by Stuart Slade
The smoke was so thick it was difficult to see what was going on, but there seemed to be shapes moving on the flat deck of the barge. The roar came again, louder this time and longer; Marcie looked right to see the dim hulking shape of the Renaissance Center’s remaining towers collapse into a giant ball of smoke and flame. Cracks and clunks sounded as debris hit the tug; one window shattered violently and then the deck heaved as the wave from the displaced water spread from the impact point. Marcie had ducked for cover when the window shattered; she could barely hear the screams from out front confirming that the barge had also taken impacts. She looked up to see the that the fireboat just upstream had been hit much worse. In fact it looked like it had taken a beating; its superstructure was smashed in several places and its pumps had stopped spraying. As she watched it lost headway and began to drift downstream – directly towards the barge.
Captain Mahaffey shoved the throttles to full reverse, the Stormont’s twin diesels now straining to pull the barge out of the collision zone. With painful slowness the tug-barge combination began to back off. She keyed the PA mike again, and this time it was to holler that one stereotyped line every captain hoped they’d never have to say. “All hands, brace for impact!”
There just wasn’t enough time to clear the fireboat, and sure enough the stern of the other ship slammed into the far end of the barge, forcing it away from the bank and spinning it almost ninety degrees. The tugboat was designed to push not pull, and the strain was too much for the coupling. The now-untethered cable whipped back to slap against the hull, the Stormont surged backwards and the hapless barge floated free.
Marcie struggled back to her feet, fighting mild concussion resulting from the sudden encounter with the deck. Already painfully hot, the turgid air was becoming increasingly difficult to breath, due to the vast amounts of steam being produced by the lava entering the water. Escaping downstream looked like a good idea at this point, but left to its own devices that barge would likely ground again on the now-burning banks. So she thrust the throttles forward once more, hoping the machinery (not to mention her crew) hadn’t been shock damaged. The tug was built tough and didn’t disappoint her, surging forwards again to catch up with the errant barge. As she feared, it was bumping along the western bank and in danger of snagging on one of the piers. But before her own boat could reach it, the fireboat emerged from the smoke and pushed its prow against the barge’s stern. The two vessels pulled away from the bank; once they had reasonable clearance Mahaffey skillfully maneuvered the Stormont into place next to the fireboat. The lettering on its hull read ‘Anthony J. Celebreeze – Cleveland Fire Department’ - Marcie was surprised it had been able to get up to Detroit so quickly.
With the two boats pushing together the barge was soon downstream of the Ambassador bridge and clear of the steam and smoke. Marcie could now see the people on the deck clearly; most still slumped motionless, but a few moving around, trying to help the wounded. She let out a long, relieved whistle – these people were alive, and clear, thanks to her and the Stormont. Many more hadn’t made it though – and the current definitely seemed to be getting stronger, which meant the channel was becoming blocked. On the plus side, she thought blackly, a little flooding would make controlling the fires easier.
Lady Wood, near Grimethorpe, United Kingdom
“Sir, the dog team has found a body. Could be one of our officers.”
Inspector Heaton looked up from his clipboard, which held a map of local area annotated in felt-tip pen. Laptop computers had their uses but he preferred good old hard copy where possible.
“Already? Where are they?”
“About a quarter mile due north.”
The forensics team were still examining the rear of the abandoned van. “Mitchell, got a body for you, are you done there?”
“Pretty much Inspector. The blood is definitely Baldrick, no surprises there. Still no idea about those needles, we’ll have to wait for the lab work.”
“Ok. Constable Dasari, escort them over to the K-9 team please. I’ll shift the sweeps north… oh, and here come the squaddies.”
Inspector Heaton didn’t recognize it, but the bulky 4x4 roaring down the track was a Panther CLV. He did recognize the machine gun and grenade launcher on its remote weapon mount, though he’d never seen both mounted together like that before. The vehicle came to a stop and Heaton found himself facing a dark-haired officer with a prominent moustache, flanked by two soldiers carrying battle rifles.
“Brigadier Lethbridge-Stewart.” The newcomer thrust out his hand and Heaton reflexively shook it. “I take it we have a confirmed Baldrick presence?”
“You could say that. That van was driven here from Sheffield and the back is coated in dried green blood. Plus we’ve just found…”
Inspector Heaton clicked the channel selector on his radio and spoke into it. “Sergeant Taylor, any ID on the body yet?”
The voice that responded sounded vaguely sick. “Yes sir… make that two bodies. They’re badly torn up but they’re definitely our lads. Sir, the way the entrails are torn out… I think the demon was eating them. They’ve got more of those needle things, sticking out of them.”
Lethbridge-Stewart’s eyebrow shot up. “Inspector, pull your men back. They’re not trained for this.”
“And yours are?” Heaton was affronted at the implication that his officers couldn’t handle one murderer, however vicious and depraved.
“Not just trained, combat tested. Don’t ask, you’re not cleared for it. Look, I see you’ve already got a perimeter in place, good work. You can hold that until my troops can relieve you. But more Baldricks could portal in at any moment.”
Heaton gulped. “Yes sir.” He started barking orders into the radio.
Somewhere in Hell, On The Way To Tartarus
Hello, Memnon, can we talk?”
Memnon recognized the voice in his head. One of the humans making a scheduled contact. The conversation would make a good excuse to rest.
Yes, I am resting for a while. Tell my Master Abigor that I am doing well, that I have covered almost two thirds of the distance to Tartarus.
There was a brief pause and when the voice came back, it was tinged with respect. You have made good time then. We had expected you to be only half way by now. Way to go Memnon!
Memnon basked in the praise, that was a nice thing about humans, when somebody did a good job, they noticed and praised it. Didn’t scream in rage and demand to know why the achievement hadn’t been commonplace in the past. Memnon thought about that, nobody in Hell really tried to exert themselves because if they excelled in anything, that would become the standard they would be held to from that point onwards. ‘Just good enough’ was the watchword.
My Lord demanded that I move as fast as I could. I just obeyed his commands
Nevertheless you’ve done well and bought us a little time we didn’t expect. Take some of it to rest up. Is there anything you need? We can open a portal to you if we need to.
I am doing well thank you. I hunted on the way up and fed well. Soon I will be at Tartarus.
Good. Find yourself somewhere safe, not too far from Belial’s fortress so we can portal our team to you. We’ll be in contact again this time tomorrow.
Memnon settled back on his rocks and relaxed, feeling very good about himself. It was nice to work for people who appreciated his efforts.
CNO’s Office, the Pentagon, Washington D.C.
“We’ll need a portal at least 200 feet wide and at least the same high. For safety, three hundred feet. That’ll mean we can get a CVN through and run the SSNs in submerged. How many of my CVNs do you want to send to hell.” Admiral Gary Roughead paused for a second. “I still can’t believe I just said that.”
Secretary Warner grinned in reply. “It does take getting used to doesn’t it. Anyway, we want to send two carriers through initially, with full air groups. By the way, they’ll be joined by the Admiral Nakhimov and the Pyotr Veliky. They’re on their way ove
r to Norfolk now. Screening ships as required.’
Roughead drummed his fingers. “That leaves us with eight CVNs this side. Pretty thin, even with Newport News working triple shifts on the two new ones. Overrunning Hell is one thing but this is our home, we have to be secure here.”
“The Lyndon Johnson and Herbert Hoover? Even working flat out, they’re four years away. We looked at recommissioning some of the old dinosaur-burners but they’re too far gone. We’ll have to make do with eight this side I’m afraid.”
“And they’ve lost their E/F-model Superbugs. We can send Truman and Stennis through. They’ve got three squadrons of Bugs and one of Rhinos each. We’ve fleshed the squadrons out, they’re at eighteen birds each right now. Gives them 72 attack birds each. I wish we’d never pulled the A-6s from service. We’ve got some SLUFs coming back though. Question. How do they get back? I’m told its virtually impossible to hold a big gate open from this side.”
“It is, but we’re going to push this one through from hellside to the AUTEC site off Bermuda. We’re going to try and make it large enough so that it’s permanent, like the one in Iraq. That way, if we lose the Iraqi one, we’ve got this as a backup. Has to be a sea gate so we can get freighters through to supply the forces we’ve got deployed in hell right now.” Secretary Warner thought for a second. “Like it or not Admiral, hell is part of our environment from now on. It’s there, no matter what happens. We have to have solid contact with the place, communications, everything else we take for granted. This second permanent portal won’t be the last, there’ll be more, many more. Our world literally has gotten to be a whole lot bigger.”
Chapter Sixty Six
Beelzebub’s Command Post, Northern Front, Phlegethon River
There was nothing left, nothing that Beelzebub could see anyway. He could see what was left of his harpy flock, the ground black with bodies where human magery had slaughtered them. A few survived, some because they were outside the area affected, others by some weird fluke that defied definition. Others were staggering around, their movements jerking and ill-coordinated. But of the foot-soldiers who had been caught under the dreadful barrage of magebolts, there was nothing left. The ground was bare, harrowed, even the vegetation was gone. Swallowed up by the rolling earth that had thrown Beelzebub himself from his feet and shaken him until he thought every bone in his body would break.
He cudgeled his brain, trying to get the thoughts in his head back into some sort of order. The blow had been shattering, a huge part of his army had been squeezed along the banks of the Phlegethon, most of his harpies had been concentrated over the human defenses. Just what had he got left of the 243 legions that had started this battle? Not all his legions had been in the waves that had fallen victim to the human mages, surely not all of them had died. He clawed his way to his feet, shouting for a harpy to carry his messages.
One presented himself, dirty, stained, muddy but alive. “Sire, I come from Pritograshnaris, Commander of the sixth line of your Army. He begs your forgiveness sire, but he reports that he must halt his advance while he reorganizes his force. His forty legions are in disarray my Lord.”
“Casualties?”
“Not many Sire, the human mage-fire fell short of his line. His formations were disrupted by the earthquake caused by the mage-fire, the foot soldiers could not remain standing while the ground rolled under them. Many are injured but they can still fight….” The harpy stopped, awkwardly, not knowing quite what to say next. Or, rather, not knowing how to phrase the message so that he could survive delivering it.
“What.” Beelzebub snapped the response out.
“My Lord, the soldiers, they are reluctant to advance still further. They fear the mage-fire will come back for them and they fear the magery that destroyed the harpies still lingers there.” The harpy dropped his head and waited for death.
Beelzebub reflected that it had been a long time since he had last eaten and he could use a snack. However, harpies were in short supply after that terrible mage-blast. It was an unfamiliar feel for a Lord who had built his forces around his harpy-flock. He needed this one alive. Snacks could wait. Anyway, his foot-soldiers were right, the human magery was lingering, he had seen some of them flee forward to escape the mage-fire, across the river and they had died convulsing and twitching just as the harpies had done. The human defenses were still there, he adjusted his vision to long range and saw the hole torn in their lines, a hole that barely scratched its depths and one that new Iron Chariots were already moving in to fill. He knew what would come next, the chariots would charge and crush his force. It suddenly dawned on him that his 40 surviving legions were the only organized military force between the humans and Dis.
“Go to Pritograshnaris, tell him to suspend the attack. Form a defense line on the, no, behind the hills. If the humans can fight from behind hills, then so can we. Dismount the naga from their beasts and get them ready to fire on the human attack. Human magery and mage-fire have broken this attack, now we must break theirs. After you have delivered that message fly south and see Chiknathragothem. Tell him that our attack here has stalled due to magery of unprecedented power. It is now down to him to break through the human defenses and repel their army. We shall block the road to Dis. He must be the hammer and we shall be the anvil with the humans crushed between us. Now go.”
Thankful to be alive, the harpy left. Beelzebub stared after him, then concentrated on the area in front of his position, where the first five line of his army had once been. Incredibly, survivors were moving down there, pulling themselves out of the very earth itself. They were picking themselves up, retreating, staggering would be a better word, back to where his new defense line was forming. His decision to end the attack was the right one, but even if he hadn’t made it, what was left of his army would have made it for him. For the first time in his long life Beelzebub knew the full meaning of defeat. It didn’t mean that the benefits of fighting on did not match the costs, it meant that an army could no longer fight. In his heart, Beelzebub knew that this war was lost, that it had been lost before it had even started.
“Sire.” A Greater Herald was landing. Beelzebub was shocked, the creature was gray and visibly shaking. “Sire, something terrible had happened.”
Satan’s Palace, City of Dis, Fifth Ring, Hell
The four B-1s had already made three runs over the target area, assembling their radar picture and ensuring the primary drop point had been properly identified. Their fourth run was the real thing. At almost the same instant, the four B-1Bs released the MOPs. The four massive bombs began accelerating at 0.8 Gs and quickly turned nose-down, presenting a small, hardened cross-section to the granite they were about to strike. As they fell, the radar in the nose of each B-1B tracked the fall and the approximate trajectory, and automatically radioed small corrections to each corresponding bomb, causing the fins to slightly turn, adjusting its course. In just under forty-seven seconds, the four bombs had all covered the five-and-a-half mile drop, and at precisely the same time they struck the bronze roof of Satan’s palace in a square twenty meters across.
As it happened, an unlucky orc was standing directly beneath one of the bombs, which was now hurtling down at more than 1,250 miles per hour; he was crushed into a paste before he realized what had hit him, and his remains were carried down in front of the bomb as it crashed through the floor into the basement, and then through the basement floor into the rock foundation of Satan’s palace. Each of the four bombs traveled approximately 130 feet into the granite underneath Satan’s palace before the fuses in their tails initiated. The combined 120,000 pounds of steel and high explosive detonated an instant thereafter.
Because granite is far denser than air, the speed of sound in the rock is much higher than the speed of sound in air. In fact, the speed of sound in granite is approximately 19,500 feet per second. As the bombs detonated, a shockwave formed in the explosive material and hit the surrounding rock at more than 20,000 miles per hour, driven by the gas pro
ducts of the reaction. Impact from the shockwave vaporized the granite surrounding the bombs, creating a core of superheated rock vapor which followed the pressure wall as it continued at half again the speed of sound through the granite, vaporizing rock which it encountered.
The four roughly spherical shockwaves met each other in less than four thousandths of a second. If an observer could have seen the meeting in a cross-section of the granite foundation to Satan’s castle, he would have seen the four spheres of superheated gas seem to merge as they encompassed each other, merging into what would appear to be a flattened pancake, centered at the center of mass of the four bombs and traveling outward at mach 1.5. Looking up, he would see Satan’s castle — and he would focus on the single wavefront traveling upward, about to reach the surface.
The rock holding back the volume of gas melted under the onslaught of the shockwave, draining energy from it and slowing it until it slipped under the shockwave threshold and became a particularly large and destructive pressure pulse, traveling at just under the speed of sound. Just under six thousandths of a second after the bombs first initiated, the pulse from the blast reached the surface. When it did, several things happened at once. Where it touched the foundation rocks, the stone out of which Satan had built his palace transmitted the pulse upward, buckling and crushing the huge building blocks where they stood. Where it touched nothing but air, the spalling effect threw huge chunks of rock into the air, jarring from the spur and turning them into missiles that arced upward and outward to descend in a ghoulish hail onto Dis.
As the pressure pulse reached the edge of the spur, the energy had nowhere to go. If the spur had been made of some extremely ductile metal, it would have sprung out and then back, reflecting the pressure wave back into the interior and causing it to ring like some gigantic, unimaginably deep bass gong. As it stands, granite is nowhere near as flexible; therefore, the pressure wave fragmented the surface of the spur into house-sized boulders and threw them out into the surrounding caldera like pebbles.