Armageddon?? (10 page)

Al
Habariyah, Iraq

The
clear yellow light was painful to the eyes of beings accustomed to the
comforting red skies and dust clouds of Hell. Not that there wasn’t enough dust
here but it was the choking clouds of silica, not the soft, warm touch of
volcanic pumice. The accursed sand was getting into Hornaklishdarmar’s hooves,
rubbing even his hardened skin raw. Glancing across at the eight demons in his
contubernium, he could see they were having the same trouble. When they’d first
entered this world, they’d held straight ranks, lined up in perfect parade
order but that had been long abandoned. Now, the legion was straggling, spread
out, its ranks tangled as the fitter or less feeling had moved ahead and the
lesser spirits had lagged behind.

It
wasn’t as if this area was actually worth the discomfort. On the long march
from the portal, the legion had seen nothing of any value, just the empty
desert and the accursed sand. At least now they were approaching some sort of
civilization, a collection of huts, so poor that they didn’t even have doors, just
some sort of blanket hung in the entrance. There were even one of the human’s
weird four-wheeled chariots, a white thing with a boxy body at the side of the
road, its front wheels crushed and broken. Obviously abandoned as the humans
had run from the approaching legion.

“Lords!
Have mercy on me! I beg you, forgive me for not submitting to you sooner. I was
mislead by traitors who denied you. Forgive me and accept my obeisance.”

Up
in front of him, Hornaklishdarmar could see the human run out from one of the
buildings, an older human, portly and dressed in a flowing robe. He dropped to
his knees in front of the legion. Hornaklishdarmar saw the commander of his
Octurnia go towards the man, raising his trident to strike him down.

Hornaklishdarmar
was on his knees, his head ringing from the terrible blast that had suddenly
engulfed the human and the demon poised to kill him. The human had gone, only
his head was left, rolling in the dust leaving a wet trail behind on the sand.
The commander of the Octurnia had gone completely, just yellow smears on the
ground behind where he had been. Several of his staff were down, screaming,
ripped open by the blast. Hornaklishdarmar saw the other demons of the legion
edging away from the scene and the hut from where the man had come. Suddenly,
the sight alarmed the demon, there was something wrong.

Now,
Hornaklishdarmar was on his back, and he could see the yellow fluids leaking
from his body. His instinct had saved his life but he was still hurt. Where the
truck had been was now just a crater, black, smoking, surrounded by the dead
bodies of demons, tens of them, some smashed and pulped beyond recognition,
others still demonic in form but dreadfully still. Yet others were worse that
dreadful, writhing and threshing with the wounds ripped in them by shrapnel. He
pressed his arm into the vicious rip in his skin, feeling the comfort the
pressure caused, and looked at the scene again. It had been planned, he could
see it now. The first man, the fat one, had caused the demons to crowd back
against the truck, packed them around that second, huge explosion. It had all
been planned, very skillfully planned.

Operation
Iraqi Freedom Headquarters, Baghdad, Iraq

General
Petraeus stood before the transmission screen and waited for it to light up
with the link from Washington. His briefing would be going direct to the
command center in the White House and to as many of the growing list of allies
as could be provided with the equipment.

“Mister
President Sir. My situation report.

“We
have identified the enemy force as eight infantry divisions, three cavalry
brigades and one airborne brigade. The enemy main body consists of four
infantry divisions and is advancing towards Khan Al Baghdadi. It is preceded by
one of the cavalry brigades supported by an airborne battalion. The cavalry
brigade itself is split into three columns each containing three cavalry
battalions supported by three airborne companies. At the moment, we are falling
back in front of that force, we have no wish to engage it at this time.

“To
the north is a flanking force consisting of two infantry divisions. They’re
moving close to the Syrian border, again with a cavalry brigade in front
supported by harpies. We’ve been harassing that screening force overnight, I’m
sorry to report that the 160th Aviation Brigade took significant losses, at
least a dozen AH-6 and MH-6 helicopters were lost to Harpies. We’ve learned
from that, the Harpies make helicopter operations too dangerous, we’re going to
have to eliminate them before we can send helicopter-based forces in again.
However, their sacrifice was not in vain, we’re driving their reconnaissance
elements in on the main body and we’ve severely hit their command and control
structure. We believe we’ve eliminated a significant proportion of their
battalion and brigade level command staff. A brigade of the First Armored
Division is moving into position around Al Qaim. It’s a perfect kill zone, with
their recon element driven in, their heading into it blind.

“To
the south is another screening force, identical to the one in the North. We
haven’t done much about that one yet but the British are moving up a mechanized
battle group to handle it. We had word from al Qaeda a few minutes ago, they
hit one of the infantry divisions with a combined suicide and truck bomb
attack. They claim to have killed more than sixty baldricks including a part of
the brigade command group. We can’t confirm the numbers but a Global Hawk has
confirmed the attack.” Petraeus paused for a second. “Sir, I still can’t get
used to feeling pleased about an IED incident.

“Overall,
we’re about to start the main phase of our defense. We’re going to kick the
northern and southern screening forces in and push them back on the main body.
That will put them in a kill zone west of the Hawr Al Habbaniyah. As we
compress them in that area, we’ll be hitting them with artillery and all the
tactical air we can bring up. If we stop them, we can drive them back across
the desert, all the way back to the Hellmouth. If we can’t stop them there, the
only way forward is through two narrow necks of land, north of the Bahr al Milh
and south of the Buhayrat Ath Tharfar. Those are also perfect killing grounds
and give us a another chance at them.”

“They
won’t get through?” President Bush sounded concerned. The heavily populated
Tigris-Euphrates valley was in the direct path of the advancing baldricks.

“No
Sir, we’ll stop them dead. After a while, all their added numbers means they’ll
be piling more bodies into the kill zone. The days when an army could be
swamped by sheer weight of numbers are gone. The way we’re mauling their
command structure, once they’ve started advancing into the killing ground, they
won’t be able to stop, the sheer pressure of the forces at the rear will drive
them forward.”

“General.”
Rice smiled an apology for the interruption. “Be advised, we’ve just heard from
the Russians. They’re sending down forces from their southern military region.
Armored divisions, battle experienced from Chechnya, they’re coming through
Iran. They’ll be with you in a few days, you can count on them for
reinforcements.”

“Thank
you ma’am, that’s good to know. If you’re speaking to the Russians, could you
ask them for their Smerch rocket launchers. We need all the salvo rocket
artillery we can get here. Also, their Luna short-range ballistic missiles,
we’ve got ATACMS here but we need something with a bit more reach.”

“I’ll
do that. The Iranians are promising to send help as well. Any requests?”

“Fuel.
That more than anything. We’re going to need all the fuel we can get. We can’t
cope with these baldricks in a slugging match, we have to maneuver them to death.
One thing my people here are asking. Why here? For the sort of enemy we’re
fighting, this is perfect ground for us. No restrictions on maneuver, no
civilians to get in the way, we can use every scrap of firepower we’ve got. So
why here? Why not straight into New York or Washington? Come to think of it,
why aren’t we seeing more hellmouths opening up anyway?”

Vice
President Cheney leaned forward. “We have a theory on that, we think that for
some reason the Middle East is where is easiest for them to open the portal, it
may be the only place they can open a portal we don’t know. But we think that
its no coincidence that all the reports of monsters, hells, battles between
good and evil etc start in this area. We don’t know but that’s our guess.
Anyway, don’t knock it, its better we fight them out there than back here.”

Petraeus
laughed. “I’ve heard that before. Another question, a policy one. We’re likely
to start taking prisoners soon. What do you want us to do with them.”

Rice’s
voice was decisive. “Ship them to Gitmo.”

“I
thought we were closing that place?”

“We
were, but plans changed. Its under international management now. It’s being
organized by the Italians, Bangladesh is providing the funding, the Germans the
guards, the Russians the political speeches, the Belgians the entertainment,
the Japanese the music and the British are providing the food.”

Petraeus
visibly winced at the thought. “Ma’am, that’s inhuman. Please, whoever thought
that arrangement up, buy them a beer for me.”

“Why,
thank you General. I’ll enjoy it.

Chapter
Eight

Muncie,
Indiana, United States of America

Muncie
was a small town, typical of the American rust belt. Highly religious,
conservative, with 65,000 people before the Message and 50,000 after, the city
had been ailing even before a quarter of the population had laid down and died.
The manufacturing industry had been slowly abandoning the city for decades,
leaving it with rusting, overgrown factories, a 23 percent poverty rate, and a
hospital and university as the largest employers. The Message had hit the town
hard, too as it had most of the rural, conservative American Midwest, leaving
the local economy in shambles and even further down the toilet.

Sharon
McShurley, newly elected mayor, was sitting at her desk in the Town Hall
wondering for the millionth time that day what she was going to do when the
telephone rang. She picked it up. “Hello, the Mayor speaking.”

“Mrs.
McShurley?” The voice was male and unfamiliar.

“Yes?
May I ask who this is?”

“This
is Nathan Feltman, Secretary of Commerce for Indiana.”

“Ah,
Mr. Feltman. How can I help you?”

“Mrs.
McShurley, I was contacted not five hours ago by Secretary of Commerce Carlos
Gutierrez. You know of The Message?”

“Of
course.”

“And
of the developments in Iraq?”

“Of
course. It's been all over the news.” Truth was, she'd been doing little more
than watch the news since The Message. There had seemed so little she could do
even to regain control over her small town.

“Secretary
Gutierrez has informed me that the United States is immediately shifting to a
war economy. I don't know how things will work on the military side, but on the
economic side, we're going to be ramping up production as fast as possible.
I've already spoken with the mayors of Indianapolis, Gary-Hammond, Fort Wayne,
Evansville, and Anderson. Do you have a list of production overcapacity and
unused assets in Muncie?”

“Yes,
we do.” Unemployment was just the single most pressing problem in the city, and
had been for thirty years.

“We
need to compare our list with yours, and then we'll send the updated version to
the US Department of Commerce. They'll be asking corporations to buy them up
and get working on military equipment. Given Indiana's central location, rail
accessibility, and manufacturing history, we'll be up near the top.”

Feltmann
gave McShurley the fax number for the Indiana Department of Commerce, and
within twenty minutes, the substantial list of old factories, closed-up
warehouses, abandoned rail yards, and defunct properties was on its way to
Indianapolis. A half hour and two double-checks later, it was again winging its
way through cyberspace to Washington, D.C., where an undersecretary of commerce
opened it and copy-pasted its contents into a secure website, open only to the
procurement officers of the vast national and international corporations which
supplied the US military with its equipment.

The
next day, McShurley was in her office when the phone rang again. “Hello?”

“Mayor
Sharon McShurley?” Another unfamiliar voice.

“Speaking.”

“This
is John Walker, with Borg Warner Automotive. In light of the recent
developments, we've decided not to close down the plant in Muncie. Instead,
we're retooling it to provide transmissions for tanks.”

“Well,
that's certainly happy news. Thank you.”

The
man hung up, McShurley got back to her paperwork, and within a half hour the
phone rang again. “Hello?”

“Mayor
Sharon McShurley of Muncie?”

“Speaking.”

“I'm
James Torida of General Dynamics Land Systems. We have acquired an older
factory in Muncie to build M1A2 parts, and we would like the cooperation of the
local government in finding employees and in renovating and retooling the plant
as quickly as possible.”