“Out here this huge blackness is like a gulf that goes on forever with no sign of light or life or substance,” she said.
Sandy felt Carlos’s shoulder lean gently against hers—sharing the overpowering stillness.
“When are they coming?” Carlos asked.
“I haven’t been able to see them. Ever since they departed the Mountain Inn in New Hampshire, they disappeared from my view. Gabriella would be able to see them. She’s out there somewhere in that emptiness. Inside my heart, Carlos, that’s what it’s like without her. A big black nothingness.”
Carlos asked again, “When are they coming?”
Sandy leaned away from him.
“If I were to hazard a guess, I would say tonight. They have had time to prepare for an attack. They are bristling from their failure at the Nubble Light and having their base camp blown up. Even the fact that they disappeared from my telepathic view indicates that they have probably moved down here near us.”
“The sooner, the better,” said Carlos.
“Why’s that?”
“In a defensive position, sitting in a foxhole and waiting for an enemy attack is the worst. Waiting is harder than fighting. Our warriors are tough, but if we had to wait in this posture for weeks, we would lose our vigilance.”
“Well, I think they’re coming tonight and our battle will take place on All Hallows Eve,” Sandy said. She gazed out into the black, empty void.
Hank rode Sadie along the perimeter with all four dogs trotting around the horse’s hooves. He stopped and dismounted at each Claymore antipersonnel mine to check their deployment.
“Stay behind me,” he told the dogs. “These are called Claymore Mines, named after a Scottish sword. I’ve got them deployed with trip wires, so when the enemy approaches our positions our soldiers will be protected. Each one of these babies has seven hundred steel balls that fire out in a sixty-degree arc for fifty meters. It’s like having seven hundred riflemen added to each fighting position.”
Hank looked back at the dogs who were all sticking their muzzles into the opening of the fighting position behind Hank. Two gloved hands were reaching out through the gun port to pet the curious animals.
“Thanks, Hank,” Antonio said. “That’ll slow ‘em down.”
“Okay,” Hank said. “Let’s go, pups, we have twenty more of these Scottish swords to check. Remember: stay with me and do not go out beyond the perimeter.”
Hank led Sadie back behind Antonio and Jacob’s foxhole and the dogs sniffed along behind the horse.
Carlos studied the large wall-mounted satellite image of Cielavista, once the object of his passion as a landscape architect, now an armed encampment. Peter had superimposed military map symbols on the image. The perimeter was divided into three sections, and each section had six fighting positions, designated by a small rectangle with a fan-shape facing outward—their fields of fire. These fans overlapped from one fighting position to the other all along the defensive crescent.
“Excellent detail, Peter,” said Carlos. “I see you have posted each soldier’s range card under every fighting position on your schematic.”
The cards were marked with exact ranges to every significant terrain feature in their range fan. The locations of each Claymore mine was marked there too, with smaller fans spreading outward, showing the killing zones of these antipersonnel mines.
“What’s this?” asked Peter, looking down on Carlos’ uncluttered table.
“My father gave me this,” Carlos said. “General George S. Patton sent these out to all the soldiers in his Third Army as a Christmas card in 1944.”
Carlos read the card, “‘Almighty and most merciful Father, we humbly beseech Thee, of Thy great goodness, to restrain these immoderate rains with which we have had to contend. Grant us fair weather for Battle. Graciously hearken to us as soldiers who call on Thee that, armed with Thy power, we may advance from victory to victory, and crush the oppression and wickedness of our enemies, and establish Thy justice among men and nations. Amen.’
“Then on the same card,” said Carlos, “see here, Peter? ‘Headquarters Third United States Army. To each officer and soldier in the Third United States Army, I wish a Merry Christmas. I have full confidence in your courage, devotion to duty, and skill in battle. We march in our might to complete victory. May God’s blessings rest upon each of you on this Christmas Day.’
“Then here— Patton’s signature.”
“Wow,” said Peter, “back in those days, generals could actually invoke the name of God and publish it.”
“Yeah, Peter. We could use some fair weather for battle. This nasty drizzle and overcast sky favors the enemy, gives him concealment and cover, and makes our troops cold and miserable.”
“Well, let’s pray, Uncle.”
The afternoon sun was powerless against the steel-grey lid clamped over coastal New England. Carlos and Peter went to the back of the barn’s loft and looked out over the cliff to the dreary sky and churning black waves. “Lord Jesus, our Savior, we ask you to move this weather out to the sea and give us clear skies for the battle tonight. Amen.”
The two men walked outside to the edge of the cliff. They looked down at Sandy, standing hatless with her face to the wind. On the near side of the crevice they noticed the little orange nylon tent with a glowing campfire in front of it. Sandy performed one of her impossible leaps across the wide space and stood next to Brian. He was rapidly writing a message in his notebook. She gave Brian a punch in his shoulder and he took off up the cliff. In three minutes he stood dripping wet in front of Carlos and Peter. They took Brian to the ops center and gave him a cup of soup while he waited for their response.
“When the St. James church bell strikes the sixth toll at midnight, every Task Force Saber warrior will blow their harmonicas,” Carlos read the note and looked at Peter.
Peter just shrugged. He called one of the ops center runners and told him to deliver the word verbally to each company commander for immediate distribution to all Task Force Saber personnel.
Brian waited for Carlos to write his message for delivery back to Sandy. Carlos wrote, “Sandy, we need clear weather for battle.” Brian left the barn. Ten minutes later Carlos and Peter looked out the loft window and saw a thin line of bright blue open up under the clouds on the horizon.
“Have the kitchen prepare enough rations for the fighters on the perimeter to last them twenty-four hours,” Carlos told Peter. “That means tonight’s dinner, some nuts and fruit to sustain them through the night, something for breakfast and lunch tomorrow. We won’t resupply them with anything but ammo until after midnight tomorrow, maybe later.”
“Always thinking of your warriors,” said Peter as he wrote out the order for a runner to deliver it to the kitchen.
“Get them into position,” said Director Goldstein. Andrew relayed the message to each platoon leader via telepathy. “I thought you had created cloud cover and rain,” he said.
“I did,” said Andrew. “Seems that the weather is one thing that is more responsive to FITO’s cockroaches than my atmospheric instruments. Their local energy force pushed my weather system off to the east.”
They looked out the windows of the van. The starlit night was crystal clear. The belly of a half-moon hung over the treetops in the east. “That’s not good,” said Goldstein.
Frances’ voice had morphed into a low, angry growl. “I will not tolerate any negativity in my command center.” Goldstein flinched. What unnerved him wasn’t so much Frances’ words or even her tone: it was the force of manifest evil that inhabited her foul breath. These men, who had been at the source of thousands of killings and innumerable atrocities, had never encountered the level of Satanic presence that possessed their chairwoman.
“Victory is ours,” said Romano with as much enthusiasm as he could muster.
In the screen above Andrew’s keyboard, they watched their forces spread out along the road at the edge of Cielavista. “We’re still invisible,”
said Romano. “Our umbrella of dissonant energy conceals our soldiers.”
“Show me the artillery,” said Frances.
Andrew toggled one of his joysticks controlling their satellite camera until the screen showed the artillery emplacements. He thumbed the button on the controller to enlarge their view of the three batteries of dart launchers.
“What’s their signal for firing?” asked the chairwoman.
“The first toll of the midnight bell,” said Romano.
“And the signal for our units to attack?”
“Third toll, Madam Chairwoman,” Romano said. “At that signal, the artillery will shift their fire fifty meters deeper into the target, launch eight volleys, then hold fire until Carlene calls for targets of opportunity.”
Unconsciously, the eerie chord breathed out from their mouths. Barely audible—Romano hummed the low E, Andrew the D#, and Frances the A#. On the roof of the Mercedes van sat three grinning demons humming the same notes in an upper register. The three Directorate leaders waited in that dark trance while the clock on the wall above the screen ticked off the minutes.
The half-moon slid upward.
The bell in the tower of St. James Episcopal Church sounded the first toll of midnight, ringing in All Hallow’s Evening.
Antonio and Jacob leaned forward against the earthen wall of their fighting position, eyes scanning the woods to their front.
Jacob reached for his vibrating cell phone. He read the text, “A, S, F, T, L, A, F, G. A sword for the Lord and for Gabriella. The enemy is here. Take courage, my brother.”
The first toll of the church bell rang out and they heard a loud pattering on the thick roof of their foxhole.
“Enemy fire arrows,” said Jacob.
Two more tolls of the bell and they heard the heavy crunch of footsteps tromping toward them.
“Where are they?” said Jacob.
“Harmonicas,” said Antonio.
The moment the sixth toll sounded, the notes of the C major scale rang out along the Saber’s perimeter. The attackers suddenly became visible—massive, robotic brutes steadily advancing with a discordant humming noise.
“So that’s what these are for,” said Antonio. “Now we can see the enemy!”
Seconds later the four Claymores covering their front exploded and twelve large bodies flew upwards and backwards, limbs windmilling and dismembering in the flash. Leaves and twigs flew into Antonio and Jacob’s goggles from the back-blast. They watched their sector for targets. The battle was on.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
“So much for your musical umbrella, you idiots,” said Frances. Romano and Andrew braced for Frances’ next strike. “Our entire first wave is down, wounded or dead. Look at this.”
The attacking horde became a chaotic herd. The Directorate soldiers milled around, bumping into each other. Squad leaders screamed and fired their pistols at their men.
Romano grabbed the radio microphone, “Fall back to your attack positions and regroup. Cease firing. Fall back.”
“You timid weakling,” said Frances, her mouth so close to Romano her spittle sprayed into his ear. “Attack. I say attack!”
Romano held up his hand and said, “Yes, Commander, most respectfully. We need to start over. I will be back.”
“Andrew, tell the squad leaders to assemble in the cemetery,” said Romano.
Romano left the van and jogged over to the Directorate’s original assembly area. When the leaders arrived, he reinforced his discordant humE2` and they hypnotically joined him. They were rattled and horrified.
“My dear children,” Romano said calmly, “you have done well. Victory is now ours.”
Entranced, the seven unit leaders stared blankly at their commander.
“Your soldiers will follow you on this next attack. Firdos, your squad will combine with Carlene’s.” Romano reorganized the order of battle and formed six squads from the remnants of the original seven. He dictated a new attack order to his forces when a flash of heat scorched his back.
He turned around, raised his forearm to protect his eyes, and there was Frances. Hovering over her head were six horrific beings, glowing orange and red. From their mouths a fetid odor belched out, and putrid gobs of sludge dribbled down their hairy chests.
“Enough, Romano,” Frances said. A deeply hoarse male voice oozed from her snarling mouth. “You will now lead the third squad. I have taken command.”
Frances’ feet were off the ground. Her body drifted back over the grave markers. The humming grew louder and more heinous.
“Follow me,” Frances said and she glided forward to the cemetery wall. The squad leaders lined up behind her.
“Forces of the directorate fall in,” she bellowed.
The demons swirled out over the quivering crowd of barbaric fighters and herded them into the graveyard.
“Form this mob into their ranks,” ordered Frances.
The squad leaders quickly gathered their charges and lined them up in six separate formations. Each squad had six ranks of eleven men in each rank. The artillerymen—twenty strong—formed another platoon behind the six squads.
Frances hovered in front of a black marble monument. The six demons swooped around the formation.
“Executives,” Frances called, “come over here.”
Romano and Randal left their units and stood near their demonic chairwoman.
“Where’re the other two? Donald, Olivia, get your worthless rears out here where I can see you.”
Donald Snow and Olivia Kingston stepped out of their BMW and picked their way through headstones. They stood next to Randal and Romano. Donald’s Italian loafers and Olivia’s dress heels were covered with mud.
“New lines of authority,” said Frances. “I now proclaim myself both president and field marshal over the Directorate. These people in front of you have been inept in their leadership. Sanford and Goldstein have been demoted to unit commanders and you two, Snow and Kingston, are foot soldiers.”
Olivia opened her mouth to protest, but Donald grabbed her arm and pulled her away. She stumbled next to him.
“One word and you’re a dead woman, Olivia,” said Frances.
“The woman is out of control,” said Donald to Olivia. “She’s a murderer unhinged.”
The two former world leaders trudged together into the ranks of Randal Sanford’s squad.
“We’re going to have to find some kind of outdoor clothing,” said Donald to his terrified companion—now a draftee.
“The source of our power has radically changed,” said Frances. “The Prince of Darkness has enlisted us into his army. We now have allies in the air above us and nearby in the city of Salem. Our comrades are now performing sixty-six black masses in honor of King Lucifer, our exalted ruler.”
Romano watched Frances float off beyond the cemetery. She returned carrying something like a large duffle bag in her right hand. The crowd of entranced soldiers gawked at their leader as she swooshed back and forth holding her burden like a suitcase.
“Pay close attention, you disciples of Satan. I have been anointed by the Devil himself as a priestess in the Church of Darkness.” Her arm shot out to her right, and Romano realized she was holding Andrew’s inanimate body by the belt. He dangled comatose beneath her powerful grip. “This is what happens to traitors and failures.”
She cast Andrew’s body off to her right and it smashed against a gravestone carved in the image of a gargoyle typing on a keyboard.
“I will now show all of you how to receive the powers of darkness.”
On the divine screen in the sky over her ledge, Sandy watched Frances perform the ritual of the Antichrist—the Black Mass.
Frances’ voice surged out like steam from a ruptured sewer pipe. Her body skimmed over the graves, buoyed up by a web spun by the six demons. The “congregation” sat spellbound on gravestones and on the grass.
Holding a cross upside-down, Frances incanted, “Oh Haborym, we worship your unholy name. We ex
orcise all the forces of Jehovah from among us. We bask in your darkness. Yea, as we walk through the valley of the shadow of death we follow you into its depths. We fear nothing but your authority, oh great Tchort, our black god.”
Sandy viewed the ritual without emotion. She prayed, “Greater are you, my Lord, who dwells within me and my warriors, than this evil tribe that inhabits the sky over the earth. I thank you, Lord Jesus, for calling me and dear Carlos’s family into this victorious battle. We overcome by your blood and our courageous testimony.”
Sandy watched the six demons hover over the satanic priestess as Frances performed the rite of human sacrifice. The cross that Frances held in her hand morphed into a sword.
“Our sacrifice, oh Beelzebub, eradicates the phony sacrifice of God’s counterfeit son. Our sacrifice is real. I give you now the body and blood of this human.”
Frances raised the sword and plunged it down into Andrew’s heart and he bled out.
“Carlene, front and center,” Frances said.
Frances gave Carlene a silver chalice and ordered her to hold it at the edge of the altar to collect the blood.
Overhead, under the silver half-moon, a flaming pentagram appeared and cast an orange glow onto the cemetery. Sandy watched the gory ritual continue in the cemetery into the dark early hours of the morning.
Sandy sent a message to Carlos, requesting his presence on the rocky ledge.
“Our angels are engaged in a blocking force, keeping the swarms of demons in Salem from joining the Directorate in their attack. We have only six angels in direct support of our operation here. After daylight, Michael the archangel and his platoon will link up with us here in the battle.
“I just viewed the activities of the Directorate’s army. They performed a Black Mass and sacrificed one of their key people, their operations officer.
“A team of demons has been dispatched by Satan to support the Directorate. Remember form the Letter to the Ephesians? Our spiritual enemy is classified into four types. We fight first against the rulers, secondly the authorities, third against the world powers of this darkness, and fourth against the spiritual forces of evil in the heavens.
Proof Through the Night Page 24