“Works for me.”
Over the Desert, South of Ciudad Juarez, Mexico. May 2009
Uriel glided silently through the darkness, savoring the signs of life that came from the bustling city beneath him. If he had his way, he would stay this far south, the city was a fat target and even the human’s new-found resistance to his touch couldn’t save them from a savage death toll. But, he had his orders from The One Above All and they were not to be disputed. He would have to go further north, to the American city that lay beyond the river. It was easy to see where the divisor was; both cities were brightly lit but the part north of the river was almost garish in its multitude of lights and colors.
There was another reason why Uriel knew he was heading further north than he had been for many years. His skin was itching madly and it got worse by the minute. Somehow, the humans knew he was here and were already preparing one of their explosive welcomes for him. He sent out the first gentle touch of his mind, gauging reaction and response rather than actively trying to snuff out the existences of those beneath him. As he had expected, the resistance was there, it varied in its effects from a hindrance to a complete block, but it was there. It was time to conduct his attack.
Uriel concentrated and focused his mind on the northern part of the great sea of light underneath him. His touch was rejected, blocked, neutralized. He concentrated his willpower, pouring energy from his body into the attack, sending out great waves of his touch to blanket the ground beneath. In the part of his mind not conducting the onslaught, he visualized what must be happening on the ground below, the people simply dying as they stood or walked, slumping to the ground, their lives extinguished as if they had never been. His great wings in exultation as the power of his touch lapped the ground below. The resistance was still there, greater than in any of his attacks further south, but he could feel that at least some of the power he was emitting was finally taking its toll.
It was then that Uriel realized he was hearing something, a sky-ripping scream that was still far away but one that got closer all the time. ‘The war cry of a Sky-Chariot’ he thought scornfully, the pathetic name that Satan and the fallen that had been exiled to Hell had coined for what was imply the noise of a human jet engine. If Satan had bothered to stay in touch with humans, studied them, followed their development, he too would have been warned of the way their knowledge and understanding had suddenly mushroomed out. Quite apart from anything else, Satan would still be alive and ruling Hell, not dead and buried with his followers living under human rule.
It was time to do something about these aircraft. Uriel made a lazy turn and headed directly towards them. He gathered his energy, redirecting it from the assault on those beneath him, concentrating it into a triumphant trumpet-call that would hammer the approaching aircraft from the sky. He had heard how the lesser Angels had swept human aircraft from the skies with their trumpeting, rumor said that almost fifty human aircraft had been destroyed in that one fight. Now, the humans would see what the infinitely greater trumpeting of an Archangel could achieve. He summoned his strength, concentrated it into a single great call and bellowed out its note.
It was as if the aircraft had sensed his purpose, for as he had turned to attack them, they had reversed course and fled away from him, their tails glowing bright red. They escaped unscathed, Uriel had the odd impression that his trumpet blast had actually fallen behind them as they fled to safety. He trumpeted again, this time in triumph for had he not engaged the human aircraft in single combat and forced them to flee in disgrace? He set off in pursuit, knowing it was futile since they were heading north far faster than he could fly.
It was then that the constant itching in his skin was replaced by a burning agony that convinced him that he was on fire. Instinctively, he glanced below and behind him to see four great streaks of fire closing in on him. The thoughts flashed through his mind, he had been tricked, fooled, lured into an ambush and he had but a split second to save himself before the missiles tore home. Faster than he had ever done in his life, far faster than was theoretically possible, he opened a portal and it enveloped him. It slammed shut behind him just a moment before the four PAC-3 missiles tore into the sky where it had been.
2nd Battery, 365th Air Defense Battalion, El Paso, Texas. May 2009
The thundering explosions lit the sky above El Paso, the four Patriot missiles expending themselves in an exemplary display of reliability. The question was, had they actually hit their target or simply exploded at the end of their flight. It was an old question and one that had confused more than a few debriefings.
“Did we get him?” It was Corporal Baughn speaking but he was voicing the question held in the minds of all.”
“There’s no reports that a rain of overcooked and slightly-used rump steaks is descending on El Paso so it doesn’t seem so.” A grim laugh ran around the battery control room.
“The DIMO(N) net is reporting Sir. They have a very small portal opening a split second before the missiles exploded. It was there for a tiny fraction of a second only but the position they have is close to our intercept point. I’d say the thing got away.”
Lieutenant Becerra sighed. “We missed him. We’ve never seen a Baldrick do that before.” He stopped for a second and went to the door of the van. In the distance, the sound of emergency service vehicle sirens wailing was clearly distinguishable. “He didn’t miss us though.”
Chapter Thirteen
DIMO(N) Conference Room, The Pentagon, May 2009
“Well, did you escape with your virginity intact?” General Schatten looked at Colonel Paschal curiously.
“I tell you Sir, those pheromones are dangerous. It’s all right when there’s ventilation or the room is large enough but in a closed space like a limousine, they’re insidious.” Paschal reflected that he’d noticed all too late that Lugasharmanaska hadn’t had the air conditioning in her limousine turned on. “Even when one’s expecting them and prepared to discount their effects, they sort of sneak up on one.”
“So he did lose his virginity to her.” Dr. Surlethe put a great deal of satisfaction into his voice.
“Well, it’s not surprising. Remember that tabloid journalist? From the Enquirer or the Star, one of the supermarket things. Made contact with her, wanting to do an expose on ‘Sex Secrets of the Succubae’ or something. Apparently, she sucked him in and he crawled out of her apartment two days later, hands shaking so badly he couldn’t even type for a week. He’s been singing her praises ever since.” A guffaw ran around the room, the power the succubae had to seduce people was already legendary.
Paschal went bright red which caused an even greater outburst of laughter. “I told you, I didn’t lose my virginity to her...”
“I guess you’d lost it somewhere else first then. Careless of you.” Dr. Kuroneko spoke suavely. “Of course you realize she’s now got your sperm stored away? She’ll transfer it to an Incubus who will then impregnate a woman with it.”
“Ugh, squick.” The executive assistant taking meeting notes in the corner of the room shuddered with distaste.
“You know Colonel, you could be in serious trouble there.” The emotionless, uninflected voice sounded strange in contrast to the joking that had been going on. “The recipient of that Incubus’s attentions could well sue you for paternity. After all the courts have already ruled that a woman who impregnates herself with the contents of a discarded condom has a right to demand child support.”
“You’re joking.” Paschal sounded genuinely panicky. “Aren’t you?” Then he looked at the speaker more closely. “I thought your company had lost its contract when the new administration came in.”
“It did. But the number of people who can do the sort of work we do is very limited. So, when the old company loses the contract, we all get laid off but the new company has to hire staff to do the work. We’re the only ones available so they offer us our old jobs back. In the old days, we used to clear our desks one afternoon, go home, pick up the recr
uiting call and be at our new desks the next morning. These days things are much more efficient. The old company just transfers the lease on the building and our employment contracts to the new company and we don’t even have to move offices.”
“Has it always been like that?” Schatten was fascinated by the insight.
“Mostly, McNamara bought his own people in from outside, the whizz-kids they were called, and they made a pig’s breakfast of everything. But they went when he did and things got back to normal. Or as close to normal as anything gets inside the beltway. Anyway, Luga’s back on the team?”
“She is. Thanks to the brave Colonel’s sacrifice and devotion to duty.”
“Good, I like Luga.” The targeteer settled down in a seat.
“Why does that not surprise me?” Schatten opened his pad, “You all heard about the attack on El Paso and Ciudad Juarez last night?”
A ripple of acknowledgement ran around the room and the meeting got serious very suddenly.
“We have preliminary casualty figures. More than 30,000 dead, about three quarters of them in Ciudad Juarez. Just over 6,000 in El Paso itself. To put those numbers into perspective, the population of El Paso is roughly 750,000 while that of Ciudad Juarez is 1,300,000. So, the death rate was 800 per hundred thousand or 0.8 percent in El Paso and 1,846 per hundred thousand or 1.84 percent in Ciudad Juarez.”
“That’s very interesting.” Dr. Kuroneko looked at the numbers he’d scribbled down. “The differential is statistically significant.”
“It’s more than that, take a look at this.” Surlethe reached up and flipped the chart over to an acetate overlay map of the El Paso/Ciudad Juarez metropolis. Some of the areas were shaded black and it didn’t take much imagination to see that the depth of the shading represented the proportion of the population that had died.
“It’s related to population density. Hardly surprising.” The monotone voice was not impressed.
“Not quite no, it’s a reasonable assumption and one we made at first.” Surlethe flipped another acetate overlay on to the map. “This is the population density distribution. You can see that it doesn’t quite fit, there are substantial discrepancies. But when we use this overlay, the fit is exact.”
Surlethe flipped a third acetate overlay into place and the attendees nodded. The fit was indeed exact. “And what is that map?”
“It’s a map of the city divided into areas by relative income. And the conclusion is very obvious. Where people are rich, nobody died. Where people are poor, some died. Where they were destitute, a large number died. Even then, the number of surviving humans far outweigh the dead. But every cat, every dog, every rat, every bird, every animal of every sort is dead. Rich neighborhood or slum neighborhood, it doesn’t matter. The animals died, all of them. But the rich didn’t die but the poor did. What does that prove?”
“That Yahweh is a Republican?” One of the staffers trotted out the crack, then looked embarrassed at the lack of response.
“Quite.” Dr. Surlethe’s comment was withering. “It strongly suggests that it's wealth that provided the defense against this kind of attack. We’re assuming an Archangel called Uriel is responsible by the way, we’ve got circumstantial evidence for that and can tie it to a lot more attacks like this down south. They all show the same pattern by the way, poor areas got hit much harder than rich areas.
“So, how do the rich differ from the poor?”
“They have more money.” The targeteer reflected that the comment was a BLIFO, a Blinding Flash of the Obvious. “and that means they buy better things. Newer things as well, not old or second-hand stuff. The really poor do without or pick up trash. How did these people, and the animals come to think of it, die anyway?”
“That's the curious thing, the coroners and medical examiners are hard at work trying to find out. The problem is, of course, that the majority of the victims are poor and in poor health to start with. They had a lot of pre-existing conditions that could have caused their deaths, would have done given time, so disentangling what they actually died of is a problem. Then, again, some of the dead did die of natural causes, run down to give one example when a car went out of control because its driver died. The scene was a bit like the attack on Fort Knox in the film of Goldfinger.”
“There's much easier ways of knocking over Fort Knox than that.” The targeteer spoke idly. “Anyway, do we have any reliable autopsy results?”
Doctor Surlethe fought down the intense desire to ask what was the best way to rob Fort Knox and opened a file. “We have none from the American side, but we do have some preliminary results from an autopsy of an eccentric rich resident of Ciudad Juarez. Apparently, he believed that tinfoil hats were a plot by the United Nations to take over the world and refused to wear one. He did, however, cover his house in aluminum foil. According to the autopsy, he just died of not living. There was no actual cause for his death, he wasn't in perfect health but he had no conditions that would explain how he died. He just stopped living. The Mexican medical examiner, a good doctor by the way, the people in El Paso speak highly of her, admits to being beaten by this one. There's no reason why he died, he just did.”
“Was he found inside or outside his house?” The targeteer had leaned forward slightly.
“Sort of both, he was on the patio. The roof was foil-covered but not the sides. Why?”
“We know the Baldrick's mind control powers work by biologically generated electro-magnetic radiation. That's why we all wear hats these days.” Unconsciously he touched his ‘Nuke the Whales’ baseball cap, a gesture that was repeated by several of those present. To humans, headwear had become the same sort of good-luck talisman that had once been represented by rabbits feet, crucifixes and Saint Christopher medallions. “They can use that capability to project images into the human mind and make us believe, and act on, those images. They can't read minds of course, never could, but they can possess our minds. So, suppose this Uriel fellow has the ability to simply suppress the parts of our minds that keep us alive. You know, make our hearts beat, keep us breathing, all that good stuff.”
The targeteer thought for a second. “I wonder if there's an eccentric old lady in El Paso who put a tinfoil hat on her much-beloved little dog? And, if there is, I bet that dog is still alive.”
“But if that's the case, why the differential between rich and poor. Everybody has a tinfoil hat these days.” It was the same staffer who had made the crack about Yahweh being a Republican.
Dr. Surlethe snorted. “That's easy to figure out. We covered it earlier. The rich have more money, they buy better things. I bet if we compare the tinfoil hats worn by the rich people in the area, they're a lot better made than the ones the poor have. And I bet the rich were the first to upgrade their houses to have metal screening built into the walls.”
“That comparison is easy to make.” Dr. Kuroneko pulled a spare cap from his briefcase. “Standard U.S. protective hat, the insulating lining is a sandwich, two layers of aluminum foil with a thin layer of foamed aluminum between them. That's pretty much what everybody has and if you buy a hat at any mall, this is what it'll have built into it. The standard aid cap, the one given out to people across the world is just a single layer of aluminum foil, its just folded cooking foil really. I'll run some propagation tests but my guess is that our caps have an order of magnitude better screening effect on electromagnetic radiation than the standard aid cap.”
“You needn't run the tests, I can guarantee that is so.” The targeteer smiled. “That laminate was designed to shield military equipment, its ability to shield against incident electromagnetic signals or surges is very high. This use for it was purely serendipitous. Worked in our favor though, the sheer scale of production needed for hats has cut the cost of the laminate way down.”
“EMP resistance.” Kuroneko wasn't really asking a question.
“You got it. Also shielding bridges on warships from their own radars and other emitters.”
“Well, that jus
t about explains the differential. But, there's something else that is worrying me. Why is the death toll so low? According to the Sanchez letter, Uriel killed anything and everything within his lethal radius. Here, he's achieved that against unprotected animals but his score against humans is tiny. Even against the worst-protected of our people, he's scoring less than five percent and if our distribution map is to be believed, even poor shielding cuts that to almost zero. There's something else here people, and we're missing it.”
Headquarters, League of the Holy Court, Eternal City
Lemuel-Lan-Michael sighed gently and eased back in his seat. The pursuit of idolators, blasphemers and heretics sounded glamorous but the fact of the matter was that it usually ended up as a mass of tedious paperwork. The hunt for the source of the human potion that had been found in Ishmael's possession was turning out to be exactly that kind of hunt. The interrogation of Ishmael had been all too effective, faced with the threat of another session under a bucket of water he has spilled out everybody whose name he had even heard of. The problem had first been going through those names and eliminating the insignificant. Of course, therein lay the first problem, how could he know who was significant and who was not?
Even after the obvious candidates had been taken off the list, it was still a frighteningly long document. The next step had been to compare that list with all the others they had, ones obtained from other heretics and blasphemers, lists of those suspected of being part of idolator groups, others who had, perhaps, too elevated an idea of their position in Heaven. There were those who did not comprehend that even being allowed into The Eternal City was privilege enough and they should be eternally grateful for it. This had led to another problem, every time the same name appeared on Ishmael's list and one of those other lists, it resulted in a chain of linkages that spread across dozens of scrolls. Lemuel-Lan-Michael had given up trying to keep a mental note of all the cross-references and had created a chart that covered most of the wall of his office.
The Salvation War 2: Pantheocide Page 13