Armageddon (16 page)

I had decided not to tell Agent Judge what my father had told me—that this underworld might be
the
underworld, as in “the fiery pits of hell.”

“I’ve put together a special strike force,” Agent Judge continued. “Navy SEALs, Delta Force, Night Stalkers,
Special Forces, Rangers. They’re the best of the best, Daniel. The bravest of the brave.”

“Did somebody call my name?” said Willy as he strode confidently into the barnyard. Joe, Emma, and Dana came striding right behind him. “Hey, you said you wanted the best of the best and the bravest of the brave. Guess it’s a good thing we were in the neighborhood, bro.”

I had to grin. If I was about to head down to the gates of hell, I figured it’d be great to have my gang covering my back.

“Thanks for being here, guys. This could be our most important alien hunt ever. It could also be the most dangerous.”

“Awesome,” said Joe, sniffing the air. “So, is that bacon or sausage?”

“Both. Plus ham. Go grab some. But hurry. We need to move out.”

“Grab some fruit, too, Joe,” suggested Emma.

“Yeah, right. Like that’s gonna happen.”

“Meet us in the paddock with the strike force,” I said.

“Will do.”

Joe bounded into the house while the rest of us hustled over to meet the team Agent Judge had assembled.

About 150 warriors were milling about in the fenced-in corral, packing up their equipment and rations. These battle-hardened veterans were decked out in black tactical gear, gloves, boots, and helmets. Confiscated alien weapons and ammo belts were slung over their shoulders. Their game-day faces were hidden behind ski masks, goggles, and blackout paint.

Still, even with this outstanding strike force, I could not imagine how we could defeat an enemy as powerful as the devil.

And, as you already know, if I can’t
imagine
it, I can’t
do
it.

“GENTLEMEN,” I ANNOUNCED to the assembled troops, “my name is Daniel, and I will be your team leader on this mission.”

One hundred and fifty pairs of eyeballs drilled into me.

“Please forgive me for what I’m sure sounds like foolish arrogance, but trust me: I need to take point on this operation.”

The squadron of black-clad, armored warriors stood in stony silence.

“We are going up against an enemy unlike any you have ever encountered. As Agent Judge undoubtedly told you in his briefing, the monstrous warlord who calls himself Abbadon is an alien outlaw from an unknown planet and galaxy. What Agent Judge may not have told you is that I, too, am an alien. Over the past several years, I have dealt with and eliminated similar extraterrestrial threats to your planet. Therefore, I urge you not to let my youth mislead you. Yes, I am young, but right now, age is unimportant.
I am the individual best suited to lead Earth’s response to this specific threat.”

I heard boots crinkle and weapons jangle as the soldiers shifted their weight from foot to foot while they considered my argument. Then one man stepped forward defiantly. He tipped up his goggles so I could read the steely machismo in his eyes.

“Prove it, kid,” he snarled.

“Sir,” I said firmly but (channeling my inner Xanthos) calmly, “we don’t really have time to—”

“To what? To see if you’re fit to lead?”

“Stand down, Navy SEAL,” said Agent Judge.

“No, sir. I will not stand down, nor will I remain silent, because, frankly, I don’t want to see more of my buddies die because some kid from outer space thinks he can become our field commander when he’s not even old enough to legally enlist. Sorry, sir, but I’m not going into a firefight following someone who looks like he ought to be bagging my groceries.”

Okay, the guy had a point. I was a kid. He was a professional. If I were him, would I follow me (or any other teenager) into a battle where the odds were so stacked against us? Doubtful. Unless, of course, the kid showed me that he (or she) was made of the right stuff. Then I might do it. Hey, Joan of Arc was a teenager when she led the French army to victory.

Macho Man swaggered forward, peeling off his weaponry and ammo belts. “You talk the talk, son. But can you walk the walk?” He tugged off his battle gloves, tucked
them into his helmet, and tossed the bundle to the side. “Why don’t you show me what you’ve got?”

This SEAL was challenging me to a fight.

“Sir,” I said, “we need every member of this squad in top physical condition when we go up against Abbadon. We can’t afford casualties before we even encounter the enemy.”

“Casualties?” Macho Man didn’t like the sound of that.

“With all due respect, sir, I have no desire to hurt you.”

“Whoo-ooh,” the other soldiers jeered as they started to circle around us in the horse pen.

“Well, aren’t you polite.” The tough guy shed his tactical jacket. He was down to dog tags and a muscleman T-shirt. “Don’t worry, son. I think I can handle anything you can dish out. Heck, kid, I’ve got underwear older than you.”

“Daniel?” said Emma. “You could seriously hurt this human.”

“Don’t worry, Emma,” I said. “I promise I won’t throw a single punch.”

“That’s right, kid,” said the SEAL. “Because I’m gonna take you down with one punch. Nighty-night, Danny Boy. It’s lights-out time.”

And with that, the toughest Navy SEAL in the bunch came at me with a wicked left hook.

I IMMEDIATELY WHIPPED back my head.

Remember how fast I can run?

Well, my individual body parts can bob and weave at hyperspeed, too.

When the SEAL’s fist sailed past the point where he thought my face should be, all he saw was a flesh-colored blur. So he tried again, this time with a right hook.

On the second punch, I think my head whooshing out of the way gave his knuckles windburn.

So he tried kicking me.

I dodged right.

He fell on his butt.

When he recovered and came at me with a second, soccer-style kick, I leaped up and landed behind him before he’d even completed his follow-through. His head swung back and forth a few times as he tried to figure out where I’d gone.

I tapped him on the shoulder to help him out. “Back here, sir.”

He spun around.

“Stand still, kid.”

“Not a wise strategy, sir.”

He came at me with both hands, trying to throttle me.

I ducked down into a squat so fast that I swirled up a dust cloud like the Tasmanian Devil.

The SEAL nearly shattered his fingers when his hands locked in the space my neck had occupied a split second earlier.

“I’m gonna rip your heart out of your chest and show it to you while it’s still beating, boy!”

Okay, I may have been the teenager in this fight, but the twentysomething SEAL could definitely win a medal for Most Immature. He was driven by sheer rage and kept flailing at me even as I zipped and zoomed out of reach.

“Fight me, kid!”

“I am!”

Hey, there’s no rule that says you must always beat your opponent with brute force. Sometimes you can just wait him out and wear him down. Call it my siege strategy—a prolonged and persistent effort that weakens the enemy to the point of ultimate surrender. Yes, I could’ve transformed myself into a brick wall and let Mr. Machismo land one punch that would’ve shattered every spindly bone in his fist, but, like I said, we needed every soldier and sailor we could muster to go up against Abbadon.

The Navy SEAL was as tough as he looked. He kept coming at me. For a full hour.

Most of the other soldiers got bored with our zero-contact pas de deux. I saw Dana yawn. Joe went back into the kitchen for a second helping of bacon, sausage, and ham, taking a couple of Black Ops guys with him.

Finally, after an hour and sixteen minutes (I’m guessing a world record for a boxing match with
zero
points scored), the Navy SEAL—drenched in sweat and gasping for breath—collapsed in a crumpled heap on the ground.

“Emma?” I called out. She was, once again, geared up to be our company medic.

She rushed over to the fallen SEAL with a canteen full of Orange Elephant, the much more potent (and pungent) Alpar Nokian version of Red Bull. Two sips and you’re totally revitalized.

One sip is all it takes if you’re human.

“Outstanding, Daniel,” the Navy SEAL conceded when the Orange Elephant kicked in and he remembered how his legs worked. “I’m impressed. The name’s Lieutenant Russell,” he said, thrusting out his right hand. “You lead. I’ll follow. Heck, kid—I’d follow you into hell itself.”

“Good,” I said, grasping his hand firmly in mine. “Because that’s exactly where we’re going.”

A FLEET OF helicopters landed in the nearby pasture.

“Where’d those come from?” asked Agent Judge.

“Just something I whipped up so the strike force can hop over to West Virginia,” I explained.

“Excellent. Where are the pilots?”

“We don’t need them. I just need to imagine where you’re going and the airships will fly you there.”

The troops ducked under the rotor wash and carried their gear into the waiting choppers.

“
You
got us the birds?” Lieutenant Russell asked as he gathered up all the gear he had shed to fight me.

“Roger that,” I said. “I figure a true leader needs to do more than duck punches.”

He nodded. “See you in hell, sir,” he said as he dashed off to hop into a chopper.

“Grab a helicopter, sir,” I said to Agent Judge.

“I’ll fly with you.”

I shook my head. “I’m afraid you can’t.”

“Come again?”

“I’m going to teleport. I need to get there first to set up a landing beacon outside the cave entrance.”

“Daniel?”

“Sir?”

“You wait for us. Don’t you dare try to take on Number 2 by yourself.”

“I won’t, sir. A team leader is nothing without his team.”

He shot me a salute. “See you in West Virginia.”

While he raced off to a waiting whirlybird, I focused on the coordinates my internal GPS memory had locked in on when I logged the death of Number 33 (Attila) on The List. Traveling back to West Virginia, I wondered if the state should change the slogan on their license plates from
ALMOST HEAVEN
to
JUST OUTSIDE HELL
.

WHEN I ARRIVED at my destination, my father was already there, waiting for me.

“Impressive technique, Daniel.”

I thought he was commenting on my increasing skill at teleportation. “Thanks. Fortunately, I remember this place very vividly. It helped me fully grok the location.”

Hey, it’s hard to forget the place where you turned yourself into yak stew so you could work your way through an alien’s slimy intestines. Trust me, a trip like that is sort of like going to Disney World—you remember it for a long,
long
time.

“I meant how you dealt with that SEAL, son. You met his anger with restraint.”

“Thanks. I guess meeting Xanthos has mellowed me.”

My father smiled. “ ‘Do not give sway to the negative way.’ Good advice.”

“Yeah.”

“Giving you a little extra advice is why I’m here, son.
I’ll be joining you from time to time on this mission, but strictly in an advisory capacity.”

“Outstanding. I’ll take all the advice you’ve got to give.”

We moved closer to the mouth of the abandoned coal mine.

“I figured this would be as good a place as any to start searching for Mel and Abbadon,” I said. “I think it leads to what Number 2 calls the underworld.”

“It does,” said my father. “But be on guard as you descend into Number 2’s domain, son. You are about to enter a realm few have ever journeyed into. Fewer still have come back to talk about it.”

My father vanished and I set up a homing beacon to guide in the fleet of helicopters.

As the landing skids slid across the windswept weeds of an open field and the heavily armed troops jostled out of the choppers, I materialized my four friends.

“So, Daniel, is this where you took out Attila?” Willy asked, surveying the scene.

“Yeah.”

“Hey,” said Joe. “The grease stain on that tree over there—is that him?”

I shrugged. “I guess.”

“Gross, Daniel,” said Emma.

Joe kept going. “And what about that oily splotch on that rock, and that chunky stuff dangling off that shrub, and that bony bit stuck in the mud?”

“Okay,” said Dana, “that’s just disgusting, Joe.”

“I know! This guy Attila was all over the place. This
must be what they mean when they say you’re spreading yourself too thin.”

Agent Judge came jogging over to join us, followed by his 150-member strike force, all of them outfitted with serious alien weaponry clattering and clanking against their backs. My father wasn’t there to greet his old friend, Agent Judge. In his role as special advisor to the team leader, he would be visible to and advising only me.

“So this is the place?” said Agent Judge, gazing down into the dark tunnel.

“Yes, sir. It was the initial rally point for Abbadon and his minions, right before they launched their attack on D.C. This mineshaft leads down to a cavernous chamber. That room could very well be an entrance to his underworld empire.”

Agent Judge nodded and mumbled, “ ‘Abandon all hope, ye who enter here.’ ”

He was quoting Dante Alighieri’s
Divine Comedy
, an epic poem widely considered to be the preeminent work of Italian literature, about a previous descent into the devil’s lair—what Dante called “The Inferno.” That “abandon all hope” quote? According to Dante, it’s the inscription right outside the front door to hell, which, if my hunch was right, was where we were currently standing.

“Lock and load,” I shouted to the troops. They racked rounds into their weapons and charged up their whining blasters. I raised my hand and chopped it dead ahead at the entrance to the coal mine. It was time to begin our slow march into hell.

After about twenty yards, the sharply raked angle of the downward slope cut off all the daylight that had been streaming in through the squat entryway. We were plunged into total blackness. I blinked hard and switched my ocular nerves to their night-vision mode.