Armageddon

Chapter Fifty Six

Command Post, Northern Front, Phlegethon River Bulge, Hell

“My Lord, this is against all our traditions.”

“And humans fighting back is not? If they defeated Abigor, then they are adversaries worthy of note. Abigor’s description of the great battle was quite clear, the Beast charge at the start of the fighting was a disaster for his cavalry. We must learn from those mistakes. Even if we can never admit the source of our learning.”

Lapradanultrox looked out across the array of forces now moving down on the northern flank of the great bulge in the Phlegethon river. The sight was a strange one to demonic eyes, the great square blocks of the legions divided into much smaller groups. Even more oddly, the cavalry legions had been completely broken up, dispersed amongst the infantry. One Beast supporting each group of 27 foot-soldiers. Behind the hills that ranged along the river, the great flock of harpies, almost 180,000 of them were waiting to launch their attack. This was also unprecedented, the mores of demonic warfare were clearly established. The Harpies reconnoitered to find the enemy, the Beasts charged to crack a hole in the enemy defenses, the infantry closed to destroy the broken army.

That was the way it had always been and that was the way Abigor had fought. And his army had been destroyed in the most catastrophic defeat ever inflicted on demonic arms. Not even the Celestial Enemy had ever done the damage the humans had inflicted on Abigor. Lapradanultrox appreciated Beelzebub’s desire not to repeat the same experience on an even more cataclysmic scale but to cast away every basic principle of warfare? Beelzebub’s decisions were courageous in more ways than one. Such a break with the past would be heroic, if he won. It could easily be considered treason if he lost.

“But where is our great blow? How shall we defeat the enemy without the one massive strike to break his will? How can we crush their defense without the concentrated blow of the Beasts?” Lapradanultrox looked again at the strange formation.

“Look at the humans, Lapradanultrox, look at them. Where is the defense for us to breach? They have not drawn a line, not even one behind a ridgeline as Abigor described. Instead there is a field of death ahead of us, as deep as we can see. Our cavalry cannot charge through it, they will lose speed and momentum before they get far enough to matter and they will be destroyed. We cannot charge through the defense the humans have constructed, we mush chew our way through it. The foot soldier groups, each with the extra strength of a Beast to support them, will take on those small defense positions and we will chew our way through.”

“This will be a bloody day.” Lapradanultrox adjusted his vision for long range and scanned the human defenses that were waiting, silently, mercilessly.

“Bloody day? I think not. This battle will not be over in a day. It will go on for days until the human army has been crushed. Like it or not, Lapradanultrox, the days when a battle would be decided honorably in a single day are gone. The humans have won the first battle of all, we now fight on their terms and no matter what happens, things in Hell will never be the same again. Now, sound the advance to contact.”

Below them, the great Army started to move forward. Word was being passed to the assembled harpies, to swarm into the air and commence their assault on the humans. That was Beelzebub’s plan, to hit the humans with his foot soldiers, harpies and Beasts all together so that the humans would be overwhelmed.

Then, far away behind the human lines, beyond the region where the dust-laden atmosphere closed out vision, Beelzebub saw something strange and inexplicable. A sheet of flickering light, like the bolts thrown by the tridents of his foot soldiers and nagas, but covering the horizon in great sheets, reflecting off the clouds overhead.

“Human magery!” Lapradanultrox’s voice rose into a scream. “The human mages have started their work. The battle is joined.”

Artillery Battalion, Rear Echelon, Phlegethon River Front

This particular battalion had guns that were an odd hybrid, old D-30 122mm guns mounted on a new truck chassis. A product of the emergency mobilization that had all of Russia in ferment. The guns had come from storage, the trucks had once been intended for the civilian market, although why civilians would need 8 x 8 trucks had never been quite clear. It was rumored Americans wanted them for conversion into SUVs. But, the design for the self-propelled guns had been drawn up for the export market where wheeled, self-propelled artillery had been a big growth sector. Those plans had been modified quickly for the Great Salvation War and the truck-mounted guns had poured off the lines as fast as the factories could be converted. Artillery was the God of War, a God that had never let the Russian Army down.

Lieutenant Sergei Aleksandrovich Ehlakov commanded this battery of six guns and he had his assigned fire-plan. It was laid down, strictly, severely, the targets clearly designated for destruction on a finely judged schedule. It was not his place to select targets or to swing his guns from one place to another. He was not an American officer who would swing his guns from one point target to the next, his place in the scheme of things was as a part of a machine that delivered massive, total destruction. His task was to keep his guns firing, to drench the battlefield with high explosive so that the enemy could not move forward to attack the defense lines. He had his support of course, the big trucks carrying ammunition and all around him, the little jeeps with their anti-aircraft guns welded on to the beds. His D-30s had come from store and so had the anti-aircraft guns. Quadruple 14.5 mm machine guns, twin 23 mm cannon, whatever had been in storage was here, to protect the guns from attack.

“Battalion Control Tovarish Lieutenant. The enemy is moving. Commence fire plan in six-zero seconds.”

The gunners were waiting, the first shells already in the breeches of the guns. Who would have the honor of firing the first shell against the enemy horde descending upon them? The first of the thousands that would descend like rain on that enemy and grind his forces into the mud. Would his guns, here on the northern flank, succeed in opening this great battle? Or would the guns further south have that honor? Ehlakov watched the figures on his clock changing as they reached the appointed second. Then, the strained silence turned into a mighty roar that crushed his eardrums and seemed to drive him into the ground. The ground that was already shaking in a rolling sea-like motion as the long lines of guns recoiled, their spades digging deep into the ground, before they returned to their position and their gunners could stuff more shells into their chambers and send another ‘package’ to its recipients. Now, all that Ehlakov could see were his men dropping into the methodical, routine motions as the shells were brought forward and fired. He looked down to his next target, in two minutes he would have to shift to the next aiming point.

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

“Here it comes Bratischka. The enemy advances and our gunners make their reply. Soon it will be our turn.”

Lieutenant Anatolii Ivanovich Pas'kov dropped into the turret of his BMP-2 and fastened it in place. There was nothing to be gained by staying outside now. The word passed down from on high was that humans were more or less safe inside their armored vehicles. They should fight from them, not outside them. Pas’kov felt agreeably comfortable with that advice. Overhead, he could hear the express-train roar of the artillery shells overhead, heard it even through the metal shell of his BMP. “Outbound” he yelled, instinct taking over. For a quick second he wondered what it would be like to be outside, under the tons of descending metal that was aimed at the demons, then he decided he didn’t care and certainly didn’t want to find out. Being inside his faithful BMP-2 suited him just fine.

Outside, seen through the vision blocks of the BMP, Pas’kov could see a mass of black covering the opposite banks of the river. A terrifying sight, he’d heard the numbers of the enemy were counted in the millions but he’d never quite imagined what “millions” looked like. Now he knew. The artillery had its work cut out.

Tornado GR. 4, 617 Squadron, Royal Air Force.

“You know, it’s a pity we phased the old JP-233 out of service.”

“You can say that, you never used one.” Squadron Leader Desmond Young had been one of the pilots who had used the JP-233 on its one and only operational deployment, 17 years ago in the Gulf War. He wasn’t quite certain which had been worse, the light displays as the submunition dispenser had fired its cargo, the violent changes in pitch as the weight distribution had changed or the Iraqi anti-aircraft fire that had been all around them. All in all, it had been an exciting night and Young had been only too pleased to hear that the JP-233 had been withdrawn from service. Officially that was because of the anti-land mines treaty but the real reason was that the crews had made their discontent with the weapon very plain.

“Targets dead ahead.” In the back seat, Flight Lieutenant Wyngarde had the target area marked on the rolling map in front of him. Navigating in Hell was weird, nothing seemed to work quite right, an aircraft couldn’t just retrace its route to get home. A crew that relied on instinct to navigate could get hopelessly lost. Still, the navigation systems people were working on that, they had the beacons set up and, with them, a modernized version of the old Gee navigation equipment first used by Bomber Command in World War Two. It might be an old system but it worked, even in Hell. “Clear of the prohibited zone.”

That was crucial, the last thing the Tornadoes needed was to get caught in the mass of descending Russian shells. So, the bombers had flown a looped route, one that took them parallel to the Phlegethon River and over the area where the drones had said the enemy harpies had gathered. Young didn’t need navigation systems to see where his target lay, it was directly ahead, marked by the beginnings of a cloud of harpies taking to the air. The strike was a few second late but that didn’t matter too much.

The eight Tornadoes swept over the harpy assembly area, raining more than 60 BL-755 cluster bombs on the creatures below. The ground vanished under a rippling wave of explosions as the Tornadoes swept over the scene and turned for the run home, the airborne harpies floundering in their wake. Long before the Tornadoes crossed the Harpy grounds, they had pulled back into a steep climb, releasing their bombs as they did, so the bombs were tossed into the mass of harpies, rather than dropped on them. By the time the bombers reached the center of the target area, they were already clear of the harpy cloud and climbing steeply.

“We’re clear Peter, Dragon-one to all dragon elements, weapons delivered, time to go home and get some more.”

Wyngarde looked over his shoulder at the explosions still rolling over the ground now far below them. “Drop confirmed Boss. And to think they wanted to take our cluster bombs away.”

Command Post, Northern Front, Phlegethon River Bulge, Hell

The flickering lightning seemed never to stop, it was rolling backwards and forwards along the horizon. Overhead, Beelzebub heard a dreadful screaming noise, obviously the battle-cry of the human mages. It was squeezing his mind, causing his vision to blur, and as it peaked, he saw the whole of the river bank under his army erupt into volcanoes that spewed mud, water and bits of demon skywards. A rippling surge of explosions that blanketed the whole area. That was when Beelzebub felt something very strange, a wind, a warm wind that picked up force as the human mage bolts pounded into his Army. Overhead the same winds rippled the clouds of dust that saturated the atmosphere, forming them into strange patterns that swirled and changed even as he watched them. Like the blood of a human kidling stirred into a cup of wine.

“My Lord, the magery, it is causing winds to blow and storms to form.”

So the humans could control the weather as well as their other accomplishments. That thought did not make Beelzebub any happier. The descriptions he’d heard of the human mage-bolts had been bad enough, although he’d dismissed Abigor’s more colorful descriptions as being part of his alibi for defeat. But he’d never mentioned strange winds and patterns in the sky. The idea hardly had time to form in his mind before the explosions that were shattering his army along the banks of the Phlegethon shifted back to engulf a new zone and spread their death toll amongst another portion of his Army. Beelzebub looked at the carnage forming on the ground in front of him and knew that Abigor hadn’t lied, if anything he had understated the truth. He’d mentioned the human mage bolts that struck from afar and devastated the ground but he’d never said anything about a concentration of magery like this.

Combat Group, Northern Front, Phlegethon River Bulge, Hell

Hertonymarkess felt himself staggering under the sheer impact of noise and the crushing power the explosions that were all around him. He couldn’t think straight, every time a thought tried to form in his mind, the terrible screams and explosions drove it away or entered his head and shredded it. Screams, they dominated even the explosions, the battle cry of the human mages as their mage-bolts slammed into the army, the screams of the demons and Beasts as they were torn apart and died. He couldn’t hold his trident properly either, the shaking was too much. The ground was heaving and rolling under his feet, in ways Hell had not experienced since the great earthquakes a few millennia ago. The little quakes, the ones Hell experienced every day had nothing on the destruction the human magery was causing.

Yet Hertonymarkess knew that the magery was only part of the shaking that was causing his problems. The rest was his own muscles, shivering with fear of the mage-bolts. An enemy, even a human, was not something he feared. If there was a human in front of him now, he could have fought and, win or lose, fought ferociously. It wasn’t the prospect of fighting that was terrifying him at all. It was the human’s ability to deliver remote-controlled death. For, there was nothing to fight here, the humans were still far away and their mage bolts just pounded the target, administering death and destruction at random. There was nothing Hertonymarkess could do about it, his skills, his courage, his training, his spirit mattered nothing. All that mattered was the pure blind chance of whether he and his combat team would be standing where the next mage bolt, or dozen, landed. It was that utter helplessness in the face of random, pitiless fate that was so terrifying.

Without being aware of it, Hertonymarkess had entered the Phlegethon River and it was with utter astonishment he realized he was in water up to his waist. The wading was slowing him down but he realized it mattered little. The human mage-fire was concentrated on the banks of the river behind him, some of the bolts were landing in the water but they were few in number. Most of the bursts were behind them and he got the feeling the ones in the river were mistakes, bolts that were landing short. Ahead, he could see a target, the first of the little forts that the humans had set up. Now that was odd. Why had the humans set up lots of little forts rather than one big one? Everybody knew that the bigger the fortress, the harder it would be to take?

There were Iron Chariots in the fortress, Hertonymarkess felt his stomach cringe at the thought of iron, then he set his grip firmly on his trident and closed the grip, discharging a bolt at the defenses ahead. It was immensely satisfying to strike back at last, after the helpless terror of the mage-bolts, now there was some way he could fight. Overhead, the vast cloud of harpies was closing in, with luck they would suppress the defenses long enough for his group to get close to that little fort.

Harpy Group, Northern Front, Phlegethon River Bulge, Hell

Uxaligantivaris screamed out her battle cry and tried to launch a jet of flame at the Sky Chariot but it was too fast for her and it rolled away and zoomed upwards. The humans were cowards, they refused to fight, they just stood off and let fly with their fire-lances and seeker-lances, cutting her comrades out of the sky. She knew the losses already suffered by the harpies were almost beyond comprehension, the first strike by the Sky Chariots had killed hundreds before they had even taken off. Then, there were the great seeker lances that had torn into the formation from afar, their explosions killing hundreds more. Then, after that, the Sky Chariots had returned and were slashing at the harpy cloud.

Her skin was on fire, a mass of mad itching that threatened to drive her mad. If the voices in her head didn’t do that first. There were so many of them, some were human speech that made little sense, others were a weird, intense beating noise, as if somebody was pounding her with a giant hammer. Yet others were a gentle hiss that simply filled every corner of her mind and drowned out all that went on inside. The mass of electronic noise was hardly surprising, Uxaligantivaris had no means of knowing it and would not have understood the implications even if she had, but she was being painted by more than 2,000 radar sets. Those alone were doing damage to her, quite distinct from the missiles and guns that they targeted. Uxaligantivaris knew that something was wrong but she couldn’t know how wrong for the truth was she was being slowly microwaved to death in mid-air. Already her body temperature was slowly rising as the radar energy was exciting the molecules that formed the liquids in her body.

Below her, she could see the human forts that formed their defensive position. It made little sense to her, but her job wasn’t to understand, just to do as she was told. Even though that meant something she had never done before. Harpies were scouts and raiders, intended to observe enemy formations and report on their movement. Sometimes they would attack undefended positions by night to spread fear and terror. Never before had the harpies been told to attack defensive positions that were fully-equipped and putting up resistance. Harpies traded protection and firepower for speed and flight. Not enough of either of course, not compared with the human Sky Chariots, but a good trade for their proper role. Now, they were being pitched against a serious defense.

There was one advantage in doing that. Uxaligantivaris had noted that the human Sky Chariots were staying high, not dropping close to the ground. Perhaps they couldn’t, she’d noticed that their wings didn’t flap like any proper flying creature. Oh, a couple had had wings that seemed to flap forward and backwards but none flapped properly. Still, the message was clear, close to the ground and the Sky Chariots would leave them alone. Cheered at the thought, she folded her wings, expelled gas, and dropped like a stone on the defense position beneath.

Command HQ, Camp Hell-Alpha, Hell

“The battle is joined Tovarish General.” General Ivan Semenovich Dorokhov was standing in front of his screen, the facilities here in hell were nowhere near as good as those General Petraeus had left behind in Baghdad but they would serve.

“Very good, Ivan Semenovich. How goes the day?”

“Well, David Howellovich.” Both men grinned at the mangled Russification of Petraeus’s middle name. “Our artillery and air strikes are hurting the baldricks badly. We estimate their casualties already must be approaching ten percent of their total.”

“A word of advice Grazhdanin Ivan, divide your estimates by three. We learned this the hard way in Iraq and before that in Vietnam and the Balkans.”

“And we learned that same lesson in Afghanistan and fighting the Hitlerites. But Gospodin David, we have hit Beelzebub’s army hard. His casualties on the northern flank are mounting and they are only now moving into our main zone of resistance. The southern flank is moving more slowly, the situation had not developed there yet. There appears to be no movement at all in the center.”

“Hmm. The baldricks are learning. Not slowly either. Whatever you need, just call. We’re lining up the support for you here.” As far as Petraeus was concerned, that was his role in this battle. Let the Russian Army do its thing and just make sure they have every tool they needed, and some that they didn’t know they needed, not yet anyway. “For your information, the BUFFS have arrived. They flew through the hellmouth a few minutes ago and are circling to gain height. They’ll be ready when you need them.”

Dorokhov laughed. “The sight of those flying through the Hellgate must have been impressive. Is there an intact eardrum left back there?”

“Not a one. Not a one. But tell your men, the Gray Lady is coming.”