Armageddon?? (112 page)

What
happened next defied his whole concept of reality. A formation of human
aircraft, not the sleek ones overhead but ungainly-looking things with wings
loaded with weapons and a strange set of whirling blades above them. Painted
red and gray like so many other human aircraft but with a blue, six-pointed
star on the body. One of them rotated towards him and its wings erupted in
fire. Minos just had the chance to see 16 missiles streaking off their racks
towards him before his headache was cured forever.

Beneath
him, the laboring demons were stunned into immobility as the AH-64D helicopters
rose over the rim to pour 30mm gunfire, rockets and Hellfire missiles into the
mass of demons in front of them. It was slaughter, pure, unmitigated and
relentless. The gunners in the helicopters unleashed salvo after salvo of
unguided rockets into the mass in front of them, playing their gunnery controls
as if they were musical instruments, switching from rockets to cannon and back
again as they split the mob of screaming demons into small groups and then cut
those groups down. The demons were unarmed, defenseless, their command cut off
by the first salvo of Hellfires that had slammed into Minos and cut him down
from his throne. Now, an Apache was hovering over his body, studding it with
30mm cannon fire to make sure he was truly and irrecoverably dead. His minions
were workers on the plateau, they didn’t even have their tridents and all they
could do was run. Only, there was nowhere to run to, the gunships were
advancing slowly across the plateau, mercilessly cutting the demons down no
matter whether they stood or ran. As they did, they taught a grim lesson to the
shrinking numbers of survivors. This is what helicopter gunships do. This is what
they are for.

The
demons were driven backwards, always backwards, away from the Plateau rim,
towards the great black stain in the wall that represented the death gate.
Then, there was nowhere further they could retreat to, some took the dreadful
chance and dived through the blackness to escape the relentless hammering of
the gunships, the others gave up and stood by the cliff face until the
helicopters killed them.

Behind
the first line of eight AH-64s, a second group of eight hovered over the hydras
that writhed and screamed on the plateau rim. More Hellfire missiles slashed
out, thumping into their bodies, ripping them open and sending multi-colored
sprays of demon blood arching through the air. In their death-spasms, some fell
off the edge, screaming and falling down into the hell-pit where they had
thrown so many unnumbered thousands of humans. Others threshed around for a few
minutes before the combination of Hellfires and gunfire stilled them forever.

The
Plateau was silent except for the thudding noise of the gunships as they
circled overhead, looking for any sign of resistance (by which the pilots and
gunners meant any sign of life). At the cliff face, the pile of human bodies
arriving through the gate was rising steadily, well, the second wave of the
assault would handle that. It was already arriving, nine UH-60 Blackhawks
loaded with Israeli commandos, their command section and one very special,
absolutely indispensable passenger. The Blackhawks touched down, the commandos
spreading rapidly across the plateau, quickly ensuring that the dead demons
strewing the rocky surface were indeed dead. There were some dead humans in
there as well, those unfortunate enough to have arrived just as the assault was
starting. They had died with their demon captors although the unconscious
humans had never been aware of by how little they had missed salvation.

With
the plateau secured, the commandos started picking up the human bodies that
were still pouring through and moving them to safety. Another small group
disappeared down the tunnel that marked the only access to the Plateau of Minos
and started setting explosive charges on the tunnel wall. The men were experts,
demolition men who had set more charges than most people would be able to
count. A few seconds after they emerged from the tunnel, a dull blast and a
cloud of choking gray smoke marked the success of their latest labors. A couple
of them went back into the tunnel and re-emerged, their thumbs raised. It would
be years before anybody used that access route again.

In
his command helicopter, Colonel Jonathan ben Amiel picked up his radio
microphone and clicked it to break squelch. “This is Strike Force Deliverance.
Objective is secure, hostile access is denied. Minos is dead and the transfer
of souls to the Hell-pit has been stopped. We are setting up the gate now.”

Amidst
the helicopters a young Indian girl found a comfortable piece of ground near
one corner of the plateau, close to the gaping black void of the existing gate.
She closed her eyes and concentrated, seeking out the minds of her colleagues
the ‘other side’. Then, almost like opening a door, contact was made and the
portal began to form in front of her.

DIMO(N)
Facility, Fort Bragg, North Carolina

“We’ve
got contact! Get the equipment fired up!” Colonel Warhol stopped to stroke his
brand-new rank insignia as he gave the orders. One thing about this war,
promotion was fast. Pre-war Lieutenants, especially those with experience in
Afghanistan and Iraq (which meant nearly all of them) were already Captains and
Majors. Warhol guessed that unless he screwed up this mission really badly,
he’d be a General within a month or so. After all, this was the most important
mission DIMO(N) had ever staged. A mission aimed at nothing less than cutting
the flow of deceased humans to Hell and redirecting them to a refugee facility
in the Phelan Plain.

Warhol
grinned quietly to himself. What had once been the Martial Plain of Dysprosium
had been renamed after the security guard in a Chicago Mall who had sacrificed
his life to save a group of schoolgirls from a Baldrick berserker. Philip
Phelan had to be out there somewhere and Warhol wondered what his reaction
would be when he found an entire region of Hell had been named in his honor.
Then his mind snapped back to the task at hand. Sisse Petersen, a
recently-arrived Danish sensitive, but one with remarkable linking powers was
on the couch surrounded by the latest Mark 3 amplifiers. They caused a lot less
discomfort than the earlier versions despite generating more power. Even
better, once the portal was open, the Mark 3 could keep it that way without a
human operator.

“We’re
through, portal opening now.” Sure enough, the portal opened and spread until
it was wide enough to take the equipment planned for it. Then, Petersen stepped
off the couch and the portal was steady. A cheer went up.

“I
will take the next one now.” Her voice was uncompromising, she’d started this
job, now she would finish it. She took up position on the next couch and waited
for the push from the other side. It came soon enough and the second portal was
opened. Now, there were two ellipses, about twelve feet apart. Time for the
engineers.

The
equipment was already waiting. A skid-mounted set of rollers and a belt were
pushed through the first portal. Unseen hands the other side grabbed it and
stretched it out. Then the process was repeated with the other side. Once
again, the unseen hands there quickly stretched it out. Then, the engineers in
between the portals adjusted the tension in the conveyor belt and the job was
done. With a flourish, the commander of the Army engineer detachment pressed a
button and an electric motor spun to life. There was a rattle and crash, then
the conveyor belt began to move.

“I’m
glad that worked.” Warhol hardly dared breathe.

“No
reason why it shouldn’t. The fuel pipeline through the Hellgate is working OK.
And we’re getting aircraft and equipment through no problem. So this should be
fine. Ah, here we go.”

The
first deceased humans were on the conveyor belt that had no accelerated to full
speed. The pile of bodies appeared at one portal, rolled across the gap between
them and disappeared back through the other. Warhol sighed with relief. Human
dead were no longer going to hell, now they were being transferred directly to
the waiting refugee camp. One part of the promise had been kept, no human would
ever go to suffer eternal torment in the Hell-Pit again.

Refugee
Transit Facility, The Phelan Plain, Human-Occupied Hell

Janice
Haggerty woke up very carefully. She was in a great room, far larger than any
hospital ward she had ever seen. There was a dull reddish light that was
permeating through from outside, was this a tent? And where was she? The last
thing she remembered was a tree leaping at her out of the darkness. Then, she
looked down and realized she was on a hospital-style bed, naked and uncovered.
She yelped and tried to cover herself with her hands.

“Don’t
worry, we’re all like that here.” A man on the next bed looked at her
appreciatively and in a way that Haggerty found upsetting.

“He’s
wrong.” Haggerty sighed with relief, a nurse had appeared, her face oddly
obscured by a mask. Surely a little nurse-to-nurse professional courtesy could
get her some clothes?

“Where
are we?”

“We’re
in Hell dear. You’re dead I’m afraid. If you’re strong enough to walk, we need
you to you outside to reception and task assignment. Every dead human from
Earth and Hell is coming through here and this place is only just large enough.
Three of you every second arriving.”

“Three
of us every second.” Haggerty tried to wrap her mind around the number. It was
hard to imagine that was the number of people who died all the time.

“Yes,
and its never going to end so please, hurry up and vacate this bed, we’re going
to need it soon.”

“I’d
like to rest for a while.” It was the man on the next bed.

“I’m
sure you would, but this is a temporary facility only. Just while you regain
consciousness. Now, move on please, we need this bed.”

Haggerty
got up and, to her relief, found there was a hospital-style robe at the foot of
the bed. She slipped it on and stepped through the opening, she had been right,
the facility was a series of huge tents. Somewhere near was a powerful electric
motor running. Ahead of her were lines of people forming and she joined what
looked like the shortest one. The man who had been on the next bed pushed in
front of her at the last moment. Hell seemed to have the same problems as Earth
sometimes she reflected. Then, the woman sitting behind a computer screen. She
looked at the man expressionlessly.

“Name
and nationality?”

“George
Tubshaw, Irish-American.”

“Cause
of Death?”

“Choked
on a pretzel.”

“Any
military service?”

“No,
I always thought I could serve more effectively by working in the private
sector.” There was a snort from another line at that.

“Qualifications?”

“Degree
in History of Folk Music.”

The
woman behind the computer pursed her lips and entered “Useless” into the field
for qualifications. “Very well Tubshaw, we’re assigning you to a construction
gang. Somebody will teach you how to hit nails with a hammer or use a spade.
Next.”

“But…
I’m an administrator.”

“Why
didn’t you say that before, what did you administer?”

“Well,
a music appreciation course in community college.”

“Construction
gang. Next.”

“Janice
Haggerty, British, No military service.”

“What
did you do Janice? And your cause of death?”

“I
was a nurse. I was in a traffic accident. We’d been treating casualties from
Sheffield, there were so many badly burned people to look after. I must have
fallen asleep driving home because the last thing I remember is a tree.”

“A
nurse. That’s good. Do you fancy working with people recovered from the
Hell-Pit? A lot of them are badly traumatized, they need sympathetic handling.
You’d be doing a really needed job.”

“Please,
umm Miss, excuse me asking but….”

“The
name is Fiona. Yes, I’m dead as well. I died in the Great Influenza of 1919. I
wasn’t as lucky as you, I spent the last century being drowned in a cess-pit
until some Quakers rescued me. So, you see, I know how much you’ll be needed.
Thanks for helping Janice. Next.”

Haggerty
walked away, hearing the voice behind her. “Nguyen Huu Phai, Vietnamese, two
years military service in the Vietnamese People’s Liberation Army. Died of
snake-bite.”

“Right,
the military authorities will want to speak with you. Please go over there and
wait for a truck.”

A
truck, Haggerty thought, obviously the fuel shortage that permeated Earth
wasn’t affecting hell, or at least not the Armies fighting in Hell. Overhead
she heard the scream of jet aircraft and saw two white-painted military jets
making their landing runs, their bleached-out roundels showing them to be
British. The TSR-2s, the press had been full of their exploits before she had
died. They’d made it sound like the “White Ghosts” were winning the war
single-handed. She chuckled, poor old Dennis Healey had been excoriated in the
press for canceling them so many years ago.

There
was a blast on a horn and she stopped short, the blacktop of a road was in
front of her and she’d nearly stepped out in front of a huge tank. She looked
around and saw a black American woman officer in a Humvee parked by the side of
the road.