Armageddon?? (43 page)

“They’re
shooting very well, Mr. Mathews.” Bell observed to the platoon commander.

“They
are indeed, Sergeant-Major.” The young subaltern, who had found his Sandhurst
class suddenly passed out early, replied, slightly nervous of the very
experienced Senior NCO. “In no small thanks to your training of them.”

‘THUD!
THUD! THUD!’

Both
men turned their heads towards the sound and saw that on the range next door
that S Company had begun to practise firing their newly issued Browning Heavy
Machine Guns. The 12.7mm round was a prodigious man killer, and was also pretty
effective against baldricks, so every infantry battalion were being issued with
the big machine-gun. The M-2s had come from FN-Herstal as well, Bell couldn’t
help reflecting that the armourers were doing well out of the Salvation War.
The M-2 issue was even including the units due to be mounted in Warrior Infantry
Fighting Vehicles. The 7th Black Watch was one of them and would be receiving
its new Warriors as soon as the vehicles were available. Until then, they were
making do with FV-432s and some M-113s the government had found somewhere.

Two
Warriors had recently visited Cultybraggan so that the men destined to join
armoured infantry regiments could become familiar with them. They had been
examples of the new Warrior Mk.2, armed with the 40mm CTA cannon, rather than
the old 30mm RARDEN cannon. The RARDEN had proven very effective against
baldricks, but its one weakness was its low rate of fire, the troops in Iraq
had requested a weapon with a greater rate of fire. The MoD had bitten the
bullet and decided that the time had come to make a choice, and quickly. The
BAE Systems proposal, which involved installing a 40mm CTA cannon in the
existing Warrior turret had been chosen, even if the turret was now a bit
cramped, because it could be manufactured more quickly and existing Warriors
could be modified faster.

“Have
you tried the new rifle yourself yet, Sir?” Bell enquired.

“I
certainly have, Sergeant-Major.” Mathews replied. “It has one hell of a kick,
left my shoulder all black and blue, and one really does need that bipod. I
think it will make a good battle rifle, though, once we all get used to it.”

“Rather
reminds me of the old Slur, Sir.” Bell said wistfully, having left the army
before the SA80 family had entered widespread service. “Bit fiercer, though.

“It’ll
certainly give those baldricks a pause for thought if they come back again.”

Western
desert of Iraq.

Corporal
James Moss, well he was an Acting Sergeant, as the old platoon Sergeant was
gone (he had been a member of the Free Church of Scotland), of 3 Platoon, A
Company, 1st Battalion The Royal Scots, scanned the desert around him from the
commander’s hatch of the FV432 ‘Bulldog’ APC. As with the other Scottish
regiments 1st Royal Scots, the senior line infantry regiment of the army, had
been de-amalgamated, in its case not only from The Royal Regiment of Scotland,
but also from the King’s Own Scottish Borderers. Part of the regiment, mainly
men from the Borderers, had been sent home to the UK to help form the new 1st
Battalion, The King’s Own Scottish Borders, while a mixture of reservists and
Territorial Army soldiers took their place in Iraq.

While
the upgraded ‘Bulldog’ was considered by the troops to be an excellent vehicle,
having protection fully equal of the Warrior IFV, the fact that it was only
armed with a GPMG had kept the units equipped with it out of the fight with the
baldricks. Major General Brims had kept them and the 1st Battalion The Duke of
Lancaster’s Regiment back as his reserve, while the 1st Battalion The Scots
Guards and 1st Battalion The Mercian Regiment (Cheshire) had all the fun in
their Warriors.

Determined
to play some useful part the Scots and Lancasters had scoured armouries for
heavier weapons to replace their GPMGs with. Moss’ ‘Bulldog’, for example, had
a Browning HMG on the commander’s mount, the GPMG being relocated to a pintle
mount aft of the main troop compartment hatches. Getting enough Brownings for
his platoon had cost Moss every bottle of whisky that the platoon possessed,
and most of their beer. A very happy American unit had handed over the HMGs and
ammunition and had immediately drawn replacements for themselves.

Other
‘Bulldogs’ had Russian made DShK machine-guns taken from Iraqi armouries while
some sported American Mark 19 Grenade launchers. The British Army had adopted
that weapon for use in Afghanistan and the Quartermaster would surely be
surprised to find out how many were now in the unofficial inventory. With their
new armament the ‘Bulldog’ equipped battle groups had been sent out into the
desert behind where the armoured battle groups of 4th Mechanised Brigade had
advanced, to sweep the ground for any stray baldricks who may have escaped.

A
few baldricks and injured harpies had already been encountered by the
mechanised patrols and successfully dealt with. Mostly killed, but there were
whispers that some had been taken prisoner. It was also whispered that units
who managed to take such prisoners would be smiled upon by those in authority.
However this long after the defeat of the demon army the chances of
encountering a live baldrick, or even a dead one, as the corpses had largely
decomposed, was slim. Still, Acting Sergeant Moss was ever hopeful of getting
his chance.

“I
can see something move over there, Corp…er, Sarge.” One of the dismounts, who
was standing head and shoulders out of the open troop hatches reported.

Moss
cocked the big Browning and swung it round in the direction that the private
had indicated, while he studied the object through the Common Weapons Sight on
his new L1A2 (he had taken the CWS off his old L85A2 and fitted it to the new
rifle).

“Oh,
sorry, false alarm, it’s a cow, or something.”

“Bloody
numptie.” Moss complained. “You had me going for a minute there.”

“That’s
the feckin’ real thing though!” Another soldier called out, flipping the safety
catch off his rifle and opening fire.

The
baldrick that the soldier had spotted had started to try an run as soon as he
had heard the APC approach, but was too weak to move particularly fast. The
.338 Lapua round struck him in the side and was enough in his weakened state to
bring the demon down.

“Davie,
halt!” Moss said to the FV432’s driver. “I think we might have just taken
ourselves a baldrick prisoner.”

The
Portal From Hell, Western Desert, Iraq

In
any other circumstances, the sight would have been hilariously funny. The little
force about to sally through the portal was built around veterans of the first
great invasion, most still bearing the wounds of that horrifying massacre but
the rest? Kidlings wearing equipment to big for them, so heavy they could
hardly lift it, mates who were scarcely any better off. None of them knew how
to operate their tridents, how to charge them and then discharge the magic in a
searing bolt. Most of the mates were crying, they knew what awaited them. The
kidlings were excited, trying to run around with their equipment, assuming that
what was about to happen was just a game. One kidling couldn’t lift his trident
properly so had it over his shoulder with the end trailing on the ground behind
him. In any other circumstances, the sight would have been hilariously funny
but Abigor’s heart was near breaking.

“Get
ready!” His order ran around the group, bringing them into some form of
formation. “Move out.” He went into a jog-trot and stepped through the great
ellipse that represented the portal between dimensions, into the clear yellow
sun and blue skies that he had devoutly hoped never to see again. Behind him,
his pathetic rag-tag band appeared in a grim pastiche of a fighting formation.

The
truth was, Abigor was surprised to be still alive. He had expected to be
swamped by a barrage of fire-lances and mage bolts as soon as he and his band
had emerged but the desert was silent. The ridge up ahead of them seemed
deserted but Abigor wasn’t fooled by that, he knew the humans would stay below
the ridgeline where they were safe until it was time to pour their fire into
their enemies. Thinking about it with the clarity that accompanies imminent
death, Abigor suddenly realized that it was a very sensible approach.

Yet
still the desert was silent, no hideous holocaust of fire erupting around them.
Had he been wrong? Had the humans given up and gone home? Surely that was
unlike them, it didn’t fit the remorseless harrowing of his Army as it had
retreated across the desert. But why was it silent?

“Everybody,
be careful where you put your feet. Do not step on mage-bars. They will kill
you.” Or worse he thought, but there was no need to worry the mates and
kidlings with that possibility. Despite all his fears, the ridgeline was
approaching fast as he jog-trotted across the desert. For preference, he and
his veterans would have been at a full run to cover the ground as fast as
possible but they had to measure their pace to the abilities of the weakest
members of their group. This attack was a sick joke and Abigor knew it.

Yet
it had succeeded. They reached the ridgeline and deployed on it. The mates and
kidlings were exhausted by the run across the desert, the veterans were barely
fazed by its exertions. Abigor was keeping them relatively closely bunched. He
knew it was wrong, that he should be dispersing his people out so they would
not be slaughtered in mass by the human mage-magic but that was not his intent.
He knew his group could not survive and keeping them bunched would mean a quick
death for them all as the humans concentrated their fire on them. He had seen
to many demons screaming their last seconds away as they had been torn apart
yet still lived. He did not want his kidlings and mates to die that way.

The
minutes ticked by, Abigor marvelling that the humans had taken so long to
react. He glanced behind him, the forces that were supposed to have followed
him out were nowhere to be seen. That, he had expected. He had known from this
start that this ‘attack’ was really just a mass execution. Then, overhead,
Abigor heard the screaming howl of mage-bolts as they started to descend upon
him. It was all over.

Combat
Team Alpha. By the Hellmouth, Western Iraq

“Any
movement Hooters?”

“All
still out there. Nothing happening.” Stevenson’s combat team had drawn the
hellmouth watch assignment for the day. She had her platoon of Bradleys in the
center, holding a ridgeline while her two platoons of Abrams tanks were spread
out to either side. If the baldricks emerged, they’d fight in the best
traditions of the U.S. Army, they’d protect their artillery observer while he
called down unimaginable firepower upon their enemies. “Wait one, there’s
movement. Here they come again.”

Down
in the desert, figures were emerging from the hellmouth. They were a
disorganized stream, undisciplined, nothing like the neat formations that had
emerged before. They were spread out in the desert, running straight at the
dug-in Bradleys but to Stevenson’s already experienced eye, this wasn’t an attack.
Anyway, was that all of them?

“Alpha-actual
to Domino. We have hellmouth activity. Baldricks emerging, number estimated
at..” Stevenson did a quick count, there were around 400 at most. “Four
hundred, say again four-zero-zero. Heading for our position.”

“Four
hundred? Are you sure of that?”

“Sure
am. Four hundred, no follow up force. There’s something very wrong about this.”
She thought for a second and looked through the high-powered optics on her
tank. She blinked and looked again. “Sir, this force is a joke. There are some
regulars down there but there are some small ones that can hardly lift their
weapons. Others don’t have any at all.” She looked again, at the way the
formation was breaking up as it crossed rough ground. For the first time she appreciated
the amount of training the earlier formations had shown. Their lines had never
wavered, never broken no matter how rough the ground or intense the fire
brought down in them. This mob were not even in the same class. “Sir, these
baldricks aren’t soldiers, most of them aren’t. They look more like civilians.”

“Understood.”
There was a pause. “Deny contact, ring them off, don’t let them go anywhere but
hold your fire until ordered otherwise. Give them at least 1500 meters
clearance”

“Very
good Sir.” Stevenson broke contact and changed to her command frequency. “Third
platoon fall back, let them have the ridgeline, we don’t need it. First and
second, move up to flanking positions. Hold fire.”

There
was a cloud of dust and black smoke as the Bradleys backed off their ridgeline
and headed for the one about 2,000 meters to the rear. They were already in
position when the baldricks ran up on to the ridge and started to deploy into a
defensive perimeter. A tight one, Stevenson thought, perfect for artillery.
Didn’t baldricks ever learn?

“Report.”
The single word came over her radio.

Stevenson
looked carefully. “We’re in position. Sir the enemy force is at least 50
percent civilian. There are small ones running around, I think they’re playing,
it looks like their children of some kind. And others are behaving like their
mothers.” She flipped her optics up to full power. “Well what do you know, our
big friend the football player is up there.”