Armageddon

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 her 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.

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 over 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 re-commissioning 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.”