The Salvation War 2: Pantheocide

by Slade, Stuart

  “Just like tinfoil hats.” Dani tossed the remark in with quiet satisfaction. The critical, proven, importance of wearing a tinfoil hat was a serious embarrassment to the entire psychiatric profession who had once used wearing one as a trademark of insanity.

  “Just like tinfoil hats. Now, kitten, I want you just to scan with your mind, relax and try to find a contact. There's no need to communicate with them, what we're interested in is the signal you send out and the one you get back. If my theory is right, we should be able to compare them and determine that the return is a resonance from your transmission. If that isn't the case, we'll have to dump my hypothesis and start again.”

  “How many times have you done that Doctor?”

  Muromets paused and counted on his fingers. “We're run through eleven hypotheses so far and every one of them failed to pan out. Each time we got off to a good start but we ran into things the hypothesis couldn’t explain and we had to start over. My hypothesis is number twelve. I'm hoping that if this one works out, we'll be able to build transponders that each resonate on a slightly different set of transmission characteristics. Then, we can build those transponders into things like cell-phone towers and install them all over Earth and Hell. That'll mean we'll be just like the naga, we can open a portal more or less anywhere we want to. Only, unlike the naga, we will be able to do it with pinpoint accuracy.”

  “Why don’t we study naga then, rather than kitten?”

  “Because we don’t want the Baldricks believing they are actually useful to us. We've got our foot firmly on their necks right now and that's how we want it to stay.”

  “And the Generals realize what a weapons system that will make.” Dani was impressed.

  “That's right, one we want to keep very much to ourselves. But, there's another point to this. At the moment we have only got one reference point for these signals, transmissions from Earth to Hell and back. That tells us something but not much. If we can really analyze these signals and understand them, as soon as we get the Earth to Heaven and back signals, we can really get to work and start to develop a proper theory of why portals go where they do. And what portals are of course, we don’t really understand that yet either.

  “I've got a contact Doctor.”

  “Well done, kitten. Hold it, just don’t do anything with it. The equipment is making records of everything.”

  Section 12, DIMO(N) Field Research Center, Fort Bragg, North Carolina.

  “Now this is very interesting indeed.” Doctor Crosby tapped the charts in front of him.

  “What's up doc?” Colonel Warhol couldn’t resist the line.

  “We've got power readings from vehicles and aircraft that passed through the portals. Remember that U-2 that crashed a few weeks back? Well, we all thought it lost power as it was transiting the Hell-Alpha portal and went in. U-2s are prone to that sort of thing after all. But, the accident investigation board found that its engine was actually running when it crashed. Choked up with dust, certainly, its filters had failed. Still getting power though. It was right on the borderline of flying and crashing when something pushed it over the edge. So, amongst other things, we started measuring engine power outputs as the platforms they power pass through the portals.”

  “And?” Warhol had never managed to quite understand why civilians took so long to get to the point.

  “All the data is consistent, they show a slight increase in power output as the vehicle passes through. That means when something goes through a portal, there's a slight energy barrier and the engine has to increase output slightly to compensate for it. There is actually an energy cost in going through a portal and that is of immense significance.”

  “Well that's just great for you people.”

  “It's quite significant for you too.” Crosby spoke with acerbity. Why couldn't military people have any patience? When they wanted information, they wanted it now and in words of one syllable. “Look at the figures for the ships going through the Hell-Bravo portal. The power output increase is tiny, so slight we can hardly measure it. But using Hell-Alpha, the power output on vehicles is significantly greater. I bet the crews noticed an engine surge as they went through but thought nothing of it. That's what killed that U-2, going through the portal needed a tiny bit more power and the engine just couldn’t give it.”

  “So?”

  “Think about it. Hell-Bravo is at sea level both sides. Very little altitude differential, tiny barrier energy. Hell-Alpha has an altitude differential, there's a slightly greater energy barrier. I bet if we had an enormous altitude difference, the barrier would be so great we couldn’t cross it. And that would mean we couldn't use it to supply, for example, the International Space Station. Of course, I doubt if altitude is actually the constraint, there must be something else and altitude is just the physical manifestation...”

  Crosby was interrupted by a wailing cacophony as the base sirens suddenly burst into life. Warhol looked around for a few seconds, then the realization dawned on him. “Crosby, move! The base is under attack.”

  The scientist stood in the center of the room, looking around him, uncertain what to do. Warhol dived past him, towards one of the emergency cabinets that studded the walls around the conference room. It was the work of a second to punch in the four-number code and grab the M4A5 inside. His hands moved with the unerring precision of much training as he inserted the 20-round magazine and racked the mechanism. Then he opened a second cabinet and tossed the weapon inside to Crosby. “Get to the redoubt in the center of the base. We'll deal with this. Whatever it is.”

  Running down the corridor leading to the command center, Warhol noted that most of the other emergency cabinets had been opened and the contents taken. Installing them had seemed like a joke eighteen months earlier when this facility had been built, but now they seemed to be important enough. Just what was happening that could cause this level of alert?

  “Warhol. Get some men together, make up a team and head for the perimeter.” The duty officer snapped the order out without looking around, his eyes glued on the screen in front of him.

  Warhol saw the screen also and the sight made him stop dead. The display showed a monster, a huge one, that looked like a giant leopard. What was appalling was its head, or rather heads. The creature had seven of them, and ten horns. They weren't quite heads though, it was more as if there were seven faces on the same giant, hideously distorted skull with the horns sticking out between them. Warhol couldn’t estimate the thing's size, the display didn’t have a reference in shot that he could use to get an idea of scale but he guessed it was huge. It had to be to cause this level of chaos.

  “What are you still doing here? Get down to the motor pool, there'll be troops down there for you. Move.”

  It took Warhol a few minutes to get to the motor pool and pick up the men there. Once again, the non-commissioned officers had saved the situation, they had already organized the motor pool staff into an emergency platoon and set it up in a defensive position. All he had to do was to take over and move them out towards the base perimeter. They even had the motor transport to hand, a selection of Humvees, trucks and a single experimental armored car equipped with a 57mm gun. He had no doubt that they would be needed, the barrage of gunfire from the south was a sure sign that this was no walk-over fight. Warhol did what every infantry officer had been expected to do since the invention of gunpowder, he drove to the sound of the guns.

  Defense Perimeter, Fort Bragg, North Carolina.

  “It's taken out Domino's Pizza!” The cry was almost drowned out by the roar of gunfire while the streams of tracer formed an almost-prefect cone centered on the great beast that towered over the trees.

  “Who the hell cares. I preferred Cicis anyway.” It was, perhaps, a sign of the times that the Coca-Cola delivery truck was camouflaged and had a .50 machine gun mounted above its cab. The delivery team had been caught up in the attack and were now doing their level best to make a worthwhile contribution to the volume of f
ire that was engulfing the Leopard Beast. The problem was, they hadn't had much ammunition to start with and they were now running desperately low. So was everybody else.

  They'd achieved their first objective though, the hastily-mounted defense had drawn the Leopard Beast away from the family accommodation to the south of the base and given the dependents there a chance to escape into Fayetteville. Stung by the hail of gunfire, the Leopard Beast had made its way around to the south-eastern flank of the base and tried to break through. Once again, it had been met by a barrage of gunfire and driven back. Despite the tens of thousands of rounds that had been fired in its direction, it was still alive and showed no signs of being any less lethal than when it had first appeared.

  Still, the gunfire was achieving something else. The streams of tracer were serving as perfect target markers for the aircraft that were heading in. The Leopard Beast had been driven into an area that was largely unoccupied and that had opened up a whole new range of possibilities. One of them was already being brought into play, the thump of heavy mortars was quickly followed by the eruption of feathered white clouds around the Beast. It screamed as the white phosphorus burned its way into its skin.

  “Keep marking that target!” One of the junior officers had the presence of mind to scream out the order in case any journalists were around. After all everybody knew the U.S. Army only used white phosphorus to lay smoke screens and mark targets, that was their story and they were sticking to it.

  The Leopard Beast screamed again and leapt forward, crashing into a small fuel dump on the outskirts of the mobility testing area. The HEMTT trucks lines up outside crumpled under the bear paws that served it as feet. The trucks exploded in balls of fire as they were crushed and, once again, the Leopard Beast was driven back, away from the base. This time, as it fled east, away from the flames, it ran into streams of fire from Bradley armored vehicles that had been moved up to flank its position. The 25mm sabot rounds did more damage than the rifle-caliber rounds fired so far and, for the first time, the Leopard Beast was badly enough hurt to dilute it's single-minded urge for destruction. Then, the Beast heard and saw a new threat.

  The four A-45s had taken off a few minutes earlier, loaded with whatever the ground crews could find immediately available. There were more aircraft being bombed up back at the base and they would be carrying loads better suited to the battle being fought at Fort Bragg but time had been of the essence and it was better to get something over the battlefield now rather than wait for a perfect solution that might be too late. In any case, AH-64s were on their way in and the Beast would have to be distracted while the helicopters made their runs. Everybody remembered what had happened when unsupported helicopters had tried to fight harpies in the skies over Iraq. The Leopard Beast didn't appear capable of flying but, when faced with a seven-faced beast more than 200 feet tall, nobody was going to take the chance. So, the A-45s started their bomb runs, aiming to distract the beast. Of course, if they hurt it in the process, the pilots wouldn't mind in the slightest.

  “We could sure use one of them Mujs and a vee-bed right now.” The speaker was a veteran of the Battle of Hit and well remembered the effects of explosive-packed pick-up trucks driven into the center of a mass of Baldricks. The U.S. Army didn’t like to admit it but the suicide bomb-trucks might well have been the factor that had turned the tide in that particular battle. The way the Leopard Beast kept shrugging off the storm of fire being aimed at it suggested they would be needed to turn the tide again. Then, the soldier got his wish for the ground around the beats erupted into a rolling thunder of explosions. The four A-45s had streaked overhead, each releasing four fin-retarded Mark 82 bombs. Sixteen five hundred pounders, even when delivered with less-than-optimal accuracy, were something that the Leopard Beast found distinctly terrifying.

  To the watching troops, the fact that the beast was seriously hurt at last was thankfully apparent. Great areas of its flanks were now torn open, dripping silver blood as it staggered from the blast of the bombs. They saw it stagger again as red lines flashed across the battlefield, an Abrams tank had appeared and was firing sabot rounds at the Beast. That was all the tank crew had, high explosive, HEAT and HEAD rounds were completely unavailable, their supplies limited and the forces in Hell having top priority for any that were around. The crew were firing what they had, carefully, precisely, deadly accurately. They'd picked one of the faces of the Beast and were pumping round after round into it. The repeated impacts were having their effect, the chosen face was quickly losing its identity as the long bolts of depleted uranium crushed its features.

  The Leopard Beast was being hurt and it know it. It slumped back on its hindquarters, waving its paws in front of its grotesquely misshapen head, trying to fend off the bolts that kept slamming into it. The posture was achingly reminiscent of a kitten playing with a ball of wool but the sight didn’t decrease the volume of fire that was still being poured into it. The tank ceased fire, its partly-loaded magazine empty but its place was taken by the first of the AH-64s. This one had been loaded with some time-expired Hellfire missiles that had been found at the back of a supply dump. Two of the eight failed to fire completely, one exploded shortly after launch, lashing the front of the helicopter with fragments while two more failed to guide and went off into the darkness to land somewhere kilometers away. The three remaining missiles scored direct hits on the Beast and it went down.

  Even so, the battered and bullet-peppered Leopard Beast was still alive. It had no taste to continue this fight anymore, all it wanted was out, an end, away from the humans who wished its death so devoutly. Racked with pain from its injuries, it dragged itself along the ground, its mind forming the image of the portal that would take it to the sanctuary it needed so desperately. The problem was that generating the portal needed its concentration and the beast's limited intellect wasn't capable of both forming its portal and absorbing the shattering pain of its injuries. Dimly, its mind registered more crashes and the searing pain of shaped charges burning their way into its body. Slowly, reluctantly, the Leopard Beast gave up the battle to survive.

  Scrubland, Outside The Defense Perimeter, Fort Bragg, North Carolina.

  Warhol rubbed his eyes. They were gritty, he could feel the residues of burned powder under the lids and he wondered just how many rounds he'd fired into the Beast the night before. Ahead of him, the troops were lining up to be pictured beside the massive body that was stretched out on the ground. Just how much did that damned thing weigh he thought as the crew of a Bradley were pictured with their vehicle beside one of its paws. Could a thing like that actually exist? And if it did, what else was there in Heaven waiting to descend on Earth. The Leopard Beast had taken most of the resources of Fort Bragg to kill and it had come precious close to breaking in and destroying the scientific resources of the DIMO(N) center here.

  “Impressive isn't it.” Beside him, Doctor Crosby was also looking at the corpse of the Beast.

  “It's just big, that's all. We can kill them, just a matter of learning how.” Warhol's mind had trouble forming the words.

  “I hope so. I think we'll see more of them in due course.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chong Sadao, Thailand

  “Where the hell have you been? My people have been cut to pieces up here because you broke your word.” Captain Momrajong was almost spitting with sheer rage. The fact he was speaking to a Senior Colonel, a rank equivalent to a one-star General in most other armies didn't really register. “We were promised, promised, that if there was an invasion we'd be relieved by regular troops within 12 hours. That was two days ago.”

  Senior Colonel Thawat bit back the response that would have left nothing of the captain but a pair of smoking boots and nodded apologetically instead. At one level, a rebuke would have been pointless, the Tahan Phran belonged to a different chain of command than the regular Army. They weren't even funded by the Ministry of Defense, the Home Affairs Ministry carried the cost of the militia units. At a
nother level, Thawat knew the captain was right. The lightly-armed militia weren't intended to confront regular armies, they were supposed to protect their villages against minor incursions and guarantee security along roads. In most areas of the country that meant looking after tourists. The Tahan Phran had no heavy weapons, no night vision equipment and their body armor was locally-made Level Two. That wouldn't stop a reasonably powerful pistol round.

  “I understand your anger Captain, but we're here now. In regimental strength. My men are relieving yours all along this area of front. The people responsible for this screw-up have been relieved. We can't change what went wrong, we can only make sure it doesn’t happen again and go on from here.”

  “That's fine for you to say. I had some of my wounded die because they didn’t get the casualty evacuation we were promised. Are you going to tell their families why they died?”

  “No, my commander will and she will do so personally.” Thawat's voice was drowned out by a red-and-gray camouflaged V-22 sweeping in and hovering overhead. He watched while the aircraft changed, its engine nacelles swinging up so that its appearance changed from a transport aircraft to a helicopter. Then it dropped in to land, the downbeat from its rotors causing the men to bend down. “As to casualty evacuation, get your wounded and the Osprey will take them straight to the hospitals in Kanchanaburi. How many men have you fit for duty? Out of how many?”

  “I have twenty rangers left. My original platoon was twenty-five but I've absorbed two other units that were too badly chewed up to stay independent. We've taken forty dead and fifteen wounded, at least five of my dead would have made it if you'd kept your word.”