by Stuart Slade
“Roger that Boulmer. We are commencing our photo run; the pointy heads on the ground should be receiving our imagery in a few minutes.”
“Roger that, Seafire One. Please be aware that a water bomber flight is currently inbound and will pass five hundred meters below you. Over.”
“We’ll keep an eye out for them. Out.”
Incident Command Centre, Sheffield Airport, United Kingdom.
“That looks bad.” Brigadier Alistair Lethbridge-Stewart, late of the Scots Guards, said as he viewed the screens showing the aerial imagery now coming in. Lethbridge-Stewart had been sent in by Midland Command to take charge of all military units being sent to assist the fire service, and to serve as senior liaison officer. The ground stations that he had brought with him were normally used in conjunction with the Sentinel R.1, but could also show imagery from the DJRP and RAPTOR pods, though it was also showing pictures taken by the high flying Canberra.
“Mr Benton could you ask CFO Spurrier, and that vulcanologist woman…what’s her name?”
“Mrs McManus, Sir.” Warrant Officer Class One John Benton replied.
“That’s a familiar name for some reason.” The Brigadier commented. “She’s not a large Scottish lady is she?”
“That would be Michelle McManus, Sir, almost a different species I’d say.
“I’ll go get them, Sir.”
“Well I certainly think that this will be a great help, Brigadier.” Chief Fire Officer Spurrier said a few minutes later after taking in the various picture feeds.
However Lethbridge-Stewart could see that the vulcanologist, Keavy McManus was not looking particularly happy.
“Is there something else we can do for, Mrs McManus?” He asked, being especially charming.
“Yes, Brigadier, you can let the survey team through them military cordon. They’re not doing us much good at the moment.”
“I’ll see what I can do, Mrs McManus, though actual access to the danger area is at the discretion of the fire service.
“Mr Benton, could you ask Captain Munro to organize passes and an escort for Mrs McManus’ survey team; it’s a top priority matter. If they need any engineering assistance then Captain Price should be able to help.”
“I’ll get right on it, Sir.
“There’s a message from Midlands Command for you, by the way, Sir, Major General Rutledge wants to speak to you.”
“If you’ll excuse me, Mr Spurrier, Mrs McManus, I’ll leave you in the capable hands of Colonel Mace.”
Captain Marian Price, Royal Engineers, was tired and hot. She had spent the last twelve hours supervising the unloading of heavy engineering and fire fighting equipment which had been flown in by heavy transporters, such as RAF and USAF C-17A Globemasters. The last thing she needed now was an additional commitment.
“I presume, Private Jenkins, that at least we won’t be required to provide an escort to this survey team?”
“No, ma’m.” Private Ross Jenkins, the messenger from the Command Post, replied. “The Red Caps will escort them in.”
“Well that’s something at least.” Price said. “If they let me know what sort of equipment they might need then I’ll see what we have around.”
She glanced around at the concrete parking apron. It was a chaotic scene of bulldozers, various pieces of heavy plant, fire service High Volume Pumps, and various military vehicles, both armored and soft skinned.
“That’s if I can find anything amongst this lot.” She muttered.
Tapton Hall, Western Sheffield, United Kingdom
More fire crews were arriving every hour, from increasingly distant parts of the UK and even Europe, but they hadn’t been able to prevent the flames advancing up the hill into Broomhill. The order had come to pull back to the Rivelin fire break and that meant a last sweep for civvies trapped in the doomed buildings. Constable Matthew Hillier was one of those detailed for that, something that was a familiar duty by now. He moved briskly through the building, checking each room for anyone left behind by the original evacuation. At least that was improving; the chaos and confusion following the initial attack was diminishing as fresh command staff were flown in and a strategic response plan developed.
Another locked door. Hillier sighed and brought up the fire axe. Fortunately the internal doors were weak and one good strike was enough to smash the lock mechanism. The door splintered and shuddered open to reveal a crumpled female form. He moved quickly to check for signs of life. Relieved to see that the girl was still breathing, if only barely, he reached for his radio.
“This is unit 523, found another casualty in the dorms…” The young woman let out a horrible hacking cough and convulsed, revealing an inhaler grasped in one hand. “…looks like a reaction to the smoke, any ambulances available? Over.” Hillier already suspected what the answer would be, but he had to try. He pulled a spare filter mask from a bag hanging from webbing and drew the elastic over the girl’s head, before grabbing her by the waist and hoisted her up into a fireman’s carry.
That was enough to revive her a little. “Who are… where are we going…”
“Constable Hillier. Stay calm lass, we’ll get you out of here.” He was listening to the chatter on the radio; every channel seemed to be crammed. Finally there was something relevant.
“Unit 523, no ambulances free for non-critical patients at this time. Is she conscious?”
“Barely, control.” Matthew had nearly reached the main entrance. The conversation was interrupted by a report of looters in Walkley. The sound of shots fired came over the channel as the transmission cut off.
“All units be advised a dedicated field hospital for air poisoning casualties just went operational at evac camp beta. 523, take your casualty there.”
Hillier emerged into the car park, a surreal scene of dirty snow and drifting fireflies - or rather ash and embers. The rear doors of the white police Transit van were open and another three late evacuees were huddled inside, all wearing the same cheap filter masks. One was rocking back and forth and crying; he’d been hysterical and Matthew had had to call his partner to help drag him out of the building. Another girl had broken arm an arm and several ribs and moaned constantly with the pain. He set the new arrival down on the sill and spoke to the single uninjured passenger. This man had merely been trapped in a kitchen by the partial collapse of a section of the building. “She’s having trouble breathing, I think she’s asthmatic. Try and keep her conscious.”
He nodded. “I recognize her, nursing student I think, Anna was it?” The girl smiled weakly. “I’ll do what I can Constable.”
Matthew returned to the building, his thoughts returning to his wife. He still hadn’t heard anything; even away from the city centre, his mobile wouldn’t connect, and everyone at control was far too busy to handle personal requests. He tried to push the worry out of his mind. At least the kids were safe, staying in Northumberland this month… That was funny. Special Constable Amstead had been making plenty of noise earlier, but now the only sounds were coming from outside. Matthew reached for his radio again.
“Unit 523 to 3861, where are you Johnny?”
Fifteen seconds passed, with another report on the looters (one shot dead, two surrendered), but nothing from his partner. “Unit 3861, say location please.”
Constable Hillier unslung his MP5 and chambered a round, clicking the selector from ‘safe’ to ‘auto’. No one on the force ignored the possibility of a surprise Baldrick attack after the events in Belfast. It was probably nothing, but… He made his way up to the second floor of the south wing, the last place he’d sent John to sweep.
“Control this is unit 523, lost contact with my partner, moving to investigate.” He waited for the response before proceeding.
“Confirmed 523.” Now should anything happen to him, a response team would be dispatched immediately. He made his way forward down the corridor, gun at the ready, checking the rooms on each side. He made it half way down before glimpsing the prone form of a p
olice officer in the room to the left. There was no obvious blood and the man’s pistol was still in its holster. A quick glance showed the room to the right to be empty, so he stepped into the doorway and dropped into a crouch. “John?!” Too late, he noticed the four thin bony spines sticking out of the special constable’s back.
Constable Hillier almost anticipated the sharp pain that hit him in the spine, though not the strange sputtering crack. He whirled around, bringing the sub machine gun up. His gaze was met by a nightmarish face surrounded by snaky tentacles, the humanoid demon crouching low in the doorway opposite. The gun spat but the burst went high, and before he could correct his aim the gun slipped from his numbing fingers and clattered to the floor. Matthew collapsed, paralyzed and helpless before the demon.
Lakheenahuknaasi pulled herself upright and stared at the men for a few moments. When she spoke it was a smooth and slightly sibilant voice.
“Two little humanss, all for me. Now, what shall I do with you?”
Hunger gnawed at the gorgon, her body desperate for materials to begin rebuilding her smashed leg, but giving in to her instincts now would be suicide. She’d tried to contact Euryale, but every time she began to summon psychic force she nearly fainted again with the pain. No, emulating the tactics of her queen was the only hope for escape. Lakheenahuknaasi brought up her tentacles and prepared to loose her enthrallment darts.
Hellmouth, Field of Dysprosium, South of the River Phlegethon
As his car rolled out of the black oval, Dr Surlethe looked out the window in awe. The long columns of tanks and other armored vehicles, which had stretched out toward the horizon under the blue Iraqi sky, continued here as though there were no break between dimensions. As the highway to hell continued, suddenly the rows of tanks were flanked by buildings, and he was aware of the car slowing down. Ahead was a squat, nondescript building with a thicket of antennas sticking out the top. On the other side was a veritable forest of flagpoles; each had a different flag flying in what looked to be a stiff breeze. The colors looked positively gaudy against the dull, orange sky.
The driver noticed what he was staring at, and commented, “That’s the headquarters building, and them’s the flags of all the nations that’ve signed on in the war against Hell and Heaven.”
“That’s a lot of them,” he said, half to himself. “Where’s the science building?”
“Over this way,” said the driver, and he turned the car to the right as the road they were on fed into another maze of streets in front of the headquarters building. Barracks and other buildings slid by them as they drove, weaving through heavy traffic. People were everywhere – surveyors, construction crews, military types – and the place was buzzing with activity.
They passed an airstrip after a few minutes, the car shaking as some sort of jet climbed over them and thundered off into the sky. As the driver edged over into the left lane, he remarked, “F-111, Aussie bird. Must be off on another reconnaissance mission. The diggers have been working right hard.”
Dr Surlethe nodded, preoccupied. They had not veered to the left or right as far as he could tell, which meant that they’d traveled through a right angle. That meant the hellmouth – still close enough to be visible – should be behind and to the right. Yet it was directly behind them; he could just see it if he craned his head around the passenger seat. This was interesting. The surface geometry here was very clearly non-Euclidean, but light still traveled in straight lines. Very interesting.
The drive pulled off the road into a parking lot and stopped in front of another squat building. It looked exactly the same as the headquarters, except without the flags in front of it. “Thanks,” said Dr Surlethe. He hopped out of the car, grabbed his briefcase, and quickly strode into the building, noting the double airlock doors that excluded the polluted atmosphere of Hell..
In the building, before the receptionist could say anything, he removed his breathing filter and asked, “Where’s the meeting?”
“Your name Sir?” she asked.
“Dr Surlethe,” he said.
“Ah, welcome to Hell!” She smiled. “The department head meeting is down the hall on the left, third door. Room 108.”
“Thanks,” he said over his shoulder, already moving down the hallway. A clock over the receptionist’s desk read 1:02. Inwardly he cursed; damn, two minutes late. As usual.
He took a second outside the door of the conference room to catch his breath, and then opened it as quietly as he could. Every eye was on him; most of the scientists, with mild respect, but there was an air of disapproval about three men in uniform. Dr Surlethe smiled. “Hello, gentlemen, ladies; sorry I’m running a little late.”
“That’s perfectly fine,” said Dr Griswold. He was the head of the geology department, his size and beard making him one of the few people who actually looked the part. “Please, have a seat.” He gestured to the head of the table.
Dr Surlethe nodded, pulled back the chair, sat, and opened his briefcase, pulling out a tablet of paper and a pen. “Okay, let’s see who’s here,” he said. “Dr Griswold, geology?”
“Here.” Dr Surlethe nodded and made a note on the paper.
“Dr Jamison, physics and astronomy?”
“Aye.”
“Dr Sullivan, biology?”
“Present.”
“Dr Fulton, geography?”
“Here.”
“And Dr Abrams, climate science?”
“Here.”
“May I ask who these gentlemen are?” Dr Surlethe blinked at the three military men.
“Certainly,” said one of them. “I am Major Jim Schaeder, your liaison with the military. These are my aides – Leftenant John Grissom from the U.K. and Captain Aleksei Stepanovich Panasov of the Russian Army.”
“Pleased to meet you,” said Dr Surlethe. “Now, I’m sure you all know this, but it bears saying anyway. The goal of this advance research center is to gather as much data about Hell as possible, as quickly as possible, and start to form a coherent picture of the world that we’ve entered. We’ll be sending the information back to Earth, but, we are the scientific front line.
“Now, let’s see where we stand. You have all prepared reports as I requested?” There were nods all around the room. “Dr Jamison, you’ll go first.”
Dr Jamison, a slight, pretty redhead, stood up and shuffled some papers on the table in front of her. “We have not done too much. There are no obvious physical differences between Hell and Earth; on a basic level, at least, they’re very much the same since we’re all standing here.” She smiled, and chuckles drifted around the table. “However, there is some indication that the local gravitational field is maybe as much as 10% weaker than that on Earth; surely you’ve all noticed it walking.” Nods. “Initially, this will obviously impact friction, vehicle performance, etc. That may be why the air is so dusty as well. Other than that, we’re looking to collaborate with geology to get an idea of what’s going on under the ground.
“Putting on my astronomer’s hat, we’ve got no idea what’s going on above this damnable cloud cover.” Dr Surlethe noted that he might need to split the department soon. “We’d like to get a rocket launch pad –” this was aimed at Grissom – “but we understand we’re relatively low priority here.” She turned back to Dr Surlethe. “That’s all I’ve got.”
“Thank you, Dr Jamison. Next, Dr Griswold?”
Dr Griswold stood up. “Geologically speaking, Hell is a very interesting place. It’s incredibly geologically active; the soil here, at least, is composed mostly of broken-down volcanic materials. I won’t bore you with details, but I’ll just say that as recently as two million years ago, this entire plain –” he stretched his hands out, obviously talking about the whole of the prairie that apparently stretched from the Phlegethon just to the north all the way to Dis – “was under a half-mile of lava from that giant caldera to the south. When I say giant, I mean it, We’ve got the first pictures back from the RF-111s, the diameter of that caldera is
almost 700 kilometers. It’s circumference is more than 2,000 kilometers. It must have been one hell of a bang when it let go.
“That’s about as much as we can say about the geologic history of Hell; we need more data. Hopefully, as the geography grows clearer, we’ll be able to say something about the underlying geology and start to construct a picture of the history. And, as Dr Jamison said, we are working to get some geophysical measurements; hopefully, that will start to flesh out our picture some more.” Unceremoniously, Dr Griswold sat down.
“Thank you. Dr Fulton, are you ready?”
“Certainly,” said Dr Fulton, who unfolded himself from his chair and stood up, blinking at the papers in front of him through round spectacles. “This is probably the most pressing field of exploration here, since navigation and knowing what the terrain around us looks like are the most relevant issues to the military. As you all know, the terrain here is decidedly non-Euclidean.” More nods around the table. “We’ve been taking measurements, but this is actually a math problem and not one that any of us geographers have encountered before. So is there a mathematician in the house?”
“That can be arranged,” said Dr Surlethe.
Dr Fulton continued. “Other than that, we’ve been putting together a temporary map based on surveillance pictures from the recent reconnaissance flights. Here it is.” He picked up a stack of papers and handed them out one-by-one as he kept talking. “As you can see, we have the Phlegethon just to the north. In the distance, there are some hills; we speculate that they are foothills to a larger mountain range. In the other direction, it’s all flat, with no major rivers, to the city of Dis. There’s Dis, and then it drops off into the pit.”
The handout wasn’t so much a map as a collage of pictures pasted together in photoshop. The pictures seemed oddly distorted, and didn’t quite match up together at the edges, but the basic components of the terrain were still visible.
“The pit of hell appears to be arranged into nine concentric rings. It’s eerily similar to Dante’s description, working hypothesis, a baldrick got hold of Dante’s mind and let him know what he was in for. We don’t have much data, but we surmise that the descriptions that have been given to us by the DIMO(N) counterinsurgency department match what is visible here, in the sixth ring.” He tapped an area on the map that looked like nothing more than a dark coffee stain. Through it, a river lazily wandered before apparently plunging off the side into the next level. “We surmise that is where the insurgency is located.”