Armageddon??

by Stuart Slade

  “Very good Sir.”

  “Move out as soon as you can. And remember, you are the ranking officer down there.”

  B-1B “Dragon Slayer” 128th Bomb Squadron, Georgia Air National Guard, Approaching Dis

  “Everything dialed in?” Major Curtis Trafford looked at his WSO and got a thumbs up by way of response. The four B-1Bs were in a loose, finger-four formation, cruising at 29,000 feet. The discovery that the air was clear up here had been a major advantage but it also meant that their target was lost in the rolling clouds of red dust underneath. The mapping radar was doing a good job of penetrating it though, the city of Dis was ahead of them and the long spur that stuck out into the great caldera of Hell showed up clearly. Their target was where that spur ended in a rounded promontory, for in the center of that feature was Satan’s palace.

  Detroit was to be avenged and the United States Air Force did not take its revenge by striking at the inconsequential As many consumer advocates had put it, ‘if you want action, go right to the top’. There was another saying as well, ‘for delicate work, get a bigger hammer’. The hammer hanging under Dragon Slayer was the biggest conventional hammer the United States had at its disposal. The Massive Ordnance Penetrator, a 30,000 pound bomb capable of tearing its way through at least 130 feet of moderately hard rock. What it would so to the rock Dis was built on was an interesting question. The hope was that it would collapse the whole spur and drop Satan, complete with his palace, right into the center of Hell.

  The MOPs had been modified for this mission, normally they were GPS guided but the global positioning system was useless in Hell. No satellites and it was not certain whether there was anywhere for a satellite to fly or even anything for them to orbit. Hell wasn’t Kansas. Instead, the bombs had been equipped with an inertial system that was supposed to prevent them wandering off a true trajectory. That left the aiming job in the hands of the B-1s radar.

  “We’ve got a radar picture now. The spur’s showing up really clearly. Also showing was the red carat that marked the predicted impact point of the MOP. All four bombers were on slightly converging courses and the intention was that all four bombs should hit Satan’s palace at the same instant.

  Beast Stables, City of Dis

  “Take care of that wyvern. Feed him carefully, do not let him bloat. If he is made sick I will flay you alive and have you eat your own skin.”

  The orc blanched slightly and took the reins of the Wyvern away from Belial. In the back of the orc’s stunted mind, a memory stirred of the time before these creatures had come. Perhaps it was a genetic memory, perhaps the effect of stories quietly whispered in the dark of night, but there were memories nonetheless. Of a time when the orcs had been free and this had been their home. Before the demons had come, before the great eruption that had poisoned everything. Now, there were more whispers in the darkness, more words on the wind. Words that said the millennia of slavery to the demons was ending, that the demons had taken on a force to powerful even for them to handle. Words that said the orcs might be free again. And these words were backed by the thunder that never stopped, the thunder that came from the Phlegethon River.

  Belial also heard the thunder of the Russian Artillery but it hardly registered. He had other things on his mind, how to present what had happened to his best advantage. He had fulfilled his promise all right, he had identified the two great arsenals of the humans and destroyed them both. The problem was that half his naga were dead and the rest were crippled, stunned by the accident that had taken place during the Dee-Troyt attack. He knew what was the cause of that of course, the other lords had been told to send him their best covens of naga but what they had actually supplied was their youngest and least-experienced. Lying crippled in her sick-bed, Baroness Yalupki had told him of the trouble in getting the inexperienced naga to sing in chorus and how that had caused the portal to flare out of control. Thought of the crippled naga in her sick-bed made Belial think quickly of Euryale but he dismissed the matter. She was a gorgon, in the final analysis replaceable. If she did die of her wounds, she could be replaced with a new consort, one more fitting to be seen at Satan’s Court. In the back of his mind was an uneasy idea that it all wouldn’t be quite that easy.

  He shook himself and walked on. The highway to Satan’s palace, gleaming red-gold as its bronze plating reflected the fires of the hell-pit below, lead along the promontory towards the domed island ahead. As always, Belial looked down at the tiers beneath, the nine great rings separated by high walls that defined Hell itself. Once he had been banished from the city to the wilds of the North and it had taken millennia to worm his way back in, and then only as something barely more than a court jester. Now he was entering as a potential great lord. One who would bask in the favor of Satan himself. Yes, the attacks on Sheffield and Dee-Troyt had gone very well indeed. All that he needed to do was to convince Satan of that.

  Third Platoon, Second Company, Third Battalion, Fourth Regiment, 247th Motor Rifle Division, Phlegethon River Front, Hell

  “Halt” The order was abrupt and there was a tremor of fear in it. The three BMPs approaching the decontamination facility had been right under the Sarin gas cloud that had scoured the harpies from the battlefield. They were doubtless soaked in nerve gas and there was no way anybody here was going to take chances. To either side of the vehicles, high-pressure hoses were already pumping out thick streams of alkaline slurry to coat the BMPs in their white paste. Then, a truck backed up, a jet engine on its back. The exhaust was played over the outside of the armored carriers, swiftly raising the temperatures to almost-intolerable levels. Almost, but not quite and the temperature was needed to hydrolyse the residue of nerve gas on the BMPs. Eventually, the jet engines and the sprays had done their work. Detector waved over the carriers remained silent and Pas’kov’s little command was ordered to one side.

  Yet, the work wasn’t done. They opened the hatches on the BMPs and the crews scrambled out, only to be sprayed with alkaline slurry and brushed down with brooms. Once again, the detectors remained silent and, at last, Pas’kov and his men could remove their chemical warfare suits.

  “Well done Bratischka.” A Captain was standing to one side, his own suit still on. “You have fought as heroes today. We will repair your vehicles and send you back soon but until then you can rest. We have vodka for you, and fresh food.” Behind them, a group of men were being lead away, gently but firmly. They looked healthy but they moved with the shaking, trembling slowness of very old men. The Captain looked at them sadly. “They were not so lucky. Their radio was down and they did not get the word about the gas. Harpies had breached the seals on their vehicles and they were contaminated, They used their antidotes but…..” He shook his head.

  Pas’kov knew what he meant. The atropine and pralidoxime injector had saved their lives but now they were old men in their twenties and would never be anything more. The gas had slaughtered the harpies in a way no other weapon could but it had costs all of its own.

  Assembly Area, Southern Flank, Phlegethon River Front Major Evgenii Yakovlevich Galkin looked at the boxy vehicle next to his tank. One with red mottling applied over its dark gray paint, just as his was mottled with red over its moss-green. The tank looked huge beside his sleek, curved T-90 but there was more to that to fill Galkin with unease. The tank was German.

  “Tovarish major” The voice calling from below was in atrocious Russian, the accent making the simple words almost unintelligible. Still, Galkin understood and dropped off the turret of his tank to where the German was waiting.

  “Soon we will fight together. I just wanted to wish you good hunting.” The words were a lot better this time, Galkin guessed that the German had carefully rehearsed the phrase in an attempt to be friendly. Time to respond. Galkin’s German was better that the German’s Russian.

  “May you have a good bag and a safe hunt.”

  The German beamed in response, then caught the Russian looking at the Leopard. “Have you seen a Leopard II
before?”

  “Only at our tank museum in Kubinka. This is the first one I have seen on service.” The German officer’s eyebrows twitched, there wasn’t supposed to be a Leopard II at Kubinka. How had the Russians got hold of one? “Is this the first Russian tank you have seen?”

  “For me yes. My father, he saw many of course.”

  “In the Great Patriotic War?”

  “He fought at Prokhorovka. With the Panzers, Heer, not SS.”

  Galkin nodded. Odd coincidence. “My father also fought at Prokohorovka. And later.”

  There was a long silence, neither man quite certain what to say next. Eventually Galkin spoke carefully. “Our fathers caused great destruction, between them, at Prokhorovka. Now we can join together and inflict the same those who threaten us both.”

  The German nodded. “We can. As soon as our commanders let us off the leash.”

  Chapter Sixty Five

  Winder Street, Detroit, Michigan

  “Go ahead and blow it Taguba.” Lieutenant Preston didn’t need binoculars this time; the old factory was right in front of him. The weathered brick building appeared to have been a food processing plant, before being boarded up and abandoned. Now it would provide much-needed material for the bulldozers.

  The demolition was on a smaller scale than the intersection they’d destroyed earlier, but at this range it was just as loud. The building didn’t collapse completely, but it was good enough for the dozers to get to work without risk of being crushed. Right now this was a relatively safe area, the lava seemed to be flowing down towards the river and the inrushing wind made Detroit’s wide highways function as acceptable fire breaks. That situation could change at any moment though, and securing a safe perimeter was vital. The improvised levees and wide areas of cleared rubble behind them were the only way to do that.

  “Good job.” Actually it was pretty sloppy, Preston thought, but right now morale was a much higher priority than perfecting combat demolitions technique. “Move on to the next block.”

  “Thank you sir, will do, Taguba out.” The Sergeant’s voice was muffled by the filter mask but still clearly enthusiastic. Probably adrenaline. Preston hoped he didn’t use it all up too quickly, this was going to be a very long shift.

  “Sir, looks like those Guardians are back.” Private Russell was pointing to the south and sure enough a pair of boxy, angular shapes were emerging from the gloom. The first one didn’t slow, heading straight past them towards the field hospital still being set up at the outer perimeter. The trailing armored car rolled to a halt; much of the paintwork was burned black, the hull bore dents and gouges and smoking debris still clung to parts of the body. The side hatch swung open to reveal a familiar face.

  “Lieutenant, thought yah should know… the Lafayette’s gone up completely now, we won’t be pulling any more people out of there.” Preston nodded grimly. Neighborhoods full of trees were a death-trap in a fire this big. The man continued; “The fire’s moving west along the bank, it looked to me like the FD are gonna try and hold it at Chene Street…”

  He was interrupted by a sudden drawn-out roar, distinct over the omnipresent deep rumble and thuds of the lesser collapses.

  “Hell, that was probably the Ren-Cen going. One of the towers at least. The lava must’ve hit the river by now.”

  “Thank you…” Preston struggled to remember the man’s name. “…Mr O’Reilly. We’ll get down to Chene and see if we can help as soon as we’re done here.”

  “Right. We’d better drop this lot off and get back in there. Todd, let’s go.” The hatch slammed shut and the M-1117 moved off.

  Looking back to the destroyed plant, Lieutenant Preston was glad to see one of the dozers already plowing through the far corner, pushing rubble towards the slowly growing levee.

  Belial’s Stronghold, Tartaruan Range, Northern Region of Hell

  “It’s a simple question, Baroness, was it sabotage or incompetence? When our Master returns in triumph from Satan’s court, he will want an answer.” The emphasis Euryale put on the naga’s rank dripped contempt. The gorgon stared down at the prostrate Yulupki, her pose imperious despite the nasty burns and tears that marked her bronze flesh. As soon as Belial had left for Satan’s court, mounted on the fastest wyvern in the stables, Euryale had dropped the ‘critically injured’ pose and started to get her arrangements in order. “Of course it amounts to the same thing, since you personally assured the our Master that sabotage was impossible and any attempt would be suicide for the naga that tried it.”

  Baroness Yulupki was a much less imposing sight, sprawled on an unkempt couch and still writhing with pain from the injuries she had received in the disastrous ritual. “That would have been true, if the witchesss the other nobles sent been worthy of the name!” she snapped back. “This group might as well have been hatchlingsss, it was obvious that they had never worked as a large chorusss before.” She glared at the memory of seeing yet another limp snakelike form being dragged over the crater rim by the winged silhouette of one of Euryale’s handmaidens. The humiliation tasted bitter to the naga leader. “Of course if I’d had a reassonable amount of time to train them…”

  “So, what are you going to tell Belial? That his plan was unrealistic? Or that you could not make a gang of hatchlings obey you?”

  “I will tell him that this disassster was the result of your ssservant’s incompetence!” Yulupki was screaming at this point. ”That a gorgon cannot be trussted with sseriousss witchcraft or expected to ssurvive the least bit of human resissstance!”

  Euryale flashed a fanged smile back, but it was a humorless one. “You expect that to be believed, do you?”

  She was fairly confident that she could prevail over Yulupki, but a fight over blame would leave both of them looking bad. The plan could be disrupted even more, and she didn’t put it past Belial to throw a tantrum and dismiss both of them – and if it hadn’t been for the apparently successful destruction of the human city, the consequences would’ve been much worse. Euryale stared down at Yulupki, waiting for her to falter. It didn’t take long. The naga looked away and began to hiss softly; “Well, I mean, I will make it clear…”

  Euryale cut her off. “It was obviously sabotage. You detected the culprits, but the unexpected incompetence of the foreign naga masked their actions until too late. They were in the delegation from…” The gorgon’s voice trailed off expectantly.

  Yulupki looked startled. “I can’t be ssure, most likely thosse of Bezeelbub, but it could have been the ssenior ones from those Asmodeusss ssent or even…”

  “…the delegation from Asmodeus.” Euryale continued smoothly. ”I hope at least one survived as you know how the Count enjoys dispensing appropriate punishment.”

  Euryale sighed. From the look on her face Yulupki obviously still didn’t get it. “Getting Belial angry at Bezeelbub will only cause unnecessary problems. Asmodeus on the other hand, firstly he is dead… oh, you didn’t know? Of course not, silly me, your commendable dedication has left you a little out of the loop.” At this point Euryale was simply toying with her rival. “Yes, Asmodeus is dead, and his outer holdings lie ripe for Belial’s taking. I think a little extra incentive should get things moving nicely. Understand?”

  Yulupki couldn’t bring herself to reply, but nodded silently.

  “We understand each other then. Excellent.” It would be a long time before that one dared challenge her again, Euryale thought smugly.

  Detroit River, Michigan

  The Stormont ploughed through the fast-flowing water, its engines straining hard to push the massive flat barge in front of it. Its usual cargo of trucks had been replaced with as many humans as would fit onto the deck; the ferry had become one of the few escape routes for residents trapped in the inferno that had been downtown Detroit.

  In the wheelhouse Captain Marcie Mahaffey drummed her fingers on the throttle levers, trying to will the ship to go faster. As a girl she’d always wanted to be a trucker, much to the derision of h
er male relatives. In retrospect, her ambitions had a lot to do with the fact that truckers spent most of their time in places more interesting than her hometown. Somehow, though, she’d ended up on the great lakes freighters, where it had taken near ten years of hard work before she got her master’s license. At last she had a ship to call her own, even if it was just a tugboat. Now fate had come calling and it was up to the Stormont and her crew to save hundreds of lives.

  Marcie’s eyes straining to pick out the far bank from the grey-orange glow. By now the entire downtown grid was an inferno and she wasn’t sure there would be any survivors left to pick up on this trip. On each landing it had been agonizing pulling away the last time, but once people started to be forced off the sides of the barge into the water she’d had no choice. Some people had been so desperate they’d thrown themselves into the river and swam for it. Their chances weren’t good; the Detroit river was notoriously treacherous under normal conditions, and with the thick smoke and drifting ash drowning was even more likely. She’d ordered the crew to tie lines strung with floats off the barge, and that seemed to have saved a few strong enough to hang on until they reached the back.

  They were close enough to see the buildings now, backed by a bright glow – Marcie gulped as she realized that the lava was nearly at the bank Correction; was already spilling into the river. As she registered that fact a shuddering roar rattled the windows; something was falling, something very big. One of the Renaissance Center’s five towers had come down, briefly dimming the glow from the lava in a fresh cloud of smoke and dust.

  Captain Mahaffey pulled the wheel over, steering the barge away from the deadly glow, and grabbed the PA microphone. “Now y’all hear, this is gonna be touch-and-go, the others ‘ll be down in a sec, the whole bank ‘ll be gone not soon after, and we ain’t hanging around for that.” Ahead she could see one fireboat still spraying the shore around the tunnel entrance, but no other ferries. There were even more bodies in the water that before, but there was nothing to be done about that. Marcie reversed the port engine, then a few seconds later the starboard one, trying to soften the barge’s impact on the quay. The thud as it struck the bank in front of Hart Plaza was still enough to throw her against the wheel.