Authors: Stuart Slade
“You
need uniforms? We’ve got a lot to get through to you and we’re not sure how
long we can hold the portal open for at any one time.” Another figure emerged.
“This is Major Warhol, Special Forces. He’ll be liaising with you and providing
technical and operational assistance.”
“Welcome
to Hell Sirs. First thing, intelligence, we’ve counted five brigade–sized units
moving out of the lower reaches of hell, heading upwards. There’s a lot more
baldricks coming your way Sir. How’s thing going out there?”
“Dave
Petraeus is doing a number on the invasion force. He’s literally shredding them
with artillery and armor. The baldricks are losing in six-digit numbers.”
Schatten paused for a brief second. “Their command structure is shot to hell,
you and your team mates did a damned fine job.”
Randi
Institute of Pneumatology, the Pentagon, Arlington, VA
Major
Warhol was already on the other side of the portal, and the military personnel
were forming a line and starting to hand off crates of ammunition and
explosives, piling it through the portal as fast as discipline and urgency
could make possible.
“All
hands to the pumps. Get this stuff through as quickly. Maximum urgency.” Randi
looked at where kitten was shivering on her couch, obviously in great distress.
“Everybody, this isn’t just a military business. Throw stuff through if you
can’t hand it.” He paused for a second. “Is it safe to throw Semtex?”
“Sure
is. Thank’s for the help.” The stream of equipment being passed through picked
up speed.
On
the Shore of the Styx, Fifth Ring, Hell
“All
of you, stand to, and help us unload these supplies,” Schatten snapped, then
turned and passed his rifle to Kim. “It’s an M107, hot from the production
line. We got you Semtex instead of C-4, its 30 percent more powerful. She, in
turn, handed the rifle to McInery, who leaned it against a boulder. The stack
of equipment grew until they had received six webbings to carry things in, two
slightly modified 0.50 calibre assault rifles, 30 crates of ammunition, 180
kilograms of Semtex with all the requisite electronic fusing, two dozen M24
claymore mines, the same number of AT-4 anti-tank rockets, six pairs of
night-vision goggles, and twelve outfits of dark combat fatigues.
Behind
them, the portal started to shimmer, Schatten guessed that kitten was finally
losing her grip. “Anything else you need Lieutenant?”
“Yes
Sir. We need to change our allocations so our dependents get all of our salary.
We don’t need money here.”
“But
you’re dead.”
“With
respect Sir, the contract with the Army says nothing about ‘til death us do
part’ and obviously it hasn’t. Sir, this is hell, we are not short of lawyers
down here.” Kim grinned broadly, perfectly well aware of the size of the
demolition charge she’d just thrown into the Army bureaucracy.
Schatten
returned her grin. “Lieutenant, you’ve enabled me to fulfill a life’s ambition.
When I hand your – perfectly reasonable – instructions over to the proper
authority, I can finally make those REMFs at Pay Corps suffer as much as the
troops on the front line. Good luck Lieutenant and kick some ass down here.”
Then he and Warhol stepped back through the portal and were gone.
Kim
surveyed the equipment and smiled. “Okay, guys. We don’t have to eat. We don’t
have to sleep. We heal ten times faster than ordinary humans. We’re the United
States military.” Her smile widened into a full-toothed grin. “Let’s go blow up
some baldricks.”
Randi
Institute of Pneumatology, the Pentagon, Arlington, VA
“I’m
losing it!” kitten’s wail cut across the room. The elliptical portal started to
shiver as General Schatten and Major Warhol stepped out. A second or so later,
it collapsed completely. “I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t
be my dear.” Schatten’s voice was comforting and quiet. “Look, we got all the
stuff they needed through to them, they passed some intelligence that was very
important back to us and, above all, we’ve made solid contact. You did better
than we had any right to expect, so you go and have a rest. You deserve a medal
for what you did today.”
“Sir,
you should have let me go through first.” Warhol’s comment came as kitten and
her boyfriend left the room.
“Major,
sometimes a commander has to lead the way. Try it with noodles one day. Try to
push a cooked noodle across a plate, then try and pull it across. See which one
is easier. We’re going to be literally asking men to go into hell itself. Now,
when we do ask, they’ll know that we went first.” Schatten brushed at his
uniform, it was covered with foul-smelling mud and a disgusting greenish slime.
“I’m going to wash and change. If this smells as bad as it looks.”
“It
does.” Said Randi reassuringly.
“Then
that’s an early order of priority. I guess the Lab boys will want to analyze
this stuff as well.”
“I
brought some samples Sir.” Warhol held up what looked suspiciously like a jam
jar filled with the mud from hell.
“Well
done. And that applies to everybody here. We’re in a position to strike back at
last.”
Defense
Perimeter Delta, Hit, Western Iraq.
“What
the blazes is that?”
The
first layer of buildings was acting as a sieve, forcing the Baldricks to break
up into small groups as they forced their way through the alleys and narrow
streets before breaking out into the open ground that marked the gap between
the now-fallen Perimeter Charlie and the disputed Perimeter Delta. That open
ground, traversed by a divided-lane highway, was the new killing ground and the
carpet of black bodies was growing as the 10th Mountain Division’s armored
cavalry units swept it with fire. The problem was the steadily-growing number
of bodies in Army camouflage that were joining the baldrick dead. Now, there
was something different happening, a white pick-up truck was tearing down the
roadway, swerving around the bodies that littered it and heading straight for a
large group of baldricks that had just emerged from the buildings.
The
Operation Iraqi Freedom veterans of 10th Mountain guessed what was about to
happen, they’d seen exactly the same tactic tried out on the Bradleys and
Abrams tanks as they’d done their thunder runs through Baghdad. It had failed
then but the baldricks didn’t have heavy armor supporting them. The suicide
bombers them had died screaming “God is Great” but it was unlikely that they
made the same call now. “Death to God” was more likely. It made little
difference, the truck plowed into the group of baldricks and exploded,
scattering fragments of steel and baldrick for dozens of yards around. Even
here, in Delta, the blast was stunning.
“Come
on, follow me.” Links screamed out, the last baldrick push had sized a building
that was a Delta strongpoint and it was up to him to retake it. While everybody
was stunned by the suicide bomber’s blast was as good a time as any. He was
pressed up against the wall one side of the door, he swung past and kicked it
open. Ina well-time drill, two of his men threw a pair of hand grenades each
inside, then the other pair raked it with fire from their M16s. Links rolled
through the door, two of the baldricks inside were dead or dying on the floor,
two more were still standing although obviously torn up by grenade fragments
and bullets. Links pushed up to his feet and slammed into the nearest baldrick,
knocking the wounded monster off its feet. He and three of his men piled on top
of it, pinning its arms down, slamming their K-bars into its eyes. The baldrick
screamed and threshed, one of its clawed feet catching an infantryman in the
stomach and disemboweling him.
Across
the room, the remaining badlrick turned and ran, out of the door and into the
open ground beyond. He made a few yards before smoke trains erupted around him
and he vanished into the concussion of RPG-7 warheads exploding. The irregulars
in Hit had joined in the fight and the RPG-7s they carried in place of rifles
were lethal. Links looked up, the terrific noise of the firefight was joined by
something else, a rhythmic throbbing that shook dust from the ceiling and
caused the shelves on the wall to bounce. Over his head, the sky suddenly
turned black and red as a hail of unguided rockets passed overhead to slam into
the buildings opposite.
“It’s
the Apaches!” Links’ voice was triumphant as the four helicopters swept low
overhead, their 30mm chain guns hammering at the baldricks caught in the open.
All along the line, the AH-64Ds of the aviation unit were sweeping the killing
zone with gunfire and rockets while overhead, F-16s prowled, ready to take down
any harpies that appeared.
Headquarters,
Army of Abigor, Hit, Western Iraq.
Abigor
watched the human sky chariots pouring fire into his troops. Some of them were
simply saturating the area with fire lances, others were using a magic fire
lance that would turn in the air to follow its prey. Seeker lances he thought,
what else could they be?
“Sire,
our demons are falling back.”
“What?”
Abigor contained his urge to destroy the messenger. He had learned how futile
that could be.
“They
have lost eight in ten of their number Sire and the humans will not retreat
from us. They cannot hold and now the sky chariots have arrived, the iron
chariots will not be far behind. It is over.” The messenger bowed his head and
waited for death.
Abigor
looked across the roofs of Hit where the sky chariots were attacking the
remnants of the legions deployed here. He had had such hopes of this
outflanking move but in his heart he guessed the humans had been ahead of him
all the time.
“Yes,
it is over. Spread the word, order the legions to fall back and regroup.”
Regroup
with what? the messenger was tempted to ask but he held his tongue. Surviving
this message was good fortune enough for one day, no need to tempt fate.
Headquarters,
Multi-National Force Iraq, Green Zone, Baghdad.
The
baldrick attack was collapsing, General Petraeus could see the truth now,
unfolding on the giant screen before him. He had raw video up, it showed the
black line that had pressed up against his defenses melting away, beginning to
stream to the rear as it collapsed. Up at Hit the issue had been close for some
hours and the brigade holding the city had been battered but they had held and
now the enemy was in retreat there as well. Petraeus switched over from raw to
synthetic video, the pictures of the battle replaced by blue and red military
symbols moving slowly as the baldricks retreated and the human formations
started their advance.
Not
that there was anywhere for the baldricks to retreat to. The armored spearheads
had already linked up behind their lines and blocked the retreat to the
hellmouth. The back door had slammed shut, there was nowhere for the baldricks
to run to.
Commendations
to Surlethe who wrote the first part of this section
Chapter
Twenty One
Executive
Office, Pima Air & Space Museum , Tucson, Arizona
The
sound of R-3350 engines starting up woke Daniel J. Ryan, Executive Director of
the Pima Air and Space Museum up from an exhausted sleep. For weeks it seemed
as if his whole museum had become a research center, digging out old
documentation that allowed the aircraft stored at the AMARG boneyard down the
road to be brought back into service. His prized restoration experts had
suddenly found themselves wearing Air Force Blue uniforms and preparing
aircraft to go to war again. AMARG was slowly beginning to empty as the
aircraft capable of being returned to service were brought back to operational
status and the rest were stripped of what parts they had left.
He
got off the couch in his office, hearing the whine of the R-3350s outside pick
up in volume. He shook his head and headed for the executive bathroom, his
mouth tasted foul after what had passed for a night’s sleep and he desperately
wanted to clean his teeth. He checked his tinfoil hat was on safely, a gesture
that had almost become a reflex amongst the human population over the last few
weeks, and then headed for a shower and a shave. Half his job involved being
the public front for the museum, and that meant looking well-groomed whenever
he could. His wife was bringing him freshly-pressed clothes over each day and
he couldn’t let her down by not shaving. Even though the R-3350s were making
his mirror shake and his hand unsteady.
Finally,
he was ready to face the coming day and he went back to his desk. He’d pulled a
cup of water from the dispenser and the R-3350s were causing concentric ripples
on the surface. He looked at them for several seconds before the significance
sank in.
Ten
seconds later he was out his office door and running for the flight line,
shouting “Hey, bring my B-29 back!”
Flight
Line, Pima Air & Space Museum , Tucson, Arizona
“I’m
sorry Sir, technically the aircraft still does belong to the Air Force and
we’re repossessing it. We’ll be taking your KB-50 as well, as soon as we can
get it flyable and converted back to a bomb carrier. And, of course we will be
taking all three of your B-52s.”