The Mark 54 had a very specific target. The warhead that could be carried by a lightweight torpedo was inadequate to penetrate the hull of a modern submarine. Probably. So, the Mark 54 had been designed to pick out the submarine's propeller an home in on that. More importantly, it was designed to blow at least one of the blades off that propeller leaving it completely unbalanced. It was the blast that destroyed his propeller that ensured Ben-Shoshan never got an answer to his questions. Not in this life anyway, things would be different very shortly.
With two of its propeller blades blown completely off and the remaining five mangled beyond recognition, Tekuma had no effective propulsion and was losing speed rapidly. Her shaft was still spinning despite the fact that the explosions had bent it through a ten degree angle and that was much more critical than the loss of propulsion. The bent, unbalanced shaft ripped open the shaft tunnel and destroyed the seals that kept the water out. Throughout the stern quarter of the submarine, water started to pout into compartments, weighing down the stern of the boat and dragging her to the bottom. That left just one thing to do.
“Blow tanks! All hands, abandon ship!”
B-25J “Heavenly Body”, Mediterranean
“Here she comes!” Perdue's voice was straining with excitement. The two P-3s had made their drops and there had been a nail-biting delay before the pair of oil-stained white towers of seawater announced the hits. Then, the sea seemed to have started boiling as the shock wave had reflected off the seabed and erupted upwards. Now, the sea had boiled again as the submarine blew her ballast tanks in a desperate attempt to get to the surface. The dark green shape arched upwards in the middle of the spray, the sunlight surrounding her with rainbows that gave an almost supernatural aura to the scene. Then the hatches fore and aft of the sail started to open and men started to heave themselves out. Already, yellow life rafts were expanding from their containers on the deck.
“And here we go boys and girls.” Tyson was already diving on the submarine, his four nose-mounted .50 caliber machine guns spraying bullets into Tekuma's crew as they tried to abandon the sinking submarine. Heavenly Body's twin .50s in her top turret was firing as well, only Trudy laFonteyn continued her burst as the B-25 swept across her target and continued to pour long bursts into the crew as it started to circle the wreck. She was joined by one of the waist gunners and between them they mowed down the submariners. That was what aircraft like the AC-130 did, they circled their target, mowing down the enemy. It was good, if unexpected, training for laFonteyn.
“A bit harsh that.” Perdue’s instincts as a mariner were overcoming his loathing for the crew of this submarine and what they had done. Beneath them, the submarine was obviously sinking, its stern was underwater and the bows were rising as flooding aft pulled her under. That made her crew fellow seamen in distress and the slaughter as the machine guns mowed them down was repugnant to him. He knew the rationale, submarines carried shoulder-fired anti-aircraft missiles and it only needed one man to bring down a fabulously expensive maritime patrol aircraft and its crew. It still just seemed wrong to him and he was glad whenHeavenly Body ran out of ammunition for her top turret and waist guns.
By that time, Tekuma was clearly in her last moments. She was almost vertical in the water, her bows pointing skywards, her sail already vanishing beneath the waves. With a final flourish caused by the remaining air bubbling out of her hull, she slipped away, leaving nothing on the surface but oil, debris and the bodies of her crew.
“Hey, old timer, Quebec-Seven here. We’ll write you up as an equal share in the kill. Fair?” The radio message from the P-3C caused a cheer in the old B-25. After more than sixty years, Heavenly Body finally had a kill of her own to paint under her cockpit.
“Very fair kids. Now, we’ll take you home.”
Chapter Fifty Three
Lemuel's Home, Eternal City, Heaven
He knew something was wrong the moment he stepped into his home. It wasn't just that the small palace was silent, there was something else. A brooding air of tension and anger. In a way that Lemuel-Lan-Micheal couldn’t quite comprehend, it was as if the house itself was sullen and resentful. It didn't help matters that he wasn't feeling very well. It was strange, he always felt fine when he was with Maion, at the Montmartre Club or at the Temple but as soon as he was away from them for any length of time, his feeling of contentment and gentle bliss would go and be replaced by headaches, irritation and vague, formless anger. It was this pattern, more than any other factor, that had finally reconciled him to the now self-evident truth that the Temple of Ceaseless Compliance was, in fact, merely an over-zealous proponent of the True Path. As his new friends had pointed out, austerity and spirituality had its place once, but new times and new conditions demanded change. If they could better serve The One Above All by following a different way, was it not their duty to do so?
Something else was missing as Lemuel-Lan entered the vestibule of his house, Onniel was nowhere in sight and for that he was grateful. Her sneering, contemptuous voice was the last thing he needed to hear right now. What he really wanted was to stretch out in his pool, let his wing-feathers soak in the limpid waters and feel their warmth wash away his discomfort. That wasn't too much to ask was it? Or to have his wing-feathers combed so they lay flat and comfortable. Maion wouldn't even have to be asked, she would know that such small services would please him.
As it turned out, a warm relaxing bath was too much to ask. On his way to the pool, Lemuel-Lan had to pass one of the entrances to the servants quarters and from therein he heard the sounds of weeping. A few seconds attention identified the sound as one of his human slaves. Sadly, Lemuel-Lan put aside his desire for a bath and entered the quarters to find out what the problem was. That was normally something he would not do but this was not a normal situation. If there was trouble in the servants quarters, his loyal Ishim Zahuliel-Lan-Lemuel would deal with it, a minor affair without bothering him with the details, a more serious problem would result in a briefing after Zahuliel had dealt with it. Only the most major of difficulties would cause him to consult with Lemuel before taking action. But, this time, the matter was obviously not solved now was Zahuliel out here to consult with him. So, Lemuel broke one of his private rules and made his way into the servants quarters.
What he saw there combined with his headache, sickness and general malaise to cause him to completely lose his temper. One of the human maids, Judith, was stretched out on her bed, being tended by the other humans. She had been so badly beaten that her body was covered with rippling shades of blue and violet. The humans and Ishim scattered away from her as they saw Lemuel approach, cringing on the floor in terrified submission. That just added to his anger, he had never demanded submissive displays from his domestic staff and he had never done anything to warrant this show of outright fear.
“What happened here?” His words lashed around the quarters, bringing whimpers from Judith and the other humans.
“Most Honored Ophanim, The Lady Onniel demanded that the evening meal be served at an early time and that the remains be left out for you. Judith told her of your orders that the regular meals only be served in your presence.” Zahuliel drew a deep breath. “The Lady Onniel was most displeased. She spoke in great anger, telling Judith that her words were to be obeyed, not yours, and that the meal was to be served. Judith held fast to your orders Most Noble Ophanim and refused to be forced into disobeying you. The Lady Onniel beat her but still Judith held firmly to your command. The beating continued with The Lady Onniel losing all control of herself and only stopped when Judith was unconscious.”
“So she is reduced to this sad state by her loyalty to my commands?” Lemuel was well beyond anger now, he was filled with a cold fury that he had not known for millennia.
“That is so, Most Noble of Ophanim.” Zahuliel-Lan-Lemuel spoke gravely.
“Then she deserves to be honored. Zahuliel, go to the Temple of Ceaseless Compliance and ask the staff there for assistance. They have sk
illed healers who have access to hu... to healing techniques of great value. Judith is to be given the best treatment available for the injuries she received in my service. As for the rest, I will deal with this now.”
Rage filling his mind, Lemuel strode out of the servants quarters and returned to the family part of the palace. Onniel had emerged from wherever she had been when he had arrived and was standing in the middle of the vestibule, hands on her hips, wings twitching with anger. “How dare you give orders that meals were not to be served except in your presence. You barely ever come here, this is my home!”
“No longer.” Lemuel's words slashed across the gap between them. As a male Ophanim he was much stronger than Onniel and rage added to that differential. He had little difficulty in seizing her by the hair and one wing and dragging her towards the doors. He had to detach one hand to open them and that gave her a chance to try and squirm away, but his grip on her hair held and he dragged her through the open doors onto the steps that led down to the street below. It took only a little more of his rage-augmented strength to hurl Onniel down those steps.
“I, Lemuel-Lan-Michael, Reject You!” His voice, loaded with all the power behind it he could muster boomed around the street, echoing off the temples and palaces and causing the rainbows of light cascading from the semi-precious stones that lined their walls to ripple and flare. Around him, passers-by, both Angelic and human, stopped at the sound. This was something new, something to gossip about. Nothing this interesting had happened on Heaven's streets for millennia. Below him, Onniel looked up, stunned at both his actions and his words.
“I, Lemuel-Lan-Michael, Reject You!” Once again the words boomed around the streets and echoed off the walls. They were met by a collective gasp from the rapidly-increasing crowd of onlookers, all of whom were experiencing a vicarious sense of enjoyment at the unprecedented scene. A public repudiation of a mate hadn't happened in The Eternal City for so long that nobody could put a precise number on the millennia in which it had happened. Those a little more in the know quickly briefed the others on the repeated instructions Onniel had received from the priests on the correct conduct of a mate and how the repetition of those instructions had shown how she had failed to heed their content. It didn’t help that Onniel had been growing steadily less popular in the neighborhood as her bitterness and anger had taken over. Looking down from the top of the steps, Lemuel saw heads nodding wisely. His actions may be virtually unprecedented but the people below approved. It never occurred to him that, following the purges, his position at the League of Holy Court meant that they would approve no matter what he did.
“I, Lemuel-Lan-Michael, Reject You!” The third and last repetition of the formula resounded around the streets, even louder and more firmly than before. There was only one thing left to do and Zahuliel, reliable retainer that he was, had already made the preparations. As he had heard the First Rejection, he had gone to Onniel's room and gathered her robes into a basket. Now he gave that basket to Lemuel who threw it at Onniel cowering on the steps below. The robes fell away from the basket as it tumbled through the air and fluttered down around her. She just looked at them, dumbfounded, unable to accept what was happening to her.
“As I Have Spoken, So Shall It Be!” Lemuel's rage-inspired voice thundered even more loudly and to his amazement there was a weak roll of thunder and a weak, feeble flash of lightning at his words. That ridiculously pleased him and he felt his anger ebb. His thunder and lightning display might have been weak and pathetic by the standards of those Michael-Lan could get Yahweh to generate but they were still one of the few he had managed. He turned around and strode back towards the doors of his palace.
Behind him, he heard Onniel screaming in shocked anger. “You will pay for this.” Or words to that effect reflected Lemuel who hadn't quite heard them. As he looked back, he saw Onniel-Lan, her name no longer having the honorific that associated her name with his, scrambling around on the steps trying to gather her robes. She would need those, she had nowhere to go and nobody to look after her. Serve her right, Lemuel thought, she deserved it after what she did to Judith. The people who had gathered to watch the unprecedented event were already departing and Lemuel had no doubt that the story would be echoing around the forums within minutes. There would be consequences, he knew that, but he would live with them.
A few minutes later, the garden at the center of his palace was disturbed as two Angels came into land. One, he didn't recognize but the other was Charmeine-Lan herself. “You came yourself, Noble Lady?”
Charmeine-Lan smiled at him. “Of course I did. Zahuliel-Lan-Lemuel told me of what has happened here. You are one of us, Lemuel-Lan-Michael, one of our people and that means your people are our people also.”
She paused for a second, she had spoken the phrase with emphasis for it was critical that Lemuel remember what she had said and how she had said it. She looked at him and saw the realization of what the phrase meant sink in. Now it was time to reinforce the lesson.
“If they need help, it is for us to succor them. Leaders serve their followers Lemuel, just as much as followers serve their leaders. I am not a great healer myself, but Ohimasael-Lan-Charmeine here is the best healer in our part of the Angelic Host,. He will tend to your servant and heal her wounds.” Then she looked at him and frowned. “But you are unwell yourself? A glass of ‘our’ wine might help you I think.”
Lemuel took the goblet from her and drank the contents down. It was strange but now he was with his friends again and enjoying their hospitality, his state of bliss was returning.
Michael-Lan's Office, Temple of Righteous Ardor, Eternal City
“So which city do we drop rocks on?” Raphael-Lan sat back in the chair, looking at Michael-Lan getting the final arrangements for the Seventh and last bowl of wrath ready. “Las Vegas?”
“Hardly.” Michael-Lan grinned at the friendly barb. “New York I think.”
“Why New York?” Raphael-Lan was genuinely curious. In the unofficial Montmartre Club sweepstakes, he had drawn Chicago. He thought over the draw carefully, Leilah-Lan had drawn New York hadn't she?
“Tradition Raffie, tradition. Have you noticed how when the humans make their disaster films, it's always New York that gets flattened? From King Kong onwards. We are traditional creatures Raffie, we must respect the traditions of others. And that means dropping rocks on New York.”
“That can't be the only reason.” Raphael-Lan knew Michael-Lan too well for that. He was well aware that Michael had about as much respect for tradition as he had for Yahweh which meant none at all. “What's really going on?”
“Why are we pouring the Bowls of Wrath, Raffie?”
“To upset the humans and keep them running around chasing their own tails.”
“That's right. Only we don’t want them just upset with Yahweh, we want them screaming mad with anger and hate for him. Then, when they burst into Heaven and find Belial's concentration camp with its tortured inmates, all that rage and hate will pour out and be directed at Yahweh and Yahweh alone. Directed away from the Angelic Host, all thrown at Yahweh himself. I've said this before Raffie and at risk of being a bore, I'll say it again. If humans burst into Heaven and decide to start shooting at us, we’re gone. All of us. Humans are too good at killing, they have to be diverted to another target. Something that will absorb their energy – and their firepower.
“And that's why we're going to drop rocks on New York. There's something there that when we drop rocks on it, will send them mad. They'll be filled with rage and hatred and they'll want only revenge. Then, that's when we'll give them the chance and the target.”
Michael-Lan completed the arrangements and decided it was time to set the final pieces of his scheme into motion. “Raffie, we're getting near the endgame now. Soon, I'm going to have to face off against Yahweh. You need to start getting our act together. I'll need every bit of support I can get when that happens and I need to make sure that Yahweh sits on that throne, alone and isolated.<
br />
Gabriel-Lan nodded in acknowledgement, went to the window and launched himself from the ledge. Michael watched him flying across The Eternal City and sighed sadly. His comment to Gabriel-Lan had been accurate, things really were getting close to the end-game now and this was where bad things happened. He stepped out on to the ledge himself, inflated his flight sacs and took off.
Slums, The Eternal City, Heaven
“So, what has your progress been to date.”
Qaphsiel-Lan-Shekinah looked at the shining white figure that towered over him and shuddered slightly. When he had been recruited into the idea of an insurgency in Heaven, the idea had appealed to him. Now, he had seen what really lay behind the words and concepts and he, more than anything else, simply wanted to turn the clock back.
“As you instructed Mighty Lord, I have instructed the cells in our movement to plant bombs in the market places where the humans and Ishim buy their goods. Each bombing has been followed by demands to release political prisoners, whatever they may be, and make concessions to the humans and the lower-rank members of the Angelic Host. Our demands have been ignored, of course.”
“And so, your campaign must continue. Where do you plan to plant your bombs next?”
“In the temples Might Lord, those run for the humans and for the Ishim. We will continue there before returning to bomb the markets.”
“Very good. And the other matter you were ordered to watch.”
“Lemuel-Lan-Michael, Mighty Lord? There was a great dispute in his abode not more than a few hours ago. He publicly repudiated his mate Onniel and drove her out. She wanders the markets now, in a state of shock, without knowing what to do or where to go. Behind her back, the others laugh at her for when she was Lemuel's mate she struck great poses and was always quick to cut others down with her tongue. None have sympathy for her and none go to her aid.”
The Salvation War 2: Pantheocide Page 51