried Abigor. The Heralds had been killed, what had happened to them? The rulers of Hell knew what happened to those on the lower dimensions, their creation and life built up a form of energy that, when they died, boosted them over the threshold and translated them to the next level of dimension. Unfortunately for them, the energy needed to surge the occupants of this reality level was much greater. That’s why Hell existed, the second deaths of the unfortunates from realities below were prolonged as much as possible, by millennia or longer, nobody knew the limit yet so that the energy released by their suffering would boost the rulers of Hell up to their afterlife. The creatures from below suffered in their afterlife to provide the creatures of this level with theirs. But suppose the beings who lived in the reality above this one adopted the same philosophy. Was there a super-Hell that awaited Abigor and his kind?
The infantry in his legions was crashing the butts of their tridents against the ground as Abigor rode past on his beast. 56 of his 60 legions were his infantry, Abigor’s host was one of the less mobile of its kind, he had only three mounted legions and one flying legion. The information he had was that the humans lived mostly in cities, which meant the war would be one of sieges, the cities fighting from behind their defensive walls in a series of last stands. That would put a premium on his infantry, his mounted and flying legions would only be of use in isolating each city before the infantry besieged and destroyed it. It had been done before, Abigor knew that human myths were full of stories of cities that had been besieged by hordes of monstrous, inhuman foes. Now they would find out where those myths had come from.
The horns sounded, their wailing drowning out the crashing cadence of the trident staffs. The legions did a right-face, towards a black dot that had suddenly appeared against the roiling red smoke of the sky. The dot expanded, opening a gate into the lower dimension that had dared to defy the will of higher beings. This was the critical stage, the energy gradient ran steeply from the lower dimensions to the higher, it was relatively easy for the higher dimensional beings to gain access to the lower, much harder for the lower dimensions to ascend. Only opening a portal could ensure easy access between the dimensions. Yet that same energy gradient meant that once a portal between the levels was opened, it would be very hard to close. Size also was a factor, and this was the largest portal that had ever been created. Just how hard would it be to close again? Abigor had an uneasy feeling that nobody had thought to ask that question.
The portal reached its full extent and the horns wailed again. Abigor lead his host forward, into the black circle of the portal and from it into the brilliant yellow light and the clear blue skies of Earth.
Headquarters, 1st Armored Division, Task Force Iron, Multi-National Force Iraq
“Have we got the Global Hawk Feed set up?” Major General Wilkens snapped the order out. The situation was breaking loose at last, and he didn’t want to fall behind the loop.
“Sir, yes Sir. Direct feed to us, to Washington, and to Moscow.” The latter part was new, one of the hurried preparations that had been made over the last two weeks. There had been a frantic effort to link up the world’s military headquarters so that the fight if it started when it started, would be properly coordinated. Task Force Iron also had a direct download from Russian satellites and other recon capabilities, but it was the RQ-4B Global Hawks that were the key asset. Nobody knew where the attack would come, on paper, it could be anywhere, but Iraq had been a leading bet. The association of old legends and the fertile triangle of the Tigris-Euphrates was too powerful to ignore.
High above the desert, the Global Hawk turned lazily, its long wings biting at the thin air. Its stabilized cameras focused on a strange sight in the desert of Western Iraq, a black oval that had suddenly appeared in the stony wastes, one that spread even though it had no apparent substance. It wasn’t even a shadow; it was more of an absence of anything. The cameras zoomed in on the strange spreading stain that still grew beneath it.
“Well, that looks like it.” Brigadier General Boothe looked at the image with horrified fascination. If the guesses were right, he was looking at something humanity had discussed, described, and occasionally cursed but never actually seen, the mouth of Hell itself. The black shadow had stopped spreading and seemed to be holding its breath. “Is that thing flat on the ground or perpendicular to it?”
“Can’t tell,” Wilkens spoke quietly, the tension in the room seeming to dull voices. “I think it’s a different dimension entirely, we’re not seeing it, we’re seeing its shadow. I don’t think it has dimensions or proportions as we understand them.”
Something stirred in the shadow and a line of figures started to appear. “Zoom in on that.” The order came from the commander of the UAV detachment that was operating the Global Hawk. The image enlarged in a series of jerks as the operator clicked up through the zoom scales. The group of figures resolved; one huge figure was surrounded by a group of others. Then, another smaller group appeared out of the shadow, followed by lines of others.
“What do you make of that?” Wilkens wanted other opinions, other eyes looking at this.
“First group, the command group. Now. We’ve got combat troops appearing.” The analyst looked quickly at the emerging lines. “They’re coming out in a parade formation. If we only had the assets within range.”
“The alerts went off to the flyboys and the squids. We’ll have jets here soon enough. And we’ve got the friends with their toy on scene.”
On the screen the figures had continued to pour out of the portal, forming up into a huge square in the desert. The UAV operator dialed his cameras in again. “OK, that formation seems to be complete. I make it 81 ranks, each of 81 baldricks. They’re subdivided into 9 groups of 9 ranks with a command section between each. I guess that gives us 6,666 down there.”
“Appropriate number. About a brigade-sized formation then? And that would make the smaller sub-divisions battalions.” There were nods around the room, it seemed fair enough, 9 ranks of 81 meant 729 demons in a battalion. This was translating raw numbers into a structure that could easily be understood – and to the people in this room, what could be understood could be destroyed. Once structure, form, and numbers were evaluated and put into context, destruction was a matter of planning. “Each line is a company with nine nine-baldrick platoons?” More nods of agreement.
“If that’s it, this is something we can cope with,” Boothe spoke as if he was trying to convince himself. He needn’t have bothered; the situation was changing even while he spoke.
“More coming out Sirs.” On the television screen, a second square was forming beside the first, the stream of black figures emerging from the Hellmouth coalescing into a second square to the right of the first. Even as it was completed, a third square started forming to the left of the first. Still, the figures poured out, new squares forming until the line had seven in all.
“Assuming the squares are all identical, there’s almost 47,000 of them down there. The baldricks aren’t playing games, are they?”
Wilkens shook his head. Even as he did so, the line of seven squares started to move forward and another wave of black figures poured out, forming into squares exactly as their predecessors had done. The command center was utterly silent as the imagery poured in from the cameras on the Global Hawk. The second line of squares was finished, moved forward and a third row started, then a fourth. By the time the figures ceased to pour out, there were eight rows in all, 56 of the black squares spread out on the Iraqi sand.
“Rows are divisions, the whole thing’s a Corps.” More nods of agreement, faced with the huge numbers assembling on the screens in front of them, naming units seemed trivial yet it was utterly important if the enemy was to be understood. “Span of command is very large. Seems to run in nines.”
“Probably personal command, we’re going to be looking at a slowly reacting army here. It’s very low-geared. Big but ponderous. Suits us just fine.” More nods around the room. The United States Army was built to fight large, ponderous opponents. It was beginning to look like it had finally found one.
“What are those?” More figures were pouring out, larger ones. The UAV operator played with his camera controls, zooming in on the new arrivals. They were baldricks still but sitting on a beast, one that looked vaguely like a rhinoceros with a great horn on its nose, but with a scorpion’s tail arched high over its back and claws like a lobster.
“I’d guess those are the cavalry. We don’t know how fast those things can move, mark them down as priority targets.”
“More coming.” The figures pouring out of the Hellmouth were flying, winged creatures, like the harpies, shot down by the squids a couple of weeks earlier but smaller. They landed and formed the last square. Seconds then minutes crept by but no more baldricks joined the awesome parade in front of the Hellmouth. The Global Hawk wasn’t equipped to pick up sound but nobody watching was in any doubt that the desert was alive with the sounds of drumming and the hammering of feet.
Hellmouth, East of Ar Rutbah, Iraqi Desert
Unnoticed in the noise and confusion, a small, winged structure danced in the dust and glare. It was an odd little thing by anybody’s standards, a lumpy fuselage with two longish wings, a tripod tail unit and a propeller was at the rear. Its name was an MQ-1B Predator.
The Predator didn’t have markings which were hardly surprising, its operators, far back at Task Force Iron’s command center weren’t from the U.S. armed forces, they were Central Intelligence Agency. For almost five years, the CIA had been operating a clandestine force of Predators, using them for covert assassinations of terrorist leaders and others considered undesirable. That role had abruptly ended with The Message, those who had taken the “submissionto the will” bit seriously had died, and the rest had thrown their lot in with the rest of humanity. Now, the U.S. Army and CIA had the strange but not unfamiliar experience of working with people who only a few days before had been their blood enemies.
The change had meant the Predators had a new job, one which was of vital importance. It was essential to find out if human weapons and human technology could be sent into Hell and returned. More importantly, were those weapons as destructive there as they were proving on Earth. If the answer was yes, then humanity had a means of striking back at its foe, if not, then they would forever be condemned to an ultimately futile defense. The Predators were the vanguard of this exploration, the information they gained within the next few minutes would mark the start of the investigation. It was, quite literally, reconnaissance by fire. Its orders received, the MQ-1B obediently turned around and headed for the shadowy ellipse that marked the Hellmouth.
Headquarters, 1st Armored Division, Task Force Iron, Multi-National Force Iraq
Back in the command center, the CIA operative held his breath as the little drone approached the disk and became swallowed in it. Then, the whole section erupted into wild cheers for, on the monitor screen, images had emerged. Pictures of a vast plain, the bare rock under a swirling red-orange sky, dust clouds sweeping backward and forwards over the desolate scene. The image brightened and sharpened as the computer-controlled adaptive optics compensated for the wildly unfamiliar light levels and spectra, but the images were there.
The operator manipulated his controls, getting the vision head on the electro-optical pod to pivot around. The pictures swirled, grotesque and unfamiliar but still vaguely recognizable. The imagery was coming back, which had enormous consequences.
“Tell Washington, and everybody else, Phase One is complete. We got the bird in and we’re getting data out. There is something on the other side of that gate and we can get at it.” The agent’s voice broke into a chuckle. “No huge letters of fire yet, now we’ll try and change all that.”
He played with the optical head again, looking for something important. He found it, at least it seemed important. Some sort of review stands at a far part of the field. The Predator was closing in on it, the trouble seemed to be that it was hard to judge ranges in the red-clouded murk. A quick flash with the laser rangefinder built into the Predator told him what he needed to know. The target was four thousand yards away, easily within range of the two Hellfire missiles hanging under the Predator’s wings. He locked their homing heads onto the stand and fired them both.
Martial Field of Dysprosium, Hell.
The parade was over, the Army of Abigor had departed into the lower dimension, and the guests who had watched it leave were making their way off the stand. It had been quite an unusual sight, never had such a force been sent to a lower dimensionto enforce the will of those above it. Defiance was unprecedented, such a display had never been required. Now, with the mighty force appearing before them, they would be regretting their failure to submit. The demons who had watched the army leave never saw the two missiles streaking through the red murk towards them, or, if they did, they never realized the significance of what they were seeing.
The explosions destroyed the stand totally, sending fragments of wood and stone flying, ripping into the hides of all around them. Blast seared their skin, flaying flesh from bones, shattering limbs, tearing at bodies. What had just a demonic second before been a decorated review stand was now a pile of shattered wreckage, splattered with the green, yellow, black, red, and white body fluids of those who had been standing on it. Those outside the blast area looked on appalled at the catastrophe that had suddenly enveloped the senior guests. The more astute of them started running towards the disaster, hoping to gain status and rewards by being the first to aid the stricken. Above the chaos, still unnoticed by those below, the Predator turned around and flew back towards the Hellmouth.
Headquarters, 1st Armored Division, Task Force Iron, Multi-National Force Iraq
“Phase Two complete! Two solid hits, it’s chaos down there. Wherever it is, whatever it is, our weapons work there. Look at that people, boy have we just kicked an anthill over.” The CIA Agent’s voice was triumphant, the camera on the Predator was showing a boiling mass of confusion about where the target had been. He had no idea of who or what he had just killed if indeed he had killed them, but there was no doubt of the destruction. The reviewing stand had gone, its position marked by a pyre of smoke and flame. There was just one thing to check and that was coming up soon. The Predator approached the Hellmouth and flew through it. It took a second for the optics to readjust but when they did, they showed the blue sky and yellow sand of the Iraqi Desert.
“Phase Three is complete. UAV recovered.”
“Confirmed, we have a radar paint.” The transponder in the Predator marked the position of the drone as it set off on its long flight back to base. It had done its job better than anybody could have hoped and certainly far better than its manufacturers could have ever contemplated.
The Oval Office, The White House, Washington D.C.
“My fellow Americans.” President Bush paused, then shook his head. “No, my fellow humans, for today we all stand shoulder to shoulder against a threat that promised to engulf us all. Truly, in these desperate days, if we do not hang together, we will all hang separately. Today, there are no Americans, no Russians, no Japanese or Chinese, or Australians. We are all humans together and it is to each other that we must look for our survival. We cannot hope for aid or help from others, we stand alone with only each other and the tools of our joint ingenuity to protect us.
“We have learned, beyond any shadow of a doubt that Hell and Heaven both exist but that the doors to the latter are closed to us. If we lose the fight in which we are now engaged, the entire human race faces only a screaming eternity. Hell, and Heaven both have, by both word and deed, declared their undying hatred of Mankind united, and as such we return it tenfold. As of this day, we find ourselves embroiled in a war, the war, Armageddon as it was never once dreamed in the worst nightmares of our forefathers, a war not between Heaven and Hell for our own salvation, but between Heaven and Hell and Humanity, a war we must win completely and utterly if we desire the slightest chance of sparing untold generations of future men and women a literal eternity of suffering. We claimed to be fighting in a 'War on Terror', now we find ourselves allied with our former enemies, they are our brothers in a wider struggle, against all of those who would condemn humanity to an eternity of suffering.
“Once, mere weeks ago, I would have prayed to God to have mercy on our souls. Now I, and all others on this Earth, know better; the being many of us once worshipped as a God has stated in no uncertain terms that there will be no mercy on our souls. To that 'God,' to Lucifer, to all the angels and devils massing to rend and destroy the hope of Humanity's future, I respond: You who would show us no mercy shall receive none in return, for the sons and daughters of Adam and Eve do not suffer betrayal!
“Today we struck our first blow at our oppressors. Acting on national intelligence information received from reliable informants, a Predator aircraft operated by an intelligence organization struck at a major enemy leadership figure. It is believed the attack was successful and the target was killed. This is the first in a series of targeted assassinations aimed specifically at the enemy leadership. There will be more. They will not know where the blows will come from or when they will strike but there will be more.
“In the war, we are about to fight, we will take casualties, probably more than at any time in our history. But in this war, our fight does not end with death. I charge those who fall to spread the word in hell. Humanity is coming. We will not stop, we will not cease, we will not fail. To all those in hell we say, hold fast, we are coming. No matter what it costs, no matter what the sacrifices we must make, no matter how long it takes, no matter who we trample on the way, we are coming for you. You will be freed; your souls will be liberated from torment. You will be saved, not by prayer or submissionto the will of some self-proclaimed deity but by the force of our arms. No human will be left behind. I will say that again so there is no misunderstanding. Myths speak of rapture in which many will be ‘left behind’. This may be their way, but it is not ours. We serve notice. No human will be left in the clutches of those who would hold us in bondage for all eternity. On that promise may our enemies rest in an uneasy and frightened sleep.
Thank you, and good night.”
Martial Field of Dysprosium, Hell.
His troops were formed up on the field, awaiting his inspection. 60 legions, each with 6,666 demons, a total force of over 400,000 demons if Abigor’s own command staff were included. By far the largest force that Hell had ever sent to another world, yet it was only a tiny fraction of the army that Hell could deploy if it wished. There were 6,666 legions in hell, a total of 44,500,000 demons under arms, a mighty host that had never in its history been deployed against a single foe. There had never been a single foe whose ability had demanded that level of force. Always, those lower down the scale of existence had cowered in fear when the demons had arrived, genuflecting at the appearance of the creatures from a greater dimension. Mostly, the armies of Hell had never been needed, the Heralds had been terrifying enough to put their victims into a state of catatonic terror.
Only, not this time. This time the creatures from the lower dimensions had the temerity to fight back, even more than that, they had killed the Heralds. That had disturbed Abigor more than he let on. If the Heralds could be killed, what did that mean for the demons in his ranks? The Heralds were deliberately created to be awe-inspiring, and terrifying by virtue of their size and apparent invulnerability, yet the humans below had fought back and killed them. Individually, the demons in the ranks of his legions were much less formidable than the great Heralds. They were formidable enough, that was true, their tough hides were impervious to arrows and the blows of swords yet would that be enough? What did the humans have that could kill so effectively?
There was another point that worried Abigor. The Heralds had been killed, what had happened to them? The rulers of Hell knew what happened to those on the lower dimensions, their creation and life built up a form of energy that, when they died, boosted them over the threshold and translated them to the next level of dimension. Unfortunately for them, the energy needed to surge the occupants of this reality level was much greater. That’s why Hell existed, the second deaths of the unfortunates from realities below were prolonged as much as possible, by millennia or longer, nobody knew the limit yet so that the energy released by their suffering would boost the rulers of Hell up to their afterlife. The creatures from below suffered in their afterlife to provide the creatures of this level with theirs. But suppose the beings who lived in the reality above this one adopted the same philosophy. Was there a super-Hell that awaited Abigor and his kind?
The infantry in his legions was crashing the butts of their tridents against the ground as Abigor rode past on his beast. 56 of his 60 legions were his infantry, Abigor’s host was one of the less mobile of its kind, he had only three mounted legions and one flying legion. The information he had was that the humans lived mostly in cities, which meant the war would be one of sieges, the cities fighting from behind their defensive walls in a series of last stands. That would put a premium on his infantry, his mounted and flying legions would only be of use in isolating each city before the infantry besieged and destroyed it. It had been done before, Abigor knew that human myths were full of stories of cities that had been besieged by hordes of monstrous, inhuman foes. Now they would find out where those myths had come from.
The horns sounded, their wailing drowning out the crashing cadence of the trident staffs. The legions did a right-face, towards a black dot that had suddenly appeared against the roiling red smoke of the sky. The dot expanded, opening a gate into the lower dimension that had dared to defy the will of higher beings. This was the critical stage, the energy gradient ran steeply from the lower dimensions to the higher, it was relatively easy for the higher dimensional beings to gain access to the lower, much harder for the lower dimensions to ascend. Only opening a portal could ensure easy access between the dimensions. Yet that same energy gradient meant that once a portal between the levels was opened, it would be very hard to close. Size also was a factor, and this was the largest portal that had ever been created. Just how hard would it be to close again? Abigor had an uneasy feeling that nobody had thought to ask that question.
The portal reached its full extent and the horns wailed again. Abigor lead his host forward, into the black circle of the portal and from it into the brilliant yellow light and the clear blue skies of Earth.
Headquarters, 1st Armored Division, Task Force Iron, Multi-National Force Iraq
“Have we got the Global Hawk Feed set up?” Major General Wilkens snapped the order out. The situation was breaking loose at last, and he didn’t want to fall behind the loop.
“Sir, yes Sir. Direct feed to us, to Washington, and to Moscow.” The latter part was new, one of the hurried preparations that had been made over the last two weeks. There had been a frantic effort to link up the world’s military headquarters so that the fight if it started when it started, would be properly coordinated. Task Force Iron also had a direct download from Russian satellites and other recon capabilities, but it was the RQ-4B Global Hawks that were the key asset. Nobody knew where the attack would come, on paper, it could be anywhere, but Iraq had been a leading bet. The association of old legends and the fertile triangle of the Tigris-Euphrates was too powerful to ignore.
High above the desert, the Global Hawk turned lazily, its long wings biting at the thin air. Its stabilized cameras focused on a strange sight in the desert of Western Iraq, a black oval that had suddenly appeared in the stony wastes, one that spread even though it had no apparent substance. It wasn’t even a shadow; it was more of an absence of anything. The cameras zoomed in on the strange spreading stain that still grew beneath it.
“Well, that looks like it.” Brigadier General Boothe looked at the image with horrified fascination. If the guesses were right, he was looking at something humanity had discussed, described, and occasionally cursed but never actually seen, the mouth of Hell itself. The black shadow had stopped spreading and seemed to be holding its breath. “Is that thing flat on the ground or perpendicular to it?”
“Can’t tell,” Wilkens spoke quietly, the tension in the room seeming to dull voices. “I think it’s a different dimension entirely, we’re not seeing it, we’re seeing its shadow. I don’t think it has dimensions or proportions as we understand them.”
Something stirred in the shadow and a line of figures started to appear. “Zoom in on that.” The order came from the commander of the UAV detachment that was operating the Global Hawk. The image enlarged in a series of jerks as the operator clicked up through the zoom scales. The group of figures resolved; one huge figure was surrounded by a group of others. Then, another smaller group appeared out of the shadow, followed by lines of others.
“What do you make of that?” Wilkens wanted other opinions, other eyes looking at this.
“First group, the command group. Now. We’ve got combat troops appearing.” The analyst looked quickly at the emerging lines. “They’re coming out in a parade formation. If we only had the assets within range.”
“The alerts went off to the flyboys and the squids. We’ll have jets here soon enough. And we’ve got the friends with their toy on scene.”
On the screen the figures had continued to pour out of the portal, forming up into a huge square in the desert. The UAV operator dialed his cameras in again. “OK, that formation seems to be complete. I make it 81 ranks, each of 81 baldricks. They’re subdivided into 9 groups of 9 ranks with a command section between each. I guess that gives us 6,666 down there.”
“Appropriate number. About a brigade-sized formation then? And that would make the smaller sub-divisions battalions.” There were nods around the room, it seemed fair enough, 9 ranks of 81 meant 729 demons in a battalion. This was translating raw numbers into a structure that could easily be understood – and to the people in this room, what could be understood could be destroyed. Once structure, form, and numbers were evaluated and put into context, destruction was a matter of planning. “Each line is a company with nine nine-baldrick platoons?” More nods of agreement.
“If that’s it, this is something we can cope with,” Boothe spoke as if he was trying to convince himself. He needn’t have bothered; the situation was changing even while he spoke.
“More coming out Sirs.” On the television screen, a second square was forming beside the first, the stream of black figures emerging from the Hellmouth coalescing into a second square to the right of the first. Even as it was completed, a third square started forming to the left of the first. Still, the figures poured out, new squares forming until the line had seven in all.
“Assuming the squares are all identical, there’s almost 47,000 of them down there. The baldricks aren’t playing games, are they?”
Wilkens shook his head. Even as he did so, the line of seven squares started to move forward and another wave of black figures poured out, forming into squares exactly as their predecessors had done. The command center was utterly silent as the imagery poured in from the cameras on the Global Hawk. The second line of squares was finished, moved forward and a third row started, then a fourth. By the time the figures ceased to pour out, there were eight rows in all, 56 of the black squares spread out on the Iraqi sand.
“Rows are divisions, the whole thing’s a Corps.” More nods of agreement, faced with the huge numbers assembling on the screens in front of them, naming units seemed trivial yet it was utterly important if the enemy was to be understood. “Span of command is very large. Seems to run in nines.”
“Probably personal command, we’re going to be looking at a slowly reacting army here. It’s very low-geared. Big but ponderous. Suits us just fine.” More nods around the room. The United States Army was built to fight large, ponderous opponents. It was beginning to look like it had finally found one.
“What are those?” More figures were pouring out, larger ones. The UAV operator played with his camera controls, zooming in on the new arrivals. They were baldricks still but sitting on a beast, one that looked vaguely like a rhinoceros with a great horn on its nose, but with a scorpion’s tail arched high over its back and claws like a lobster.
“I’d guess those are the cavalry. We don’t know how fast those things can move, mark them down as priority targets.”
“More coming.” The figures pouring out of the Hellmouth were flying, winged creatures, like the harpies, shot down by the squids a couple of weeks earlier but smaller. They landed and formed the last square. Seconds then minutes crept by but no more baldricks joined the awesome parade in front of the Hellmouth. The Global Hawk wasn’t equipped to pick up sound but nobody watching was in any doubt that the desert was alive with the sounds of drumming and the hammering of feet.
Hellmouth, East of Ar Rutbah, Iraqi Desert
Unnoticed in the noise and confusion, a small, winged structure danced in the dust and glare. It was an odd little thing by anybody’s standards, a lumpy fuselage with two longish wings, a tripod tail unit and a propeller was at the rear. Its name was an MQ-1B Predator.
The Predator didn’t have markings which were hardly surprising, its operators, far back at Task Force Iron’s command center weren’t from the U.S. armed forces, they were Central Intelligence Agency. For almost five years, the CIA had been operating a clandestine force of Predators, using them for covert assassinations of terrorist leaders and others considered undesirable. That role had abruptly ended with The Message, those who had taken the “submissionto the will” bit seriously had died, and the rest had thrown their lot in with the rest of humanity. Now, the U.S. Army and CIA had the strange but not unfamiliar experience of working with people who only a few days before had been their blood enemies.
The change had meant the Predators had a new job, one which was of vital importance. It was essential to find out if human weapons and human technology could be sent into Hell and returned. More importantly, were those weapons as destructive there as they were proving on Earth. If the answer was yes, then humanity had a means of striking back at its foe, if not, then they would forever be condemned to an ultimately futile defense. The Predators were the vanguard of this exploration, the information they gained within the next few minutes would mark the start of the investigation. It was, quite literally, reconnaissance by fire. Its orders received, the MQ-1B obediently turned around and headed for the shadowy ellipse that marked the Hellmouth.
Headquarters, 1st Armored Division, Task Force Iron, Multi-National Force Iraq
Back in the command center, the CIA operative held his breath as the little drone approached the disk and became swallowed in it. Then, the whole section erupted into wild cheers for, on the monitor screen, images had emerged. Pictures of a vast plain, the bare rock under a swirling red-orange sky, dust clouds sweeping backward and forwards over the desolate scene. The image brightened and sharpened as the computer-controlled adaptive optics compensated for the wildly unfamiliar light levels and spectra, but the images were there.
The operator manipulated his controls, getting the vision head on the electro-optical pod to pivot around. The pictures swirled, grotesque and unfamiliar but still vaguely recognizable. The imagery was coming back, which had enormous consequences.
“Tell Washington, and everybody else, Phase One is complete. We got the bird in and we’re getting data out. There is something on the other side of that gate and we can get at it.” The agent’s voice broke into a chuckle. “No huge letters of fire yet, now we’ll try and change all that.”
He played with the optical head again, looking for something important. He found it, at least it seemed important. Some sort of review stands at a far part of the field. The Predator was closing in on it, the trouble seemed to be that it was hard to judge ranges in the red-clouded murk. A quick flash with the laser rangefinder built into the Predator told him what he needed to know. The target was four thousand yards away, easily within range of the two Hellfire missiles hanging under the Predator’s wings. He locked their homing heads onto the stand and fired them both.
Martial Field of Dysprosium, Hell.
The parade was over, the Army of Abigor had departed into the lower dimension, and the guests who had watched it leave were making their way off the stand. It had been quite an unusual sight, never had such a force been sent to a lower dimensionto enforce the will of those above it. Defiance was unprecedented, such a display had never been required. Now, with the mighty force appearing before them, they would be regretting their failure to submit. The demons who had watched the army leave never saw the two missiles streaking through the red murk towards them, or, if they did, they never realized the significance of what they were seeing.
The explosions destroyed the stand totally, sending fragments of wood and stone flying, ripping into the hides of all around them. Blast seared their skin, flaying flesh from bones, shattering limbs, tearing at bodies. What had just a demonic second before been a decorated review stand was now a pile of shattered wreckage, splattered with the green, yellow, black, red, and white body fluids of those who had been standing on it. Those outside the blast area looked on appalled at the catastrophe that had suddenly enveloped the senior guests. The more astute of them started running towards the disaster, hoping to gain status and rewards by being the first to aid the stricken. Above the chaos, still unnoticed by those below, the Predator turned around and flew back towards the Hellmouth.
Headquarters, 1st Armored Division, Task Force Iron, Multi-National Force Iraq
“Phase Two complete! Two solid hits, it’s chaos down there. Wherever it is, whatever it is, our weapons work there. Look at that people, boy have we just kicked an anthill over.” The CIA Agent’s voice was triumphant, the camera on the Predator was showing a boiling mass of confusion about where the target had been. He had no idea of who or what he had just killed if indeed he had killed them, but there was no doubt of the destruction. The reviewing stand had gone, its position marked by a pyre of smoke and flame. There was just one thing to check and that was coming up soon. The Predator approached the Hellmouth and flew through it. It took a second for the optics to readjust but when they did, they showed the blue sky and yellow sand of the Iraqi Desert.
“Phase Three is complete. UAV recovered.”
“Confirmed, we have a radar paint.” The transponder in the Predator marked the position of the drone as it set off on its long flight back to base. It had done its job better than anybody could have hoped and certainly far better than its manufacturers could have ever contemplated.
The Oval Office, The White House, Washington D.C.
“My fellow Americans.” President Bush paused, then shook his head. “No, my fellow humans, for today we all stand shoulder to shoulder against a threat that promised to engulf us all. Truly, in these desperate days, if we do not hang together, we will all hang separately. Today, there are no Americans, no Russians, no Japanese or Chinese, or Australians. We are all humans together and it is to each other that we must look for our survival. We cannot hope for aid or help from others, we stand alone with only each other and the tools of our joint ingenuity to protect us.
“We have learned, beyond any shadow of a doubt that Hell and Heaven both exist but that the doors to the latter are closed to us. If we lose the fight in which we are now engaged, the entire human race faces only a screaming eternity. Hell, and Heaven both have, by both word and deed, declared their undying hatred of Mankind united, and as such we return it tenfold. As of this day, we find ourselves embroiled in a war, the war, Armageddon as it was never once dreamed in the worst nightmares of our forefathers, a war not between Heaven and Hell for our own salvation, but between Heaven and Hell and Humanity, a war we must win completely and utterly if we desire the slightest chance of sparing untold generations of future men and women a literal eternity of suffering. We claimed to be fighting in a 'War on Terror', now we find ourselves allied with our former enemies, they are our brothers in a wider struggle, against all of those who would condemn humanity to an eternity of suffering.
“Once, mere weeks ago, I would have prayed to God to have mercy on our souls. Now I, and all others on this Earth, know better; the being many of us once worshipped as a God has stated in no uncertain terms that there will be no mercy on our souls. To that 'God,' to Lucifer, to all the angels and devils massing to rend and destroy the hope of Humanity's future, I respond: You who would show us no mercy shall receive none in return, for the sons and daughters of Adam and Eve do not suffer betrayal!
“Today we struck our first blow at our oppressors. Acting on national intelligence information received from reliable informants, a Predator aircraft operated by an intelligence organization struck at a major enemy leadership figure. It is believed the attack was successful and the target was killed. This is the first in a series of targeted assassinations aimed specifically at the enemy leadership. There will be more. They will not know where the blows will come from or when they will strike but there will be more.
“In the war, we are about to fight, we will take casualties, probably more than at any time in our history. But in this war, our fight does not end with death. I charge those who fall to spread the word in hell. Humanity is coming. We will not stop, we will not cease, we will not fail. To all those in hell we say, hold fast, we are coming. No matter what it costs, no matter what the sacrifices we must make, no matter how long it takes, no matter who we trample on the way, we are coming for you. You will be freed; your souls will be liberated from torment. You will be saved, not by prayer or submissionto the will of some self-proclaimed deity but by the force of our arms. No human will be left behind. I will say that again so there is no misunderstanding. Myths speak of rapture in which many will be ‘left behind’. This may be their way, but it is not ours. We serve notice. No human will be left in the clutches of those who would hold us in bondage for all eternity. On that promise may our enemies rest in an uneasy and frightened sleep.
Thank you, and good night.”
Re: 2008 - Armageddon
Chapter Six
Throne Room Infernal Palace of Dis, Hell.
“And exactly how did they spontaneously explode?” Satan’s voice had a silky, oily quality to it that was far more unnerving than any of his berserk rages.
“We don’t know Sire. We found bits of metal in the wreckage, so we think it was one of the human machines, but we don’t understand it.”
“A machine? A human-machine you say? They invaded my territory and killed four of my subjects with a machine?” The silky, oily quality was fading, replaced by the hysterical screams of rage. The audience found that immensely reassuring, it was business as usual. The unnatural calm had been horrifying from its unprecedented nature. A raving, screaming temper tantrum was much more familiar. “And nobody saw it?”
“None Sire. Although we do have a message that was transmitted by one of their warlords. It refers to a Predator aircraft.”
“And just what is a Predator?” Satan was struggling to keep his temper under control.
“A hunting bird.” The voice came from a tiny minor demon on the floor. Satan glanced sideways, and his glance mashed the speaker into a purple pulp that drained away through the stone floor.
“Does anybody else want to state the obvious?” There was a sudden shuffling of cloven feet and demons glancing sideways at each other. The more astute of them were already trying to work out the best place to take cover when their infernal overlord decided it would be necessary to stage a massacre.
“There is another problem with that message,” Asmodeus spoke carefully. “The warlord spoke of ‘major enemy leadership figure’, we assume that means an important person here. Yet there was nobody on that stand of any importance, a few relatives of Abigor, that is all. None in the leadership and none of any importance. We do not understand this.”
“Perhaps I can explain.” Beelzebub was also speaking carefully. “The warlord also spoke of ‘information received from reliable informants. There can be only one explanation for that comment. There are those of your Infernal Majesty’s subjects who are in contact with the humans and are passing informationto them.”
A horrified gasp went around the hall. The whole concept was a nightmare to contemplate yet was also eerily plausible. Who here had not sold information on an ally to an enemy to bring about a tactical advantage?
“But Sire.” Asmodeus was appalled, his voice terrified at even speaking of this idea. “Nobody important was killed.”
“Nobody important perhaps,” Beelzebub spoke almost as smoothly and calmly as Satan had done. “Not in our terms perhaps. But the traitor – or traitors – who sold the informationto the humans may have been using them to settle a private score of his or her own. Who knows where treason might end?”
Even Satan was silenced by that thought. The hall was still, silent as the occupants absorbed the implications of what Beelzebub had said. Then, the glances that they were exchanging underwent a slow change from apprehension at what Satan might do next to suspicion at what their neighbors might be saying to these upstart humans. No matter how intense those suspicious glances became, they couldn’t match the ones Satan was casting at them.
Room 352A, Arkham Asylum, New York City, NY
The voices had been haunting Julie since her sophomore year of high school. Every time she'd tried to tell them to go away, they simply laughed at her. And when she denied they were real, they'd whisper to her, caressing her mind like an unwanted lover, telling her secrets – what was happening far away, what others were thinking about her, telling her things that were never wrong.
And they were always right, always there, always just out of her senses, dripping across her mind like black grease. Even after she'd tried to kill herself – it hadn't worked; they'd told her that it was pointless, that someone was at the door just as she'd watched the bloodstream from her wrists with morbid fascination – even after the suicide attempt, when her family had tearfully waved her goodbye, and she'd gone to Arkham for treatment (which hadn't worked) and incarceration, they were telling her things, what was happening outside. The conquest was on, they'd said. The infernal deal that had haunted her nightmares since she was five, that had haunted every waking moment since the voices had first come, was sealed and complete. Heaven's gates were closed and locked, the whole of humanity damned without hope of rescue or reprieve.
Her cell was locked, as always. The white walls were padded, and she was sitting on her cot in the corner murmuring to herself when one of the voices – Domiklespharatu, it called itself – whispered, "Look to the door!" She did; the lock on the door clicked and lifted. "They're coming to get you ... coming to take you away ... to experiment on you ... to rape and torture and mutilate and humiliate you."
The voices were never wrong. She hurled herself back into the corner, away from the strange people filing into the room. Then there was Dr. Becky, her presence a welcome familiarity that was dispelled by the presence of others, more people in uniforms and more in white lab coats. Domiklespharatu laughed. “Look at you, pitiful little girl.” The floor reared up, and she stumbled backward into the walls.
Dr. Becky Skillman had worked at Arkham for fifteen years, and in all that time she’d never been visited by the government. Two men in suits, with dark sunglasses, guns, and no sense of humor had knocked on her office door, shown her a pair of bright and very impressive badges, and asked her for a list of the patients at Arkham for whom treatment had done absolutely no good. Especially the ones who heard voices.
She wasn’t one to deny the government a request, especially not in this day and age, with the Message, a quarter of the Arkham staff were gone, and the strange reports filing through the news were unsettling. There was fighting, of some sort, the sort that reminded her of the nightmarish hallucinations of her patients. The men had been from the Secret Service, and they’d thanked her cordially, gone, and then a half-hour later was back with an entire platoon of men in fatigues with rifles, asking to be taken to Room 352A on the third floor.
Julie Adams had been at the top of the list, and they’d decided to take her first. Before Skillman had a chance to ask any questions, they’d waved a piece of paper – subpoena or something like that – in her face and were demanding the case files.
Adams was an untreatable schizophrenic and had only gotten worse through the eight years she’d been in Arkham. No treatment had worked – and they’d tried them all, from the newest drugs to some of the oldest tricks in the books, the sort that the staff all mutually agreed to keep quiet because people who didn’t work at psychiatric hospitals just didn’t understand. And now the government wanted to take her away?
Skillman shrugged. Eh – not her place to question or worry. As they filed into the pure white cell, Adams was scrabbling against the back wall, face conto rted in fear, the greasy tangles of her long, black hair swabbing the wall. “No! NO! I’m not gonna let you take me!”
The soldiers impassively moved forward, seemingly deaf to the woman’s harsh, pathetic screams. Reaching down, two deftly warded off her slaps and kicks and lifted her by the shoulders so that she hung between them like a rag doll. Brushing past Skillman, they filed back out of the room, Adams’ screams echoing down the corridor. The two men in black thanked her, and walked out, leaving her standing in the silent room, listening to the sick woman being dragged down the hall.
Temporary Headquarters, Randi Institute of Pneumatology, The Pentagon, Arlington, VA
James Randi sighed and rolled his eyes. While the search teams were scouring the nation’s medical facilities for the insane who might not be insane after all, the fakes and charlatans had continued to pour into the Institute in unimaginable numbers. The publicity combined with the persuasive talents of the US Secret Service and the FBI had achieved results that even his million-dollar prize had failed to attain. Privately, Randi kicked himself, he should have involved the Secret Service earlier. They’d even brought John Edwards and Sylvia Browne in, over those two unworthy angered protests. It had taken only a few minutes of testing to discredit that pair of mountebanks, after which they’d been unceremoniously ejected from the building. As Agent Stella Carter had remarked ‘Hey, guess what. Sylvia didn’t bounce.’
Up to now, that had been par for the course. There were still the palm-readers and card players who waited in the antechamber for their turn, all dressed up in beads and eyeliner and all sorts of clothes that looked mysterious in smoky, underlit rooms but just appeared absurd under fluorescent business lights. They were the routine dross that had to be inspected, just in case. Even so, there was hope for the plea for any real psychics or necromancers to come forward had brought in five or six possible hits – all quiet, shy people who worked ordinary jobs and lived ordinary lives.
He was just about to call the next person in when his cell phone rang. He checked it; it was a 555-1000 number. He answered. “Randi here.” After a moment, he nodded and said, “Will do. Please bring her in.”
At last. Randi sighed the words to himself. Ever since his discussion with that charming Thai General, he’d been waiting for the first of the medical subjects to arrive. Then, he squared his shoulders and opened the door to the antechamber and just stood there, looking out toward the outside door. It opened, and eight national guardsmen marched in, wearing full combat fatigues. Two of them were carrying what appeared to be a heavily sedated woman, her glassy eyes half-open and a bit of drool trailing down her cheeks. Behind them were three men in lab coats, looking like stereotypical doctors. As they reached where Randi stood, one of the men in lab coats strode forward past the soldiers and offered his hand. Randi shook it, and the man said, “James Randi? Dr. Ed Bullmore, psychiatry and neurology at Cambridge. Pleased to meet you.”
“The pleasure’s mine, Dr. Bullmore. What do we have here?”
Bullmore spoke with a pleasant British accent. “Untreatable schizophrenia patient from New York. Name Julie Adams. Onset at age sixteen. Reported ability to read minds.” He looked meaningfully at one of the soldiers, who spoke up, sounding shaken. “On the way over here, she told me about my daughter who drowned. No way she could have known about that – she was locked up for years before Kelsie was born.”
Randi thought for a moment. “Bring her in.” Briskly, the white-bearded man walked back through the door. He glanced over at his secretary. “Jane, please request brain imaging at the nearest hospital ASAP. Play the DoD card if you must.
Neuroimaging Center, Arlington Hospital, Arlington, VA
Julie Adams woke up in a little tube of metal, found herself immobilized, and felt a little whisper in the edge of her mind. “See? I told you soooo!” Then she slipped back into unconsciousness.
When she next woke up, she was sitting in a chair, leather straps holding her wrists to the chair arms. Sitting across the table from her was a grandfatherly-looking man, bald but with an enormous white beard. A voice danced across her vision, and she said, “James Randi?” The man raised one eyebrow, dropped it, and continued to regard her over clasped hands. She struggled with the bonds.
“They told me you’d do this to me! They told me!”
He spoke, his voice, calming and authoritative. “Who told you?”
She’d never been asked that before. Before, they’d always assumed the voices weren’t real, that she was crazy. She wasn’t crazy; she just heard voices. “They did.” A warning buzzed across the back of her mind – “Don’t trust him. He’s going to rape you.”
The man smiled. “Have they ever told you who they are?”
These questions were completely foreign to her. “Uh … I … no …”
His eyes twinkled through his spectacles. “Well, Julie, we want to help you. We know they’ve hurt you. We’re going to hurt them back, and we’d like your help.”
It was tempting. She’d always thought of them as enemies, even when they were telling her the truth. But they’d been enemies of her enemies, and so they had been her friends. But now, this man was offering his help to her … “DON’T LISTEN TO THEM!” screamed a voice, and spots erupted behind her eyes as Randi morphed, grew – black scales erupted on his face, horns growing from his bald head, his glasses falling to the desk, shattering; furred bat wings unfurled, spread, brushed the walls and ceiling, looming over her. And now a smell like rotten eggs was strengthening; the room was darkening, and she could hear faint screams in the distance, like a chorus of damned souls.
She was dimly aware of her own screaming, of the stabs of pain spiking through her; the thing across the desk was prodding her with a pitchfork, leering at her. It stepped backward and lustily licked its lips, grabbing a giant organ from between its legs and –
The hellish scene shimmered and faded suddenly, and the previous scene returned with the bald, grandfatherly man looking concernedly down at her and two men with chiseled faces hovering right above her. One of the men said, “Hold still, sister. You’re almost safe.” There was a prick in her arm, and then she was happy, floating free down toward blessed oblivion.
Randi straightened up and looked over toward the door. The psychiatrists and a lab technician were filing through the door. “Did you guys get it?”
“Yes James, we did,” said Bullman. “Before we hashed the room with electronic white noise, the electronic surveillance system we had set up caught a faint signal. It was a miracle we picked it up at all, it was right on the edge of the spectrum covered by the ESM, but it was there, and we’ve recorded it. It has some strange properties, and we’re sending the records to the physicists next door. They’ll digitize it, feed it into our threat libraries and we’ll be able to monitor for it. Also, if we can feed the waveform into the computers controlling our own emitter systems, we should be able to transmit ourselves.
“Much more importantly, we’ve already figured out how to keep her, and others like her, safe and sound from any further interference.”
Randi cocked his head curiously. “And what’s that?”
“Well, James, the signal in question isn’t that much different from an electromagnetic pulse, you know that thing the scare stories have claimed would wipe out electronics worldwide. We’ve known how to defend against that for decades and the power levels are much lower here. So, building on that experience.” Bullman grinned and pulled a shiny contraption from his lab coat. “A hat made of aluminum foil.”
Recon Team Tango One-Five, Wadi Haran, Western Iraq.
“Control, we have baldricks, column advancing along the Pipeline Route. Estimated battalion force with company-level harpy cover.”
“Very good. Engage and harass.”
Lieutenant Jade “Broomstick” Kim acknowledged, then transferred her attention back to the mast-mounted sight on her AH-6J helicopter. A deft touch on the controls and the aircraft rose slightly so that the ball of the sight just peaked over the ridge. The picture hadn’t changed much, even though the column was mounted on the rhinolobsters, they were moving slowly. Well, slowly by United States Army standards, Broomstick guessed that by medieval standards they were fairly galloping along. That was excruciatingly slow when compared with the way the First Armored Division was moving up.
A long rectangle of rhinolobsters, each with its rider and a small group out in front. They’d must be the command group. The primary subject of interest, the cream of the crop in this target-rich environment. Eliminate the command structure first, leaving the combat elements floundering around without orders. It was a process the United States Army called ‘shaping the battlefield’. “Tango Leader to all Tango birds. Select Hellfire missiles, target the command group in front, ripple fire both missiles.”
Spaced out down the wadi, the three Little Birds gunned their engines slightly and lifted still further. The column ahead was oblivious to their existence, even when the laser target designators locked into place. On her display, Broomstick could even see the designated targets starting to shift and scratch as the lasers irritated their skins. Then, a gentle squeeze on the firing button and the first of the Hellfires streaked off across the desert. Off to her left, a split second later, Tango-one-five-Bravo fired its first missile with Tango-one-five-Charlie following an instant after that. Broomstick had already selected her next target when she fired her second missile, as soon as she saw the explosion from the first hit, she swung the laser to her selected victim and watched the Hellfire missile obediently switch targets. The explosions four thousand yards away seemed an almost continuous rolling thunder as the six missiles devastated the command group.
“All Tango-One-Five elements, jobs done, let’s get out of here.”
“We got a problem ell-tee.”
Broomstick looked across at the burning patch of desert where the baldrick command group had been. Above it the harpies were heading for the position of her three little birds, coming in very, very fast.
“Bug out, everybody bug out now. Max speed.” She rammed the throttles forward, swinging her helicopter into its high-speed position, trying to get away from the cloud of harpies that was closing on her.
“No good ell-tee. They’re faster than us.”
Broomstick didn’t acknowledge, she didn’t must. The AH-6 could do about 180 miles per hour flat out and the harpies were closing the range. She pulled back and swung the nose around, flipping her armament selector switch to the pair of Stingers mounted on the side of her cockpit. The annunciator’s tone was mixed, even in the cold of a desert night, they were having difficulty locking on. It was no good, whatever lock they had would must do. She fired into the mass of harpies, watching as one missile went through the formation without exploding, the other struck home and she saw a harpy briefly outlined in fire as the Stinger tore into it. There was another flare as well, but Broomstick had no time to congratulate herself or anybody else. She was turning away, diving, obeying the old rule, no matter how little height you have, trade height for speed. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw that Tango-one-five-Charlie had left it too late. The Little Bird was engulfed in jets of fire from the harpies, its fuel tanks exploded, and the flaming wreckage fell out of the sky to earth.
She was back in the wadi, heading away from the cloud of harpies, grimly aware they were closing in on her. “Control engaged baldricks, command group badly hit. We are under attack by company-strength harpies, Charlie is already down. Two harpies down. The issue is in doubt. Tell others, don’t close in on harpies.”
Duty done, Broomstick spun her helicopter again and went straight at the formation of harpies pursuing her, her two miniguns blazing a long, long burst. It registered briefly that there were two piles of burning wreckage on the desert floor now and that she was alone. Bravo had gone. So had at least two more harpies, torn apart by the stream of bullets from her miniguns. Then, there was a clank and silence, she’d run out of ammunition. The harpies were on her, clinging to the airframe, tearing at it with their claws, kicking at the skin with their hooves. One was clinging to the cockpit canopy, smashing at it with its claws, trying to tear its way in. She could see the demented, screaming hate on its face, she could smell the stink of jet fuel as the harpies tore their way into the Little Bird’s structure. That was all she saw and smelt because that was when Tango-one-five-Alpha exploded.
Throne Room Infernal Palace of Dis, Hell.
“And exactly how did they spontaneously explode?” Satan’s voice had a silky, oily quality to it that was far more unnerving than any of his berserk rages.
“We don’t know Sire. We found bits of metal in the wreckage, so we think it was one of the human machines, but we don’t understand it.”
“A machine? A human-machine you say? They invaded my territory and killed four of my subjects with a machine?” The silky, oily quality was fading, replaced by the hysterical screams of rage. The audience found that immensely reassuring, it was business as usual. The unnatural calm had been horrifying from its unprecedented nature. A raving, screaming temper tantrum was much more familiar. “And nobody saw it?”
“None Sire. Although we do have a message that was transmitted by one of their warlords. It refers to a Predator aircraft.”
“And just what is a Predator?” Satan was struggling to keep his temper under control.
“A hunting bird.” The voice came from a tiny minor demon on the floor. Satan glanced sideways, and his glance mashed the speaker into a purple pulp that drained away through the stone floor.
“Does anybody else want to state the obvious?” There was a sudden shuffling of cloven feet and demons glancing sideways at each other. The more astute of them were already trying to work out the best place to take cover when their infernal overlord decided it would be necessary to stage a massacre.
“There is another problem with that message,” Asmodeus spoke carefully. “The warlord spoke of ‘major enemy leadership figure’, we assume that means an important person here. Yet there was nobody on that stand of any importance, a few relatives of Abigor, that is all. None in the leadership and none of any importance. We do not understand this.”
“Perhaps I can explain.” Beelzebub was also speaking carefully. “The warlord also spoke of ‘information received from reliable informants. There can be only one explanation for that comment. There are those of your Infernal Majesty’s subjects who are in contact with the humans and are passing informationto them.”
A horrified gasp went around the hall. The whole concept was a nightmare to contemplate yet was also eerily plausible. Who here had not sold information on an ally to an enemy to bring about a tactical advantage?
“But Sire.” Asmodeus was appalled, his voice terrified at even speaking of this idea. “Nobody important was killed.”
“Nobody important perhaps,” Beelzebub spoke almost as smoothly and calmly as Satan had done. “Not in our terms perhaps. But the traitor – or traitors – who sold the informationto the humans may have been using them to settle a private score of his or her own. Who knows where treason might end?”
Even Satan was silenced by that thought. The hall was still, silent as the occupants absorbed the implications of what Beelzebub had said. Then, the glances that they were exchanging underwent a slow change from apprehension at what Satan might do next to suspicion at what their neighbors might be saying to these upstart humans. No matter how intense those suspicious glances became, they couldn’t match the ones Satan was casting at them.
Room 352A, Arkham Asylum, New York City, NY
The voices had been haunting Julie since her sophomore year of high school. Every time she'd tried to tell them to go away, they simply laughed at her. And when she denied they were real, they'd whisper to her, caressing her mind like an unwanted lover, telling her secrets – what was happening far away, what others were thinking about her, telling her things that were never wrong.
And they were always right, always there, always just out of her senses, dripping across her mind like black grease. Even after she'd tried to kill herself – it hadn't worked; they'd told her that it was pointless, that someone was at the door just as she'd watched the bloodstream from her wrists with morbid fascination – even after the suicide attempt, when her family had tearfully waved her goodbye, and she'd gone to Arkham for treatment (which hadn't worked) and incarceration, they were telling her things, what was happening outside. The conquest was on, they'd said. The infernal deal that had haunted her nightmares since she was five, that had haunted every waking moment since the voices had first come, was sealed and complete. Heaven's gates were closed and locked, the whole of humanity damned without hope of rescue or reprieve.
Her cell was locked, as always. The white walls were padded, and she was sitting on her cot in the corner murmuring to herself when one of the voices – Domiklespharatu, it called itself – whispered, "Look to the door!" She did; the lock on the door clicked and lifted. "They're coming to get you ... coming to take you away ... to experiment on you ... to rape and torture and mutilate and humiliate you."
The voices were never wrong. She hurled herself back into the corner, away from the strange people filing into the room. Then there was Dr. Becky, her presence a welcome familiarity that was dispelled by the presence of others, more people in uniforms and more in white lab coats. Domiklespharatu laughed. “Look at you, pitiful little girl.” The floor reared up, and she stumbled backward into the walls.
Dr. Becky Skillman had worked at Arkham for fifteen years, and in all that time she’d never been visited by the government. Two men in suits, with dark sunglasses, guns, and no sense of humor had knocked on her office door, shown her a pair of bright and very impressive badges, and asked her for a list of the patients at Arkham for whom treatment had done absolutely no good. Especially the ones who heard voices.
She wasn’t one to deny the government a request, especially not in this day and age, with the Message, a quarter of the Arkham staff were gone, and the strange reports filing through the news were unsettling. There was fighting, of some sort, the sort that reminded her of the nightmarish hallucinations of her patients. The men had been from the Secret Service, and they’d thanked her cordially, gone, and then a half-hour later was back with an entire platoon of men in fatigues with rifles, asking to be taken to Room 352A on the third floor.
Julie Adams had been at the top of the list, and they’d decided to take her first. Before Skillman had a chance to ask any questions, they’d waved a piece of paper – subpoena or something like that – in her face and were demanding the case files.
Adams was an untreatable schizophrenic and had only gotten worse through the eight years she’d been in Arkham. No treatment had worked – and they’d tried them all, from the newest drugs to some of the oldest tricks in the books, the sort that the staff all mutually agreed to keep quiet because people who didn’t work at psychiatric hospitals just didn’t understand. And now the government wanted to take her away?
Skillman shrugged. Eh – not her place to question or worry. As they filed into the pure white cell, Adams was scrabbling against the back wall, face conto rted in fear, the greasy tangles of her long, black hair swabbing the wall. “No! NO! I’m not gonna let you take me!”
The soldiers impassively moved forward, seemingly deaf to the woman’s harsh, pathetic screams. Reaching down, two deftly warded off her slaps and kicks and lifted her by the shoulders so that she hung between them like a rag doll. Brushing past Skillman, they filed back out of the room, Adams’ screams echoing down the corridor. The two men in black thanked her, and walked out, leaving her standing in the silent room, listening to the sick woman being dragged down the hall.
Temporary Headquarters, Randi Institute of Pneumatology, The Pentagon, Arlington, VA
James Randi sighed and rolled his eyes. While the search teams were scouring the nation’s medical facilities for the insane who might not be insane after all, the fakes and charlatans had continued to pour into the Institute in unimaginable numbers. The publicity combined with the persuasive talents of the US Secret Service and the FBI had achieved results that even his million-dollar prize had failed to attain. Privately, Randi kicked himself, he should have involved the Secret Service earlier. They’d even brought John Edwards and Sylvia Browne in, over those two unworthy angered protests. It had taken only a few minutes of testing to discredit that pair of mountebanks, after which they’d been unceremoniously ejected from the building. As Agent Stella Carter had remarked ‘Hey, guess what. Sylvia didn’t bounce.’
Up to now, that had been par for the course. There were still the palm-readers and card players who waited in the antechamber for their turn, all dressed up in beads and eyeliner and all sorts of clothes that looked mysterious in smoky, underlit rooms but just appeared absurd under fluorescent business lights. They were the routine dross that had to be inspected, just in case. Even so, there was hope for the plea for any real psychics or necromancers to come forward had brought in five or six possible hits – all quiet, shy people who worked ordinary jobs and lived ordinary lives.
He was just about to call the next person in when his cell phone rang. He checked it; it was a 555-1000 number. He answered. “Randi here.” After a moment, he nodded and said, “Will do. Please bring her in.”
At last. Randi sighed the words to himself. Ever since his discussion with that charming Thai General, he’d been waiting for the first of the medical subjects to arrive. Then, he squared his shoulders and opened the door to the antechamber and just stood there, looking out toward the outside door. It opened, and eight national guardsmen marched in, wearing full combat fatigues. Two of them were carrying what appeared to be a heavily sedated woman, her glassy eyes half-open and a bit of drool trailing down her cheeks. Behind them were three men in lab coats, looking like stereotypical doctors. As they reached where Randi stood, one of the men in lab coats strode forward past the soldiers and offered his hand. Randi shook it, and the man said, “James Randi? Dr. Ed Bullmore, psychiatry and neurology at Cambridge. Pleased to meet you.”
“The pleasure’s mine, Dr. Bullmore. What do we have here?”
Bullmore spoke with a pleasant British accent. “Untreatable schizophrenia patient from New York. Name Julie Adams. Onset at age sixteen. Reported ability to read minds.” He looked meaningfully at one of the soldiers, who spoke up, sounding shaken. “On the way over here, she told me about my daughter who drowned. No way she could have known about that – she was locked up for years before Kelsie was born.”
Randi thought for a moment. “Bring her in.” Briskly, the white-bearded man walked back through the door. He glanced over at his secretary. “Jane, please request brain imaging at the nearest hospital ASAP. Play the DoD card if you must.
Neuroimaging Center, Arlington Hospital, Arlington, VA
Julie Adams woke up in a little tube of metal, found herself immobilized, and felt a little whisper in the edge of her mind. “See? I told you soooo!” Then she slipped back into unconsciousness.
When she next woke up, she was sitting in a chair, leather straps holding her wrists to the chair arms. Sitting across the table from her was a grandfatherly-looking man, bald but with an enormous white beard. A voice danced across her vision, and she said, “James Randi?” The man raised one eyebrow, dropped it, and continued to regard her over clasped hands. She struggled with the bonds.
“They told me you’d do this to me! They told me!”
He spoke, his voice, calming and authoritative. “Who told you?”
She’d never been asked that before. Before, they’d always assumed the voices weren’t real, that she was crazy. She wasn’t crazy; she just heard voices. “They did.” A warning buzzed across the back of her mind – “Don’t trust him. He’s going to rape you.”
The man smiled. “Have they ever told you who they are?”
These questions were completely foreign to her. “Uh … I … no …”
His eyes twinkled through his spectacles. “Well, Julie, we want to help you. We know they’ve hurt you. We’re going to hurt them back, and we’d like your help.”
It was tempting. She’d always thought of them as enemies, even when they were telling her the truth. But they’d been enemies of her enemies, and so they had been her friends. But now, this man was offering his help to her … “DON’T LISTEN TO THEM!” screamed a voice, and spots erupted behind her eyes as Randi morphed, grew – black scales erupted on his face, horns growing from his bald head, his glasses falling to the desk, shattering; furred bat wings unfurled, spread, brushed the walls and ceiling, looming over her. And now a smell like rotten eggs was strengthening; the room was darkening, and she could hear faint screams in the distance, like a chorus of damned souls.
She was dimly aware of her own screaming, of the stabs of pain spiking through her; the thing across the desk was prodding her with a pitchfork, leering at her. It stepped backward and lustily licked its lips, grabbing a giant organ from between its legs and –
The hellish scene shimmered and faded suddenly, and the previous scene returned with the bald, grandfatherly man looking concernedly down at her and two men with chiseled faces hovering right above her. One of the men said, “Hold still, sister. You’re almost safe.” There was a prick in her arm, and then she was happy, floating free down toward blessed oblivion.
Randi straightened up and looked over toward the door. The psychiatrists and a lab technician were filing through the door. “Did you guys get it?”
“Yes James, we did,” said Bullman. “Before we hashed the room with electronic white noise, the electronic surveillance system we had set up caught a faint signal. It was a miracle we picked it up at all, it was right on the edge of the spectrum covered by the ESM, but it was there, and we’ve recorded it. It has some strange properties, and we’re sending the records to the physicists next door. They’ll digitize it, feed it into our threat libraries and we’ll be able to monitor for it. Also, if we can feed the waveform into the computers controlling our own emitter systems, we should be able to transmit ourselves.
“Much more importantly, we’ve already figured out how to keep her, and others like her, safe and sound from any further interference.”
Randi cocked his head curiously. “And what’s that?”
“Well, James, the signal in question isn’t that much different from an electromagnetic pulse, you know that thing the scare stories have claimed would wipe out electronics worldwide. We’ve known how to defend against that for decades and the power levels are much lower here. So, building on that experience.” Bullman grinned and pulled a shiny contraption from his lab coat. “A hat made of aluminum foil.”
Recon Team Tango One-Five, Wadi Haran, Western Iraq.
“Control, we have baldricks, column advancing along the Pipeline Route. Estimated battalion force with company-level harpy cover.”
“Very good. Engage and harass.”
Lieutenant Jade “Broomstick” Kim acknowledged, then transferred her attention back to the mast-mounted sight on her AH-6J helicopter. A deft touch on the controls and the aircraft rose slightly so that the ball of the sight just peaked over the ridge. The picture hadn’t changed much, even though the column was mounted on the rhinolobsters, they were moving slowly. Well, slowly by United States Army standards, Broomstick guessed that by medieval standards they were fairly galloping along. That was excruciatingly slow when compared with the way the First Armored Division was moving up.
A long rectangle of rhinolobsters, each with its rider and a small group out in front. They’d must be the command group. The primary subject of interest, the cream of the crop in this target-rich environment. Eliminate the command structure first, leaving the combat elements floundering around without orders. It was a process the United States Army called ‘shaping the battlefield’. “Tango Leader to all Tango birds. Select Hellfire missiles, target the command group in front, ripple fire both missiles.”
Spaced out down the wadi, the three Little Birds gunned their engines slightly and lifted still further. The column ahead was oblivious to their existence, even when the laser target designators locked into place. On her display, Broomstick could even see the designated targets starting to shift and scratch as the lasers irritated their skins. Then, a gentle squeeze on the firing button and the first of the Hellfires streaked off across the desert. Off to her left, a split second later, Tango-one-five-Bravo fired its first missile with Tango-one-five-Charlie following an instant after that. Broomstick had already selected her next target when she fired her second missile, as soon as she saw the explosion from the first hit, she swung the laser to her selected victim and watched the Hellfire missile obediently switch targets. The explosions four thousand yards away seemed an almost continuous rolling thunder as the six missiles devastated the command group.
“All Tango-One-Five elements, jobs done, let’s get out of here.”
“We got a problem ell-tee.”
Broomstick looked across at the burning patch of desert where the baldrick command group had been. Above it the harpies were heading for the position of her three little birds, coming in very, very fast.
“Bug out, everybody bug out now. Max speed.” She rammed the throttles forward, swinging her helicopter into its high-speed position, trying to get away from the cloud of harpies that was closing on her.
“No good ell-tee. They’re faster than us.”
Broomstick didn’t acknowledge, she didn’t must. The AH-6 could do about 180 miles per hour flat out and the harpies were closing the range. She pulled back and swung the nose around, flipping her armament selector switch to the pair of Stingers mounted on the side of her cockpit. The annunciator’s tone was mixed, even in the cold of a desert night, they were having difficulty locking on. It was no good, whatever lock they had would must do. She fired into the mass of harpies, watching as one missile went through the formation without exploding, the other struck home and she saw a harpy briefly outlined in fire as the Stinger tore into it. There was another flare as well, but Broomstick had no time to congratulate herself or anybody else. She was turning away, diving, obeying the old rule, no matter how little height you have, trade height for speed. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw that Tango-one-five-Charlie had left it too late. The Little Bird was engulfed in jets of fire from the harpies, its fuel tanks exploded, and the flaming wreckage fell out of the sky to earth.
She was back in the wadi, heading away from the cloud of harpies, grimly aware they were closing in on her. “Control engaged baldricks, command group badly hit. We are under attack by company-strength harpies, Charlie is already down. Two harpies down. The issue is in doubt. Tell others, don’t close in on harpies.”
Duty done, Broomstick spun her helicopter again and went straight at the formation of harpies pursuing her, her two miniguns blazing a long, long burst. It registered briefly that there were two piles of burning wreckage on the desert floor now and that she was alone. Bravo had gone. So had at least two more harpies, torn apart by the stream of bullets from her miniguns. Then, there was a clank and silence, she’d run out of ammunition. The harpies were on her, clinging to the airframe, tearing at it with their claws, kicking at the skin with their hooves. One was clinging to the cockpit canopy, smashing at it with its claws, trying to tear its way in. She could see the demented, screaming hate on its face, she could smell the stink of jet fuel as the harpies tore their way into the Little Bird’s structure. That was all she saw and smelt because that was when Tango-one-five-Alpha exploded.
Re: 2008 - Armageddon
Chapter Seven
309th Aerospace Maintenance and Regeneration Group, Davis-Monthan AFB, Arizona
She was an old lady, put away in her retirement home like all too many aged family members who were just too much trouble to look after. Her age showed in so many ways, her wrinkled skin, shabby appearance, and general neglect. Another few months, a year or so at most, and she would have been gone, forgotten. Only now times had changed and those who had written her off as a relic of the past now found they needed The Gray Lady again.
“What about this one?”
The AMRG clerk looked at the tail number and turned to the page in the ledger. “This one is a good prospect, Sir. She hasn’t been stripped or cannibalized yet and she was in good condition when she arrived. I’d mark this one down as a definite.”
“Do it, we’ll get a team down here to work on her. The draft notices are going out this morning.” For once in its life, the U.S. Government was beginning to move fast. The re-institution of the draft had been authorized late the previous night with the highest priority being to get the maintenance and technical support personnel who had left the services over the last few years back into uniform. Strangely, it was almost like the job being done here, inspecting the veterans and getting them back into service. The B-52G in front of them looked like an early candidate for a return to the colors.
“How many does that make?” Colonel Degan oversaw this effort, a few hundred yards away, another team was going through the short line of eleven B-1Bs parked in storage. That team wasn’t doing well at all, the Bones here were in a hell of a mess. It was very doubtful if any of them could be repaired. The B-52s, that was another matter. Still, there had been some pleasant surprises, tucked away in one corner of the airfield had been a B-52H along with four B-1Bs and one of the surviving B-1As, all in perfect condition. What the latter was doing there was something of a minor mystery, but it had been rumored for years that more B-1As had been built than the official records showed.
“There are 43 B-52s in repairable status Sir. Of those, 20 require a medium level of remedial repairs, the remainder, well, they’re a real mess. Take months if not years to fix them up. Shortage of engines is the main problem; they’ve all been stripped of those. Mind you. We’re not short of spare parts.”
That was true enough, Degan thought. There were 45 more B-52s in the Boneyard, but they’d been scrapped. The wreckage was still here though, the wings shorn from the fuselage, the tails chopped off. “I don’t suppose there’s any chance of fixing the wrecks?”
“No Sir,” the technical officer was quite firm on that point. “The wing spar’s been chopped and the forge to make new ones was scrapped decades ago. Those birds are gone at best they’re spare parts for the rest.” Degan grimaced. Those planes were badly needed. The technical officer saw the expression and sympathized. “Good news though Sir, the tactical boys have been through the line of F-111s, there’s 169 of them here and they reckon we can salvage enough to equip a group, fifty or sixty if we’re lucky. And the transport guys did even better, Lockheed-Martin are coming down to refurbish all twenty of the C-5s we have here.” In some cases that would mean almost a new aircraft, it was an old joke, ‘repairing” an aircraft meant lifting its registration number and sliding a new aircraft underneath.
“Any word from the Rhino drivers?” There were literally hundreds of surplus F-4 Phantoms here and several teams were working their way through them, trying to find how many could be brought back into service. Not many were one guess, but times were desperate and at least F-4 components were still in production. That was the second batch of draft notices going out, by tomorrow a lot of airline pilots were going to be trying on their old Air Force and Navy uniforms again.
The technical officer shook his head. Those teams had a lot of work to do, and it would be days before they finished. He scratched his head; the Arizona sun was beating down hard and the aluminum foil lining his baseball cap was getting uncomfortably hot. Still, it was better than having some baldrick invading his mind and turning his thoughts to jelly. “OK Sir, I think we’re done with the bombers. Do you want to have a look at the KC-135s? See if any of those are fixable?”
“Lead on.” Degan looked back at the B-52 behind them. Already, people were starting to go over her in detail, listing all the fixes needed. There were 84 B-52s in USAF service and another 9 in the Air Force Reserve, if they could bring that up to 120 with the aircraft salvaged from here, it would be a decisive step forward.
Oval Office, The White House, Washington D.C.
“Did it pass Dick?”
“It did indeed. 99 in favor, one against, you can guess who that was. Effective as of 1800 Washington Time, the United States of America has formally declared war on Hell. Unconditional declaration, the first time we’ve had one of those for decades. We’ve issued a conditional ultimatum to Heaven as well. Unless they open the gates and surrender those who closed them for trial within 72 hours, a state of war will exist there as well. The civilian mobilization bill is through, the reserves mobilization bill is through, and the first issue of war bonds will be released tomorrow.
“Next stage is to mobilize industry, we’re making plans for that now. We’ve got the leaders of our major defense contractors up all night, working out what they need and how we can ramp up production. Now we’re concentrating on getting ammunition supplies increased, we’re expecting to use up our stocks of Hellfire and AMRAAM missiles pretty fast at the rate we’re going, as for aircraft we’re hoping Davis-Monthan will bridge the gap until upped production rates start to fill the gap. Ships can wait for the time being, tanks and armored vehicles will be more important, at least in the short term.
“Mister President?” Condoleezza Rice was punctilious about using the President’s formal title when other people were around.
“Condi.” President Bush turned around, taking quick note of Secretary Rice’s headgear. “Nice hat.”
Rice smiled in appreciation; she’d been on the telephone with Donna Karan to have her aluminum foil hat designed professionally. After she’d been appointed Secretary of State, one of the satirists had said that her appointment marked the first time in its history when the United States had a Secretary of State who looked good naked. She thought that was a little over the top but at least she’d always taken pride in her wardrobe.
“Good news Sir. The Indian Ambassador has just told us that the Indian Air Force is sending a combat wing to Iraq. A squadron of Su-30MKIs interceptors, two Jaguar ground attack aircraft. Even better, the new Iranian government is opening its airfields to us. That gives us some badly needed depth. General Petraeus was worried about how close our airfields in Iraq are to the invasion. A word from the Israelis, they’re moving up from the east now, their F-15s will be available to give top cover when we need them.”
The President nodded, one of the problems in this situation was that the bulk of America’s F-15 fleet was grounded with structural problems. That left the country short of heavy fighters, privately he wondered if that was a coincidence or not. Just how long had the enemy been planning this assault?
Al Habariyah, Iraq
The clear yellow light was painful to the eyes of beings accustomed to the comforting red skies and dust clouds of Hell. Not that there wasn’t enough dust here, but it was the choking clouds of silica, not the soft, warm touch of volcanic pumice. The accursed sand was getting into Hornaklishdarmar’s hooves, rubbing even his hardened skin raw. Glancing across at the eight demons in his contubernium, he could see they were having the same trouble. When they’d first entered this world, they’d held straight ranks, lined up in perfect parade order but that had been long abandoned. Now, the legion was straggling, spread out, its ranks tangled as the fitter or less feeling had moved ahead, and the lesser spirits had lagged behind.
It wasn’t as if this area was actually worth the discomfort. On the long march from the portal, the legion had seen nothing of any value, just the empty desert, and the accursed sand. At least now they were approaching some sort of civilization, a collection of huts, so poor that they didn’t even have doors, just some sort of blanket hung in the entrance. There was even one of the human’s weird four-wheeled chariots, a white thing with a boxy body at the side of the road, its front wheels crushed and broken. Abandoned as the humans had run from the approaching legion.
“Lords! Have mercy on me! I beg you, forgive me for not submitting to you sooner. I was misled by traitors who denied you. Forgive me and accept my obeisance.”
Up in front of him, Hornaklishdarmar could see the human-run out from one of the buildings, an older human, portly and dressed in a flowing robe. He dropped to his knees in front of the legion. Hornaklishdarmar saw the commander of his Octurnia go towards the man, raising his trident to strike him down.
Hornaklishdarmar was on his knees, his head ringing from the terrible blast that had suddenly engulfed the human and the demon poised to kill him. The human had gone, only his head was left, rolling in the dust leaving a wet trail behind on the sand. The commander of the Octurnia had gone completely, just yellow smears on the ground behind where he had been. Several of his staff were down, screaming, ripped open by the blast. Hornaklishdarmar saw the other demons of the legion edging away from the scene and the hut from where the man had come. Suddenly, the sight alarmed the demon, there was something wrong.
Now, Hornaklishdarmar was on his back, and he could see the yellow fluids leaking from his body. His instinct had saved his life, but he was still hurt. Where the truck had been was now just a crater, black, smoking, surrounded by the dead bodies of demons, tens of them, some smashed to a pulp beyond recognition, others still demonic in form but dreadfully still. Yet others were worse than dreadful, writhing and threshing with the wounds ripped in them by shrapnel. He pressed his arm into the vicious rip in his skin, feeling the comfort the pressure caused and looked at the scene again. It had been planned; he could see it now. The first man, the fat one, had caused the demons to crowd back against the truck and packed them around that second, huge explosion. It had all been planned, very skillfully planned.
Operation Iraqi Freedom Headquarters, Baghdad, Iraq
General Petraeus stood before the transmission screen and waited for it to light up with the link from Washington. His briefing would be going directly to the command center in the White House and as many of the growing list of allies as could be provided with the equipment.
“Mister President Sir. My situation reports.
“We have identified the enemy force as eight infantry divisions, three cavalry brigades, and one airborne brigade. The enemy’s main body consists of four infantry divisions and is advancing toward Khan Al Baghdadi. It is preceded by one of the cavalry brigades supported by an airborne battalion. The cavalry brigade itself is split into three columns each containing three cavalry battalions supported by three airborne companies. Now, we are falling back in front of that force, we have no wish to engage it currently.
“To the north is a flanking force consisting of two infantry divisions. They’re moving close to the Syrian border, again with a cavalry brigade in front supported by harpies. We’ve been harassing that screening force overnight, I’m sorry to report that the 160th Aviation Brigade took significant losses, at least a dozen AH-6 and MH-6 helicopters were lost to Harpies. We’ve learned from that, that the Harpies make helicopter operations too dangerous, we’re going to must eliminate them before we can send helicopter-based forces in again. However, their sacrifice was not in vain, we’re driving their reconnaissance elements in on the main body, and we’ve severely hit their command-and-control structure. We believe we’ve eliminated a significant proportion of their battalion and brigade-level command staff. A brigade of the First Armored Division is moving into position around Al Qaim. It’s a perfect kill zone, with their recon element driven in, their heading into it blind.
“To the south is another screening force, identical to the one in the North. We haven’t done much about that one yet, but the British are moving up a mechanized battle group to handle it. We had word from al Qaeda a few minutes ago, that they hit one of the infantry divisions with a combined suicide and truck bomb attack. They claim to have killed more than sixty baldricks including a part of the brigade command group. We can’t confirm the numbers, but a Global Hawk has confirmed the attack.” Petraeus paused for a second. “Sir, I still can’t get used to feeling pleased about an IED incident.
“Overall, we’re about to start the main phase of our defense. We’re going to kick the northern and southern screening forces in and push them back on the main body. That will put them in a kill zone west of the Hawr Al Habbaniyah. As we compress them in that area, we’ll be hitting them with artillery and all the tactical air we can bring up. If we stop them, we can drive them back across the desert, all the way back to the Hellmouth. If we can’t stop them there, the only way forward is through two narrow necks of land, north of the Bahr al Milh and south of the Buhayrat Ath Tharfar. Those are also perfect killing grounds and give us another chance at them.”
“They won’t get through?” President Bush sounded concerned. The heavily populated Tigris-Euphrates valley was in the direct path of the advancing baldricks.
“No Sir, we’ll stop them dead. After a while, all their added numbers mean they’ll be piling more bodies into the kill zone. The days when an army could be swamped by the sheer weight of numbers are gone. The way we’re mauling their command structure, once they’ve started advancing into the killing ground, they won’t be able to stop, the sheer pressure of the forces at the rear will drive them forward.”
“General.” Rice smiled an apology for the interruption. “Be advised, we’ve just heard from the Russians. They’re sending down forces from their southern military region. Armored divisions, battle experienced from Chechnya, they’re coming through Iran. They’ll be with you in a few days, you can count on them for reinforcements.”
“Thank you, ma’am, that’s good to know. If you’re speaking to the Russians, could you ask them for their Smerch rocket launchers. We need all the salvo rocket artillery we can get here. Also, their Luna short-range ballistic missiles, we’ve got ATACMS here, but we need something with a bit more reach.”
“I’ll do that. The Iranians are promising to send help as well. Any requests?”
“Fuel. That more than anything. We’re going to need all the fuel we can get. We can’t cope with these baldricks in a slugging match, we must maneuver them to death. One thing my people here are asking. Why here? For the sort of enemy, we’re fighting, this is the perfect ground for us. No restrictions on maneuver, no civilians to get in the way, we can use every scrap of firepower we’ve got. So why here? Why not straight into New York or Washington? Come to think of it, why aren’t we seeing more Hellmouths opening up anyway?”
Vice President Cheney leaned forward. “We have a theory on that, we think that for some reason the Middle East is where it is easiest for them to open the portal, it may be the only place they can open a portal we don’t know. But we think that it’s no coincidence that all the reports of monsters, hells, battles between good and evil, etc. start in this area. We don’t know but that’s our guess. Anyway, don’t knock it, it’s better we fight them out there than back here.”
Petraeus laughed. “I’ve heard that before. Another question, a policy one. We’re likely to start taking prisoners soon. What do you want us to do with them.”
Rice’s voice was decisive. “Ship them to Gitmo.”
“I thought we were closing that place?”
“We were, but plans changed. It’s under international management now. It’s being organized by the Italians, Bangladesh is providing the funding, the Germans the guards, the Russians the political speeches, the Belgians the entertainment, the Japanese the music, and the British are providing the food.”
Petraeus visibly winced at the thought. “Ma’am, that’s inhuman. Please, whoever thought that arrangement up, buy them a beer for me.”
“Why, thank you, General. I’ll enjoy it.
309th Aerospace Maintenance and Regeneration Group, Davis-Monthan AFB, Arizona
She was an old lady, put away in her retirement home like all too many aged family members who were just too much trouble to look after. Her age showed in so many ways, her wrinkled skin, shabby appearance, and general neglect. Another few months, a year or so at most, and she would have been gone, forgotten. Only now times had changed and those who had written her off as a relic of the past now found they needed The Gray Lady again.
“What about this one?”
The AMRG clerk looked at the tail number and turned to the page in the ledger. “This one is a good prospect, Sir. She hasn’t been stripped or cannibalized yet and she was in good condition when she arrived. I’d mark this one down as a definite.”
“Do it, we’ll get a team down here to work on her. The draft notices are going out this morning.” For once in its life, the U.S. Government was beginning to move fast. The re-institution of the draft had been authorized late the previous night with the highest priority being to get the maintenance and technical support personnel who had left the services over the last few years back into uniform. Strangely, it was almost like the job being done here, inspecting the veterans and getting them back into service. The B-52G in front of them looked like an early candidate for a return to the colors.
“How many does that make?” Colonel Degan oversaw this effort, a few hundred yards away, another team was going through the short line of eleven B-1Bs parked in storage. That team wasn’t doing well at all, the Bones here were in a hell of a mess. It was very doubtful if any of them could be repaired. The B-52s, that was another matter. Still, there had been some pleasant surprises, tucked away in one corner of the airfield had been a B-52H along with four B-1Bs and one of the surviving B-1As, all in perfect condition. What the latter was doing there was something of a minor mystery, but it had been rumored for years that more B-1As had been built than the official records showed.
“There are 43 B-52s in repairable status Sir. Of those, 20 require a medium level of remedial repairs, the remainder, well, they’re a real mess. Take months if not years to fix them up. Shortage of engines is the main problem; they’ve all been stripped of those. Mind you. We’re not short of spare parts.”
That was true enough, Degan thought. There were 45 more B-52s in the Boneyard, but they’d been scrapped. The wreckage was still here though, the wings shorn from the fuselage, the tails chopped off. “I don’t suppose there’s any chance of fixing the wrecks?”
“No Sir,” the technical officer was quite firm on that point. “The wing spar’s been chopped and the forge to make new ones was scrapped decades ago. Those birds are gone at best they’re spare parts for the rest.” Degan grimaced. Those planes were badly needed. The technical officer saw the expression and sympathized. “Good news though Sir, the tactical boys have been through the line of F-111s, there’s 169 of them here and they reckon we can salvage enough to equip a group, fifty or sixty if we’re lucky. And the transport guys did even better, Lockheed-Martin are coming down to refurbish all twenty of the C-5s we have here.” In some cases that would mean almost a new aircraft, it was an old joke, ‘repairing” an aircraft meant lifting its registration number and sliding a new aircraft underneath.
“Any word from the Rhino drivers?” There were literally hundreds of surplus F-4 Phantoms here and several teams were working their way through them, trying to find how many could be brought back into service. Not many were one guess, but times were desperate and at least F-4 components were still in production. That was the second batch of draft notices going out, by tomorrow a lot of airline pilots were going to be trying on their old Air Force and Navy uniforms again.
The technical officer shook his head. Those teams had a lot of work to do, and it would be days before they finished. He scratched his head; the Arizona sun was beating down hard and the aluminum foil lining his baseball cap was getting uncomfortably hot. Still, it was better than having some baldrick invading his mind and turning his thoughts to jelly. “OK Sir, I think we’re done with the bombers. Do you want to have a look at the KC-135s? See if any of those are fixable?”
“Lead on.” Degan looked back at the B-52 behind them. Already, people were starting to go over her in detail, listing all the fixes needed. There were 84 B-52s in USAF service and another 9 in the Air Force Reserve, if they could bring that up to 120 with the aircraft salvaged from here, it would be a decisive step forward.
Oval Office, The White House, Washington D.C.
“Did it pass Dick?”
“It did indeed. 99 in favor, one against, you can guess who that was. Effective as of 1800 Washington Time, the United States of America has formally declared war on Hell. Unconditional declaration, the first time we’ve had one of those for decades. We’ve issued a conditional ultimatum to Heaven as well. Unless they open the gates and surrender those who closed them for trial within 72 hours, a state of war will exist there as well. The civilian mobilization bill is through, the reserves mobilization bill is through, and the first issue of war bonds will be released tomorrow.
“Next stage is to mobilize industry, we’re making plans for that now. We’ve got the leaders of our major defense contractors up all night, working out what they need and how we can ramp up production. Now we’re concentrating on getting ammunition supplies increased, we’re expecting to use up our stocks of Hellfire and AMRAAM missiles pretty fast at the rate we’re going, as for aircraft we’re hoping Davis-Monthan will bridge the gap until upped production rates start to fill the gap. Ships can wait for the time being, tanks and armored vehicles will be more important, at least in the short term.
“Mister President?” Condoleezza Rice was punctilious about using the President’s formal title when other people were around.
“Condi.” President Bush turned around, taking quick note of Secretary Rice’s headgear. “Nice hat.”
Rice smiled in appreciation; she’d been on the telephone with Donna Karan to have her aluminum foil hat designed professionally. After she’d been appointed Secretary of State, one of the satirists had said that her appointment marked the first time in its history when the United States had a Secretary of State who looked good naked. She thought that was a little over the top but at least she’d always taken pride in her wardrobe.
“Good news Sir. The Indian Ambassador has just told us that the Indian Air Force is sending a combat wing to Iraq. A squadron of Su-30MKIs interceptors, two Jaguar ground attack aircraft. Even better, the new Iranian government is opening its airfields to us. That gives us some badly needed depth. General Petraeus was worried about how close our airfields in Iraq are to the invasion. A word from the Israelis, they’re moving up from the east now, their F-15s will be available to give top cover when we need them.”
The President nodded, one of the problems in this situation was that the bulk of America’s F-15 fleet was grounded with structural problems. That left the country short of heavy fighters, privately he wondered if that was a coincidence or not. Just how long had the enemy been planning this assault?
Al Habariyah, Iraq
The clear yellow light was painful to the eyes of beings accustomed to the comforting red skies and dust clouds of Hell. Not that there wasn’t enough dust here, but it was the choking clouds of silica, not the soft, warm touch of volcanic pumice. The accursed sand was getting into Hornaklishdarmar’s hooves, rubbing even his hardened skin raw. Glancing across at the eight demons in his contubernium, he could see they were having the same trouble. When they’d first entered this world, they’d held straight ranks, lined up in perfect parade order but that had been long abandoned. Now, the legion was straggling, spread out, its ranks tangled as the fitter or less feeling had moved ahead, and the lesser spirits had lagged behind.
It wasn’t as if this area was actually worth the discomfort. On the long march from the portal, the legion had seen nothing of any value, just the empty desert, and the accursed sand. At least now they were approaching some sort of civilization, a collection of huts, so poor that they didn’t even have doors, just some sort of blanket hung in the entrance. There was even one of the human’s weird four-wheeled chariots, a white thing with a boxy body at the side of the road, its front wheels crushed and broken. Abandoned as the humans had run from the approaching legion.
“Lords! Have mercy on me! I beg you, forgive me for not submitting to you sooner. I was misled by traitors who denied you. Forgive me and accept my obeisance.”
Up in front of him, Hornaklishdarmar could see the human-run out from one of the buildings, an older human, portly and dressed in a flowing robe. He dropped to his knees in front of the legion. Hornaklishdarmar saw the commander of his Octurnia go towards the man, raising his trident to strike him down.
Hornaklishdarmar was on his knees, his head ringing from the terrible blast that had suddenly engulfed the human and the demon poised to kill him. The human had gone, only his head was left, rolling in the dust leaving a wet trail behind on the sand. The commander of the Octurnia had gone completely, just yellow smears on the ground behind where he had been. Several of his staff were down, screaming, ripped open by the blast. Hornaklishdarmar saw the other demons of the legion edging away from the scene and the hut from where the man had come. Suddenly, the sight alarmed the demon, there was something wrong.
Now, Hornaklishdarmar was on his back, and he could see the yellow fluids leaking from his body. His instinct had saved his life, but he was still hurt. Where the truck had been was now just a crater, black, smoking, surrounded by the dead bodies of demons, tens of them, some smashed to a pulp beyond recognition, others still demonic in form but dreadfully still. Yet others were worse than dreadful, writhing and threshing with the wounds ripped in them by shrapnel. He pressed his arm into the vicious rip in his skin, feeling the comfort the pressure caused and looked at the scene again. It had been planned; he could see it now. The first man, the fat one, had caused the demons to crowd back against the truck and packed them around that second, huge explosion. It had all been planned, very skillfully planned.
Operation Iraqi Freedom Headquarters, Baghdad, Iraq
General Petraeus stood before the transmission screen and waited for it to light up with the link from Washington. His briefing would be going directly to the command center in the White House and as many of the growing list of allies as could be provided with the equipment.
“Mister President Sir. My situation reports.
“We have identified the enemy force as eight infantry divisions, three cavalry brigades, and one airborne brigade. The enemy’s main body consists of four infantry divisions and is advancing toward Khan Al Baghdadi. It is preceded by one of the cavalry brigades supported by an airborne battalion. The cavalry brigade itself is split into three columns each containing three cavalry battalions supported by three airborne companies. Now, we are falling back in front of that force, we have no wish to engage it currently.
“To the north is a flanking force consisting of two infantry divisions. They’re moving close to the Syrian border, again with a cavalry brigade in front supported by harpies. We’ve been harassing that screening force overnight, I’m sorry to report that the 160th Aviation Brigade took significant losses, at least a dozen AH-6 and MH-6 helicopters were lost to Harpies. We’ve learned from that, that the Harpies make helicopter operations too dangerous, we’re going to must eliminate them before we can send helicopter-based forces in again. However, their sacrifice was not in vain, we’re driving their reconnaissance elements in on the main body, and we’ve severely hit their command-and-control structure. We believe we’ve eliminated a significant proportion of their battalion and brigade-level command staff. A brigade of the First Armored Division is moving into position around Al Qaim. It’s a perfect kill zone, with their recon element driven in, their heading into it blind.
“To the south is another screening force, identical to the one in the North. We haven’t done much about that one yet, but the British are moving up a mechanized battle group to handle it. We had word from al Qaeda a few minutes ago, that they hit one of the infantry divisions with a combined suicide and truck bomb attack. They claim to have killed more than sixty baldricks including a part of the brigade command group. We can’t confirm the numbers, but a Global Hawk has confirmed the attack.” Petraeus paused for a second. “Sir, I still can’t get used to feeling pleased about an IED incident.
“Overall, we’re about to start the main phase of our defense. We’re going to kick the northern and southern screening forces in and push them back on the main body. That will put them in a kill zone west of the Hawr Al Habbaniyah. As we compress them in that area, we’ll be hitting them with artillery and all the tactical air we can bring up. If we stop them, we can drive them back across the desert, all the way back to the Hellmouth. If we can’t stop them there, the only way forward is through two narrow necks of land, north of the Bahr al Milh and south of the Buhayrat Ath Tharfar. Those are also perfect killing grounds and give us another chance at them.”
“They won’t get through?” President Bush sounded concerned. The heavily populated Tigris-Euphrates valley was in the direct path of the advancing baldricks.
“No Sir, we’ll stop them dead. After a while, all their added numbers mean they’ll be piling more bodies into the kill zone. The days when an army could be swamped by the sheer weight of numbers are gone. The way we’re mauling their command structure, once they’ve started advancing into the killing ground, they won’t be able to stop, the sheer pressure of the forces at the rear will drive them forward.”
“General.” Rice smiled an apology for the interruption. “Be advised, we’ve just heard from the Russians. They’re sending down forces from their southern military region. Armored divisions, battle experienced from Chechnya, they’re coming through Iran. They’ll be with you in a few days, you can count on them for reinforcements.”
“Thank you, ma’am, that’s good to know. If you’re speaking to the Russians, could you ask them for their Smerch rocket launchers. We need all the salvo rocket artillery we can get here. Also, their Luna short-range ballistic missiles, we’ve got ATACMS here, but we need something with a bit more reach.”
“I’ll do that. The Iranians are promising to send help as well. Any requests?”
“Fuel. That more than anything. We’re going to need all the fuel we can get. We can’t cope with these baldricks in a slugging match, we must maneuver them to death. One thing my people here are asking. Why here? For the sort of enemy, we’re fighting, this is the perfect ground for us. No restrictions on maneuver, no civilians to get in the way, we can use every scrap of firepower we’ve got. So why here? Why not straight into New York or Washington? Come to think of it, why aren’t we seeing more Hellmouths opening up anyway?”
Vice President Cheney leaned forward. “We have a theory on that, we think that for some reason the Middle East is where it is easiest for them to open the portal, it may be the only place they can open a portal we don’t know. But we think that it’s no coincidence that all the reports of monsters, hells, battles between good and evil, etc. start in this area. We don’t know but that’s our guess. Anyway, don’t knock it, it’s better we fight them out there than back here.”
Petraeus laughed. “I’ve heard that before. Another question, a policy one. We’re likely to start taking prisoners soon. What do you want us to do with them.”
Rice’s voice was decisive. “Ship them to Gitmo.”
“I thought we were closing that place?”
“We were, but plans changed. It’s under international management now. It’s being organized by the Italians, Bangladesh is providing the funding, the Germans the guards, the Russians the political speeches, the Belgians the entertainment, the Japanese the music, and the British are providing the food.”
Petraeus visibly winced at the thought. “Ma’am, that’s inhuman. Please, whoever thought that arrangement up, buy them a beer for me.”
“Why, thank you, General. I’ll enjoy it.
Re: 2008 - Armageddon
Chapter Eight
Muncie, Indiana, United States of America
Muncie was a small town, typical of the American rust belt. Highly religious, and conservative, with 65,000 people before the Message and 50,000 after, the city had been ailing even before a quarter of the population had laid down and died. The manufacturing industry had been slowly abandoning the city for decades, leaving it with rusting, overgrown factories, a 23 percent poverty rate, and a hospital and university as the largest employers. The Message had hit the town hard, too as it had most of the rural, conservative American Midwest, leaving the local economy in shambles and even further down the toilet.
Sharon McShurley, the newly elected mayor, was sitting at her desk in the Town Hall wondering for the millionth time that day what she was going to do when the telephone rang. She picked it up. “Hello, the Mayor speaking.”
“Mrs. McShurley?” The voice was male and unfamiliar.
“Yes? May I ask who this is?”
“This is Nathan Feltman, Secretary of Commerce for Indiana.”
“Ah, Mr. Feltman. How can I help you?”
“Mrs. McShurley, I was contacted not five hours ago by Secretary of Commerce Carlos Gutierrez. You know of The Message?”
“Of course.”
“And of the developments in Iraq?”
“Of course. It's been all over the news.” Truth was, she'd been doing little more than watching the news since The Message. There had seemed so little she could do even to regain control over her small town.
“Secretary Gutierrez has informed me that the United States is immediately shifting to a war economy. I don't know how things will work on the military side, but on the economic side, we're going to be ramping up production as fast as possible. I've already spoken with the mayors of Indianapolis, Gary-Hammond, Fort Wayne, Evansville, and Anderson. Do you have a list of production overcapacity and unused assets in Muncie?”
“Yes, we do.” Unemployment was just the single most pressing problem in the city and had been for Thirtyyears.
“We need to compare our list with yours, and then we'll send the updated versionto the US Department of Commerce. They'll be asking corporations to buy them up and get working on military equipment. Given Indiana's central location, rail accessibility, and manufacturing history, we'll be up near the top.”
Feltmann gave McShurley the fax number for the Indiana Department of Commerce, and within twenty minutes, the substantial list of old factories, closed-up warehouses, abandoned rail yards, and defunct properties were on its way to Indianapolis. A half-hour and two double-checks later, it was again winging its way through cyberspace to Washington, D.C., where an undersecretary of commerce opened it and copy-pasted its contents into a secure website, open only to the procurement officers of the vast national and international corporations which supplied the US military with its equipment.
The next day, McShurley was in her office when the phone rang again. “Hello?”
“Mayor Sharon McShurley?” Another unfamiliar voice.
“Speaking.”
“This is John Walker, with Borg Warner Automotive. Considering the recent developments, we've decided not to close down the plant in Muncie. Instead, we're retooling it to provide transmissions for tanks.”
“Well, that's certainly happy news. Thank you.”
The man hung up, McShurley got back to her paperwork, and within a half-hour, the phone rang again. “Hello?”
“Mayor Sharon McShurley of Muncie?”
“Speaking.”
“I'm James Torida of General Dynamics Land Systems. We have acquired an older factory in Muncie to build M1A2 parts, and we would like the cooperation of the local government in finding employees and in renovating and retooling the plant as quickly as possible.”
“We'd love to help in any way we can.”
They discussed the details of the deal for fifteen minutes, then hung up. McShurley heaved a sigh – two in one day! Wow!
The phone rang again fifteen minutes later. It was General Dynamics Ordnance and Tactical Systems, wanting again cooperation, tax breaks, etc., to get another old plant up and running, this time to manufacture AIM-120C missile casings. McShurley was more than willing to cooperate.
Before business hours ended, three more corporations had called. One wanted to acquire land to build a fourth railroad track south through the city; apparently, it was working on a line south from Chicago to Cincinnati and the Ohio River to supply raw materials from the mines in Minnesota and Ontario down to barges on the Ohio. The second had bought two abandoned warehouses on the south side of Muncie and wanted to open the old track yard to the warehouses to help supply the rejuvenated factories. The third was applying for a construction permit for the properties northwest of town that had so recently been slated for urban sprawl.
804 South Tillotson Ave., Muncie, Indiana, USA
Jim Schenkel had been a tool machinist for forty years before being laid off from his long-time job in 2003. He'd elected to retire instead of pursuing another job, and for the past five years he'd followed the same schedule: up at six, drink his coffee, read the morning paper over toast, an egg, and a glass of orange juice, tend his gardens until lunch, eat a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, monitor his investments and piddle around in his workshop until dinner, eat a bowl of soup, then watch the news until 10.
It was 1:30 AM when the phone rang. Groggily, he rolled over and picked up the receiver on the sixth ring. “Hello?”
“Jim? Jack Roberts here.” Jack Roberts was his old supervisor at the ABB factory before they'd all been fired, and the place shut down.
“Jack? Why the hell are you calling me at – “he squinted at the clock – “1:30 in the morning?”
“Jim, you're re-hired. We need you in tomorrow morning at 6:30.”
“What the hell's going on, Jack?”
“The factory's been started back up for the war effort. We need all the equipment repaired and retooled; the management wants the lines rolling in a week.”
“... the hell? I'm retired, God damnit.”
“As I said, we need you back. To be blunt, Jim, you don't have a choice. We'll send men out to get you if you can't make it on your own.”
“I don't give – “he stared at the receiver, listening to the audible dial tone.
The next morning, at 6:30, he pulled into the parking lot of the ABB factory on the south side of town and stared. It was packed with cars, and people were streaming toward the factory. The factory itself was brightly lit; the loading docks were packed with semis, and parts were already starting to form small piles waiting to be taken inside. He parked his car and joined the flow of humanity heading back to work.
That morning, The Star Press headlines read, “Look out, Baldricks! Here comes Muncie!” That day, the mayor’s office received eight more phone calls from corporations, and the first semis and trains started to roll into the city as construction equipment started to move away from the university – which had agreed to put its new dorm on hold for the time being to aid in the war effort – and toward the old, broken-down factories. Overnight, the city had been transformed.
And it wasn't alone. Across the eastern Midwest, the rust belt was being de-oxidized. Surveyors were entering old factories, cleaning companies entering and sweeping up dust, weeds were being cleared, and broken windows were replaced. Lights that hadn't shone for decades were being turned on and replaced; cars were parking in lots that were more grass than gravel and hadn't been touched by tires for Thirtyyears. More and more trains were rolling out of yards and thundering down the immense but ailing network of tracks connecting American cities, and tractor-trailer semis were moving down the highways in huge fleets, carrying piping and wires and tools and other implements of the new war economy.
If Satan could have looked up from Hell and seen this, if he had wanted to learn about his enemies, if he had been capable of comprehending the vast network of the US economy and felt the rage at betrayal coursing through the collective veins of that nation, he might have felt that he was seeing the first traces of life in the resurrection of a giant long dead. But in the next dimension, sitting on his throne, lording over his sulfurous domain, and trying to figure out how fifteen of the senior generals in Abigor's army had spontaneously exploded, these thoughts never even occurred to him. Ignorance is bliss until the first bombs start dropping.
Moscow, Russia
And these changes were hardly unique to the US. In Russia, Vladimir Putin had immediately accelerated the redevelopment of the military; old factories closed during the economic woes of the 1990s were being reopened, and old mines and oil wells were being rechecked for viability. The storage depots and military installations were being searched for equipment, tanks, armored carriers, and artillery that had been sitting in storage for a decade or more was being refurbished. New tracks were being laid, and the first of tens of thousands of new T-90S tanks were rolling off the final assembly lines even as he walked toward this meeting, flanked by security forces.
Putin entered the church and crossed himself before the altar before he turned to the men gathered there, about ten in all: the heads of the Russian mob. He spoke first, taking charge, as always. “Gentlemen. You are not stupid; you know why I've gathered you here today.”
They all nodded with varying degrees of alacrity. Putin continued. “Now, the human species faces a threat greater than anything it has ever faced in its past. We – I and all of you – face not just extinction, but eternal damnation. This is now our reality.” He paused to evaluate what he saw on their faces. Blank, hard, determined – they share the vision, he reminded himself, just like every live human now. “Therefore, in return for amnesty from prosecution for any crimes which may have been committed before the Message, I would like to request that all of you cease any illegal activities in which you may now be engaged.”
There was a small stir in the room. One, a fat man with an unlit cigar drooping from his lips, spoke. “Sir, with all due respect, why do you take us for criminals.”
As he spoke, Putin fixed him with a lidless stare until the other man dropped his gaze. “We are not stupid, you nor I. You know that I called you here today; you know that I am aware of who you all are and where you may be found. These things are not unknown to the government.”
“Then why are we guaranteed amnesty?”
“Because the fabric of society must not buckle during this war. All of you are hard men; we need such men to help prepare our society for the terrors of a war on the very forces of Hell. And we will need such men to administer the territories of Hell once it has been conquered. I am asking all of you to become respectable, but I am not asking you to lose profits.”
That seemed to seal it for most of them. As he walked away, Putin allowed himself a thin smile. Russia would show the world what she was capable of, and Russia would play her part in fighting eternal damnation now and forever.
The Fifth Circle of Hell
Lieutenant Jade Kim tried to move. She was stretched out on some form of frame, her wrists secured by a bronze shackle with a heavy spike driven through the palm of her hands. The pain caused by her moving was severe but that was the least of her problems. She was submerged in a ghastly mass that seemed to be comprised of equal portions of mud, toxic waste, and raw sewage, she was drowning in it, only able to breathe by the occasional drafts of air as the movement of the foul swamp briefly exposed her face. She had no idea how long she’d been here, but she did know she’d be in this place for eternity unless she did something about it. Or, worse, she might be hauled out for another dose of the treatment she’d got when she had arrived. Gang rape was so unimaginative, but she knew that if she hadn’t already been dead, the internal damage the baldricks had done would have killed her.
Time for applying the lessons driven home at SERE school. The drill taught by the instructors, Survive, Evade, Resist and Escape. The lesson in part four was that all bonds would loosen in time if worked on. Of course, she’d never been nailed down at SERE. The spike through her hand was the first problem, until that was out, she couldn’t do much else. She twisted her hand around, trying to get a grip on the spike, succeeding even though the effort sent waves of pain up her arm. Then she started to rock it from side to side. She had no idea how long she kept trying, it seemed like forever, but suddenly she was aware the spike was moving slightly with her pressure. Encouraged, she kept up the effort, feeling the motion increasing as the spike worked free. Then, at last, it was loose, and she worked it up through her fingers, exquisitely careful not to drop it. Who knew how deep this muck was and anything dropped might never be found again.
But, with the spike free, she had a lever at last. Still, with painstaking care, she worked it around and pushed it under the iron bracket that held her wrist down. Once more she started to push, levering the bracket away from its frame. In time, it loosened, and she took a deep breath. The way she had been taught, she crossed her thumb over the palm of her hand and wrenched. Her hand slid under the shackle, scraping the skin off in the process but her arm was free. That made levering the rest of the bronze work off her much, much easier. Her arms and legs freed, she was able to move, and she now had four spikes as weapons.
The sight once she got her head out of the muck was grim, some sort of river meandering through the gray, foul-smelling wasteland. Enough to fill anybody with despair which was, she supposed, quite intentional. There were rocky outcrops from the swamp, breaking the featureless plain but they didn’t matter too much right now. She’d survived and escaped, now it was time to evade. She stood, sinking in the foul mess up to her waist, and started to make her way to one of the rocks. It would be a start, but she’d only managed a few feet when she bumped into another cross under the mud. Instinctively, she reached down to clean the filth off the face of the victim.
“Hi, ell-tee.” It was McInery, the pilot of Tango-one-five-Charlie.
“Hi, Mac. Hold tight. I’ll help you get out of this.” With her spikes as levers, she was able to pry the shackles off quickly. “Salvage the spikes, we’re going to need them.”
She looked around quickly, it suddenly occurred to her that all the members of her unit would probably be close at hand. It didn’t take long to prove that correct and not much longer to get the six members of Recon Team Tango One-Five out.
“You’re out of uniform ell-tee,” McInery noted the fact casually. Kim looked at him and laughed, the first time that sound had been heard here for longer than anybody could remember.
“So are you sergeant.” She reached out and quickly drew three chevrons in the mud that coated them all. “There, that’s better.”
“You OK ell-tee?” Robinson, her co-pilot on Tango-one-five-Alpha spoke with pity in his voice, another thing that had never been heard for longer than anybody knew.
Kim glanced down, the damage the demons had done to her was obvious, even though the wounds were healing unnaturally fast. “Won’t do much good for my future sex life.” Then her voice caught and shook as the memory quickly overwhelmed her. “It wasn’t the size; it was the barbs.” Then she shook herself. It was gone, past. Now was time for the group to evade.
Only, something else got in the way. Or to be more precise, the supervisor of this area did. Jarakeflaxis was doing his routine rounds, amusing himself by disemboweling some of the humans choking in the swamp. In truth, he wasn’t paying much attentionto his surroundings, he’d been doing this round for millennia. He heard something, that wasn’t unusual, moans screams wails, all were quite familiar to him. Only this sounded like a human woman yelling “take him down.” Then six figures smacked into him, knocking him over and swarming on top of him.
Jarakeflaxis couldn’t believe it, they were humans. What were free humans doing here? They were slamming metal spikes into him, keeping him pinned down as he floundered in the mud. One of the humans was the woman he and his friends had enjoyed not so long ago. She had a spike in her hand, and he could see the gratification in her eyes as she started her swing. Then, he could see nothing because they’d driven their spikes into his eyes, and he was blinded.
Kim looked down at the torn, shattered body. Rage, hatred, and Krav Maga had killed Jarakeflaxis, killed him dead. So, started the Resist bit of SERE. “Well done boys. Get him over to the rock there.”
They dragged the body over, then Kim drove spikes through its hands, crucifying it against the outcrop. Then, she dipped the hand in its green blood and painted four letters over the scene.
“PFLH?” McInery was confused.
“People’s Front for the Liberation of Hell.” Kim grinned savagely. “That’s us, boys. Let’s tear this place apart.”
Wadi Al Khirr, Western Iraq
Memnon hissed softly and sniffed the remains of his companions. Groztith and Hezbitari had been flying next to him, soaring on the very ethers of this world savoring the panic and the fear. It was like the sweetest nectar to their refined senses. These monkeys were clever little things, they always had been but who would have imagined they would have come so far as to fly themselves in chariots of steel and plastic? Plastic. Memnon snorted in confusion. What was it? It was hard like metal, yet he could divine nothing of the earth from it. No metal, no ore. It had no elemental song within itself, it did not sing, it did not even hum. It was a dead thing this plastic that only told him its name and nothing more.
Yet these chariots of steel and plastic had been so very deadly, yes. Unleashing arrows of fire and steel that tore through ethereal flesh with rude abruptness and unerring accuracy his wing mates were overcome. Groztith barely had time to chant its challenge to the once born. The arrows tore him into this pool of viscera and smoking bone. Memnon groaned slightly as his ruined left shoulder began throbbing again, ephemeral essence gelling and congealing over the gaping wound where his massive leathery wings had been. The chariots had eyes and they were not fooled.
It had taken all of his will to overcome the pain and panic as another human arrow of steel and fire had pinned him between his once-proud wings. Hezbitari was dead as well, the leering face plastered against the cracked tree trunk to his left. The rest of the demonic form was sprayed in a smoldering mess splashed among the treetops and underbrush. "You're a fool Hezbitari," Memnon growled as he made it up to his cloven hooves and steadied himself. Above him, he still heard the chariots roaring triumphantly as they raced away after having circled over his clearing these last few minutes.
His senses smelled the approaching monkeys before he heard them, and he licked his lips. He smelled more plastic, and steel and he knew they were armed with weapons that wounded far worse than simple steel swords and spears. It did not matter. Briefly, it was like the old days, he had the advantage. He had their minds before they even knew he was there. These were not like the others, the ones whose minds seemed shielded by something he couldn’t explain. These, the ones in the long robes, were vulnerable still. He held their minds in his hands and carefully formed the image of himself, transparent, invisible in his own. They would see what he wanted them to and that was nothing. He let loose a deep throaty laugh like some predator from this world's bygone days. Memnon liked to play with his food. It was time for his pound of flesh.
The first monkey peered over some underbrush, carefully keeping his crafted spear of plastic and steel before him like a talisman. Memnon stood imperiously, arms crossed, and quietly waited as more of them approached, tentative and fearful. Some whispered curses as they saw the charred remains of his wing mates blasted all over the clearing. Several were easily within an arm's length of the never born as it watched them with cold satisfaction. Twelve of them in all moved in tight formation into the clearing. What an auspicious number, Memnon mused.
Arabic. The language was Arabic. His gift of tongues was perfect as he listened to the monkeys musing and whispering as they examined the remains of his wing brothers. By the time the clouds overhead lifted, and the sun showed down on these fields the ephemeral flesh and bone would boil and hiss away. One of them lifted a box to his ears and spoke into it. He could feel the ether sparking around him and trilling with voices. They were communicating over distances without seeing their audience. He had heard of this phenomenon from those who dared venture into this plain. He did not believe it until now.
"Clever little monkeys, you have come far." He finally spoke breaking the silence in perfect flawless Arabic save for the omnipresent low growl that undercut every syllable. Some of the al-Quaeda men whirled around and began firing wildly. They could not see him.
No matter. It was time for his pound of flesh. One of the humans stared dumbly down at his chest as a taloned claw erupted from his chest in a gruesome spray of crimson gore and bone. The soldier's eyes focused on the still-beating heart held in the claws like an obscene flower before dimming forever. Memnon shuddered in near orgasmic joy as he felt the passage of the essence through him and into the depths of his realm. The fallen soldier’s fellows screamed incomprehensibly in a panic, some fumbling for grenades, and others were firing into the smoky form dancing along the edges of their perceptions. They heard the guttural chant of challenge from their unseen attacker and some of them found their bowels turned to water and fear gripped them as surely as the talon gripped the hapless soldier's heart. They had come to set up another roadside bomb, to strike another blow at the devils who had invaded earth, but it was they who had been ambushed. Memnon's eyes rolled into the back of his head like a Great White Shark’ revealing black within black eyes, lifeless, like a doll's eyes, and he descended upon the children of Seth and ravaged them as only the never born could with divine fury and hunger. Their screams could be heard for kilometers and then there was only a sudden still silence.
Muncie, Indiana, United States of America
Muncie was a small town, typical of the American rust belt. Highly religious, and conservative, with 65,000 people before the Message and 50,000 after, the city had been ailing even before a quarter of the population had laid down and died. The manufacturing industry had been slowly abandoning the city for decades, leaving it with rusting, overgrown factories, a 23 percent poverty rate, and a hospital and university as the largest employers. The Message had hit the town hard, too as it had most of the rural, conservative American Midwest, leaving the local economy in shambles and even further down the toilet.
Sharon McShurley, the newly elected mayor, was sitting at her desk in the Town Hall wondering for the millionth time that day what she was going to do when the telephone rang. She picked it up. “Hello, the Mayor speaking.”
“Mrs. McShurley?” The voice was male and unfamiliar.
“Yes? May I ask who this is?”
“This is Nathan Feltman, Secretary of Commerce for Indiana.”
“Ah, Mr. Feltman. How can I help you?”
“Mrs. McShurley, I was contacted not five hours ago by Secretary of Commerce Carlos Gutierrez. You know of The Message?”
“Of course.”
“And of the developments in Iraq?”
“Of course. It's been all over the news.” Truth was, she'd been doing little more than watching the news since The Message. There had seemed so little she could do even to regain control over her small town.
“Secretary Gutierrez has informed me that the United States is immediately shifting to a war economy. I don't know how things will work on the military side, but on the economic side, we're going to be ramping up production as fast as possible. I've already spoken with the mayors of Indianapolis, Gary-Hammond, Fort Wayne, Evansville, and Anderson. Do you have a list of production overcapacity and unused assets in Muncie?”
“Yes, we do.” Unemployment was just the single most pressing problem in the city and had been for Thirtyyears.
“We need to compare our list with yours, and then we'll send the updated versionto the US Department of Commerce. They'll be asking corporations to buy them up and get working on military equipment. Given Indiana's central location, rail accessibility, and manufacturing history, we'll be up near the top.”
Feltmann gave McShurley the fax number for the Indiana Department of Commerce, and within twenty minutes, the substantial list of old factories, closed-up warehouses, abandoned rail yards, and defunct properties were on its way to Indianapolis. A half-hour and two double-checks later, it was again winging its way through cyberspace to Washington, D.C., where an undersecretary of commerce opened it and copy-pasted its contents into a secure website, open only to the procurement officers of the vast national and international corporations which supplied the US military with its equipment.
The next day, McShurley was in her office when the phone rang again. “Hello?”
“Mayor Sharon McShurley?” Another unfamiliar voice.
“Speaking.”
“This is John Walker, with Borg Warner Automotive. Considering the recent developments, we've decided not to close down the plant in Muncie. Instead, we're retooling it to provide transmissions for tanks.”
“Well, that's certainly happy news. Thank you.”
The man hung up, McShurley got back to her paperwork, and within a half-hour, the phone rang again. “Hello?”
“Mayor Sharon McShurley of Muncie?”
“Speaking.”
“I'm James Torida of General Dynamics Land Systems. We have acquired an older factory in Muncie to build M1A2 parts, and we would like the cooperation of the local government in finding employees and in renovating and retooling the plant as quickly as possible.”
“We'd love to help in any way we can.”
They discussed the details of the deal for fifteen minutes, then hung up. McShurley heaved a sigh – two in one day! Wow!
The phone rang again fifteen minutes later. It was General Dynamics Ordnance and Tactical Systems, wanting again cooperation, tax breaks, etc., to get another old plant up and running, this time to manufacture AIM-120C missile casings. McShurley was more than willing to cooperate.
Before business hours ended, three more corporations had called. One wanted to acquire land to build a fourth railroad track south through the city; apparently, it was working on a line south from Chicago to Cincinnati and the Ohio River to supply raw materials from the mines in Minnesota and Ontario down to barges on the Ohio. The second had bought two abandoned warehouses on the south side of Muncie and wanted to open the old track yard to the warehouses to help supply the rejuvenated factories. The third was applying for a construction permit for the properties northwest of town that had so recently been slated for urban sprawl.
804 South Tillotson Ave., Muncie, Indiana, USA
Jim Schenkel had been a tool machinist for forty years before being laid off from his long-time job in 2003. He'd elected to retire instead of pursuing another job, and for the past five years he'd followed the same schedule: up at six, drink his coffee, read the morning paper over toast, an egg, and a glass of orange juice, tend his gardens until lunch, eat a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, monitor his investments and piddle around in his workshop until dinner, eat a bowl of soup, then watch the news until 10.
It was 1:30 AM when the phone rang. Groggily, he rolled over and picked up the receiver on the sixth ring. “Hello?”
“Jim? Jack Roberts here.” Jack Roberts was his old supervisor at the ABB factory before they'd all been fired, and the place shut down.
“Jack? Why the hell are you calling me at – “he squinted at the clock – “1:30 in the morning?”
“Jim, you're re-hired. We need you in tomorrow morning at 6:30.”
“What the hell's going on, Jack?”
“The factory's been started back up for the war effort. We need all the equipment repaired and retooled; the management wants the lines rolling in a week.”
“... the hell? I'm retired, God damnit.”
“As I said, we need you back. To be blunt, Jim, you don't have a choice. We'll send men out to get you if you can't make it on your own.”
“I don't give – “he stared at the receiver, listening to the audible dial tone.
The next morning, at 6:30, he pulled into the parking lot of the ABB factory on the south side of town and stared. It was packed with cars, and people were streaming toward the factory. The factory itself was brightly lit; the loading docks were packed with semis, and parts were already starting to form small piles waiting to be taken inside. He parked his car and joined the flow of humanity heading back to work.
That morning, The Star Press headlines read, “Look out, Baldricks! Here comes Muncie!” That day, the mayor’s office received eight more phone calls from corporations, and the first semis and trains started to roll into the city as construction equipment started to move away from the university – which had agreed to put its new dorm on hold for the time being to aid in the war effort – and toward the old, broken-down factories. Overnight, the city had been transformed.
And it wasn't alone. Across the eastern Midwest, the rust belt was being de-oxidized. Surveyors were entering old factories, cleaning companies entering and sweeping up dust, weeds were being cleared, and broken windows were replaced. Lights that hadn't shone for decades were being turned on and replaced; cars were parking in lots that were more grass than gravel and hadn't been touched by tires for Thirtyyears. More and more trains were rolling out of yards and thundering down the immense but ailing network of tracks connecting American cities, and tractor-trailer semis were moving down the highways in huge fleets, carrying piping and wires and tools and other implements of the new war economy.
If Satan could have looked up from Hell and seen this, if he had wanted to learn about his enemies, if he had been capable of comprehending the vast network of the US economy and felt the rage at betrayal coursing through the collective veins of that nation, he might have felt that he was seeing the first traces of life in the resurrection of a giant long dead. But in the next dimension, sitting on his throne, lording over his sulfurous domain, and trying to figure out how fifteen of the senior generals in Abigor's army had spontaneously exploded, these thoughts never even occurred to him. Ignorance is bliss until the first bombs start dropping.
Moscow, Russia
And these changes were hardly unique to the US. In Russia, Vladimir Putin had immediately accelerated the redevelopment of the military; old factories closed during the economic woes of the 1990s were being reopened, and old mines and oil wells were being rechecked for viability. The storage depots and military installations were being searched for equipment, tanks, armored carriers, and artillery that had been sitting in storage for a decade or more was being refurbished. New tracks were being laid, and the first of tens of thousands of new T-90S tanks were rolling off the final assembly lines even as he walked toward this meeting, flanked by security forces.
Putin entered the church and crossed himself before the altar before he turned to the men gathered there, about ten in all: the heads of the Russian mob. He spoke first, taking charge, as always. “Gentlemen. You are not stupid; you know why I've gathered you here today.”
They all nodded with varying degrees of alacrity. Putin continued. “Now, the human species faces a threat greater than anything it has ever faced in its past. We – I and all of you – face not just extinction, but eternal damnation. This is now our reality.” He paused to evaluate what he saw on their faces. Blank, hard, determined – they share the vision, he reminded himself, just like every live human now. “Therefore, in return for amnesty from prosecution for any crimes which may have been committed before the Message, I would like to request that all of you cease any illegal activities in which you may now be engaged.”
There was a small stir in the room. One, a fat man with an unlit cigar drooping from his lips, spoke. “Sir, with all due respect, why do you take us for criminals.”
As he spoke, Putin fixed him with a lidless stare until the other man dropped his gaze. “We are not stupid, you nor I. You know that I called you here today; you know that I am aware of who you all are and where you may be found. These things are not unknown to the government.”
“Then why are we guaranteed amnesty?”
“Because the fabric of society must not buckle during this war. All of you are hard men; we need such men to help prepare our society for the terrors of a war on the very forces of Hell. And we will need such men to administer the territories of Hell once it has been conquered. I am asking all of you to become respectable, but I am not asking you to lose profits.”
That seemed to seal it for most of them. As he walked away, Putin allowed himself a thin smile. Russia would show the world what she was capable of, and Russia would play her part in fighting eternal damnation now and forever.
The Fifth Circle of Hell
Lieutenant Jade Kim tried to move. She was stretched out on some form of frame, her wrists secured by a bronze shackle with a heavy spike driven through the palm of her hands. The pain caused by her moving was severe but that was the least of her problems. She was submerged in a ghastly mass that seemed to be comprised of equal portions of mud, toxic waste, and raw sewage, she was drowning in it, only able to breathe by the occasional drafts of air as the movement of the foul swamp briefly exposed her face. She had no idea how long she’d been here, but she did know she’d be in this place for eternity unless she did something about it. Or, worse, she might be hauled out for another dose of the treatment she’d got when she had arrived. Gang rape was so unimaginative, but she knew that if she hadn’t already been dead, the internal damage the baldricks had done would have killed her.
Time for applying the lessons driven home at SERE school. The drill taught by the instructors, Survive, Evade, Resist and Escape. The lesson in part four was that all bonds would loosen in time if worked on. Of course, she’d never been nailed down at SERE. The spike through her hand was the first problem, until that was out, she couldn’t do much else. She twisted her hand around, trying to get a grip on the spike, succeeding even though the effort sent waves of pain up her arm. Then she started to rock it from side to side. She had no idea how long she kept trying, it seemed like forever, but suddenly she was aware the spike was moving slightly with her pressure. Encouraged, she kept up the effort, feeling the motion increasing as the spike worked free. Then, at last, it was loose, and she worked it up through her fingers, exquisitely careful not to drop it. Who knew how deep this muck was and anything dropped might never be found again.
But, with the spike free, she had a lever at last. Still, with painstaking care, she worked it around and pushed it under the iron bracket that held her wrist down. Once more she started to push, levering the bracket away from its frame. In time, it loosened, and she took a deep breath. The way she had been taught, she crossed her thumb over the palm of her hand and wrenched. Her hand slid under the shackle, scraping the skin off in the process but her arm was free. That made levering the rest of the bronze work off her much, much easier. Her arms and legs freed, she was able to move, and she now had four spikes as weapons.
The sight once she got her head out of the muck was grim, some sort of river meandering through the gray, foul-smelling wasteland. Enough to fill anybody with despair which was, she supposed, quite intentional. There were rocky outcrops from the swamp, breaking the featureless plain but they didn’t matter too much right now. She’d survived and escaped, now it was time to evade. She stood, sinking in the foul mess up to her waist, and started to make her way to one of the rocks. It would be a start, but she’d only managed a few feet when she bumped into another cross under the mud. Instinctively, she reached down to clean the filth off the face of the victim.
“Hi, ell-tee.” It was McInery, the pilot of Tango-one-five-Charlie.
“Hi, Mac. Hold tight. I’ll help you get out of this.” With her spikes as levers, she was able to pry the shackles off quickly. “Salvage the spikes, we’re going to need them.”
She looked around quickly, it suddenly occurred to her that all the members of her unit would probably be close at hand. It didn’t take long to prove that correct and not much longer to get the six members of Recon Team Tango One-Five out.
“You’re out of uniform ell-tee,” McInery noted the fact casually. Kim looked at him and laughed, the first time that sound had been heard here for longer than anybody could remember.
“So are you sergeant.” She reached out and quickly drew three chevrons in the mud that coated them all. “There, that’s better.”
“You OK ell-tee?” Robinson, her co-pilot on Tango-one-five-Alpha spoke with pity in his voice, another thing that had never been heard for longer than anybody knew.
Kim glanced down, the damage the demons had done to her was obvious, even though the wounds were healing unnaturally fast. “Won’t do much good for my future sex life.” Then her voice caught and shook as the memory quickly overwhelmed her. “It wasn’t the size; it was the barbs.” Then she shook herself. It was gone, past. Now was time for the group to evade.
Only, something else got in the way. Or to be more precise, the supervisor of this area did. Jarakeflaxis was doing his routine rounds, amusing himself by disemboweling some of the humans choking in the swamp. In truth, he wasn’t paying much attentionto his surroundings, he’d been doing this round for millennia. He heard something, that wasn’t unusual, moans screams wails, all were quite familiar to him. Only this sounded like a human woman yelling “take him down.” Then six figures smacked into him, knocking him over and swarming on top of him.
Jarakeflaxis couldn’t believe it, they were humans. What were free humans doing here? They were slamming metal spikes into him, keeping him pinned down as he floundered in the mud. One of the humans was the woman he and his friends had enjoyed not so long ago. She had a spike in her hand, and he could see the gratification in her eyes as she started her swing. Then, he could see nothing because they’d driven their spikes into his eyes, and he was blinded.
Kim looked down at the torn, shattered body. Rage, hatred, and Krav Maga had killed Jarakeflaxis, killed him dead. So, started the Resist bit of SERE. “Well done boys. Get him over to the rock there.”
They dragged the body over, then Kim drove spikes through its hands, crucifying it against the outcrop. Then, she dipped the hand in its green blood and painted four letters over the scene.
“PFLH?” McInery was confused.
“People’s Front for the Liberation of Hell.” Kim grinned savagely. “That’s us, boys. Let’s tear this place apart.”
Wadi Al Khirr, Western Iraq
Memnon hissed softly and sniffed the remains of his companions. Groztith and Hezbitari had been flying next to him, soaring on the very ethers of this world savoring the panic and the fear. It was like the sweetest nectar to their refined senses. These monkeys were clever little things, they always had been but who would have imagined they would have come so far as to fly themselves in chariots of steel and plastic? Plastic. Memnon snorted in confusion. What was it? It was hard like metal, yet he could divine nothing of the earth from it. No metal, no ore. It had no elemental song within itself, it did not sing, it did not even hum. It was a dead thing this plastic that only told him its name and nothing more.
Yet these chariots of steel and plastic had been so very deadly, yes. Unleashing arrows of fire and steel that tore through ethereal flesh with rude abruptness and unerring accuracy his wing mates were overcome. Groztith barely had time to chant its challenge to the once born. The arrows tore him into this pool of viscera and smoking bone. Memnon groaned slightly as his ruined left shoulder began throbbing again, ephemeral essence gelling and congealing over the gaping wound where his massive leathery wings had been. The chariots had eyes and they were not fooled.
It had taken all of his will to overcome the pain and panic as another human arrow of steel and fire had pinned him between his once-proud wings. Hezbitari was dead as well, the leering face plastered against the cracked tree trunk to his left. The rest of the demonic form was sprayed in a smoldering mess splashed among the treetops and underbrush. "You're a fool Hezbitari," Memnon growled as he made it up to his cloven hooves and steadied himself. Above him, he still heard the chariots roaring triumphantly as they raced away after having circled over his clearing these last few minutes.
His senses smelled the approaching monkeys before he heard them, and he licked his lips. He smelled more plastic, and steel and he knew they were armed with weapons that wounded far worse than simple steel swords and spears. It did not matter. Briefly, it was like the old days, he had the advantage. He had their minds before they even knew he was there. These were not like the others, the ones whose minds seemed shielded by something he couldn’t explain. These, the ones in the long robes, were vulnerable still. He held their minds in his hands and carefully formed the image of himself, transparent, invisible in his own. They would see what he wanted them to and that was nothing. He let loose a deep throaty laugh like some predator from this world's bygone days. Memnon liked to play with his food. It was time for his pound of flesh.
The first monkey peered over some underbrush, carefully keeping his crafted spear of plastic and steel before him like a talisman. Memnon stood imperiously, arms crossed, and quietly waited as more of them approached, tentative and fearful. Some whispered curses as they saw the charred remains of his wing mates blasted all over the clearing. Several were easily within an arm's length of the never born as it watched them with cold satisfaction. Twelve of them in all moved in tight formation into the clearing. What an auspicious number, Memnon mused.
Arabic. The language was Arabic. His gift of tongues was perfect as he listened to the monkeys musing and whispering as they examined the remains of his wing brothers. By the time the clouds overhead lifted, and the sun showed down on these fields the ephemeral flesh and bone would boil and hiss away. One of them lifted a box to his ears and spoke into it. He could feel the ether sparking around him and trilling with voices. They were communicating over distances without seeing their audience. He had heard of this phenomenon from those who dared venture into this plain. He did not believe it until now.
"Clever little monkeys, you have come far." He finally spoke breaking the silence in perfect flawless Arabic save for the omnipresent low growl that undercut every syllable. Some of the al-Quaeda men whirled around and began firing wildly. They could not see him.
No matter. It was time for his pound of flesh. One of the humans stared dumbly down at his chest as a taloned claw erupted from his chest in a gruesome spray of crimson gore and bone. The soldier's eyes focused on the still-beating heart held in the claws like an obscene flower before dimming forever. Memnon shuddered in near orgasmic joy as he felt the passage of the essence through him and into the depths of his realm. The fallen soldier’s fellows screamed incomprehensibly in a panic, some fumbling for grenades, and others were firing into the smoky form dancing along the edges of their perceptions. They heard the guttural chant of challenge from their unseen attacker and some of them found their bowels turned to water and fear gripped them as surely as the talon gripped the hapless soldier's heart. They had come to set up another roadside bomb, to strike another blow at the devils who had invaded earth, but it was they who had been ambushed. Memnon's eyes rolled into the back of his head like a Great White Shark’ revealing black within black eyes, lifeless, like a doll's eyes, and he descended upon the children of Seth and ravaged them as only the never born could with divine fury and hunger. Their screams could be heard for kilometers and then there was only a sudden still silence.
Re: 2008 - Armageddon
Chapter Nine
Wadi Al Jaram, Western Iraq
“Now hollow fires burn out to black, and lights are guttering low.
Square your shoulders, lift your pack, and leave your friends and go.
Oh, never fear, man, nought's to dread, look not to left nor right:
In all the endless road you tread, there's nothing but the night.”
“Sorry, Sir?”
“Houseman, poem called ‘A Shropshire Lad’ about the kids who died fighting for Queen Victoria in far-off parts of the Empire. How they left home and died for thirteen pence a day. His theme was that they couldn’t see what they were dying for or the point of it all. We’re spared that, we know what we’re fighting for here.” Brigadier John Carlson glanced down at his watch. “Today. When dawn comes, we will be fighting for everything there is to fight for. There’s literally nothing we won’t be fighting for.”
“That’s not true Sir.” Simon deVere Cole, Carlson’s ADC was speaking equally softly. “We’re not fighting for God. Queen and Country, yes. Our people, yes. The whole of humanity, yes. But not God. Never again. We stand for ourselves this day, on our own two feet. The men are saying it’s about time too.”
“That’s good. I wish there were just a few more of them.” That was the truth. Carlson had the British Brigade here, The Royal Dragoon Guards, a regiment of Challenger II tanks, were dug in along the ridgeline, with the 1st Duke of Lancaster and 1st Mercian, two battalions of mechanized infantry with their Warrior armored carriers, beside them. From the front, all that could be seen of them was the tops of their turrets peeking over the ridge. From behind, the tanks were sitting in open-backed revetments, so they could fall back from this positionto the next. Carlson looked up at the stars overhead. It was a trite cliché that looking up at them made man and his works seem insignificant and now it was a false cliché as well. For today, man’s works made the heavens themselves insignificant. And Carlson had just a regiment of tanks and two battalions of mechanized infantry. Plus, his artillery batteries of course, and a lot of engineers. One advantage of a “peace-keeping” mission was that there were a lot of civilian development projects involved and they needed engineers. Those engineers had been hard at work for the last few days.
Out in front, he could see the result of their labors. A shimmering river that stretched north and south as far as he could see, glistening gently in the moonlight. It was a beautiful sight if one didn’t know what the silver river was, to those who had seen what razor-wire could do, it glimmered with evil promise. Yet even worse was what nobody could see until it was too late, the thousands of anti-personnel and anti-tank mines sewn across the front. Carlson’s plan was quite simple, all good military plans were. He would break the enemy attack on the minefields and wire while his artillery poured fire into the mass of enemy hung up in front of him. As they broke through the mines and wire, as they surely would, his tanks would slaughter them while the infantry protected the tanks. The wire and the mines were his force multiplier, the thing that would allow him to stand against the force threatening him.
He ran those figures through his mind as well, 93,300 infantry, 6,666 cavalry, and 2,187 harpies. Less those killed by attrition in the long march to contact. Against them, he had just over 8,000 men. The government in the UK had promised him more, but they were a long time coming, years of British under-spending on defense had seen to that. Those years were gone but even with the Government printing all the money it needed for the war effort, it would take time for the added productionto reach the front. The RAF had only four C-17 transports and their priority had been to fly aluminum foil out to the theater. Every man in his force now had his helmet lined with aluminum foil and the people in the rear were handing rolls of the stuff out to the civilians. Strangely, this was already shaping up to be one of the great logistics achievements of the war. A concerted effort to give every human on earth his own aluminum foil hat. Carlson chuckled; he suddenly had a picture of aluminum haberdashery becoming a study topic at Sandhurst.
“Sir. General Fereidoon Zolfaghari to see you.” deVere Cole interrupted the train of thought.
“General, Sir.” Carlson snapped out the salute. The Iranian General returned it punctiliously.
“I think you will be pleased to see me, Brigadier.” The English was excellent. “I have brought with me the Shamshar Armored Division. Three of my regiments of T-72s, 324 tanks, are moving into position along your left while we speak, supported by a regiment of armored infantry, 108 BMP-1s. We have not the excellent position you have here, but the Global Hawks tell us the enemy will strike your position first. When they die on your wire, we think they will try and flank you. They cannot go to your right, the Hawr al Hammar prevents that. They must go to the left, right into the guns of my tanks and artillery.”
“We’re more than pleased to see you General, you’re a sight for sore eyes. We’re expecting to get hit after dawn. That glow on the horizon? It’s the Baldrick’s campfires.” A thought occurred to Carlson. “Have all your men aluminum foil for their helmets? We have plenty if you are in need.”
“The Americans gave us enough, thank you, but I will spread the word. If any of my units are short, we will come to you. If I may offer you some help in return? You are very light on anti-aircraft here. I have an extra anti-aircraft regiment, the Shamshar is a composite division, made up of what is left of all four of our southern armored divisions. So many of our men went when The Message was sent, we could not support all the units we had. At least it means we are not short of front-line equipment for those we have left. I would be honored if you would accept the attachment of the regiment to your force. It has SA-8 missiles and ZSU-23/4 guns.”
“Thank you, I am honored to accept. General, I was about to have some tea and a little fruit. It is poor refreshment to offer a comrade in arms, but perhaps you would deign to join us?”
“I would prefer a glass of the whisky for which your Scots are so famous.” Carlson lifted an eyebrow and Zolfaghari smiled gently. “The pact is broken; the commandments do not apply. Now we have faith only in our tanks and guns.”
Like any good ADC, deVere Cole had anticipated his Brigadier’s needs and a bottle of 18-year-old Laphroaig had appeared. He measured out glasses for the two officers.
“Oh, come on Simon, pour one for yourself as well.”
“Thank you, Sir.”
“To the morrow and may the day be ours.” Carlson’s voice rang across the moonlit desert.
“And to our arms. May we bring honor to our countries and those we fight beside.” Zolfaghari’s response echoed across the dunes. Below them, the razor wire seemed to sway in response, but it was just the wind rippling across the sand.
Headquarters, Multi-National Force Iraq, Green Zone, Baghdad.
General Petraeus stood in front of the great screen that showed the disposition of forces in Iraq. Viewed one way, what he was about to do was commit an act of mass murder. The thought made him chuckle quietly to himself, a long time ago he’d held a press conference and the subject of night vision equipment had come up. The American officer behind the podium had explained how the U.S. Army had night vision equipment that enabled them to fight a 24-hour battle while their enemy didn’t have anything approaching that capability. One journalist had been greatly angered by that and had launched a tirade about how the one-sided night-fighting capability “wasn’t fair.”
Well, what was happening now wasn’t fair either. The screen showed the disposition and order of battle of the Hellish forces in detail. The Predators and Global Hawks were doing sterling work, tracking every move the baldricks made. Zoom down far enough and the display could show how and where individual baldricks were deploying and spending their time. It was painfully obvious that the baldricks had no such capability. They were charging head-first into a trap, unwavering, unconcerned with what the humans were doing. Petraeus was doing his best to help them, his aircraft had been carefully hitting the command structure of the enemy forces, slowly but surely breaking up their ability to adapt to changing circumstances.
It was far worse even than that. The baldricks were moving slowly, as a professional, Petraeus recognized them for what they were, an infantry army that moved like one. Slowly, ponderously. They had their cavalry out as screens of course but it was a myth that cavalry forces could move much faster than leg infantry, they could in a tactical sense, but the difference strategically was marginal at best. The harpies had been more of a worry, there had been an effort to use them as an advance guard, but they’d been shot out of the sky by the F-16s based at Kirkuk and Incirlik. The small detachments, usually three at a time hadn’t stood a chance against the fast jets and after a while, their commander had stopped sending them out.
In contrast, the Allied forces were mobile almost to the point of insanity. They could slash at an enemy formation, disengage, regroup and slash again while their enemy was still wondering what to do about the first attack. Petraeus had moved the whole of his First Armored Division against the northern flanking force. Petraeus grimaced, the northern force was identical to that bearing down on the British Brigade, but the British formation was the weakest of all his combat groups. It was a calculated risk; nobody could be strong everywhere and the British position was the easiest to defend in depth. If the baldricks broke through there, Petraeus had two brigades of the Fourth Infantry Division north of the battle area and the 82nd Airborne in Kuwait ready to pinch off the breakthrough.
In the center, Petraeus had positioned his 25th Mechanized Infantry Division, the 10th Mountain Division, and the 15th Marine Expeditionary Brigade. They were his stop line, intended to hold the main body of the baldrick force. Only, Petraeus didn’t intend to stop them If the baldrick commander had anything like the command capabilities at Petraeus’s disposal he could have seen what the American General had in mind. The main body of the baldrick force would indeed be pinned on the American Corps in front of Baghdad but while they threshed there, the allied northern and southern forces would be closing in on their flanks and rear. By the time they realized what was happening, the racing tanks of the First Armored would be between them and the Hellmouth. It had all the makings of a military catastrophe.
Petraeus knew that if he pulled this off, it would go down as one of the greatest envelopments of all time, comparable with those the Germans had pulled off at the start of their war with Russia. That was one of the things that made Petraeus uneasy, for all the scale of those early victories, the Germans had lost the war with Russia and most skilled strategists knew that they had never really had a chance of doing otherwise. What was facing the baldricks was an unparalleled military disaster, yet Petraeus knew in his heart that this was just the opening move. He had no idea of the military resources’ hell could throw at Earth and until he had a handle on that data, he was fighting blind. All he could do was make sure the casualty rate was as lopsided as possible.
“Sir. A message just in. The Iranian Shamshar Division is arriving and taking up positionto the south of the British. They’ll be in a defensive position by dawn. General Zolfaghari has ceded operational command of the defense to Brigadier Carlson as officer-in-position.”
“Thank you, Charles. Send my compliments to the General and my appreciation of an advance to contact well-executed.” There was more to that message than met the eye and the recipient would know it. Ceding overall command to an officer of lesser rank had been a magnanimous gesture, one that spoke volumes about the character of the Iranian general. Privately, Petraeus promised himself that he would see Zolfaghari receive full credit for his part in this operation. Then his mind went back to the battle that was about to unfold. What could go wrong? What hadn’t he foreseen? What were his options when everything dropped in the pot?
He looked again at the huge display on the wall. Four new symbols had just appeared, the Iranian regiments covering the southern flank of the British brigade. Everything was set up; the pieces were in position. Behind the allied lines, the truck convoys with their supplies of ammunition and fuel were waiting to support the lunge forward. With them were his reserves, Stryker brigades, and more mechanized infantry. Again, Petraeus reflected on just how unfair this battle was going to be. A human general would have known how and where the great ambush would be mounted, to a human, brought up on armored warfare and battles of maneuver, the Iraqi road network made the positions and deployments entirely predictable. The baldricks painfully obviously had no concept of those matters. Truly, this was a bronze age Army fighting a force from the 21st Century. That didn’t change the fact that this was a – literally – hellishly big bronze age army.
“I’m going outside for a few minutes. Get some fresh air.” Petraeus spoke to his deputy, settled his aluminum-lined baseball cap on his head, and left the command center, his bodyguards following. Outside, it was still night, the stars shining brightly down. In front of the command building sat four of the hulking M1A2 Abrams tanks, silent shadows in the darkness. Petraeus walked over to them, absent-mindedly returning the salutes from their crews as he racked his brain trying to think of outcomes and eventualities that might have missed his attention. It was no good, as far as he could see, he’d done all he could, it was time to rest and let the battle unfold.
Then he patted the massive sloping armor of the nearest tank. “Well, honey-bunny. It’s all down to you and yours now.”
Headquarters, Army of Abigor, Western Iraq.
Abigor stood over the wooden table, looking down at the parchment scroll that was pinned to it. It was a map of the area, with thick lines drawn on it, representing his forces as they fanned out across the countryside. His plan was simple, three thrusts, each aimed at a major population center. The city is called Kirkuk in the north, Baghdad in the center, and Basrah to the south. His mounted troops would brush any enemy opposition out of the way and leave the cities isolated. Then, his infantry would besiege them, cut off their supplies and starve the defenders. When the cities collapsed, they would storm the walls and ravage the inhabitants amid scenes of horror that would panic the remaining humans. They would stream away from his advance amid utter terror, and he would slaughter them while they did so. Humanity would die screaming for its defiance. As it should.
Where to go next? Once the fertile crescent of the Tigris-Euphrates had been cleared, what to do? Keep heading east into Persia or head west towards Jerusalem? Ravaging the area, the humans called “The Holy Land” would be satisfying and it would allow Satan to goad Yahweh over the fate of his “Chosen People”. That made Abigor grin, how could the humans have believed Yahweh for so long? Accepted every bit of good fortune that came their way as one of his gifts, dismissing every disaster as a test or trial. Abigor couldn’t help but think that humans must be terminally deluded. Perhaps that was why they were resisting now? They were hoping their Yahweh would change his mind and come to aid them? They were in for a disappointment if they were, it simply wasn’t happening.
Abigor tapped the parchment with a claw, thoughts irritating the outer edges of his mind. Just why did his commanders keep exploding? The humans had something to do with it, putting things together it had become obvious that the commanders exploded when the human’s flying chariots were around. Yet how? The chariots flew so high up they could hardly be seen. Sometimes the only clue they were there was the great white streak they left across the sky. How could they hit so precisely from so high? It was impossible. Abigor’s customary scowl deepened. Perhaps it wasn’t the humans after all. Promotion by assassinating one’s superiors was a well-known tactic in hell, smiled upon as long as it was successful. A commander who couldn’t even protect himself was unfit to be in a position of authority. And yet, and yet…. Some commanders had noted another pattern, it was always the leaders who rode ahead of their command, their banners flying proudly that died. Some had started to hide themselves in their units, keeping their banners furled and marching on foot like the rest. It showed a lack of pride and hurt the morale of the units, but those commanders lived.
Problems, more problems. The truth was that Abigor wasn’t quite sure where his units were or how much resistance they were facing. The distance he and his kind could read minds was limited to line of sight and with so many dead commanders lost from his ranks, communications were spotty at best. He’d tried sending out small groups of the flying demons to get information on the positions of his units, but the human flying chariots had killed them. Those flying chariots were a nuisance, they’d made the demonic fliers too vulnerable to use except in large groups. Just how did humans fly so high or move so fast? Some of them were so quick they arrived before their noise could be heard.
Abigor stretched and walked outside his tent, his clawed feet clicking on the stones in the sand. Above him, the stars shone brightly, their light amplified by the clear, dry desert skies. That was a unique thing about this dimension, Abigor’s home had no stars, no planets, not like these. It was a place that existed in and of itself, self-contained and alone. Heaven was the same, another self-contained, isolated entity that was complete within itself. Bubbles in a formless void.
Idly, Abigor wondered what would happen to this planet once the humans on it had been harvested. It would make a nice private retreat for his personal use. Would Satan allow him to keep it? He had conquered it after all. In his heart, he knew that would not be the case, Satan wouldn’t allow any of this realm to establish a presence outside it for to do so would be to give them the chance of establishing a power base independent of his reign. This planet would be abandoned, left to develop without humans. Perhaps to see another species of intelligent life develop and in its turn be harvested to serve the beings from the higher dimension. Abigor had heard that there were creatures living in the sea that were almost as intelligent as humans.
Another problem, another worry that flittered on the edge of his mind. He and his kind we’re used to being able to read human minds and control their thoughts, even across the dimensional rift. Once he and one of Yahweh’s angels had held a competitionto see who could cause the most minor fatal accidents in one day; he’d won that, 106 to 102. But now, it was becoming harder and harder to find humans who could be affected by the demon’s mind control. Something was getting in the way; something was stopping the demons from possessing the minds of anybody they chose. Already, nearly all the important people, the leaders, their minds were closed off. Even the lesser people, the peasants, were becoming immune. It was so hard to find one who could be possessed now.
Abigor shook himself. Why was he worried, a few days and it would all be over. Humanity would be a panicked mass, fleeing for its survival and a few days beyond that it would be gone forever. There wasn’t any point in worrying about details.
Wadi Al Jaram, Western Iraq
“Now hollow fires burn out to black, and lights are guttering low.
Square your shoulders, lift your pack, and leave your friends and go.
Oh, never fear, man, nought's to dread, look not to left nor right:
In all the endless road you tread, there's nothing but the night.”
“Sorry, Sir?”
“Houseman, poem called ‘A Shropshire Lad’ about the kids who died fighting for Queen Victoria in far-off parts of the Empire. How they left home and died for thirteen pence a day. His theme was that they couldn’t see what they were dying for or the point of it all. We’re spared that, we know what we’re fighting for here.” Brigadier John Carlson glanced down at his watch. “Today. When dawn comes, we will be fighting for everything there is to fight for. There’s literally nothing we won’t be fighting for.”
“That’s not true Sir.” Simon deVere Cole, Carlson’s ADC was speaking equally softly. “We’re not fighting for God. Queen and Country, yes. Our people, yes. The whole of humanity, yes. But not God. Never again. We stand for ourselves this day, on our own two feet. The men are saying it’s about time too.”
“That’s good. I wish there were just a few more of them.” That was the truth. Carlson had the British Brigade here, The Royal Dragoon Guards, a regiment of Challenger II tanks, were dug in along the ridgeline, with the 1st Duke of Lancaster and 1st Mercian, two battalions of mechanized infantry with their Warrior armored carriers, beside them. From the front, all that could be seen of them was the tops of their turrets peeking over the ridge. From behind, the tanks were sitting in open-backed revetments, so they could fall back from this positionto the next. Carlson looked up at the stars overhead. It was a trite cliché that looking up at them made man and his works seem insignificant and now it was a false cliché as well. For today, man’s works made the heavens themselves insignificant. And Carlson had just a regiment of tanks and two battalions of mechanized infantry. Plus, his artillery batteries of course, and a lot of engineers. One advantage of a “peace-keeping” mission was that there were a lot of civilian development projects involved and they needed engineers. Those engineers had been hard at work for the last few days.
Out in front, he could see the result of their labors. A shimmering river that stretched north and south as far as he could see, glistening gently in the moonlight. It was a beautiful sight if one didn’t know what the silver river was, to those who had seen what razor-wire could do, it glimmered with evil promise. Yet even worse was what nobody could see until it was too late, the thousands of anti-personnel and anti-tank mines sewn across the front. Carlson’s plan was quite simple, all good military plans were. He would break the enemy attack on the minefields and wire while his artillery poured fire into the mass of enemy hung up in front of him. As they broke through the mines and wire, as they surely would, his tanks would slaughter them while the infantry protected the tanks. The wire and the mines were his force multiplier, the thing that would allow him to stand against the force threatening him.
He ran those figures through his mind as well, 93,300 infantry, 6,666 cavalry, and 2,187 harpies. Less those killed by attrition in the long march to contact. Against them, he had just over 8,000 men. The government in the UK had promised him more, but they were a long time coming, years of British under-spending on defense had seen to that. Those years were gone but even with the Government printing all the money it needed for the war effort, it would take time for the added productionto reach the front. The RAF had only four C-17 transports and their priority had been to fly aluminum foil out to the theater. Every man in his force now had his helmet lined with aluminum foil and the people in the rear were handing rolls of the stuff out to the civilians. Strangely, this was already shaping up to be one of the great logistics achievements of the war. A concerted effort to give every human on earth his own aluminum foil hat. Carlson chuckled; he suddenly had a picture of aluminum haberdashery becoming a study topic at Sandhurst.
“Sir. General Fereidoon Zolfaghari to see you.” deVere Cole interrupted the train of thought.
“General, Sir.” Carlson snapped out the salute. The Iranian General returned it punctiliously.
“I think you will be pleased to see me, Brigadier.” The English was excellent. “I have brought with me the Shamshar Armored Division. Three of my regiments of T-72s, 324 tanks, are moving into position along your left while we speak, supported by a regiment of armored infantry, 108 BMP-1s. We have not the excellent position you have here, but the Global Hawks tell us the enemy will strike your position first. When they die on your wire, we think they will try and flank you. They cannot go to your right, the Hawr al Hammar prevents that. They must go to the left, right into the guns of my tanks and artillery.”
“We’re more than pleased to see you General, you’re a sight for sore eyes. We’re expecting to get hit after dawn. That glow on the horizon? It’s the Baldrick’s campfires.” A thought occurred to Carlson. “Have all your men aluminum foil for their helmets? We have plenty if you are in need.”
“The Americans gave us enough, thank you, but I will spread the word. If any of my units are short, we will come to you. If I may offer you some help in return? You are very light on anti-aircraft here. I have an extra anti-aircraft regiment, the Shamshar is a composite division, made up of what is left of all four of our southern armored divisions. So many of our men went when The Message was sent, we could not support all the units we had. At least it means we are not short of front-line equipment for those we have left. I would be honored if you would accept the attachment of the regiment to your force. It has SA-8 missiles and ZSU-23/4 guns.”
“Thank you, I am honored to accept. General, I was about to have some tea and a little fruit. It is poor refreshment to offer a comrade in arms, but perhaps you would deign to join us?”
“I would prefer a glass of the whisky for which your Scots are so famous.” Carlson lifted an eyebrow and Zolfaghari smiled gently. “The pact is broken; the commandments do not apply. Now we have faith only in our tanks and guns.”
Like any good ADC, deVere Cole had anticipated his Brigadier’s needs and a bottle of 18-year-old Laphroaig had appeared. He measured out glasses for the two officers.
“Oh, come on Simon, pour one for yourself as well.”
“Thank you, Sir.”
“To the morrow and may the day be ours.” Carlson’s voice rang across the moonlit desert.
“And to our arms. May we bring honor to our countries and those we fight beside.” Zolfaghari’s response echoed across the dunes. Below them, the razor wire seemed to sway in response, but it was just the wind rippling across the sand.
Headquarters, Multi-National Force Iraq, Green Zone, Baghdad.
General Petraeus stood in front of the great screen that showed the disposition of forces in Iraq. Viewed one way, what he was about to do was commit an act of mass murder. The thought made him chuckle quietly to himself, a long time ago he’d held a press conference and the subject of night vision equipment had come up. The American officer behind the podium had explained how the U.S. Army had night vision equipment that enabled them to fight a 24-hour battle while their enemy didn’t have anything approaching that capability. One journalist had been greatly angered by that and had launched a tirade about how the one-sided night-fighting capability “wasn’t fair.”
Well, what was happening now wasn’t fair either. The screen showed the disposition and order of battle of the Hellish forces in detail. The Predators and Global Hawks were doing sterling work, tracking every move the baldricks made. Zoom down far enough and the display could show how and where individual baldricks were deploying and spending their time. It was painfully obvious that the baldricks had no such capability. They were charging head-first into a trap, unwavering, unconcerned with what the humans were doing. Petraeus was doing his best to help them, his aircraft had been carefully hitting the command structure of the enemy forces, slowly but surely breaking up their ability to adapt to changing circumstances.
It was far worse even than that. The baldricks were moving slowly, as a professional, Petraeus recognized them for what they were, an infantry army that moved like one. Slowly, ponderously. They had their cavalry out as screens of course but it was a myth that cavalry forces could move much faster than leg infantry, they could in a tactical sense, but the difference strategically was marginal at best. The harpies had been more of a worry, there had been an effort to use them as an advance guard, but they’d been shot out of the sky by the F-16s based at Kirkuk and Incirlik. The small detachments, usually three at a time hadn’t stood a chance against the fast jets and after a while, their commander had stopped sending them out.
In contrast, the Allied forces were mobile almost to the point of insanity. They could slash at an enemy formation, disengage, regroup and slash again while their enemy was still wondering what to do about the first attack. Petraeus had moved the whole of his First Armored Division against the northern flanking force. Petraeus grimaced, the northern force was identical to that bearing down on the British Brigade, but the British formation was the weakest of all his combat groups. It was a calculated risk; nobody could be strong everywhere and the British position was the easiest to defend in depth. If the baldricks broke through there, Petraeus had two brigades of the Fourth Infantry Division north of the battle area and the 82nd Airborne in Kuwait ready to pinch off the breakthrough.
In the center, Petraeus had positioned his 25th Mechanized Infantry Division, the 10th Mountain Division, and the 15th Marine Expeditionary Brigade. They were his stop line, intended to hold the main body of the baldrick force. Only, Petraeus didn’t intend to stop them If the baldrick commander had anything like the command capabilities at Petraeus’s disposal he could have seen what the American General had in mind. The main body of the baldrick force would indeed be pinned on the American Corps in front of Baghdad but while they threshed there, the allied northern and southern forces would be closing in on their flanks and rear. By the time they realized what was happening, the racing tanks of the First Armored would be between them and the Hellmouth. It had all the makings of a military catastrophe.
Petraeus knew that if he pulled this off, it would go down as one of the greatest envelopments of all time, comparable with those the Germans had pulled off at the start of their war with Russia. That was one of the things that made Petraeus uneasy, for all the scale of those early victories, the Germans had lost the war with Russia and most skilled strategists knew that they had never really had a chance of doing otherwise. What was facing the baldricks was an unparalleled military disaster, yet Petraeus knew in his heart that this was just the opening move. He had no idea of the military resources’ hell could throw at Earth and until he had a handle on that data, he was fighting blind. All he could do was make sure the casualty rate was as lopsided as possible.
“Sir. A message just in. The Iranian Shamshar Division is arriving and taking up positionto the south of the British. They’ll be in a defensive position by dawn. General Zolfaghari has ceded operational command of the defense to Brigadier Carlson as officer-in-position.”
“Thank you, Charles. Send my compliments to the General and my appreciation of an advance to contact well-executed.” There was more to that message than met the eye and the recipient would know it. Ceding overall command to an officer of lesser rank had been a magnanimous gesture, one that spoke volumes about the character of the Iranian general. Privately, Petraeus promised himself that he would see Zolfaghari receive full credit for his part in this operation. Then his mind went back to the battle that was about to unfold. What could go wrong? What hadn’t he foreseen? What were his options when everything dropped in the pot?
He looked again at the huge display on the wall. Four new symbols had just appeared, the Iranian regiments covering the southern flank of the British brigade. Everything was set up; the pieces were in position. Behind the allied lines, the truck convoys with their supplies of ammunition and fuel were waiting to support the lunge forward. With them were his reserves, Stryker brigades, and more mechanized infantry. Again, Petraeus reflected on just how unfair this battle was going to be. A human general would have known how and where the great ambush would be mounted, to a human, brought up on armored warfare and battles of maneuver, the Iraqi road network made the positions and deployments entirely predictable. The baldricks painfully obviously had no concept of those matters. Truly, this was a bronze age Army fighting a force from the 21st Century. That didn’t change the fact that this was a – literally – hellishly big bronze age army.
“I’m going outside for a few minutes. Get some fresh air.” Petraeus spoke to his deputy, settled his aluminum-lined baseball cap on his head, and left the command center, his bodyguards following. Outside, it was still night, the stars shining brightly down. In front of the command building sat four of the hulking M1A2 Abrams tanks, silent shadows in the darkness. Petraeus walked over to them, absent-mindedly returning the salutes from their crews as he racked his brain trying to think of outcomes and eventualities that might have missed his attention. It was no good, as far as he could see, he’d done all he could, it was time to rest and let the battle unfold.
Then he patted the massive sloping armor of the nearest tank. “Well, honey-bunny. It’s all down to you and yours now.”
Headquarters, Army of Abigor, Western Iraq.
Abigor stood over the wooden table, looking down at the parchment scroll that was pinned to it. It was a map of the area, with thick lines drawn on it, representing his forces as they fanned out across the countryside. His plan was simple, three thrusts, each aimed at a major population center. The city is called Kirkuk in the north, Baghdad in the center, and Basrah to the south. His mounted troops would brush any enemy opposition out of the way and leave the cities isolated. Then, his infantry would besiege them, cut off their supplies and starve the defenders. When the cities collapsed, they would storm the walls and ravage the inhabitants amid scenes of horror that would panic the remaining humans. They would stream away from his advance amid utter terror, and he would slaughter them while they did so. Humanity would die screaming for its defiance. As it should.
Where to go next? Once the fertile crescent of the Tigris-Euphrates had been cleared, what to do? Keep heading east into Persia or head west towards Jerusalem? Ravaging the area, the humans called “The Holy Land” would be satisfying and it would allow Satan to goad Yahweh over the fate of his “Chosen People”. That made Abigor grin, how could the humans have believed Yahweh for so long? Accepted every bit of good fortune that came their way as one of his gifts, dismissing every disaster as a test or trial. Abigor couldn’t help but think that humans must be terminally deluded. Perhaps that was why they were resisting now? They were hoping their Yahweh would change his mind and come to aid them? They were in for a disappointment if they were, it simply wasn’t happening.
Abigor tapped the parchment with a claw, thoughts irritating the outer edges of his mind. Just why did his commanders keep exploding? The humans had something to do with it, putting things together it had become obvious that the commanders exploded when the human’s flying chariots were around. Yet how? The chariots flew so high up they could hardly be seen. Sometimes the only clue they were there was the great white streak they left across the sky. How could they hit so precisely from so high? It was impossible. Abigor’s customary scowl deepened. Perhaps it wasn’t the humans after all. Promotion by assassinating one’s superiors was a well-known tactic in hell, smiled upon as long as it was successful. A commander who couldn’t even protect himself was unfit to be in a position of authority. And yet, and yet…. Some commanders had noted another pattern, it was always the leaders who rode ahead of their command, their banners flying proudly that died. Some had started to hide themselves in their units, keeping their banners furled and marching on foot like the rest. It showed a lack of pride and hurt the morale of the units, but those commanders lived.
Problems, more problems. The truth was that Abigor wasn’t quite sure where his units were or how much resistance they were facing. The distance he and his kind could read minds was limited to line of sight and with so many dead commanders lost from his ranks, communications were spotty at best. He’d tried sending out small groups of the flying demons to get information on the positions of his units, but the human flying chariots had killed them. Those flying chariots were a nuisance, they’d made the demonic fliers too vulnerable to use except in large groups. Just how did humans fly so high or move so fast? Some of them were so quick they arrived before their noise could be heard.
Abigor stretched and walked outside his tent, his clawed feet clicking on the stones in the sand. Above him, the stars shone brightly, their light amplified by the clear, dry desert skies. That was a unique thing about this dimension, Abigor’s home had no stars, no planets, not like these. It was a place that existed in and of itself, self-contained and alone. Heaven was the same, another self-contained, isolated entity that was complete within itself. Bubbles in a formless void.
Idly, Abigor wondered what would happen to this planet once the humans on it had been harvested. It would make a nice private retreat for his personal use. Would Satan allow him to keep it? He had conquered it after all. In his heart, he knew that would not be the case, Satan wouldn’t allow any of this realm to establish a presence outside it for to do so would be to give them the chance of establishing a power base independent of his reign. This planet would be abandoned, left to develop without humans. Perhaps to see another species of intelligent life develop and in its turn be harvested to serve the beings from the higher dimension. Abigor had heard that there were creatures living in the sea that were almost as intelligent as humans.
Another problem, another worry that flittered on the edge of his mind. He and his kind we’re used to being able to read human minds and control their thoughts, even across the dimensional rift. Once he and one of Yahweh’s angels had held a competitionto see who could cause the most minor fatal accidents in one day; he’d won that, 106 to 102. But now, it was becoming harder and harder to find humans who could be affected by the demon’s mind control. Something was getting in the way; something was stopping the demons from possessing the minds of anybody they chose. Already, nearly all the important people, the leaders, their minds were closed off. Even the lesser people, the peasants, were becoming immune. It was so hard to find one who could be possessed now.
Abigor shook himself. Why was he worried, a few days and it would all be over. Humanity would be a panicked mass, fleeing for its survival and a few days beyond that it would be gone forever. There wasn’t any point in worrying about details.
Re: 2008 - Armageddon
Chapter Ten
The Royal Dragoon Guards, Al Badiyah Al Janubiyah, Western Iraq
“Time to mount up.” Guardsman Bass finished the last of his tea and shook his mug over the sand. His Challenger II was ready to move, one of the 56 tanks lined up along the ridge. It was still dark, but the eastern horizon was glowing red as the sun approached its first appearance. That’s why the tanks were along this ridge, with the sun behind them the baldricks would be advancing with the glare of the dawn directly in their eyes. It was a small point perhaps, but the officers were paid to think of things like that. He climbed up onto his tank and slid into the turret beside the 120mm gun, settling comfortably into the familiar seat. “Boiling vessel on?”
The loader nodded, the tank was going to seal down, they’d fight that way. Nobody knew what the baldricks would do when they found themselves under fire, so orders were to expect the worst and make sure the tea urn was ready to use. Bass felt his ears click as the positive-pressure system powered up. The air inside the tank was at a higher pressure than that outside so that if there were any leaks in the tank, the flow would be out, not in. They had rations, everything they needed without depending on the outside world. They even had some empty cases from the artillery, so they could relieve themselves without leaving their armored home.
“Sabre-One Actual.” Lieutenant McLeod’s voice was calm, studied. “All Sabre One units. Confirm sealed down.”
Bass thumbed his transmitter button. “Sabre One-two sealed down.”
“Very good. Recon tells us the baldricks are moving, straight at us.” There was immense satisfaction in the Lieutenant’s voice now. ‘Straight at us’ meant straight into the minefields and onto the razor wire. We will be opening fire at 5,000 meters with HESH. Aimed shots only boys, we can’t waste ammunition. Hold Fast!”
The last words were McLeod’s family motto, repeated with almost boyish enthusiasm. Young officer’s bass thought, a little patronizingly, a little sadly. So keen, so likely to die. “You heard our Lieutenant. Load HESH.”
“Up.” The one word meant that the 120mm gun was loaded, ready to fire. Bass leaned forward slightly and peered through his commander’s periscope. Even in the brief time since they’d mounted up, the sun had risen enough to start lighting the battle area. Across the dunes, Bass saw a section of the horizon turn black. Baldricks crossing it in strength, a great square of them. He knew the numbers, 81 ranks, each of 81 baldricks. This was the cavalry, their advance guard. As he watched the great square changed, splitting into three rectangles, the two at the rear moving up either side of the lead so they formed an extended line. Then the rectangles split again, into three sections, one behind the other. The numbers played in Bass’s head, 729 in each section, almost 2,200 in each of the three closely packed waves. This would be a bloody day, Bass had read the intelligence on the baldricks and of their wild, primary color blood. So what color would the blood be?
“They’re charging by the battalion.” Bass lased the formations that were approaching at steadily increasing speed. “Range 17,500 meters. They’re not holding formation very well. No discipline there at all.” At a critical point, a charge had to hit as a solid blow, a fist formed from every available asset. If the charging cavalry were ill-disciplined enough to allow their formationto break, the strength of the blow would be much reduced.
F-14A Tomcat over the Al Badiyah Al Janubiyah, Western Iraq
“Lion-Leader, the enemy is moving. Engage airborne threats as detected.” Lieutenant Hooshank Sedigh looked around at the other Tomcats making up his formation. The last weeks had been strange, after decades of sour hostility, the airfields around Dezful had seen a constant stream of C-5 and C-17 transports landing as the Americans shipped in supplies of spare parts for the Iranian Air Force. Not just spares, stocks of AIM-54C missiles for the F-14s that had done without for so long and, even better, American technical service teams, Tiger Teams, to bring the Tomcats back up to full serviceability. Aircraft that had been stripped hangar queens for years had been towed out and were being repaired. Sedigh’s Tomcat had been upgraded by a team led by a retired Navy maintenance chief who had been drafted out of his civilian job. Now, more things worked on the aircraft than they had for years.
“Be advised, Indian Air Force Su-30s are closing on your position from Omidiyeh.” Another change, Iran’s airfields were crowded with aircraft from all the surrounding countries. A weird mixture of types and technologies. It was lucky the American AWACS birds were up, keeping a sense of it all. “F-15s approaching from King Khalid Military City.” The American controller tactfully didn’t mention that the F-15s had been Saudi until quite recently. The Saudis had been terribly hit by The Message; a huge percentage of their population had just died. Typical of the Sunnis thought Sedigh then mentally kicked himself. The time for that nonsense had gone. It didn’t matter anymore. How could he rail against unbelievers when everything he had believed in was a proven, demonstrated lie? Anyway, the Americans had repossessed the Saudi Air Force, although it did seem that, even before they had done so, a surprising number of “Saudi” pilots answered to the name of ‘Bubba’ or ‘Jim-Bob’.
“We have the first target group on scan now. They are stacked behind the lead ground element, estimated number of approximately 950. Lion Group will engage. Fire at will.” Sedigh swelled with satisfaction, his 24 F-14As were Lion Group. They would fire the first shots of the Battle of Al Badiyah Al Janubiyah.
First Brigade, First Armored Division, Tel Ash Sha’ir, Northern Iraq.
“It’s starting.” Colonel Sean MacFarland looked at the electronic displays in his command center. He’d zoomed in on Al Badiyah Al Janubiyah where the map was showing the first of the Baldrick formations moving up. They were leading with their cavalry down there, just like they were doing here. MacFarland zoomed out, moved his point of display up to Tel Ash Sha’ir then flipped the display mode from synthetic to raw video. The pictures from the Global Hawk showed the baldrick cavalry shift from a solid block to a column of three long lines. The British had placed their faith in wire and minefields to stop the initial push, but MacFarland was relying on his artillery. It wasn’t as if he was short of it.
Command Sergeant Major Frank L. Graham picked up the microphone. “Already First units, now here this. The enemy is moving. These are the bastards who thought we’d just knuckle under to their wishes. Well, they’re wrong and we’re going to show them just how wrong. We’re going to teach them what American values stand for. We’ll show them the meaning of truth, justice, and the American way, and by the last of those I mean, of course, mindless indiscriminate violence.” There was a chortle of laughter at the crack. “So, show them just how much violence Old Ironsides can do when we put our minds to it.”
He put the microphone down. “The MLRS and Paladin batteries are waiting Sir. Just give the word.”
Cavalry Legion, Right Flank of the Army of Abigor, Al Badiyah Al Janubiyah, Western Iraq
Visharakoramal kept his beast in hand, trying to keep lined up with the other members of his unit. It was hard, the great beasts wanted to surge ahead, their claws snapping in anticipation of biting into flesh, their tails arched up, ready to strike. Ahead of him, the first rank was already breaking into a gallop, the beasts covering the ground with great loping strides. The second rank was into the trot, waiting for the order so they too could start their charge. Visharakoramal’s third rank was still at the pace, their turn had not come yet. Far ahead of him, he could see a strange shimmering cloud that seemed to stretch across the battlefield. Odd, but then this human world was full of surprises. It wasn’t the way they’d expected it to be.
It was time, his beast broke into its trot as the lines in front shifted to the gallop. The waves had spaced out, the gaps between them lengthening as the beasts accelerated to full speed, their riders letting them have their head in the race to gain the honor of being the first to crash through the enemy lines. Then, the surge and the pounding in his rear end as his beast went into the gallop, its head stretching out as its muscles pushed it faster towards the enemy. Visharakoramal sneered at the enemy in front, instead of forming up in the open where they could fly their banners and show their defiance like proper warriors, they were hiding behind the hill crests. Not that hiding would save the humans. In front of him, the first wave was nearing the shimmering river. Then, the earth opened and swallowed them.
F-14A Tomcat over the Al Badiyah Al Janubiyah, Western Iraq
“Fox-Two, Fox-Two, Fox-Two, Fox-Two, Fox-Two, Fox-Two.” Lieutenant Hooshank Sedigh was one of 24 pilots making the ritual chant as the missiles streaked away from his Tomcat climbing up, high into the stratosphere as they started their deadly course. This was what the Tomcat had been built for, taking on a massed formation of enemy aircraft and blasting them apart with long-range weapons. It was, after all, what their American Tiger Teams had said, it was all very well to win a fight but much better to kill your enemy before he knew the fight had started.
The radio crackled again, the Su-30s were opening fire with their long-range missiles. They didn’t have the multi-target capability of the Tomcats, not quite, they could engage four targets at once instead of the Tomcat’s six, but they were firing their R-77 missiles in a stream at the mass of harpies. As the first four-hit, the radar would automatically switch to the next four, and then the next. Sedigh realized something else, the harpies would be looking at the huge salvo of missiles aimed straight at them, not upwards to where the AIM-54s were already hurtling down. Off to the south, the American F-15 formation was already closing to follow up the initial long-range pounding.
Over a hundred kilometers away, Inkraskalitran saw the sky in the far distance turn into a white cloud, one that lengthened towards the flock of harpies with incredible speed. This had to be the fire spears thrown by the human sky-chariots, the harpies had all heard of them and quietly discussed them. There was word that three of the great Heralds had been destroyed by the fire spears, if so, what could the smaller fliers do against them? He watched the fire spears approaching, then the whole world seemed to turn upside down.
His eyes blurred, de-focused from the shock, Inkraskalitran looked with horror at the chaos wrought upon the harpy flock. One of his wing-mates had taken a direct hit from a fire spear and had been blown to fragments. Others around him had been caught by the blast and fragments and were fluttering down, crippled, wings were torn apart, some already burning where their bodies were being seared by their blood. Even as he watched, the members of his flock were dying as more fire spears tore into them, the explosions adding to the chaos in the flock. Hundreds were dead and dying as Inkraskalitran tried to absorb the havoc that was being wrought. In the chaos, he saw a fire spear coming for him. Panic-stricken, he dived and turned away, trying to accelerate as fast as he could but the fire-spear obediently changed course and followed him. That just wasn’t fair.
“I love it when a plan comes together.” The voice in Sedigh’s earphones was a mixture of professional satisfaction and awe. The sky where the harpies had been was a mass of explosions and fireballs. “Lion Group return to base, maximum speed. Reload and get back out here fast. Don’t worry about fuel, we’ve got tankers up if anybody gets short. Tiger Group,” That was the Indians Sedigh thought. “Close on what’s left of that harpy formation and slaughter it as soon as the F-15s have finished. Don’t hang around, don’t get close, zoom, and boom. Watch out, the F-15s will be there as well.”
Sedigh thumbed his transmitter. “Eagle Eye kill totals?”
There was a laugh in the controller’s voice. “Bloody fighter pilots. Hard to say Lion Leader. In that mess, it's hard to work out who’s killing what. We have Lion Group down for 121 kills, and Tiger Group for 290. Panther Group is about to engage. Good luck Lion Leader looks forward to seeing you back here.”
It made sense, Sedigh thought. The Tomcats were long-range killers, they had no place getting mixed up in a wild furball, but the fighter pilot in his soul screamed in protest still. Because what a furball it was going to be. Behind him, the area of sky occupied by the harpies redoubled in its fury as the salvoes of AIM-120Cs tore into it.
Cavalry Legion, Left Flank of the Army of Abigor, Tel Ash Sha’ir, Northern Iraq.
Zorankalirtagap jabbed his heels into the neck of his beast, urging it onwards, towards the enemy who was supposed to be trying to stop the Legions of Abigor. His beast responded gallantly, straining every muscle in its body to get ahead of his rivals and be the first to start the slaughter of the humans. Dawn was well advanced, the sky turning from black to blue, only it wasn’t. Zorankalirtagap took time to glance upwards, there was a weird white cloud rising from behind the humans, a cloud tinged red from the rising sun. The appearance of a cloudy red sky for one second made zorankalirtagap homesick but the clouds shot through with streaks of intense white fire. Suddenly, Zorankalirtagap saw the streaks of fire were curving through the air and the curve was going to end with him.
The mathematics was simple and deadly. Just under 25 kilometers away from Tel Ash Sha’ir were 29 M270A1 MLRS rocket launchers. Each had 12 rockets. Each rocket had 644 shaped-charge multi-role sub-munitions. 12 x 29 x 644 = 224,112. Getting on for a quarter of a million sub-munitions were descending on the 6,600-strong cavalry legion that was charging across open terrain. The United States Army had a name for what was happening. They called it steel rain.
Zorankalirtagap was staggering around amid the wreckage of the cavalry charge. His beast was down threshing on the ground, screaming with the agony of holes blasted through its body. Great craters seared by the fury of the shaped charges that had blasted raw copper plasma into its body, they were something that the beast had never experienced before. All around it, others of its kind were in the same condition, screaming, legs, claws, tails blasted off, their faces melted, their bodies ripped open and their organs hanging out. Some were dead, they were the ones who had been fortunate enough to be hit so hard that even the tough body and lust for a war that was bread into the beasts could not allow them to survive. Between the bodies of the great beasts, their riders were strewn, some dead, some screaming from their wounds, all hurt in a way none had ever experienced before.
It didn’t register in time, the screams from overhead drowned out even the shrieks and howls of the shattered cavalry charge. The explosions did catch his attention, they were large enough to attract anybody’s. they rippled across the killing field, tearing apart the force pinned down there and finally bringing peace to the crippled beasts as they were blown apart.
Just over 12 kilometers away, the 18 M109A6 Paladins had dropped into the steady firing rate of four rounds per minute, the rate that conserved ammunition and broke armies. Their shells arched over the Abrams tanks and Bradley armored vehicles of the First Brigade and slammed into the mass of struggling baldricks below. On the ridgeline above the tankers and mechanized infantry watched in slightly bored interest as the baldrick cavalry died. There was nothing to be interesting here, they’d seen MLRS and artillery at work before. The artillery observers had something to do, they watched the patterns of shells landing and data linked a stream of information back to the guns, directing fire onto any pockets of survivors.
In the middle of the mass of artillery fire, Zorankalirtagap was learning new lessons and learning them very fast indeed. He was learning that he was helpless, that there was no defense against the shells that were moving backward and forwards across the killing ground. He was learning that artillery and the controllers who directed it had no mercy, no compassion for the creatures they were slaughtering. They were just targets, to be erased as quickly and conveniently as possible. Zorankalirtagap had learned one other thing. He was a creature of hell, but these seemingly puny humans could create hell any time they wanted to. For the first time in his long life, Zorankalirtagap knew what sheer, unadulterated, panic-stricken terror felt like.
The Royal Dragoon Guards, Al Badiyah Al Janubiyah, Western Iraq
“Now that is a sight.” Guardsman Bass swung the turret of his tank, so he could watch the scene in the minefields. The meter-long bar mines had been designed to knock out tanks, but they worked against the baldrick’s rhinolobsters very effectively. The first wave had been blown apart by the mines, Bass had seen one rhinolobster have both its left legs torn off by the mines, as it had collapsed to one side it had landed on another and been killed by it. But the problem with minefields was that they were declining assets, every mine that claimed a victim thinned out the field. The second wave had done much better than the first, for a time at least. Quite a few of the rhinolobsters had made it through the minefield and then they’d hit the razor wire.
Razor wire was nasty stuff, lift a piece carelessly and it could remove a man’s fingers. There were dozens of interlocked coils down there and even as Bass watched he saw the rhinolobsters tear into it and become entangled in the mass of razor-sharp edges. They screamed and threshed as the wire sliced ever deeper into them and their efforts only got them more entangled and inflicted yet more damage. Some of the riders tried to help their mounts and grabbed the wire to lift in clear and these learned the terrible truth and the wire sliced their fingers to the bone.
Behind that second wave came the third and these had learned. Most of them followed the paths of the rhinolobsters that had made it to the wire. They climbed over the creatures from the second wave, escaping the first entangling coils of wire but got bogged down in the rest. Others followed them and by simple weight and mass, they crushed down the wire with the bodies of those in front of them. By sheer weight of numbers, the enemy cavalry had breached the wire and was through.
“Get ready Boys.” Lieutenant McLeod’s voice came over the radio. “The artillery lads are opening fire. Get ready to pick off any of the monsters that get through.”
Bass settled down into his tank commander's seat, then looked through the scope. The blood in the minefield and on the wire was green.
The Royal Dragoon Guards, Al Badiyah Al Janubiyah, Western Iraq
“Time to mount up.” Guardsman Bass finished the last of his tea and shook his mug over the sand. His Challenger II was ready to move, one of the 56 tanks lined up along the ridge. It was still dark, but the eastern horizon was glowing red as the sun approached its first appearance. That’s why the tanks were along this ridge, with the sun behind them the baldricks would be advancing with the glare of the dawn directly in their eyes. It was a small point perhaps, but the officers were paid to think of things like that. He climbed up onto his tank and slid into the turret beside the 120mm gun, settling comfortably into the familiar seat. “Boiling vessel on?”
The loader nodded, the tank was going to seal down, they’d fight that way. Nobody knew what the baldricks would do when they found themselves under fire, so orders were to expect the worst and make sure the tea urn was ready to use. Bass felt his ears click as the positive-pressure system powered up. The air inside the tank was at a higher pressure than that outside so that if there were any leaks in the tank, the flow would be out, not in. They had rations, everything they needed without depending on the outside world. They even had some empty cases from the artillery, so they could relieve themselves without leaving their armored home.
“Sabre-One Actual.” Lieutenant McLeod’s voice was calm, studied. “All Sabre One units. Confirm sealed down.”
Bass thumbed his transmitter button. “Sabre One-two sealed down.”
“Very good. Recon tells us the baldricks are moving, straight at us.” There was immense satisfaction in the Lieutenant’s voice now. ‘Straight at us’ meant straight into the minefields and onto the razor wire. We will be opening fire at 5,000 meters with HESH. Aimed shots only boys, we can’t waste ammunition. Hold Fast!”
The last words were McLeod’s family motto, repeated with almost boyish enthusiasm. Young officer’s bass thought, a little patronizingly, a little sadly. So keen, so likely to die. “You heard our Lieutenant. Load HESH.”
“Up.” The one word meant that the 120mm gun was loaded, ready to fire. Bass leaned forward slightly and peered through his commander’s periscope. Even in the brief time since they’d mounted up, the sun had risen enough to start lighting the battle area. Across the dunes, Bass saw a section of the horizon turn black. Baldricks crossing it in strength, a great square of them. He knew the numbers, 81 ranks, each of 81 baldricks. This was the cavalry, their advance guard. As he watched the great square changed, splitting into three rectangles, the two at the rear moving up either side of the lead so they formed an extended line. Then the rectangles split again, into three sections, one behind the other. The numbers played in Bass’s head, 729 in each section, almost 2,200 in each of the three closely packed waves. This would be a bloody day, Bass had read the intelligence on the baldricks and of their wild, primary color blood. So what color would the blood be?
“They’re charging by the battalion.” Bass lased the formations that were approaching at steadily increasing speed. “Range 17,500 meters. They’re not holding formation very well. No discipline there at all.” At a critical point, a charge had to hit as a solid blow, a fist formed from every available asset. If the charging cavalry were ill-disciplined enough to allow their formationto break, the strength of the blow would be much reduced.
F-14A Tomcat over the Al Badiyah Al Janubiyah, Western Iraq
“Lion-Leader, the enemy is moving. Engage airborne threats as detected.” Lieutenant Hooshank Sedigh looked around at the other Tomcats making up his formation. The last weeks had been strange, after decades of sour hostility, the airfields around Dezful had seen a constant stream of C-5 and C-17 transports landing as the Americans shipped in supplies of spare parts for the Iranian Air Force. Not just spares, stocks of AIM-54C missiles for the F-14s that had done without for so long and, even better, American technical service teams, Tiger Teams, to bring the Tomcats back up to full serviceability. Aircraft that had been stripped hangar queens for years had been towed out and were being repaired. Sedigh’s Tomcat had been upgraded by a team led by a retired Navy maintenance chief who had been drafted out of his civilian job. Now, more things worked on the aircraft than they had for years.
“Be advised, Indian Air Force Su-30s are closing on your position from Omidiyeh.” Another change, Iran’s airfields were crowded with aircraft from all the surrounding countries. A weird mixture of types and technologies. It was lucky the American AWACS birds were up, keeping a sense of it all. “F-15s approaching from King Khalid Military City.” The American controller tactfully didn’t mention that the F-15s had been Saudi until quite recently. The Saudis had been terribly hit by The Message; a huge percentage of their population had just died. Typical of the Sunnis thought Sedigh then mentally kicked himself. The time for that nonsense had gone. It didn’t matter anymore. How could he rail against unbelievers when everything he had believed in was a proven, demonstrated lie? Anyway, the Americans had repossessed the Saudi Air Force, although it did seem that, even before they had done so, a surprising number of “Saudi” pilots answered to the name of ‘Bubba’ or ‘Jim-Bob’.
“We have the first target group on scan now. They are stacked behind the lead ground element, estimated number of approximately 950. Lion Group will engage. Fire at will.” Sedigh swelled with satisfaction, his 24 F-14As were Lion Group. They would fire the first shots of the Battle of Al Badiyah Al Janubiyah.
First Brigade, First Armored Division, Tel Ash Sha’ir, Northern Iraq.
“It’s starting.” Colonel Sean MacFarland looked at the electronic displays in his command center. He’d zoomed in on Al Badiyah Al Janubiyah where the map was showing the first of the Baldrick formations moving up. They were leading with their cavalry down there, just like they were doing here. MacFarland zoomed out, moved his point of display up to Tel Ash Sha’ir then flipped the display mode from synthetic to raw video. The pictures from the Global Hawk showed the baldrick cavalry shift from a solid block to a column of three long lines. The British had placed their faith in wire and minefields to stop the initial push, but MacFarland was relying on his artillery. It wasn’t as if he was short of it.
Command Sergeant Major Frank L. Graham picked up the microphone. “Already First units, now here this. The enemy is moving. These are the bastards who thought we’d just knuckle under to their wishes. Well, they’re wrong and we’re going to show them just how wrong. We’re going to teach them what American values stand for. We’ll show them the meaning of truth, justice, and the American way, and by the last of those I mean, of course, mindless indiscriminate violence.” There was a chortle of laughter at the crack. “So, show them just how much violence Old Ironsides can do when we put our minds to it.”
He put the microphone down. “The MLRS and Paladin batteries are waiting Sir. Just give the word.”
Cavalry Legion, Right Flank of the Army of Abigor, Al Badiyah Al Janubiyah, Western Iraq
Visharakoramal kept his beast in hand, trying to keep lined up with the other members of his unit. It was hard, the great beasts wanted to surge ahead, their claws snapping in anticipation of biting into flesh, their tails arched up, ready to strike. Ahead of him, the first rank was already breaking into a gallop, the beasts covering the ground with great loping strides. The second rank was into the trot, waiting for the order so they too could start their charge. Visharakoramal’s third rank was still at the pace, their turn had not come yet. Far ahead of him, he could see a strange shimmering cloud that seemed to stretch across the battlefield. Odd, but then this human world was full of surprises. It wasn’t the way they’d expected it to be.
It was time, his beast broke into its trot as the lines in front shifted to the gallop. The waves had spaced out, the gaps between them lengthening as the beasts accelerated to full speed, their riders letting them have their head in the race to gain the honor of being the first to crash through the enemy lines. Then, the surge and the pounding in his rear end as his beast went into the gallop, its head stretching out as its muscles pushed it faster towards the enemy. Visharakoramal sneered at the enemy in front, instead of forming up in the open where they could fly their banners and show their defiance like proper warriors, they were hiding behind the hill crests. Not that hiding would save the humans. In front of him, the first wave was nearing the shimmering river. Then, the earth opened and swallowed them.
F-14A Tomcat over the Al Badiyah Al Janubiyah, Western Iraq
“Fox-Two, Fox-Two, Fox-Two, Fox-Two, Fox-Two, Fox-Two.” Lieutenant Hooshank Sedigh was one of 24 pilots making the ritual chant as the missiles streaked away from his Tomcat climbing up, high into the stratosphere as they started their deadly course. This was what the Tomcat had been built for, taking on a massed formation of enemy aircraft and blasting them apart with long-range weapons. It was, after all, what their American Tiger Teams had said, it was all very well to win a fight but much better to kill your enemy before he knew the fight had started.
The radio crackled again, the Su-30s were opening fire with their long-range missiles. They didn’t have the multi-target capability of the Tomcats, not quite, they could engage four targets at once instead of the Tomcat’s six, but they were firing their R-77 missiles in a stream at the mass of harpies. As the first four-hit, the radar would automatically switch to the next four, and then the next. Sedigh realized something else, the harpies would be looking at the huge salvo of missiles aimed straight at them, not upwards to where the AIM-54s were already hurtling down. Off to the south, the American F-15 formation was already closing to follow up the initial long-range pounding.
Over a hundred kilometers away, Inkraskalitran saw the sky in the far distance turn into a white cloud, one that lengthened towards the flock of harpies with incredible speed. This had to be the fire spears thrown by the human sky-chariots, the harpies had all heard of them and quietly discussed them. There was word that three of the great Heralds had been destroyed by the fire spears, if so, what could the smaller fliers do against them? He watched the fire spears approaching, then the whole world seemed to turn upside down.
His eyes blurred, de-focused from the shock, Inkraskalitran looked with horror at the chaos wrought upon the harpy flock. One of his wing-mates had taken a direct hit from a fire spear and had been blown to fragments. Others around him had been caught by the blast and fragments and were fluttering down, crippled, wings were torn apart, some already burning where their bodies were being seared by their blood. Even as he watched, the members of his flock were dying as more fire spears tore into them, the explosions adding to the chaos in the flock. Hundreds were dead and dying as Inkraskalitran tried to absorb the havoc that was being wrought. In the chaos, he saw a fire spear coming for him. Panic-stricken, he dived and turned away, trying to accelerate as fast as he could but the fire-spear obediently changed course and followed him. That just wasn’t fair.
“I love it when a plan comes together.” The voice in Sedigh’s earphones was a mixture of professional satisfaction and awe. The sky where the harpies had been was a mass of explosions and fireballs. “Lion Group return to base, maximum speed. Reload and get back out here fast. Don’t worry about fuel, we’ve got tankers up if anybody gets short. Tiger Group,” That was the Indians Sedigh thought. “Close on what’s left of that harpy formation and slaughter it as soon as the F-15s have finished. Don’t hang around, don’t get close, zoom, and boom. Watch out, the F-15s will be there as well.”
Sedigh thumbed his transmitter. “Eagle Eye kill totals?”
There was a laugh in the controller’s voice. “Bloody fighter pilots. Hard to say Lion Leader. In that mess, it's hard to work out who’s killing what. We have Lion Group down for 121 kills, and Tiger Group for 290. Panther Group is about to engage. Good luck Lion Leader looks forward to seeing you back here.”
It made sense, Sedigh thought. The Tomcats were long-range killers, they had no place getting mixed up in a wild furball, but the fighter pilot in his soul screamed in protest still. Because what a furball it was going to be. Behind him, the area of sky occupied by the harpies redoubled in its fury as the salvoes of AIM-120Cs tore into it.
Cavalry Legion, Left Flank of the Army of Abigor, Tel Ash Sha’ir, Northern Iraq.
Zorankalirtagap jabbed his heels into the neck of his beast, urging it onwards, towards the enemy who was supposed to be trying to stop the Legions of Abigor. His beast responded gallantly, straining every muscle in its body to get ahead of his rivals and be the first to start the slaughter of the humans. Dawn was well advanced, the sky turning from black to blue, only it wasn’t. Zorankalirtagap took time to glance upwards, there was a weird white cloud rising from behind the humans, a cloud tinged red from the rising sun. The appearance of a cloudy red sky for one second made zorankalirtagap homesick but the clouds shot through with streaks of intense white fire. Suddenly, Zorankalirtagap saw the streaks of fire were curving through the air and the curve was going to end with him.
The mathematics was simple and deadly. Just under 25 kilometers away from Tel Ash Sha’ir were 29 M270A1 MLRS rocket launchers. Each had 12 rockets. Each rocket had 644 shaped-charge multi-role sub-munitions. 12 x 29 x 644 = 224,112. Getting on for a quarter of a million sub-munitions were descending on the 6,600-strong cavalry legion that was charging across open terrain. The United States Army had a name for what was happening. They called it steel rain.
Zorankalirtagap was staggering around amid the wreckage of the cavalry charge. His beast was down threshing on the ground, screaming with the agony of holes blasted through its body. Great craters seared by the fury of the shaped charges that had blasted raw copper plasma into its body, they were something that the beast had never experienced before. All around it, others of its kind were in the same condition, screaming, legs, claws, tails blasted off, their faces melted, their bodies ripped open and their organs hanging out. Some were dead, they were the ones who had been fortunate enough to be hit so hard that even the tough body and lust for a war that was bread into the beasts could not allow them to survive. Between the bodies of the great beasts, their riders were strewn, some dead, some screaming from their wounds, all hurt in a way none had ever experienced before.
It didn’t register in time, the screams from overhead drowned out even the shrieks and howls of the shattered cavalry charge. The explosions did catch his attention, they were large enough to attract anybody’s. they rippled across the killing field, tearing apart the force pinned down there and finally bringing peace to the crippled beasts as they were blown apart.
Just over 12 kilometers away, the 18 M109A6 Paladins had dropped into the steady firing rate of four rounds per minute, the rate that conserved ammunition and broke armies. Their shells arched over the Abrams tanks and Bradley armored vehicles of the First Brigade and slammed into the mass of struggling baldricks below. On the ridgeline above the tankers and mechanized infantry watched in slightly bored interest as the baldrick cavalry died. There was nothing to be interesting here, they’d seen MLRS and artillery at work before. The artillery observers had something to do, they watched the patterns of shells landing and data linked a stream of information back to the guns, directing fire onto any pockets of survivors.
In the middle of the mass of artillery fire, Zorankalirtagap was learning new lessons and learning them very fast indeed. He was learning that he was helpless, that there was no defense against the shells that were moving backward and forwards across the killing ground. He was learning that artillery and the controllers who directed it had no mercy, no compassion for the creatures they were slaughtering. They were just targets, to be erased as quickly and conveniently as possible. Zorankalirtagap had learned one other thing. He was a creature of hell, but these seemingly puny humans could create hell any time they wanted to. For the first time in his long life, Zorankalirtagap knew what sheer, unadulterated, panic-stricken terror felt like.
The Royal Dragoon Guards, Al Badiyah Al Janubiyah, Western Iraq
“Now that is a sight.” Guardsman Bass swung the turret of his tank, so he could watch the scene in the minefields. The meter-long bar mines had been designed to knock out tanks, but they worked against the baldrick’s rhinolobsters very effectively. The first wave had been blown apart by the mines, Bass had seen one rhinolobster have both its left legs torn off by the mines, as it had collapsed to one side it had landed on another and been killed by it. But the problem with minefields was that they were declining assets, every mine that claimed a victim thinned out the field. The second wave had done much better than the first, for a time at least. Quite a few of the rhinolobsters had made it through the minefield and then they’d hit the razor wire.
Razor wire was nasty stuff, lift a piece carelessly and it could remove a man’s fingers. There were dozens of interlocked coils down there and even as Bass watched he saw the rhinolobsters tear into it and become entangled in the mass of razor-sharp edges. They screamed and threshed as the wire sliced ever deeper into them and their efforts only got them more entangled and inflicted yet more damage. Some of the riders tried to help their mounts and grabbed the wire to lift in clear and these learned the terrible truth and the wire sliced their fingers to the bone.
Behind that second wave came the third and these had learned. Most of them followed the paths of the rhinolobsters that had made it to the wire. They climbed over the creatures from the second wave, escaping the first entangling coils of wire but got bogged down in the rest. Others followed them and by simple weight and mass, they crushed down the wire with the bodies of those in front of them. By sheer weight of numbers, the enemy cavalry had breached the wire and was through.
“Get ready Boys.” Lieutenant McLeod’s voice came over the radio. “The artillery lads are opening fire. Get ready to pick off any of the monsters that get through.”
Bass settled down into his tank commander's seat, then looked through the scope. The blood in the minefield and on the wire was green.
Re: 2008 - Armageddon
Chapter Eleven
Su-30MKI Tiger Group Leader over the Al Badiyah Al Janubiyah, Western Iraq
The world rotated around Wing Commander Gurka as his Su-30 hit the top of its climb and he rolled smoothly over. The survivors of the massacre were far below him, their bodies barely visible. His radar could see them though, he’d lost them as he’d climbed out but now, he’d re-acquired them. The devastating missile salvoes had destroyed hundreds of the harpies, their bodies dissolving in a fire as the missiles ripped into them. Once there had been so many that they’d swamped the memory on the radars but now, the situation was clearly defined. There were barely two targets left for each of the allied fighters and Gurka had already killed one of his. He’d picked his target for the next pass already, one harpy flying west, its nerve broken, running for its life.
It didn’t stand a chance. Gurka pushed his throttles over and went after it in a long, smooth dive. His gun sight showed the predicted impact point of his cannon burst, it was sliding towards the harpy, the diamond embracing its back. Then, it turned red and Gurka squeezed the trigger, blasting a burst of 30mm armor-piercing incendiary ammunition into the harpy’s body. For a second or so, nothing happened although Gurka could swear that he saw lumps of black flesh flying off the body. Then it flared into an orange fire, burning, and spinning for the desert floor.
“Tiger Group, time to go home. Call your boys off Tiger Leader, the squids want to play.”
Gurka looked around. Already the American F-15s were heading south, their missile racks empty. “Acknowledged.”
“Head for Dingbat Tiger Group,” Gurka mentally translated that. Dezful. “Some Russian transports have landed with missile reloads for you. Good luck and don’t mix with any naughty ladies.”
“All Tiger aircraft, break off, head for dingbat.” Gurka looked hard to the west. There was a black cloud approaching. “Eagle Eye, contacts to the west.”
“We have the Tiger Group Leader. More harpies, covering the ground force’s main body. Sea Eagle Group will be handling them. Out.”
The out had a definitive note to it. The Su-30s were out of missiles and very low on cannon ammunition. Eagle Eye up there in his AWACS wasn’t interested in them anymore. His attention was steering the group of F/A-18s from the three carriers offshore into the new harpy cloud.
Headquarters of Merafawlazes, Commander, Northern Flank, Abigor’s Army
“The cavalry has gone!”
“They’re through then. Order the flies to pursue the humans and cut them up on the way. The infantry will follow through. Advance on this place the humans call Kirkuk. Ravage it, Abigor will be pleased.”
“No, Noble master.” The messenger dropped to his knees and crawled across the floor to Merafawlazes hooves. “I must tell you; the cavalry has not broken the humans. The cavalry is dead. All of them. The humans killed them all with their magic.”
“What is this insanity? Humans do not have magic.” Merafawlazes’s voice dropped to a menacing growl. “This is not a good time to jest.”
It never was thought Falabrednowsa. Being a messenger was a very chancy and dangerous profession, especially where the recipient of the message was a Duke. They’d been known to eat messengers who brought bad news. “Sire, I fear to contradict you.”
“Good,” Merafawlazes interjected the comment with silky menace.
“But the humans do have magic. They have used it against the cavalry. They can call down the thunder from the sky and drown their enemies in the fire. They have destroyed our cavalry. It is a horrible sight, our cavalrymen dead on the ground torn to pieces by the fire, the surviving beasts on the ground screaming with pain as they die.” Merafawlazes attention was drawn by thunder in the skies overhead, a roll of thunder followed by a deafening, hideous scream. “Sire, that is the war-cry of the humans in their sky chariots. A great battle is raging while we speak, the flies fight for their lives against the sky chariots. There is magic there too, the humans throw burning spears that never miss.”
“Our flies do well against them?”
The answer had better be yes was the reply running through Falabrednowsa’s mind. But he was a messenger, and it was his duty to speak the truth. “No Sire, they die as the cavalry died. The human sky chariots are so much faster than they are. Our flies cannot hear them come for the cowards give their battle cry only after they have launched an attack. They travel faster than the wind, they climb faster than any of us have ever seen before. They are afraid to fight us in honorable combat, so they kill by the hundreds with their fire spears without ever coming close. Then, they sit above our fliers and dive on them like hawks. Our flies are worse than helpless against them.”
Merafawlazes grunted and turned his attention to the parchment map on the table before him. It wasn’t much help; it just showed the positions of the cities and his best guess at the locations of his troops. Why had the humans chosen to fight here? There was nothing important to fight for here, the nearest great cities were far away. All there was here were these rolling hills with the strange black strips the humans built across them. As he stared at the map, Merafawlazes got the feeling he was missing something very important.
Twenty minutes later, Merafawlazes strode out of his tent, towards the commanders of his remaining legions. Overhead, the sky was covered with strange, crisscrossing white clouds, although he didn’t know it, the contrails from the F-16C Vipers of the 332nd Air Expeditionary Group. The Lawn Dart pilots had, to put it mildly, been having a field day. Merafawlazes didn’t know and didn’t care, he had more important things to think about. “Get the Legions moving forward, all of them. Two waves, seven and seven. Tell all the infantry, the suffering of those who hang back will be legendary even for hell.” Merafawlazes picked a piece of Falabrednowsa’s flesh from his teeth. He’d finally worked out what he had been missing.
Breakfast.
The Royal Dragoon Guards, Al Badiyah Al Janubiyah, Western Iraq
“Isn’t this what they call a target-rich environment?” And that, Guardsman Bass thought, was the understatement of the century. The first wave of the enemy attack had been smashed, it had died on the mines and razor wire, and the few survivors had been torn apart by the artillery. That had seemed like a victory until the whole horizon had turned black with enemy infantry. The enemy line was almost 10 kilometers long, the rising sun glittering gold off their bronze tridents. It was a terrifying sight, one that told Bass just as surely as if he could investigate the mind of the enemy commander himself that the baldricks had never seen wire and minefields before.
‘Look into the mind of the commander’. Bass rolled the words over in his mind. It would come, it would come. The ability of the baldricks to enter people’s minds and create illusions had been a nasty surprise but it had been discovered. Once something was discovered, it could be investigated and measured. That meant it could be understood and once the scientists understood something they could duplicate it. Once the scientists had duplicated it, the engineers would take that work and turn it into practical tools. Once the engineers had created the practical tools, the armorers would turn those tools into weapons. And once the weapons were available, the soldiers would use them. That was the way it had always been, that was the way it would be now.
Bass lased the enemy line, waited a carefully measured ten seconds then lased it again. The computer in the tank thought for a microscopic second, then translated the two readings into a speed readout, one that made Bass raise his eyebrows a second. “Right lads, they’re advancing at 15 KPH. The brass better know about that.” Another guiding human principle, Bass had no doubt the same piece of data was being transmitted in by dozens of other tank commanders, but it was better for an important piece of data to be transmitted a thousand times than never transmitted at all because everybody thought everybody else had done so. The fact that baldricks on foot could move three times faster than a human was very important.
Third Legion, Southern Flank, Abigor’s Army
Krykojanklawas jogged forward, most of his attention devoted to the enemy in front, the rest to the leader of his contubernium. Like most of his fellow demons in the ranks, he was holding his tripod underarm, the points angled upwards, so he didn’t stab the demon in front. There might be time for that later. He and his fellows were lucky, the ground in front of them was clear, and they wouldn’t pass through the hideous scene where the human magic had destroyed the cavalry legion. The word that the humans had magic had spread through the ranks like wildfire, the stories growing with each retelling. They could make the ground rise and swallow their enemies, the stones come alive and crush their victims. They could conjure up snakes from the ground that would wrap themselves around their prey and slice them apart. That story was true, Krykojanklawas decided, he could see the great circular holes in the ground where the snakes had come from.
He could see something else, the ground ahead of him was littered with strange-looking bars, painted gray-yellow so they were hard to see against the sand and rock. There were a lot of them though. Curiously, Krykojanklawas glanced to one side, there were a lot fewer where the cavalry had ridden to its death. Even as he watched, a demon in the front rank stepped on one of the bars and the explosion threw him in the air, spraying yellow body fluid as his legs spiraled away from his body. The bars were human magic, Krykojanklawas realized the truth as additional explosions added their noise to the death toll that was already far higher than the Greater Demons had expected. He didn’t care much about the expectations of the Greater Demons though, what he did understand was that stepping on the bars was death. He’d heard about human explosives, how they could blast even a Lesser Demon apart so that all that remained was stains and rags of flesh. If they could do that to a Lesser Demon, what could they do to a Minor Demon like him? Krykojanklawas had just seen the answer and it didn’t please him.
So there were a lot fewer bars where the cavalry had died? Krykojanklawas did the obvious and started to edge sideways, being careful not to step on the bars, heading for where the ground was just littered with the scraps of flesh and mutilated bodies of beasts and their riders. All along with the ranks of the legions, the other demons were starting to do the same.
The Royal Dragoon Guards, Al Badiyah Al Janubiyah, Western Iraq
“Here they go….” Bass watched with interest. There had been a ripple of explosions as the advancing horde reached the outer edge of the minefield and the first victims stepped on the bar mines. The mines had been intended for anti-tank work, but their fuses had been adjusted so they’d be set off by much lesser pressures. That had worked, a handful of baldricks had died but the rest were starting to funnel in towards the area partially cleared by the cavalry charge. Bass lased them again, the advance had slowed right down as the baldricks tried to pick their way through the minefield. Poor sods. Bass thought, I could almost feel it in my heart to be sorry for them. Almost, but not quite.
Watching through the high-powered optics of his Challenger II, Bass could see the ranks of baldricks stretching, bucking, and surging. He knew what would be happening in there, the NCOs and officers trying to prevent the lines from drifting into the cleared zone, trying to force the baldricks to keep moving straight ahead, accepting the losses from the minefield. Idly, he wondered what the Iranian division was thinking, hidden far off to the left, but doubtless watching what was happening. He’d heard they’d cleared minefields by marching infantry through them. Looked like the baldricks were doing the same.
Overhead, Bass heard the scream of shells. “Outbound,” the sound easily distinguishable from the ominous “Inbound”. He wondered quickly how long it would be before the baldricks learned to tell the difference. He looked again through the optics, seeing the shells impact on the mass of baldricks hung up on the flanks of the cavalry graveyard. The artillery forward observers were doing their job, directing the artillery in on the flanks, trying to compress the advancing army into a huddled mass. That was happening already in the graveyard, the baldricks lucky enough to be facing that area were moving in but the ones to either side were sliding in also and the resulting congestion was slowing their movement to a crawl. The Spams called this “shaping the battlefield”, a typically melodramatic term in Bass’s opinion but descriptive enough.
Anti-Aircraft Battery, Brigadier Carlson’s Headquarters, Al Badiyah Al Janubiyah, Western Iraq
“Devils are approaching. Raid count 20.” The Iranian Lieutenant rapped the report out in Farsi, then translated it to English for the benefit of Sergeant Major Harper. “Prepare to engage.”
“With respect, Lieutenant, might I suggest we wait for a short while and let the situation develop?”
The Iranian frowned slightly, more from curiosity than an annoyance. “Sergeant, we have modernized Osa-M missiles here. We have more than 20 kilometers of range.”
Harper settled back slightly. He’d been expecting some of the harpies to leak through the fighter screen, no fighter cover in history had managed to eliminate the threat of just one or two survivors getting past. The sheer numbers of harpies had meant more than that would although this was a larger group than he’d expected. “Lieutenant,” Harper’s voice was very quiet so nobody else could overhear, “how long have you been in the Army.”
“Three years Sergeant.”
“I’ve been serving my Queen for twenty. Let me give you a little advice. We blast those harpies now when they’re 20 kilometers away and the brass will think our job is easy and move us somewhere dangerous. Now, we wait until they’re five kilometers away and the brass is really sweating, then blast them, we get to be heroes, get a commendation, and possibly even a three-day pass. And we get to keep this nice soft billet.
“Ah.” The Lieutenant was impressed and a felt a little honored at receiving such a gift of valuable expertise. Truly there was much a young officer could learn from a veteran such as this. “We will hold fire until… five kilometers?”
Harper nodded fractionally as the officer gave the orders to his men, adding the explanation he’d been given as if it was his idea. He could see his men nodding as the logic appealed to them.
At five kilometers, the four Osa-M missile launchers opened fire, pushing 24 missiles at the 20 harpies now closing in on the base. One harpy made it past the missiles only to be sawn apart in mid-air as the ZSU-23/4s caught it in a crossfire.
Back in the battery command vehicle, the telephone rang. Carlson’s voice was on the other end. “Well done, Lieutenant, that was a getting us a little worried. I’ll send a commendation to General Zolfaghari.” He paused slightly. “You left it a bit late, didn’t you?”
“Needed to get a proper tactical picture, Sir. We’ve only six ready rounds on each launcher and I didn’t want to get caught reloading.” Out of the corner of his eye, the Lieutenant saw Harper giving him a discrete sign of approval.
“Very wise.” Carlson paused for a second. “We gave you Sergeant-Major Harper as a liaison, didn’t we? Please tell him I would like a few words with him later.”
Local 3751, ATK Medium Caliber Systems, Mesa, Arizona
“Look, it's like this see. The plant is going to triple shift work whether we like it or not. We’ve talked with the bosses, and this is what we’ve come up with. Morning shift from 6 am to 2 pm. Afternoon shift from 2pm until 10pm. Graveyard shift from 10 pm until 6 am. Graveyard pays double time. Shifts switch around monthly so everybody gets a crack at the double-time.”
“What about weekends?”
“Forget them. Everybody works four days on, one day off. That’ll be staggered so there’s a full shift working the plant all the time. 24/7.”
“Four days on, one day off? That’s not fair.”
“Shut up Al, the boys on the front line don’t get one in five off, why should we.” A mutter of agreement ran around them.
“What happens if we don’t approve the deal?”
“Mexicans. Or the Army gets the sub-munitions from Israel. Or wherever. Anyway, I’ll put it to the vote. All those for accepting the management offer?” Hands went up all over the room. “And against?” A scattering of hands, mostly those the organizer recognized as those who voted against everything. “It’s carried. New arrangements start tomorrow. Management will tell you which shift you’re starting on and your day off.”
A few hundred yards away, another meeting was being held. One where the worker’s spouses were being gathered. Once it would have been an all-women gathering, these days a few men were there as well.
“So that’s the new arrangements. Look, the guys on the production lines are going to be working their asses off, they don’t need to be worried about problems at home. So, if there is a problem, deal with it, don’t go whining. If you can’t deal with it, see us here at the Union. We can help. Above all that, help each other. You older women, you’ve been through this before. You know the problems the young mothers will face, be there for them. Even if it’s just babysitting so she can get out of the house and have some peace for an hour, do it. Watch out for the oldsters as well, nobody will be around as much as they were, so we all must look out for each other. We know nobody else will. Don’t think some guardian angel will be looking out because we know they’re the enemy as well now.”
Across America and the world, the same meetings were being held, the same messages are given. Under them, all was another simple, deeper message. The whole world was at war.
Su-30MKI Tiger Group Leader over the Al Badiyah Al Janubiyah, Western Iraq
The world rotated around Wing Commander Gurka as his Su-30 hit the top of its climb and he rolled smoothly over. The survivors of the massacre were far below him, their bodies barely visible. His radar could see them though, he’d lost them as he’d climbed out but now, he’d re-acquired them. The devastating missile salvoes had destroyed hundreds of the harpies, their bodies dissolving in a fire as the missiles ripped into them. Once there had been so many that they’d swamped the memory on the radars but now, the situation was clearly defined. There were barely two targets left for each of the allied fighters and Gurka had already killed one of his. He’d picked his target for the next pass already, one harpy flying west, its nerve broken, running for its life.
It didn’t stand a chance. Gurka pushed his throttles over and went after it in a long, smooth dive. His gun sight showed the predicted impact point of his cannon burst, it was sliding towards the harpy, the diamond embracing its back. Then, it turned red and Gurka squeezed the trigger, blasting a burst of 30mm armor-piercing incendiary ammunition into the harpy’s body. For a second or so, nothing happened although Gurka could swear that he saw lumps of black flesh flying off the body. Then it flared into an orange fire, burning, and spinning for the desert floor.
“Tiger Group, time to go home. Call your boys off Tiger Leader, the squids want to play.”
Gurka looked around. Already the American F-15s were heading south, their missile racks empty. “Acknowledged.”
“Head for Dingbat Tiger Group,” Gurka mentally translated that. Dezful. “Some Russian transports have landed with missile reloads for you. Good luck and don’t mix with any naughty ladies.”
“All Tiger aircraft, break off, head for dingbat.” Gurka looked hard to the west. There was a black cloud approaching. “Eagle Eye, contacts to the west.”
“We have the Tiger Group Leader. More harpies, covering the ground force’s main body. Sea Eagle Group will be handling them. Out.”
The out had a definitive note to it. The Su-30s were out of missiles and very low on cannon ammunition. Eagle Eye up there in his AWACS wasn’t interested in them anymore. His attention was steering the group of F/A-18s from the three carriers offshore into the new harpy cloud.
Headquarters of Merafawlazes, Commander, Northern Flank, Abigor’s Army
“The cavalry has gone!”
“They’re through then. Order the flies to pursue the humans and cut them up on the way. The infantry will follow through. Advance on this place the humans call Kirkuk. Ravage it, Abigor will be pleased.”
“No, Noble master.” The messenger dropped to his knees and crawled across the floor to Merafawlazes hooves. “I must tell you; the cavalry has not broken the humans. The cavalry is dead. All of them. The humans killed them all with their magic.”
“What is this insanity? Humans do not have magic.” Merafawlazes’s voice dropped to a menacing growl. “This is not a good time to jest.”
It never was thought Falabrednowsa. Being a messenger was a very chancy and dangerous profession, especially where the recipient of the message was a Duke. They’d been known to eat messengers who brought bad news. “Sire, I fear to contradict you.”
“Good,” Merafawlazes interjected the comment with silky menace.
“But the humans do have magic. They have used it against the cavalry. They can call down the thunder from the sky and drown their enemies in the fire. They have destroyed our cavalry. It is a horrible sight, our cavalrymen dead on the ground torn to pieces by the fire, the surviving beasts on the ground screaming with pain as they die.” Merafawlazes attention was drawn by thunder in the skies overhead, a roll of thunder followed by a deafening, hideous scream. “Sire, that is the war-cry of the humans in their sky chariots. A great battle is raging while we speak, the flies fight for their lives against the sky chariots. There is magic there too, the humans throw burning spears that never miss.”
“Our flies do well against them?”
The answer had better be yes was the reply running through Falabrednowsa’s mind. But he was a messenger, and it was his duty to speak the truth. “No Sire, they die as the cavalry died. The human sky chariots are so much faster than they are. Our flies cannot hear them come for the cowards give their battle cry only after they have launched an attack. They travel faster than the wind, they climb faster than any of us have ever seen before. They are afraid to fight us in honorable combat, so they kill by the hundreds with their fire spears without ever coming close. Then, they sit above our fliers and dive on them like hawks. Our flies are worse than helpless against them.”
Merafawlazes grunted and turned his attention to the parchment map on the table before him. It wasn’t much help; it just showed the positions of the cities and his best guess at the locations of his troops. Why had the humans chosen to fight here? There was nothing important to fight for here, the nearest great cities were far away. All there was here were these rolling hills with the strange black strips the humans built across them. As he stared at the map, Merafawlazes got the feeling he was missing something very important.
Twenty minutes later, Merafawlazes strode out of his tent, towards the commanders of his remaining legions. Overhead, the sky was covered with strange, crisscrossing white clouds, although he didn’t know it, the contrails from the F-16C Vipers of the 332nd Air Expeditionary Group. The Lawn Dart pilots had, to put it mildly, been having a field day. Merafawlazes didn’t know and didn’t care, he had more important things to think about. “Get the Legions moving forward, all of them. Two waves, seven and seven. Tell all the infantry, the suffering of those who hang back will be legendary even for hell.” Merafawlazes picked a piece of Falabrednowsa’s flesh from his teeth. He’d finally worked out what he had been missing.
Breakfast.
The Royal Dragoon Guards, Al Badiyah Al Janubiyah, Western Iraq
“Isn’t this what they call a target-rich environment?” And that, Guardsman Bass thought, was the understatement of the century. The first wave of the enemy attack had been smashed, it had died on the mines and razor wire, and the few survivors had been torn apart by the artillery. That had seemed like a victory until the whole horizon had turned black with enemy infantry. The enemy line was almost 10 kilometers long, the rising sun glittering gold off their bronze tridents. It was a terrifying sight, one that told Bass just as surely as if he could investigate the mind of the enemy commander himself that the baldricks had never seen wire and minefields before.
‘Look into the mind of the commander’. Bass rolled the words over in his mind. It would come, it would come. The ability of the baldricks to enter people’s minds and create illusions had been a nasty surprise but it had been discovered. Once something was discovered, it could be investigated and measured. That meant it could be understood and once the scientists understood something they could duplicate it. Once the scientists had duplicated it, the engineers would take that work and turn it into practical tools. Once the engineers had created the practical tools, the armorers would turn those tools into weapons. And once the weapons were available, the soldiers would use them. That was the way it had always been, that was the way it would be now.
Bass lased the enemy line, waited a carefully measured ten seconds then lased it again. The computer in the tank thought for a microscopic second, then translated the two readings into a speed readout, one that made Bass raise his eyebrows a second. “Right lads, they’re advancing at 15 KPH. The brass better know about that.” Another guiding human principle, Bass had no doubt the same piece of data was being transmitted in by dozens of other tank commanders, but it was better for an important piece of data to be transmitted a thousand times than never transmitted at all because everybody thought everybody else had done so. The fact that baldricks on foot could move three times faster than a human was very important.
Third Legion, Southern Flank, Abigor’s Army
Krykojanklawas jogged forward, most of his attention devoted to the enemy in front, the rest to the leader of his contubernium. Like most of his fellow demons in the ranks, he was holding his tripod underarm, the points angled upwards, so he didn’t stab the demon in front. There might be time for that later. He and his fellows were lucky, the ground in front of them was clear, and they wouldn’t pass through the hideous scene where the human magic had destroyed the cavalry legion. The word that the humans had magic had spread through the ranks like wildfire, the stories growing with each retelling. They could make the ground rise and swallow their enemies, the stones come alive and crush their victims. They could conjure up snakes from the ground that would wrap themselves around their prey and slice them apart. That story was true, Krykojanklawas decided, he could see the great circular holes in the ground where the snakes had come from.
He could see something else, the ground ahead of him was littered with strange-looking bars, painted gray-yellow so they were hard to see against the sand and rock. There were a lot of them though. Curiously, Krykojanklawas glanced to one side, there were a lot fewer where the cavalry had ridden to its death. Even as he watched, a demon in the front rank stepped on one of the bars and the explosion threw him in the air, spraying yellow body fluid as his legs spiraled away from his body. The bars were human magic, Krykojanklawas realized the truth as additional explosions added their noise to the death toll that was already far higher than the Greater Demons had expected. He didn’t care much about the expectations of the Greater Demons though, what he did understand was that stepping on the bars was death. He’d heard about human explosives, how they could blast even a Lesser Demon apart so that all that remained was stains and rags of flesh. If they could do that to a Lesser Demon, what could they do to a Minor Demon like him? Krykojanklawas had just seen the answer and it didn’t please him.
So there were a lot fewer bars where the cavalry had died? Krykojanklawas did the obvious and started to edge sideways, being careful not to step on the bars, heading for where the ground was just littered with the scraps of flesh and mutilated bodies of beasts and their riders. All along with the ranks of the legions, the other demons were starting to do the same.
The Royal Dragoon Guards, Al Badiyah Al Janubiyah, Western Iraq
“Here they go….” Bass watched with interest. There had been a ripple of explosions as the advancing horde reached the outer edge of the minefield and the first victims stepped on the bar mines. The mines had been intended for anti-tank work, but their fuses had been adjusted so they’d be set off by much lesser pressures. That had worked, a handful of baldricks had died but the rest were starting to funnel in towards the area partially cleared by the cavalry charge. Bass lased them again, the advance had slowed right down as the baldricks tried to pick their way through the minefield. Poor sods. Bass thought, I could almost feel it in my heart to be sorry for them. Almost, but not quite.
Watching through the high-powered optics of his Challenger II, Bass could see the ranks of baldricks stretching, bucking, and surging. He knew what would be happening in there, the NCOs and officers trying to prevent the lines from drifting into the cleared zone, trying to force the baldricks to keep moving straight ahead, accepting the losses from the minefield. Idly, he wondered what the Iranian division was thinking, hidden far off to the left, but doubtless watching what was happening. He’d heard they’d cleared minefields by marching infantry through them. Looked like the baldricks were doing the same.
Overhead, Bass heard the scream of shells. “Outbound,” the sound easily distinguishable from the ominous “Inbound”. He wondered quickly how long it would be before the baldricks learned to tell the difference. He looked again through the optics, seeing the shells impact on the mass of baldricks hung up on the flanks of the cavalry graveyard. The artillery forward observers were doing their job, directing the artillery in on the flanks, trying to compress the advancing army into a huddled mass. That was happening already in the graveyard, the baldricks lucky enough to be facing that area were moving in but the ones to either side were sliding in also and the resulting congestion was slowing their movement to a crawl. The Spams called this “shaping the battlefield”, a typically melodramatic term in Bass’s opinion but descriptive enough.
Anti-Aircraft Battery, Brigadier Carlson’s Headquarters, Al Badiyah Al Janubiyah, Western Iraq
“Devils are approaching. Raid count 20.” The Iranian Lieutenant rapped the report out in Farsi, then translated it to English for the benefit of Sergeant Major Harper. “Prepare to engage.”
“With respect, Lieutenant, might I suggest we wait for a short while and let the situation develop?”
The Iranian frowned slightly, more from curiosity than an annoyance. “Sergeant, we have modernized Osa-M missiles here. We have more than 20 kilometers of range.”
Harper settled back slightly. He’d been expecting some of the harpies to leak through the fighter screen, no fighter cover in history had managed to eliminate the threat of just one or two survivors getting past. The sheer numbers of harpies had meant more than that would although this was a larger group than he’d expected. “Lieutenant,” Harper’s voice was very quiet so nobody else could overhear, “how long have you been in the Army.”
“Three years Sergeant.”
“I’ve been serving my Queen for twenty. Let me give you a little advice. We blast those harpies now when they’re 20 kilometers away and the brass will think our job is easy and move us somewhere dangerous. Now, we wait until they’re five kilometers away and the brass is really sweating, then blast them, we get to be heroes, get a commendation, and possibly even a three-day pass. And we get to keep this nice soft billet.
“Ah.” The Lieutenant was impressed and a felt a little honored at receiving such a gift of valuable expertise. Truly there was much a young officer could learn from a veteran such as this. “We will hold fire until… five kilometers?”
Harper nodded fractionally as the officer gave the orders to his men, adding the explanation he’d been given as if it was his idea. He could see his men nodding as the logic appealed to them.
At five kilometers, the four Osa-M missile launchers opened fire, pushing 24 missiles at the 20 harpies now closing in on the base. One harpy made it past the missiles only to be sawn apart in mid-air as the ZSU-23/4s caught it in a crossfire.
Back in the battery command vehicle, the telephone rang. Carlson’s voice was on the other end. “Well done, Lieutenant, that was a getting us a little worried. I’ll send a commendation to General Zolfaghari.” He paused slightly. “You left it a bit late, didn’t you?”
“Needed to get a proper tactical picture, Sir. We’ve only six ready rounds on each launcher and I didn’t want to get caught reloading.” Out of the corner of his eye, the Lieutenant saw Harper giving him a discrete sign of approval.
“Very wise.” Carlson paused for a second. “We gave you Sergeant-Major Harper as a liaison, didn’t we? Please tell him I would like a few words with him later.”
Local 3751, ATK Medium Caliber Systems, Mesa, Arizona
“Look, it's like this see. The plant is going to triple shift work whether we like it or not. We’ve talked with the bosses, and this is what we’ve come up with. Morning shift from 6 am to 2 pm. Afternoon shift from 2pm until 10pm. Graveyard shift from 10 pm until 6 am. Graveyard pays double time. Shifts switch around monthly so everybody gets a crack at the double-time.”
“What about weekends?”
“Forget them. Everybody works four days on, one day off. That’ll be staggered so there’s a full shift working the plant all the time. 24/7.”
“Four days on, one day off? That’s not fair.”
“Shut up Al, the boys on the front line don’t get one in five off, why should we.” A mutter of agreement ran around them.
“What happens if we don’t approve the deal?”
“Mexicans. Or the Army gets the sub-munitions from Israel. Or wherever. Anyway, I’ll put it to the vote. All those for accepting the management offer?” Hands went up all over the room. “And against?” A scattering of hands, mostly those the organizer recognized as those who voted against everything. “It’s carried. New arrangements start tomorrow. Management will tell you which shift you’re starting on and your day off.”
A few hundred yards away, another meeting was being held. One where the worker’s spouses were being gathered. Once it would have been an all-women gathering, these days a few men were there as well.
“So that’s the new arrangements. Look, the guys on the production lines are going to be working their asses off, they don’t need to be worried about problems at home. So, if there is a problem, deal with it, don’t go whining. If you can’t deal with it, see us here at the Union. We can help. Above all that, help each other. You older women, you’ve been through this before. You know the problems the young mothers will face, be there for them. Even if it’s just babysitting so she can get out of the house and have some peace for an hour, do it. Watch out for the oldsters as well, nobody will be around as much as they were, so we all must look out for each other. We know nobody else will. Don’t think some guardian angel will be looking out because we know they’re the enemy as well now.”
Across America and the world, the same meetings were being held, the same messages are given. Under them, all was another simple, deeper message. The whole world was at war.
Re: 2008 - Armageddon
Chapter Twelve
Headquarters, Randi Institute of Pneumatology, The Pentagon, Arlington, VA
“I see you finally got your new offices.” Julie Adams looked different from her first visit here less than three weeks ago. Her hair was washed and shining, she was wearing skillfully applied make-up and was smartly, fashionably, dressed. As with all the latest fashionistas, she was wearing a chic aluminum foil hat that covered her head and extended down the back of her neck. Producing elegant headwear out of aluminum foil had proved a challenge but the French and Italian designers had come through with flying colors. Julie’s aluminum hat had more to do with her change in appearance than her clothes or make-up. For the first time in many, many years her eyes were quiet and rested, she looked at the world with peaceful confidence, not abject terror.
“They’re nice aren’t they.” The Amazing Randi was sitting behind his desk, sorting through the letters received by his unit, trying to pick out the genuine prospects from the fakes. It was a harrowing job. “Our General bullied the decorators until they did what we wanted. By the way, the walls are foil-lined, we’ve got monitoring equipment here and we can’t pick up any extra-dimensional signals. So, it looks like we’re safe. I guess the next set of building codes will stipulate aluminum foil in all walls and ceilings.
Julie shuddered at the memories of what Domiklespharatu had done to her.
Randi smiled again, understanding her expression like any skilled cold reader. “Julie, would you like to get your own back? Punish Domiklespharatu by hurting him the way he hurt you?”
“Sure. Of course. Can I?”
“Come to the laboratory.” The two went into the next room. There was a comfortable reclining chair with some machine behind it and a swinging table with a microphone. “Don’t ask me how any of this works, I’m a conjuror, not a physicist.”
“It’s quite easy James.” One of the men in white coats was talking. “The baldrick mind control works by quantum entanglement, essentially, they transmit their mind signal to a victim and force its mind pattern to match theirs. When we intercepted the baldrick signal, we identified both the baldrick’s pattern and that of Miss Adams. So, we just reversed the procedure and we’re going to try and entangle its mind pattern. The catch is it’s much easier for hell to transmit to us than us to transmit to them. So, since we’re not short of raw electrical power, we’re going to boost it upwards until we can transmit to hell. If we’ve done this right, you can speak into this microphone and broadcast straight into Domiklespharatu’s mind.”
“Thank you, gentlemen, I still don’t understand how it works but you’ve done wonders, that I know. If this goes well, what we plan to do is to open a new radio station transmitting to everybody in hell. And, Julie, you’ll be our first newsreader. Now settle down and start to try.”
Julie slipped into the chair and pushed her headset on. Earphones and a simple microphone. Behind her, the systems specialists started to ease the power-up, seeking the threshold that would tell them they had breached the barrier between the dimensions. In her seat, all Julie could hear was the signals hum, slowly increasing in pitch and intensity. Then, suddenly it stopped, there was an eerie silence at the other end and Julie could sense the suspicious questioning as Domiklespharatu felt a new presence in his mind.
“Remember me Domiklespharatu? I’m Julie Adams, the woman you got your kicks from torturing. Well, I’m back only I’m in your mind now. I can get into your head, but you can’t get into mine anymore. So, guess what, Domiklespharatu, it’s my turn to have some fun and yours to suffer. Let’s see, where shall we start? Oh yes, here’s a good one. We’re coming for you and all your kind. You dared to invade us and we’re slaughtering your kind here. You don’t stand a chance against us. We’re coming for you and we’re going to free all our people you hold and hand those of you that survive over to them. We’re going to hand you over and watch all our people do to you what you have been doing to them. There’s a new order coming and we’re the ones on top. So, you’d better start running Domiklespharatu because we’re coming for you, and we won’t stop. Not now, not ever. You’ve pissed off humanity Domiklespharatu and, oh boy, what a price you’ll pay for doing that. Oh, and tell that freak you have in charge there, he’d better find a good lawyer. He’ll need one for the war crimes trial.”
The system powered down and Julie took her headset off. There was an enthusiastic round of applause. Randi laid an approving pat on the shoulder. “Impertinence. That was great. I guess you’ll be taking the job then Julie.”
On the Shore of the Styx River, Fifth Ring, Hell
The woman was crouched behind a rocky outcrop on the edge of the Styx in the fifth circle, watching the scene unfold in front of her. Luck was an amazing thing, wasn't it? For thousands of years, she'd been purposefully moving through hell, taking account of the humans who suffered here – some worthy of her attention, others, weaklings, worthy only of her contempt. Of course, given the billions of souls – there must be billions, now – she could only rely on her instinct to guide her. And now, this. Just as she was in the area, some new arrivals had escaped with apparent ease, had tackled the demonic overseer with impunity, stabbed and bludgeoned it to death with skill, and had just crucified it to the rocks in front of her. Such open defiance was unprecedented and dangerous.
In ten thousand years, she had learned many languages from the screams and gibbering cries of the tormented, so with only a little difficulty, she recognized what they were saying. The woman was speaking to a man, something about resistance. She smiled to herself. If only they knew … As they turned to go, she stepped out from behind the rock.
"Hello!"
The two newcomers whirled, the bronze spikes they carried up and ready. The woman smiled and spread her arms, revealing herself unarmed. "I have seen what you have done. Excellent work."
The apparent leader of this group was a woman, short, already healing from the gang rape. She gestured to her companion, and he lowered his weapons, though they still stood cautiously at the ready. All were in excellent physical shape, save for the quickly-healing wounds and scars. "Who are you?"
"A fellow resistance member." Suddenly, the woman felt a stab in her back above the kidneys. She almost fainted with terror, had a demon caught her for the spikes against her were certainly the bronze of a trident. She turned slowly, looking over her shoulder. There were more newcomers behind her, one armed with a cut-down trident, the other with a club made from the section of haft that had been removed. The woman was shocked, she’d been so pleased with tracking this group, she hadn’t seen they’d spotted her and had set up an ambush.
Now, the leader of the group was speaking, her voice hard, cold, suspicious. "There's already a resistance?"
"Of course, there is. There has been a resistance in Hell since it began."
"Well, take us to its leader."
The woman again spread her arms. "I will certainly do that. But first, you must tell me your names."
"When we meet the leader."
"Okay. Then follow me; we're going to the rim between the fourth and fifth circles." And she turned and stepped into the waist-deep muck, wading past the still-bleeding corpse of Jarakeflaxis. The six newcomers followed her at a distance. The woman didn’t notice but two of them dropped out of sight, following from the flanks.
Over her shoulder, the woman said, "If I duck under the mud, you do the same. As long as the demons on patrol don't see us, we'll be fine."
The Tango flight members exchanged glances, that remark was more telling than the woman had realized. It should be the demons who lived in fear. The first rule of establishing a liberated area – those who stayed out of it were safe, and those who entered it died. What she meant by resistance wasn’t what they meant. Kim started to form a mental picture of what the resistance here really was, probably groups of escapees hiding out, spending their time avoiding capture. Kim had in mind something far more ambitious.
The Galaxy Turkish Bath and Massage Parlor, Bangkok, Thailand
The succubus slipped into the bar carefully, keeping in the dark as much as possible. Once it had been easy to fool the humans but no more. Now fewer and fewer of them seemed vulnerable to mind-masking. This group seemed to be though. All women, that was good, massacring them would cause great alarm and misery. There was a group of them by a long wooden table at the end of the room. The succubus kept her self-image clearly in her mind, a young Asian woman dressed as the others were, a short skirt, skimpy top, and baseball cap perched on her head. A couple of women were dancing around a pole on a small stage, under a sign that said, “Coyote Dancing”. Well, they could wait until last.
The succubus went up to the group by the table, picked the one at the end, and drew back her clawed hand ready to plunge it into her victim’s chest and tear out her heart. Then she paused, she’d never realized quite how big a half-inch could look when it was pointing straight at her face.
“Now, I know what you’re thinking, can you kill me before I pull the trigger? Well, seeing as this is a .50AE Desert Eagle, the most powerful semi-automatic handgun ever made, you must ask yourself one question. Do you feel lucky?” The human woman chuckled. “I’ve always wanted to say that.”
The succubus looked around carefully. She was the center of a ring of gun barrels, all aimed at her, all obeying the third law of gun-fighting – calibers measured in inches should begin with a “.4” or greater. It was pointless, over. She let her image drop and from the lack of shock on the faces of the women, she realized her illusion had been just as pointless. These women had recognized her as soon as she had entered, and they’d trapped her.
“So kill me.” She’d failed, it was hopeless. Death was the consequence of failure.
“Perhaps not. Sit down. Don’t try anything stupid and we won’t shoot. Why did you do this?”
“It was my mission. Deumos sent me to seduce a leader and bend him to our will.”
“So Deumos is your pimp.” The woman with the Desert Eagle put a mountain of disgust into the word. “That doesn’t explain why you came here to try and kill us.”
“I failed; we were told that politicians here were easy to seduce but I couldn’t make mind contact with them. I hoped killing you would buy enough favor to save my life. People here no longer are deceived by our mind mask.” The succubus thought for a second. “What is a pimp?”
“Somebody who lives off the money we earn.”
“I do not get paid.”
“Then you’re a sex slave?” The women in the bar were genuinely shocked. They frequently told their tourist clients they were poor women, tricked into a life of sin by unscrupulous brothel owners but that was just a line to get some sympathy-money. They were all Bangkok girls, born and bred in the city. Country girls couldn’t compete with them and didn’t try. Not one of the girls in the bar had ever actually met a real sex slave.
“Aren’t you?"
“No!” Noi, the girl with the Desert Eagle, was horrified and insulted. “We are businesswomen. We are free professionals and paid as such. Why last week I made more money than an office lady makes in a year. Look…. What’s your name?”
“Lugasharmanaska.”
“Look Lugasharman… do you mind if we call you Luga? Nobody has the right to go around telling you who you can have sex with. Not unless they pay you for the trouble. It sounds to me like this Deumos person has been treating you badly. You’d be better off staying with us than going back to him.”
“Her. Deumos is a female. A Greater Demon.”
There was another round of indignant snorts. “That’s disgusting. A woman treating you like this. A man, perhaps I can understand, they always want it for free but another woman? That’s sick. You should be free to make your own living. It’s your body.”
“I could make a living doing it here?” Lugasharmanaska’s voice was uneven, curious, and confused.
The women in the bar laughed, although that didn’t affect the way they held their guns. “You bet. A real demon whore? There’d be men lining up out the door to do you. You could look like yourself, or like their favorite actress or whatever. You’d make a fortune. Why a couple of months and you’d own a bar like this. Less if an American warship pulled into Pattaya.” A chorus of happy sighs ran around the bar. To the women, an American warship full of Walking ATMs was their idea of the Great Cornucopia. Noi continued. “Look, Luga, last time one American carrier pulled in for a week, I made enough money to buy a new pickup truck. Cash down. Lin over there paid for a whole year’s college tuition for her younger sister and Dip bought a house for her parents. How do you think we all ended up with American guns? Tourists are profitable enough; we all make a good living off them. And this Deumos person makes you do it for nothing. It’s not just disgusting, it’s unprofessional.”
“Well, what can I do?” Lugasharmanaska almost wailed out the question.
The girls did a quick conference. “Come with us, we’ll take you to the Army. They’ll look after you, they know if they don’t look after our friends, they’ll never get any in this city again. I’ll get my truck and we’ll go around to the Cavalry Depot in Thonburi.”
Five minutes later, one succubus and five ladies of the night were piling into Noi’s pickup truck, Lugasharmanaska having been strongly cautioned not to scratch the paint with her claws. A ten-minute drive took them to the depot gates where, for the second time in an evening, Lugasharmanaska was surrounded by guns.
“Hi boys.” Noi’s voice was bright and friendly.
“Sisters, you do know you got a baldrick in the back there?”
“Of course. Her name is Luga. She wants to surrender so we brought her here. We don’t trust the police.”
“I can understand that. I’ll must call the Officer of the Guard.”
Another ten minutes and the group were telling their story to the Officer of the Guard, making it very clear that the succubus was under their protection and if she were hurt, nobody in the Second Cavalry Division would be welcome in a Bangkok bar again. Most of the troops had gulped at that threat and mentally promised to guard their prisoner with their lives. Within 30 minutes, the Thai MoD was on the telephone with Washington.
Headquarters, Randi Institute of Pneumatology, The Pentagon, Arlington, VA
“Well, it’s a step forward but it doesn’t get us that far.”
“I thought Julie did well.”
“She did, and we told her she can use the equipment any time she likes to torment Domiklespharatu. But it’s one-to-one communication. It’s using a telephone and we want to use something like a radio. We want to transmit to everybody, and this system just can’t do that. It needs a mind pattern to lock in to, like I said, it’s one-to-one.”
“But baldricks can deceive large numbers of people at once.”
“Sure, but we don’t know-how. We’re a long way out from knowing that.”
The telephone on Randi’s desk rang and he picked it up, mouthing an apology as he did so. As he listened, his eyebrows lifted.
“Well, this might change things. That was the Ministry of Defense in Bangkok. We’ve got a defector.”
Headquarters, Randi Institute of Pneumatology, The Pentagon, Arlington, VA
“I see you finally got your new offices.” Julie Adams looked different from her first visit here less than three weeks ago. Her hair was washed and shining, she was wearing skillfully applied make-up and was smartly, fashionably, dressed. As with all the latest fashionistas, she was wearing a chic aluminum foil hat that covered her head and extended down the back of her neck. Producing elegant headwear out of aluminum foil had proved a challenge but the French and Italian designers had come through with flying colors. Julie’s aluminum hat had more to do with her change in appearance than her clothes or make-up. For the first time in many, many years her eyes were quiet and rested, she looked at the world with peaceful confidence, not abject terror.
“They’re nice aren’t they.” The Amazing Randi was sitting behind his desk, sorting through the letters received by his unit, trying to pick out the genuine prospects from the fakes. It was a harrowing job. “Our General bullied the decorators until they did what we wanted. By the way, the walls are foil-lined, we’ve got monitoring equipment here and we can’t pick up any extra-dimensional signals. So, it looks like we’re safe. I guess the next set of building codes will stipulate aluminum foil in all walls and ceilings.
Julie shuddered at the memories of what Domiklespharatu had done to her.
Randi smiled again, understanding her expression like any skilled cold reader. “Julie, would you like to get your own back? Punish Domiklespharatu by hurting him the way he hurt you?”
“Sure. Of course. Can I?”
“Come to the laboratory.” The two went into the next room. There was a comfortable reclining chair with some machine behind it and a swinging table with a microphone. “Don’t ask me how any of this works, I’m a conjuror, not a physicist.”
“It’s quite easy James.” One of the men in white coats was talking. “The baldrick mind control works by quantum entanglement, essentially, they transmit their mind signal to a victim and force its mind pattern to match theirs. When we intercepted the baldrick signal, we identified both the baldrick’s pattern and that of Miss Adams. So, we just reversed the procedure and we’re going to try and entangle its mind pattern. The catch is it’s much easier for hell to transmit to us than us to transmit to them. So, since we’re not short of raw electrical power, we’re going to boost it upwards until we can transmit to hell. If we’ve done this right, you can speak into this microphone and broadcast straight into Domiklespharatu’s mind.”
“Thank you, gentlemen, I still don’t understand how it works but you’ve done wonders, that I know. If this goes well, what we plan to do is to open a new radio station transmitting to everybody in hell. And, Julie, you’ll be our first newsreader. Now settle down and start to try.”
Julie slipped into the chair and pushed her headset on. Earphones and a simple microphone. Behind her, the systems specialists started to ease the power-up, seeking the threshold that would tell them they had breached the barrier between the dimensions. In her seat, all Julie could hear was the signals hum, slowly increasing in pitch and intensity. Then, suddenly it stopped, there was an eerie silence at the other end and Julie could sense the suspicious questioning as Domiklespharatu felt a new presence in his mind.
“Remember me Domiklespharatu? I’m Julie Adams, the woman you got your kicks from torturing. Well, I’m back only I’m in your mind now. I can get into your head, but you can’t get into mine anymore. So, guess what, Domiklespharatu, it’s my turn to have some fun and yours to suffer. Let’s see, where shall we start? Oh yes, here’s a good one. We’re coming for you and all your kind. You dared to invade us and we’re slaughtering your kind here. You don’t stand a chance against us. We’re coming for you and we’re going to free all our people you hold and hand those of you that survive over to them. We’re going to hand you over and watch all our people do to you what you have been doing to them. There’s a new order coming and we’re the ones on top. So, you’d better start running Domiklespharatu because we’re coming for you, and we won’t stop. Not now, not ever. You’ve pissed off humanity Domiklespharatu and, oh boy, what a price you’ll pay for doing that. Oh, and tell that freak you have in charge there, he’d better find a good lawyer. He’ll need one for the war crimes trial.”
The system powered down and Julie took her headset off. There was an enthusiastic round of applause. Randi laid an approving pat on the shoulder. “Impertinence. That was great. I guess you’ll be taking the job then Julie.”
On the Shore of the Styx River, Fifth Ring, Hell
The woman was crouched behind a rocky outcrop on the edge of the Styx in the fifth circle, watching the scene unfold in front of her. Luck was an amazing thing, wasn't it? For thousands of years, she'd been purposefully moving through hell, taking account of the humans who suffered here – some worthy of her attention, others, weaklings, worthy only of her contempt. Of course, given the billions of souls – there must be billions, now – she could only rely on her instinct to guide her. And now, this. Just as she was in the area, some new arrivals had escaped with apparent ease, had tackled the demonic overseer with impunity, stabbed and bludgeoned it to death with skill, and had just crucified it to the rocks in front of her. Such open defiance was unprecedented and dangerous.
In ten thousand years, she had learned many languages from the screams and gibbering cries of the tormented, so with only a little difficulty, she recognized what they were saying. The woman was speaking to a man, something about resistance. She smiled to herself. If only they knew … As they turned to go, she stepped out from behind the rock.
"Hello!"
The two newcomers whirled, the bronze spikes they carried up and ready. The woman smiled and spread her arms, revealing herself unarmed. "I have seen what you have done. Excellent work."
The apparent leader of this group was a woman, short, already healing from the gang rape. She gestured to her companion, and he lowered his weapons, though they still stood cautiously at the ready. All were in excellent physical shape, save for the quickly-healing wounds and scars. "Who are you?"
"A fellow resistance member." Suddenly, the woman felt a stab in her back above the kidneys. She almost fainted with terror, had a demon caught her for the spikes against her were certainly the bronze of a trident. She turned slowly, looking over her shoulder. There were more newcomers behind her, one armed with a cut-down trident, the other with a club made from the section of haft that had been removed. The woman was shocked, she’d been so pleased with tracking this group, she hadn’t seen they’d spotted her and had set up an ambush.
Now, the leader of the group was speaking, her voice hard, cold, suspicious. "There's already a resistance?"
"Of course, there is. There has been a resistance in Hell since it began."
"Well, take us to its leader."
The woman again spread her arms. "I will certainly do that. But first, you must tell me your names."
"When we meet the leader."
"Okay. Then follow me; we're going to the rim between the fourth and fifth circles." And she turned and stepped into the waist-deep muck, wading past the still-bleeding corpse of Jarakeflaxis. The six newcomers followed her at a distance. The woman didn’t notice but two of them dropped out of sight, following from the flanks.
Over her shoulder, the woman said, "If I duck under the mud, you do the same. As long as the demons on patrol don't see us, we'll be fine."
The Tango flight members exchanged glances, that remark was more telling than the woman had realized. It should be the demons who lived in fear. The first rule of establishing a liberated area – those who stayed out of it were safe, and those who entered it died. What she meant by resistance wasn’t what they meant. Kim started to form a mental picture of what the resistance here really was, probably groups of escapees hiding out, spending their time avoiding capture. Kim had in mind something far more ambitious.
The Galaxy Turkish Bath and Massage Parlor, Bangkok, Thailand
The succubus slipped into the bar carefully, keeping in the dark as much as possible. Once it had been easy to fool the humans but no more. Now fewer and fewer of them seemed vulnerable to mind-masking. This group seemed to be though. All women, that was good, massacring them would cause great alarm and misery. There was a group of them by a long wooden table at the end of the room. The succubus kept her self-image clearly in her mind, a young Asian woman dressed as the others were, a short skirt, skimpy top, and baseball cap perched on her head. A couple of women were dancing around a pole on a small stage, under a sign that said, “Coyote Dancing”. Well, they could wait until last.
The succubus went up to the group by the table, picked the one at the end, and drew back her clawed hand ready to plunge it into her victim’s chest and tear out her heart. Then she paused, she’d never realized quite how big a half-inch could look when it was pointing straight at her face.
“Now, I know what you’re thinking, can you kill me before I pull the trigger? Well, seeing as this is a .50AE Desert Eagle, the most powerful semi-automatic handgun ever made, you must ask yourself one question. Do you feel lucky?” The human woman chuckled. “I’ve always wanted to say that.”
The succubus looked around carefully. She was the center of a ring of gun barrels, all aimed at her, all obeying the third law of gun-fighting – calibers measured in inches should begin with a “.4” or greater. It was pointless, over. She let her image drop and from the lack of shock on the faces of the women, she realized her illusion had been just as pointless. These women had recognized her as soon as she had entered, and they’d trapped her.
“So kill me.” She’d failed, it was hopeless. Death was the consequence of failure.
“Perhaps not. Sit down. Don’t try anything stupid and we won’t shoot. Why did you do this?”
“It was my mission. Deumos sent me to seduce a leader and bend him to our will.”
“So Deumos is your pimp.” The woman with the Desert Eagle put a mountain of disgust into the word. “That doesn’t explain why you came here to try and kill us.”
“I failed; we were told that politicians here were easy to seduce but I couldn’t make mind contact with them. I hoped killing you would buy enough favor to save my life. People here no longer are deceived by our mind mask.” The succubus thought for a second. “What is a pimp?”
“Somebody who lives off the money we earn.”
“I do not get paid.”
“Then you’re a sex slave?” The women in the bar were genuinely shocked. They frequently told their tourist clients they were poor women, tricked into a life of sin by unscrupulous brothel owners but that was just a line to get some sympathy-money. They were all Bangkok girls, born and bred in the city. Country girls couldn’t compete with them and didn’t try. Not one of the girls in the bar had ever actually met a real sex slave.
“Aren’t you?"
“No!” Noi, the girl with the Desert Eagle, was horrified and insulted. “We are businesswomen. We are free professionals and paid as such. Why last week I made more money than an office lady makes in a year. Look…. What’s your name?”
“Lugasharmanaska.”
“Look Lugasharman… do you mind if we call you Luga? Nobody has the right to go around telling you who you can have sex with. Not unless they pay you for the trouble. It sounds to me like this Deumos person has been treating you badly. You’d be better off staying with us than going back to him.”
“Her. Deumos is a female. A Greater Demon.”
There was another round of indignant snorts. “That’s disgusting. A woman treating you like this. A man, perhaps I can understand, they always want it for free but another woman? That’s sick. You should be free to make your own living. It’s your body.”
“I could make a living doing it here?” Lugasharmanaska’s voice was uneven, curious, and confused.
The women in the bar laughed, although that didn’t affect the way they held their guns. “You bet. A real demon whore? There’d be men lining up out the door to do you. You could look like yourself, or like their favorite actress or whatever. You’d make a fortune. Why a couple of months and you’d own a bar like this. Less if an American warship pulled into Pattaya.” A chorus of happy sighs ran around the bar. To the women, an American warship full of Walking ATMs was their idea of the Great Cornucopia. Noi continued. “Look, Luga, last time one American carrier pulled in for a week, I made enough money to buy a new pickup truck. Cash down. Lin over there paid for a whole year’s college tuition for her younger sister and Dip bought a house for her parents. How do you think we all ended up with American guns? Tourists are profitable enough; we all make a good living off them. And this Deumos person makes you do it for nothing. It’s not just disgusting, it’s unprofessional.”
“Well, what can I do?” Lugasharmanaska almost wailed out the question.
The girls did a quick conference. “Come with us, we’ll take you to the Army. They’ll look after you, they know if they don’t look after our friends, they’ll never get any in this city again. I’ll get my truck and we’ll go around to the Cavalry Depot in Thonburi.”
Five minutes later, one succubus and five ladies of the night were piling into Noi’s pickup truck, Lugasharmanaska having been strongly cautioned not to scratch the paint with her claws. A ten-minute drive took them to the depot gates where, for the second time in an evening, Lugasharmanaska was surrounded by guns.
“Hi boys.” Noi’s voice was bright and friendly.
“Sisters, you do know you got a baldrick in the back there?”
“Of course. Her name is Luga. She wants to surrender so we brought her here. We don’t trust the police.”
“I can understand that. I’ll must call the Officer of the Guard.”
Another ten minutes and the group were telling their story to the Officer of the Guard, making it very clear that the succubus was under their protection and if she were hurt, nobody in the Second Cavalry Division would be welcome in a Bangkok bar again. Most of the troops had gulped at that threat and mentally promised to guard their prisoner with their lives. Within 30 minutes, the Thai MoD was on the telephone with Washington.
Headquarters, Randi Institute of Pneumatology, The Pentagon, Arlington, VA
“Well, it’s a step forward but it doesn’t get us that far.”
“I thought Julie did well.”
“She did, and we told her she can use the equipment any time she likes to torment Domiklespharatu. But it’s one-to-one communication. It’s using a telephone and we want to use something like a radio. We want to transmit to everybody, and this system just can’t do that. It needs a mind pattern to lock in to, like I said, it’s one-to-one.”
“But baldricks can deceive large numbers of people at once.”
“Sure, but we don’t know-how. We’re a long way out from knowing that.”
The telephone on Randi’s desk rang and he picked it up, mouthing an apology as he did so. As he listened, his eyebrows lifted.
“Well, this might change things. That was the Ministry of Defense in Bangkok. We’ve got a defector.”
Re: 2008 - Armageddon
Chapter Thirteen
The Royal Dragoon Guards, Al Badiyah Al Janubiyah, Western Iraq
“How shall a man die better than facing fearful odds?
For the ashes of his fathers and the future of his buds.
It’s showtime boys”.
Guardsman Bass put the tank intercom down. Like every good tank commander, he had anticipated the order, getting his Challenger II ready to move well before the word came down from Regimental HQ. It hadn’t taken that much anticipation, in fact, just a modicum of skill and experience. Skill and experience were something that the long-term professionals that made up the British ranks had in abundance. The spams may have the shiny toys, the British tankers said, but the Brits knew how to play with them.
In the valley below, the baldrick army was slowly extricating itself from the tangle caused by the minefields and wire. What had started as a series of infantry was being distorted and funneled into a confused mass, made all the worse by the pounding of the AS-90Ds. The 155mm guns were lobbing their shells into the mass of infantry still seething through the gap in the wire torn where the baldrick cavalry had died. They were concentrating on the mass targets but that meant the infantry was slowly penetrating the first line of defense, breaking through in a thin, steady stream. They were beginning to move across the valley floor, making their way towards where the Challengers were sitting in wait behind the rippling sand and gravel dunes.
Even with the snarled mess down by the wire holding up the bulk of the baldricks, Bass was appalled by the sheer number of them coming towards his position. Intellectually, he had heard the number that was expected, nearly 100,000, but he had never imagined what 100,000 infantry swarming towards him would look like. Now, he knew. It was a sight few had ever seen before even where human armies were concerned. The mass of baldrics was something that belonged to human prehistory.
“Mark your targets as they come.” The voice over the radio was calm and collected, the boyish pitch already well-controlled and only barely a reminder of how young their officer was. It didn’t matter much; everybody knew a junior officer fresh out of Sandhurst was still being trained in his craft. This one was doing well, Bass thought. If he survived, he might go far. Even while he thought that his hands were selecting a group of baldricks as his target.
“Lase them.”
A brief pause. “5,003 meters boss.”
Another brief pause and then Lieutenant McLeod’s voice cut in again. “On my word boys. Hold Fast and …. shoot!”
“On the way.”
Third Legion, Southern Flank, Abigor’s Army
He had survived the snakes, he had seen their silver bodies stretched out on the ground, tape-like creatures that were threatening even in death. Those who had stepped on their bodies had screamed in agony as the snake teeth cut their feet apart. Demon skin was strong, but the silver snakes were stronger.
He had avoided the yellow bars as well, taught by the fearful fate of those who had been careless enough to step on them. He had threaded his way through the maze on the ground, catching only minor injuries from the fragments as more careless, or less fortunate, as Krykojanklawas was quickly beginning to realize, on a battlefield, they were the same thing, had stepped on the bars and been blown apart. Krykojanklawas corrected himself, the lucky ones were blown apart, and the unlucky ones just had their legs ripped off and lay screaming on the ground.
The bars weren’t the only magic in the ground here. Something else was hidden in the sand and gravel, something nobody saw until it was too late. Something that threw a metal ball up into the air so that it could explode and throw out a slashing rain of fragments. The humans had a touch of true evil in their magic, the balls always exploded at about waist height and the ones caught by them were the unluckiest of all for they were rarely killed, just disemboweled, and castrated by the blasts. Their screams were truly dreadful.
That was the worst thing of all, the overwhelming noise, the sensation that the bath of sound they were immersed in was itself a weapon hammering them flat with repeated waves of blasting. The explosions of the mines, the flat crack of the balls as they were thrown into the air and exploded, and worst of all, the howl as the human mages created thunderbolts and hurled them into the mass of troops advancing on them. They mixed with the screams of the dying, and those who wished they were dying, in an all-embracing cacophony and the war-cry howls of the humans in their sky-chariots overhead, hunting down the surviving flies. Krykojanklawas had never heard anything like it before. If anything, the sound was worse than the magic that was being thrown at him, its pressure on his head made it almost impossible to think straight.
He lifted his head slightly, the human mages were up to something new. A ripple of lightning flashed along the ridge crest ahead of him. His eyes focused on that ridge, there were strange boxes scattered along with it and the lightning seemed to have come from them. Before that could register, the bath of sound that enveloped him was punctuated by ear-splitting screams, more human battle cries Krykojanklawas presumed. How could such puny creatures give out such cries? Off to his left, a tight knot of demons had penetrated the wire, using the body of a dead Beast as a bridge. As Krykojanklawas watched, one of their leaders seemed to be hurled backward, disintegrating into a fine spray of mist and parts as he did so. Most of those around him fell, spurting yellow body fluid from wounds torn by fragments from the magic bolt. Along the line, Krykojanklawas could see forty or fifty more such explosions as the magic bolts tore into the demonic ranks.
For the first time, he sensed that moving forward was impossible, that he could not do it and survive. All along the line, the same idea was beginning to filter into the minds of his fellows, the advance was faltering. Although he had never experienced anything like this before, the simple instinct of self-preservation cut in, and Krykojanklawas took cover in a convenient dip in the ground. He was just in time, another salvo of the screaming bolts slammed into the ranks where the demons had clustered, spreading more death and destruction. At that point he noticed something, the human mages were hurling their bolts where the demons were most tightly packed, the area effect of their blasts ensured multiple kills for each bolt. Krykojanklawas began to wonder if his survival in this human-created hell, he used the phrase without any sense of irony, was because he was in a thinly populated section where most of the demons were already down.
The human magic was being concentrated on a section of the line far away, even the terrible noise seemed to have slackened a bit. That gave Krykojanklawas an opportunity. He had already spotted another, better dip in the ground ahead of him, so he leaped up and sprinted across to it. On the way, he discharged his psychic force into his trident and aimed a bolt at the ridgeline ahead. The blue bolt shot out; it would take time for him to recharge but at least he’d taken a shot at the mages. Then, he was in his new hiding place, trying to find another one that was both better and closer to the enemy.
The Royal Dragoon Guards, Al Badiyah Al Janubiyah, Western Iraq
“What the blazes was that?”
Bass shrugged. Something had hit his tank, it seemed like some sort of ball lightning or something. It had come from the mass of infantry they were pounding. “No idea. Any damage.”
“No boss, computers flickered for a second but that’s all. If I didn’t know better, I’d say we got hit by lightning. If we did, the system hardening worked as advertised.”
Bass looked across the line, it seemed like quite a few bolts were coming in from the direction of the enemy. “The old books said that demons could throw lightning bolts, didn’t they? Looks like we just got hit by one.” Ahead, down in the valley, a group of baldricks had penetrated the wire in his sector. “Load HESH.”
“Up.”
“Shoot.”
“On the way.”
The tank lurched as another 120mm HESH round went down range and Bass saw it plow into the group he’d selected, blowing one baldrick into fragments while those around it went down wounded. The thought crossed Bass’s mind that he was currently firing the biggest and most expensive sniper’s rifle in history. It also crossed his mind that snipers couldn’t possibly stop a mass attack like this. He had to give the baldricks credit, the ground in the minefield and around the wire was carpeted with their dead yet they were still pushing forward. It took gutsy infantry to do that.
“Make that a definite on the ball lightning.” Bass had seen another Challenger getting hit by a ball of lightning and briefly lighting up the way a ship’s mast sometimes did in an electrical storm. St Elmo’s Fire it was called or something. He switched to the platoon net. “Lieutenant, Sir, we’re taking incoming fire here. Some sort of electrostatic bolt, like lightning or EMP. Doesn’t seem to be dangerous to us but worth reporting.”
“Roger that Bass. For your information, other tanks and the crunchies in their Warriors are also reporting the bolts. Hold Fast.”
Bass switched back to tank intercom and picked out another baldrick target. Once again, his 120mm gun crashed, sending the baldricks flying. Their casualty rate down there was appalling, the AS-90Ds were still pounding them with their 155s while the tanks added precision fire to the execution, yet they were barely making a dent in the mass of baldricks still moving forward. Bass got an uneasy feeling that the battle was not going well.
First Brigade, First Armored Division, Tel Ash Sha’ir, Northern Iraq.
“They may not know what they’re doing but my word, do they have guts.” Colonel Sean MacFarland watched the slaughter on his display. The Global Hawk was relaying real-time video of the battle as it developed, sending back pictures of the baldrick horde as they floundered under the lash of artillery fire. The MLRS batteries were inflicting incredible losses on them, every time they fired, whole sections of the baldrick front just vanished under the Steel Rain. There were two problems with that, the batteries fired about once every eight or nine minutes and that just wasn’t often enough. The other was that they had already dumped more than a million DPICM bomblets into the target area. With a 2 percent failure rate, that meant there were already 20,000 dud rounds scattering the battlefield. That would make it a hazard for years to come.
Still, the gap between the MLRS salvoes was being filled by the Paladins. All 54 guns in the First Armored were now pouring fire into the enemy army. A human army would have broken by now, known that getting through the artillery fire was impossible, and save their lives by pulling back. The baldricks weren’t doing that. Not yet at any rate. He knew they would, sooner or later. They were fighting the United States Army on its terms, on its ground, giving it exactly the target the Army was supremely good at destroying. The baldricks would either run or die. Even as he watched, a new element was added to the massacre, the Bradleys of his mechanized infantry were firing TOW anti-tank missiles into the enemy formation, picking out the groups the artillery missed and cutting them down. The tanks were silent, MacFarland intended to hold fire with them until the enemy was 2,000 meters away. The 120mm smoothbore didn’t have the accurate range of the British rifled 120mms so the Bradleys had to take over the long-range precision fire role.
MacFarland looked at the mass of infantry threshing in the kill zone and shook his head. They had to stop. Didn’t they?
Cavalry Legion, Left Flank of the Army of Abigor, Tel Ash Sha’ir, Northern Iraq.
They were hunched up, backs bent, heads down, looking for all the world as if they were trying to walk through some ferocious storm. Same grim determination to find shelter. And that wasn’t a bad comparison though Zorankalirtagap, that’s what they were. Facing a storm that slaughtered everything in its path. Ever since his Beast had been killed, Zorankalirtagap had been advancing with the infantry against the hideous magic of the humans. He caught his breath, suddenly the sky behind the humans had turned white again, white shot with fire as their fire-lances sped towards the floundering demon advance. He watched the sight with fear in his heart, then sighed slightly as it descended on the flank of the line, far from his position. It happened again, the same rippling cloud of explosions that left no demons standing when it cleared. Anything was better than the fire lances, even the magic bolts that screamed and caused the ground to erupt under their feet.
There was something new, from a position in front of them, more human chariots had appeared, barely visible with just a small box over the ridgeline. For all their skills, the humans were cowards, Zorankalirtagap consoled himself with that thought, they didn’t stand proud and fight, they hid in hollows and dips in the ground to kill. And kill, and kill, and kill thought Zorankalirtagap grimly. Oh yes, they were very good at that.
The boxes fired fire-lances at a group of demons on Zorankalirtagap’s right. The targets scattered but it did them no good. They’d been lucky enough to escape the fire-lances and the bolts, but these new weapons were different. As Zorankalirtagap watched appalled, the fire-lances changed course to follow their targets. Even those who forget their honor and took cover in dips like humans could not save themselves, the fire lances were following them into the cover they had sought. It was more than flesh and blood; even demonic flesh and blood could stand. The leading demons started to edge backward, even as the ones behind continued to push forward. The advance ground to a halt in the chaos.
The Royal Dragoon Guards, Al Badiyah Al Janubiyah, Western Iraq
“Air Raid Warning Red! Red! Red!” The scream over the radio was just in time. A group of about 30 harpies had managed to assemble themselves from the massacre in the skies over the battlefield and attacked the tanks sitting on the ridgeline. Bass could feel his tank lurch as a group of them landed on it and heard their claws scrabbling at the armor. His radio went dead at a guess, he thought the antenna had probably been ripped off by the harpies. Then he heard a ringing noise, the sound of machine-gun fire bouncing off armor plate. The Warriors were machine-gunning the tanks to drive the harpies off them. Bass looked through his vision blocks, some were masked by clawed hands trying to rip them open, but he could see Bravo-Three was also covered with harpies, the tracers from three Warriors converging on it as the infantry protected the tanks from the sudden assault. On a sudden thought, Bass looked up and made sure his hatch was firmly clamped shut. One harpy was driven off the tank by the fire, it exploded in the air as the Warrior fired a few rounds from its 30mm RARDEN gun into it. Others were dying as they were shot up by the Warrior’s coaxial chain guns. That was creating a new problem, Bass could see Bravo-Three was starting to smoke, the acid from the harpy’s blood probably. The paint on the Challengers would resist the acid but there were other things out there that could be vulnerable.
The tanks were backing up. Bass hadn’t received any orders but with his radio down, it was a fair guess they were out, so he joined in the movement. Like the other tanks, he popped his smoke launchers, the choking white fumes driving off the remaining harpies. By the time the baldricks swarmed over the positions he had once held, the Challengers were back behind the next ridgeline.
Headquarters, British Brigade, Wadi Al Jaram, Western Iraq
Brigadier John Carlson looked at his map, his front line had been driven in, and the tanks and armored infantry pushed back to the next defense positions. That left the baldricks spread out between the wire and the next defense line in a vast disorganized mass. He picked up his radio, it was already set to the right frequency. “Now, General Zolfaghari now’s your time. Put every gun to them Sir, every gun.”
“Getting a bit Wellingtonian, aren’t we?” The Iranian General’s voice was urbane and slightly amused. Then his division spoke for him. Outside the sky to Carlson’s left turned white as the massed batteries of Iranian BM-21 rocket launchers opened fire, pouring their rockets into the baldrick’s flank and rear. Under the white cloud was a black one as the T-72s gunned their engines and started their charge at the enemy.
Third Legion, Southern Flank, Abigor’s Army
The onslaught was unexpected, the enemy was in retreat, covered by the fog they had conjured up. Then, somehow, they had poured a new mass of fire into the right flank and rear of the demon forces. Krykojanklawas looked over to the left and saw the black cloud as something crossed the ridgeline. He focused his eyes and almost screamed in horror at what he saw. “The humans have Iron Chariots!”
He wasn’t the only one. Others saw the more than 300 T-72 tanks pouring over the ridgeline, moving terrifyingly fast through the sand. They saw them spit fire, the blaze rippling along their front line as the shots went on their way to tear into the demonic ranks. Every demon sensed the new chariots and knew the truth. they were made of iron. Not just any iron but some sort of super iron. The demons recoiled from their old enemy; it was just too much. After the pounding, the mines, the wire, their nerve broke.
Headquarters of Merafawlazes, Commander, Northern Flank, Abigor’s Army
Merafawlazes had learned much about the war in the last few hours. He had learned that cavalry could no longer charge an enemy. He learned that artillery was the great killer no matter whether the targets were demons or humans. He had learned that his soldiers were helpless against tanks. He had learned that humans were the supreme masters of mass killing and were only too keen to practice their art. Now he learned that the moment an Army disintegrates and changes from a defeated force to a panicked mob can be measured with exquisite precision. The French Army at Waterloo disintegrated at precisely 8:15 pm, and the Union Army at First Bull Run at precisely 4:20 pm. Merafawlazes saw his army disintegrate with the same precision. As the great iron chariots of the humans emerged from their hiding places, his army dissolved into chaos, running for the rear. The Iron Chariots followed them, and they could move much faster than even the panic-stricken demons. That was when he had his next lesson. An Army suffers heavier casualties when it breaks than it does when it stands.
M1A2 Abrams Charlie-Three, Tel Ash Sha’ir, Northern Iraq.
There were Thirtydead an' wounded on the ground we wouldn't keep --
No, there wasn't more than twenty when the front began to go;
But, along the line o' flight, they cut us up like sheep,
An' that was all we gained by doin' so.
The M1 crested the ground smoothly, the great barrel of its gun held in place by the stabilization system. There was hardly any need to use it, the baldricks were running for the rear, the Abrams tanks spraying them with fire from their coaxial and turret-top machine guns. In the driver’s seat, SPC Brungardt saw a wounded baldrick fall to the ground in front of the racing tank. The 70-ton Abrams didn’t even lurch as it drove over the body. Brungardt thumbed his intercom button. “Hey, guys guess what. Baldricks go crunch too.”
The Royal Dragoon Guards, Al Badiyah Al Janubiyah, Western Iraq
“How shall a man die better than facing fearful odds?
For the ashes of his fathers and the future of his buds.
It’s showtime boys”.
Guardsman Bass put the tank intercom down. Like every good tank commander, he had anticipated the order, getting his Challenger II ready to move well before the word came down from Regimental HQ. It hadn’t taken that much anticipation, in fact, just a modicum of skill and experience. Skill and experience were something that the long-term professionals that made up the British ranks had in abundance. The spams may have the shiny toys, the British tankers said, but the Brits knew how to play with them.
In the valley below, the baldrick army was slowly extricating itself from the tangle caused by the minefields and wire. What had started as a series of infantry was being distorted and funneled into a confused mass, made all the worse by the pounding of the AS-90Ds. The 155mm guns were lobbing their shells into the mass of infantry still seething through the gap in the wire torn where the baldrick cavalry had died. They were concentrating on the mass targets but that meant the infantry was slowly penetrating the first line of defense, breaking through in a thin, steady stream. They were beginning to move across the valley floor, making their way towards where the Challengers were sitting in wait behind the rippling sand and gravel dunes.
Even with the snarled mess down by the wire holding up the bulk of the baldricks, Bass was appalled by the sheer number of them coming towards his position. Intellectually, he had heard the number that was expected, nearly 100,000, but he had never imagined what 100,000 infantry swarming towards him would look like. Now, he knew. It was a sight few had ever seen before even where human armies were concerned. The mass of baldrics was something that belonged to human prehistory.
“Mark your targets as they come.” The voice over the radio was calm and collected, the boyish pitch already well-controlled and only barely a reminder of how young their officer was. It didn’t matter much; everybody knew a junior officer fresh out of Sandhurst was still being trained in his craft. This one was doing well, Bass thought. If he survived, he might go far. Even while he thought that his hands were selecting a group of baldricks as his target.
“Lase them.”
A brief pause. “5,003 meters boss.”
Another brief pause and then Lieutenant McLeod’s voice cut in again. “On my word boys. Hold Fast and …. shoot!”
“On the way.”
Third Legion, Southern Flank, Abigor’s Army
He had survived the snakes, he had seen their silver bodies stretched out on the ground, tape-like creatures that were threatening even in death. Those who had stepped on their bodies had screamed in agony as the snake teeth cut their feet apart. Demon skin was strong, but the silver snakes were stronger.
He had avoided the yellow bars as well, taught by the fearful fate of those who had been careless enough to step on them. He had threaded his way through the maze on the ground, catching only minor injuries from the fragments as more careless, or less fortunate, as Krykojanklawas was quickly beginning to realize, on a battlefield, they were the same thing, had stepped on the bars and been blown apart. Krykojanklawas corrected himself, the lucky ones were blown apart, and the unlucky ones just had their legs ripped off and lay screaming on the ground.
The bars weren’t the only magic in the ground here. Something else was hidden in the sand and gravel, something nobody saw until it was too late. Something that threw a metal ball up into the air so that it could explode and throw out a slashing rain of fragments. The humans had a touch of true evil in their magic, the balls always exploded at about waist height and the ones caught by them were the unluckiest of all for they were rarely killed, just disemboweled, and castrated by the blasts. Their screams were truly dreadful.
That was the worst thing of all, the overwhelming noise, the sensation that the bath of sound they were immersed in was itself a weapon hammering them flat with repeated waves of blasting. The explosions of the mines, the flat crack of the balls as they were thrown into the air and exploded, and worst of all, the howl as the human mages created thunderbolts and hurled them into the mass of troops advancing on them. They mixed with the screams of the dying, and those who wished they were dying, in an all-embracing cacophony and the war-cry howls of the humans in their sky-chariots overhead, hunting down the surviving flies. Krykojanklawas had never heard anything like it before. If anything, the sound was worse than the magic that was being thrown at him, its pressure on his head made it almost impossible to think straight.
He lifted his head slightly, the human mages were up to something new. A ripple of lightning flashed along the ridge crest ahead of him. His eyes focused on that ridge, there were strange boxes scattered along with it and the lightning seemed to have come from them. Before that could register, the bath of sound that enveloped him was punctuated by ear-splitting screams, more human battle cries Krykojanklawas presumed. How could such puny creatures give out such cries? Off to his left, a tight knot of demons had penetrated the wire, using the body of a dead Beast as a bridge. As Krykojanklawas watched, one of their leaders seemed to be hurled backward, disintegrating into a fine spray of mist and parts as he did so. Most of those around him fell, spurting yellow body fluid from wounds torn by fragments from the magic bolt. Along the line, Krykojanklawas could see forty or fifty more such explosions as the magic bolts tore into the demonic ranks.
For the first time, he sensed that moving forward was impossible, that he could not do it and survive. All along the line, the same idea was beginning to filter into the minds of his fellows, the advance was faltering. Although he had never experienced anything like this before, the simple instinct of self-preservation cut in, and Krykojanklawas took cover in a convenient dip in the ground. He was just in time, another salvo of the screaming bolts slammed into the ranks where the demons had clustered, spreading more death and destruction. At that point he noticed something, the human mages were hurling their bolts where the demons were most tightly packed, the area effect of their blasts ensured multiple kills for each bolt. Krykojanklawas began to wonder if his survival in this human-created hell, he used the phrase without any sense of irony, was because he was in a thinly populated section where most of the demons were already down.
The human magic was being concentrated on a section of the line far away, even the terrible noise seemed to have slackened a bit. That gave Krykojanklawas an opportunity. He had already spotted another, better dip in the ground ahead of him, so he leaped up and sprinted across to it. On the way, he discharged his psychic force into his trident and aimed a bolt at the ridgeline ahead. The blue bolt shot out; it would take time for him to recharge but at least he’d taken a shot at the mages. Then, he was in his new hiding place, trying to find another one that was both better and closer to the enemy.
The Royal Dragoon Guards, Al Badiyah Al Janubiyah, Western Iraq
“What the blazes was that?”
Bass shrugged. Something had hit his tank, it seemed like some sort of ball lightning or something. It had come from the mass of infantry they were pounding. “No idea. Any damage.”
“No boss, computers flickered for a second but that’s all. If I didn’t know better, I’d say we got hit by lightning. If we did, the system hardening worked as advertised.”
Bass looked across the line, it seemed like quite a few bolts were coming in from the direction of the enemy. “The old books said that demons could throw lightning bolts, didn’t they? Looks like we just got hit by one.” Ahead, down in the valley, a group of baldricks had penetrated the wire in his sector. “Load HESH.”
“Up.”
“Shoot.”
“On the way.”
The tank lurched as another 120mm HESH round went down range and Bass saw it plow into the group he’d selected, blowing one baldrick into fragments while those around it went down wounded. The thought crossed Bass’s mind that he was currently firing the biggest and most expensive sniper’s rifle in history. It also crossed his mind that snipers couldn’t possibly stop a mass attack like this. He had to give the baldricks credit, the ground in the minefield and around the wire was carpeted with their dead yet they were still pushing forward. It took gutsy infantry to do that.
“Make that a definite on the ball lightning.” Bass had seen another Challenger getting hit by a ball of lightning and briefly lighting up the way a ship’s mast sometimes did in an electrical storm. St Elmo’s Fire it was called or something. He switched to the platoon net. “Lieutenant, Sir, we’re taking incoming fire here. Some sort of electrostatic bolt, like lightning or EMP. Doesn’t seem to be dangerous to us but worth reporting.”
“Roger that Bass. For your information, other tanks and the crunchies in their Warriors are also reporting the bolts. Hold Fast.”
Bass switched back to tank intercom and picked out another baldrick target. Once again, his 120mm gun crashed, sending the baldricks flying. Their casualty rate down there was appalling, the AS-90Ds were still pounding them with their 155s while the tanks added precision fire to the execution, yet they were barely making a dent in the mass of baldricks still moving forward. Bass got an uneasy feeling that the battle was not going well.
First Brigade, First Armored Division, Tel Ash Sha’ir, Northern Iraq.
“They may not know what they’re doing but my word, do they have guts.” Colonel Sean MacFarland watched the slaughter on his display. The Global Hawk was relaying real-time video of the battle as it developed, sending back pictures of the baldrick horde as they floundered under the lash of artillery fire. The MLRS batteries were inflicting incredible losses on them, every time they fired, whole sections of the baldrick front just vanished under the Steel Rain. There were two problems with that, the batteries fired about once every eight or nine minutes and that just wasn’t often enough. The other was that they had already dumped more than a million DPICM bomblets into the target area. With a 2 percent failure rate, that meant there were already 20,000 dud rounds scattering the battlefield. That would make it a hazard for years to come.
Still, the gap between the MLRS salvoes was being filled by the Paladins. All 54 guns in the First Armored were now pouring fire into the enemy army. A human army would have broken by now, known that getting through the artillery fire was impossible, and save their lives by pulling back. The baldricks weren’t doing that. Not yet at any rate. He knew they would, sooner or later. They were fighting the United States Army on its terms, on its ground, giving it exactly the target the Army was supremely good at destroying. The baldricks would either run or die. Even as he watched, a new element was added to the massacre, the Bradleys of his mechanized infantry were firing TOW anti-tank missiles into the enemy formation, picking out the groups the artillery missed and cutting them down. The tanks were silent, MacFarland intended to hold fire with them until the enemy was 2,000 meters away. The 120mm smoothbore didn’t have the accurate range of the British rifled 120mms so the Bradleys had to take over the long-range precision fire role.
MacFarland looked at the mass of infantry threshing in the kill zone and shook his head. They had to stop. Didn’t they?
Cavalry Legion, Left Flank of the Army of Abigor, Tel Ash Sha’ir, Northern Iraq.
They were hunched up, backs bent, heads down, looking for all the world as if they were trying to walk through some ferocious storm. Same grim determination to find shelter. And that wasn’t a bad comparison though Zorankalirtagap, that’s what they were. Facing a storm that slaughtered everything in its path. Ever since his Beast had been killed, Zorankalirtagap had been advancing with the infantry against the hideous magic of the humans. He caught his breath, suddenly the sky behind the humans had turned white again, white shot with fire as their fire-lances sped towards the floundering demon advance. He watched the sight with fear in his heart, then sighed slightly as it descended on the flank of the line, far from his position. It happened again, the same rippling cloud of explosions that left no demons standing when it cleared. Anything was better than the fire lances, even the magic bolts that screamed and caused the ground to erupt under their feet.
There was something new, from a position in front of them, more human chariots had appeared, barely visible with just a small box over the ridgeline. For all their skills, the humans were cowards, Zorankalirtagap consoled himself with that thought, they didn’t stand proud and fight, they hid in hollows and dips in the ground to kill. And kill, and kill, and kill thought Zorankalirtagap grimly. Oh yes, they were very good at that.
The boxes fired fire-lances at a group of demons on Zorankalirtagap’s right. The targets scattered but it did them no good. They’d been lucky enough to escape the fire-lances and the bolts, but these new weapons were different. As Zorankalirtagap watched appalled, the fire-lances changed course to follow their targets. Even those who forget their honor and took cover in dips like humans could not save themselves, the fire lances were following them into the cover they had sought. It was more than flesh and blood; even demonic flesh and blood could stand. The leading demons started to edge backward, even as the ones behind continued to push forward. The advance ground to a halt in the chaos.
The Royal Dragoon Guards, Al Badiyah Al Janubiyah, Western Iraq
“Air Raid Warning Red! Red! Red!” The scream over the radio was just in time. A group of about 30 harpies had managed to assemble themselves from the massacre in the skies over the battlefield and attacked the tanks sitting on the ridgeline. Bass could feel his tank lurch as a group of them landed on it and heard their claws scrabbling at the armor. His radio went dead at a guess, he thought the antenna had probably been ripped off by the harpies. Then he heard a ringing noise, the sound of machine-gun fire bouncing off armor plate. The Warriors were machine-gunning the tanks to drive the harpies off them. Bass looked through his vision blocks, some were masked by clawed hands trying to rip them open, but he could see Bravo-Three was also covered with harpies, the tracers from three Warriors converging on it as the infantry protected the tanks from the sudden assault. On a sudden thought, Bass looked up and made sure his hatch was firmly clamped shut. One harpy was driven off the tank by the fire, it exploded in the air as the Warrior fired a few rounds from its 30mm RARDEN gun into it. Others were dying as they were shot up by the Warrior’s coaxial chain guns. That was creating a new problem, Bass could see Bravo-Three was starting to smoke, the acid from the harpy’s blood probably. The paint on the Challengers would resist the acid but there were other things out there that could be vulnerable.
The tanks were backing up. Bass hadn’t received any orders but with his radio down, it was a fair guess they were out, so he joined in the movement. Like the other tanks, he popped his smoke launchers, the choking white fumes driving off the remaining harpies. By the time the baldricks swarmed over the positions he had once held, the Challengers were back behind the next ridgeline.
Headquarters, British Brigade, Wadi Al Jaram, Western Iraq
Brigadier John Carlson looked at his map, his front line had been driven in, and the tanks and armored infantry pushed back to the next defense positions. That left the baldricks spread out between the wire and the next defense line in a vast disorganized mass. He picked up his radio, it was already set to the right frequency. “Now, General Zolfaghari now’s your time. Put every gun to them Sir, every gun.”
“Getting a bit Wellingtonian, aren’t we?” The Iranian General’s voice was urbane and slightly amused. Then his division spoke for him. Outside the sky to Carlson’s left turned white as the massed batteries of Iranian BM-21 rocket launchers opened fire, pouring their rockets into the baldrick’s flank and rear. Under the white cloud was a black one as the T-72s gunned their engines and started their charge at the enemy.
Third Legion, Southern Flank, Abigor’s Army
The onslaught was unexpected, the enemy was in retreat, covered by the fog they had conjured up. Then, somehow, they had poured a new mass of fire into the right flank and rear of the demon forces. Krykojanklawas looked over to the left and saw the black cloud as something crossed the ridgeline. He focused his eyes and almost screamed in horror at what he saw. “The humans have Iron Chariots!”
He wasn’t the only one. Others saw the more than 300 T-72 tanks pouring over the ridgeline, moving terrifyingly fast through the sand. They saw them spit fire, the blaze rippling along their front line as the shots went on their way to tear into the demonic ranks. Every demon sensed the new chariots and knew the truth. they were made of iron. Not just any iron but some sort of super iron. The demons recoiled from their old enemy; it was just too much. After the pounding, the mines, the wire, their nerve broke.
Headquarters of Merafawlazes, Commander, Northern Flank, Abigor’s Army
Merafawlazes had learned much about the war in the last few hours. He had learned that cavalry could no longer charge an enemy. He learned that artillery was the great killer no matter whether the targets were demons or humans. He had learned that his soldiers were helpless against tanks. He had learned that humans were the supreme masters of mass killing and were only too keen to practice their art. Now he learned that the moment an Army disintegrates and changes from a defeated force to a panicked mob can be measured with exquisite precision. The French Army at Waterloo disintegrated at precisely 8:15 pm, and the Union Army at First Bull Run at precisely 4:20 pm. Merafawlazes saw his army disintegrate with the same precision. As the great iron chariots of the humans emerged from their hiding places, his army dissolved into chaos, running for the rear. The Iron Chariots followed them, and they could move much faster than even the panic-stricken demons. That was when he had his next lesson. An Army suffers heavier casualties when it breaks than it does when it stands.
M1A2 Abrams Charlie-Three, Tel Ash Sha’ir, Northern Iraq.
There were Thirtydead an' wounded on the ground we wouldn't keep --
No, there wasn't more than twenty when the front began to go;
But, along the line o' flight, they cut us up like sheep,
An' that was all we gained by doin' so.
The M1 crested the ground smoothly, the great barrel of its gun held in place by the stabilization system. There was hardly any need to use it, the baldricks were running for the rear, the Abrams tanks spraying them with fire from their coaxial and turret-top machine guns. In the driver’s seat, SPC Brungardt saw a wounded baldrick fall to the ground in front of the racing tank. The 70-ton Abrams didn’t even lurch as it drove over the body. Brungardt thumbed his intercom button. “Hey, guys guess what. Baldricks go crunch too.”
Re: 2008 - Armageddon
Chapter Fourteen
Wadi Abu Tahir, Western Iraq, late afternoon
Memnon snorted in disgust as he watched the young human die. He stared into those cow-like eyes as they fluttered, and the hands feebly clawed at his infernal flesh. He could feel the soul within stirring now as the meat caging it finally ceased its life functions. He casually allowed the corpse to slide out of his grip. He was quiet for a long moment, listening. The humans were about in large numbers, and he was no fool. His wings would take time to regenerate, and his flesh was still aching from his wounds. Their spears of plastic and metal spat hot burning bolts that could wound even his great personage. This was not the way it was to be. Go find them and challenge them, he was told. They will cower before you. He had found the humans, but their chariots of steel and plastic were far too powerful for him. He had lost two wingmates already and he was in no condition to meet them again. Not yet anyway.
Memnon smiled cruelly. When he did, there would be blood. Enough to drown a thousand human infants, and then the pain would come. Sweet melodic pain. Memnon’s eyes fluttered and the never born knew that it was time to rest. His prey had been bested and he had claimed a lair for himself. At least long enough to heal the wounds and allow his spirit flesh to sing to the domain he called home. This wretched place of cloying life and limited matter was not to his liking. He needed rest.
“Just for a little while,” Memnon growled and curled down onto the floor next to the corpse of the boy. He looked with contentment at the place that surrounded him for sprawled out across the couch was an older woman, head turned completely around and leering at him while a younger woman was impaled on a broken piece of furniture, scream frozen on her face. All were small offerings to the Morningstar and his Prince to watch over him in this moment of weakness. He would repay them with more flesh and blood when he was whole again.
Wadi Abu Tahir, Western Iraq, just before dawn
A single eye snapped open at the sound of the teapot whistle and Memnon spoke. “For disturbing me in this moment of respite, you shall know such wonders of pain, I will make a cathedral of your bones and sinew and your agony will be my choir, pathetic human.” He snarled coldly at the young Arabic man who now shared the high-roofed barn that was now his den. A man dressed in plain khakis and a billowy white shirt opened at his chest who nodded politely to Memnon and knelt cross-legged across from him as he delicately poured himself a cup of tea. The steam rose lazily from the ancient, chipped porcelain. It had been brewing on the stove and the smell wafted over to the groggy demon.
“Peace and blessing be upon you, Fallen One. Your absence still saddens my patron.”
Memnon paused. He stirred more now, unfurling like some obscene spider, long leathery limbs reaching out as he rose with eyes like cold embers pinning the young man with a predatory gaze. “Slave of the Nameless One.” Memnon inclined his head with bitter sarcastic politeness as he smelled the clean scent of the Angelic.
“Care for a cup?” the Angelic asked with a child-like innocence as he sipped his own, for a moment, he closed his eyes and seemed to savor the tea like one savored the sensation of forced coupling.
“You’re all whores to your senses, you know that don’t you?” Memnon chuckled darkly, his cloven hooves clomping on the packed earth floor like a caged bull as he paced back and forth before the kneeling man.
“This world is delight and rapture. It is the fulfillment of all and the joy of bliss.” The young man sighed as he inhaled the aroma from the teacup.
Memnon said nothing. They liked to talk, they liked to taste, they liked to savor, these slaves of the Nameless.
“What is the purpose of this world if not to delight in its wonders? You must remember, surely, how bright it is in our Ethereal Realm. How the chorus of praise and supplication is a constant backdrop to the great one above us all as he basks in our light of selfless devotion.” He continued in a whisper like leaves on silk.
“What manner of slave are you, eh? Cherub, perhaps?” Memnon asked silkily. How frail he looked just sitting there, stirred his predatory urges like a woman’s breast called to a male. Memnon clomped forward a bit, talons gleaming dangerously.
The Angelic inclined his head and closed his eyes and listened intently for a moment, he looked beautiful, like a statue carved of perfect alabaster, there was not a blemish on his skin and his body moved with a sublime grace that would have made a human weep. Was it a wonder that these bastards had their way with the women of this wretched place while his kin had to forcibly take what they wanted? Was it any wonder they were always the ones the Nameless sent in his stead to speak for him?
Always put your best face forward they say. They were such supple and elegant heralds. How could the humans resist worshipping the Nameless One when these were the ones he sent in its name? If the humans could only see what they worshipped, now that would be worth the price of admission, no?
“It is so…quiet here.” The Angelic announced with tears welling in its eyes. “No maddening chorus always haunting your every thought, no cries of baseless devotion, no shrieks of joyous revelation. Just. Silence.” There was a sadness there, deep and abiding.
Memnon could stand it no longer, it maddened him to see this abject weakness paraded before him. “Slave!” he roared.
There was a rip and whirl of taloned hands and leathery limbs flashing forward and the angelic merely raised his head as if offering his throat to his attacker, but it gestured with its hand and Memnon was catapulted off his feet and landed in a heap against the far wall of the shack, shaking the entire frame to its core.
The angelic was off his feet and had crossed the room in a single stride in between heartbeats. He had a flawless alabaster hand wrapped around Memnon’s throat. Without a grunt of effort, the Angelic hoisted the still stunned Harpy off his feet and held him high above him. The eyes were no longer human but white within white and there was a low sound growing around him like a chorus of women slowly building up-tempo.
“I am Appoloin, servant to Gabriel-Lan, Seraph of the Hosts of Michael-Lan, Devout Servant, and Herald of He Above All Others. You will listen to my words and heed them.”
“I…listen.” Memnon managed to choke out.
“Are you certain?” Appoloin asked tightly and there was a cold smile on his face. Oh, yes, they were beautiful, but they were also terrible in their wrath. These humans worshipped the Nameless with such zeal and spoke of his Perfect Love never really discussing that when the time came for punishment it was these beautiful angels that delivered death and destruction without hesitation or remorse. In the end, human morality was just as alien to this beautiful creature as it was to Memnon.
“Yes, Appoloin. I attend your words.” Memnon stammered.
“We are watching. Tell your prince that. The One Above All has spoken yet he sees vile repugnant defiance from humanity. The Great Chorus must not be disturbed. The Chanting must not cease. Your ilk was given this world and we see nothing but abhorrent failure. We do not want to take a more active role. Uriel awaits on the ether like a sword of Damocles.”
“Uriel?!” Memnon exclaimed.
“Last he moved upon man, the Land of Khemet wept bitter tears. Do not force our hands. Cow them. Stop the defiance. Should they find a way to disrupt the Chorus we will end this charade once and for all?” Gabriel jerked Memnon down to face him, tusk to the nose.
“Clear, foul one?” Appoloin replied like ice and hurled the Never Born back through the wall of the shack. Corrugated tin and sheet rock gave way and Memnon found himself running before he even realized he was touching the ground again.
“Peace be with you,” Appoloin whispered into the dawn wind and calmly sat back down to enjoy his tea.
He was disturbed in his tranquility by a roar and a clattering noise that shook the dust from the ceiling of the hut and spoiled his tea. Dawn had still only half arrived but stood at the door, he could see a hulking brute made of square boxes sitting in the road. Two more of the same were behind it and three smaller brutes. Appoloin looked more carefully, there were twenty thin black rings painted around the long tube that stuck out of the upper box. Then there was a squeaking noise, and something opened from the top. At first, Appoloin thought it was one of the foul ones but then he saw it was a human. With his eye for beauty, he saw her as comely, and buxom even by the standards of the daughters of Ham.
Lieutenant Keisha “Hooters” Stevenson didn’t feel comely. She was gray with exhaustion, her hair under her communications helmet was matted and her scalp stinging with sweat. She and the crew of Alpha-One-One had been on the move all night, at first chasing down the fleeing remnants of the northern army. Later, they’d split away and were now swinging west and south across the rear of the Baldrick army. If it had been a human force, there would have been supply columns to devastate and rear area units to destroy but here there was nothing. Until they’d come to this tiny village. Here, they had to wait until the great ships of the desert, the Oshkosh Heavy Expanded Mobility Tactical Trucks, could catch up with them and bring them new supplies of fuel for the greedy gas turbines and ammunition for their guns. Although, they didn’t need ammunition for all their kills. The roadwheels and bellies of the Abrams and Bradleys were stained green and yellow with baldrick blood. It was a dirty little secret of armored warfare that tanks killed infantry with their tracks almost as often as they did with their guns.
There were other dirty little secrets as well of course. One of them, she had found, was that her physique wasn’t perfectly suited to the inside of a cramped armored vehicle. Put quite bluntly her breasts got in the way. Back in her first unit, their impressive size had got her the nickname of ‘hooters’. Women in the Army reacted to things like that one of two ways, they either got offended, kicked up a fuss, and were eased out or they sucked it up, gave back as good as they got, and were accepted. Stevenson had been one of the second group but that didn’t help her now. After being thrown around inside a fast-moving tank all night, she was sore, tired, bruised, and battered. And she had seen so much killing over the last twenty hours that she was a veteran with a veteran’s lack of patience for stupidity.
Still, the dawn chill felt good after being sealed down for so long. She looked around the village and saw people slowly coming out of the buildings to look at the great American tanks. She checked them over carefully, noting the glitter of silver from their covered heads. The word was spreading fast, cover your head with foil if you don’t want a baldrick stealing your mind. Even out here in the back of beyond. The breeze sure did feel good, even though it gave her a shrewd idea of just how bad she must smell. She slipped the shoulder straps of her top off to get the full benefit from the cool air. That caused a stir of disapproval from some of the men in the village, although she did note they kept staring at her to remind themselves how offended they felt.
In his doorway, Appoloin saw the gesture and felt perturbed. She might be comely, but such brazen behavior was immodest. He stepped away from his doorway into the street, projecting an image of love and friendliness with all his might. “Cover yourself, woman,” his kindly voice echoed across the street.
“Screw you!” Stevenson’s voice was harsh for she was a veteran and didn’t suffer fools gladly. “And the horse you …. ****! Baldrick 20 degrees left! Canister!” She dropped back into the turret of her tank, by long practice ending the fall in her commander’s position. The turret was already swinging to bear on her mark.
“Up.”
“Shoot.”
The gunner saw the crosshairs merge with the figure standing silhouetted against the rising sun. “On the way.”
The blast of canister took Appoloin full in the chest, hurling him backward and tearing at his body. Incredibly, it didn’t kill him although there was no way he would have survived wounds that terrible. It was the burst from the 25mm Bushmaster chain guns on the Bradleys that finished him off. Confused by the sudden, vicious attack and in agony from the wounds, Appoloin died in a spreading pool of white blood.
A few minutes later, Stevenson and her crew were looking down at the body, now revealed in its true form, a white humanoid with wings. “Not the same as the ones we’ve killed so far ell-tee.” Stevenson’s crew was punctilious about addressing her correctly when others were around. Inside their tank she was ‘hooters’ just as the gunner was ‘baldy’, the loader ‘crab’ and the driver ‘biker’ but, for them, using her nickname where outsiders could hear would be disrespectful.
“Not the same at all. I guess this is one of the angels. Doesn’t matter, we declared war on them as well.” She raised her voice slightly. “Did anybody see where this one came from?”
One of the village women pointed at a barn-like building. Crab went over and looked inside, then came back, his face grim and as white as the body stretched out on the ground. “You’d better take a look at this ell-tee.”
Stevenson went into the hut and looked for what seemed a long, long time. When she came back, her eyes were blank. “Well, that puts paid to any idea about them being good guys, doesn’t it? We need a camera crew up here to film that.” Suddenly, she shook with rage. “Damn him. He sat there drinking tea surrounded by that horror show. Slaughtered an entire family and then drank a cup of tea.”
“Don’t sweat it ell-tee. We did well here. Nobody believed they were on the side of righteousness anymore. Not after The Message.” Baldy was speaking from the barrel of the 120mm gun where he had just finished painting a white ring to match all the black ones.
Far away, in the rocky wasteland, Memnon heard the crash of the gun and crackle of gunfire and decided he’d better vacate the area. Very quickly.
Headquarters, Randi Institute of Pneumatology, The Pentagon, Arlington, VA
“Next.”
James Randi sighed. It sounded so good using the enormous expertise his Educational Foundation had built up in detecting fraudulent psychics and mediums to try and find the real thing. It was hard to believe that the JREF was now on the front line in humanity’s fight against its enemies. Neither consideration changed the fact that the day-to-day reality of the task was boring. He had another candidate for testing, a young woman who called herself Kitten. It was essential to making the interviewees comfortable. He heard the door open and glanced up. Years of expertise in self-control kept his face expressionless but he knew this day at least would not be considered boring.
Two people had entered the room, one a young man dressed all in black with a vaguely military-style coat that reached down below his knees. A goth, although that wasn’t what had added interest to Randi’s otherwise routine day. With him was a young woman, another goth dressed in black with her hair down around her shoulders, her long dress low cut and held by thin shoulder straps. The young man was leading her around by a dog leash attached to a collar around her neck.
“You must be Kitten?” Randi’s voice was even. “Would you like to take a seat?”
The girl paused for a second until the man with her gave a quick nod, then she sat down. “I’m Kitten, yes.”
“You too Sir, please sit down.” The young man did so. “Kitten why are you here today?”
“I read your advertisement asking for people who can contact the dead to call you. I can do that, sometimes. I can also see into hell.”
“I see, what’s hell like?”
“Some parts of it aren’t too bad. Imagine a destroyed city, one where all the buildings are smashed, the streets ruined. Like those pictures of World War Two German cities after the Allied bombing. Cold, raining all the time, people gathered around burning garbage to keep warm, the only food available, trash from skips. And no hope, everybody knowing that it’ll never be any different, never going to get any better. That’s where I’m going when I die. I’m lucky, some parts of hell are much, much worse.”
“How long have you known this, Kitten? Been able to see these things.”
“As long as I can remember. I’m not quite normal you see. I’m very far from normal.”
Randi’s secretary came in with a file and handed it over, being very careful to keep her face straight. Randi looked at the psychiatrist’s report. It described Kitten as a paranoid schizophrenic with apocalyptic delusions but added that she was perfectly well adjusted and, despite her condition, was able to function in society without medication. The shrink had concluded, functionally she was the most well-adjusted person he dealt with and that included his own staff. Randi allowed himself to smile at that. Then he flipped over to her birth certificate, and he couldn’t stop the look of surprise.
“Um, your birth certificate has you listed as male?”
“I was born in the wrong body. I’m having it put right surgically. I’ve had these,” she waved at her chest,” done already. We’re saving up for the big operation now.”
“Well, if you do well here, my government will pay for that operation for you.” Behind them, General Asanee had entered the room, as silently as always. Randi found it perturbing how she could move with so little disturbance. “We have the best surgeons in the world for that type of operation and my Army will see you get the best of the best.”
“Quite. If your claims are proved, you will be very important to us.” Randi hesitated, not quite certain how to address Kitten.
“Please use either ‘she’ or ‘it’ when referring to me. I don’t want to be called ‘he’ ever.” Kitten spoke firmly and decisively on that point. Randi nodded; he could respect somebody who stuck to their guns regardless of public opinion.
“That’s fine with us Kitten. Now, did you sell your vision services to people, to contact their relatives, that sort of thing?”
Kitten shook her head. “How could I tell people what had happened to their friends, their family? It would be cruel. I’ve told close friends that I could see into hell but that’s all.”
“That’s very good. Right, Kitten, we are going to carry out some tests on you. We think we’ve detected how people can communicate across the dimensional barrier and we can measure it. So, we’re going to see what happens when you try and investigate hell. Sir.” Randi switched to Kitten’s friend. “We have a very comfortable waiting room or, if you like, one of the guides can give you the Pentagon tour.”
“Sir,” Kitten spoke deferentially. “I do this much better if I’m comfortable and I’ll be much more at ease if Dani is with me and holding my leash. So, can he come in please?”
“If that’s what you wish, of course.” Randi dug into another file. “We’re going to ask you to try and contact these people, they are the crews of some helicopters that were lost in Iraq almost a fortnight ago. If you’d like to study these pictures, perhaps you can get through to them.” He handed the pictures over. They were of Lieutenant Jade “Broomstick” Kim and the rest of the crews of Tango-One-Five.
Wadi Abu Tahir, Western Iraq, late afternoon
Memnon snorted in disgust as he watched the young human die. He stared into those cow-like eyes as they fluttered, and the hands feebly clawed at his infernal flesh. He could feel the soul within stirring now as the meat caging it finally ceased its life functions. He casually allowed the corpse to slide out of his grip. He was quiet for a long moment, listening. The humans were about in large numbers, and he was no fool. His wings would take time to regenerate, and his flesh was still aching from his wounds. Their spears of plastic and metal spat hot burning bolts that could wound even his great personage. This was not the way it was to be. Go find them and challenge them, he was told. They will cower before you. He had found the humans, but their chariots of steel and plastic were far too powerful for him. He had lost two wingmates already and he was in no condition to meet them again. Not yet anyway.
Memnon smiled cruelly. When he did, there would be blood. Enough to drown a thousand human infants, and then the pain would come. Sweet melodic pain. Memnon’s eyes fluttered and the never born knew that it was time to rest. His prey had been bested and he had claimed a lair for himself. At least long enough to heal the wounds and allow his spirit flesh to sing to the domain he called home. This wretched place of cloying life and limited matter was not to his liking. He needed rest.
“Just for a little while,” Memnon growled and curled down onto the floor next to the corpse of the boy. He looked with contentment at the place that surrounded him for sprawled out across the couch was an older woman, head turned completely around and leering at him while a younger woman was impaled on a broken piece of furniture, scream frozen on her face. All were small offerings to the Morningstar and his Prince to watch over him in this moment of weakness. He would repay them with more flesh and blood when he was whole again.
Wadi Abu Tahir, Western Iraq, just before dawn
A single eye snapped open at the sound of the teapot whistle and Memnon spoke. “For disturbing me in this moment of respite, you shall know such wonders of pain, I will make a cathedral of your bones and sinew and your agony will be my choir, pathetic human.” He snarled coldly at the young Arabic man who now shared the high-roofed barn that was now his den. A man dressed in plain khakis and a billowy white shirt opened at his chest who nodded politely to Memnon and knelt cross-legged across from him as he delicately poured himself a cup of tea. The steam rose lazily from the ancient, chipped porcelain. It had been brewing on the stove and the smell wafted over to the groggy demon.
“Peace and blessing be upon you, Fallen One. Your absence still saddens my patron.”
Memnon paused. He stirred more now, unfurling like some obscene spider, long leathery limbs reaching out as he rose with eyes like cold embers pinning the young man with a predatory gaze. “Slave of the Nameless One.” Memnon inclined his head with bitter sarcastic politeness as he smelled the clean scent of the Angelic.
“Care for a cup?” the Angelic asked with a child-like innocence as he sipped his own, for a moment, he closed his eyes and seemed to savor the tea like one savored the sensation of forced coupling.
“You’re all whores to your senses, you know that don’t you?” Memnon chuckled darkly, his cloven hooves clomping on the packed earth floor like a caged bull as he paced back and forth before the kneeling man.
“This world is delight and rapture. It is the fulfillment of all and the joy of bliss.” The young man sighed as he inhaled the aroma from the teacup.
Memnon said nothing. They liked to talk, they liked to taste, they liked to savor, these slaves of the Nameless.
“What is the purpose of this world if not to delight in its wonders? You must remember, surely, how bright it is in our Ethereal Realm. How the chorus of praise and supplication is a constant backdrop to the great one above us all as he basks in our light of selfless devotion.” He continued in a whisper like leaves on silk.
“What manner of slave are you, eh? Cherub, perhaps?” Memnon asked silkily. How frail he looked just sitting there, stirred his predatory urges like a woman’s breast called to a male. Memnon clomped forward a bit, talons gleaming dangerously.
The Angelic inclined his head and closed his eyes and listened intently for a moment, he looked beautiful, like a statue carved of perfect alabaster, there was not a blemish on his skin and his body moved with a sublime grace that would have made a human weep. Was it a wonder that these bastards had their way with the women of this wretched place while his kin had to forcibly take what they wanted? Was it any wonder they were always the ones the Nameless sent in his stead to speak for him?
Always put your best face forward they say. They were such supple and elegant heralds. How could the humans resist worshipping the Nameless One when these were the ones he sent in its name? If the humans could only see what they worshipped, now that would be worth the price of admission, no?
“It is so…quiet here.” The Angelic announced with tears welling in its eyes. “No maddening chorus always haunting your every thought, no cries of baseless devotion, no shrieks of joyous revelation. Just. Silence.” There was a sadness there, deep and abiding.
Memnon could stand it no longer, it maddened him to see this abject weakness paraded before him. “Slave!” he roared.
There was a rip and whirl of taloned hands and leathery limbs flashing forward and the angelic merely raised his head as if offering his throat to his attacker, but it gestured with its hand and Memnon was catapulted off his feet and landed in a heap against the far wall of the shack, shaking the entire frame to its core.
The angelic was off his feet and had crossed the room in a single stride in between heartbeats. He had a flawless alabaster hand wrapped around Memnon’s throat. Without a grunt of effort, the Angelic hoisted the still stunned Harpy off his feet and held him high above him. The eyes were no longer human but white within white and there was a low sound growing around him like a chorus of women slowly building up-tempo.
“I am Appoloin, servant to Gabriel-Lan, Seraph of the Hosts of Michael-Lan, Devout Servant, and Herald of He Above All Others. You will listen to my words and heed them.”
“I…listen.” Memnon managed to choke out.
“Are you certain?” Appoloin asked tightly and there was a cold smile on his face. Oh, yes, they were beautiful, but they were also terrible in their wrath. These humans worshipped the Nameless with such zeal and spoke of his Perfect Love never really discussing that when the time came for punishment it was these beautiful angels that delivered death and destruction without hesitation or remorse. In the end, human morality was just as alien to this beautiful creature as it was to Memnon.
“Yes, Appoloin. I attend your words.” Memnon stammered.
“We are watching. Tell your prince that. The One Above All has spoken yet he sees vile repugnant defiance from humanity. The Great Chorus must not be disturbed. The Chanting must not cease. Your ilk was given this world and we see nothing but abhorrent failure. We do not want to take a more active role. Uriel awaits on the ether like a sword of Damocles.”
“Uriel?!” Memnon exclaimed.
“Last he moved upon man, the Land of Khemet wept bitter tears. Do not force our hands. Cow them. Stop the defiance. Should they find a way to disrupt the Chorus we will end this charade once and for all?” Gabriel jerked Memnon down to face him, tusk to the nose.
“Clear, foul one?” Appoloin replied like ice and hurled the Never Born back through the wall of the shack. Corrugated tin and sheet rock gave way and Memnon found himself running before he even realized he was touching the ground again.
“Peace be with you,” Appoloin whispered into the dawn wind and calmly sat back down to enjoy his tea.
He was disturbed in his tranquility by a roar and a clattering noise that shook the dust from the ceiling of the hut and spoiled his tea. Dawn had still only half arrived but stood at the door, he could see a hulking brute made of square boxes sitting in the road. Two more of the same were behind it and three smaller brutes. Appoloin looked more carefully, there were twenty thin black rings painted around the long tube that stuck out of the upper box. Then there was a squeaking noise, and something opened from the top. At first, Appoloin thought it was one of the foul ones but then he saw it was a human. With his eye for beauty, he saw her as comely, and buxom even by the standards of the daughters of Ham.
Lieutenant Keisha “Hooters” Stevenson didn’t feel comely. She was gray with exhaustion, her hair under her communications helmet was matted and her scalp stinging with sweat. She and the crew of Alpha-One-One had been on the move all night, at first chasing down the fleeing remnants of the northern army. Later, they’d split away and were now swinging west and south across the rear of the Baldrick army. If it had been a human force, there would have been supply columns to devastate and rear area units to destroy but here there was nothing. Until they’d come to this tiny village. Here, they had to wait until the great ships of the desert, the Oshkosh Heavy Expanded Mobility Tactical Trucks, could catch up with them and bring them new supplies of fuel for the greedy gas turbines and ammunition for their guns. Although, they didn’t need ammunition for all their kills. The roadwheels and bellies of the Abrams and Bradleys were stained green and yellow with baldrick blood. It was a dirty little secret of armored warfare that tanks killed infantry with their tracks almost as often as they did with their guns.
There were other dirty little secrets as well of course. One of them, she had found, was that her physique wasn’t perfectly suited to the inside of a cramped armored vehicle. Put quite bluntly her breasts got in the way. Back in her first unit, their impressive size had got her the nickname of ‘hooters’. Women in the Army reacted to things like that one of two ways, they either got offended, kicked up a fuss, and were eased out or they sucked it up, gave back as good as they got, and were accepted. Stevenson had been one of the second group but that didn’t help her now. After being thrown around inside a fast-moving tank all night, she was sore, tired, bruised, and battered. And she had seen so much killing over the last twenty hours that she was a veteran with a veteran’s lack of patience for stupidity.
Still, the dawn chill felt good after being sealed down for so long. She looked around the village and saw people slowly coming out of the buildings to look at the great American tanks. She checked them over carefully, noting the glitter of silver from their covered heads. The word was spreading fast, cover your head with foil if you don’t want a baldrick stealing your mind. Even out here in the back of beyond. The breeze sure did feel good, even though it gave her a shrewd idea of just how bad she must smell. She slipped the shoulder straps of her top off to get the full benefit from the cool air. That caused a stir of disapproval from some of the men in the village, although she did note they kept staring at her to remind themselves how offended they felt.
In his doorway, Appoloin saw the gesture and felt perturbed. She might be comely, but such brazen behavior was immodest. He stepped away from his doorway into the street, projecting an image of love and friendliness with all his might. “Cover yourself, woman,” his kindly voice echoed across the street.
“Screw you!” Stevenson’s voice was harsh for she was a veteran and didn’t suffer fools gladly. “And the horse you …. ****! Baldrick 20 degrees left! Canister!” She dropped back into the turret of her tank, by long practice ending the fall in her commander’s position. The turret was already swinging to bear on her mark.
“Up.”
“Shoot.”
The gunner saw the crosshairs merge with the figure standing silhouetted against the rising sun. “On the way.”
The blast of canister took Appoloin full in the chest, hurling him backward and tearing at his body. Incredibly, it didn’t kill him although there was no way he would have survived wounds that terrible. It was the burst from the 25mm Bushmaster chain guns on the Bradleys that finished him off. Confused by the sudden, vicious attack and in agony from the wounds, Appoloin died in a spreading pool of white blood.
A few minutes later, Stevenson and her crew were looking down at the body, now revealed in its true form, a white humanoid with wings. “Not the same as the ones we’ve killed so far ell-tee.” Stevenson’s crew was punctilious about addressing her correctly when others were around. Inside their tank she was ‘hooters’ just as the gunner was ‘baldy’, the loader ‘crab’ and the driver ‘biker’ but, for them, using her nickname where outsiders could hear would be disrespectful.
“Not the same at all. I guess this is one of the angels. Doesn’t matter, we declared war on them as well.” She raised her voice slightly. “Did anybody see where this one came from?”
One of the village women pointed at a barn-like building. Crab went over and looked inside, then came back, his face grim and as white as the body stretched out on the ground. “You’d better take a look at this ell-tee.”
Stevenson went into the hut and looked for what seemed a long, long time. When she came back, her eyes were blank. “Well, that puts paid to any idea about them being good guys, doesn’t it? We need a camera crew up here to film that.” Suddenly, she shook with rage. “Damn him. He sat there drinking tea surrounded by that horror show. Slaughtered an entire family and then drank a cup of tea.”
“Don’t sweat it ell-tee. We did well here. Nobody believed they were on the side of righteousness anymore. Not after The Message.” Baldy was speaking from the barrel of the 120mm gun where he had just finished painting a white ring to match all the black ones.
Far away, in the rocky wasteland, Memnon heard the crash of the gun and crackle of gunfire and decided he’d better vacate the area. Very quickly.
Headquarters, Randi Institute of Pneumatology, The Pentagon, Arlington, VA
“Next.”
James Randi sighed. It sounded so good using the enormous expertise his Educational Foundation had built up in detecting fraudulent psychics and mediums to try and find the real thing. It was hard to believe that the JREF was now on the front line in humanity’s fight against its enemies. Neither consideration changed the fact that the day-to-day reality of the task was boring. He had another candidate for testing, a young woman who called herself Kitten. It was essential to making the interviewees comfortable. He heard the door open and glanced up. Years of expertise in self-control kept his face expressionless but he knew this day at least would not be considered boring.
Two people had entered the room, one a young man dressed all in black with a vaguely military-style coat that reached down below his knees. A goth, although that wasn’t what had added interest to Randi’s otherwise routine day. With him was a young woman, another goth dressed in black with her hair down around her shoulders, her long dress low cut and held by thin shoulder straps. The young man was leading her around by a dog leash attached to a collar around her neck.
“You must be Kitten?” Randi’s voice was even. “Would you like to take a seat?”
The girl paused for a second until the man with her gave a quick nod, then she sat down. “I’m Kitten, yes.”
“You too Sir, please sit down.” The young man did so. “Kitten why are you here today?”
“I read your advertisement asking for people who can contact the dead to call you. I can do that, sometimes. I can also see into hell.”
“I see, what’s hell like?”
“Some parts of it aren’t too bad. Imagine a destroyed city, one where all the buildings are smashed, the streets ruined. Like those pictures of World War Two German cities after the Allied bombing. Cold, raining all the time, people gathered around burning garbage to keep warm, the only food available, trash from skips. And no hope, everybody knowing that it’ll never be any different, never going to get any better. That’s where I’m going when I die. I’m lucky, some parts of hell are much, much worse.”
“How long have you known this, Kitten? Been able to see these things.”
“As long as I can remember. I’m not quite normal you see. I’m very far from normal.”
Randi’s secretary came in with a file and handed it over, being very careful to keep her face straight. Randi looked at the psychiatrist’s report. It described Kitten as a paranoid schizophrenic with apocalyptic delusions but added that she was perfectly well adjusted and, despite her condition, was able to function in society without medication. The shrink had concluded, functionally she was the most well-adjusted person he dealt with and that included his own staff. Randi allowed himself to smile at that. Then he flipped over to her birth certificate, and he couldn’t stop the look of surprise.
“Um, your birth certificate has you listed as male?”
“I was born in the wrong body. I’m having it put right surgically. I’ve had these,” she waved at her chest,” done already. We’re saving up for the big operation now.”
“Well, if you do well here, my government will pay for that operation for you.” Behind them, General Asanee had entered the room, as silently as always. Randi found it perturbing how she could move with so little disturbance. “We have the best surgeons in the world for that type of operation and my Army will see you get the best of the best.”
“Quite. If your claims are proved, you will be very important to us.” Randi hesitated, not quite certain how to address Kitten.
“Please use either ‘she’ or ‘it’ when referring to me. I don’t want to be called ‘he’ ever.” Kitten spoke firmly and decisively on that point. Randi nodded; he could respect somebody who stuck to their guns regardless of public opinion.
“That’s fine with us Kitten. Now, did you sell your vision services to people, to contact their relatives, that sort of thing?”
Kitten shook her head. “How could I tell people what had happened to their friends, their family? It would be cruel. I’ve told close friends that I could see into hell but that’s all.”
“That’s very good. Right, Kitten, we are going to carry out some tests on you. We think we’ve detected how people can communicate across the dimensional barrier and we can measure it. So, we’re going to see what happens when you try and investigate hell. Sir.” Randi switched to Kitten’s friend. “We have a very comfortable waiting room or, if you like, one of the guides can give you the Pentagon tour.”
“Sir,” Kitten spoke deferentially. “I do this much better if I’m comfortable and I’ll be much more at ease if Dani is with me and holding my leash. So, can he come in please?”
“If that’s what you wish, of course.” Randi dug into another file. “We’re going to ask you to try and contact these people, they are the crews of some helicopters that were lost in Iraq almost a fortnight ago. If you’d like to study these pictures, perhaps you can get through to them.” He handed the pictures over. They were of Lieutenant Jade “Broomstick” Kim and the rest of the crews of Tango-One-Five.
Re: 2008 - Armageddon
Chapter Fifteen
Headquarters, Multi-National Force Iraq, Green Zone, Baghdad.
Once again, General Petraeus was standing before the great screen in his command center, only this time it was linked directly to the Pentagon, the White House, and an increasing number of capitals around the world. The screen showed President Bush, Defense Secretary Warner, and Secretary of State Condoleezza Rice but he knew that many, many more people were watching than that.
“Sir, we have the initial reports from the battles on the flanks. We have successfully routed both flanking forces. In the North, the First Armored is already outflanking the baldrick main body and moving into positions to its west. In the South, the Iranian Shamshar Division under General Fereidoon Zolfaghari is also outflanking the enemy and we expect it will link up with the First Armored sometime tomorrow. At that point, the enemy’s main body will be completely encircled. Our casualties have been remarkably light. A Challenger main battle tank, a Bradley fighting vehicle, two HEMTT trucks, and of all the soldiers involved in the fighting, only twenty-five have lost their lives. As far as we can tell at this time, all our losses were victims of harpy attacks.”
“Enemy casualties?” Secretary Warner spoke urgently.
“We’re not into body counts Sir, not after Vietnam and the enemy dead are so smashed up it’s impossible to tell how many there are. Details of the pursuit through the night are also only just coming in and it appears the enemy believed that fighting would stop at dusk. We didn’t oblige them of course, we kept going and made it a twenty-four-hour battle. During the process, we overran a lot of baldricks who had settled down for the night. So, I cannot give you a figure I would be confident with.”
“An estimate, a guess, anything?”
“At a conservative estimate, I would say the enemy cannot have lost less than 60,000 dead, probably many more. What’s left of the flanking forces is falling back on their main body. That main body is still advancing on the center of our line, we expect them to launch their attacks in a few hours. We’ll be concentrating all our airpower to sweep the sky clean of harpies. Once we’ve done that, the ground forces can repeat the punishment we handed out yesterday. If anything, the balance of forces is more favorable to us in the center than it was on the flanks. Once the harpies are out of the way, we can start using our helicopters over the battlefield again.”
“How are your munitions supplies holding up?” Warner’s voice was concerned.
“Very well Sir, we are well-supplied here, we built up a good stockpile in case Iran invaded us and they built up an equal stockpile in case we invaded them. Some, not much but some, of the stocks, are interchangeable and the Russians are flying in more. There are a couple of Il-76s here now, unloading rockets for the Iranian artillery. Secretary Warner Sir, may I ask how the production ramp-up is proceeding? We’re OK for ground forces ammunition but we’re running through AIM-120s at a terrifying rate. After tomorrow we’re going to be short.”
“Not well General. The problem is that so much of the need is interrelated. The AIM-120 is a good example, we’re accelerating production of the missile as fast as we can but we’re short of guidance systems. We’ve got AIM-120 airframes backing up out of the door waiting for the guidance modules. Raytheon has come up with a partial fix, they’ve designed a new weapon, the AIR-120. Essentially, it’s an AIM-120 with a simple inertial stabilization system that keeps it flying straight and level. They’ve packed it with a warhead that’s three times more powerful than the AIM-120 and given it a fast-burn motor for high speed. It can be carried on a standard triple ejector rack in place of a single AIM-120. Raytheon will build as many AIM-120s as they can get guidance modules for, and the rest will be AIR-120s.
“It’s the same across the board, I fear. We’ll get it straightened out but we’re running off stocks until we do.”
On the screen, Petraeus nodded. It was what he has suspected.”
White House Conference Room, Washington DC
“Thank you, General Petraeus. Doctor Surlethe, what are the results from our investigations of the baldricks.”
“They’re going to start flooding in fast now Sir. We’ve had only limited samples to work with to date but now, with all this in Iraq, that’s going to change. And we’ve got the succubus that defected. We could learn a lot simply by dissecting her.”
“No way.” Director of National Intelligence Donald MacLean Kerr jumped straight on the idea. “She’s the first live baldrick we’ve got our hands-on. We need to talk to her, she knows how hell is organized, what its chains of command are, and what its social and political structures are like. We’re not dealing with a different country here or even a different world. We’re dealing with an entirely different dimension. We need to know how that dimension works, and what its economy is like if indeed it has an economy. We need to know what sort of enemy we are fighting and what his resources are like. We can’t get any of that from her dissected corpse.”
“And suppose she won’t tell you?” Doctor Surlethe jumped straight back.
“We could always waterboard her?”
“How do you know she can’t breathe water?” Secretary Rice’s voice was droll.
“Exactly my point.” Surlethe was getting impassioned. “Military and political data are all very well, economic information too, but first we need to know much more about the baldricks themselves. How do they work? Can we get some idea of what powers they take for granted but seem magical to us? I’m sorry Don, but investigation of the baldricks themselves must come first. Which is rather unfortunate for her of course.”
“Gentlemen.” The room quieted as President Bush spoke. “You are forgetting that this succubus came over to us on a promise that she would not be ill-treated. We did not make that promise but it was made to her on our behalf by our allies. We cannot go back on our word. We must not.”
“She didn’t defect voluntarily; she had a ring of guns pointed at her.”
“I know. If she’d fought, she’d still probably would have killed some of those women. She chose not to.”
“Sir.” General Petraeus spoke from the screen. “There is a practical side to this as well. We have one defector who came over on a promise of good treatment. How we treat her may very well decide how many more baldricks decide to surrender or, even better, defect. If they get the idea that surrendering is a way out from certain death facing our tanks and artillery, it might end this war more quickly. It may very well mean fewer of our people get killed. Treating surrendered enemy personnel with extreme brutality has never worked to the favor of those committing such acts.”
“I agree.” Secretary Warner added his emphasis. “We’ve danced on a thin line during the War on Terror and shot ourselves in the foot doing it. We should not repeat that mistake.”
“General, Secretary Warner, your practical comments add weight to my instincts on this. Doctor Surlethe, you may investigate the succubus using non-invasive methods provided they do not inflict harm upon her. You may, with her consent, take blood samples, etc. But there will be no dissection, is that clear?” Surlethe nodded. Unhappily but still a nod.
“Mister Randi, how is your end of this going?”
“Very well Sir, we made a breakthrough today. A young….” Randi hesitated and then decided to keep going” woman came in, she can see into hell. We have her trying to contact some of our deceased personnel now. Hunting through psychics and mediums was a false step, none of them turned out to be anything other than common mountebanks and tricksters, but we have found some interesting cases under psychiatric care. Also, our advertisements have brought in a few people with promise. We have another young lady who can get into the mind of a demon and she’s exploiting that right now. As soon as we can work out how to expand that from talking to one demon into talking to all of them at once, we’ll launch Radio Free Hell.”
Andrews Air Force Base, Maryland, USA.
Lugasharmanaska was utterly bewildered. She’d been on earth not so long ago, a mere couple of centuries, but she’d had nothing like these experiences then. How had all these machines suddenly appeared? She’d flown for hours in a huge sky chariot, one loaded down with crates of more things called supplies. The crew had been nice to her of course, that was inevitable, they’d offered her food and drink and she’d accepted it even though it wouldn’t quench her appetite much. Her body craved raw meat, preferably torn from a still-living body and the thing she’d been given didn’t even come close. Just what was a ‘hot pocket’ anyway?
She could have adapted more easily to the sights around her if there weren’t so many of them. The city she had been assigned to was bad enough, all those tiny chariots racing around, but this great field was full of the huge Sky Chariots. Even as she watched, a different one was coming into land. To her incredulous eyes, it changed even while it did so, its swept-back wings suddenly swinging forward to reach straight out. Then it touched down on the long black strip and started to slow. Immediately a band started playing, making her jump.
“Yeah, bands do that.” The Air Force policeman watching her was sympathetic. Of course. Her mind mask didn’t work anymore, but the miasma was still doing its job of creating sympathy with the humans around her. “It’s the 32nd Tactical Fighter Wing standing up. That’s the first F-111 to rejoin the Air Force.”
None of that made much sense to Lugasharmanaska. She did note one thing though, the Sky Chariot that had brought her was painted light gray, the one that had just landed was a cloudy mix of gray and orange red. It never occurred to her that its paint job was an exact match to the skies of hell.
A long black ground chariot had pulled up and she was escorted into the back seat. The driver looked at her with hate that quickly faded to mild affection. The door closed behind her, and the chariot pulled away. Lugasharmanaska couldn’t see where the horses were hidden. Still, it didn’t matter. What did matter was that she was safe. She quickly recalled the split second of blind panic when she looked at the ring of guns pointed at her and knew death was but a split second away. Miasma had done its work, Lugasharmanaska didn’t know it, but the panic had kicked her glands into working overtime and secreting human pheromones that created sympathy for her with everybody around. That had bought her just enough time. She’d worked her situation out with speed and hedged her bets by surrendering. If the demons won, she would have fulfilled her mission and penetrated the enemy leadership, gaining vital information. She would have done her duty and be rewarded. If the humans won and looking around her Lugasharmanaska had an unpleasant feeling they might, she would be the first defector and would also be well-rewarded. No matter who won, she would be safe.
Sacramento, California
Norman Baines sighed and rubbed his eyes, and glanced at his watch. He'd been sitting in front of his computer for about ten hours, plowing through a week’s worth of reports for his job. He didn't have to work forty hours if it LOOKED like he did. "Time for breakfast." Victor, one of his cats and self-appointed overseer gave a 'roar' of approval as he hopped down and padded after Baines towards the kitchen. Two other cats, Roger and Clarence soon joined him as they all gathered around their communal bowl. Baines peeked through the kitchen blinds and glanced at the sky. "No eternal darkness yet," he said with a wry grin. His 'boys' looked up at him, curiously, "looks like the betting pool is still open!" With that Victor, Clarence, and Roger bent down to their dry food. Fixing a bowl of nondescript bachelor chow, he wandered over to the couch and turned on the TV.
He sighed at the empty beer cans on the coffee table, they were his way of coping with the betrayal he'd felt after the Message came out. A man in his late twenties, Baines had been very active in his church, a faithful man but also rational. And, as Dawkins had said, extraordinary claims required extraordinary evidence. He'd gone to services once, but it had seemed hollow. Now he spent his days processing reports for his job from his home computer, enjoying the relative safety of his home.
Picking up the remote, he flipped through the channels.
*CLICK*
"Hey, kids, it’s Bill Nye the Science Guy here! Be sure to always keep your foil hats on, you can never be too safe. Let's see how science protects YOU from the baldr-"
*CLICK*
"The Top Ten Signs that annoying guy in your office might be a demon number ten: Instead of decaf he drinks brimsto-"
*CLICK*
"And if you act now we'll throw in a FIFTH digital camera for free so you can monitor your home for demons twenty-four-seven!"
*CLICK*
"Coming through the desert in West Iraq, if you come to East Compton I'm gonna bust a cap! Don't bring your demon nonsense up in my hood, the Crips are rollin' large and we up to no good!"
Baines sighed and looked at Clarence, now bathing himself on the recliner. "I don't know if it’s more disconcerting that he's rapping about demons, or that it's a good tune." There was a loud knock at the door. He walked over and picked up a digital camera. Opening the door, he turned it on and looked at the screen. Humans.
He looked up and his eyes widened. It was two men in suits and two men in army uniforms carrying automatic weapons. "Norman L. Baines?" One of the suited men asked.
"Ye-yes, sir." Baines stammered It was a strange feeling to be unused to talking to someone else. He hadn't said five words to a human being since the Message. He stuck out a foot to prevent Victor from escaping.
“My name is Robert O'Shea, I'm with the Pentagon. This is my colleague, Doctor Watts. May we have a few moments of your time?" He stood solidly, implying that his request was nothing but. Dr. Watts, however, looked like someone who would rather be anywhere else.
"Ah, sure, come on in." Baines shook himself out of his momentary daze and ushered the men in, hurriedly moving dirty dishes and stacks of books and papers out of the way. One guard remained at the front door and the other simply nodded to O'Shea and began to move through the house. "Please, sit down.", Baines gestured to a dingy sofa. O’Shea sat down, but Doctor Watts remained standing, studying one of Baines's bookcases. "How can I help you guys?"
"We wanted to talk to you about your book, Mr. Baines." O’Shea opened his briefcase and pulled out a thick, collated document bound in plastic.
"I never… my…" Baines took the book and his eyes bulged as he read the cover, The Science of Hell, by N. L. Baines. "But this wasn't published! Where… how in the hell did you even GET…CHARLIE!" He looked at O’Shea. "Charlie gave it to you! That bastard!"
"That's right Mr. Baines, your brother gave this to us. Don't be hard on him though. The President recently signed an executive order requesting all knowledge of demonology and demon-history be surrendered to our department. Had Lt. Baines withheld this document, he could have been tried for treason." O’Shea leaned in closely, his eyes scrutinizing Baines inch by inch "Where do you get your information, Mr. Baines?"
Baines's mind swam. He'd had this same feeling in graduate school when he showed up for his final on archaeological methods after spending the night cramming for medieval literature. "What? Uh... I just kind of read up on it. It's a hobby, you know?"
A snort from Dr. Watts drew Baines's attention to the bookshelf. "This is the Key of Solomon?" Baines shrugged. "In Latin? That's a bit more than a 'hobby', Mr. Baines.
Baines felt his hackles rise, "And what? I'm supposed to trust that dip wad, Mathers to translate it correctly for me?"
Watts wasn't listening as he pawed through more books, "O’Shea look at this nonsense: A Field Guide to Demons, A Dictionary of Angels, Dragon Magic, Secrets of the Vatican, Norse Runes and Magic..." He shook his head in disgust. "He's just a nut. We're wasting our time."
Baines was on his feet in an instant. O'Shea was startled that this mild-mannered scientist could look so enraged "Now you listen to me, you pompous, self-assured, G-man prick! I don't come into the Pentagon and tell you how to polish your desk and shuffle your papers, so don't tell me what I know in my own house!" He took the books out of Watt's hands and pointed at the couch. "By the way, you're right. Most of what's in these books are ridiculous superstition and nonsense, collected by centuries of nut-jobs. However," his voice began to change into the voice of an excited professor, and O’Shea was briefly reminded of his history professor back at NYU.
Watts rolled his eyes. "For example?"
Baines sighed condescendingly, "qui habet aures audiendi audiat. Alright, Captain Ph.D., look at this!" Baines walked over to a wall and pulled down a large hanging rug with a flourish revealing a large chart. There were hand-written notes, string, and pictures all over it. Both men stared blankly, as though unsure if Baines might turn into a baldrick at any moment "THIS," He pointed to the chart. "Is just about every book ever written about Judeo-Christian demons and hell, set chronologically?" He pointed to lines connecting them. "As you were so kind to point out, they're about eighty-five to ninety-five percent crap, but they have common threads, and those threads migrate over time." He traced the lines with his fingers. "You can see here's old-testament, pre-Christian stuff, and it trends onward, and then BAM." He stopped at a prominent 'zig' "Constantine and the Roman Empire. Changes opinions, but some things stay the same. We also have shifted during the Dark Ages and a BIG shift with Dante. But if you look hard enough you can sift through the crap and find out what makes sense."
"Makes sense? Robert, this man is a GEOLOGIST." Dr. Watts got up and walked toward the opposite wall. He scratched some paint from the wall, revealing the silvery metal underneath. "And his entire house is wrapped in aluminum foil. I'd wonder if anything DOESN'T make sense to him."
"Wait a second," Baines raised a hand. "I did my house like this because I have an aluminum allergy. Do you have a better idea? And for your information Doctor," again he spat out the word, "I only WORK as a geologist. You have my book; you have my file. You know what I've studied, but it's obvious you're here because you want to know what I know." Baines spoke slowly and with purpose, as though he were waking up from a dream and finding the real world was a much better place for once.
"It makes sense to me, Watts. And remember, he figured out how demons could fly before we knew they existed." O’Shea stood up and walked towards the chart. His fingers traced various threads, and as he looked at Baines, he felt he was seeing the man for the first time. "He may be a little crazy, but you should see the people Randi is getting." He pulled out a cellular phone and pressed a button. "He's a keeper." He closed the phone. "Norman, how'd you like to go to Washington?"
The front door opened, and soldiers came in with boxes and handcarts. Baines waved them off. "Whoa, whoa, whoa! Back the truck up!" He glanced warily at O'Shea, "I've got a job here, and you still haven't told me who you're working with." The agent handed him a card.
DEPARTMENT OF INTELLIGENCE AND MILITARY OPERATIONS (NETHERWORLD)
"D.I.M.O.(N)? Kudos to your acronym department. You're kidding me, right?" His smirk faded as he looked at his living room. There were two government agents, two armed soldiers, and four more soldiers loading his entire library and home into boxes. "Have I been drafted?"
"Not exactly, Norman. It's kind of like eminent domain. You've been forcibly hired," O’Shea stuck out his hand and smiled for the first time. "Welcome to government work, Mister Baines. The pay sucks, but you get to kill things, and nobody will call you crazy."
Baines felt weak at first, with everything moving so quickly around him, but he then gave O'Shea's hand a firm pump and said resolutely "I'll go get my lightsaber, and then we can go." Then he thought for a second. “What about my cats?”
O’Shea sighed quietly. “You have carry-boxes? They might as well come. Nothing could be crazier than the way things are going right now.”
Headquarters, Multi-National Force Iraq, Green Zone, Baghdad.
Once again, General Petraeus was standing before the great screen in his command center, only this time it was linked directly to the Pentagon, the White House, and an increasing number of capitals around the world. The screen showed President Bush, Defense Secretary Warner, and Secretary of State Condoleezza Rice but he knew that many, many more people were watching than that.
“Sir, we have the initial reports from the battles on the flanks. We have successfully routed both flanking forces. In the North, the First Armored is already outflanking the baldrick main body and moving into positions to its west. In the South, the Iranian Shamshar Division under General Fereidoon Zolfaghari is also outflanking the enemy and we expect it will link up with the First Armored sometime tomorrow. At that point, the enemy’s main body will be completely encircled. Our casualties have been remarkably light. A Challenger main battle tank, a Bradley fighting vehicle, two HEMTT trucks, and of all the soldiers involved in the fighting, only twenty-five have lost their lives. As far as we can tell at this time, all our losses were victims of harpy attacks.”
“Enemy casualties?” Secretary Warner spoke urgently.
“We’re not into body counts Sir, not after Vietnam and the enemy dead are so smashed up it’s impossible to tell how many there are. Details of the pursuit through the night are also only just coming in and it appears the enemy believed that fighting would stop at dusk. We didn’t oblige them of course, we kept going and made it a twenty-four-hour battle. During the process, we overran a lot of baldricks who had settled down for the night. So, I cannot give you a figure I would be confident with.”
“An estimate, a guess, anything?”
“At a conservative estimate, I would say the enemy cannot have lost less than 60,000 dead, probably many more. What’s left of the flanking forces is falling back on their main body. That main body is still advancing on the center of our line, we expect them to launch their attacks in a few hours. We’ll be concentrating all our airpower to sweep the sky clean of harpies. Once we’ve done that, the ground forces can repeat the punishment we handed out yesterday. If anything, the balance of forces is more favorable to us in the center than it was on the flanks. Once the harpies are out of the way, we can start using our helicopters over the battlefield again.”
“How are your munitions supplies holding up?” Warner’s voice was concerned.
“Very well Sir, we are well-supplied here, we built up a good stockpile in case Iran invaded us and they built up an equal stockpile in case we invaded them. Some, not much but some, of the stocks, are interchangeable and the Russians are flying in more. There are a couple of Il-76s here now, unloading rockets for the Iranian artillery. Secretary Warner Sir, may I ask how the production ramp-up is proceeding? We’re OK for ground forces ammunition but we’re running through AIM-120s at a terrifying rate. After tomorrow we’re going to be short.”
“Not well General. The problem is that so much of the need is interrelated. The AIM-120 is a good example, we’re accelerating production of the missile as fast as we can but we’re short of guidance systems. We’ve got AIM-120 airframes backing up out of the door waiting for the guidance modules. Raytheon has come up with a partial fix, they’ve designed a new weapon, the AIR-120. Essentially, it’s an AIM-120 with a simple inertial stabilization system that keeps it flying straight and level. They’ve packed it with a warhead that’s three times more powerful than the AIM-120 and given it a fast-burn motor for high speed. It can be carried on a standard triple ejector rack in place of a single AIM-120. Raytheon will build as many AIM-120s as they can get guidance modules for, and the rest will be AIR-120s.
“It’s the same across the board, I fear. We’ll get it straightened out but we’re running off stocks until we do.”
On the screen, Petraeus nodded. It was what he has suspected.”
White House Conference Room, Washington DC
“Thank you, General Petraeus. Doctor Surlethe, what are the results from our investigations of the baldricks.”
“They’re going to start flooding in fast now Sir. We’ve had only limited samples to work with to date but now, with all this in Iraq, that’s going to change. And we’ve got the succubus that defected. We could learn a lot simply by dissecting her.”
“No way.” Director of National Intelligence Donald MacLean Kerr jumped straight on the idea. “She’s the first live baldrick we’ve got our hands-on. We need to talk to her, she knows how hell is organized, what its chains of command are, and what its social and political structures are like. We’re not dealing with a different country here or even a different world. We’re dealing with an entirely different dimension. We need to know how that dimension works, and what its economy is like if indeed it has an economy. We need to know what sort of enemy we are fighting and what his resources are like. We can’t get any of that from her dissected corpse.”
“And suppose she won’t tell you?” Doctor Surlethe jumped straight back.
“We could always waterboard her?”
“How do you know she can’t breathe water?” Secretary Rice’s voice was droll.
“Exactly my point.” Surlethe was getting impassioned. “Military and political data are all very well, economic information too, but first we need to know much more about the baldricks themselves. How do they work? Can we get some idea of what powers they take for granted but seem magical to us? I’m sorry Don, but investigation of the baldricks themselves must come first. Which is rather unfortunate for her of course.”
“Gentlemen.” The room quieted as President Bush spoke. “You are forgetting that this succubus came over to us on a promise that she would not be ill-treated. We did not make that promise but it was made to her on our behalf by our allies. We cannot go back on our word. We must not.”
“She didn’t defect voluntarily; she had a ring of guns pointed at her.”
“I know. If she’d fought, she’d still probably would have killed some of those women. She chose not to.”
“Sir.” General Petraeus spoke from the screen. “There is a practical side to this as well. We have one defector who came over on a promise of good treatment. How we treat her may very well decide how many more baldricks decide to surrender or, even better, defect. If they get the idea that surrendering is a way out from certain death facing our tanks and artillery, it might end this war more quickly. It may very well mean fewer of our people get killed. Treating surrendered enemy personnel with extreme brutality has never worked to the favor of those committing such acts.”
“I agree.” Secretary Warner added his emphasis. “We’ve danced on a thin line during the War on Terror and shot ourselves in the foot doing it. We should not repeat that mistake.”
“General, Secretary Warner, your practical comments add weight to my instincts on this. Doctor Surlethe, you may investigate the succubus using non-invasive methods provided they do not inflict harm upon her. You may, with her consent, take blood samples, etc. But there will be no dissection, is that clear?” Surlethe nodded. Unhappily but still a nod.
“Mister Randi, how is your end of this going?”
“Very well Sir, we made a breakthrough today. A young….” Randi hesitated and then decided to keep going” woman came in, she can see into hell. We have her trying to contact some of our deceased personnel now. Hunting through psychics and mediums was a false step, none of them turned out to be anything other than common mountebanks and tricksters, but we have found some interesting cases under psychiatric care. Also, our advertisements have brought in a few people with promise. We have another young lady who can get into the mind of a demon and she’s exploiting that right now. As soon as we can work out how to expand that from talking to one demon into talking to all of them at once, we’ll launch Radio Free Hell.”
Andrews Air Force Base, Maryland, USA.
Lugasharmanaska was utterly bewildered. She’d been on earth not so long ago, a mere couple of centuries, but she’d had nothing like these experiences then. How had all these machines suddenly appeared? She’d flown for hours in a huge sky chariot, one loaded down with crates of more things called supplies. The crew had been nice to her of course, that was inevitable, they’d offered her food and drink and she’d accepted it even though it wouldn’t quench her appetite much. Her body craved raw meat, preferably torn from a still-living body and the thing she’d been given didn’t even come close. Just what was a ‘hot pocket’ anyway?
She could have adapted more easily to the sights around her if there weren’t so many of them. The city she had been assigned to was bad enough, all those tiny chariots racing around, but this great field was full of the huge Sky Chariots. Even as she watched, a different one was coming into land. To her incredulous eyes, it changed even while it did so, its swept-back wings suddenly swinging forward to reach straight out. Then it touched down on the long black strip and started to slow. Immediately a band started playing, making her jump.
“Yeah, bands do that.” The Air Force policeman watching her was sympathetic. Of course. Her mind mask didn’t work anymore, but the miasma was still doing its job of creating sympathy with the humans around her. “It’s the 32nd Tactical Fighter Wing standing up. That’s the first F-111 to rejoin the Air Force.”
None of that made much sense to Lugasharmanaska. She did note one thing though, the Sky Chariot that had brought her was painted light gray, the one that had just landed was a cloudy mix of gray and orange red. It never occurred to her that its paint job was an exact match to the skies of hell.
A long black ground chariot had pulled up and she was escorted into the back seat. The driver looked at her with hate that quickly faded to mild affection. The door closed behind her, and the chariot pulled away. Lugasharmanaska couldn’t see where the horses were hidden. Still, it didn’t matter. What did matter was that she was safe. She quickly recalled the split second of blind panic when she looked at the ring of guns pointed at her and knew death was but a split second away. Miasma had done its work, Lugasharmanaska didn’t know it, but the panic had kicked her glands into working overtime and secreting human pheromones that created sympathy for her with everybody around. That had bought her just enough time. She’d worked her situation out with speed and hedged her bets by surrendering. If the demons won, she would have fulfilled her mission and penetrated the enemy leadership, gaining vital information. She would have done her duty and be rewarded. If the humans won and looking around her Lugasharmanaska had an unpleasant feeling they might, she would be the first defector and would also be well-rewarded. No matter who won, she would be safe.
Sacramento, California
Norman Baines sighed and rubbed his eyes, and glanced at his watch. He'd been sitting in front of his computer for about ten hours, plowing through a week’s worth of reports for his job. He didn't have to work forty hours if it LOOKED like he did. "Time for breakfast." Victor, one of his cats and self-appointed overseer gave a 'roar' of approval as he hopped down and padded after Baines towards the kitchen. Two other cats, Roger and Clarence soon joined him as they all gathered around their communal bowl. Baines peeked through the kitchen blinds and glanced at the sky. "No eternal darkness yet," he said with a wry grin. His 'boys' looked up at him, curiously, "looks like the betting pool is still open!" With that Victor, Clarence, and Roger bent down to their dry food. Fixing a bowl of nondescript bachelor chow, he wandered over to the couch and turned on the TV.
He sighed at the empty beer cans on the coffee table, they were his way of coping with the betrayal he'd felt after the Message came out. A man in his late twenties, Baines had been very active in his church, a faithful man but also rational. And, as Dawkins had said, extraordinary claims required extraordinary evidence. He'd gone to services once, but it had seemed hollow. Now he spent his days processing reports for his job from his home computer, enjoying the relative safety of his home.
Picking up the remote, he flipped through the channels.
*CLICK*
"Hey, kids, it’s Bill Nye the Science Guy here! Be sure to always keep your foil hats on, you can never be too safe. Let's see how science protects YOU from the baldr-"
*CLICK*
"The Top Ten Signs that annoying guy in your office might be a demon number ten: Instead of decaf he drinks brimsto-"
*CLICK*
"And if you act now we'll throw in a FIFTH digital camera for free so you can monitor your home for demons twenty-four-seven!"
*CLICK*
"Coming through the desert in West Iraq, if you come to East Compton I'm gonna bust a cap! Don't bring your demon nonsense up in my hood, the Crips are rollin' large and we up to no good!"
Baines sighed and looked at Clarence, now bathing himself on the recliner. "I don't know if it’s more disconcerting that he's rapping about demons, or that it's a good tune." There was a loud knock at the door. He walked over and picked up a digital camera. Opening the door, he turned it on and looked at the screen. Humans.
He looked up and his eyes widened. It was two men in suits and two men in army uniforms carrying automatic weapons. "Norman L. Baines?" One of the suited men asked.
"Ye-yes, sir." Baines stammered It was a strange feeling to be unused to talking to someone else. He hadn't said five words to a human being since the Message. He stuck out a foot to prevent Victor from escaping.
“My name is Robert O'Shea, I'm with the Pentagon. This is my colleague, Doctor Watts. May we have a few moments of your time?" He stood solidly, implying that his request was nothing but. Dr. Watts, however, looked like someone who would rather be anywhere else.
"Ah, sure, come on in." Baines shook himself out of his momentary daze and ushered the men in, hurriedly moving dirty dishes and stacks of books and papers out of the way. One guard remained at the front door and the other simply nodded to O'Shea and began to move through the house. "Please, sit down.", Baines gestured to a dingy sofa. O’Shea sat down, but Doctor Watts remained standing, studying one of Baines's bookcases. "How can I help you guys?"
"We wanted to talk to you about your book, Mr. Baines." O’Shea opened his briefcase and pulled out a thick, collated document bound in plastic.
"I never… my…" Baines took the book and his eyes bulged as he read the cover, The Science of Hell, by N. L. Baines. "But this wasn't published! Where… how in the hell did you even GET…CHARLIE!" He looked at O’Shea. "Charlie gave it to you! That bastard!"
"That's right Mr. Baines, your brother gave this to us. Don't be hard on him though. The President recently signed an executive order requesting all knowledge of demonology and demon-history be surrendered to our department. Had Lt. Baines withheld this document, he could have been tried for treason." O’Shea leaned in closely, his eyes scrutinizing Baines inch by inch "Where do you get your information, Mr. Baines?"
Baines's mind swam. He'd had this same feeling in graduate school when he showed up for his final on archaeological methods after spending the night cramming for medieval literature. "What? Uh... I just kind of read up on it. It's a hobby, you know?"
A snort from Dr. Watts drew Baines's attention to the bookshelf. "This is the Key of Solomon?" Baines shrugged. "In Latin? That's a bit more than a 'hobby', Mr. Baines.
Baines felt his hackles rise, "And what? I'm supposed to trust that dip wad, Mathers to translate it correctly for me?"
Watts wasn't listening as he pawed through more books, "O’Shea look at this nonsense: A Field Guide to Demons, A Dictionary of Angels, Dragon Magic, Secrets of the Vatican, Norse Runes and Magic..." He shook his head in disgust. "He's just a nut. We're wasting our time."
Baines was on his feet in an instant. O'Shea was startled that this mild-mannered scientist could look so enraged "Now you listen to me, you pompous, self-assured, G-man prick! I don't come into the Pentagon and tell you how to polish your desk and shuffle your papers, so don't tell me what I know in my own house!" He took the books out of Watt's hands and pointed at the couch. "By the way, you're right. Most of what's in these books are ridiculous superstition and nonsense, collected by centuries of nut-jobs. However," his voice began to change into the voice of an excited professor, and O’Shea was briefly reminded of his history professor back at NYU.
Watts rolled his eyes. "For example?"
Baines sighed condescendingly, "qui habet aures audiendi audiat. Alright, Captain Ph.D., look at this!" Baines walked over to a wall and pulled down a large hanging rug with a flourish revealing a large chart. There were hand-written notes, string, and pictures all over it. Both men stared blankly, as though unsure if Baines might turn into a baldrick at any moment "THIS," He pointed to the chart. "Is just about every book ever written about Judeo-Christian demons and hell, set chronologically?" He pointed to lines connecting them. "As you were so kind to point out, they're about eighty-five to ninety-five percent crap, but they have common threads, and those threads migrate over time." He traced the lines with his fingers. "You can see here's old-testament, pre-Christian stuff, and it trends onward, and then BAM." He stopped at a prominent 'zig' "Constantine and the Roman Empire. Changes opinions, but some things stay the same. We also have shifted during the Dark Ages and a BIG shift with Dante. But if you look hard enough you can sift through the crap and find out what makes sense."
"Makes sense? Robert, this man is a GEOLOGIST." Dr. Watts got up and walked toward the opposite wall. He scratched some paint from the wall, revealing the silvery metal underneath. "And his entire house is wrapped in aluminum foil. I'd wonder if anything DOESN'T make sense to him."
"Wait a second," Baines raised a hand. "I did my house like this because I have an aluminum allergy. Do you have a better idea? And for your information Doctor," again he spat out the word, "I only WORK as a geologist. You have my book; you have my file. You know what I've studied, but it's obvious you're here because you want to know what I know." Baines spoke slowly and with purpose, as though he were waking up from a dream and finding the real world was a much better place for once.
"It makes sense to me, Watts. And remember, he figured out how demons could fly before we knew they existed." O’Shea stood up and walked towards the chart. His fingers traced various threads, and as he looked at Baines, he felt he was seeing the man for the first time. "He may be a little crazy, but you should see the people Randi is getting." He pulled out a cellular phone and pressed a button. "He's a keeper." He closed the phone. "Norman, how'd you like to go to Washington?"
The front door opened, and soldiers came in with boxes and handcarts. Baines waved them off. "Whoa, whoa, whoa! Back the truck up!" He glanced warily at O'Shea, "I've got a job here, and you still haven't told me who you're working with." The agent handed him a card.
DEPARTMENT OF INTELLIGENCE AND MILITARY OPERATIONS (NETHERWORLD)
"D.I.M.O.(N)? Kudos to your acronym department. You're kidding me, right?" His smirk faded as he looked at his living room. There were two government agents, two armed soldiers, and four more soldiers loading his entire library and home into boxes. "Have I been drafted?"
"Not exactly, Norman. It's kind of like eminent domain. You've been forcibly hired," O’Shea stuck out his hand and smiled for the first time. "Welcome to government work, Mister Baines. The pay sucks, but you get to kill things, and nobody will call you crazy."
Baines felt weak at first, with everything moving so quickly around him, but he then gave O'Shea's hand a firm pump and said resolutely "I'll go get my lightsaber, and then we can go." Then he thought for a second. “What about my cats?”
O’Shea sighed quietly. “You have carry-boxes? They might as well come. Nothing could be crazier than the way things are going right now.”
Re: 2008 - Armageddon
Chapter Sixteen
On the Shore of the Styx, Fifth Ring, Hell
The six newcomers followed the woman along the banks of the Styx. She moved swiftly and surely, as though she'd been along this way a thousand times before. As they waded through the mud, she spoke back over her shoulder: “You're lucky they put you here in this part of the Styx. This ring is ten miles across; you could have been walking for several days to get to Dis.”
“What’s Dis?” Jade Kim asked.
“Satan’s capital. His palace is there, all the administration is run out of there as well. It surrounds the whole of hell like a wall.”
“And you’re taking us there?” Kim’s voice was loaded with suspicion.
“Of course,” said the woman. “That's where the resistance is headquartered.”
“Tell us about the resistance.”
The woman smiled. “It’s hard to know where to start. You see, the resistance has a long history; it's been around almost as long as I have.”
“And how old are you? And who are you?” Kim’s growing suspicion and dislike for this woman made getting an answer very urgent.”
“I've been dead for ten thousand years.” The woman laughed at the expression on their faces. “Why are you so surprised? Once you're dead, you're effectively immortal; aging is slowed by orders of magnitude, and you're healthy and robust so the torment doesn't put you under. As for who I am, you may have heard of me. My name is Rahab. That’s right, that Rahab” The woman’s voice was bitter. “I betrayed my country to help the Israelites and their god, and he tossed me down here anyway.”
“So, if there’s been a resistance for all these years, why hasn't hell been overthrown?”
“It can’t be. This is it, there’s nothing more. We can’t overthrow the order here. All we can do is try to disappear and save ourselves from torment. That's not as hard as it sounds, Hell is a big place, and it takes a long time to move around in it or communicate. I've just finished a two-month walk from Dis down to Cocytus, up to the first ring, and back. The fact that there are constant patrols is a real problem, and though they don't go out of their way to look, if they see anything untoward, they light on it immediately. And one demon is more than a match for four or five people.”
“Then how did we manage to take down that baldrick?”
“To be blunt, you got lucky. He came down for a spot of torture and fun, and you surprised him before he could react. If he'd seen you guys free before you were on him, he'd have called for some help and then zapped you with lightning from a distance.”
Once again, the members of Tango-one-five exchanged glances. The picture they were getting was that the so-called resistance wasn’t resisting at all. At best they were an escape group, an underground railroad that tried to keep themselves away from the pits that made up the rings of hell. It seemed as if the people here had accepted the line that this was the ultimate end of things, that any effort to change it was doomed to futility.
Kim looked around. They were on the edge of the river if it could be called that. It was more like a rippling strip of clear water through the murky water surrounding it. Ahead of them, through the vile, thick mist, they saw a tall, stone tower looming. Rahab turned and put a finger to her lips, then sank lower into the mist, crouching into the mud. She moved forward slowly.
Kim followed suit but kept looking around. The tower moved closer and closer, and she looked up. At the top, suddenly, a flare burst into existence with a foomp. The light from the signal fire lit everything around them in a dull orange glow, making the mist look a bit like tomato soup. Abruptly, their guide ducked under the muck. Kim caught a glimpse of a towering silhouette looming through the mist before she followed suit – except, she didn't duck all the way. Instead, she sank as far as she could go while keeping her face above the surface of the mud. Simultaneously, she shrank back toward a clump of stringy, greasy grass.
The baldrick passed within five feet of her. It was mounted on what looked like an oversized rhinoceros with a scorpion-tail arched overhead – A rhinolobster, she recognized it an instant later from that last mission in Iraq, which was wading through the swamp. Looking neither left nor right, the baldrick reined his mount forward when it sniffed and started at something and kept moving until the mist had swallowed it. The baldrick itself had been huge, twice the height and probably four or five times the weight of the one they'd killed back there.
Rahab surfaced from the mud as the rest of the Tango flight members came up for air. “If you'd attacked him, you'd have had no chance,” she said. Though that was all, the words had been aimed at Kim who had her thoughts on the matter.
It was very easy to think of ten thousand reasons why something could not be done, it took a different mindset to think of the way it could be achieved. Kim had her ideas there, she’d thought of two ways of taking the mounted patrol down already, although much depended on what could be found locally. She’d seen the black outcrops that spoke of coal and coal meant powdered carbon. This whole area was volcanic, and that meant sulfur. Now, if there was only some saltpeter around, they had the start of an IED. “Keep a look out for yellow deposits.” She whispered to her people.
“Ahead of you ell-tee. Already been looking. There’s some in the rocks. We’re two for three so far. And some pretty crystals might be good for fragments.”
They moved on for a while before Rahab broke the silence and asked, “So, what are things like back topside?”
McInery piped up. “We were all pilots in the 160th SpecOps in Iraq when the Message came. Lost a tenth of the regiment, then didn't do much of anything until the Hellmouth opened in western Iraq and we got sent out to look at the baldrick advance. Took down the command structure of a regiment, then got outrun by harpies and taken down.”
The woman was smiling bemusedly. “You lost me at 'Message',”
Kim exchanged glances with McInery. “You don't know about the Message?”
“No, not about this Message. It wouldn’t have been the first you know.”
“God said that heaven was closed and told everyone to lay down and die. So those people who believed laid down and died, and the rest of us had no idea what to do. Then the Navy shot down some bald…. demons and showed us they could be killed. So, we started to fight. Doing pretty good too.”
There was a bridge coming up out of the thinning mist now, next to the road they'd been wading beside for some time. Rahab turned and said, “Stay low and follow me single-file.” She crouched and moved beside the road to the base of the bridge, then slipped underneath. The members of the Tango flight followed suit. There, bolted to the base of the bridge, was a rope that stretched across the river beneath the arch of the roadway. The woman took hold of the rope and started pulling herself hand-over-hand across the river. Kim looked at McInery, shrugged, and followed.
On the far side, Rahab crouched and hissed, “Okay, this is the most dangerous part. The walls that separate the fourth and fifth circles of hell are right up on the other side of this embankment, and they are constantly manned. The guards are vigilant, and they will see you if you poke your head up, so you stay low and follow me as fast as you can.”
Kim nodded. SERE – still in the “evade” part. Rahab turned and, crouching, ran to a rock outcropping sticking up several dozen meters away. She looked around, then beckoned. Single file, the escaped soldiers followed, making sure to stay crouched. They followed her from formationto formation, putting distance between them and the bridge as quickly as possible. At one large boulder, they stopped, and Rahab pointed back. Just at the edge of vision, the bridge stretched back into the mist covering the far shore of the Styx; across it snaked a long, black column of baldricks. It was following the road up the embankment to the plain and across that to the city, whose high walls were visible even here. When they moved on after a short rest break, the column was still marching with no end in sight.
“They must have found that body you crucified. See how they react?” Rahab’s voice had a mixture of conceit and spite in it. Kim looked at her steadily, if she couldn’t see the baldrick column was marching out, not in…….
At length, the woman led them up the incline and onto the plain, one that was littered with what looked to be bonfires, although from the distance it was hard to tell. She moved purposefully forward, and as they followed her; Kim got a chance to closely examine the bonfires. They weren't bonfires; they were what looked like burning coffins, of all things. On some, the lids were half-off; she could hear groans and cries of pain drifting out of them.
Rahab stopped at one coffin, which was glowing dully. “What sort of metal is it?” McInery idly asked.
“Bronze. Everything here is bronze,” said Rahab as she bent down and casually lifted the lid off. The hissing sound as the metal seared her flesh was audible.
Kim gasped. “What the hell ...?”
The woman shrugged. “It'll heal in no time.” She gestured. “In you go.”
Kim looked down. The coffin had no bottom; instead, it was a stairwell. The top two stairs were afire, but the rest looked cool enough. Hesitantly, Kim stepped in and gingerly hopped down to the third stair before crouching and continuing down. There was certainly a pain in her feet, but it wasn't unbearable, and the cool stone on them felt good.
The rest of her team followed, wincing, and grunting as they crossed the fire. Then the woman jumped into the coffin, grabbed the lid, and swung it back on. It fell on with a dull clank, and what little light there was vanished, save that cast by the flickering flames above. There was a flare, and then light. The woman was holding a torch, one she'd picked up from the stash Kim could see on the fourth step.
She descended and brushed by them, then took the lead. They followed her for what seemed like miles -before the tunnel opened into a room. As they stepped into the cave, Kim realized that her feet didn't hurt anymore. The room was well-lit by torches ensconced in the wall, and there were some chairs and a sleeping pad in the corner. She sat down and gestured to some chairs. “Please, sit.”
For the first time, Kim began to relax and felt the adrenaline slowly draining out of her. She recognized the signs, end-of-patrol-itis, something that had killed more soldiers than most other mistakes. Assuming that the danger was over because they were about to re-enter their base, they got ambushed when their guard was down. Kim kicked herself hard, mentally, danger was never over down here, she could never let her guard down. Especially with this woman.
“Anyway,” continued Rahab, “you need to tell me about this 'Message' and everything that's happened since.”
And they did. They told her about the Message, and the peoples' death, the declaration of war on Hell and Heaven – “Mmm, Yahweh's in on this, too?” wondered Rahab out loud – and the opening of the Hellgate in the wastes of western Iraq. When they were done, the woman sat for a long time in silence. Then she said, “If you will excuse me, I will be gone for a couple of days. I will be back to take you to our leader.” Then Rahab stood and exited the room.
“What do you think ell-tee?”
Kim looked around the room. “We’re like rats in a trap here and I don’t like it. And I don’t trust that woman, her main priority appears to be keeping out of the way of the guards and not getting caught.”
“I can understand that ell-tee.”
“So can I, but Uncle Sugar doesn’t pay us to sit around. She must guess that and knows we are set on stirring things up around here. That could easily mean things get precarious for people who just want to keep their heads down. I’d say it’s a fifty-fifty bet she’s arranging to turn us in right now. If she isn’t part of the security system.”
There were nods. A fake “resistance movement” that drew in likely recruits, so they could be quietly killed was a tactic as old as the hills. The Company had been running similar things in Iraq before The Message had come through. And Satan was known as being the Prince of Lies.
“Yeah, ell-tee, and she’s bitter about Yahweh sending her down here. That could easily translate into her working with the other guy.”
“So let’s get the hell out of here,” McInery spoke decisively.
Kim agreed that it was against the grain to stay in one place under these circumstances. They made their way back up to the surface and out. Then, they moved as fast as they could to put as much ground between them and the hiding hole as possible. A few hours later, well concealed from any observers on the walls towering high above them, they came to a stop.
“What next ell-tee?”
“First priority, find a way of attacking and killing one of those big baldricks on a rhinolobster. An IED should do it. They’re supposed to be so invulnerable, taking one down will be a real blow.”
“That bridge. Now if we could blow it under a baldrick column.”
Kim laughed at that one. “We’ll need something more than gunpowder to do that. What did you think of that column by the way?”
“They were marching out ell-tee. Being pulled out of here, for something else. The only thing I can think of that would warrant that kind of movement is fighting us.”
“Agreed. A sign our boys are doing well back there?” Then her face froze. There was a voice playing in her head.
“Hello, is this Lieutenant Jade Kim? Hello, hello.”
“What’s the matter ell-tee?”
“Got voices in my head. Sound like us, humans. Hold one.”
“This is Kim. Identify.
“I’m Kitten. I’m in the Pentagon. I’ve been asked to try and find you.”
“Authenticate two-eight-six” Kim snapped the numbers out.
There was a long pause and Kim was about to give up when the voice came back. “Sorry, we took some time to find the security number from the night you were shot down. Authentication is two-oh-five.
Jade Kim tried to stop herself from cheering. “Guys, we’re through. Somehow, the brass has found a way to get a word through to us. I think we’re back in the Army.”
Headquarters, Randi Institute of Pneumatology, The Pentagon, Arlington, VA
There was no restraint in the laboratory, the cheering could be heard outside the doors and all down the corridor. Randi stuck his head around the corner, beaming at the sight of his staff dancing up and down.
“I take it something worked?”
“Kitten got through to those helicopter pilots. They’re on the line now.”
“How solid is the contact?”
“Very Sir,” Kitten spoke respectfully. “It’s comfortable to hold and there’s no fade.”
“Ask her where she is and what her situation is.”
Kitten’s eyes defocused while she “spoke” with Kim. “She says she’s in the fifth circle of hell, she and her unit have escaped from captivity. They’ve started to set up a resistance, they’ve already killed a baldrick. The resistance is called the Popular Front for the Liberation of Hell. She says they need supplies if we can get them to her.”
“Is there a resistance already? Escaped prisoners and so on?”
Another long pause. “Yes, but Kim says she doesn’t trust them. Their main priority is keeping their heads down and avoiding recapture. She plans to keep them at arm’s length until she and her unit have stirred things up enough so that they don’t have any choice about joining the insurgency. She also says there are signs of major troop movements out of hell itself, suggesting more forces are being readied for the invasion of earth. She’s asking how well the Army is doing up here.”
“That’s my girl.” General Schatten had entered the room quietly. “Tell her we’re kicking ass and taking names, we’ve won the first two battles big-time. Then, Kitten, find out what Kim’s supply priorities are, please. Tell Kim we can’t promise we’ll get stuff through to her but if it’s possible, we will.”
Once again, Kitten’s eyes defocused. “First priority is webbing so they can carry stuff. Then, she wants C-4 explosives, or better if we can send it, M-24 claymores, AT-4 anti-tank rockets, and radios. Detonators of as many types as possible. She says an M82A1 .50 sniper’s rifle would be nice as well.”
Schatten finished writing the list on a pad. “Can we get back through to her any time?”
“I think so, Sir. It should be easier to reopen the link than it was to find her.”
“Very well, tell her we’ll be back in touch. We don’t want to keep this link open all the time, it’s a security risk.”
“Very good Sir.” Kitten’s eyes blanked out again, then returned to life. “She’s gone, Sir. I wished her luck on your behalf.”
“Thank you Kitten.” Schatten’s voice was kindly. “I just hope we can send her a bit more than good luck.”
On the Shore of the Styx, Fifth Ring, Hell
The six newcomers followed the woman along the banks of the Styx. She moved swiftly and surely, as though she'd been along this way a thousand times before. As they waded through the mud, she spoke back over her shoulder: “You're lucky they put you here in this part of the Styx. This ring is ten miles across; you could have been walking for several days to get to Dis.”
“What’s Dis?” Jade Kim asked.
“Satan’s capital. His palace is there, all the administration is run out of there as well. It surrounds the whole of hell like a wall.”
“And you’re taking us there?” Kim’s voice was loaded with suspicion.
“Of course,” said the woman. “That's where the resistance is headquartered.”
“Tell us about the resistance.”
The woman smiled. “It’s hard to know where to start. You see, the resistance has a long history; it's been around almost as long as I have.”
“And how old are you? And who are you?” Kim’s growing suspicion and dislike for this woman made getting an answer very urgent.”
“I've been dead for ten thousand years.” The woman laughed at the expression on their faces. “Why are you so surprised? Once you're dead, you're effectively immortal; aging is slowed by orders of magnitude, and you're healthy and robust so the torment doesn't put you under. As for who I am, you may have heard of me. My name is Rahab. That’s right, that Rahab” The woman’s voice was bitter. “I betrayed my country to help the Israelites and their god, and he tossed me down here anyway.”
“So, if there’s been a resistance for all these years, why hasn't hell been overthrown?”
“It can’t be. This is it, there’s nothing more. We can’t overthrow the order here. All we can do is try to disappear and save ourselves from torment. That's not as hard as it sounds, Hell is a big place, and it takes a long time to move around in it or communicate. I've just finished a two-month walk from Dis down to Cocytus, up to the first ring, and back. The fact that there are constant patrols is a real problem, and though they don't go out of their way to look, if they see anything untoward, they light on it immediately. And one demon is more than a match for four or five people.”
“Then how did we manage to take down that baldrick?”
“To be blunt, you got lucky. He came down for a spot of torture and fun, and you surprised him before he could react. If he'd seen you guys free before you were on him, he'd have called for some help and then zapped you with lightning from a distance.”
Once again, the members of Tango-one-five exchanged glances. The picture they were getting was that the so-called resistance wasn’t resisting at all. At best they were an escape group, an underground railroad that tried to keep themselves away from the pits that made up the rings of hell. It seemed as if the people here had accepted the line that this was the ultimate end of things, that any effort to change it was doomed to futility.
Kim looked around. They were on the edge of the river if it could be called that. It was more like a rippling strip of clear water through the murky water surrounding it. Ahead of them, through the vile, thick mist, they saw a tall, stone tower looming. Rahab turned and put a finger to her lips, then sank lower into the mist, crouching into the mud. She moved forward slowly.
Kim followed suit but kept looking around. The tower moved closer and closer, and she looked up. At the top, suddenly, a flare burst into existence with a foomp. The light from the signal fire lit everything around them in a dull orange glow, making the mist look a bit like tomato soup. Abruptly, their guide ducked under the muck. Kim caught a glimpse of a towering silhouette looming through the mist before she followed suit – except, she didn't duck all the way. Instead, she sank as far as she could go while keeping her face above the surface of the mud. Simultaneously, she shrank back toward a clump of stringy, greasy grass.
The baldrick passed within five feet of her. It was mounted on what looked like an oversized rhinoceros with a scorpion-tail arched overhead – A rhinolobster, she recognized it an instant later from that last mission in Iraq, which was wading through the swamp. Looking neither left nor right, the baldrick reined his mount forward when it sniffed and started at something and kept moving until the mist had swallowed it. The baldrick itself had been huge, twice the height and probably four or five times the weight of the one they'd killed back there.
Rahab surfaced from the mud as the rest of the Tango flight members came up for air. “If you'd attacked him, you'd have had no chance,” she said. Though that was all, the words had been aimed at Kim who had her thoughts on the matter.
It was very easy to think of ten thousand reasons why something could not be done, it took a different mindset to think of the way it could be achieved. Kim had her ideas there, she’d thought of two ways of taking the mounted patrol down already, although much depended on what could be found locally. She’d seen the black outcrops that spoke of coal and coal meant powdered carbon. This whole area was volcanic, and that meant sulfur. Now, if there was only some saltpeter around, they had the start of an IED. “Keep a look out for yellow deposits.” She whispered to her people.
“Ahead of you ell-tee. Already been looking. There’s some in the rocks. We’re two for three so far. And some pretty crystals might be good for fragments.”
They moved on for a while before Rahab broke the silence and asked, “So, what are things like back topside?”
McInery piped up. “We were all pilots in the 160th SpecOps in Iraq when the Message came. Lost a tenth of the regiment, then didn't do much of anything until the Hellmouth opened in western Iraq and we got sent out to look at the baldrick advance. Took down the command structure of a regiment, then got outrun by harpies and taken down.”
The woman was smiling bemusedly. “You lost me at 'Message',”
Kim exchanged glances with McInery. “You don't know about the Message?”
“No, not about this Message. It wouldn’t have been the first you know.”
“God said that heaven was closed and told everyone to lay down and die. So those people who believed laid down and died, and the rest of us had no idea what to do. Then the Navy shot down some bald…. demons and showed us they could be killed. So, we started to fight. Doing pretty good too.”
There was a bridge coming up out of the thinning mist now, next to the road they'd been wading beside for some time. Rahab turned and said, “Stay low and follow me single-file.” She crouched and moved beside the road to the base of the bridge, then slipped underneath. The members of the Tango flight followed suit. There, bolted to the base of the bridge, was a rope that stretched across the river beneath the arch of the roadway. The woman took hold of the rope and started pulling herself hand-over-hand across the river. Kim looked at McInery, shrugged, and followed.
On the far side, Rahab crouched and hissed, “Okay, this is the most dangerous part. The walls that separate the fourth and fifth circles of hell are right up on the other side of this embankment, and they are constantly manned. The guards are vigilant, and they will see you if you poke your head up, so you stay low and follow me as fast as you can.”
Kim nodded. SERE – still in the “evade” part. Rahab turned and, crouching, ran to a rock outcropping sticking up several dozen meters away. She looked around, then beckoned. Single file, the escaped soldiers followed, making sure to stay crouched. They followed her from formationto formation, putting distance between them and the bridge as quickly as possible. At one large boulder, they stopped, and Rahab pointed back. Just at the edge of vision, the bridge stretched back into the mist covering the far shore of the Styx; across it snaked a long, black column of baldricks. It was following the road up the embankment to the plain and across that to the city, whose high walls were visible even here. When they moved on after a short rest break, the column was still marching with no end in sight.
“They must have found that body you crucified. See how they react?” Rahab’s voice had a mixture of conceit and spite in it. Kim looked at her steadily, if she couldn’t see the baldrick column was marching out, not in…….
At length, the woman led them up the incline and onto the plain, one that was littered with what looked to be bonfires, although from the distance it was hard to tell. She moved purposefully forward, and as they followed her; Kim got a chance to closely examine the bonfires. They weren't bonfires; they were what looked like burning coffins, of all things. On some, the lids were half-off; she could hear groans and cries of pain drifting out of them.
Rahab stopped at one coffin, which was glowing dully. “What sort of metal is it?” McInery idly asked.
“Bronze. Everything here is bronze,” said Rahab as she bent down and casually lifted the lid off. The hissing sound as the metal seared her flesh was audible.
Kim gasped. “What the hell ...?”
The woman shrugged. “It'll heal in no time.” She gestured. “In you go.”
Kim looked down. The coffin had no bottom; instead, it was a stairwell. The top two stairs were afire, but the rest looked cool enough. Hesitantly, Kim stepped in and gingerly hopped down to the third stair before crouching and continuing down. There was certainly a pain in her feet, but it wasn't unbearable, and the cool stone on them felt good.
The rest of her team followed, wincing, and grunting as they crossed the fire. Then the woman jumped into the coffin, grabbed the lid, and swung it back on. It fell on with a dull clank, and what little light there was vanished, save that cast by the flickering flames above. There was a flare, and then light. The woman was holding a torch, one she'd picked up from the stash Kim could see on the fourth step.
She descended and brushed by them, then took the lead. They followed her for what seemed like miles -before the tunnel opened into a room. As they stepped into the cave, Kim realized that her feet didn't hurt anymore. The room was well-lit by torches ensconced in the wall, and there were some chairs and a sleeping pad in the corner. She sat down and gestured to some chairs. “Please, sit.”
For the first time, Kim began to relax and felt the adrenaline slowly draining out of her. She recognized the signs, end-of-patrol-itis, something that had killed more soldiers than most other mistakes. Assuming that the danger was over because they were about to re-enter their base, they got ambushed when their guard was down. Kim kicked herself hard, mentally, danger was never over down here, she could never let her guard down. Especially with this woman.
“Anyway,” continued Rahab, “you need to tell me about this 'Message' and everything that's happened since.”
And they did. They told her about the Message, and the peoples' death, the declaration of war on Hell and Heaven – “Mmm, Yahweh's in on this, too?” wondered Rahab out loud – and the opening of the Hellgate in the wastes of western Iraq. When they were done, the woman sat for a long time in silence. Then she said, “If you will excuse me, I will be gone for a couple of days. I will be back to take you to our leader.” Then Rahab stood and exited the room.
“What do you think ell-tee?”
Kim looked around the room. “We’re like rats in a trap here and I don’t like it. And I don’t trust that woman, her main priority appears to be keeping out of the way of the guards and not getting caught.”
“I can understand that ell-tee.”
“So can I, but Uncle Sugar doesn’t pay us to sit around. She must guess that and knows we are set on stirring things up around here. That could easily mean things get precarious for people who just want to keep their heads down. I’d say it’s a fifty-fifty bet she’s arranging to turn us in right now. If she isn’t part of the security system.”
There were nods. A fake “resistance movement” that drew in likely recruits, so they could be quietly killed was a tactic as old as the hills. The Company had been running similar things in Iraq before The Message had come through. And Satan was known as being the Prince of Lies.
“Yeah, ell-tee, and she’s bitter about Yahweh sending her down here. That could easily translate into her working with the other guy.”
“So let’s get the hell out of here,” McInery spoke decisively.
Kim agreed that it was against the grain to stay in one place under these circumstances. They made their way back up to the surface and out. Then, they moved as fast as they could to put as much ground between them and the hiding hole as possible. A few hours later, well concealed from any observers on the walls towering high above them, they came to a stop.
“What next ell-tee?”
“First priority, find a way of attacking and killing one of those big baldricks on a rhinolobster. An IED should do it. They’re supposed to be so invulnerable, taking one down will be a real blow.”
“That bridge. Now if we could blow it under a baldrick column.”
Kim laughed at that one. “We’ll need something more than gunpowder to do that. What did you think of that column by the way?”
“They were marching out ell-tee. Being pulled out of here, for something else. The only thing I can think of that would warrant that kind of movement is fighting us.”
“Agreed. A sign our boys are doing well back there?” Then her face froze. There was a voice playing in her head.
“Hello, is this Lieutenant Jade Kim? Hello, hello.”
“What’s the matter ell-tee?”
“Got voices in my head. Sound like us, humans. Hold one.”
“This is Kim. Identify.
“I’m Kitten. I’m in the Pentagon. I’ve been asked to try and find you.”
“Authenticate two-eight-six” Kim snapped the numbers out.
There was a long pause and Kim was about to give up when the voice came back. “Sorry, we took some time to find the security number from the night you were shot down. Authentication is two-oh-five.
Jade Kim tried to stop herself from cheering. “Guys, we’re through. Somehow, the brass has found a way to get a word through to us. I think we’re back in the Army.”
Headquarters, Randi Institute of Pneumatology, The Pentagon, Arlington, VA
There was no restraint in the laboratory, the cheering could be heard outside the doors and all down the corridor. Randi stuck his head around the corner, beaming at the sight of his staff dancing up and down.
“I take it something worked?”
“Kitten got through to those helicopter pilots. They’re on the line now.”
“How solid is the contact?”
“Very Sir,” Kitten spoke respectfully. “It’s comfortable to hold and there’s no fade.”
“Ask her where she is and what her situation is.”
Kitten’s eyes defocused while she “spoke” with Kim. “She says she’s in the fifth circle of hell, she and her unit have escaped from captivity. They’ve started to set up a resistance, they’ve already killed a baldrick. The resistance is called the Popular Front for the Liberation of Hell. She says they need supplies if we can get them to her.”
“Is there a resistance already? Escaped prisoners and so on?”
Another long pause. “Yes, but Kim says she doesn’t trust them. Their main priority is keeping their heads down and avoiding recapture. She plans to keep them at arm’s length until she and her unit have stirred things up enough so that they don’t have any choice about joining the insurgency. She also says there are signs of major troop movements out of hell itself, suggesting more forces are being readied for the invasion of earth. She’s asking how well the Army is doing up here.”
“That’s my girl.” General Schatten had entered the room quietly. “Tell her we’re kicking ass and taking names, we’ve won the first two battles big-time. Then, Kitten, find out what Kim’s supply priorities are, please. Tell Kim we can’t promise we’ll get stuff through to her but if it’s possible, we will.”
Once again, Kitten’s eyes defocused. “First priority is webbing so they can carry stuff. Then, she wants C-4 explosives, or better if we can send it, M-24 claymores, AT-4 anti-tank rockets, and radios. Detonators of as many types as possible. She says an M82A1 .50 sniper’s rifle would be nice as well.”
Schatten finished writing the list on a pad. “Can we get back through to her any time?”
“I think so, Sir. It should be easier to reopen the link than it was to find her.”
“Very well, tell her we’ll be back in touch. We don’t want to keep this link open all the time, it’s a security risk.”
“Very good Sir.” Kitten’s eyes blanked out again, then returned to life. “She’s gone, Sir. I wished her luck on your behalf.”
“Thank you Kitten.” Schatten’s voice was kindly. “I just hope we can send her a bit more than good luck.”
Re: 2008 - Armageddon
Chapter Seventeen
Headquarters, Army of Abigor, Western Iraq.
It had been dusk when the flier had arrived. Abigor had been standing outside his tent, basking in the last rays of the setting sun when the flier had staggered in. A very badly wounded flier, its body dreadfully burned along one side, its damaged wing causing it to fly unevenly. As it approached, Abigor saw that it had lost an eye from the same burns that affected the rest of its body.
“Your Excellency, I bring word from General Merafawlazes.”
Abigor looked at the battered flier. Was this the best Merafawlazes could send to bring news of his victory? It was an insult. Abigor paused for a second, a deliberate insult? Was this Merafawlazes’s attempt at deposing him? “What word?” His voice was curt and irritable.
“Sire, terrible news. The Army of the North has been defeated. It is in full retreat heading south. The enemy is pursuing it in their Iron Chariots. They move fast sire, faster than the swiftest Beast. As our infantry run, they are being crushed by the Chariots. It is a disaster, Merafawlazes says beware of the fire lances and the Iron Chariots for our forces are helpless against them.
“Defeated?” Abigor was stunned by the news. “How?”
“The humans have terrible magic sire. They cause the ground to erupt and swallow our infantry whole, their fire lances tear them apart. They can call up thunder at will and their breath leaves nothing but the dead where they breathed. In the sky, their fire lances seek us out no matter how much we twist and turn. One-touch from them is death Sire. One passed close to me, did not even hit me, and look what its fire did.”
Abigor listened in shocked disbelief. There was no way this story could be faked; no Duke would admit to so crushing a defeat. No demonic army had been defeated, not since That defeat, the one before time had properly begun. Abigor had been at that battle and known defeat then. He remembered its taste and suddenly, after countless eons, his mouth was filled with it again.
“Come to my tent, tell me all that you know.” He saw the flier hesitate. “You have nothing to fear.”
That’s what they all say the flier thought before they kill the bringer of bad news
An hour later, Abigor was trying to absorb the flier’s description of the battle. He had his battle plan marked out on his map, in essence it was simply a larger repeat of Merafawlazes’s attack. Cavalry first to break up the enemy line, then the infantry in a thick mass to swarm over the wreckage and finish the enemy off. He had his 28 infantry legions in a huge block, seven legions wide, four deep, the ranks massed tight and deep. By all that was traditional, it should have been invincible. Merafawlazes had thought that now Merafawlazes Army was dead or running.
“They hid behind the hill you say?” Abigor’s voice was thoughtful.
“Sire, they did. They were lined up behind the ridge where they could not be seen by our force. Only after our army had been almost destroyed by their magic and our fliers slaughtered by their Sky-Chariots did they venture over the crest and charge us. Even then they did not dare to fight in honorable hand-to-hand combat but let loose their fire bolts at us from a distance. Only when our comrades lay wounded and helpless did they close on us and then they crushed the wounded under their chariots.” The wounded flier dropped back to his knees again, still not quite sure he could believe the fact he was alive and uneaten.
Abigor thought the information over. He had to change plans; his original was an open invitation to a massacre by the human mages. His mind mulled the information over. His original front was over a mile long with the ranks extending almost two miles backward. If he lined his legions up in a single row, they would form a front almost five miles long. His mind chewed away, the human magic slaughtered by area, why stop at lining up his legions side by side. There was no need for the legions to maintain their block, 81 ranks deep. Suppose each Legion formed three blocks 27 ranks deep? And those blocks were lines side by side? Why that meant a front approaching 15 miles wide! Abigor stared at his map, with a front like that, he could extend beyond the range of the human mages and their magic, envelop their flanks, and roll them up. It was brilliant. It was also, of course against every concept of demonic warfare. Battles were decided by massive blows aimed at the center of the enemy force, the two masses colliding and slugging it out. This idea of thinning his lines and enveloping the enemy was, wrong somehow. Yet the humans were wrong, they didn’t fight like warriors, and they lacked the spirit to close into hand-to-hand combat range. That hadn’t always been the case, there had been examples in the past when humans fought demons hand-to-hand. They’d always lost of course.
He wrote the new orders down on parchment and then added another thought. The enemy mages had to be on that ridgeline. If they could be prevented from casting their spells, that would be a major part of the enemy’s defense gone. So, he added another line, ordering all the infantry to keep firing their tridents as rapidly as they could recharge them. It didn’t matter if they hit anything, just to keep that ridge crest under continuous fire. Then, he turned his attention back to the flier still cowering in a corner. “You, what is your name?”
“Tomovoninkranfat Sire.”
“I need you to take these messages to the legion commanders. It must be done tonight.” Abigor was about to issue the usual blood-curdling threats when he stopped himself. This one had flown in with the messages even though he was terribly wounded. Hell ran on fear and terror but surely nothing could be worse than what this flier had already faced. “Tomovoninkranfat, you have already served me well and I thank you for everything you have already done. I see your wounds and know how much this must cost you, but these messages must get through.”
To Abigor’s astonishment, Tomovoninkranfat drew himself up. “Your wish is my will Sire.” And he left clutching the parchments in his unburned hand.
Behind him, Abigor felt another wave of surprise. Could it be that it wasn’t necessary to terrorize everybody in sight to get things done? That praise and trust could sometimes work as well?
Headquarters, Multi-National Force Iraq, Green Zone, Baghdad.
“They’re moving.”
The great screen in General Petraeus’s command center was showing a sudden surge of activity in the baldrick Army that lay along the Wadi al Gudrhat. Formations were beginning to move, shifting sideways, and the deployment changed. Far over their heads, the Global Hawk was faithfully recording everything they did but what it could not do was tell General Petraeus why they were doing it. That, he had to work out for himself.
“A night attack Sir?” An aide spoke with unease. It was hard to make a guess based on intentions with so little to go on.
“Could be. They’re moving sideways though, not forward. Extending their line. I’d guess this move started when word of what happened on their flanks started to trickle in.”
“Perhaps they’re trying to replace the flank cover we destroyed yesterday?” Captain David Tall was jumping in with both feet as usual.
“Could be,” Petraeus repeated the same words absent-mindedly. “Any other suggestions?”
This was his “school for Captains”, the time when his aides were invited to give their opinions on what the situation on the display meant and what should be done about it.
“I think they’re scared.” Captain Ellen Yarborough flushed slightly as the General looked straight at her.
“Why do you say that Ellen?”
“Because they don’t know what hit them yesterday. They’re still trying to piece it all together. Look what hit us over the last 24 hours. Cavalry, phalanxes of infantry, I mean real phalanxes General, only those harpies were anything even remotely modern. Now, look what hit them. Tanks, Mick-vees, artillery, MLRS. It’s completely outside their terms of reference. So, they don’t know what hit them.
“What they do know, Sir is what we did to them. I bet the commander over there has reports coming in and he’s trying to make sense of them. He’s noted we kill wholesale, not retail. So, he’s thinning his troops out, trying to reduce his casualties by giving us less to shoot at. He’s also extending his front and might hope to outflank us but that’s a secondary thing.”
“Anybody else has comments on that?” Petraeus looked around.
“It means he’s smart. They didn’t fight smart yesterday.” Tall looked around at the group gathered around the screen.
“Oh yes, they did.” Another officer, Captain Keith Renshaw cut in. “They fought very smartly on their terms. Can you imagine trying to stop that attack with spears and bows? They’d have stomped straight through us. And they kept going even while we slaughtered them. Can you imagine a human army taking a battering like that and keeping up the advance? I can’t.”
“Important point that Keith,” Petraeus spoke approvingly. “They showed a lot of guts. They didn’t change plans though, that tells us something about how fast their command structure can handle changes. Ellen, you make a good point as well. The commander over there is responding to what happened and doing so fast.” He paused and looked at the display again, it had updated to show the baldrick positions moving further sideways. “Whether he’s simply reducing the richness of the target environment or has thoughts about outflanking us doesn’t matter. What he’s doing gives him the option and we must allow for it. Any suggestions. Ellen?”
“The critical point is here, at Hit. If Hit falls, and it’s right on the front line of our extreme right flank, he can cross the Euphrates and come down between the river and the Buhayrat Thatthar. Cut us off from our supply lines. We have two brigades from the Fourth Infantry Division in reserve, I suggest we order one of them to move to cover that area and position them east of Aqabah. With the divisional M270s in support. That way they can either block the baldrick advance or if they don’t cross the river, swing around, and hit their left flank.”
“Comments?” Petraeus looked around.
“Sounds good to me.” There was a mutter of agreement.
“That’s because it is good. Gives us plenty of options. One change, the MLRS launchers stay where they are. They have the range to support the 4th from their present positions and we might need that firepower. 25th Mech and 10th Mountain can provide most of what we need but I want to keep one battalion of M270s on a ready-to-shoot basis in case of unexpected developments. Thank you.”
Petraeus turned back to his display. The baldrick line was extending and thinning. Yarborough had been right; they were learning fast. Not fast enough though.
DIMO(N) Conference Room, The Pentagon, Arlington, VA
“Doughnuts and Coffee ladies and gentlemen and, er, other lady.”
There was a quick stir as people descended on the refreshments trying not to be seen as too keen to grab the iced donuts. Lugasharmanaska looked at the plates with a distaste and a certain element of despair. It had been a week since she had eaten, and her body was screaming for raw meat. These balls of fried plants were of no use to her.
“You don’t like donuts Luga?”
“I eat meat. Fresh meat. Not vegetables.”
“Donuts aren’t vegetables.” One of the women present, a dedicated vegan didn’t like the way this conversation was going.
“Donuts are made of flour, yes? Flour is from plants. Plants are vegetables, so donuts are vegetables.”
“I must try that on my doctor.” One of the men spoke quietly but the vegan lady still glared at him.
Robert O’Shea was speaking to the Pentagon kitchens on the telephone. They had some standing ribs down there and he asked for the largest to be sent up. “Beef all right Luga?”
“Human is better, but any meat will be good.” She noted the expression on the faces of the rest of the people in the room. “You do not eat your dead?”
“No.” It was a short, clipped phrase.
“How strange. So, you just waste them.” Lugasharmanaska shrugged and then her eyes lit up as the raw meat arrived. She grabbed the joint and ripped at it with her teeth, tearing off large lumps and swallowing them. The vegan lady nearly fainted. There was a general agreement that they’d learned the first important thing about the baldricks. Their table manners were appalling.
“If we might get started.” O’Shea looked at Lugasharmanaska who was still grunting, snorting, and tearing at her meat. He couldn’t help thinking it was a charming sight to see somebody enjoying their food so much. “First item, communications. We can communicate back up to Hell on a one-to-one basis but that’s all. Luga, how do we open a portal.”
“You can talk to people back home? Then you can open a portal. Just add more power. Get more of your mages to add their power to the message. First, you can get messages through than with more power the message opens a gate. It’s easy. If you use a Nephilim to contact.”
“What’s a Nephilim?” The vegan lady wanted to keep Lugasharmanaska talking in case she decided she wanted some more meat and created another display like the previous one. The stripped bones were still on the table to remind her of what that sight had been like. Idly, Lugasharmanaska picked one of the ribs up, cracked it open with her teeth, and sucked out some marrow.
“Nephilim are humans with demon ancestry. A long time ago, when we were here before, we mated with humans. We succubi still do. Sometimes there are offspring from such matings that are both human and demon. Now, the demon ancestry in a Nephilim is mostly very small but enough remains. We can contact them even from our dimension.” Lugasharmanaska thought carefully, how could her information be valuable without giving away too much? “We can make you see what we want you to see but we must be able to see you for that. But with Nephilim, we can contact and make messages without seeing.”
“Is that how you come to Earth.”
“Yes. We contact a Nephilim and use our mind mask to establish a message link. Then our leaders add more power and form a gate we can step through.”
Lugasharmanaska looked around and saw the growing affection in the eyes of the people around her. And gratitude for her assistance. She was doing well, and her stomach was full at last. Only one-person present didn’t like her and that was the woman who had complained about eating meat. Lugasharmanaska eyed her and wondered, purely academically and without any intention of trying, what she would taste like.
Observation Room, DIMO(N), The Pentagon, Arlington, VA
“What do you think of her Robert?” James Randi looked at O’Shea, his eyes twinkling slightly.
“Well, she’s not the sort of girl I’d take home to meet my mother.” O’Shea thought for a second. “On the other hand, she eats humans, so I might take her to meet my ex-wife. But in her way, I thought she was quite pleasant.”
Randi smiled and shook his head. This was why the JREF always filmed their tests and trials, it was amazing what one could see when a situation was played back. “Watch this, Robert.”
It was a film of Lugasharmanaska eating, her teeth ripping at the meat, blood spraying around her, running down her chin. She was looking around, half suspicious that somebody might take her food, but it was obvious that her eyes were also assessing the chance of eating one of the other members of the meeting.
“Quite pleasant Robert?”
O’Shea looked appalled. “I don’t remember it like that. Oh, I noted she was a bit gross when she was eating but nothing like that.”
“That’s why we record all the tests we do. See things that get missed the first time around. We’ve noticed how that succubus seems to get on everybody’s good side very quickly. Nobody had much bad to say about her. There’s something we need to look at here.”
“We all had our foil caps on.” O’Shea sounded defensive.
“I know, anyway it seems like we need to investigate this a bit more. Robert, something your people can look at, I need to get more power pumped into our links to hell.”
Headquarters, Army of Abigor, Western Iraq.
It had been dusk when the flier had arrived. Abigor had been standing outside his tent, basking in the last rays of the setting sun when the flier had staggered in. A very badly wounded flier, its body dreadfully burned along one side, its damaged wing causing it to fly unevenly. As it approached, Abigor saw that it had lost an eye from the same burns that affected the rest of its body.
“Your Excellency, I bring word from General Merafawlazes.”
Abigor looked at the battered flier. Was this the best Merafawlazes could send to bring news of his victory? It was an insult. Abigor paused for a second, a deliberate insult? Was this Merafawlazes’s attempt at deposing him? “What word?” His voice was curt and irritable.
“Sire, terrible news. The Army of the North has been defeated. It is in full retreat heading south. The enemy is pursuing it in their Iron Chariots. They move fast sire, faster than the swiftest Beast. As our infantry run, they are being crushed by the Chariots. It is a disaster, Merafawlazes says beware of the fire lances and the Iron Chariots for our forces are helpless against them.
“Defeated?” Abigor was stunned by the news. “How?”
“The humans have terrible magic sire. They cause the ground to erupt and swallow our infantry whole, their fire lances tear them apart. They can call up thunder at will and their breath leaves nothing but the dead where they breathed. In the sky, their fire lances seek us out no matter how much we twist and turn. One-touch from them is death Sire. One passed close to me, did not even hit me, and look what its fire did.”
Abigor listened in shocked disbelief. There was no way this story could be faked; no Duke would admit to so crushing a defeat. No demonic army had been defeated, not since That defeat, the one before time had properly begun. Abigor had been at that battle and known defeat then. He remembered its taste and suddenly, after countless eons, his mouth was filled with it again.
“Come to my tent, tell me all that you know.” He saw the flier hesitate. “You have nothing to fear.”
That’s what they all say the flier thought before they kill the bringer of bad news
An hour later, Abigor was trying to absorb the flier’s description of the battle. He had his battle plan marked out on his map, in essence it was simply a larger repeat of Merafawlazes’s attack. Cavalry first to break up the enemy line, then the infantry in a thick mass to swarm over the wreckage and finish the enemy off. He had his 28 infantry legions in a huge block, seven legions wide, four deep, the ranks massed tight and deep. By all that was traditional, it should have been invincible. Merafawlazes had thought that now Merafawlazes Army was dead or running.
“They hid behind the hill you say?” Abigor’s voice was thoughtful.
“Sire, they did. They were lined up behind the ridge where they could not be seen by our force. Only after our army had been almost destroyed by their magic and our fliers slaughtered by their Sky-Chariots did they venture over the crest and charge us. Even then they did not dare to fight in honorable hand-to-hand combat but let loose their fire bolts at us from a distance. Only when our comrades lay wounded and helpless did they close on us and then they crushed the wounded under their chariots.” The wounded flier dropped back to his knees again, still not quite sure he could believe the fact he was alive and uneaten.
Abigor thought the information over. He had to change plans; his original was an open invitation to a massacre by the human mages. His mind mulled the information over. His original front was over a mile long with the ranks extending almost two miles backward. If he lined his legions up in a single row, they would form a front almost five miles long. His mind chewed away, the human magic slaughtered by area, why stop at lining up his legions side by side. There was no need for the legions to maintain their block, 81 ranks deep. Suppose each Legion formed three blocks 27 ranks deep? And those blocks were lines side by side? Why that meant a front approaching 15 miles wide! Abigor stared at his map, with a front like that, he could extend beyond the range of the human mages and their magic, envelop their flanks, and roll them up. It was brilliant. It was also, of course against every concept of demonic warfare. Battles were decided by massive blows aimed at the center of the enemy force, the two masses colliding and slugging it out. This idea of thinning his lines and enveloping the enemy was, wrong somehow. Yet the humans were wrong, they didn’t fight like warriors, and they lacked the spirit to close into hand-to-hand combat range. That hadn’t always been the case, there had been examples in the past when humans fought demons hand-to-hand. They’d always lost of course.
He wrote the new orders down on parchment and then added another thought. The enemy mages had to be on that ridgeline. If they could be prevented from casting their spells, that would be a major part of the enemy’s defense gone. So, he added another line, ordering all the infantry to keep firing their tridents as rapidly as they could recharge them. It didn’t matter if they hit anything, just to keep that ridge crest under continuous fire. Then, he turned his attention back to the flier still cowering in a corner. “You, what is your name?”
“Tomovoninkranfat Sire.”
“I need you to take these messages to the legion commanders. It must be done tonight.” Abigor was about to issue the usual blood-curdling threats when he stopped himself. This one had flown in with the messages even though he was terribly wounded. Hell ran on fear and terror but surely nothing could be worse than what this flier had already faced. “Tomovoninkranfat, you have already served me well and I thank you for everything you have already done. I see your wounds and know how much this must cost you, but these messages must get through.”
To Abigor’s astonishment, Tomovoninkranfat drew himself up. “Your wish is my will Sire.” And he left clutching the parchments in his unburned hand.
Behind him, Abigor felt another wave of surprise. Could it be that it wasn’t necessary to terrorize everybody in sight to get things done? That praise and trust could sometimes work as well?
Headquarters, Multi-National Force Iraq, Green Zone, Baghdad.
“They’re moving.”
The great screen in General Petraeus’s command center was showing a sudden surge of activity in the baldrick Army that lay along the Wadi al Gudrhat. Formations were beginning to move, shifting sideways, and the deployment changed. Far over their heads, the Global Hawk was faithfully recording everything they did but what it could not do was tell General Petraeus why they were doing it. That, he had to work out for himself.
“A night attack Sir?” An aide spoke with unease. It was hard to make a guess based on intentions with so little to go on.
“Could be. They’re moving sideways though, not forward. Extending their line. I’d guess this move started when word of what happened on their flanks started to trickle in.”
“Perhaps they’re trying to replace the flank cover we destroyed yesterday?” Captain David Tall was jumping in with both feet as usual.
“Could be,” Petraeus repeated the same words absent-mindedly. “Any other suggestions?”
This was his “school for Captains”, the time when his aides were invited to give their opinions on what the situation on the display meant and what should be done about it.
“I think they’re scared.” Captain Ellen Yarborough flushed slightly as the General looked straight at her.
“Why do you say that Ellen?”
“Because they don’t know what hit them yesterday. They’re still trying to piece it all together. Look what hit us over the last 24 hours. Cavalry, phalanxes of infantry, I mean real phalanxes General, only those harpies were anything even remotely modern. Now, look what hit them. Tanks, Mick-vees, artillery, MLRS. It’s completely outside their terms of reference. So, they don’t know what hit them.
“What they do know, Sir is what we did to them. I bet the commander over there has reports coming in and he’s trying to make sense of them. He’s noted we kill wholesale, not retail. So, he’s thinning his troops out, trying to reduce his casualties by giving us less to shoot at. He’s also extending his front and might hope to outflank us but that’s a secondary thing.”
“Anybody else has comments on that?” Petraeus looked around.
“It means he’s smart. They didn’t fight smart yesterday.” Tall looked around at the group gathered around the screen.
“Oh yes, they did.” Another officer, Captain Keith Renshaw cut in. “They fought very smartly on their terms. Can you imagine trying to stop that attack with spears and bows? They’d have stomped straight through us. And they kept going even while we slaughtered them. Can you imagine a human army taking a battering like that and keeping up the advance? I can’t.”
“Important point that Keith,” Petraeus spoke approvingly. “They showed a lot of guts. They didn’t change plans though, that tells us something about how fast their command structure can handle changes. Ellen, you make a good point as well. The commander over there is responding to what happened and doing so fast.” He paused and looked at the display again, it had updated to show the baldrick positions moving further sideways. “Whether he’s simply reducing the richness of the target environment or has thoughts about outflanking us doesn’t matter. What he’s doing gives him the option and we must allow for it. Any suggestions. Ellen?”
“The critical point is here, at Hit. If Hit falls, and it’s right on the front line of our extreme right flank, he can cross the Euphrates and come down between the river and the Buhayrat Thatthar. Cut us off from our supply lines. We have two brigades from the Fourth Infantry Division in reserve, I suggest we order one of them to move to cover that area and position them east of Aqabah. With the divisional M270s in support. That way they can either block the baldrick advance or if they don’t cross the river, swing around, and hit their left flank.”
“Comments?” Petraeus looked around.
“Sounds good to me.” There was a mutter of agreement.
“That’s because it is good. Gives us plenty of options. One change, the MLRS launchers stay where they are. They have the range to support the 4th from their present positions and we might need that firepower. 25th Mech and 10th Mountain can provide most of what we need but I want to keep one battalion of M270s on a ready-to-shoot basis in case of unexpected developments. Thank you.”
Petraeus turned back to his display. The baldrick line was extending and thinning. Yarborough had been right; they were learning fast. Not fast enough though.
DIMO(N) Conference Room, The Pentagon, Arlington, VA
“Doughnuts and Coffee ladies and gentlemen and, er, other lady.”
There was a quick stir as people descended on the refreshments trying not to be seen as too keen to grab the iced donuts. Lugasharmanaska looked at the plates with a distaste and a certain element of despair. It had been a week since she had eaten, and her body was screaming for raw meat. These balls of fried plants were of no use to her.
“You don’t like donuts Luga?”
“I eat meat. Fresh meat. Not vegetables.”
“Donuts aren’t vegetables.” One of the women present, a dedicated vegan didn’t like the way this conversation was going.
“Donuts are made of flour, yes? Flour is from plants. Plants are vegetables, so donuts are vegetables.”
“I must try that on my doctor.” One of the men spoke quietly but the vegan lady still glared at him.
Robert O’Shea was speaking to the Pentagon kitchens on the telephone. They had some standing ribs down there and he asked for the largest to be sent up. “Beef all right Luga?”
“Human is better, but any meat will be good.” She noted the expression on the faces of the rest of the people in the room. “You do not eat your dead?”
“No.” It was a short, clipped phrase.
“How strange. So, you just waste them.” Lugasharmanaska shrugged and then her eyes lit up as the raw meat arrived. She grabbed the joint and ripped at it with her teeth, tearing off large lumps and swallowing them. The vegan lady nearly fainted. There was a general agreement that they’d learned the first important thing about the baldricks. Their table manners were appalling.
“If we might get started.” O’Shea looked at Lugasharmanaska who was still grunting, snorting, and tearing at her meat. He couldn’t help thinking it was a charming sight to see somebody enjoying their food so much. “First item, communications. We can communicate back up to Hell on a one-to-one basis but that’s all. Luga, how do we open a portal.”
“You can talk to people back home? Then you can open a portal. Just add more power. Get more of your mages to add their power to the message. First, you can get messages through than with more power the message opens a gate. It’s easy. If you use a Nephilim to contact.”
“What’s a Nephilim?” The vegan lady wanted to keep Lugasharmanaska talking in case she decided she wanted some more meat and created another display like the previous one. The stripped bones were still on the table to remind her of what that sight had been like. Idly, Lugasharmanaska picked one of the ribs up, cracked it open with her teeth, and sucked out some marrow.
“Nephilim are humans with demon ancestry. A long time ago, when we were here before, we mated with humans. We succubi still do. Sometimes there are offspring from such matings that are both human and demon. Now, the demon ancestry in a Nephilim is mostly very small but enough remains. We can contact them even from our dimension.” Lugasharmanaska thought carefully, how could her information be valuable without giving away too much? “We can make you see what we want you to see but we must be able to see you for that. But with Nephilim, we can contact and make messages without seeing.”
“Is that how you come to Earth.”
“Yes. We contact a Nephilim and use our mind mask to establish a message link. Then our leaders add more power and form a gate we can step through.”
Lugasharmanaska looked around and saw the growing affection in the eyes of the people around her. And gratitude for her assistance. She was doing well, and her stomach was full at last. Only one-person present didn’t like her and that was the woman who had complained about eating meat. Lugasharmanaska eyed her and wondered, purely academically and without any intention of trying, what she would taste like.
Observation Room, DIMO(N), The Pentagon, Arlington, VA
“What do you think of her Robert?” James Randi looked at O’Shea, his eyes twinkling slightly.
“Well, she’s not the sort of girl I’d take home to meet my mother.” O’Shea thought for a second. “On the other hand, she eats humans, so I might take her to meet my ex-wife. But in her way, I thought she was quite pleasant.”
Randi smiled and shook his head. This was why the JREF always filmed their tests and trials, it was amazing what one could see when a situation was played back. “Watch this, Robert.”
It was a film of Lugasharmanaska eating, her teeth ripping at the meat, blood spraying around her, running down her chin. She was looking around, half suspicious that somebody might take her food, but it was obvious that her eyes were also assessing the chance of eating one of the other members of the meeting.
“Quite pleasant Robert?”
O’Shea looked appalled. “I don’t remember it like that. Oh, I noted she was a bit gross when she was eating but nothing like that.”
“That’s why we record all the tests we do. See things that get missed the first time around. We’ve noticed how that succubus seems to get on everybody’s good side very quickly. Nobody had much bad to say about her. There’s something we need to look at here.”
“We all had our foil caps on.” O’Shea sounded defensive.
“I know, anyway it seems like we need to investigate this a bit more. Robert, something your people can look at, I need to get more power pumped into our links to hell.”
Re: 2008 - Armageddon
Chapter Eighteen
Headquarters, Army of Abigor, Western Iraq.
The Great Beast saw Abigor approaching and clicked its claws in greeting. As befitted Abigor’s status, his Great Beast towered over the lesser Beasts ridden by the cavalry brigade and its black skin swirled with iridescent colors that caught the rising sun and sparkled into a shimmering halo. Abigor returned the salutation of his Great Beast and swung up onto the animal’s back. Over his head, he could see the viciously curved tail straighten and then fall back to its natural position. The Great Beast was ready to move, to attack the humans that dared to defy its master.
Ahead of him, Abigor saw his legions start to roll forward, the thinned ranks looking pitifully slender by the standards of demon warfare. The legion was designed to fight as a solid mass, its 81 ranks adding mass and weight to the charge that would strike the enemy with the force of a battering ram. Abigor had knowingly sacrificed that weight, given up the power of his charge in favor of hitting the humans along a much broader front. Ahead of him, he could see the humans had done it again, they had formed up behind the ridgeline where they were shielded from the trident bolts of the demon infantry. They had to be up there though for this was the day of the great battle.
Overhead, Abigor could see the strange white clouds the human Sky Chariots left behind them as they searched out the remaining fliers. He could hear their battle cry, a strange roaring scream punctuated by thunder-like explosions as their fire lances tracked their targets and blew them apart. There were more Sky Chariots here than Abigor had ever seen before, they filled the sky above the battlefield, dipping down to slash at the fliers who floundered helplessly below them. Casualties up there must be terrible, Abigor thought. Even as he watched, three fliers fled westwards back to the hell gate. A Sky Chariot was in hot pursuit, closing the range on them with terrible speed. Oddly, this one was silent and if Abigor hadn’t been watching, he wouldn’t have known it was passing. Only after it had passed did Abigor hear the thundering crash and roar of its battle cry. The Sky Chariot swerved after the fliers, and it gave forth a rasping moan that filled the sky with bright lights. One flier exploded, there was a brief pause, then another rasp, and a second flier died. The Sky Chariot zoomed skywards, rolled over, and slashed down at the third. It too died as the lights engulfed it.
Still, it was the ground forces that were important. Fliers were important for terrorizing a fleeing enemy but in a real battle, it was the cavalry and infantry that counted. Abigor urged his Great Beast forward, keeping close to the infantry as they surged forward. He could sense the uneasiness in the ranks, the infantry felt exposed without the thick mass of the ranks that usually surrounded them. And the Cavalry were staying back, normally they led the charge, the shock of their weight and speed breaking through the enemy lines. Now they were being held to wait on events. If the army started to fall apart, it would be their job to stem the breach and hold the line. Abigor suddenly stopped himself, he was thinking about what would happen if he lost? Something had changed in him the previous night when he had listened to Tomovoninkranfat’s account of how Merafawlazes’s Army had died. Defeat had ceased to be unthinkable, now it was all too real a possibility.
The sky to the east was changing, suddenly, the rising sun was shining through the streaks of the human fire lances emerging from far behind their lines. Their mages had to be at work already. The advancing infantry lowered their tripods to the horizontal and let fly with a withering barrage of lightning bolts. The ridge crest was at extreme range and many of the bolts had dissipated before they made it there but enough hit the line to disrupt the concentration of the human mages. Abigor was sure of that. Yet it did not seem to affect the Fire Lances as they arched over and raced down into his infantry. The rippling sea of explosions engulfed a whole section of his front line, devouring it, shredding those unfortunate enough to be caught in its hot breath. That was how Abigor found himself thinking of it, it was the Humans breathing death over his infantry. They were faltering, looking around, seeing the wire ahead of them, and realizing what was to happen. Abigor drove his Great Beast into the middle of their ranks, urging them forward, firing his tripod – and hearing the wailing screams yet more human magic was added to the chaos.
Headquarters, Multi-National Force Iraq, Green Zone, Baghdad.
“Pumpkin-One reports receiving heavy inbound fire Sir. The baldricks are firing on the ridgeline as they come in. Fire is ineffective Sir.”
Petraeus nodded. The truth was, he wasn’t that interested at this point. His artillery was tearing huge gaps in the baldrick attack although the reduced density of targets meant the death toll was lower than it had been yesterday. Standing in front of his screen, he could see the baldricks surging forward, taking their losses from the deadly MLRS barrages and the minefields. They hadn’t reached the wire yet. Not that it mattered to him, the brigade commanders along the front knew what they had to do, and Petraeus had left them to get on with it. They had enough on their plate without their commanding general peering over their shoulder and second-guessing them. Petraeus had enough to do as well, in addition to handling his corps artillery, he had to keep supplies of ammunition and fuel flowing towards the brigades. He had truck convoys scattered between the front line and Baghdad, keeping them flowing forward was a job in itself. He had staff handling that as well, his part of the battle was to stand here in front of this screen and spot things going wrong.
“There’s a flight of C-17s coming in from CONUS. Carrying reloads. Make sure our fighters screen them from any harpies surviving out there. And have the fighters report when the harpies are cleared out of the way. The Apache crews will want to get their licks in.”
“Sir, Yes Sir.” That had to be one of the Marines Petraeus thought. Still, it was better than the Rangers, that constant Oooh-Agh got on his nerves after a while. Getting the AH-64s into action was going to be critical for more reasons than one. The 25th Mechanized Infantry Division, known on the radio as “Pumpkin” was already tearing the baldricks apart, they had the firepower and mobility they needed. The baldricks in front of them were going to die, it was simply a question of how many of them would do so before the rest broke and ran. Not that there was anywhere for them to run to. In the west, the Shamshar Division and the First Armored were rapidly closing the gap that was the baldrick’s only escape route.
No, 25th Mech was going to be all right. The problem lay to their north, where the 10th Mountain Division, call sign Mango, held the line. They were a light infantry division; they didn’t have the armor that had dominated the battlefield so far. They did have four brigades rather than three and more artillery, but their force structure was light. Petraeus had put them on his right for two reasons. One was that they covered a more inhabited and built-up sector of the front where the armor would be at a disadvantage. The other was a more ruthless one, Petraeus had to find out how human infantry would fight against the baldricks. All the reports so far said that the baldrick infantry was larger and stronger than humans and they took a lot of killing. Could human infantry stand up to them? It was a question that had to be answered sooner or later and sooner was better than later.
Hence the importance of getting the Apaches back over the battlefield. They were an important part of 10th Mountain’s firepower.
“Sir, Mango reports the baldricks are moving to attack them. Should we divert artillery support from Pumpkin?”
Petraeus thought for a second. “Negative. Keep battering the troops attacking Pumpkin. We can destroy that attack fastest, then we can thin out Pumpkin’s positions and shift forces to support Mango.” 10th Mountain had its artillery and that would have to do. The 25th Mech and 4th Infantry Division’s artillery was concentrating on the baldricks assaulting Petraeus’s left, over 100 Paladin self-propelled 155s, and 60 MLRS launchers. The sheer volume of fire they were pouring into the advancing baldricks was enough to stop even an Army from hell. Or so Petraeus hoped.
“Gee Sir, will you look at that!”
The Marine’s voice had lost its dispassionate inflection. In the middle of one surging mass of baldrick infantry, pinned up against the wire, was a single jet-black figure that towered above the rest, mounted on a rhinolobster that dwarfed the others.
“I guess he must be important.” Petraeus raised his voice slightly and addressed the fire direction center. “Put an MLRS battery onto that location immediately.”
Front Line, Army of Abigor, Western Iraq.
Abigor saw his infantry surging against the river of silver threads that strung across the battlefield. Some of his demons had tried to grab the threads with their hands, only to scream in anguish as the razor edges bit through their flesh to the bones. Others had tried to force their way in through the coils, only to become entangled and slowly sliced apart. The momentum of the attack was broken and all the time the shrieking howls of the enemy magic drowned out any attempt at thought. The infantry had to get through the threads, there was no other choice.
He saw the answer over his shoulder, on their way through to the threads, they had crossed a field covered with bars that exploded when a demon stepped on them. Many of them had been killed and their mutilated corpses littered the ground. Others writhed in pain from the traumatic amputations the bars had caused. Yet, Abigor thought, even the dead and the half-dead could still serve him. “Get those bodies. Throw them on the threads and use them as a bridge.”
The noise was too great for his words to carry far but some heard and started to collect bodies and throw them on top of the coils of threads. Others saw what was happening, understood, and copied them. Soon the wire was sagging under the weight and the first of the demon infantry was running across, clear of the wire and into the open ground beyond.
“Sire, there are problems on our left!” One of the lesser demons, a legion commander by the look of him, carried the message but could barely make himself heard.
The left, Abigor thought, ten minutes fast ride away. He had better get there and find out what was happening. “Take over here, keep driving them forward.” Then, he turned his Great Beast’s head and started the ride up to his left flank. This was a problem he hadn’t thought of, in the traditional formation he could see all his forces, in this new style of attack, he could see only a small portion of the battle at any one time. He was spending all his time running from one crisis to the next, trying to solve each one before it became a major problem. The time he should have been spending in finding the enemy commander so Abigor could have the pleasure of killing him.
There was another shrieking howl and the terrifying ripple of explosions that were the trademark of the fire-lances. Abigor felt the blast and the sting as stray fragments at the end of their trajectory flicked at him. Behind him, the area where he had just been having vanished was under a rolling cloud of dust and smoke. Abigor had already seen enough fire-lance breaths to know that nothing was left alive in the area he had been in just a few minutes before. Then it struck him, that he might not have time to find the enemy commander, the enemy commander had found him.
Headquarters, Multi-National Force Iraq, Green Zone, Baghdad.
“Missed him.” The Marine sounded disappointed.
“Don’t sweat it, son, it was only a chance. He’s heading north, guess on his way to Hit. Sitrep?”
“Mango-Four is in Hit sir, they’ve dug in. They’re all west of the river and there’s only one bridge out.”
Petraeus knew what that meant. If Mango-Four tried to evacuate the city, there would be a massacre as they piled up before the bridge.
“Sir, Mango Four requests permissionto blow the bridge. They say it won’t do them any good and taking it intact might help the Baldricks.”
“Tell them to do it. We can throw an assault bridge over easily enough. The baldricks don’t seem to have heard about combat engineering.”
“Sir, with the bridge gone, Mango Four won’t be able to….”
“I know, so did they when they suggested it. Order Cherry-One up on Hit. Tell them to form up to the east of Al-Ramadi.”
Outskirts of Hit, Western Iraq.
“We’d just got this place quieted down as well.” Corporal Tucker McElroy looked out at the advancing baldricks with a certain level of disgust. A year earlier, Hit had been torn to pieces by gangs of terrorists and insurgents whose attacks and murders spared no one. Then, the Marines moved into the city as part of Task Force 17 and cleaned the city up. It had come back to life and its economy had been improving every day, so much so that a week before The Message had changed everything, the city had been handed over to Iraqi security forces. Now the baldricks were coming.
Not as many as there had been, that was for sure. At first, their long ranks had been a terrifying sight, but Mango-Four’s artillery had got to work as the baldricks had stalled in the minefields and on the razor wire. By the time, the baldricks had swarmed through the artillery over the wire, their neat ranks and serried formation had gone. In its place was a stream of baldricks in groups of varying sizes making their way towards the outskirts of the city. McElroy heard the 120mm mortars coughing as they lobbed their first rounds at the larger of the groups, the brigade 155s were still pounding the baldricks hung up on the wire. By now, the leading groups of demons had reached the great divided highway that swung around the outskirts of Hit. It was time to do some real soldiering.
A few yards away Charles Foss was scanning the nearest group of baldricks through the powerful scope on his M82A3 sniper’s rifle, well, it wasn’t a sniper’s rifle, officially it was an anti-material rifle. There was even an urban legend that it was illegal to use it against humans but that wasn’t true. Anyway, the targets this time weren’t human. Foss checked his ammunition, the tips of the .50 caliber bullets were green on white. That meant they were Raufoss SLAP rounds, multi-role armor-piercing explosive incendiaries. They’d been pouring into Iraq for days now, the joke was that they had still been warm from the production line in Norway when they’d been stuffed into transport and flown here. The infantry formations had been given priority for their issue, they needed the firepower.
Magazine in place, Foss squinted through the scope again. The baldricks cleared ground fast, at least twice as quickly as a human. One figure in the nearest group seemed to be the driving force, urging the others forward. Foss put the crosshairs on his forehead, just between the horns, and gently squeezed the trigger, just the way he’d taught his six-year-old son to shoot. Never pull the trigger, squeeze it. The heavy Barrett rifle kicked and the baldrick went down.
“Damn,” Foss swore to himself. The baldrick was down, his head mangled, but he was still moving. What did it take to kill these monsters? A second shot was the answer, it fixed the leader once and for all. Foss swung his scope to the second in the group and fired again. Finally, one went down hard with the first shot. The rest of the baldricks went to the ground, confused by the inexplicable outbreak of death that had struck them. That was a fatal mistake. The mortar teams saw the group stop moving and a pattern of 82mm mortar bombs blanketed their position. By that time, Foss and his fellow snipers were seeking fresh targets.
Inside the fortified house, McElroy looked over the sandbags that blocked the doors and windows to see the baldricks rapidly closing in on the forward defense line. They were over the inner ring road, less than 200 yards away, running into an area of plowed sand where a new city block had been planned. Those plans had been abandoned and would probably never be revived now that half the city’s population had laid down and died as demanded by The Message and the rest were refugees being sheltered further east. But the blocks on either side of the cleared area had been built and then they’d been fortified.
Human infantry would have seen the deadly danger of that open ground and avoided it. To the baldricks, it was an alley into the city and forty or more piled into it. They’d been the first group through the wire and minefields, the first to cross the open ground and get close to the city, the defenseless city. To their astonishment, they could see the buildings in front of them, the humans hadn’t built walls or moats to keep attackers out. Just the threads, the exploding bars, and their horrible magic fire-lances.
McElroy gave a last check, the baldricks were in a three-cornered ambush with infantry squads on both flanks and another in front of them. Worse, from the enemy’s point of view, McElroy had dismounted the Browning .50 caliber from their Humvee and had it on its tripod, firing through a narrow slit, its green-and-white tipped bullets waiting to bite. Fine, the baldricks were in a trap, time to spring it.
“Open fire. Let them have it!”
Headquarters, Army of Abigor, Western Iraq.
The Great Beast saw Abigor approaching and clicked its claws in greeting. As befitted Abigor’s status, his Great Beast towered over the lesser Beasts ridden by the cavalry brigade and its black skin swirled with iridescent colors that caught the rising sun and sparkled into a shimmering halo. Abigor returned the salutation of his Great Beast and swung up onto the animal’s back. Over his head, he could see the viciously curved tail straighten and then fall back to its natural position. The Great Beast was ready to move, to attack the humans that dared to defy its master.
Ahead of him, Abigor saw his legions start to roll forward, the thinned ranks looking pitifully slender by the standards of demon warfare. The legion was designed to fight as a solid mass, its 81 ranks adding mass and weight to the charge that would strike the enemy with the force of a battering ram. Abigor had knowingly sacrificed that weight, given up the power of his charge in favor of hitting the humans along a much broader front. Ahead of him, he could see the humans had done it again, they had formed up behind the ridgeline where they were shielded from the trident bolts of the demon infantry. They had to be up there though for this was the day of the great battle.
Overhead, Abigor could see the strange white clouds the human Sky Chariots left behind them as they searched out the remaining fliers. He could hear their battle cry, a strange roaring scream punctuated by thunder-like explosions as their fire lances tracked their targets and blew them apart. There were more Sky Chariots here than Abigor had ever seen before, they filled the sky above the battlefield, dipping down to slash at the fliers who floundered helplessly below them. Casualties up there must be terrible, Abigor thought. Even as he watched, three fliers fled westwards back to the hell gate. A Sky Chariot was in hot pursuit, closing the range on them with terrible speed. Oddly, this one was silent and if Abigor hadn’t been watching, he wouldn’t have known it was passing. Only after it had passed did Abigor hear the thundering crash and roar of its battle cry. The Sky Chariot swerved after the fliers, and it gave forth a rasping moan that filled the sky with bright lights. One flier exploded, there was a brief pause, then another rasp, and a second flier died. The Sky Chariot zoomed skywards, rolled over, and slashed down at the third. It too died as the lights engulfed it.
Still, it was the ground forces that were important. Fliers were important for terrorizing a fleeing enemy but in a real battle, it was the cavalry and infantry that counted. Abigor urged his Great Beast forward, keeping close to the infantry as they surged forward. He could sense the uneasiness in the ranks, the infantry felt exposed without the thick mass of the ranks that usually surrounded them. And the Cavalry were staying back, normally they led the charge, the shock of their weight and speed breaking through the enemy lines. Now they were being held to wait on events. If the army started to fall apart, it would be their job to stem the breach and hold the line. Abigor suddenly stopped himself, he was thinking about what would happen if he lost? Something had changed in him the previous night when he had listened to Tomovoninkranfat’s account of how Merafawlazes’s Army had died. Defeat had ceased to be unthinkable, now it was all too real a possibility.
The sky to the east was changing, suddenly, the rising sun was shining through the streaks of the human fire lances emerging from far behind their lines. Their mages had to be at work already. The advancing infantry lowered their tripods to the horizontal and let fly with a withering barrage of lightning bolts. The ridge crest was at extreme range and many of the bolts had dissipated before they made it there but enough hit the line to disrupt the concentration of the human mages. Abigor was sure of that. Yet it did not seem to affect the Fire Lances as they arched over and raced down into his infantry. The rippling sea of explosions engulfed a whole section of his front line, devouring it, shredding those unfortunate enough to be caught in its hot breath. That was how Abigor found himself thinking of it, it was the Humans breathing death over his infantry. They were faltering, looking around, seeing the wire ahead of them, and realizing what was to happen. Abigor drove his Great Beast into the middle of their ranks, urging them forward, firing his tripod – and hearing the wailing screams yet more human magic was added to the chaos.
Headquarters, Multi-National Force Iraq, Green Zone, Baghdad.
“Pumpkin-One reports receiving heavy inbound fire Sir. The baldricks are firing on the ridgeline as they come in. Fire is ineffective Sir.”
Petraeus nodded. The truth was, he wasn’t that interested at this point. His artillery was tearing huge gaps in the baldrick attack although the reduced density of targets meant the death toll was lower than it had been yesterday. Standing in front of his screen, he could see the baldricks surging forward, taking their losses from the deadly MLRS barrages and the minefields. They hadn’t reached the wire yet. Not that it mattered to him, the brigade commanders along the front knew what they had to do, and Petraeus had left them to get on with it. They had enough on their plate without their commanding general peering over their shoulder and second-guessing them. Petraeus had enough to do as well, in addition to handling his corps artillery, he had to keep supplies of ammunition and fuel flowing towards the brigades. He had truck convoys scattered between the front line and Baghdad, keeping them flowing forward was a job in itself. He had staff handling that as well, his part of the battle was to stand here in front of this screen and spot things going wrong.
“There’s a flight of C-17s coming in from CONUS. Carrying reloads. Make sure our fighters screen them from any harpies surviving out there. And have the fighters report when the harpies are cleared out of the way. The Apache crews will want to get their licks in.”
“Sir, Yes Sir.” That had to be one of the Marines Petraeus thought. Still, it was better than the Rangers, that constant Oooh-Agh got on his nerves after a while. Getting the AH-64s into action was going to be critical for more reasons than one. The 25th Mechanized Infantry Division, known on the radio as “Pumpkin” was already tearing the baldricks apart, they had the firepower and mobility they needed. The baldricks in front of them were going to die, it was simply a question of how many of them would do so before the rest broke and ran. Not that there was anywhere for them to run to. In the west, the Shamshar Division and the First Armored were rapidly closing the gap that was the baldrick’s only escape route.
No, 25th Mech was going to be all right. The problem lay to their north, where the 10th Mountain Division, call sign Mango, held the line. They were a light infantry division; they didn’t have the armor that had dominated the battlefield so far. They did have four brigades rather than three and more artillery, but their force structure was light. Petraeus had put them on his right for two reasons. One was that they covered a more inhabited and built-up sector of the front where the armor would be at a disadvantage. The other was a more ruthless one, Petraeus had to find out how human infantry would fight against the baldricks. All the reports so far said that the baldrick infantry was larger and stronger than humans and they took a lot of killing. Could human infantry stand up to them? It was a question that had to be answered sooner or later and sooner was better than later.
Hence the importance of getting the Apaches back over the battlefield. They were an important part of 10th Mountain’s firepower.
“Sir, Mango reports the baldricks are moving to attack them. Should we divert artillery support from Pumpkin?”
Petraeus thought for a second. “Negative. Keep battering the troops attacking Pumpkin. We can destroy that attack fastest, then we can thin out Pumpkin’s positions and shift forces to support Mango.” 10th Mountain had its artillery and that would have to do. The 25th Mech and 4th Infantry Division’s artillery was concentrating on the baldricks assaulting Petraeus’s left, over 100 Paladin self-propelled 155s, and 60 MLRS launchers. The sheer volume of fire they were pouring into the advancing baldricks was enough to stop even an Army from hell. Or so Petraeus hoped.
“Gee Sir, will you look at that!”
The Marine’s voice had lost its dispassionate inflection. In the middle of one surging mass of baldrick infantry, pinned up against the wire, was a single jet-black figure that towered above the rest, mounted on a rhinolobster that dwarfed the others.
“I guess he must be important.” Petraeus raised his voice slightly and addressed the fire direction center. “Put an MLRS battery onto that location immediately.”
Front Line, Army of Abigor, Western Iraq.
Abigor saw his infantry surging against the river of silver threads that strung across the battlefield. Some of his demons had tried to grab the threads with their hands, only to scream in anguish as the razor edges bit through their flesh to the bones. Others had tried to force their way in through the coils, only to become entangled and slowly sliced apart. The momentum of the attack was broken and all the time the shrieking howls of the enemy magic drowned out any attempt at thought. The infantry had to get through the threads, there was no other choice.
He saw the answer over his shoulder, on their way through to the threads, they had crossed a field covered with bars that exploded when a demon stepped on them. Many of them had been killed and their mutilated corpses littered the ground. Others writhed in pain from the traumatic amputations the bars had caused. Yet, Abigor thought, even the dead and the half-dead could still serve him. “Get those bodies. Throw them on the threads and use them as a bridge.”
The noise was too great for his words to carry far but some heard and started to collect bodies and throw them on top of the coils of threads. Others saw what was happening, understood, and copied them. Soon the wire was sagging under the weight and the first of the demon infantry was running across, clear of the wire and into the open ground beyond.
“Sire, there are problems on our left!” One of the lesser demons, a legion commander by the look of him, carried the message but could barely make himself heard.
The left, Abigor thought, ten minutes fast ride away. He had better get there and find out what was happening. “Take over here, keep driving them forward.” Then, he turned his Great Beast’s head and started the ride up to his left flank. This was a problem he hadn’t thought of, in the traditional formation he could see all his forces, in this new style of attack, he could see only a small portion of the battle at any one time. He was spending all his time running from one crisis to the next, trying to solve each one before it became a major problem. The time he should have been spending in finding the enemy commander so Abigor could have the pleasure of killing him.
There was another shrieking howl and the terrifying ripple of explosions that were the trademark of the fire-lances. Abigor felt the blast and the sting as stray fragments at the end of their trajectory flicked at him. Behind him, the area where he had just been having vanished was under a rolling cloud of dust and smoke. Abigor had already seen enough fire-lance breaths to know that nothing was left alive in the area he had been in just a few minutes before. Then it struck him, that he might not have time to find the enemy commander, the enemy commander had found him.
Headquarters, Multi-National Force Iraq, Green Zone, Baghdad.
“Missed him.” The Marine sounded disappointed.
“Don’t sweat it, son, it was only a chance. He’s heading north, guess on his way to Hit. Sitrep?”
“Mango-Four is in Hit sir, they’ve dug in. They’re all west of the river and there’s only one bridge out.”
Petraeus knew what that meant. If Mango-Four tried to evacuate the city, there would be a massacre as they piled up before the bridge.
“Sir, Mango Four requests permissionto blow the bridge. They say it won’t do them any good and taking it intact might help the Baldricks.”
“Tell them to do it. We can throw an assault bridge over easily enough. The baldricks don’t seem to have heard about combat engineering.”
“Sir, with the bridge gone, Mango Four won’t be able to….”
“I know, so did they when they suggested it. Order Cherry-One up on Hit. Tell them to form up to the east of Al-Ramadi.”
Outskirts of Hit, Western Iraq.
“We’d just got this place quieted down as well.” Corporal Tucker McElroy looked out at the advancing baldricks with a certain level of disgust. A year earlier, Hit had been torn to pieces by gangs of terrorists and insurgents whose attacks and murders spared no one. Then, the Marines moved into the city as part of Task Force 17 and cleaned the city up. It had come back to life and its economy had been improving every day, so much so that a week before The Message had changed everything, the city had been handed over to Iraqi security forces. Now the baldricks were coming.
Not as many as there had been, that was for sure. At first, their long ranks had been a terrifying sight, but Mango-Four’s artillery had got to work as the baldricks had stalled in the minefields and on the razor wire. By the time, the baldricks had swarmed through the artillery over the wire, their neat ranks and serried formation had gone. In its place was a stream of baldricks in groups of varying sizes making their way towards the outskirts of the city. McElroy heard the 120mm mortars coughing as they lobbed their first rounds at the larger of the groups, the brigade 155s were still pounding the baldricks hung up on the wire. By now, the leading groups of demons had reached the great divided highway that swung around the outskirts of Hit. It was time to do some real soldiering.
A few yards away Charles Foss was scanning the nearest group of baldricks through the powerful scope on his M82A3 sniper’s rifle, well, it wasn’t a sniper’s rifle, officially it was an anti-material rifle. There was even an urban legend that it was illegal to use it against humans but that wasn’t true. Anyway, the targets this time weren’t human. Foss checked his ammunition, the tips of the .50 caliber bullets were green on white. That meant they were Raufoss SLAP rounds, multi-role armor-piercing explosive incendiaries. They’d been pouring into Iraq for days now, the joke was that they had still been warm from the production line in Norway when they’d been stuffed into transport and flown here. The infantry formations had been given priority for their issue, they needed the firepower.
Magazine in place, Foss squinted through the scope again. The baldricks cleared ground fast, at least twice as quickly as a human. One figure in the nearest group seemed to be the driving force, urging the others forward. Foss put the crosshairs on his forehead, just between the horns, and gently squeezed the trigger, just the way he’d taught his six-year-old son to shoot. Never pull the trigger, squeeze it. The heavy Barrett rifle kicked and the baldrick went down.
“Damn,” Foss swore to himself. The baldrick was down, his head mangled, but he was still moving. What did it take to kill these monsters? A second shot was the answer, it fixed the leader once and for all. Foss swung his scope to the second in the group and fired again. Finally, one went down hard with the first shot. The rest of the baldricks went to the ground, confused by the inexplicable outbreak of death that had struck them. That was a fatal mistake. The mortar teams saw the group stop moving and a pattern of 82mm mortar bombs blanketed their position. By that time, Foss and his fellow snipers were seeking fresh targets.
Inside the fortified house, McElroy looked over the sandbags that blocked the doors and windows to see the baldricks rapidly closing in on the forward defense line. They were over the inner ring road, less than 200 yards away, running into an area of plowed sand where a new city block had been planned. Those plans had been abandoned and would probably never be revived now that half the city’s population had laid down and died as demanded by The Message and the rest were refugees being sheltered further east. But the blocks on either side of the cleared area had been built and then they’d been fortified.
Human infantry would have seen the deadly danger of that open ground and avoided it. To the baldricks, it was an alley into the city and forty or more piled into it. They’d been the first group through the wire and minefields, the first to cross the open ground and get close to the city, the defenseless city. To their astonishment, they could see the buildings in front of them, the humans hadn’t built walls or moats to keep attackers out. Just the threads, the exploding bars, and their horrible magic fire-lances.
McElroy gave a last check, the baldricks were in a three-cornered ambush with infantry squads on both flanks and another in front of them. Worse, from the enemy’s point of view, McElroy had dismounted the Browning .50 caliber from their Humvee and had it on its tripod, firing through a narrow slit, its green-and-white tipped bullets waiting to bite. Fine, the baldricks were in a trap, time to spring it.
“Open fire. Let them have it!”
Re: 2008 - Armageddon
Chapter Nineteen
Defense Perimeter Charlie, Hit, Western Iraq.
“Just how many of these bastards are there?” McElroy was distinctly aggrieved. Despite the fight they were putting up, he and the rest of his squad were being pushed steadily back by the sheer weight of numbers that were being thrown against them. They’d bled the attackers badly on Perimeter Alfa, the baldricks seemed to have no idea of fire and maneuver, they’d just walked straight into the machine-gun fire. Only the waves behind the first group had simply climbed over their dead and kept on coming.
“I heard over a million.” Private Gerry Links repeated the rumor with grim relish. “And it looks like most of them are here.”
“If you mean right in front of us, right now, I’d say you’re just about right. There’s more of them than we’ve got bullets.” And that, McElroy thought, was the pure, unvarnished truth. Oh, the .50s were cutting the baldricks down all right and the snipers were having a field day but there weren’t enough of them, and they were being swamped by the numbers coming through. More than just the numbers, the bastards were so damned difficult to kill. The truth was that the M16s just weren’t cutting it. McElroy had put a whole 30-round magazine into one baldrick and the damned thing had still torn Jim ‘Cookie’ Fields apart before it had gone down. Explosives were doing most of the work, grenades from the M19 automatic launchers and the M203s. That and the Claymores, human or baldrick, the spray of fragments from a Claymore shredded them nicely.
“Here they come.” There was a crescendo of firing from the block to their left, a mad minute as Baldwin’s squad poured fire into the baldrick assault teams before leaving via the back of their building. That would leave McElroy with an exposed flank, and he’d have to fall back as well soon. To his front, he saw black figures suddenly detach from the building in front and run out across the street. He took a careful bead on the leader and fired as fast as he could squeeze the trigger, watching shot after shot slam into the baldrick’s chest. It was staggering but still coming forward, McElroy felt he would have better luck if he spat at it. Off to his left, the squad machine gun snarled out a burst and the baldrick McElroy had wounded went down. There was a crash that shook the dust from the walls and wrecked the ceiling of the block, the last of the unit’s claymores had gone off.
The front of the building caved in, the baldricks were a lot stronger than humans and the flimsy construction of Iraqi walls wasn’t even close to being strong enough to hold them out. McElroy had lost some of his people when the walls the baldricks pushed down had trapped the men behind them, but they’d learned that lesson. Now they were in hastily prepared positions at the rear of the room, firing up and out at the baldricks as they loomed over the wrecked structure. Baldricks weren’t that much taller than humans, McElroy guessed that they averaged between seven and eight feet tall, but they seemed to be much bigger – especially when they were coming straight at you all teeth and claws.
He had a fresh magazine in his rifle, that was the good news. The bad news was that it was his last one, he’d run through his basic ammunition load in just a few minutes. He saw the green spurts as the bullets tore into the chest of the leading baldrick but, as McElroy had expected, the damned thing just kept coming. “Everybody out!”
He heard the rest of his unit scramble out the hole they’d knocked in the back wall of their block. McElroy paused just for a second, tossing a hand grenade at one of the baldricks. The black monster caught it and looked curiously at the small metal egg. The sheer incongruity of the sight caused McElroy to delay for a second and that killed him. The baldrick he’d just shot slashed at him with his claws, ripping through his body armor and tearing his chest open. McElroy screamed as the baldricks fell on him, tearing him apart and stuffing meat from his body into their mouths. Then the grenade went off and he, along with the baldrick who had been holding it, died.
Gerry Links heard the screams and explosion and knew that he was now in charge of what was left of the squad. The building they had been defending backed onto another with a narrow alley down the side. That led into the divided highway that ran through the center of Hit and, hopefully to the open ground on the other side. He turned and hosed out fire from his M16 then he and his men dropped flat as an automatic grenade launcher thumped out a burst from the building opposite.
“Down the alley fast, the grenadier will keep them back.” They were being pushed back, certainly, but they were bleeding the baldricks at every step. The time to fight it out, room to room would come later. And that, Links thought, would be a bloody day. Links fired another quick burst and saw a baldrick flinch. The M16s might not be killing them but they could hurt. Off to his left, he heard screams, human screams, was it the grenadier who’d held on to give his squad cover? Links didn’t know and didn’t have time to think about it. He and his men emerged from the semi-shadow of the alley and saw the most welcome sight of their lives. A Bradley was sitting on the road, its turret trained on the alley they had just come from. They could guess what was coming and scattered to either side. There was a rasping burst from the chain gun and this time the screams were baldrick. M16s may be ineffective but 25mm APHE was not.
“In the back fast.” The Bradley commander snapped the order out. Links and his men piled into the back and the ramp closed behind them. They were safe at last, behind the armor.
“Where are we going?”
“Defense Perimeter Delta. On the other side of the clearing. We’re holding there. No more falling back.”
“Just how the hell are we supposed to do that? These 16’s aren’t worth shit against a baldrick.”
“You’ll get sacks of grenades and AT-4s issued when we get back to your position. And M72s. Once we’re in Delta, we’ll do it Stalingrad style. Room to room.
Headquarters, Randi Institute of Pneumatology, The Pentagon, Arlington, VA
“Do you believe her?”
“If I’m in the same room as her, probably.”
Randi chuckled. There had been some discrete experiments going on. Put a subject in the same room as Lugasharmanaska, measure their initial reaction to the succubus, and then watch as that changed. Their prejudice started to soften within five minutes and by 30 minutes at most, they were friendly. “What do you think? Mind control?”
“Can’t be. We know roughly why their mind control works; they can entangle pathways in our brains using a bio-generated electrical field as a carrier wave. Your work with Julie and Kitten shows we can do the same only we can’t generate the bio-electric field as a carrier. We also know that electrically conductive headgear blocks out the signal. Humiliating that isn’t it. For years people who were being persecuted by demons tried to warn us and tell us how to block the signals and we laughed at them. Ridiculed them, then locked them up and doped them to the eyeballs. The tinfoil beanie became a symbol of cranks and nut-cases – and all along they were right. Anyway, we’ve all been scrupulous about wearing our tinfoil beanies, yet Lugasharmanaska gets the same reactions every time. Must be something else. We’ll keep trying until we get there.”
“Nicely switched away from the subject Robert. Now, do you believe her?”
Robert O’Shea thought for a second. “No. That stuff about breeding with humans can’t be true. We’re different species and different species can’t breed together, that’s a basic definition. The question is why is she lying? And if she is, why don’t we just hand her over to Doctor Surlethe and let him get some real information from her.”
“She might not be lying Robert. Just because she isn’t telling us the truth doesn’t mean that she’s lying. She may honestly believe that what she is telling us is true. It may be true, it’s just that we don’t understand what she is saying.” Randi paused. “I’ve had that with people who honestly believed they had psychic abilities. They were so convinced they were telling the truth that they just couldn’t believe there were other explanations. Parents were the worst. They got the idea their child was ‘special’ in some way, and parents don’t believe that, and couldn’t accept that there were rational reasons why the kids were getting the results they were. We had one little girl whose parents honestly believed she had X-ray vision, even when we filmed her moving her head as she read a book ‘blindfolded’. Once we had sealed off her normal vision, her ‘ability’ stopped dead. And don’t get me started on dowsers.
“Look, I’m a conjuror, not a scientist but I’ll say this. Luga’s given us something to work with. It may be true, it may not be, but it’s something we can test. We have a theory from her, we can test that theory against reality and come up with the disconnects. Then we can learn by explaining those disconnects. And the first disconnect is how everybody feels warm and fuzzy towards Lugasharmanaska when she is, quite literally, a demon from hell.”
Randi stopped and knocked on a door. There was a mumbled ‘Come-in’ from inside.
“Norman, how are you settling in? And how do your cats like the Pentagon?”
“They’re getting overfed already. And I didn’t know the Secretary of State likes cats.”
“That’s a well-kept Washington secret. Did all your stuff get here safely?”
“Sure did, I’m getting it set up now. Any chance of meeting Lugasharmanaska?”
“Not now, you can watch her but we’re trying to keep a limit on who sees her. She seems to have an uncanny effect on people around her.”
“I don’t see why; I’ve seen her pictures. She looks like something out of a nightmare. But then given the habits of the Succubi, I suppose she should look gross.”
“What do you mean Norman?”
“Succubi are supposed to mate with humans to collect male sperm. Then mate with their male equivalents, the Incubi, and transfer that sperm to them. Incubi then mate with human females and impregnate them with that sperm. I guess that’s about as close to a dictionary definition of yukkiness as we’re ever going to get.”
Randi turned to O’Shea who was standing at the door with his mouth hanging open. “Well, it is a different dimension from ours, Robert. But that might explain how the Nephilim Lugasharmanaska was talking about could arise. They’re not hybrid human demons, they’re corrupted humans somehow. Score one for the Succubus.”
“I’d rather not. The thought of waking up next to that thing is just about the most horrible thought I can imagine.” O’Shea paused for a second. “Except waking up next to my ex-wife, I guess. Thank Norman, those were mental pictures I could have done without. My next week’s sleep is likely to be permanently ruined.”
“I aim to please. Doctor Randi…”
“It’s James, Norman. And I’ve never been any sort of doctor. You want to be formal; you could call me The Amazing Randi if you like, but James will do just fine.” Randi gave Baines a gentle grandfatherly smile.
“James, where are we going from here?”
“Lugasharmanaska gave us some clues on how to open a portal to hell. I’m going to get my people together and we’re going to try it. If it works, score two for the Succubus, if it doesn’t, we’ll learn from finding out why. By the way, spread the word, that Doctor Surlethe is on his way to Baghdad. The Army is collecting corpses of baldricks for him, but the Air Force won’t fly them over here. Dead baldricks decompose fast and the smell is dreadful. Even though a body bag so the Air Force boys won’t have their nice clean transports fouled up by them. So, if dead baldricks won’t come to Surlethe, Surlethe will have to go to the dead baldricks.”
Randi left and went down to the corridor. Outside the conference room, which his team was using as a laboratory, four-armed Marines were on guard. That was new but when Randi went inside, he could see why. The room was stacked with packages wrapped in green plastic. Small packages, rectangular in shape, about two pounds each Randi guessed. He had a sudden premonition that had nothing whatsoever to do with pseudo-science that smoking in this room would be a very bad idea. There was other equipment around, boxes, odd shapes, and two vicious-looking rifles.
“Sir, General Schatten will be with us immediately Sir.” Randi nodded. In the background, he could hear music playing, Sheryl Crowe’s voice sounding incongruous amongst the electronics, weapons, and piles of high explosives.
These, in the days when Heaven is failing.
The days when earths foundations fled
They follow their military calling
And now they fight to save our dead
And now they fight to save our dead.
Their shoulders held the sky suspended
They stand and the earth’s foundations hold
Whom God abandoned these defended
And they saved the sum of things today.
And they saved the sum of things today.
“I hope you don’t mind Sir.” Kitten was stretched out on a couch, her boyfriend sitting beside her. “Some music helps me relax.
“No problem, Kitten. You know what’s going to happen here?” Kitten shook her head.
“This room is shielded against electromagnetic radiation so anything we pick up is you linking to hell.” The scientist spoke carefully. When he’d got his Ph.D. (a highly classified one as it happened, in electromagnetic propagation which was a euphemism for some of the more spectacular aspects of electronic warfare), he’d never envisaged working on anything like this. “We’re running those signals through a massive amplifier and blasting them out. According to our information, we push enough power into the transmission and the visions you can experience will be converted into a real portal that we can step through into hell itself. And step out to get back here.”
He was interrupted by the military members of the group snapping to attention. General Schatten had entered with an Army Major in tow. He returned the salutes and looked around the room with satisfaction. “I see the Czechs came through with the Semtex then. This is Major Warhol; he’ll be training the A-teams who’ll be organizing the insurgency in Hell. Major, this is the team trying to get through for your people.”
“Thank you general.” The expression on Warhol’s face was one of stunned disbelief. “If I may summarize my mission, I and my people are going to use an inter-dimensional rift created by a masochistic paranoid schizophrenic transsexual acting on information received from a turncoat succubus to invade Hell, start an insurgency to destabilize the whole set-up there, subverting the rule of Satan and eventually organizing an internal coup to overthrow him.”
“That’s it in a nutshell Major.” Schatten’s voice was amused by the horrified expression on the Major’s countenance.
“When I selected Special Forces at the ‘Point, they told me there would be days like this.”
“What did they recommend Major?”
“Cyanide Sir.’ A laugh ran around the room.
“People, we’re ready to get started.” The scientist was trying desperately to get back into control. “Once the portal is open, we don’t know how long we can keep it open, so we must move fast. General?”
“Yeah, when it opens, everybody starts throwing stuff through as fast as you can. Just throw it through and leave the people on the other side to catch and store it. One question Bob, why can’t we keep the portal open? The baldricks don’t seem to have any trouble.”
“Imagine it like this General, a very fast-flowing stream with a pair of old saloon doors, the kind that swings both ways in it. The baldricks upstream, us downstream. They can push the doors open easily enough but to close them they must pull the doors against the flow. To open them we must push against the flow but that same flow will be constantly trying to push them to shut again. Kitten, I think there’s going to be an incredible strain on you once the portal opens, even with electronic boost, you’re fighting forces we have no way of understanding. Don’t worry about how long you can hold on, just do the best you can. If you can give any warning when you’re going to lose it, please try but if you can’t, don’t worry. Remember, you’re a unique resource currently, you’re worth more than pretty much anything else we have.” Kitten nodded. “Right people let’s get going.”
Defense Perimeter Charlie, Hit, Western Iraq.
“Just how many of these bastards are there?” McElroy was distinctly aggrieved. Despite the fight they were putting up, he and the rest of his squad were being pushed steadily back by the sheer weight of numbers that were being thrown against them. They’d bled the attackers badly on Perimeter Alfa, the baldricks seemed to have no idea of fire and maneuver, they’d just walked straight into the machine-gun fire. Only the waves behind the first group had simply climbed over their dead and kept on coming.
“I heard over a million.” Private Gerry Links repeated the rumor with grim relish. “And it looks like most of them are here.”
“If you mean right in front of us, right now, I’d say you’re just about right. There’s more of them than we’ve got bullets.” And that, McElroy thought, was the pure, unvarnished truth. Oh, the .50s were cutting the baldricks down all right and the snipers were having a field day but there weren’t enough of them, and they were being swamped by the numbers coming through. More than just the numbers, the bastards were so damned difficult to kill. The truth was that the M16s just weren’t cutting it. McElroy had put a whole 30-round magazine into one baldrick and the damned thing had still torn Jim ‘Cookie’ Fields apart before it had gone down. Explosives were doing most of the work, grenades from the M19 automatic launchers and the M203s. That and the Claymores, human or baldrick, the spray of fragments from a Claymore shredded them nicely.
“Here they come.” There was a crescendo of firing from the block to their left, a mad minute as Baldwin’s squad poured fire into the baldrick assault teams before leaving via the back of their building. That would leave McElroy with an exposed flank, and he’d have to fall back as well soon. To his front, he saw black figures suddenly detach from the building in front and run out across the street. He took a careful bead on the leader and fired as fast as he could squeeze the trigger, watching shot after shot slam into the baldrick’s chest. It was staggering but still coming forward, McElroy felt he would have better luck if he spat at it. Off to his left, the squad machine gun snarled out a burst and the baldrick McElroy had wounded went down. There was a crash that shook the dust from the walls and wrecked the ceiling of the block, the last of the unit’s claymores had gone off.
The front of the building caved in, the baldricks were a lot stronger than humans and the flimsy construction of Iraqi walls wasn’t even close to being strong enough to hold them out. McElroy had lost some of his people when the walls the baldricks pushed down had trapped the men behind them, but they’d learned that lesson. Now they were in hastily prepared positions at the rear of the room, firing up and out at the baldricks as they loomed over the wrecked structure. Baldricks weren’t that much taller than humans, McElroy guessed that they averaged between seven and eight feet tall, but they seemed to be much bigger – especially when they were coming straight at you all teeth and claws.
He had a fresh magazine in his rifle, that was the good news. The bad news was that it was his last one, he’d run through his basic ammunition load in just a few minutes. He saw the green spurts as the bullets tore into the chest of the leading baldrick but, as McElroy had expected, the damned thing just kept coming. “Everybody out!”
He heard the rest of his unit scramble out the hole they’d knocked in the back wall of their block. McElroy paused just for a second, tossing a hand grenade at one of the baldricks. The black monster caught it and looked curiously at the small metal egg. The sheer incongruity of the sight caused McElroy to delay for a second and that killed him. The baldrick he’d just shot slashed at him with his claws, ripping through his body armor and tearing his chest open. McElroy screamed as the baldricks fell on him, tearing him apart and stuffing meat from his body into their mouths. Then the grenade went off and he, along with the baldrick who had been holding it, died.
Gerry Links heard the screams and explosion and knew that he was now in charge of what was left of the squad. The building they had been defending backed onto another with a narrow alley down the side. That led into the divided highway that ran through the center of Hit and, hopefully to the open ground on the other side. He turned and hosed out fire from his M16 then he and his men dropped flat as an automatic grenade launcher thumped out a burst from the building opposite.
“Down the alley fast, the grenadier will keep them back.” They were being pushed back, certainly, but they were bleeding the baldricks at every step. The time to fight it out, room to room would come later. And that, Links thought, would be a bloody day. Links fired another quick burst and saw a baldrick flinch. The M16s might not be killing them but they could hurt. Off to his left, he heard screams, human screams, was it the grenadier who’d held on to give his squad cover? Links didn’t know and didn’t have time to think about it. He and his men emerged from the semi-shadow of the alley and saw the most welcome sight of their lives. A Bradley was sitting on the road, its turret trained on the alley they had just come from. They could guess what was coming and scattered to either side. There was a rasping burst from the chain gun and this time the screams were baldrick. M16s may be ineffective but 25mm APHE was not.
“In the back fast.” The Bradley commander snapped the order out. Links and his men piled into the back and the ramp closed behind them. They were safe at last, behind the armor.
“Where are we going?”
“Defense Perimeter Delta. On the other side of the clearing. We’re holding there. No more falling back.”
“Just how the hell are we supposed to do that? These 16’s aren’t worth shit against a baldrick.”
“You’ll get sacks of grenades and AT-4s issued when we get back to your position. And M72s. Once we’re in Delta, we’ll do it Stalingrad style. Room to room.
Headquarters, Randi Institute of Pneumatology, The Pentagon, Arlington, VA
“Do you believe her?”
“If I’m in the same room as her, probably.”
Randi chuckled. There had been some discrete experiments going on. Put a subject in the same room as Lugasharmanaska, measure their initial reaction to the succubus, and then watch as that changed. Their prejudice started to soften within five minutes and by 30 minutes at most, they were friendly. “What do you think? Mind control?”
“Can’t be. We know roughly why their mind control works; they can entangle pathways in our brains using a bio-generated electrical field as a carrier wave. Your work with Julie and Kitten shows we can do the same only we can’t generate the bio-electric field as a carrier. We also know that electrically conductive headgear blocks out the signal. Humiliating that isn’t it. For years people who were being persecuted by demons tried to warn us and tell us how to block the signals and we laughed at them. Ridiculed them, then locked them up and doped them to the eyeballs. The tinfoil beanie became a symbol of cranks and nut-cases – and all along they were right. Anyway, we’ve all been scrupulous about wearing our tinfoil beanies, yet Lugasharmanaska gets the same reactions every time. Must be something else. We’ll keep trying until we get there.”
“Nicely switched away from the subject Robert. Now, do you believe her?”
Robert O’Shea thought for a second. “No. That stuff about breeding with humans can’t be true. We’re different species and different species can’t breed together, that’s a basic definition. The question is why is she lying? And if she is, why don’t we just hand her over to Doctor Surlethe and let him get some real information from her.”
“She might not be lying Robert. Just because she isn’t telling us the truth doesn’t mean that she’s lying. She may honestly believe that what she is telling us is true. It may be true, it’s just that we don’t understand what she is saying.” Randi paused. “I’ve had that with people who honestly believed they had psychic abilities. They were so convinced they were telling the truth that they just couldn’t believe there were other explanations. Parents were the worst. They got the idea their child was ‘special’ in some way, and parents don’t believe that, and couldn’t accept that there were rational reasons why the kids were getting the results they were. We had one little girl whose parents honestly believed she had X-ray vision, even when we filmed her moving her head as she read a book ‘blindfolded’. Once we had sealed off her normal vision, her ‘ability’ stopped dead. And don’t get me started on dowsers.
“Look, I’m a conjuror, not a scientist but I’ll say this. Luga’s given us something to work with. It may be true, it may not be, but it’s something we can test. We have a theory from her, we can test that theory against reality and come up with the disconnects. Then we can learn by explaining those disconnects. And the first disconnect is how everybody feels warm and fuzzy towards Lugasharmanaska when she is, quite literally, a demon from hell.”
Randi stopped and knocked on a door. There was a mumbled ‘Come-in’ from inside.
“Norman, how are you settling in? And how do your cats like the Pentagon?”
“They’re getting overfed already. And I didn’t know the Secretary of State likes cats.”
“That’s a well-kept Washington secret. Did all your stuff get here safely?”
“Sure did, I’m getting it set up now. Any chance of meeting Lugasharmanaska?”
“Not now, you can watch her but we’re trying to keep a limit on who sees her. She seems to have an uncanny effect on people around her.”
“I don’t see why; I’ve seen her pictures. She looks like something out of a nightmare. But then given the habits of the Succubi, I suppose she should look gross.”
“What do you mean Norman?”
“Succubi are supposed to mate with humans to collect male sperm. Then mate with their male equivalents, the Incubi, and transfer that sperm to them. Incubi then mate with human females and impregnate them with that sperm. I guess that’s about as close to a dictionary definition of yukkiness as we’re ever going to get.”
Randi turned to O’Shea who was standing at the door with his mouth hanging open. “Well, it is a different dimension from ours, Robert. But that might explain how the Nephilim Lugasharmanaska was talking about could arise. They’re not hybrid human demons, they’re corrupted humans somehow. Score one for the Succubus.”
“I’d rather not. The thought of waking up next to that thing is just about the most horrible thought I can imagine.” O’Shea paused for a second. “Except waking up next to my ex-wife, I guess. Thank Norman, those were mental pictures I could have done without. My next week’s sleep is likely to be permanently ruined.”
“I aim to please. Doctor Randi…”
“It’s James, Norman. And I’ve never been any sort of doctor. You want to be formal; you could call me The Amazing Randi if you like, but James will do just fine.” Randi gave Baines a gentle grandfatherly smile.
“James, where are we going from here?”
“Lugasharmanaska gave us some clues on how to open a portal to hell. I’m going to get my people together and we’re going to try it. If it works, score two for the Succubus, if it doesn’t, we’ll learn from finding out why. By the way, spread the word, that Doctor Surlethe is on his way to Baghdad. The Army is collecting corpses of baldricks for him, but the Air Force won’t fly them over here. Dead baldricks decompose fast and the smell is dreadful. Even though a body bag so the Air Force boys won’t have their nice clean transports fouled up by them. So, if dead baldricks won’t come to Surlethe, Surlethe will have to go to the dead baldricks.”
Randi left and went down to the corridor. Outside the conference room, which his team was using as a laboratory, four-armed Marines were on guard. That was new but when Randi went inside, he could see why. The room was stacked with packages wrapped in green plastic. Small packages, rectangular in shape, about two pounds each Randi guessed. He had a sudden premonition that had nothing whatsoever to do with pseudo-science that smoking in this room would be a very bad idea. There was other equipment around, boxes, odd shapes, and two vicious-looking rifles.
“Sir, General Schatten will be with us immediately Sir.” Randi nodded. In the background, he could hear music playing, Sheryl Crowe’s voice sounding incongruous amongst the electronics, weapons, and piles of high explosives.
These, in the days when Heaven is failing.
The days when earths foundations fled
They follow their military calling
And now they fight to save our dead
And now they fight to save our dead.
Their shoulders held the sky suspended
They stand and the earth’s foundations hold
Whom God abandoned these defended
And they saved the sum of things today.
And they saved the sum of things today.
“I hope you don’t mind Sir.” Kitten was stretched out on a couch, her boyfriend sitting beside her. “Some music helps me relax.
“No problem, Kitten. You know what’s going to happen here?” Kitten shook her head.
“This room is shielded against electromagnetic radiation so anything we pick up is you linking to hell.” The scientist spoke carefully. When he’d got his Ph.D. (a highly classified one as it happened, in electromagnetic propagation which was a euphemism for some of the more spectacular aspects of electronic warfare), he’d never envisaged working on anything like this. “We’re running those signals through a massive amplifier and blasting them out. According to our information, we push enough power into the transmission and the visions you can experience will be converted into a real portal that we can step through into hell itself. And step out to get back here.”
He was interrupted by the military members of the group snapping to attention. General Schatten had entered with an Army Major in tow. He returned the salutes and looked around the room with satisfaction. “I see the Czechs came through with the Semtex then. This is Major Warhol; he’ll be training the A-teams who’ll be organizing the insurgency in Hell. Major, this is the team trying to get through for your people.”
“Thank you general.” The expression on Warhol’s face was one of stunned disbelief. “If I may summarize my mission, I and my people are going to use an inter-dimensional rift created by a masochistic paranoid schizophrenic transsexual acting on information received from a turncoat succubus to invade Hell, start an insurgency to destabilize the whole set-up there, subverting the rule of Satan and eventually organizing an internal coup to overthrow him.”
“That’s it in a nutshell Major.” Schatten’s voice was amused by the horrified expression on the Major’s countenance.
“When I selected Special Forces at the ‘Point, they told me there would be days like this.”
“What did they recommend Major?”
“Cyanide Sir.’ A laugh ran around the room.
“People, we’re ready to get started.” The scientist was trying desperately to get back into control. “Once the portal is open, we don’t know how long we can keep it open, so we must move fast. General?”
“Yeah, when it opens, everybody starts throwing stuff through as fast as you can. Just throw it through and leave the people on the other side to catch and store it. One question Bob, why can’t we keep the portal open? The baldricks don’t seem to have any trouble.”
“Imagine it like this General, a very fast-flowing stream with a pair of old saloon doors, the kind that swings both ways in it. The baldricks upstream, us downstream. They can push the doors open easily enough but to close them they must pull the doors against the flow. To open them we must push against the flow but that same flow will be constantly trying to push them to shut again. Kitten, I think there’s going to be an incredible strain on you once the portal opens, even with electronic boost, you’re fighting forces we have no way of understanding. Don’t worry about how long you can hold on, just do the best you can. If you can give any warning when you’re going to lose it, please try but if you can’t, don’t worry. Remember, you’re a unique resource currently, you’re worth more than pretty much anything else we have.” Kitten nodded. “Right people let’s get going.”
Re: 2008 - Armageddon
Chapter Twenty
On the Shore of the Styx, Fifth Ring, Hell
The six members of Recon Team Tango-one-five crouched behind a large rock outcropping beside high walls that separated the Sixth Ring from the Fifth. On the other side of the rocks was the gate, no less than fifty feet high, and probably much higher. It was open, and a steady stream of Baldricks was pouring out of the Sixth Ring and setting off across the Fifth to where a distant set of gates offered access to the Fourth Ring. Kim looked over to McInery and hissed, “What’s your count, Mac?”
“I’m at five thousand two hundred twenty, ell-tee. Twenty-nine. Thirtyeight. …”
“Aye. Forty-seven now. How many command units?”
Gerald “Bubbles” Tarrant chimed in. “That’s a little more than seven battalion-sized units, and we’ve seen eight big guys on huge-ass rhinolobsters. I think they’re battalion commanders, ell-tee”
Kim nodded. That made sense. And they were still pouring out from the city in ranks of nine abreast, with no end in sight. It was like being caught at a crossing by a two-hundred car train … her gaze softened as she started to think about the wide skies and waving grain of her Midwestern ho— She slapped herself softly. No thoughts of home now; she was in hell, and she had a job to do. Fifty-seven sixty, fifty-seven sixty-nine – “Mac? How many?”
“Five thousand seven hundred seventy-eight and counting, ell tee.”
“Bubbles?”
“Here comes the ninth big rhinolobster; that’ll be nine battalions of 81 nine-baldrick platoons.”
They kept counting for another couple of minutes, and then there were no more baldricks. As the tramping feet died off into the mists of the Styx, Kim looked over at McInery. “You have 6,666 baldricks, including the command groups?”
“Aye, ell-tee. Right in line with what Bubbles has got.”
“Damn. That’s a whole brigade.”
There was silence for a minute, then Bubbles asked, “So, ell-tee, what are we doing now?”
“Now, we move away from the city, stay in the region, and find a relatively safe place to get some rest and wait for more contact.”
“Aye, sir.” They darted one by one from boulder to boulder, heading away from the city across the coffin-dotted plain. Around them, the groans, and cries of the damned rose into a haunting chorus as the unquenchable flames – What powers them? wondered Kim idly for a moment before pulling herself back to the present – balanced by the supernatural healing powers of their new bodies.
Nearly an hour later, they were again at the shore of the Styx. The soft mud oozing gently through their toes belied the roar of the waterfall ahead, and the thick pea-soup fog was getting heavier as it mingled with the mist thrown up by the falling water. There was a horrible stench in the air, and the mist tasted of sulfur.
Kim led Tango-one-five toward the cliff. The mud thinned at last and gave way to rock; the land rose into a jagged, twisted badland around the river basin as the river gained speed heading toward the gorge. They clambered over the slick rocks and around monolithic boulders until Kim stopped.
They were standing on a low peak with a commanding view of the surrounding terrain, at least as far as the mist let them see. Ahead of them, the broken terrain dived down into dimness; to the right, the Styx plunged down the gorge; to the left, the cliff edge stretched off into the mist, with a subtle curve that just evaded the eye; and behind them, the badlands stretched for what must have been several miles. They were surrounded by a ring of low, jagged boulders.
Kim nodded. “Here is where we make the base of operations. We’re staying here until command contacts –” Her eyes defocused, and she relaxed visibly.
McInery was next to her and grabbed her muddy shoulder. “Ell-tee? Ell-tee??”
She tensed up again with a start. “That was the brass in Washington. They’re going to try to get us some equipment.”
Lieutenant Kim? It was Kitten again.
Kim tried her best not to fade out and lose contact. Yes? “Mac, I’m still talking to them. Hold on a second.”
General Schatten is wondering if where you are is a safe place right now?
Yes, we’re safe enough.
Okay, good. We’re going to try an experiment here. If it works, I’ll see you in a moment. Or something will be happening.” Kim felt a giggle in Kitten’s voice. Nobody is quite sure what.
Randi Institute of Pneumatology, the Pentagon, Arlington, VA
“I’m through Sirs,” Kitten spoke with an unaccustomed level of authority in her voice. “Lieutenant Kim says they are in a safe place right now.”
The attending scientist nodded. “Are you ready?”
Taking a deep breath and closing her eyes tightly, Kitten nodded.
“We have Kitten’s signal recorded and digitalized?” The question was a rhetorical one only. Nevertheless, one of the electronic techs checked the files in the signal analysis computer.
“Confirmed, we have it. Like nothing we’ve ever seen before, but we do have it.”
From his pocket, the scientist pulled what looked like a TV remote and hit a couple of buttons. Across the room, the digitalized version of Kitten’s bio-electrical signal was being fed into an amplifying system that had been modified from a deception jammer. The result as the technologists started to increase the output power was immediate. Kitten began to shake visibly, rattling the chair she was lounged on. The tendons in her neck were standing out in strain. Her boyfriend held her tightly and was about to say something when everyone in the room jumped. A black ellipse was starting to form in the room. It was hard to say where it was, it seemed to be at once parallel with the floor and perpendicular to it. It was also hard to say what it was, it seemed black and almost infinitely absorptive, yet it also glared and irritated the eyes. A shining shadow didn’t make sense, yet that was what they had created.
“What is that?”
“Must be a projection of something our senses can’t cope with so they’re doing the best they can.”
“Hurry up can you?” Kitten’s boyfriend almost snarled out the words. “Can’t you see how much you’re hurting her?”
Still not quite believing his eyes, Randi picked up the paper airplane he’d brought and threw it; it traveled through the portal and vanished. A split second later it came back out, stained and smelling of sulfur.
General Schatten didn’t hesitate. He grabbed a Barrett M107 rifle from the pile of military shiny toys, and a bag of electronic equipment, then tossed it. “Warhol, grab some more and follow me” over his shoulder before stepping into the shadowy circle and vanishing.
On the Shore of the Styx, Fifth Ring, Hell
Kim suddenly felt awake again, but the daydream wasn’t gone. In fact, it seemed to be superimposed on her vision. She passed a dirty hand over her eyes and squinted, trying to get it to go away; her mind was playing tricks on her, and she got the sense that something was forcing its way through to her. Then, a black ellipse started to form, one that defied easy description. “Hold on, guys. I think I’m still hallucinating.”
“You too?” asked Bubbles, who was blinking rapidly.
Kim spun around and looked at her surroundings. All normal, and she was feeling fine. Then she turned back again, and there was the tunnel. “You guys see it too?”
“Yes,” said the others at once. As they did so, a paper dart flew through the ellipse and hit Kim on the forehead before fluttering to the ground. Perplexed, she stooped and picked it up: a paper airplane? Then the anvil dropped, and she threw it back through the ellipse. After a few seconds, a man stepped through, with a M107 Barrett over one shoulder, and large bag in one hand. Kim and her companions snapped to attention.
“Lieutenant, you’re out of uniform.” General Schatten looked around, a foul, stinking swamp covered with a yellowish mist that stunk of sulfur and fouler things. He was standing on a rocky outcrop amid an atmosphere of desolation and misery that told him, more clearly than anything else could, that he was truly in hell.
“Sorry Sir, that joke was old the first time I heard it. Anyway, this is the uniform of the day around here. Skin and mud.”
“You need uniforms? We’ve got a lot to get through to you and we’re not sure how long we can hold the portal open at any one time.” Another figure emerged. “This is Major Warhol, Special Forces. He’ll be liaising with you and providing technical and operational assistance.”
“Welcome to Hell Sirs. First thing, intelligence, we’ve counted five brigade-sized units moving out of the lower reaches of hell, heading upwards. There are a lot more baldricks coming your way Sir. How are things going out there?”
“Dave Petraeus is doing a number on the invasion force. He’s literally shredding them with artillery and armor. The baldricks are losing in six-digit numbers.” Schatten paused for a brief second. “Their command structure is shot to hell, you and your teammates did a damned fine job.”
Randi Institute of Pneumatology, the Pentagon, Arlington, VA
Major Warhol was already on the other side of the portal, and the military personnel was forming a line and starting to hand off crates of ammunition and explosives, piling them through the portal as fast as discipline and urgency could make possible.
“All hands to the pumps. Get this stuff through quickly. Maximum urgency.” Randi looked at where Kitten was shivering on her couch, obviously in great distress. “Everybody, this isn’t just military business. Throw stuff though if you can’t hand it.” He paused for a second. “Is it safe to throw Semtex?”
“Sure is. Thanks for the help.” The stream of equipment being passed through picked up speed.
On the Shore of the Styx, Fifth Ring, Hell
“All of you, stand to, and help us unload these supplies,” Schatten snapped, then turned and passed his rifle to Kim. “It’s an M107, hot from the production line. We got you Semtex instead of C-4, it’s 30 percent more powerful. She, in turn, handed the rifle to McInery, who leaned it against a boulder. The stack of equipment grew until they had received six webbings to carry things in, two slightly modified 0.50 caliber assault rifles, 30 crates of ammunition, 180 kilograms of Semtex with all the requisite electronic fusing, two dozen M24 claymore mines, the same number of AT-4 anti-tank rockets, six pairs of night-vision goggles, and twelve outfits of dark combat fatigues.
Behind them, the portal started to shimmer, Schatten guessed that Kitten was finally losing her grip. “Anything else you need Lieutenant?”
“Yes Sir. We need to change our allocations, so our dependents get all our salary. We don’t need money here.”
“But you’re dead.”
“With respect, Sir, the contract with the Army says nothing about ‘til death us do part’ and obviously it hasn’t. Sir, this is hell, we are not short of lawyers down here.” Kim grinned broadly, perfectly aware of the size of the demolition charge she’d just thrown into the Army bureaucracy.
Schatten returned her grin. “Lieutenant, you’ve enabled me to fulfill a life’s ambition. When I hand your – perfectly reasonable – instructions over to the proper authority, I can finally make those REMFs at Pay Corps suffer as much as the troops on the front line. Good luck Lieutenant and kick some ass down here.” Then he and Warhol stepped back through the portal and were gone.
Kim surveyed the equipment and smiled. “Okay, guys. We don’t have to eat. We don’t have to sleep. We heal ten times faster than ordinary humans. We’re the United States military.” Her smile widened into a full-toothed grin. “Let’s go blow up some baldricks.”
Randi Institute of Pneumatology, the Pentagon, Arlington, VA
“I’m losing it!” Kitten’s wail cut across the room. The elliptical portal started to shiver as General Schatten, and Major Warhol stepped out. A second or so later, it collapsed completely. “I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t be my dear.” Schatten’s voice was comforting and quiet. “Look, we got all the stuff they needed through to them, they passed some intelligence that was very important back to us and, above all, we’ve made solid contact. You did better than we had any right to expect, so you go and have a rest. You deserve a medal for what you did today.”
“Sir, you should have let me go through first.” Warhol’s comment came as Kitten and her boyfriend left the room.
“Major, sometimes a commander must lead the way. Try it with noodles one day. Try to push a cooked noodle across a plate, then try and pull it across. See which one is easier. We’re going to be literally asking men to go into hell itself. Now, when we do ask, they’ll know that we went first.” Schatten brushed at his uniform, it was covered with foul-smelling mud and a disgusting greenish slime. “I’m going to wash and change. his smells as bad as it looks.”
“It does.” Said Randi reassuringly.
“Then that’s an early order of priority. I guess the Lab boys will want to analyze this stuff as well.”
“I brought some samples, Sir.” Warhol held up what looked suspiciously like a jam jar filled with the mud from hell.
“Well done. And that applies to everybody here. We’re in a position to strike back at last.”
Defense Perimeter Delta, Hit, Western Iraq.
“What the blazes is that?”
The first layer of buildings was acting like a sieve, forcing the Baldricks to break up into small groups as they forced their way through the alleys and narrow streets before breaking out into the open ground that marked the gap between the now-fallen Perimeter Charlie and the disputed Perimeter Delta. That open ground, traversed by a divided-lane highway, was the new killing ground and the carpet of black bodies was growing as the 10th Mountain Division’s armored cavalry units swept it with fire. The problem was the steadily growing number of bodies in Army camouflage that were joining the baldrick dead. Now, there was something different happening, a white pick-up truck was tearing down the roadway, swerving around the bodies that littered it and heading straight for a large group of baldricks that had just emerged from the buildings.
The Operation Iraqi Freedom veterans of 10th Mountain guessed what was about to happen, they’d seen exactly the same tactic tried out on the Bradleys and Abrams tanks as they’d done their thunder runs through Baghdad. It had failed then but the baldricks didn’t have heavy armor supporting them. The suicide bombers then had died screaming “God is Great” but it was unlikely that they made the same call now. “Death to God” was more likely. It made little difference, the truck plowed into the group of baldricks and exploded, scattering fragments of steel and baldrick for dozens of yards around. Even here, in Delta, the blast was stunning.
“Come on, follow me.” Links screamed out, the last baldrick push had sized a building that was a Delta strongpoint, and it was up to him to retake it. While everybody was stunned by the suicide bomber’s blast was as good a time as any. He was pressed up against the wall one side of the door, he swung past and kicked it open. In a well-timed drill, two of his men threw a pair of hand grenades each inside, then the other pair raked it with fire from their M16s. Links rolled through the door, two of the baldricks inside were dead or dying on the floor, two more were still standing although obviously torn up by grenade fragments and bullets. Links pushed up to his feet and slammed into the nearest baldrick, knocking the wounded monster off its feet. He and three of his men piled on top of it, pinning its arms down, slamming their K-bars into its eyes. The baldrick screamed and threshed, one of its clawed feet catching an infantryman in the stomach and disemboweling him.
Across the room, the remaining baldrick turned and ran, out of the door and into the open ground beyond. He made a few yards before smoke trains erupted around him and he vanished into the concussion of RPG-7 warheads exploding. The irregulars in Hit had joined in the fight and the RPG-7s they carried in place of rifles were lethal. Links looked up, the terrific noise of the firefight was joined by something else, a rhythmic throbbing that shook the dust from the ceiling and caused the shelves on the wall to bounce. Over his head, the sky suddenly turned black and red as a hail of unguided rockets passed overhead to slam into the buildings opposite.
“It’s the Apaches!” Links’ voice was triumphant as the four helicopters swept low overhead, their 30mm chain guns hammering at the baldricks caught in the open. All along the line, the AH-64Ds of the aviation unit was sweeping the killing zone with gunfire and rockets while overhead, F-16s prowled, ready to take down any harpies that appeared.
Headquarters, Army of Abigor, Hit, Western Iraq.
Abigor watched the human sky chariots pouring fire into his troops. Some of them were simply saturating the area with fire lances, others were using a magic fire lance that would turn in the air to follow its prey. Seeker lances he thought, what else could they be?
“Sire, our demons are falling back.”
“What?” Abigor contained his urge to destroy the messenger. He had learned how futile that could be.
“They have lost eight in ten of their number Sire and the humans will not retreat from us. They cannot hold and now the sky chariots have arrived, the iron chariots will not be far behind. It is over.” The messenger bowed his head and waited for death.
Abigor looked across the roofs of Hit where the sky chariots were attacking the remnants of the legions deployed here. He had had such hopes of this outflanking move but in his heart, he guessed the humans had been ahead of him all the time.
“Yes, it is over. Spread the word, order the legions to fall back and regroup.”
Regroup with what? the messenger was tempted to ask but he held his tongue. Surviving this message was good fortune enough for one day, no need to tempt fate.
Headquarters, Multi-National Force Iraq, Green Zone, Baghdad.
The baldrick attack was collapsing, General Petraeus could see the truth now, unfolding on the giant screen before him. He had a raw video up. It showed the black line that had pressed up against his defenses melting away, beginning to stream to the rear as it collapsed. Up at Hit, the issue had been close for some hours, and the brigade holding the city had been battered but they had held and now the enemy was in retreat there as well. Petraeus switched over from raw to synthetic video, the pictures of the battle replaced by blue and red military symbols moving slowly as the baldricks retreated and the human formations started their advance.
Not that there was anywhere for the baldricks to retreat to. The armored spearheads had already linked up behind their lines and blocked the retreat to the Hellmouth. The back door had slammed shut, there was nowhere for the baldricks to run to.
On the Shore of the Styx, Fifth Ring, Hell
The six members of Recon Team Tango-one-five crouched behind a large rock outcropping beside high walls that separated the Sixth Ring from the Fifth. On the other side of the rocks was the gate, no less than fifty feet high, and probably much higher. It was open, and a steady stream of Baldricks was pouring out of the Sixth Ring and setting off across the Fifth to where a distant set of gates offered access to the Fourth Ring. Kim looked over to McInery and hissed, “What’s your count, Mac?”
“I’m at five thousand two hundred twenty, ell-tee. Twenty-nine. Thirtyeight. …”
“Aye. Forty-seven now. How many command units?”
Gerald “Bubbles” Tarrant chimed in. “That’s a little more than seven battalion-sized units, and we’ve seen eight big guys on huge-ass rhinolobsters. I think they’re battalion commanders, ell-tee”
Kim nodded. That made sense. And they were still pouring out from the city in ranks of nine abreast, with no end in sight. It was like being caught at a crossing by a two-hundred car train … her gaze softened as she started to think about the wide skies and waving grain of her Midwestern ho— She slapped herself softly. No thoughts of home now; she was in hell, and she had a job to do. Fifty-seven sixty, fifty-seven sixty-nine – “Mac? How many?”
“Five thousand seven hundred seventy-eight and counting, ell tee.”
“Bubbles?”
“Here comes the ninth big rhinolobster; that’ll be nine battalions of 81 nine-baldrick platoons.”
They kept counting for another couple of minutes, and then there were no more baldricks. As the tramping feet died off into the mists of the Styx, Kim looked over at McInery. “You have 6,666 baldricks, including the command groups?”
“Aye, ell-tee. Right in line with what Bubbles has got.”
“Damn. That’s a whole brigade.”
There was silence for a minute, then Bubbles asked, “So, ell-tee, what are we doing now?”
“Now, we move away from the city, stay in the region, and find a relatively safe place to get some rest and wait for more contact.”
“Aye, sir.” They darted one by one from boulder to boulder, heading away from the city across the coffin-dotted plain. Around them, the groans, and cries of the damned rose into a haunting chorus as the unquenchable flames – What powers them? wondered Kim idly for a moment before pulling herself back to the present – balanced by the supernatural healing powers of their new bodies.
Nearly an hour later, they were again at the shore of the Styx. The soft mud oozing gently through their toes belied the roar of the waterfall ahead, and the thick pea-soup fog was getting heavier as it mingled with the mist thrown up by the falling water. There was a horrible stench in the air, and the mist tasted of sulfur.
Kim led Tango-one-five toward the cliff. The mud thinned at last and gave way to rock; the land rose into a jagged, twisted badland around the river basin as the river gained speed heading toward the gorge. They clambered over the slick rocks and around monolithic boulders until Kim stopped.
They were standing on a low peak with a commanding view of the surrounding terrain, at least as far as the mist let them see. Ahead of them, the broken terrain dived down into dimness; to the right, the Styx plunged down the gorge; to the left, the cliff edge stretched off into the mist, with a subtle curve that just evaded the eye; and behind them, the badlands stretched for what must have been several miles. They were surrounded by a ring of low, jagged boulders.
Kim nodded. “Here is where we make the base of operations. We’re staying here until command contacts –” Her eyes defocused, and she relaxed visibly.
McInery was next to her and grabbed her muddy shoulder. “Ell-tee? Ell-tee??”
She tensed up again with a start. “That was the brass in Washington. They’re going to try to get us some equipment.”
Lieutenant Kim? It was Kitten again.
Kim tried her best not to fade out and lose contact. Yes? “Mac, I’m still talking to them. Hold on a second.”
General Schatten is wondering if where you are is a safe place right now?
Yes, we’re safe enough.
Okay, good. We’re going to try an experiment here. If it works, I’ll see you in a moment. Or something will be happening.” Kim felt a giggle in Kitten’s voice. Nobody is quite sure what.
Randi Institute of Pneumatology, the Pentagon, Arlington, VA
“I’m through Sirs,” Kitten spoke with an unaccustomed level of authority in her voice. “Lieutenant Kim says they are in a safe place right now.”
The attending scientist nodded. “Are you ready?”
Taking a deep breath and closing her eyes tightly, Kitten nodded.
“We have Kitten’s signal recorded and digitalized?” The question was a rhetorical one only. Nevertheless, one of the electronic techs checked the files in the signal analysis computer.
“Confirmed, we have it. Like nothing we’ve ever seen before, but we do have it.”
From his pocket, the scientist pulled what looked like a TV remote and hit a couple of buttons. Across the room, the digitalized version of Kitten’s bio-electrical signal was being fed into an amplifying system that had been modified from a deception jammer. The result as the technologists started to increase the output power was immediate. Kitten began to shake visibly, rattling the chair she was lounged on. The tendons in her neck were standing out in strain. Her boyfriend held her tightly and was about to say something when everyone in the room jumped. A black ellipse was starting to form in the room. It was hard to say where it was, it seemed to be at once parallel with the floor and perpendicular to it. It was also hard to say what it was, it seemed black and almost infinitely absorptive, yet it also glared and irritated the eyes. A shining shadow didn’t make sense, yet that was what they had created.
“What is that?”
“Must be a projection of something our senses can’t cope with so they’re doing the best they can.”
“Hurry up can you?” Kitten’s boyfriend almost snarled out the words. “Can’t you see how much you’re hurting her?”
Still not quite believing his eyes, Randi picked up the paper airplane he’d brought and threw it; it traveled through the portal and vanished. A split second later it came back out, stained and smelling of sulfur.
General Schatten didn’t hesitate. He grabbed a Barrett M107 rifle from the pile of military shiny toys, and a bag of electronic equipment, then tossed it. “Warhol, grab some more and follow me” over his shoulder before stepping into the shadowy circle and vanishing.
On the Shore of the Styx, Fifth Ring, Hell
Kim suddenly felt awake again, but the daydream wasn’t gone. In fact, it seemed to be superimposed on her vision. She passed a dirty hand over her eyes and squinted, trying to get it to go away; her mind was playing tricks on her, and she got the sense that something was forcing its way through to her. Then, a black ellipse started to form, one that defied easy description. “Hold on, guys. I think I’m still hallucinating.”
“You too?” asked Bubbles, who was blinking rapidly.
Kim spun around and looked at her surroundings. All normal, and she was feeling fine. Then she turned back again, and there was the tunnel. “You guys see it too?”
“Yes,” said the others at once. As they did so, a paper dart flew through the ellipse and hit Kim on the forehead before fluttering to the ground. Perplexed, she stooped and picked it up: a paper airplane? Then the anvil dropped, and she threw it back through the ellipse. After a few seconds, a man stepped through, with a M107 Barrett over one shoulder, and large bag in one hand. Kim and her companions snapped to attention.
“Lieutenant, you’re out of uniform.” General Schatten looked around, a foul, stinking swamp covered with a yellowish mist that stunk of sulfur and fouler things. He was standing on a rocky outcrop amid an atmosphere of desolation and misery that told him, more clearly than anything else could, that he was truly in hell.
“Sorry Sir, that joke was old the first time I heard it. Anyway, this is the uniform of the day around here. Skin and mud.”
“You need uniforms? We’ve got a lot to get through to you and we’re not sure how long we can hold the portal open at any one time.” Another figure emerged. “This is Major Warhol, Special Forces. He’ll be liaising with you and providing technical and operational assistance.”
“Welcome to Hell Sirs. First thing, intelligence, we’ve counted five brigade-sized units moving out of the lower reaches of hell, heading upwards. There are a lot more baldricks coming your way Sir. How are things going out there?”
“Dave Petraeus is doing a number on the invasion force. He’s literally shredding them with artillery and armor. The baldricks are losing in six-digit numbers.” Schatten paused for a brief second. “Their command structure is shot to hell, you and your teammates did a damned fine job.”
Randi Institute of Pneumatology, the Pentagon, Arlington, VA
Major Warhol was already on the other side of the portal, and the military personnel was forming a line and starting to hand off crates of ammunition and explosives, piling them through the portal as fast as discipline and urgency could make possible.
“All hands to the pumps. Get this stuff through quickly. Maximum urgency.” Randi looked at where Kitten was shivering on her couch, obviously in great distress. “Everybody, this isn’t just military business. Throw stuff though if you can’t hand it.” He paused for a second. “Is it safe to throw Semtex?”
“Sure is. Thanks for the help.” The stream of equipment being passed through picked up speed.
On the Shore of the Styx, Fifth Ring, Hell
“All of you, stand to, and help us unload these supplies,” Schatten snapped, then turned and passed his rifle to Kim. “It’s an M107, hot from the production line. We got you Semtex instead of C-4, it’s 30 percent more powerful. She, in turn, handed the rifle to McInery, who leaned it against a boulder. The stack of equipment grew until they had received six webbings to carry things in, two slightly modified 0.50 caliber assault rifles, 30 crates of ammunition, 180 kilograms of Semtex with all the requisite electronic fusing, two dozen M24 claymore mines, the same number of AT-4 anti-tank rockets, six pairs of night-vision goggles, and twelve outfits of dark combat fatigues.
Behind them, the portal started to shimmer, Schatten guessed that Kitten was finally losing her grip. “Anything else you need Lieutenant?”
“Yes Sir. We need to change our allocations, so our dependents get all our salary. We don’t need money here.”
“But you’re dead.”
“With respect, Sir, the contract with the Army says nothing about ‘til death us do part’ and obviously it hasn’t. Sir, this is hell, we are not short of lawyers down here.” Kim grinned broadly, perfectly aware of the size of the demolition charge she’d just thrown into the Army bureaucracy.
Schatten returned her grin. “Lieutenant, you’ve enabled me to fulfill a life’s ambition. When I hand your – perfectly reasonable – instructions over to the proper authority, I can finally make those REMFs at Pay Corps suffer as much as the troops on the front line. Good luck Lieutenant and kick some ass down here.” Then he and Warhol stepped back through the portal and were gone.
Kim surveyed the equipment and smiled. “Okay, guys. We don’t have to eat. We don’t have to sleep. We heal ten times faster than ordinary humans. We’re the United States military.” Her smile widened into a full-toothed grin. “Let’s go blow up some baldricks.”
Randi Institute of Pneumatology, the Pentagon, Arlington, VA
“I’m losing it!” Kitten’s wail cut across the room. The elliptical portal started to shiver as General Schatten, and Major Warhol stepped out. A second or so later, it collapsed completely. “I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t be my dear.” Schatten’s voice was comforting and quiet. “Look, we got all the stuff they needed through to them, they passed some intelligence that was very important back to us and, above all, we’ve made solid contact. You did better than we had any right to expect, so you go and have a rest. You deserve a medal for what you did today.”
“Sir, you should have let me go through first.” Warhol’s comment came as Kitten and her boyfriend left the room.
“Major, sometimes a commander must lead the way. Try it with noodles one day. Try to push a cooked noodle across a plate, then try and pull it across. See which one is easier. We’re going to be literally asking men to go into hell itself. Now, when we do ask, they’ll know that we went first.” Schatten brushed at his uniform, it was covered with foul-smelling mud and a disgusting greenish slime. “I’m going to wash and change. his smells as bad as it looks.”
“It does.” Said Randi reassuringly.
“Then that’s an early order of priority. I guess the Lab boys will want to analyze this stuff as well.”
“I brought some samples, Sir.” Warhol held up what looked suspiciously like a jam jar filled with the mud from hell.
“Well done. And that applies to everybody here. We’re in a position to strike back at last.”
Defense Perimeter Delta, Hit, Western Iraq.
“What the blazes is that?”
The first layer of buildings was acting like a sieve, forcing the Baldricks to break up into small groups as they forced their way through the alleys and narrow streets before breaking out into the open ground that marked the gap between the now-fallen Perimeter Charlie and the disputed Perimeter Delta. That open ground, traversed by a divided-lane highway, was the new killing ground and the carpet of black bodies was growing as the 10th Mountain Division’s armored cavalry units swept it with fire. The problem was the steadily growing number of bodies in Army camouflage that were joining the baldrick dead. Now, there was something different happening, a white pick-up truck was tearing down the roadway, swerving around the bodies that littered it and heading straight for a large group of baldricks that had just emerged from the buildings.
The Operation Iraqi Freedom veterans of 10th Mountain guessed what was about to happen, they’d seen exactly the same tactic tried out on the Bradleys and Abrams tanks as they’d done their thunder runs through Baghdad. It had failed then but the baldricks didn’t have heavy armor supporting them. The suicide bombers then had died screaming “God is Great” but it was unlikely that they made the same call now. “Death to God” was more likely. It made little difference, the truck plowed into the group of baldricks and exploded, scattering fragments of steel and baldrick for dozens of yards around. Even here, in Delta, the blast was stunning.
“Come on, follow me.” Links screamed out, the last baldrick push had sized a building that was a Delta strongpoint, and it was up to him to retake it. While everybody was stunned by the suicide bomber’s blast was as good a time as any. He was pressed up against the wall one side of the door, he swung past and kicked it open. In a well-timed drill, two of his men threw a pair of hand grenades each inside, then the other pair raked it with fire from their M16s. Links rolled through the door, two of the baldricks inside were dead or dying on the floor, two more were still standing although obviously torn up by grenade fragments and bullets. Links pushed up to his feet and slammed into the nearest baldrick, knocking the wounded monster off its feet. He and three of his men piled on top of it, pinning its arms down, slamming their K-bars into its eyes. The baldrick screamed and threshed, one of its clawed feet catching an infantryman in the stomach and disemboweling him.
Across the room, the remaining baldrick turned and ran, out of the door and into the open ground beyond. He made a few yards before smoke trains erupted around him and he vanished into the concussion of RPG-7 warheads exploding. The irregulars in Hit had joined in the fight and the RPG-7s they carried in place of rifles were lethal. Links looked up, the terrific noise of the firefight was joined by something else, a rhythmic throbbing that shook the dust from the ceiling and caused the shelves on the wall to bounce. Over his head, the sky suddenly turned black and red as a hail of unguided rockets passed overhead to slam into the buildings opposite.
“It’s the Apaches!” Links’ voice was triumphant as the four helicopters swept low overhead, their 30mm chain guns hammering at the baldricks caught in the open. All along the line, the AH-64Ds of the aviation unit was sweeping the killing zone with gunfire and rockets while overhead, F-16s prowled, ready to take down any harpies that appeared.
Headquarters, Army of Abigor, Hit, Western Iraq.
Abigor watched the human sky chariots pouring fire into his troops. Some of them were simply saturating the area with fire lances, others were using a magic fire lance that would turn in the air to follow its prey. Seeker lances he thought, what else could they be?
“Sire, our demons are falling back.”
“What?” Abigor contained his urge to destroy the messenger. He had learned how futile that could be.
“They have lost eight in ten of their number Sire and the humans will not retreat from us. They cannot hold and now the sky chariots have arrived, the iron chariots will not be far behind. It is over.” The messenger bowed his head and waited for death.
Abigor looked across the roofs of Hit where the sky chariots were attacking the remnants of the legions deployed here. He had had such hopes of this outflanking move but in his heart, he guessed the humans had been ahead of him all the time.
“Yes, it is over. Spread the word, order the legions to fall back and regroup.”
Regroup with what? the messenger was tempted to ask but he held his tongue. Surviving this message was good fortune enough for one day, no need to tempt fate.
Headquarters, Multi-National Force Iraq, Green Zone, Baghdad.
The baldrick attack was collapsing, General Petraeus could see the truth now, unfolding on the giant screen before him. He had a raw video up. It showed the black line that had pressed up against his defenses melting away, beginning to stream to the rear as it collapsed. Up at Hit, the issue had been close for some hours, and the brigade holding the city had been battered but they had held and now the enemy was in retreat there as well. Petraeus switched over from raw to synthetic video, the pictures of the battle replaced by blue and red military symbols moving slowly as the baldricks retreated and the human formations started their advance.
Not that there was anywhere for the baldricks to retreat to. The armored spearheads had already linked up behind their lines and blocked the retreat to the Hellmouth. The back door had slammed shut, there was nowhere for the baldricks to run to.