Queen of wands sc-2

by John Ringo

  “General Cable,” he said. “Any input?”

  “No, sir,” the NORTHCOM commander said. “If we could figure out how many people there were in caves, it would make Afghanistan a lot easier. Tactically, the only choice on the cave end is to send in a large number of shooters with…SC support, and comb them out. Frankly, I’d be surprised if we get them all. This may be an ongoing issue.”

  “We need a better answer,” the NSA said.

  Janea sighed and pressed her button.

  “Ms…Grisham?”

  “Please use my goddess name of Janea,” Janea said. “It’s a point of protocol, not a bitch. You would not call a Catholic nun by her given name. It’s the same with a priestess. All of the information we have is from prewritten records, oral histories passed down from when humans were hunter-gatherers. So our actual information on the Old Ones is very sketchy. But the information that we have gleaned is that, even after the war against the Old Ones had been won, there were many Children left scattered across the globe as well as more numerous Hunters. Hunters, in fact, still remain in outlying areas; SC has battled remnants within the last decade. There may not be a good answer except combing them out over the years.”

  “A point to keep in mind, and I apologize for my breach of protocol,” the NSA said. “Then we come to the subject of this…Gar? Pronunciation…Janea?”

  “ Gar gyi dbang phyug ma, ” Janea said. “The mother of all demons, or the mother of all foulness. Progenitor might be a more accurate term.”

  “The Gar,” the NSA said. “We are now informed that it might be physically large. SC team input.”

  “Again, legends,” Janea said, shrugging. “There are one hundred and fifty-seven divergent cultures that have myths of the Great Flood. What really happened? Was it the rising water from the last glacier melt? No one knows for sure. The legends of the Old Ones are the same. Most of them we get from Tibetan scrolls, which are opaque even by Tibetan standards and in many places degraded. Some were lost during the Mao years along with their information. The gar gyi dbang phyug ma is never properly described. None of them are, for some cultural reasons. We can only get descriptions from the names that are used for them. Gar gyi dbang phyug ma is her short name. Her full name translates as something like: That Which Is Fifty Elephants Covered in Cobras That Walks as a Stomach That Is the Mother of Foulness That Perverts the Mind That Walks in Dark Places That Cannot Be Harmed That Creates the Horror…It goes on. Some of the name is missing from the scroll, and I can argue all day about various translations of the words. Mother could be progenitor, stomach could be gallbladder, things like that.”

  “I see,” the NSA said, looking a bit stunned.

  “The other thing to consider is that the Gar is one of the lesser of the Great Old Ones,” Janea said. “You don’t want to think about He Who Is Sleeping coming back. And don’t ask me for the full name. You don’t want the nightmares. But if someone has figured out how to bring back the Gar, it may mean that the great prophecies of the Old Ones returning is being fulfilled. This may only be the beginning. Or the tip of an iceberg.”

  “If it’s like fifty elephants, why can’t we find it?” the NSA asked, returning to the point. “FBI on-site.”

  “We had been dismissing slaughterhouses as a possible hide point,” Graham said. “Until last night, the possibility that this might be part of a group conspiracy had not been addressed. Our next step is to check out the two slaughterhouses in the area. They have not been fully evacuated, since they had stock on site that required maintenance. Given the possibility of SC threat, we were waiting for the SC combat team to recover from their mission before checking them out. It’s next on our list, sir.”

  “Elimination,” the NSA said. “SC command.”

  “As Janea alluded, the Gar is mentioned as being resistant to conventional weapons,” Augustus said. “However, that was in a day when ‘conventional’ referred to spears and clubs. The height of military technology was the atlatl. So it is possible that modern weapons may have effect. Then again, it’s possible that they may not. In which case…” He paused and sighed. “In that case, we had better hope that Mrs. Everette’s Christian God is willing to give sufficient aid to our case.”

  “SOCOM query,” the NSA said. “Go.”

  “How can conventional weapons not have effect?” the admiral commanding SOCOM asked. The former SEAL was polite in tone, but his posture showed he was having a hard time believing the subject of the conference.

  “Answer…” the NSA said then paused. “SC Onsite.”

  “Pass,” Janea said, looking at Barb.

  “In the case of demons, conventional weapons pass through them,” Barb said. “But they can hit you as hard as a tank. I’ve got the broken ribs to show. In the case of the Children, everything we’ve hit them with has bounced unless there is godly intervention. Then they’re easy enough to kill if you do enough damage fast enough; they regenerate like nobody’s business. Simply engaging most SC entities is hard enough for the unprotected. So far, we haven’t seen the sort of mind control that major demons have, but there are plenty of indications the Gar may have that ability. And the Old Ones… Perhaps as a fundamental attribute of their otherness and perhaps as part of a sending, they induce pathological psychological conditions on the viewer. It’s pretty hard to hit something if you can’t look at it. With the Children and the Hunters we’ve found, the effect is lessened under FLIR. But we haven’t had anyone view the Gar. My guess is that the effect is going to be stronger. I’ve done some pretty horrific targets, general. This is going to be a tough mission. Even by my standards.”

  “NORTHCOM input,” the NSA said.

  “We need to ensure that all non-briefed persons are held as far from the threat as possible,” the general said. “Both for security reasons and due to the nature of the threat. And promulgate a finding that any possibility of encountering threat requires use of FLIR, whether day or night.”

  “That’s going to degrade our day viewing,” SOCOM interjected.

  “Admiral,” Barb said, trying not to sigh. “SEALs are tough and tough-minded. Which is good. But if one of your SEALs or Deltas views one of these things with their naked eyes, the best you’re going to get is a broken man. What you’re going to get most of the time is someone who spends the rest of his days in a padded room under heavy Thorazine. Think of it as a safety measure; these things are HAZMAT for the brain.”

  “CJCS,” the NSA said.

  “Agreement with NORTHCOM,” the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs said. “Order will be promulgated to all briefed personnel. Query: How high can we go on the weaponry hierarchy?”

  “Non-nuclear,” the NSA said. “If we have to go nuclear…we might as well go public.”

  “To be avoided,” Germaine said.

  Janea started at a jerk from Barb and looked over at her. The housewife had a strange, wide-eyed expression. Janea had seen it before, though, and cringed at what was about to happen.

  Barb reached out with a strangely uncoordinated hand and pressed the alert button.

  “SC on-site,” the NSA said, then frowned at the picture of Barb and Janea.

  Janea spun in her chair to look at the screen with Augustus on it. He had his head in his hands, but she could see the grimace on his face.

  “The nations of the world shall be tested,” Barb said in a deep, resonant tone. Her eyes were still focused forward, wide and unseeing, and even her face had changed, becoming more solid, squarer, mannish. If the man was a triathlete. “The faith of this nation shall be its salvation or its doom. The great battle looms. May this be a sign of the end times, the ending of all things. This battle shall be but the beginning as the vanguard of Satan readies its panoply. You have this time to prepare.”

  Barb closed her eyes and shook her head, then looked around.

  “Sorry,” she whispered to Janea, closing her hand over the microphone. “Long night. I think I sort of drifted off there. Anything important happen?�
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  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  “I just got a call from the Director,” Randell said.

  After the meeting had rapidly broken up, Barb, Janea, Randell and a team of Delta Force commandoes had started checking out the slaughterhouses.

  There were three in the region, but only one, Conner Farm and Slaughter, that was near the site of the attacks. And its position made something like an equilateral triangle with all the encounters.

  Barb and Janea had chosen to ride with one of the Delta platoons, all of them squeezed into an Expedition, while Randell had ridden with the other.

  “And what did the Director have to say?” Barb asked as she got out of the Expedition.

  “There’s a debate about whether you should be pulled off the mission,” Randell said, grimacing.

  “Why?” Barb asked, angrily.

  “It’s mostly for good reasons,” Randell said, sourly. “For values of good, as you said one time. Basically, one side of the debate is that you’re clearly too important to lose. I got the feeling that a couple of the flag guys got Jesus after your little communication.”

  “Seeing someone actually channeling tends to do that,” Janea said. “That’s just the most public one I’ve ever seen.”

  “It wasn’t public, though,” Barb said. “God doesn’t want worshippers that only worship because of miracles. The Lord wants Believers, people who believe without miracles. If the Lord had wanted to be public, He would have channeled through someone on national TV. You said that was one side of the debate. What’s the other?”

  “Apparently members of the administration who were not present feel you are ‘compromised’ by your position,” Randell said, shaking his head.

  “I am a warrior of God,” Barb said, confused. “What did they think I was before? Open-minded? Sort of agnostic on the subject?”

  “This is probably taking a long time to sink in with some people,” Janea said, shrugging. “With this…incident, a lot of people who had, they thought, a pretty firm understanding of the world are suddenly having that worldview challenged, and challenged in a very big way. People, especially powerful people, don’t handle that well.”

  “I take it I’m not pulled off the case,” Barb said.

  “Your boss pointed out that he had authority over who does what,” Randell said. “Unless he says otherwise, you’re the mission commander. Speaking of which. Major Chap?”

  “Sir?” the Delta platoon commander said.

  “Normally I do this sort of thing with FBI,” Randell said. “They know the drill. The way this goes is, I serve the warrant, we clear the area of personnel, secure them away from the building and perform a search. Absent finding anything, we apologize and we leave. If we find the Gar, we detain the personnel as suspects, fall back and call for support.”

  “Roger, sir,” the Delta said.

  “My point being, and I’m not being sarcastic or humorous, that this is not a situation where we kill everyone in the building,” Randell said. “Detain for questioning.”

  “We do that most of the time, sir,” the Delta said, nodding. “Rather more than the other way.”

  “Very good,” Randell said, squaring his shoulders. “Ladies, if you get a sniff of the Gar…”

  “We’re out of there,” Barb said, looking at the facility. “But, frankly, it’s here. Somewhere.”

  “Really?” Randell said, puzzled. “Mystic vibes?”

  “That,” Barb said, nodding. “Janea and I have both been getting Sendings in dreams and the…feeling is very strong now. But more than that. Smell.”

  The suggestion was not so much hard as impossible to ignore. The entire area just stank. Most of it was the smell of cattle manure and urine, a heavy, thick tang of feces and ammonia. Overlaid on it, under it, behind it, was a very thick smell of rot. Not normal garbage, but a smell like gangrene and pus.

  “Got it,” Randell said, nodding. “Smells like…Old One. And cattle shit. Time to serve the warrant.”

  The front offices of the slaughterhouse were an old, two-story farmhouse from, probably, the twenties. It had been fixed up with nice landscaping and a manicured front lawn. Over the porch was a large sign that said Conner Farm and Slaughter.

  Barb had figured that, given there were cars in the parking lot indicating people were around, someone would have been curious enough to come out front and see why a group of heavily armed strangers had pulled up in a couple of Expeditions. But nobody had so much as moved a curtain.

  One platoon of Delta moved to the rear of the building while the second took up position on the porch flanking the front door. Which Randell walked up to and opened without knocking. He held the warrant over his head.

  “FBI search warrant,” he called, loudly. “If everyone could please stand up and keep your hands in the open!”

  The door opened on a large great room with smaller rooms to either side and a staircase to the rear. There were doors at the back of the room leading to the rest of the ground floor. It had been set up as a reception area, with a receptionist’s desk and comfortable chairs. On the wall were posters of happy cows ready for the slaughter and glossily unreal pieces of meat.

  It was also empty of humans.

  “Well, they were only keeping a skeleton crew,” Randell said as cries of “Clear” could be heard from the rear of the building.

  “This doesn’t look good,” Janea said, walking over to the receptionist’s desk. There was a mug of tea on it, and she cupped it with her hand. “Warm.”

  “Building clear,” Major Chap said as a pair of Deltas came down the stairs shaking their heads. “No occupants.”

  “That leaves the slaughterhouse,” Randell said, waving to the rear of the building.

  “I’m getting that shivery feeling,” Janea said, following him out.

  The slaughterhouse was a massive structure, five stories high and nearly a football field long. To either side were equally massive covered stock pens. Which were totally empty.

  A curving sidewalk led from the offices to the front door of the slaughterhouse. There were more personnel doors to either side, and on one end, a large loading dock.

  Again, the area was entirely, eerily empty and quiet.

  “Not even birds,” Janea pointed out.

  “It’s in there,” Barb said.

  “Oh, yeah,” Janea said. “The question is, do we even want to knock on the door to check?”

  As she said that, the door opened and a naked woman walked out. She was skinny and brunette, covered in ichor, with open, pus-filled wounds covering her body. Another and another followed her, each of them staring into the distance as if unable to see. In all there were nearly twenty. And many were clearly pregnant. With what, Barb really didn’t want to think.

  Barb recognized a few of them. Lora Cowper was there as well as Wendy and Titania Boone. And Lorna Ewing. She looked as if she was about dead, her body covered from head to foot in sores, and skinny as a rail. One of the women, a plump blonde in her twenties, was still wearing tatters of clothing. Barb suspected she was looking at the tea-loving receptionist.

  The group stopped about thirty feet from the slaughterhouse and spread out, holding hands.

  “You are come,” they said in sibilant unison. “You shall be my new acolytes. Send unto me the beasts of the field and the maidens of your kind. I shall render you great rewards. Failure shall be punished.”

  “We are not here as your servants,” Randell said, shuddering. “We are here to return these…maidens to their rightful homes and to remove you from this place.”

  He grabbed his head in pain and swayed as a wave of anger radiated from the slaughterhouse.

  “Great punishment shall befall this world!” the women half-sang. “I who once was am again! You have no power before me! Obey my commands or die!”

  “This is why you don’t send unprotecteds on SC,” Barb said. “We need Opus Dei. Major Chap.”

  “Ma’am?” the major said. His face was more set, bu
t if he was in pain it wasn’t evident.

  “Each of your personnel will grab one of the women,” Barb said. “They will probably fight and protest. We will then return to the Expeditions and report.” She paused and breathed hard, aware of the horror of what she was about to say. There were more women than there were personnel. “Lora Cowper, Titania Boone and Wendy Boone are priority,” she continued, pointing to each. Then she took a deep breath. “Other than those, the priority is…the most fit. Leave the ones on death’s door.”

  “Ma’am,” the Delta said. “Clear.”

  “Execute.”

  If any of the Delta Force commandoes were affected by the emanations coming from the Gar, it wasn’t apparent as they sprinted across the lawn and started snatching women. And they clearly had the snatch-and-grab down to an art. All of the women fought, and although a few were in fairly good shape and fairly large, they might as well have been babies. The Deltas picked them up in a complex hold and then sprinted back across the yard.

  There was a tremendous bellow, so high and terrible that even Barbara swayed for a moment, and then the walls of the slaughterhouse started to bulge.

  “Run!” Barb screamed, turning to run into the house. It was the most direct route to the Expeditions.

  She paused at the door, aware that if anyone could look back without becoming Lot’s wife, it was herself. She still took the time to flip down the FLIR.

  Under the FLIR, what was rapidly shredding the steel and concrete of the slaughterhouse wall wasn’t clear at all. Most of it appeared transparent with long pseudopods crashing through the walls. She shook her head, then flipped up the FLIR.

  The only thing her brain could think, besides “RUN,” was of something like a four-story amoeba covered in cilia that were themselves as thick as the trunk of an elephant. The skin of the thing was covered in flickering colors, similar to a squid, but the colors were a leprous green and the purple of gangrene. She knew just seeing the thing was going to give her nightmares, and something in her brain was gibbering into madness.