Armageddon?? (94 page)

“For
me yes. My father, he saw many of course.”

“In
the Great Patriotic War?”

“He
fought at Prokhorovka. With the Panzers, Heer, not SS.”

Galkin
nodded. Odd coincidence. “My father also fought at Prokohorovka. And later.”

There
was a long silence, neither man quite certain what to say next. Eventually
Galkin spoke carefully. “Our fathers caused great destruction, between them, at
Prokhorovka. Now we can join together and inflict the same those who threaten
us both.”

The
German nodded. “We can. As soon as our commanders let us off the leash.”

Chapter
Sixty Five

Winder
Street, Detroit, Michigan

“Go
ahead and blow it Taguba.” Lieutenant Preston didn't need binoculars this time;
the old factory was right in front of him. The weathered brick building
appeared to have been a food processing plant, before being boarded up and
abandoned. Now it would provide much-needed material for the bulldozers.

The
demolition was on a smaller scale than the intersection they'd destroyed
earlier, but at this range it was just as loud. The building didn't collapse
completely, but it was good enough for the dozers to get to work without risk
of being crushed. Right now this was a relatively safe area, the lava seemed to
be flowing down towards the river and the inrushing wind made Detroit's wide
highways function as acceptable fire breaks. That situation could change at any
moment though, and securing a safe perimeter was vital. The improvised levees
and wide areas of cleared rubble behind them were the only way to do that.

“Good
job.” Actually it was pretty sloppy, Preston thought, but right now morale was
a much higher priority than perfecting combat demolitions technique. “Move on
to the next block.”

“Thank
you sir, will do, Taguba out.” The Sergeant's voice was muffled by the filter
mask but still clearly enthusiastic. Probably adrenaline. Preston hoped he
didn't use it all up too quickly, this was going to be a very long shift.

“Sir,
looks like those Guardians are back.” Private Russell was pointing to the south
and sure enough a pair of boxy, angular shapes were emerging from the gloom.
The first one didn't slow, heading straight past them towards the field
hospital still being set up at the outer perimeter. The trailing armored car
rolled to a halt; much of the paintwork was burned black, the hull bore dents
and gouges and smoking debris still clung to parts of the body. The side hatch
swung open to reveal a familiar face.

“Lieutenant,
thought yah should know... the Lafayette's gone up completely now, we won't be
pulling any more people out of there.” Preston nodded grimly. Neighborhoods
full of trees were a death-trap in a fire this big. The man continued; “The
fire's moving west along the bank, it looked to me like the FD are gonna try
and hold it at Chene Street...”

He
was interrupted by a sudden drawn-out roar, distinct over the omnipresent deep
rumble and thuds of the lesser collapses.

“Hell,
that was probably the Ren-Cen going. One of the towers at least. The lava
must've hit the river by now.”

“Thank
you...” Preston struggled to remember the man's name. “...Mr O'Reilly. We'll
get down to Chene and see if we can help as soon as we're done here.”

“Right.
We'd better drop this lot off and get back in there. Todd, let's go.” The hatch
slammed shut and the M-1117 moved off.

Looking
back to the destroyed plant, Lieutenant Preston was glad to see one of the
dozers already plowing through the far corner, pushing rubble towards the
slowly growing levee.

Belial’s
Stronghold, Tartaruan Range, Northern Region of Hell

“It's
a simple question, Baroness, was it sabotage or incompetence? When our Master
returns in triumph from Satan’s court, he will want an answer.” The emphasis
Euryale put on the naga's rank dripped contempt. The gorgon stared down at the
prostrate Yulupki, her pose imperious despite the nasty burns and tears that
marked her bronze flesh. As soon as Belial had left for Satan’s court, mounted
on the fastest wyvern in the stables, Euryale had dropped the ‘critically
injured’ pose and started to get her arrangements in order. “Of course it
amounts to the same thing, since you personally assured the our Master that
sabotage was impossible and any attempt would be suicide for the naga that
tried it.”

Baroness
Yulupki was a much less imposing sight, sprawled on an unkempt couch and still
writhing with pain from the injuries she had received in the disastrous ritual.
“That would have been true, if the witchesss the other nobles sent been worthy
of the name!” she snapped back. “This group might as well have been
hatchlingsss, it was obvious that they had never worked as a large chorusss
before.” She glared at the memory of seeing yet another limp snakelike form
being dragged over the crater rim by the winged silhouette of one of Euryale's
handmaidens. The humiliation tasted bitter to the naga leader. “Of course if
I'd had a reassonable amount of time to train them...”

“So,
what are you going to tell Belial? That his plan was unrealistic? Or that you
could not make a gang of hatchlings obey you?”

“I
will tell him that this disassster was the result of your ssservant's
incompetence!” Yulupki was screaming at this point. ”That a gorgon cannot be
trussted with sseriousss witchcraft or expected to ssurvive the least bit of
human resissstance!”

Euryale
flashed a fanged smile back, but it was a humorless one. “You expect that to be
believed, do you?”

She
was fairly confident that she could prevail over Yulupki, but a fight over
blame would leave both of them looking bad. The plan could be disrupted even
more, and she didn't put it past Belial to throw a tantrum and dismiss both of
them – and if it hadn't been for the apparently successful destruction of the
human city, the consequences would've been much worse. Euryale stared down at
Yulupki, waiting for her to falter. It didn't take long. The naga looked away
and began to hiss softly; “Well, I mean, I will make it clear...”

Euryale
cut her off. “It was obviously sabotage. You detected the culprits, but the
unexpected incompetence of the foreign naga masked their actions until too
late. They were in the delegation from...” The gorgon's voice trailed off
expectantly.

Yulupki
looked startled. “I can't be ssure, most likely thosse of Bezeelbub, but it
could have been the ssenior ones from those Asmodeusss ssent or even...”

“...the
delegation from Asmodeus.” Euryale continued smoothly. ”I hope at least one
survived as you know how the Count enjoys dispensing appropriate punishment.”

Euryale
sighed. From the look on her face Yulupki obviously still didn't get it.
“Getting Belial angry at Bezeelbub will only cause unnecessary problems.
Asmodeus on the other hand, firstly he is dead... oh, you didn't know? Of
course not, silly me, your commendable dedication has left you a little out of
the loop.” At this point Euryale was simply toying with her rival. “Yes,
Asmodeus is dead, and his outer holdings lie ripe for Belial's taking. I think
a little extra incentive should get things moving nicely. Understand?”

Yulupki
couldn't bring herself to reply, but nodded silently.

“We
understand each other then. Excellent.” It would be a long time before that one
dared challenge her again, Euryale thought smugly.

Detroit
River, Michigan

The
Stormont ploughed through the fast-flowing water, its engines straining hard to
push the massive flat barge in front of it. Its usual cargo of trucks had been
replaced with as many humans as would fit onto the deck; the ferry had become
one of the few escape routes for residents trapped in the inferno that had been
downtown Detroit.

In
the wheelhouse Captain Marcie Mahaffey drummed her fingers on the throttle
levers, trying to will the ship to go faster. As a girl she’d always wanted to
be a trucker, much to the derision of her male relatives. In retrospect, her
ambitions had a lot to do with the fact that truckers spent most of their time
in places more interesting than her hometown. Somehow, though, she’d ended up
on the great lakes freighters, where it had taken near ten years of hard work
before she got her master’s license. At last she had a ship to call her own,
even if it was just a tugboat. Now fate had come calling and it was up to the
Stormont and her crew to save hundreds of lives.

Marcie’s
eyes straining to pick out the far bank from the grey-orange glow. By now the
entire downtown grid was an inferno and she wasn’t sure there would be any
survivors left to pick up on this trip. On each landing it had been agonizing
pulling away the last time, but once people started to be forced off the sides
of the barge into the water she’d had no choice. Some people had been so
desperate they’d thrown themselves into the river and swam for it. Their
chances weren’t good; the Detroit river was notoriously treacherous under
normal conditions, and with the thick smoke and drifting ash drowning was even
more likely. She’d ordered the crew to tie lines strung with floats off the
barge, and that seemed to have saved a few strong enough to hang on until they
reached the back.

They
were close enough to see the buildings now, backed by a bright glow – Marcie
gulped as she realized that the lava was nearly at the bank Correction; was
already spilling into the river. As she registered that fact a shuddering roar
rattled the windows; something was falling, something very big. One of the
Renaissance Center’s five towers had come down, briefly dimming the glow from
the lava in a fresh cloud of smoke and dust.

Captain
Mahaffey pulled the wheel over, steering the barge away from the deadly glow,
and grabbed the PA microphone. “Now y’all hear, this is gonna be touch-and-go,
the others ‘ll be down in a sec, the whole bank ‘ll be gone not soon after, and
we ain’t hanging around for that.” Ahead she could see one fireboat still
spraying the shore around the tunnel entrance, but no other ferries. There were
even more bodies in the water that before, but there was nothing to be done
about that. Marcie reversed the port engine, then a few seconds later the
starboard one, trying to soften the barge’s impact on the quay. The thud as it
struck the bank in front of Hart Plaza was still enough to throw her against
the wheel.

The
smoke was so thick it was difficult to see what was going on, but there seemed
to be shapes moving on the flat deck of the barge. The roar came again, louder
this time and longer; Marcie looked right to see the dim hulking shape of the
Renaissance Center’s remaining towers collapse into a giant ball of smoke and
flame. Cracks and clunks sounded as debris hit the tug; one window shattered
violently and then the deck heaved as the wave from the displaced water spread
from the impact point. Marcie had ducked for cover when the window shattered;
she could barely hear the screams from out front confirming that the barge had
also taken impacts. She looked up to see the that the fireboat just upstream
had been hit much worse. In fact it looked like it had taken a beating; its
superstructure was smashed in several places and its pumps had stopped
spraying. As she watched it lost headway and began to drift downstream –
directly towards the barge.

Captain
Mahaffey shoved the throttles to full reverse, the Stormont’s twin diesels now
straining to pull the barge out of the collision zone. With painful slowness
the tug-barge combination began to back off. She keyed the PA mike again, and
this time it was to holler that one stereotyped line every captain hoped they’d
never have to say. “All hands, brace for impact!”

There
just wasn’t enough time to clear the fireboat, and sure enough the stern of the
other ship slammed into the far end of the barge, forcing it away from the bank
and spinning it almost ninety degrees. The tugboat was designed to push not
pull, and the strain was too much for the coupling. The now-untethered cable
whipped back to slap against the hull, the Stormont surged backwards and the
hapless barge floated free.

Marcie
struggled back to her feet, fighting mild concussion resulting from the sudden
encounter with the deck. Already painfully hot, the turgid air was becoming
increasingly difficult to breath, due to the vast amounts of steam being produced
by the lava entering the water. Escaping downstream looked like a good idea at
this point, but left to its own devices that barge would likely ground again on
the now-burning banks. So she thrust the throttles forward once more, hoping
the machinery (not to mention her crew) hadn’t been shock damaged. The tug was
built tough and didn’t disappoint her, surging forwards again to catch up with
the errant barge. As she feared, it was bumping along the western bank and in
danger of snagging on one of the piers. But before her own boat could reach it,
the fireboat emerged from the smoke and pushed its prow against the barge’s
stern. The two vessels pulled away from the bank; once they had reasonable
clearance Mahaffey skillfully maneuvered the Stormont into place next to the
fireboat. The lettering on its hull read ‘Anthony J. Celebreeze – Cleveland
Fire Department’ - Marcie was surprised it had been able to get up to Detroit
so quickly.