Pantheocide

Chapter Fifty Two

The Forum, C?saraugusta, Cisalpine Gaul, New Rome, Hell

“Salve, Senator Junius Varinius Pulpo. I would speak to the subject of sending a Legion to fight alongside the Human Expeditionary Army in the invasion of Heaven.” George Matthews had prepared himself carefully for this, his first formal contribution to a debate in the forum. His toga was new and spotless, its carefully-pressed folds draped around him perfectly. For some strange reason he felt it added a sense of occasion, a solemn formality he had never felt before. This wasn’t an election day but their Senator had come on his scheduled visit to hear the opinions of his constituents directly. Matthews drew himself up slightly and held eye contact with the Senator.

“Your words will be heard and valued, Citizen George Andrew Matthews.” Pulpo spoke the formal response in equally measured, solemn tones. The constituencies were small enough so each Senator could make a reasonable start towards knowing the names of the people he would be meeting today. It was expected of him and when Gaius Julius Caesar expected something of people, it tended to get done.

“Senator, I stand in favor of the proposed deployment. To be a nation-state, a country that stands on its own feet with its head lifted high, means that we must take a full part in the affairs of nations. Take part as an equal partner qualified only by our available power and the skills of those lead us. Our legions are forming and are already feared by those they may fight. Our leadership is skilled and experienced. I believe it is our duty to establish the standing of New Rome as a nation state by assuming our rightful place in the order of nations.

“Of all the affairs of nations, none is more important than the war on Heaven. We have already seen on Earth that those nations who first took up arms against Satan and Yahweh have assumed the leadership of the coalition fighting this war. By taking part in the war, we establish our place and affirm our national identity. More than that, more than the pragmatic demands of politics, there is a moral dimension to this. Yahweh lied to us. He promised that those who followed his ways and lived by the rules he provided would be saved the torments of Hell. Yet, all the time, he was condemning us all to those torments. He should be punished for that deception and it is our duty, as honorable beings, to carry our full share of the burden involved in carrying out that punishment. Senator, Yahweh Delenda Est!”

“All the gods lie to us, they all did it all the time.” Senator Pulpo had noted the thunder of applause that had marked the end of Matthew’s speech. He was interested to see how this present-timer would handle himself in a formal Roman debate.

“Yahweh is not a god Senator, if such things as gods exist. He is a creature. A powerful creature certainly, one whose capabilities and strength made him seem godlike to our ancestors. But, now we know he is just another inhabitant of this dimension, no different from the daemons who are now our fellow-citizens and form part of our legions. More powerful than most certainly but still just another creature. The other self-proclaimed gods are no different. Those who dealt fairly with us should be treated fairly, those who lied to us and deceived us should be hunted down and a just, dispassionate revenge inflicted. Yahweh is the start, where we should go from there is something fate will decide. There may be real gods, in dimensions still higher than this. If so, then we should treat with them as they treat with us. Honor for honor, insult for insult.”

“Spoken like a true Roman.” Senator Pulpo spoke approvingly.

Matthews knew the background to his Senator. He had been an early retrieval from the Hellpit, an occupant of the Second Circle. He had spent millennia being buffeted by the great winds that dominated the Second Circle before being trapped by the nets that humans had stretched out to catch the souls condemned therein. From there, he had found his way to the New Roman Republic. He had heard that the legendary Gaius Julius Caesar had formed his new state and wished to be a part of it. He had survived the reign of the Emperor Lucius Aurelius Commodus Antoninus only to die in the chaos that had resulted from the assassination of Commodus and the election of the Emperor Publius Helvius Pertinax. To him, New Rome seemed to offer a new chance, one to make a Rome that lacked the faults of the original, one that would be the shining light that Rome always could have been.

The words of approval met with applause also. Pulpo looked at the crowd gathered to hear the debates and gauged their mood. The deployment of a Legion was popular. “Our noble Consuls Gaius Julius Caesar and Jade Kim have proposed that the Third Legion, commanded by Tribune Theophile Broussard Madeuce, join the Human Expeditionary Army. Your words convince me, Citizen George Andrew Matthews, that in this as in so much else, our Consuls display their wisdom. I shall support their proposal.”

George Matthews gave a Roman Salute to Senator Pulpo and took his seat. Behind him on the podium, a daemon had taken his place. Matthews glanced at him quickly, he was disabled and badly scarred and was obviously a survivor from one of the battles in the Curbstomp War. “Salve, Senator Junius Varinius Pulpo. I would speak on the subject of using the revenue generated by supplying food from our farms to the humans on Earth.”

“Your words will be heard and valued, Citizen Visharakoramal.”

Matthews heard the formal introduction and response as he settled down beside his wife. “You spoke very well George.” Rose Matthews whispered the words to her husband quietly, proud of his performance and the approval his words had received. Matthews gently reached out and squeezed her arm. Then they settled back to listen to the rest of the debate.

B-25J “Heavenly Body”, Mediterranean

“P-3Cs out of Aviano.” Perdue explained quickly. The message had come in a few seconds earlier and meant that Heavenly Body was no longer wholly responsible for a task she was desperately ill-equipped to carry out. It was close to being a miracle that they had managed to track the Israeli submarine this long. Then Pursue stopped himself. There are no such things as miracles. We tracked the Israeli submarine because the water is clear and shallow and because Tyson was skilled enough to plot a search pattern that allowed us glimpses of her through the surface of sea. No miracles, or rather we made our own miracle.

“Hey, old-timer. Why not let the new kids on the block have some fun?” The radio message from the lead P-3 betrayed the affection mixed in with the jeers.

“Sure thing kid.” Perdue reflected that calling the aged P-3s ‘kid’ was a semantic strain. But, compared with the ancient B-25, he supposed they were. He was handling cockpit communications so that Tyson could concentrate on flying his aircraft. “What you got?”

“Couple of Harpoons and Mark 54s. Load of sonobuoys. What you got?”

“Machine guns. Lots of machine guns.”

“They’ll come in useful if that damned sub makes it to the surface. Right, old-timer, we’re heading in to lay buoys now.”

The two P-3 Orions swept in, the sea behind them marked with the splashes as the patterns of sonobuoys hit the water. They had laid two long lines, each at 45 degrees to the estimated course of the Tekuma. Together they formed a funnel that converged around the submerged submarine. They also allowed multiple cross references from the noise generated by the submarine’s passage. When fighting a diesel-electric boat, multiple sound contacts were essential. Running on batteries, with a skilled skipper and a cautious crew, a diesel-boat was as near silent as made no difference. And so, it was with some surprise obvious in their voices that the next messages reached Heavenly Body.

“Quebec-seven here. We’re getting strong flow noise off a contact.”

“Quebec-eight. Confirm that. Sending contact data to you now.”

Perdue was almost crying with frustration. If he’d be on the P-3s, the tactical displays would be showing the rows of sonobuoys and the contacts from them, the cross-bearings isolating the position of the submarine below. “Quebec seven and eight. What’s happening?”

“Hold your horses, old timer.” The communications officer on Quebec-seven was getting into the spirit of a 1950s western. “We’re getting multiple flow noise contacts but that doesn’t square with a modern diesel-electric. This one sounds more like a WW2 boat. We’re got some checking to do before we drop.”

“Quebec-seven. We shot the submarine to shit with. 50s while they were on the surface. Chewed up the composite fairings on the sail bad. Bits of GRP went all over. Could that be what you’re hearing?”

There was a long pause and Perdue imagined the crews on the P-3s talking it over. Eventually the radio crackled again. “Yeah, that could be it. Bits of GRP from damaged superstructure panels vibrating in the water flow. You been tracking it visually since you strafed him?”

“We surely have.” Perdue paused and mounted the word “Gas?” at Tyson who gave a thumbs-up. “We got plenty of gas left.”

“Good. Hold one.” There was another long pause. “We’re cleared to shoot.”

“You going to drop a nuke?” Next to Perdue, Tyson had suddenly taken an interest in the conversation. “Because if you are we better get well clear. Heavenly Body is one old lady, she can’t take much of that.”

“Negative on the nuke old-timer. Just plain old Mark 54s. Get ready to strafe it if it gets to the surface.”

Control Room, INS Tekuma, Mediterranean

“We’re picking up propeller beat on the sea surface.” The sonar operator was alarmed; the sound signature was very distinct. The aircraft that had been tracking them had been joined by two more. He’d even picked up the splashes as the sonobuoys had gone into the water. That had meant they weren’t being followed by an antique left-over any more, now they faced modern anti-submarine aircraft flown by crews that had more training in ASW than most of the rest of the world put together. That led to the question that really worried him. Why were they being hunted, they’d killed the Scarlet Beast hadn’t they?

Captain Ben-Shoshan was asking himself the same question and he really didn’t like the answers he was getting. However, he was unable to pursue the matter further because a much more urgent development demanded his attention. His submarine had just been surrounded by a neat diamond of four active sonobuoys. There was no doubt about that, the low-frequency pulses hitting the hull could be heard by everybody in the submarine.

“Give me maximum power right now!” He knew what was going to happen next, above him the anti-submarine aircraft were coming in for the long, low pass that would end with a pair of torpedoes dropped on his position. In this relatively shallow water with no thermocline to hide under, he had very few options left. Under his feet, he felt the humm as the electric motors picked up power and started to spin the prop faster. He guessed that the propeller wouldn’t be cavitating yet, but it was only a question of time. Shallow water meant little pressure on the prop blades so that the bubbles of water vapor would form so much more easily. Every one of them would sound like a tiny hammer hitting the prop blade.

“Torpedoes in the water.” The call from the sonar system operator was desperate. On the command system displays, the symbol representing Tekuma had been joined by two more tracks. Ones that were already moving fast towards her and curving in towards her stern. He could see the two crews above him had done an excellent job of killing him. The torpedoes were perfectly placed, one in each stern quarter. No matter how he turned, he was going to be presenting his stern to one and his beam to the other. That left him with few options.

“Launch decoys.” Outside, from small tubes built into the superstructure, the torpedo decoys popped out. They included noisemakers that would duplicate the sound of his machinery and bubble generators that would give an active sonar something else to ping. There had been a time when decoys had worked but those days were long past. It was the same everywhere, the computer technology that allowed small hand-held telephones to emulate computers allowed an unprecedented level of data processing inside the warhead of a small, expendable weapon. It wasn’t just necessary for a decoy to sound like a submarine, it had to act like a submarine as well. Target Motion Analysis it was called and it had spelt the doom of cheap, expendable decoys. The same technology was now spelling his doom also.

“Do not be concerned, the Lord will protect us.” Yitzchak’s voice was dreamy, distracted. He had been promised protection and salvation, the archangel who had guided him would not let him down. He would not be allowed to fall victim to those who had allied themselves with the Eternal Enemy.

“Bring her around hard, to starboard.” There was a odd quirk with the Dolphin design, she could turn slightly tighter to starboard than to port. It was a tiny fraction but it was the only card Ben-Shoshan had left to play. Then his communications officer’s words struck home. “Yitzchak, what the hell are you talking about? What have you done?”

The Mark 54 had a very specific target. The warhead that could be carried by a lightweight torpedo was inadequate to penetrate the hull of a modern submarine. Probably. So, the Mark 54 had been designed to pick out the submarine’s propeller an home in on that. More importantly, it was designed to blow at least one of the blades off that propeller leaving it completely unbalanced. It was the blast that destroyed his propeller that ensured Ben-Shoshan never got an answer to his questions. Not in this life anyway, things would be different very shortly.

With two of its propeller blades blown completely off and the remaining five mangled beyond recognition, Tekuma had no effective propulsion and was losing speed rapidly. Her shaft was still spinning despite the fact that the explosions had bent it through a ten degree angle and that was much more critical than the loss of propulsion. The bent, unbalanced shaft ripped open the shaft tunnel and destroyed the seals that kept the water out. Throughout the stern quarter of the submarine, water started to pout into compartments, weighing down the stern of the boat and dragging her to the bottom. That left just one thing to do.

“Blow tanks! All hands, abandon ship!”

B-25J “Heavenly Body”, Mediterranean

“Here she comes!” Perdue’s voice was straining with excitement. The two P-3s had made their drops and there had been a nail-biting delay before the pair of oil-stained white towers of seawater announced the hits. Then, the sea seemed to have started boiling as the shock wave had reflected off the seabed and erupted upwards. Now, the sea had boiled again as the submarine blew her ballast tanks in a desperate attempt to get to the surface. The dark green shape arched upwards in the middle of the spray, the sunlight surrounding her with rainbows that gave an almost supernatural aura to the scene. Then the hatches fore and aft of the sail started to open and men started to heave themselves out. Already, yellow life rafts were expanding from their containers on the deck.

“And here we go boys and girls.” Tyson was already diving on the submarine, his four nose-mounted. 50 caliber machine guns spraying bullets into Tekuma’s crew as they tried to abandon the sinking submarine. Heavenly Body’s twin. 50s in her top turret was firing as well, only Trudy laFonteyn continued her burst as the B-25 swept across her target and continued to pour long bursts into the crew as it started to circle the wreck. She was joined by one of the waist gunners and between them they mowed down the submariners. That was what aircraft like the AC-130 did, they circled their target, mowing down the enemy. It was good, if unexpected, training for laFonteyn.

“A bit harsh that.” Perdue’s instincts as a mariner were overcoming his loathing for the crew of this submarine and what they had done. Beneath them, the submarine was obviously sinking, its stern was underwater and the bows were rising as flooding aft pulled her under. That made her crew fellow seamen in distress and the slaughter as the machine guns mowed them down was repugnant to him. He knew the rationale, submarines carried shoulder-fired anti-aircraft missiles and it only needed one man to bring down a fabulously expensive maritime patrol aircraft and its crew. It still just seemed wrong to him and he was glad when Heavenly Body ran out of ammunition for her top turret and waist guns.

By that time, Tekuma was clearly in her last moments. She was almost vertical in the water, her bows pointing skywards, her sail already vanishing beneath the waves. With a final flourish caused by the remaining air bubbling out of her hull, she slipped away, leaving nothing on the surface but oil, debris and the bodies of her crew.

“Hey, old timer, Quebec-Seven here. We’ll write you up as an equal share in the kill. Fair?” The radio message from the P-3C caused a cheer in the old B-25. After more than sixty years, Heavenly Body finally had a kill of her own to paint under her cockpit.

“Very fair kids. Now, we’ll take you home.”