Armageddon?? (61 page)

When
his Bradley came to a halt, Major Warhol stretched and dropped out of the back,
leaving the cramped compartment that had been his home for over a week. Some of
his staff from the field operation of DIMO(N) were waiting and he got the
customary back-slapping greeting. Behind them, the long cavalcade of vehicles
had started moving again, the great Russian ZIL and MAZ trucks being followed
by the first of the European Leopard II tanks. Warhol gestured at the convoys
that stretched, nose-to-tail, as far as he could see.

“Well,
if there wasn’t a Peak Oil problem before, there certainly will be now.”

One
of the scientists snorted. “Peak Oil? That…. Oh, never mind. Anyway, we’re
hoping we’ll hit oil in Hell. How did it go Major?”

“Not
bad, our sims were pretty accurate. The dust is bad though. I’m surprised to
see aircraft going in. Licked the filtration problem?”

“Yes
and no. The filters cut airflow to the engines by about 20 – 30 percent. So
that hits performance. And the time between overhauls is horrible, 50 to 60
hours before an engine has to be pulled and stripped. The good news is the
clogging problem’s been licked.”

Something
about the way the man put that caught Warhol’s attention. Putting on his most
casual voice he asked the question they’d been hoping he wouldn’t. “How did you
crack it then?”

There
was an embarrassed shuffling of feet. “Well, actually we didn’t. We designed a
filter pack and a pod that would use reverse air blast to clean the filters.
Only problem was the pilot would have to glide with the engines out while he
used it. They didn’t like that. Couple of aircraftmen came up with something
better, a series of tabs on the inside of the filter that interfered with the
airflow and made the filter shake. The dust in there is dry and that worked
like a charm. Doubled or more the time taken for the airflow loss to reach
mission-ending proportions.”

Warhol
laughed and shook his head. “Right, I just got to say my farewells and then you
can bring me up to date on the rest.” Then he set off to where Stevenson was
speaking with MacFarland.

“We’re
leaving the vehicles here, First Cavalry will be taking them over. First
Armored is being split up, First Brigade will be staying as the cadre for the
rebuilt division, Second and Third will be cadres for two new armored
divisions. We’re all going back to the States for that. Stevenson, you’ll be
commanding First Battalion in the new First Brigade. Any idea what you want to
name your battalion?”

Stevenson
thought for a second. Spearhead was too obvious. “How about the Hellcat
Battalion Sir?”

“Good
choice. You done good Stevenson. So have your crew. Got a commission for one of
them, the others get to jump up the enlisted grades. Who’s best officer
material in your crew?”

Again,
a quick thought. “Hey Biker? You’re an officer.”

Her
driver’s head emerged from his hatch, his attention caught by the use of the
crew nickname. As the message sank in he shook his head. “Oh no Boss, you can’t
do that to me. Please. Not an Officer.”

The
Hospital, Mai Xiao Village, Sinkiang.

“Every
morning they came down to the village tea house to drink their morning cup of
tea, well laced with an illicit portion of rice wine. There were ten of them
now, once there had been fifteen but time and old age had taken its toll and
one by one, they had quietly vanished. Even fifteen had been a dramatic fall
for sixty of them had left the village in the far off days of 1950 and only
those 15 had returned. Now, the ten survivors were old, old men. They youngest,
still called ‘the boy’ by his fellows was eighty years old and the oldest,
their sergeant, had been a veteran of the People’s Liberation Army even in
1950, and he was far into his mid-nineties. But his moustache still bristled
even though it was snow white and his back was still straight.”

“They
saved from their pensions to bribe the tea house owner to slip them their rice
wine, I knew about it of course, everybody did, but these men were heroes and
who denies a hero a little comfort in their old age? The truth was that their
small savings wouldn’t buy them the drinks they needed but if the other
villagers chose to make up the difference, that was their business, nobody
else’s.”

“And
so, every day they would come down, and gather around their table, drink their
tea and tell their stories. Of how they had held the hill in Korea against the
Americans. Of how they had been outnumbered and outgunned and the American
artillery never stopped shooting and their planes never stopped bombing but
they had held the hill anyway. Every year the story got a little more fanciful,
the attacks so much worse, their stand so much braver. They’d tell the stories
to everybody who listened, and everybody did because these were old men, whose
wives had long died and they were left alone. Lonely as only old men who had
outlived their time could be. So the villagers listened to the stories and
counted themselves lucky they had not gone to Korea.”

“Then
there came that day. The old men hadn’t arrived yet but something else did. A
monster, a hideous monster from hell, the one the Americans call the baldrick.
The village went black in its middle and the creature stepped out, looking only
to kill and mutilate. Most of the men were far away, working in the fields or
on the road and could not help. There were just the women and children left and
they screamed when they saw the monster and they ran. But the monster could run
as well, faster than they could and it started to kill them.”

“As
the Party Leader I had a Type 56 rifle in my hut and I got it. I fired a burst
at the monster and I think I hit it for it stopped and shook itself. But it
wasn’t dead, it seemed hardly hurt and it turned to come for me but it heard
more screams where the children were running from the school. It forgot me and
went to kill them. I fired again but it was too far away, more than 100
meters.”

“Then
I heard a shouted order, one that cut through the noise and screams. The old
men were there, all ten of them and they had their old long 3-line rifles. They
dropped to the ground in a line, their hands working the bolts of their rifles
with the muscle-memory of skills never forgotten. They fired all at once, in a
volley and their hands worked the bolts again for another.”

“The
monster staggered with the first volley and lurched with the second. It turned
away from the children and came for the old men. The sergeant ordered
independent fire and the rifles crackled but the monster kept coming at them.
The old men’s hearts were brave but their eyes were dim with age and their
hands shook, not from fear of course, but from infirmity. I doubt if one bullet
in ten they fired was biting home. The monster had a three-point spear and it’s
lighting flashed out, killing ‘the youngster’ as he fired his rifle. The others
did not pause or hesitate but kept on firing until their pouches were empty.
How they had kept their rifles and ammunition I do not know and do not intend
to ask.”

“With
the monster close and their ammunition gone, they fixed their bayonets, they
got to their feet and they advanced on the monster, their bayonets leveled. I
had changed my magazine by now and I had run over to where I also could fire on
the monster. The old men had surrounded it, it was slashing at them with its
claws, but they parried its slashes and thrust their bayonets home. They were
old men and slow, they could not evade all the blows from the monster and their
numbers shrank even as I watched. But the monster was down, on its knees, and
the old men, now down to three with their sergeant still leading them, kept
thrusting. I had a clean shot and I emptied my rifle into it, saw it bleeding
and dying on the ground. It fired its trident again and the lightning bolt hit
me. It must have been weak with death for I did not die when the bolt hit my
face.”

“So,
you see Doctor, my blindness is nothing to be sorry for. What finer sight could
I, Party Leader of Mai Xiao Village, treasure as my last than those ten old men
saving our children by bringing down the monster with their bayonets?”

Okthuura
Jorkastrequar, Tartaruan Range, borderlands of Hell

Yulupki
sat unhappily atop the Great Beast as it clambered up the side of the volcano.
The track was so rough as to be virtually non-existent, it was really just a
relatively level strip that had been cleared of boulders. It had been two
months since this particular cone had last erupted and ash-laden smoke was
still pouring out of many fissures in its sides. There was no guarantee that
the lava would not again start pouring out while the ritual was in progress.
However Belial had insisted on placing the portal as deep as possible into the
magma, which meant the ritual had to take place on the rim of an active crater.

She
was sure the lumbering Beast had picked up on her distaste for its kind and was
doing what it could to throw her off. Not that there was much chance of that,
as the leather harness held her coils tightly to its back, but the lurching
made it difficult to focus and prepare for the task ahead. Naga could manage
short bursts of speed when pressed, but in general their speed was much
inferior to even the common demon warrior, much less the cavalry or fliers.
That made this indignity necessary but not any more tolerable.

Finally
the Great Beast attained the rim of the crater and Yulupki was afforded an
expansive view of Jorkastrequar. A hundred yards below her a veritable lake of
semi-congealed lava bubbled and hissed. Fortunately the copious smoke it was
spewing was carried straight up into the sky by the strong thermals, otherwise
visibility in the crater would have been near-zero. As planned, the forge
demons had erected three great shrines to the barrier spirits, spaced equally around
the rim. Each shrine consisted of a row of thirteen copper rods driven into the
pumice at three yard intervals, each rod thirty feet tall and tapering from
four inches diameter at the base to a sharp point at the top. The rods
supported a great spider's web strung in copper, silver and gold wire.

Both
the pattern of the web and the bifold curve of rods was the result of millennia
of painstaking trial and error, carried out by naga searching for the
arrangement that best pleased the spirits that dwelt between worlds. Rumor had
it that the existence of the spirits had been discovered quite by accident.
Long ago a lone naga had attempted to open a portal to gate a small force of
warriors to another world. As luck had it she performed the ritual facing the warriors,
who had at that moment presented their tridents in salute to a passing baron.
The portal sprang into existence at twice the expected size. The passing baron
commended the naga for the strength of her magery, which forced her into a
desperate series of attempts to replicate the feat.

Eventually
that nameless naga discovered that a close packed arrangement of bronze rods
could multiply the effect of her ritual many-fold. This could only be the work
of unknown beings existing in the strange realm the portal crossed. The
creatures clearly desired the shrines, but could not enter the physical world
to construct them themselves. Thus a wordless bargain was struck; the demons
would build the shrines, and in return the barrier spirits would aid the naga in
their work, adding their psychic strength to the task of opening the portal. As
long as the shrines were constructed according to the prescribed traditions,
Yulupki had never known the barrier spirits to renege on their end of the deal.
This was just as well, because they would need all the help they could get to
meet Belial's demands.

In
front of each shrine the demon workers had carved out six crude terraces, each
of which held thirteen wooden pallets. Three quarters of the pallets were
already filled with the long coiled forms of naga, each resembling a giant
snake with a scaled and vaguely female humanoid torso in the place of a head.
More continued to arrive as she watched, strapped to the backs of lesser Beasts
that strained and staggered under their weight. For now Yulupki was basking in
the waves of heat, but she knew that it would become unpleasantly hot by the
end of the ritual; the insulating pallets would prevent burns to their
undersides. Eager to begin the ritual, she commanded the Great Beast to take
her to the nearest shrine.

Great
Hall of the Adamant Fastness, Tartaruan Range, Outer Rim of Hell

The
great hall was filled to capacity with demons, including every minor noble from
Count Belial's domain save a few lesser baronets that could not be spared from
overseeing production. They were seated at carved stone tables more commonly
used for victory feasts. There was little sound other than the padding of
servants running to and fro, running errands and bringing chunks of fresh meat
refreshment. Save for these minor disturbances, every demon seemed to be
concentrating intensely.

The
count himself paced back and forth on the raised platform in the centre of the
chamber. Sharing the platform with him was the great gorgon Euryale, flanked by
her handmaidens Lakheenahuknaasi and Megaaeraholrakni. To a human, the trio
looked quite similar. All three were clad in nothing but their shining bronze
scales, had for tresses a mass of tentacles each like a cyclopean snake, and
possessed both great bat-like wings and a pointed tail that curled about their
taloned feet. On closer inspection however, differences were apparent.
Euryale's curvaceous figure and enchanting voice (at least, to other demons)
clearly favored her succubus heritage. Megaaerah's anemically slim form and
reputed skill at portal magery were much reminiscent of her naga cousins.
Lakheenahuknaasi 's relatively compact and muscular form, not to mention her
straightforward attitude, showed more of a kinship with the harpies.