Armageddon?? (12 page)

“PFLH?”
McInery was confused.

“People’s
Front for the Liberation of Hell.” Kim grinned savagely. “That’s us boys. Let’s
tear this place apart.”

Wadi
Al Khirr, Western Iraq  Memnon hissed softly and sniffed the remains of his
companions. Groztith and Hezbitari had been flying next to him, soaring on the
very ethers of this world savoring the panic and the fear. It was like the
sweetest nectar to their refined senses. These monkeys were clever little
things, they always had been but who would have imagined they would have come
so far as to fly themselves in chariots of steel and plastic? Plastic. Memnon
snorted in confusion. What was it? It was hard like metal yet he could divine
nothing of the earth from it. No metal, no ore. It had no elemental song within
itself, it did not sing, it did not even hum. It was a dead thing this plastic
that only told him its name and nothing more.

Yet
these chariots of steel and plastic had been so very deadly, yes. Unleashing
arrows of fire and steel that tore through ethereal flesh with rude abruptness
and unerring accuracy his wing mates were overcome. Groztith barely had time to
chant its challenge to the once-born. The arrows tore him into this pool of
viscera and smoking bone. Memnon groaned slightly as his ruined left shoulder
began throbbing again, ephemeral essence gelling and congealing over the gaping
wound where his massive leathery wings had been. The chariots had eyes and they
were not fooled.

It
had taken all of his will to overcome the pain and panic as another human arrow
of steel and fire had pinned him between his once proud wings. Hezbitari was
dead as well, the leering face plastered against the cracked tree trunk to his
left. The rest of the demonic form was sprayed in a smoldering mess splashed
among the tree tops and underbrush. "You're a fool Hezbitari." Memnon
growled as he made it up to his cloven hooves and steadied himself. Above him
he still heard the chariots roaring triumphantly as they raced away after
having circled over his clearing these last few minutes.

His
senses smelled the approaching monkeys before he heard them and he licked his
lips. He smelled more plastic and steel and he knew they were armed with
weapons that wounded far worse than simple steel swords and spears. It did not
matter. Briefly, it was like the old days, he had the advantage. He had their
minds before they even knew he was there. These ones were not like the others,
the ones whose minds seemed shielded by something he couldn’t explain. These
ones, the ones in the long robes, were vulnerable still. He held their minds in
his hands and carefully formed the image of himself, transparent, invisible in
his own. They would see what he wanted them to and that was nothing. He let
loose a deep throaty laugh like some predator from this world's bygone days.
Memnon liked to play with his food. It was time for his pound of flesh.

The
first monkey peered over some underbrush, carefully keeping his crafted spear
of plastic and steel before him like a talisman. Memnon stood imperiously, arms
crossed and quietly waited as more of them approached, tentative and fearful.
Some whispered curses as they saw the charred remains of his wing mates blasted
all over the clearing. Several were easily within an arm's length of the
never-born as it watched them with cold satisfaction. Twelve of them in all
moved in tight formation into the clearing. What an auspicious number, Memnon
mused.

Arabic.
The language was Arabic. His gift of tongues was perfect as he listened to the
monkeys musing and whispering as they examined the remains of his wing
brothers. By the time the clouds overhead lifted and the sun shown down on
these fields the ephemeral flesh and bone would boil and hiss away. One of them
lifted a box to his ears and spoke into it. He could feel the ether sparking
around him and trilling with voices. They were communicating over distances
without seeing their audience. He had heard of this phenomenon from those who
dared venture into this plain. He did not believe it until now.

"Clever
little monkeys, you have come far." He finally spoke breaking the silence
in perfect flawless Arabic save for the omnipresent low growl that undercut
every syllable. Some of the al-Quaeda men whirled around and began firing
wildly. They could not see him.

No
matter. It was time for his pound of flesh. One of the humans stared dumbly
down at his chest as a taloned claw erupted from his chest in a gruesome spray
of crimson gore and bone. The soldier's eyes focused on the still beating heart
held in the claws like an obscene flower before dimming forever. Memnon
shuddered in near orgasmic joy as he felt the passage of the Essence through
him and into the depths of his realm. The fallen soldier’s fellows screamed
incomprehensibly in a panic, some fumbling for grenades and others were firing
into the smoky form dancing along the edges of their perceptions. They heard
the guttural chant of challenge from their unseen attacker and some of them
found their bowels turned to water and fear gripped them as surely as the talon
gripped the hapless soldier's heart. They had come to set up another roadside
bomb, to strike another blow at the satans who had invaded earth but it was
they who had been ambushed. Memnon's eyes rolled into the back of his head like
a Great White Sharks' revealing black within black eyes, lifeless, like a
doll's eyes, and he descended upon the children of Seth and ravaged them as
only the never-born could with divine fury and hunger. Their screams could be
heard for kilometers and then there was only a sudden still silence.

Commendations
to Surlethe who wrote the first part of this section and to Stravo who wrote
the last. Well and nobly done guys!

Chapter
Nine

Wadi
Al Jaram, Western Iraq

“Now
hollow fires burn out to black, and lights are guttering low.  Square your
shoulders, lift your pack, and leave your friends and go.  Oh, never fear, man,
nought's to dread, look not to left nor right:  In all the endless road you
tread, there's nothing but the night.”

“Sorry
Sir?”

“Houseman,
poem called ‘A Shropshire Lad’ about the kids who died fighting for Queen
Victoria in far-off parts of the Empire. How they left home and died for
thirteen pence a day. His theme was that they couldn’t see what they were dying
for or the point of it all. We’re spared that, we know what we’re fighting for
here.” Brigadier John Carlson glanced down at his watch. “Today. When dawn
comes, we will be fighting for everything there is to fight for. There’s
literally nothing we won’t be fighting for.”

“That’s
not true Sir.” Simon deVere Cole, Carlson’s ADC was speaking equally softly.
“We’re not fighting for God. Queen and Country, yes. Our people, yes. The whole
of humanity, yes. But not God. Never again. We stand for ourselves this day, on
our own two feet. The men are saying its about time too.”

“That’s
good. I wish there were just a few more of them.” That was the truth. Carlson
had the British Brigade here, The Royal Dragoon Guards, a regiment of
Challenger II tanks, were dug in along the ridgeline, with the 1st Duke of
Lancaster and 1st Mercian, two battalions of mechanized infantry with their
Warrior armored carriers, beside them. From the front, all that could be seen
of them was the tops of their turrets peeking over the ridge. From behind, the
tanks were sitting in open-backed revetments so they could fall back from this
position to the next. Carlson looked up at the stars overhead. It was a trite
cliché that looking up at them made man and his works seem insignificant and
now it was a false cliché as well. For today, man’s works made the heavens
themselves insignificant. And Carlson had just a regiment of tanks and two
battalions of mechanized infantry. Plus his artillery batteries of course and a
lot of engineers. One advantage of a “peace-keeping” mission was that there
were a lot of civilian development projects involved and they had needed
engineers. Those engineers had been hard at work for the last few days.

Out
in front, he could see the result of their labors. A shimmering river that
stretched north and south as far as he could see, glistening gently in the
moonlight. It was a beautiful sight if one didn’t know what the silver river
was, to those who had seen what razor-wire could do, it glimmered with evil
promise. Yet even worse was what nobody could see until it was too late, the
thousands of anti-personnel and anti-tank mines sewn across the front.
Carlson’s plan was quite simple, all good military plans were. He would break
the enemy attack on the minefields and wire while his artillery poured fire
into the mass of enemy hung up in front of him. As they broke through the mines
and wire, as they surely would, his tanks would slaughter them while the infantry
protected the tanks. The wire and the mines were his force multiplier, the
thing that would allow him to stand against the force threatening him.

He
ran those figures through his mind as well, 93,300 infantry, 6,666 cavalry,
2,187 harpies. Less those killed by attrition in the long march to contact.
Against them, he had just over 8,000 men. The government in the UK had promised
him more, but they were a long time coming, years of British under-spending on
defense had seen to that. Those years were gone but even with the Government
printing all the money it needed for the war effort, it would take time for the
added production to reach the front. The RAF had only four C-17 transports and
their first priority had been to fly aluminum foil out to the theater. Every
man in his force now had his helmet lined with aluminum foil and the people in
the rear were handing rolls of the stuff out to the civilians. In a strange
way, this was already shaping up to be one of the great logistics achievements
of the war. A concerted effort to give every human on earth his own aluminum
foil hat. Carlson chuckled, he suddenly had a picture of aluminum haberdashery
becoming a study topic at Sandhurst.

“Sir.
General Fereidoon Zolfaghari to see you.” deVere Cole interrupted the train of
thought.

“General,
Sir.” Carlson snapped out the salute. The Iranian General returned it
punctiliously.

“I
think you will be pleased to see me Brigadier.” The English was excellent. “I
have brought with me the Shamshar Armored Division. Three of my regiments of
T-72s, 324 tanks, are moving into position along your left while we speak,
supported by a regiment of armored infantry, 108 BMP-1s. We have not the
excellent position you have here but the Global Hawks tell us the enemy will
strike your position first. When they die on your wire, we think they will try
and flank you. They cannot go to your right, the Hawr al Hammar prevents that.
They must go to the left, right into the guns of my tanks and artillery.”

“We’re
more than pleased to see you General, you’re a sight for sore eyes. We’re
expecting to get hit after dawn. That glow on the horizon? It’s the Baldrick’s
campfires.” A thought occurred to Carlson. “Have all your men aluminum foil for
their helmets? We have plenty if you are in need.”

“The
Americans gave us enough, thank you, but I will spread word. If any of my units
are short, we will come to you. If I may offer you some help in return? You are
very light on anti-aircraft here. I have an extra anti-aircraft regiment, the
Shamshar is a composite division, made up from what is left of all four of our
southern armored divisions. So many of our men went when The Message was sent,
we could not support all the units we had. At least it means we are not short
of front-line equipment for those we have left. I would be honored if you would
accept the attachment of the regiment to your force. It has SA-8 missiles and
ZSU-23/4 guns.”

“Thank
you, I am honored to accept. General, I was about to have some tea, a little
fruit. It is poor refreshment to offer a comrade in arms, but perhaps you would
deign to join us?”

“I
would prefer a glass of the whisky for which your Scots are so famous.” Carlson
lifted an eyebrow and Zolfaghari smiled gently. “The pact is broken, the
commandments do not apply. Now we have faith only in our tanks and guns.”

Like
any good ADC deVere Cole had anticipated his Brigadier’s needs and a bottle of
18 year old Laphroig had appeared. He measured out glasses for the two
officers.

“Oh
come on Simon, pour one for yourself as well.”

“Thank
you Sir.”

“To
the morrow and may the day be ours.” Carlson’s voice rang across the moonlit
desert.

“And
to our arms. May we bring honor to our countries and those we fight beside.”
Zolfaghari’s response echoed across the dunes. Below them, the razor wire
seemed to sway in response but it was just the wind rippling across the sand.

Headquarters,
Multi-National Force Iraq, Green Zone, Baghdad.

General
Petraeus stood in front of the great screen that showed the disposition of
forces in Iraq. Viewed one way, what he was about to do was committing an act
of mass murder. The thought made him chuckle quietly to himself, a long time
ago he’d held a press conference and the subject of night vision equipment had
come up. The American officer behind the podium had explained how the U.S. Army
had night vision equipment that enabled them to fight a 24-hour battle while
their enemy didn’t have anything approaching that capability. One journalist
had been greatly angered by that and had launched a tirade about how the
one-sided night-fighting capability “wasn’t fair.”