Original Fiction The Salvation War - Pantheocide

[LTR]

Laager, 1/33 Battalion, Third Brigade, Third Armored Division, Ninth U.S. Corps. North of Dis.

"Hokay, so the brass needs something dangerous done and so the Third Herd gets the job." Colonel Keisha Stevenson leaned against her tank and looked around at her unit commanders. She still had the same combined arms battalion she had commanded when the Curbstomp War had ended over a year ago, two companies of M1A3 Abrams tanks, two of mechanized infantry in M2A7 Bradleys and a battery of M1314A1 anti-harpy vehicles. The end of that war had marked the arrest of her meteoric rise through the ranks. The explosive expansion of the Army had slowed as it began to reach its planned size and with it had stopped the frantic promotion of the existing officer cadre. Quality was again beginning to catch up with quantity as the new officer corps slowly got to grips with its unfamiliar environment.

"Did we have to blow away that angel?" Lieutenant Captain Jim Shane, once her tank gunner "Biker" and now one of her two tank platoon commanders, sounded almost plaintive.

He was right there Stevenson reflected blowing up that angel had brought her up on General Petraeus's radar and she'd become his go-to officer for anything strange or unusual he thought up. "It was only a little angel Jim. And it got us our white ring." Her tank had the usual long series of black rings around the barrel denoting dead Baldricks but hers had the single, unusual, white ring for the angel they'd killed in Iraq. None of the other nine tanks in her group had one of them.

So much had changed since then. The sweeping movements and great battles of the Curbstomp War had been replaced by the grinding attrition of the deadlocked war with Heaven. That was no bad thing she thought it has only been for the last month or so that my vehicles have had full load-outs of ammunition and the artillery boys are still short. There were subtler changes in place though. The extemporized and emergency modifications that had taken place in the Curbstomp War had been replaced by properly-engineered solutions. Her tanks showed that effect. In the charge across the Phelan Plain and up here, her tanks had been equipped with tent-like air filters that had kept the engines clean but were clumsy, fragile and obstructed the turret's movement. Now, they had been replaced by a much smaller and neater solution. The same applied to her personal equipment. The combination of sand goggles to protect her eyes and bandannas across the nose and mouth to prevent dust inhalation had gone in favor of an integrated mask that covered her face with a loose-fitting filter that allowed her to see, breath and speak without getting her lungs filled with powdered pumice. The new equipment had been made possible by the analysts who had sat down with dust samples and determined the characteristics of the materials that were most effective against it. Slowly, very slowly, Hell was becoming a place where First-Life humans could live. For a limited period anyway. Rather like my home town of Bayonne, she thought.

She shifted her weight against her tank and looked over to where the technicians were setting up the equipment to open a portal back to Earth. It might have been quicker to have gone to one of the new permanent portals that linked Earth and Hell but that would have meant a long drive and her heavy armor wasn't known for its reliability in road marches. "So, you guys got the words. The egg-heads managed to get the signature of a portal to Heaven from Michael-Lan's visit to Myanmar. There's a group on Earth going to open up a portal to that location in a few minutes. We'll take our armor through this one, form up and prepare to penetrate that portal. Order of march will be Alpha platoon in the lead with my HQ section, Charlie, Delta and Echo platoons following with Bravo platoon forming up the rear. When we transit to Heaven, I'll lead Alpha in, the rest of you will follow as soon as I confirm our location and situation.

"Once through the portal into Heaven, it’s a straightforward Thunder-Run. Bravo, Echo and Delta platoons will remain at the portal site to garrison it. Jim, that's your job. You hold that portal regardless right? If you hit real trouble scream for help and we'll turn back to support you. Charlie Platoon will stick with me and Alpha to do the Thunder-Run itself. We'll do a twenty-mile swing. Route will be a triangle, out, across and back. Remember, people, Hell had got weird directionality and we'll have to assume that Heaven is the same. Watch the beacon at all times and keep a picture of where we are relative to it. Rules of engagement, if it moves, shoot at it."

"What about humans there?" Lieutenant Charles Wayne sounded concerned. He was a retread, a veteran NCO recalled to the ranks and made into an officer. He still had some of the reservations instilled during his earlier stint with the colors."

"We don’t know." Stevenson carefully hid the fact that the same question worried her. "When we charged into this place, we could assume the humans were on our side. They were all damned souls after all and we were pulling them out. Even the Baldricks weren't actually enemies, most of them were just as much victims of Satan as we were." And that's a concept that the Second-lifers we're pulling out of the pit just can't get their minds around. "But, will that be the same in Heaven? We just don’t know. Theoretically, all the humans up there are saved souls, the redeemed or whatever the religious called it. So we could expect them to be agin' us. Only, we're learning how different things are from what we expected. And that causes doubt about everything."

She shifted her position on the tank again. "Hokay, so we admit we don't know what to expect. That's one thing we have to find out. What'll humans do up there when they see us? Fight us? Fight for us? Take cover and hide? We don't know. We hope it'll be one of the first two, that way we learn something."

"Won't be Boss." One of the enlisted crewmen spoke up. Stevenson smiled under her mask. In the old days an enlisted man would never have dared interrupt a full Colonel in the middle of his or her flow. But, with the massive expansion of the Army had come different attitudes. The enlisted man glanced around and continued. "Heaven's been closed for centuries while Yahweh lied to us. Humans in it will be old-timers. To them, we're as alien as people come. They'll run and hide. And when we kick Angel ass, they'll take note of it."

Stevenson nodded. "Sounds right. Hokay then, we assume they take cover. If they don’t, watch what happens when we start to blast the Angels. If they join in our side, fine, if they do the opposite, mow'em down. Otherwise try not to hit them. If they get in the way, well, that's the way it goes. One last thing. Angels use sound weapons, DIMO(N) call it trumpeting. Everybody wear your active noise cancellation earphones all the time. We don't know if they'll counter trumpeting if we wear them but we do know they won’t if we don’t. And don't forget your tinfoil beanies. Mount up."

A laugh ran around her group. These days, no thinking person was seen without their metallic helmets. There was a reason why the H.E.A had gone back to World War Two style steel helmets. Yet another item that had been emptied from the world's museums before new production had caught up with demand. Her troops made a great play of adjusting their helmets before swinging into their vehicles. Once securely inside their vehicles, they were safe of course. Daemonic thought control couldn't penetrate a thin layer of aluminum, it stood no chance against inches-thick rolled steel armor. Ahead of her tank, the black ellipse of the portal to Earth opened up.

Aberdeen Proving Ground, Maryland.

“We’re through.” General Schatten’s cry of triumph masked a slight sense of surprise that the portal to Heaven looked so like the ones to Hell. Just a plain, black ellipse, this one large enough to take a pair of tanks side-by-side. A few yards away from his control post, a battery of M109 155mm self-propelled guns had their tubes trained on the shimmering ellipse. There had been a fear that, when it opened, an attack group of angels would come pouring through. If that had happened, they would have been on the receiving end of a barrage of artillery fire. But, the ellipse was quiet.

A hundred yards away, another portal opened, this one driven through from Hellside. A battlegroup of 22 vehicles made its transit, moved to Shatten's position and formed up on the concrete. Five groups of four vehicles and a two-vehicle command groups. To his eyes, this one was slightly odd in that most battalion combat group commanders preferred to use Bradleys as their command tracks, but this group was headed by a pair of Abrams tanks. A very experienced pair given the number of kill rings circling their barrels.

"General Schatten, Sir." The battalion commander was a woman, a very well-endowed one. She'd already peeled off her breathing filter and goggles and was blinking in the bright sun.

Schatten returned her salute. "Colonel Stevenson, pleasure to meet you. I remember your account of blasting that angel. We believe his name was Appoloin-Lan-Gabriel by the way. You did good that day."

"Thank you sir. We ready to go?"

"All set, we've punched a portal through using the signal intercepted in Myanmar. Good luck Colonel and kick some ass over there. We've been putting up with enough down here for too long now."

Schatten retired to his command post and watched the tanks maneuver into position for the first push into Heaven. Stevenson was taking her two-tank HQ section and a platoon of tanks through first as the spearhead. Very wise he thought. To his critical eye, the way the tanks were being handled wasn't as precise and skilled as he would have wished. Too many new recruits, the old prewar divisions had been pruned over and over again to provide cadres for newly-forming units and the dilution of quality showed. Then, the six selected spearhead tanks accelerated and vanished through the ellipse.

The silence of the communication channel seemed to stretch time out as Schatten waited for the first report in. Eventually, there was a crackle of static. For some reason, radio interference was greater when transmitting through a portal and, of course, there had to be a line-of-sight from the transmitter through the portal to the receiver. That was why all the permanent portals were fitted with high-capacity fiber-optics communications links.

"Hokay, so we're here." Stevenson's voice on the radio had an amused note in it that confused Schatten slightly.

"Colonel, what do you see?" Schatten wasn't amused, he was annoyed at the obvious levity.

"Well, we've got a nice, red-gray sky and everything else seems red and dirty. Oh, there's a river not far away, that's red too."

A horrible presentiment passed through Schatten's mind. "What do you mean red? Heaven is supposed to have white light."

"For sure, Sir. And it may well have. But we ain't there, we're in Hell. We're off Loran coverage but I think we're about a thousand miles east of Dis. Far outside anywhere we've occupied to date. We're been snookered, Sir. Want us to hand around here or back out?"

Schatten thought for a second. "Anything else you can see?"

"Grass here is all chewed up and looks like there's a lot of dried blood around. Silver and red I think. That's all. Otherwise, pretty empty here Sir."

"Stevenson, might as well evacuate out of there. We'll debrief you on your return."
Schatten sat back down in his seat and shook his head. Michael hadn't gone directly from Earth to Heaven, he'd used Hell as a staging point, then gone back to some deserted location on Earth for the trip back to Heaven. Antactica perhaps? Or the wilds of the Amazonian rain forest? Who knew? By the look of it, he made all his people do the same, no matter how critical the situation was for them. Then, he shook his head again and sighed. "Damn, that guy's good."

Refugee Camp, Bath-Edie, Georgia, USA

"I am sorry about the conditions here, but this is the best we can do." President Obama looked at the emergency accommodation that had been provided for the family in front of him. It really was about as basic as it could be. He felt acute guilt that his administration couldn't do better for these people, but with Bermuda being left uninhabitable by the repeat impact of storms and most of the Carolina/Georgia coast in barely better condition, it was a question of what could be achieved, not what he would like to achieve.

The scale of the weather attacks on the east coast and the Caribbean Islands hadn't been as bad as the weather experts had feared. For some reason, it had been a quiet hurricane season and, they believed, had it not been for Heavenly interference, probably not one hurricane would have made it ashore. Even with the tropical disturbances being artificially pumped up and steered, the disasters had been limited. Everybody had expected Florida to have been hammered as badly as Bermuda yet the state had escaped virtually unscathed. Yet, for all that, there were still more refugees needing help than resources available to aid them.

"We'll make out Mister President." The man's English accent sounded far out of place in this location. "We're better off than many thanks to you."

"And to everybody else Philip." The man's wife spoke reprovingly. "Think of everybody who is helping out."

That was true. Food packages and other aid were coming in from all over the world. This camp had just received a big shipment of Vietnamese rice and there were Vietnamese troops helping unload it while this tour went down. That thought made Obama smile. I wonder what the Vietnam vets here think of Vietnamese troops on American soil. "That's true ma'am. We're all pulling together now."

The woman nodded and then her face saddened. "We still haven't heard from my sister in Los Angeles. I hope she made it." Then she started to cry.

"I can do something about that." Obama put on his sincere voice and then gave an abrupt wave to an aide. "Take this lady's name and address here down and the details of her sister in Los Angeles. Then find out what happened to her and get them in contact." He turned to the woman again. "It surprised me to find out how high people jump when the White House gets interested. We'll get you word soon."

The Presidential party moved down the row of shelters, the President shaking hands with the adults while Michelle Obama talked to the children. The camp's very nature told of the problem it addressed, while the directed weather attacks hadn't inflicted the appalling casualties experienced in Tel Aviv, Los Angeles or Naypyidaw, they were an ever-increasing burden on a over-strained, over-stretched world economy. And they never stopped. Now, massive tornados in Kansas or tropical storms hitting the Carolinas coast were too frequent to rate highly on the news. Yet, their economic damage mounted every day. Obama chided himself for thinking that. Over 153,000 Israelis had died when Tel Aviv had been hit. The Israeli Government had sacrificed them, along with itself, to keep the Human Alliance together. Worrying over economic damage from storms seemed petty and selfish in comparison with that sacrifice.

The tour of the camp was ending, now there would be a press conference before he flew over to Colorado to visit another camp for refugees from Tornado Alley. He fixed his friendly smile into place and stood up on the podium his aides had erected for him. It had the Great Seal on it, the new one with the Eagle looking firmly at the arrows clutched in its left talons. These were not the days for the olive branch clasped in its right. The questions from the journalists were the same. How many had died? How long would the war last? How much higher would taxes rise? There was a tiredness in the questions themselves, one that spoke of increasing war-weariness. Eventually, Obama saw the overweight shape of one of his more virulent political critics rising. Damn, I thought he was in a Florida hospital somewhere.

"Mister President, how is it that under President Bush's leadership we defeated and occupied Hell in eight months but now, after sixteen months of war against Heaven, we're no closer to victory than we were when we started."

"Well, Rush, an intelligent question deserves a simple two-word answer." Obama paused and let the tension build up slightly. "We were extremely fortunate that the Curbstomp War worked out the way it did. The enemy didn’t understand us or know our capabilities. They relied on their traditional tactics as a result and they fought on the ground they knew best from their previous incursions on Earth. That threw them against the best army we have under the best general we have. We were lucky in that our allies, notably the Russians, the British, the Indians, the Iranians, all came swiftly to our aid and we were able to subject our opponents to withering firepower. Then, when their army collapsed we were able to pursue them literally to the gates of Hell itself. Due to the actions of our special forces, and those of our allies of course, we were then able to mount operations that defeated the authorities in Hell, eliminate their control and free the humans they held in vile captivity. In contrast, our enemies in Heaven have isolated themselves from us. We have them under siege and we are pounding on their gates. This is a longer, more complex task against a much more capable and skilled opponent. But, mark my words, soon, very soon, we will break through those gates, crush our enemies within Heaven and establish a just and democratic regime there as well."

The commentator looked confused. "Mister President, that wasn't a two-word answer."

"That wasn't an intelligent question."

 

[LTR]

With Tel Aviv and Jerusalem in ruins and good portion of their population dead, Israel is in seriously dire straits.

And I thought nuclear strike was Michael's idea, was it First Conspiracy instead?

Apparently this is the second time in a Stuart Slade story that Tel Aviv has been glassed. One gets the impression that, at least as of the time of writing it, he slanted a bit more on the Israel skeptic side.

And yeah, Michael not being behind the strike was a surprise to me as well.

 

[LTR]

Michael-Lan's Office, Temple of Righteous Ardor, Eternal City

"Salaphael, how could you betray our Peerless Father this way?"

"It is not I who betray the One Above All. Those of his advisors who speak false words to Him and by deceit lure Him away from the path of Absolute Righteousness, they are the ones who betray The Immaculate Presence."

By which you mean me. Michael-Lan looked at Salaphael-Lan-Yahweh without a shadow of regret at the state to which he had been reduced. The League of Holy Court had struck at dawn, using the lists that Lemuel and his team had so carefully compiled. Humans, angels, archangels had been dragged from their rest, placed in golden shackles and taken to the interrogation centers and prisons. The most important ones, the leaders, had been kept here in the Eternal City. The rest had been taken outside, to detention camps in the countryside. It would be easier to get rid of them quietly there.

"Salaphael, my old friend . . . ."

Michael-Lan's words were cut off, harshly and abruptly. "I am not your friend, Michael-Lan. Once perhaps, but you have abandoned the ways of millennia and cast away everything that we hold dear. You are not the friend of any here in the Eternal City, you are the center of the poison that corrupts everything that was, is now and ever more shall be."

And so truth and falsehood get irretrievably mixed. Yes, Salaphael, I am at the center of the corruption that slowly spreads throughout the Eternal City. And in being so I am a better friend to every angel here than you could possibly imagine. For to have the humans come here with their weapons in their hands and hate in their hearts, that would be the final death of us all. Michael-Lan thought of the fate of Naypyidaw and Tel Aviv, the huge, boiling mushroom clouds that had consumed the cities. In his mind's eye, he saw many more clouds, each dwarfing the ones he had already seen, swallowing the Eternal City. More and bigger certainly for Michael knew his humans well. If they had a weapon of great power, they would have built many of them and they wouldn't stop until they had built them of incomparably greater power. Where destruction was concerned, humans just did not know when to stop.

"If you so wish, then so shall it be." Michael-Lan injected sadness into his voice. "Salaphael-Lan-Yahweh, your words show that you have fallen victim to the deadly sin of Pride. Have you become so blinded by Pride that you cannot see the falsity of what you say? Our Beloved, All-Knowing Father cannot be deceived in the way you suggest for He knows what resides in the hearts of us all. Our thoughts are but an open book to him, to be read as he wills. His knowledge and insight are beyond anything that we, in our poor way, can imagine. All that is happening now is as he wills. Even your insurgency, carefully planned and structured as it is, is but a part of His Greater Plan."

Salaphael laughed at that idea. "If this were true, the League would have exposed us earlier and. . . . " Then he stopped himself, he had been about to stumble out with the knowledge that not all of his insurgent cells had been rounded up. His organization still existed. Sorely hurt it was true, but it was out there. It could fight on, it could restore Yahweh to His rightful place and cast down those who had betrayed him.

"Who knows what Yahweh has in His Sublime Mind? Perhaps he refrained from giving the order until now so that the fruit of your rebellion would be ripe and fit for picking? Perhaps he wishes to test the efficiency of the League of Holy Court. If so His Divine Wish will be fulfilled. We will get from you and the others the information we need. By human methods if your descent into sin makes that necessary."

His hands secured by golden shackles, his mind by the dogma he had taken for granted all his life, Salaphael was helpless to resist the words that were spoken so gently and regretfully. Doubts, so long absent from his mind, now swirled around him. He had convinced himself that Michael-Lan and those who aligned himself with the Great General were responsible for the decay of Heavenly virtue he saw everywhere. But, Michael-Lan's words cast uncertainty into his mind. Did The One Above all plan this as a test of the obedience of His subjects? Was this part of the process of cleansing the Eternal City before the final, decisive conflict with the humans?

Michael-Lan saw the cloud of doubt replace the adamantine clarity of dogma on Salaphael's face. You poor dumb cluck. You still believe in omnipotence and omniscience. You still think that such attributes are possible or even plausible. Can't you see that it is your belief in such things that holds us all from learning? Humans broke out of their cage and leaped into their future the day they rejected belief of omniscience and asked the one simple question Yah-Yah fears more than any other. Why? Now, I must ask that question. "Salaphael, there is some question I must ask before your interrogation is handed over to others. Why did your organization try to kill my friend Lemuel?"

"Lemuel? Because he was falling into the way of sin. He was becoming corrupted and sliding away from the True Path. His position at the League of Holy Court should have made him immune to temptation. The fact that he was not meant that he had to die."

Michael nodded. Framed in Salaphael's terms of reference, that made sense. "And my other question. What possessed you to make the humans use their weapons against each other. With the failure and death of Uriel, that was a maneuver of great skill. I would applaud it." And do intend to take credit for it. I just want to find out how it was done.

Salaphael looked at him in amazement. "That was not your doing? It was certainly none of ours."

Michael's Palace, Aukumea, Heaven

"Distributed Axonic Brain Damage." Doctor David Gunn rolled the words around as if they were a death sentence. Which was precisely what they were.

"Say again?" Michael-Lan was bemused, distracted. The last six words spoken to him by Salaphael had been rolling around his mind ever since he had started the flight home. Did they mean there was yet another conspiracy aimed at supplanting Yahweh? Or was this Yahweh himself with a deeper plan than Michael had given him credit for? Michael-Lan had to know the answer to that question.

"Dumah and Fluffy both have massive, irreversible brain damage. Fluffy can't recover, he's dying and we can't save him. Dumah, well, she might survive but she'll be a vegetable. Her brain is decaying hourly. Just a question now of whether the damage will stop spreading before her vital functions are compromised. I won't hold out many hopes there."

"How did this happen? They were both badly wounded I know, but she was speaking and seemed rational. What went wrong?"

Gunn sighed and waved to Shannon Lowney. She brought a great plate over, one that bore a life-sized copy of an angelic brain made out of Michael-Lan's favorite strawberry Jello. "This is her brain right? Well, she got caught in a pattern of bomb explosions, big ones. They threw her backwards and forwards, side to side, with incredible violence. They literally shook her brain apart." Gunn shook the plate hard. "Look at the Jello. See all the cracks running through it now? Well, her brain is like that, there are fractures all through it. Now, the brain is linked up by something called axons. When her brain fractured, those axons were torn apart. Some severed completely, others just damaged. Now, they're all dying and as they die, so to parts of her brain. We can't go in there to fix it, its her whole brain that's affected. Fluffy's been hit as well, just as badly, but his brain is smaller and simpler. It's gone. He's got a few hours more at the outside."

Michael-Lan looked over at the mass of the Scarlet Beast, sprawled across his garden. It was barely moving now, its tongue sagging out of his mouth, its chest moving in irregular pants. Its eyes were already dimming and the intelligence that had once been in them was gone. "Isn't there anything you can do for Dumah?" He'd wanted her dead, not left alive as a mindless hulk.

Gunn shook his head. "Get a modern doctor, that might help. When I was killed, knowledge of the brain and how these axonic injuries worked was at a very early stage, quite primitive. More than twenty years have passed since then, in medical terms that makes me hopelessly out of date. You can bet a modern doctor knows a lot more than I do. But, to be honest, I don’t think it will help. The only hope I can give you is that I don’t think any Angel has ever had an injury like this before. You heal so much better than we do, its just possible her brain will regenerate. We'll just have to watch and see. Even if it does regenerate though, it might connect up quite differently. That'll make her a wholly different person. We just don’t know."

Michael appeared to be thinking hard, as indeed he was. The subject wasn't quite what Gunn imagined through. To Michael, Gunn's words epitomized the whole mind-set that had brought down Hell and threatened Heaven with destruction. More than twenty years have passed since then, in medical terms that makes me hopelessly out of date. To an Angel, twenty years were nothing, inconsequential, a flicker of an eyelid. Yet human knowledge was now advancing so fast that the same time period on Earth meant that what had been the peak of modernity at its start was dated and obsolescent by its end. All because of that one question. Why?

"Do what you can for her, David. Fight for her as hard as you can."

"I always fight as hard as I can for all my patients." Gunn's voice was cold.

Michael-Lan noted that and was sorely tempted to blast him where he stood for his insolence. Then he brought his anger back under control. Displays of anger didn’t work any more, they just made the person delivering them look foolish. And that often meant that whoever it was had missed something important. "As you should David. Now, make sure your team has everything it needs. If there are things you do not have or are in short supply, let me know immediately. I will arrange them somehow."

Gunn nodded and decided to inventory his supplies. He would find some shortages somewhere, he was sure of that. Because he was convinced that every time Michael-Lan went to Earth was another chance for him to make the mistake that would open up Heaven to a human invasion.

Street of Angelic Beatitude, Eternal City, Heaven.

The streets of purest jasper, kerbed with opals and surrounded by palaces and temples that were clad with precious and semi-precious stones in quantities that were beyond comprehension went unnoticed by Lemuel-Lan-Michael. He walked along those streets, staring downwards, but lost in mystified contemplation of his personal situation. Today should have been a triumph for him. His weeks of work in carefully investigating the First Conspiracy, identifying its members and establishing the links between them had finally been put to good use. All that were known of the First Conspiracy had been rounded up and taken into custody. The chambers of the interrogation center rang with their screams as they were probed for the information that would identify the rest of their foul clique. Today was a day that should have filled him with righteous pride.

Yet it did not. One reason was the attitude that surrounded him on the street. He had expected a reaction from the Angelic Host when news of the arrests broke and spread. He had certainly seen that, only it had not been the reaction he had anticipated. He had expected rejoicing, a massive display of exultation that the threat to Yahweh had been eliminated. Instead he sensed only fear, the Host stepping into the light cautiously, peering around them, wondering who would be the next to see the League of Holy Court on their doorstep. Would they be the ones placed in golden shackles and led away for questioning? They were silent, not trusting their neighbors or their friends since any one of them could be the informer that would send them away to the detention centers.

For all that, Lemuel knew that the depression that filled him had little to do with the unexpected reaction to all the arrests. His home situation had continued to deteriorate and there was little there now to give him the peace and tranquility that he so badly needed. His mate, Onniel, refused to speak to him. She had not said a word to him for weeks now. She lived in silence, his attempts to address her ended by her walking away. His home was a cold and lonely place, unwelcoming and hostile. He had tried, he had tried hard. He had even stayed away from the Temple of Ceaseless Compliance for a few days in an effort to reconcile Onniel but the gesture had been ignored. The effort had actually made him ill and his return to the Temple had been the only thing that had calmed his spirit. Almost unconsciously, what had started as random wandering through the streets of the Eternal City was taking him there now.

"Your spirit is deeply troubled Brother?" Perpetiel-Lan-Paschar spoke with concern mixed with pride that he, a lowly Bene-Elohim, should be allowed to address such a distinguished Ophanim as 'brother'. And the perception that the exalted Ophanim should have a troubled spirit was no surprise to him. A great deal of effort was being made to ensure than Lemuel's spirit was as troubled as possible. Why, Perpetiel wasn't quite sure, but there was no doubt that troubling Lemuel's spirit was one of Michael-Lan's higher priorities.

"It is, deeply so. The arrests today. . . . . " Lemuel broke off, his words failing him.

"Ah, yes. Indeed, it is a sad day for the Host. That so many should have turned their faces from the True Path and neglected their duty to The One Above Us All. Truly, the spirit of the Eternal Enemy must have possessed them." Perpetiel looked as if he was about to weep at the very concept.

Now that was an interesting thought. Lemuel's mind lifted clear of the clouds of depression that enveloped it. His troubles had started with the death of Satan at the hands of humans. Had his malignant spirit, freed from his body, become more powerful in death than it could ever have been in life? Was it possessing members of the Angelic Host and leading them to perdition?

"It is not the arrests themselves, brother, that trouble me so. Sometimes, even the best-willed are led astray." Careful, don’t hint that you include the congregation of the Temple of Ceaseless Compliance in that category. "It is the reaction of the Angelic Host itself. I had expected rejoicing and exultation that the threat to Our Almighty Father had been removed. Instead, I see fear and suspicion."

As they had been speaking, Lemuel and Perpetiel had drifted off the street into the Temple itself. Unnoticed by Lemuel, Perpetiel had glanced around to ensure that the opiate-loaded scent baskets were in place and already filling the air with their sublime odor. "Brother, does this surprise you? The Eternal Enemy always has been sly and devious in his ways. If he is indeed dead and never to return, does it not surprise you that his successor would be of equal qualities? So the Host fear that they too, have been swept up into the net and deceived unknowingly. When they realize how much work the League of Holy Court has placed into hunting down all those afflicted, they will realize they are safe and their joy will become manifest."

Lemuel felt his heart lifting and tranquility beginning to suffuse his soul. That alone made him doubt his assessment of this place. If it was so misguided, how was it that every time he visited here, his spirit was uplifted and his doubts and depression removed? Could it be that this place was, in fact the true path? He prostrated himself on the floor and started his recitations of adoration for the Great Father Of All.

Behind him Perpetiel left the altar room of the temple with unseemly haste. He didn’t want to breath the atmosphere there any longer than he had to and he seriously wanted to get some clean air into his lungs. Although he didn’t know it, Lemuel was well and truly hooked now and Perpetiel didn't want to follow his example. Anyway, he had some preparations to make for this was the night that Lemuel would be introduced to the Montmartre Club.

Secret Viewing Gallery, Interrogation Chambers, Headquarters, League of Holy Court.

Salaphael 's screams rang through the heavy rock of the chambers, shaking them and causing a steady trickle of dust to fall on those picked up in the great purge. It filled the air, causing the torches that lit the chambers to become misted, their light diffuse and dispersed. There was even a slight red tinge to it. To Michael-Lan and his companion watching the scene below, it was unpleasantly reminiscent of Hell.

Qaphsiel-Lan-Shekinah watched the sight with horror. Salaphael had been pinned down to a table, his feet raised over his head, a cloth over his face and buckets of water poured over him. That had just been the start of a long process, now the interrogators were moving to more destructive and agonizing methods. Ominously, a long metal rod had been placed in a brazier and was already beginning to glow red hot.

"We call this the Edward The Second treatment. A human king once upset his nobles so they killed him that way. We don't think it will kill an Archangel but we're not quite sure. Nobody has ever tried it up here – at least up there - before."

Qaphiel realized what was intended and was suddenly, violently sick all over the stone floor. Michael-Lan rather envied him for that, he would like to do the same but would have to wait until later. Qaphiel wiped his mouth and stared at the mess disfiguring the flawless stone slabs.

"You'll have to clean that up Qaphiel. One of the Ishim will get you a bucket of water and a mop." Michael's offhand comment underlined Qaphiel's position more clearly than any threat could have done. Normally, such menial tasks would have been the lot of a human servant. Getting the job put Qaphiel on a lower level even than them. "By the way, has it occurred to you that, since this is the fate of a Chayot-ha-Kodesh who dared to be part of this conspiracy, how much worse that awaiting a Hashmallim must be?"

The comment produced another burst of vomiting, causing Michael to move his feet clear in case they got splashed. Qaphiel stared at Michael-Lan, his eyes filled with terror. "No, I beg you. I, we, were mislead."

"You'll be trying 'we were only obeying orders next'. Didn't work for them, won’t work for you." Michael looked at Qaphiel and sighed. The allusion had been missed completely. Well, that was the problem that destroyed Hell he thought. They didn't watch humans closely enough. Pay attention to humans, they really are worth the effort. And not doing so is lethally dangerous. "There is only one thing that can save you from this fate Qaphiel-Lan-Shekinah. You, your cell in this ridiculous insurgency and a few others have been spared from arrest – temporarily. I have tasks for you, tasks that fit in well with what Salaphael had planned. Tasks that only you can perform. Do them well, do exactly as I order you and the files that condemn you will be mislaid, never to be found again. Believe that and you'll believe anything sucker.

Below them, Salaphael 's screams reached a wildly demented climax that cracked the stone slab floor in the viewing chamber. Damn, that will make cleaning this place up so much harder. Still that's Qaphiel's problem. Michael-Lan stole a quick glance at the Hashmallim standing beside him. Qaphiel caught the look and nodded urgently.

"I am your servant Michael-Lan. I will do as you command."

 

[PsihoKekec]

"That was not your doing? It was certainly none of ours."

Well, there goes my theory.

 

[LTR]

Michael's Lodge, Aukumea, Heaven

"Well, we managed the fire falling from the heavens bit. Without your assistance." Michael-Lan kept his voice casual and friendly but the result stirred Belial into fury anyway.

"Then why do you keep me here? I have work to do and there is an eternity of suffering awaiting those who have betrayed me." The voice rolled and thundered around the bronze-plated lodge.

"Well, I had thought of putting you on a treadmill in my palace. Generating electricity to run my human toys is quite a problem you know. I use humans down there at the moment but they tire so easily. You'd have been very useful down there. Of course, I'd have to get a bigger treadmill made." Belial roared in anger at the concept. Michael-Lan ignored it and carried on in the same pseudo-friendly manner. "I've got a film you might like to see by the way."

He produced a DVD player and set it up. The film was of some nuclear test shots that had taken place many years before on Earth and showed the destruction inflicted on test dummies and target buildings. It closed with a shot of the crater made by the Ivy Mike test that had vaporized three quarters of an island. To Michael, it was a very satisfying film because it left Belial silent.

"We knew nothing of this." When Belial finally spoke, his voice was small and quiet with shock. "Even my lava attacks were nothing compared to this."

"I wouldn’t say that, old fellow." Michael had adopted the British accent that went with the phraseology. "Your attacks did a lot of damage and the humans want to speak with you about that. They want to speak with you very badly but don’t worry about it. You're safe up here. I've shut down all the entry points to Heaven so they can't get in."

"We never knew." Belial was still appalled by what he had seen. "Satan watched the humans, every two or three centuries he sent observers down to see if anything down there had changed. It never did, for visit after visit, everything was the same. Oh, the rulers changed, empires rose and fell, but nothing really changed. Then, this happened."

"If it's any consolation, most people in Heaven have missed it as well. Yahweh certainly did. All this happened in the last hundred years or so, in the gap between visits. If I hadn't been down there on other business, I wouldn't have seen the problem either." And that is quite definitely not true. Michael added mentally I saw something was happening much earlier than that but it was subtle, quiet. Yet it caused this explosion of destructive power and military skill. And changed me as much as it changed them. "Anyway, this brings us back to my original point. The Fourth Bowl of Wrath has been poured and the Fifth is ready. So, what do I do with you?"

Belial shook his head. "What you will. I have no power here."

"You understand perfectly. Still, as it happens I do have a job for you, one eminently suited to your talents, such as they are. You have heard of the events in the Eternal City today?" Another shake of the head from Belial. Good, then the policy of keeping you tucked away and isolated has proved its worth. "Well, there was a plot against Yahweh, a very foolish one as it happened and the League of Holy Court got in to it very quickly. All the members were arrested, their leaders are confined within the Eternal City but there were too many for the facilities there. So, we have had to establish a detention camp for the lower ranks, one far removed from the city. In his great wisdom." Michael barely stopped himself laughing. "Yahweh has decided that the command of that camp should be placed in one with millennia of expertise in punishing those who oppose him. In past millennia we would, of course, have cast them down into Hell but that option no longer exists"

Michael-Lan looked reflective for a moment. "In fact, being sent to Hell is hardly a punishment at all any more. The Humans are already at work and they are making the place quite tolerable. Anyway, we have to have a commander for that camp and Yahweh immediately thought of you. 'Why,' he said. "We have a daemon from Hell here. Let him earn his keep and make those who would betray me suffer every agony his fertile imagination can devise.' So, that is your assignment Belial. Take over this camp of traitors to Yahweh and inflict upon its inhabitants every suffering you can devise. Do not hold back, do not show any mercy to them. Make them pray for death as they consider the foul path that led to their betrayal of the One Above All. Spare them nothing Belial, those are the commands of Yahweh."

Belial rose to his feet, his eyes shining. "I will do as Yahweh orders. Tell Him my powers are at his disposal."

Sure. Michael-Lan thought. I'll tell him that. About the same time as I tell him I intend to take his throne.

"One question, Michael-Lan. Who will I have as my staff for this camp you describe?"

Michael snorted. "Recruit your own from the prisoners. You'll be surprised what some will do to save themselves from the agonies inflicted on the others."

Belial nodded, his eyes glowing with satisfaction. "So shall it be."

And when the humans get up here and find that camp, and they will, you can be sure of that, they will learn its lessons well. The lessons I want them to learn that is. And then you, you poor sap, you will have played your part in preventing the humans wiping out the Angelic Host. Now, I'm off to join Jesus and I'm going to get completely stoned. After all this hard work, I deserve it.

The Montmartre Club, Eternal City, Heaven

"What is Pennsylvania six-five thousand?" Lemuel-lan-Michael's voice was slurred. He'd been partly stoned before he'd set foot in the club and he'd sunk enough whisky since to leave him almost completely blasted.

"Pennsylvania is a human way of saying 'praises to the Lord of All'. So, it just means 'sixty-five thousand praises to Our Immaculate Father." Perpetiel explained the line without wincing at the distortion involved. "See how the people chant it with triumph? These may be human ways but they all serve to increase people's devotion to The One Above All. Perhaps it was the discovery of these new ways of praising Him that brought about this increase in their powers." Perpetiel did wince at that, although Lemuel was too drunk to notice.

The evening had been carefully chosen. It was big band night, the usual floorshow of exotic dancers and erotic exhibitions were on hold while the various bands that Michael-Lan had so carefully saved from the Pit competed to put on the best show. At the end of the battle, the patrons would vote on the issue and the winning band would have bragging rights for a whole month. That was a prize worth having since money was of little value to them. Up on the stage, the Glen Miller Orchestra transitioned smoothly into Tuxedo Junction. The floor girls noted the difference in the music and started to circulate amongst the clientele. This was the last number and there would be a pause while the customers ordered fresh drinks and food.

Lemuel noted the change in the music also and his foot tapped the floor in rhythm with the beat. This really was an excellent way of worshiping Our Immaculate Father, he thought. There's a fervor and dedication here that I have never seen before. "Who is the singer? Her voice is beyond compare."

Perpetiel squinted at the stage. "That's Bessie Smith. She's really hot . . . . holy and devout." He cursed the stumble brought on by too much liquor. "Her anthems of praise to He Who Reigns Over all are inspiring to hear."

Lemuel agreed, although he couldn’t quite work out how the words he was hearing, 'They all drive or walk for miles To get jive that southern style,' was a hymn of praise. He missed the next few words but then another line solved the mystery for him. 'Come on down, forget your care. Come on down, you'll find me there.' Lemuel was deeply touched by the wonderful tribute to The Eternal Father's love for all his subjects and he could feel a tear beginning to form in the corner of his eyes.

Perpetiel noted the reaction and realized Lemuel had reached the maudlin' stage of being drunk. That meant the timing was just about right. He waved unobtrusively to Charmeine-Lan. She nodded and turned to one of the female angels who were working the floor. For a year now, Charmeine and Michael had been playing 'break the cutie' with the girl with just this meeting in mind.

"You know what to do Maion. You've had enough practice. Everything perfectly clear?"

Maion nodded. She'd had a year to learn her part in this game although she hadn't the slightest idea what that part was or even that she was a piece in the game being played. In fact, she had no idea that there was a game in play. What she did know was that, once her shock and horror at what her work here entailed had worn off, she'd appreciated the security it provided. In this case, security was defined as an uninterrupted and guaranteed supply of heroin.

Lemuel was still trying to focus his mind on the words of the hymn when the female angel moved in next to him. "Some food, most honored Ophanim? And a fresh drink?"

He started at the words and then looked at the tray she had brought. A blend of fresh fruits in a sweetened cream sauce, topped with some strange, tiny, multi-colored rods. The fruit in sweet cream was one of his favorite dishes, something he had not eaten for weeks. Not since Onniel had ceased to perform her duties as his mate. That thought gave Lemuel a strange, unfamiliar feeling in his groin. Was it the long period since Onniel had provided her proper services to him? Or was it the Hashmallim female who was now sitting beside him. He squinted up his eyes, they seemed remarkably reluctant to focus, and took in the sight. She was beautiful, although very thin, and was wearing a version of reverential robes that seemed to be much smaller than the ones he'd seen elsewhere. Poor girl, he thought a little muzzily. She probably can't afford enough cloth to make the robes full-size.

"Thank you . . . ." He hesitated. "What is your name?"

"I am Maion, honored Ophanim."

"Thank you Maion. I am Lemuel-lan-Michael."

Across the table, Perpetiel-lan-Paschar grinned to himself. Lemuel was so drunk and stoned he hadn’t noticed that he had stumbled out with his real name. Maion, however was perfectly on cue. "Oh, Our Eternal Father be praised, that I should have the honor of serving the great Lemuel. I am told you saved He Who Is Above Us All from a foul plot today."

Lemuel reached out for the two wooden sticks that were used to pick up the fruit. He tried to hold them properly but his fingers weren't working very well and he dropped them. Maion quickly reached out and picked them up for him. "Most honored Lemuel-lan, if you would put your head in my lap, I will be privileged to help you eat. May I only ask that you tell me the story of how you exposed the machinations of those dreadful traitors?"

Maion moved careful and lowered Lemuel's head into her lap. Then, she reached out to the bowl of fruit and carefully speared a piece that he knew to be his favorite. She dropped it into his mouth with exquisite care and watched fondly as he chewed it with delight. Charmeine-lan had explained that this was her chance to hook a permanent patron, one who would reserve her so she wouldn’t have to go with clients from the showroom floor any more. That had been incentive enough but already she was sensing that beneath his drunkenness, Lemuel was a kind man who would treat her well. Or at least not treat her badly. She picked up another piece of fruit for him, carefully remembering how Charmeine-lan had briefed her on what were his favorites and which he disliked. She had watched this dish being prepared to make sure that it would be ideal for him.

"What are these strange things?" Lemuel's question indicated the odd little colored things.

"They are called sprinkles exalted Lemuel-lan. A human sweet intended for such dishes. You like them?"

"Very much." Maion relaxed as Lemuel started a long, rambling story of how he had compared lists and gathered reports about the conspiracy against Yahweh. Even though she had managed the first step and was carefully make sure he was being fed with his preferred foods, he listened very carefully to what he was staying, remembering to look enraptured by the account. She gave little gasps of excitement when he told of how comparing the contents of two reports had revealed yet another name for the growing list of those who would betray The Eternal Father. Perpetiel-lan-Paschar winked at her but she ignored him. Her attention was focussed on Lemuel, determined to convince him that she was drinking in every word he had to say. Eventually, the long, semi-coherent story was over, the food dish was empty and the supply of drinks had run out. Lemuel was semi-asleep despite his efforts, and the music from the bands had quietened to a background melody. He was a very happy Ophanim, his gloom and depression gone. It had been a long time since he had been the center of attention and affection like this.

"Would you like to go to a room upstairs?" Maion asked softly. "To reverence Our Immortal Lord of course." She held her breath, this was the key moment.

"Upstairs?" Lemuel tried to get his mind around the concept. "I would like that."

Charmeine-lan seized her moment. Maion was doing well, now it was necessary to add the sealing touch. "There will be a charge of ten talents to take Maion upstairs, noble Ophanim. It will be twenty if you wish to beat her, thirty if you wish to hit her in the face."

"Beat her?" Lemuel was furious. "What sort of people are you? Who do you think I am? You disgust me."

Charmeine-lan dropped to her knees, her wings folded over her head in submission. "Forgive me noble Ophanim, but there are those who . . . . I should never have thought you . . . . ."

Maion held her breath slightly. Now, in the script she and Charmeine had carefully rehearsed, this was the one critical point. "Charmeine, this is the noble Lemuel-lan-Michael who today saved us all from the plotting of those who sought to replace He Who Is Above Us All. I would wish to honor him properly for his valiant service. Surely for one such as he, there should be no charge? And if there is, then I would wish to pay it for him."

"Most Holy Ophanim, I should have known. For your valor today, you are indeed welcome to enjoy all that we have. Maion is yours, by her request, without charge. Honor us by accepting her company."

Maion took Lemuel by her hand and led him to the stairs that went to the rooms above. As soon as they were outside, Perpetiel and Charmeine exchanged high-fives. "Did it!" Perpetiel's voice was almost a shout of triumph.

"Of course." Charmeine sounded conceited. "Angels like that can't resist a bird with broken wings.

DIMO(N) Test Facility, Camp Hendrick, Hell

"Are we all set to go kitten?" Colonel Warhol had the equipment set up and was ready to run. All he needed now was for kitten to get into the portal generator and find the desired contact. She was standing beside her boyfriend, waiting to do so. She glanced quickly at him, he nodded and she started to sit in the padded operator console. "Now, what I want you to do is something different from anything you've done before. I'd like you to start searching for a contact but its not human or nephalim. Look instead for a series of six numbers. 489735. Just think those numbers and wait for a response."

"What are we doing?" kitten's boyfriend Dani was curious. "kitten can't make a contact without a nephelim the other end."

"If this works, she can." Warhol hesitated and then went on. "We've proved that the nephelim at the other end simply echoes the search signal back to its source to make the contact. So, what we have done is set up a series of beacons, in this case a hundred of them. If they pick up the right signal, they'll echo it back and we'll have our contact. So, kitten is looking for three beacons, number 48, number 97 and number 35. We think that thinking the number will key the appropriate beacon to respond. Now, once she has all three, she can more or less drop out and the generator will pump energy into the link and turn it into a proper portal, one whose Earth end is equidistant from all three beacons."

Dani thought for a second. "That'll make it just like a telephone number won’t it? You, we'll be able to contact anywhere." He paused again. "Why not just use cell phone towers as beacons? The infrastructure is already up, you could get the net set up in weeks."

Warhol nodded. It slightly surprised him that somebody who led his girlfriend around on a leash had grasped the idea so quickly. Then, he reprimanded himself for the thought. Dani and kitten might be an unconventional couple but they'd sacrificed far more for the war effort than most and the way that had stood by and supported each other was an example a whole lot of other couples should follow.

"It's no good. I can't detect any of them." kitten's voice was apologetic.

Warhol bit his lip. "We measured your brain signature when you were thinking the numbers. You should be able to get through."

"kitten, try thinking just the number 48." Dani spoke quietly, reassuringly. Then he turned to Warhol, "three at once is probably too many."

A few seconds later, kitten's voice was triumphant. "Got it."

"Right now, can you hold that one and look for 97?"

kitten nodded and closed her eyes. Again it took a few seconds before her "got it" sounded soft and clear. The third beacon was located quickly. "I've got all three Colonel."

Warhol nodded and the portal generator operators started to push power into the circuit. Kitten had been isolated now, with luck the days when opening a portal would be painful were gone. A few seconds later, the telephone built into the system rang. Warhol picked it up and listened carefully. "Dani, kitten, the portal the other end opened exactly where it was supposed to. This is a good day's work people. Any plans for the rest of the day?"

Dani thought for a second. "I'm going to sell all our stock in airlines and bus companies."

 

[LTR]

Sapulpa, Oklahoma, USA

Some things are never forgotten. They may be a sudden, violent event that brands itself on the memory by the sheer unexpectedness of its horror. Or they may be the result of years of suffering that slowly grind the memory into the configuration that makes their grim truth indelible. For the Sampsons, both now over eighty years old, their memories of the dust bowl were moulded by the years they had endured the repeated storms. John Sampson remembered the choking clouds of dust that reduced visibility to a few feet and killed people by filling their lungs with dirt. His father had been a farmer until the great dust storms had literally blown his land away. His crops had gone, his cattle had starved. Only the government Drought Relief Service had saved them by buying the emaciated cattle at well over market price. The starved beasts were too wasted to slaughter for meat, instead, they had been shot and buried.

Ellen's memories were of a different kind but no less vivid. She remembered the dust that seeped into the house no matter how carefully the doors were closed and sealed. Her mother had soaked strips of sheet in a mixture of flour and water before spreading them over the window and door frames. Every time she had hoped that this would be the storm when she got it right, when the dust wouldn't fill her house. Every time, she had been heartbreakingly disappointed. The storm would strike their home, the dust would enter and the air inside turn hazy as it permeated every nook and cranny. Ellen Sampson remembered her baby brother choking to death on the dust before he reached his third month of life. Her mother had never recovered from the loss, she had spent days sitting in the one room of their home, listening to the wind howling outside. She'd done that until the day she'd taken the family shotgun and blown out her brains.

The government had done what it could, it had taught the farmers to use new techniques that conserved the soil and trapped water. They had paid the homesteaders a dollar an acre to use ideas such as crop rotation, strip farming, contour plowing and terracing. The payments took the grinding poverty out of the dustbowl but they didn’t solve the basic problem. It had taken the return of regular rain after a decade of drought to do that.

By then, John Sampson and his family had given up and left. They'd become 'Okies', migrant workers desperately seeking somewhere they could live and earn a regular wage. For years that had been a seemingly-impossible dream, but it was John Sampson that had achieved the family goal. He had managed, he wasn't quite sure how, to land a job at the Lockheed aircraft factory. He'd started by sweeping the floor, trying to close his eyes to the dust that reminded him of their lost farm in Oklahoma. Then, he'd been promoted to the assembly line where he'd started to earn real money. By the time war had broken out, he had made it to foreman and the Sampson family lived comfortably. Then, he'd been transferred back to Oklahoma, to help set up a satellite production line in Lawton. That was where he'd met Ellen, one of thousands of young women recruited to help produce the aircraft America needed to win the war. Their marriage had lasted for sixty years.

Some things are never forgotten. John Sampson had driven to the local plaza to collect the week's groceries, using a significant fraction of his weekly gasoline ration to do it. In some ways, there was a strange comfort in that, the use of coupons and vouchers for their shopping took him back to the days of World War Two when his life had been in front of him. Despite the rationing, he and his wife lived comfortably. They both had good pensions, their children had long left to live their own lives and now only appeared when there was a holiday or a new grandchild to display. So, the weekly shopping trip was no very great imposition. Only, this time Sampson had noted how the wind was already increasing while the sun beat down with a steady leaden glare. Sampson knew that glare well, and as he drove he had watched the horizon upwind. He knew what he was looking for and every time he scanned the horizon he was afraid that he would see it.

"John, there's something wrong isn’t there?" Ellen Sampson was staring at the horizon as well.

"I've got everything we had listed. You know, I really think things are getting a little easier now. I got us two nice steaks for our dinner tonight." Yes, steak was back in the stores and the gasoline ration had been increased. Sampson felt a little sorry for the people who had bought diesel-engined cars and trucks. Diesel fuel was all taken up by the armed forces and what little they didn’t need was given to other armies that were running short. No diesel for civilians but there was a little gasoline for those who needed it. As senior citizens, the Sampsons had an extra ration allowance. After all, nobody could expect an eighty year old couple to walk five miles to the store.

"I didn't mean the stores John. I remember weather like this from when I was a child. There's a storm coming." She meant a dust storm but her memories stopped her from using the words.

The couple went inside their home. Ellen started to cook the steaks her husband had brought while he went around the house, ensuring everything was closed down and sealed. He kept the thought to himself but running through his mind also were the memories of the dust bowl and the 1930s. He took comfort in the fact that houses now were very different from the shacks that had been built back then. The windows in their home didn’t have opening frames, they were fixed shut to let the air conditioning work more efficiently. The house had no chimney to let the dust in and the doors all had draft excluders. Perhaps this time it would be different.

By the time they had finished eating, the wind had picked up still further . They were washing the dishes together when Sampson glanced out of the window and saw the sight he had been fearing. The horizon had changed, what had once been an array of fields was now dominated by a reddish-black cloud, one that was sweeping towards them with frightening speed.

"Ellen, it's a Black Lizard. They've come back."

His wife looked out of the window and saw the cloud of dust approaching. "Oh no. Not again. Please, I don't think I can stand it, not again." Tears trickled out of the corners of her eyes as she watched the clouds that were now towering over them, the wind wailing and twisting the dust into strange, abstract patterns. Sampson hugged her as the dust storm hit their house.

The force of the impact shook the whole house, causing shudders to run through the structure. Their oven opened as the door fell down and the newly-washed plates in the sink started rattling with the vibration. What really changed things was the darkness. It was as if a switch had been flipped, the day went from early afternoon to blackest midnight without any warning or transition period. Ellen Sampson panicked as she fumbled for the light switch, then sighed with relief as the main room lights came on. Her husband had remembered how the Black Lizard shut out the light and had known exactly how to reach the switch in the pitch darkness. Outside the howling of the wind picked up as the main body of the storm reached them.

Sampson seated his wife, then pushed an odd-looking circular silver switch on the wall. With the main lights on, the effect wasn't obvious but the emergency lighting system, battery-powered LED units, were on. A few minutes later, the simple act of foresight was rewarded. The main lights flickered and failed, the overhead power lines outside brought down by the wind and the weight of dust in the air. The couple both remembered when a power failure during a dust-storm had caused their families to sit in total darkness, They'd been forced to sit in the sticky blackness, the dust from the air coating the inside of their mouths and throats. Now, the light from the LED emergency system might not be much but it was enough. It showed where things were so the couple could move around their home and it also showed the air was still clean. So far, at least, the dust was being kept outside.

Sampson took an LED torch, quietly blessing the strange twists in his career that were now standing him in such good stead. After marrying Ellen, he had decided to stay back in Oklahoma and had continued to work in the Lockheed subsidiary. Towards the end of his career, he had taken on a project that most of his colleagues had thought rather ridiculous, trying to find domestic applications for the then-new LED lighting technology. The work had blossomed into a major money-earner and, more importantly, made him a lot of friends in companies marketing LED lighting. As a result, their house was full of systems given to him for "testing". Some of them were a different patterns of flashlights and one of them allowed him to go safely into the kitchen and bring back a couple of bottles of water.

"Here you are, Ellie. We'll be fine, we've got food, lots of bottled water and more batteries than we can shake a stick at. We'll just ride the storm out."

"Why did they have to come back? I thought they had gone for ever." Ellen Sampson was still crying quietly, more from shock than anything else.

"I bet Yahweh's got something to do with it." John Sampson nearly snarled the words out. "This is his work, I'm sure of it. We'll get him for this, you wait and see."

News Studio, KOCO Television, Oklahoma City

"Your guardian angel, remember it? The one that was always around to claim the credit for everything good that happened in your life but was always mysteriously absent when everything went wrong? Well, now you've got the chance to show it just what you think of it. Contact XY Executive Solutions and put a contract out on your guardian angel. When we humans break into Heaven a team from our covert operations group will be at their head. For just a small down payment and affordable weekly payments they will hunt down and kill your so-called guardian angel. And if the HEA get it first, you get a full refund. So contact XY Executive Solutions today and see your guardian angel gets what it has coming to it."

The advertisement faded away and the monitor screen switched back the news desks. Brandon Breyer looked up from the piles of paper accumulating on his desk. "Well, our latest sponsor is certainly offering an unexpected new service. Anita, do you have the latest on the dust storm?"

"I do Brandon, and its plural, dust storms, now. We have reports of other dust storms forming in China, Canada and Australia. Locally, the storm here is hitting most of the southern half of our state and things are pretty bad. Our reporter JiaoJiao Shen is out in the town of Sapulpa. I believe she is on the line now. JiaoJiao, what's it like out there?"

The screen was blank, at first it appeared the video link wasn't working but swirling patterns showed that the cameras were sending footage, it was just that the dust was blanking everything out. What did come through was the audio link. "Well, it's really horrible Anita. The dust here is so thick that visibility is down to three or four feet. The crew, all of us, are holding on to each others belts to make sure we don’t get separated. Nobody dares take a chance on driving, just down the road from here, an ambulance tried to get to a car accident and drove straight into a utility pole. Took the power out to quite a few houses around here. The wind has slackened a little bit but we have to fight it all the time."

"Are you all right JiaoJiao? Your voice sounds very muffled."

"We're lucky Anita, we were all in Hell a couple of weeks ago and we brought our dust masks back from there. So we've got goggles and breathing filters. But, some of the local people got caught in the open and they're in a bad way. The good news is, people inside seem to be all right, houses built these days are much more dust-proof than the ones back in the 1930s. We've telephoned a few local residents and the consensus is they're doing OK, they'll just ride the storm out. There's one old couple just over the road from here who remember the original dustbowl and they're determined to stick this one out."

"Thank you JiaoJiao. Well, we've just had a release in from DIMO(N) Public Relations. Preliminary samples of the dust suggest that it’s a mixture of Earth and Hell Dust. To find out what that means, we're going to Norman Baines, Director of Research at DIMO(N). Mr Baines, what is the significance of the mixed dust?"

"Hi Anita, good to talk to you again. Well, this proved that the dust storm is not a natural occurrence. We know that there was a windstorm brewing up today, I think your own weather forecast predicted that, and that somebody opened a portal from Hell and dumped a whole mass of helldust through that portal into the wind stream. That acted as a seed for the dust storm. The hell dust ground up against human soil and abraded it to much finer particles and that set the scene for the storms. It's the same basic mechanism that was seen in the 1930s dustbowl but the actions taken after that tragedy have prevented similar dust-storms. So, somebody had to find another way to start one."

"Somebody being Yahweh?"

"We have to recognize he is the most likely suspect, yes, Anita."

"Well, Sir, that raises another question. Were the 19330s dustbowl his work as well?"

"It's certainly a possibility although it is more likely that the 1930s storms were normal events and the similarity is pure coincidence. Of course, the 1930s dustbowl may have given him this idea."

"If it was Yahweh, Mister Baines, what is he trying to do and what do we plan to do about it?"

"That's two questions Anita. What is he trying to achieve? Well, these dust storms are undoubtedly the Fifth Bowl of Wrath. Revelation speaks of people sitting in a great darkness and chewing their tongues with pain. They're certainly sitting in darkness and in the 1930s, people choked on the dust and that could be described as chewing their tongues. I've been asked by my technical staff to pass out a warning and could I ask your station to assist in this. The dust-charged atmosphere is causing a lot of static to build up and touching a metal object may well result in a severe electrical shock. Also, the spark may ignite inflammable vapor. So, even after the storm passes, a lot of care will still be needed.

"Now, as to what we plan to do about it. We plan to kill Yahweh of course. We'll get him, you can be sure of that. We're humans, we don’t worship self-proclaimed gods any more. We tolerate them if they don’t annoy us and we whack them if they do."

The newsroom staff burst out laughing. "Mister Baines, that is the clearest statement of intent we've ever heard out of a Government department. Thank you for your time and patience. Brandon?"

"Political news now. Washington is still reeling from the results of the special election in Massachusetts. Now, over to our correspondent Nikole Killion in Hell who is discussing the implications of the result with the late Senator Edward Kennedy."

Department of Agriculture, Washington, D.C.

"Just what is the impact of this storm?" President Obama was terse, it was already being reported that the dust storm that had started in Oklahoma was swinging across the country and would reach Washington soon.

"It's pretty bad Sir. The problem is that once the dust-storms start, they're quite hard to stop. Each storm pulverizes the ground into smaller and smaller particles that are smoothed off by abrasion as they are carried by the wind. That means they are easier to lift by the wind and they stay up longer once lifted. So, once the first storm has formed, it makes things progressively easier for other storms to follow.

"Now, as to the longer-term effects, these storms are bad news. They'll hit agricultural production that's already been hammered by the weather attacks we've been suffering for over a year now. The Oklahoma panhandle is technically semi-arid and its productivity isn't high so losses there won’t be too bad. It's the overflow of dust into richer ground that's the real problem. We were just getting on top of the food supply problem as well and were able to increase the rations. Now, it looks like we'll have to reverse the increase at the very least."

Obama's mouth twisted in distaste for that idea. "That'll be a hard one to sell. We should never have passed that ration increase. Better to have kept things as they were and stored the extra."

"With hindsight, yes Sir. But, people need a lift. This long stalemate is wearing the people down. Anyway, back to the dust storms. The real problem was people caught outside by the leading edge of the storm. That contained a very high proportion of Helldust. Helldust is mostly powdered pumice and breathing it is extremely dangerous for first-life humans. We can expect a lot of those people to develop severe silicosis very soon. Since it is our opinion these storms will continue for some time now their formation cycle has been jump-started, we'd better start distributing breathing masks and goggles as well as tinfoil hats. Fortunately, we already have very good masks and goggles in production for the armed forces."

There was a long pause as the people at the meeting made 'action-it" notes. "Doctor Surlethe, have you and your teams got any additional information for us?"

"We're still hunting for a way into Heaven Sir. The information we got from monitoring Michael's jumps proved to be a bust. I'm afraid we got overconfident with the way we walked all over Satan and his forces; Michael-Lan appears to be a really bright boy. What we are beginning to learn is that there appear to be an almost infinite number of bubble-worlds in Universe-Two. We could start jumping around in them at random but we're reluctant to do that. We don’t know what we would run into and another war is something we really don't need right now."

"We do have one bit of good news Sir. If you like rice that is. ASEAN, the Association of South East Asian Nations, have offered to put 20 percent of their rice production into a common pool to help out countries whose own food production is inadequate." The Secretary for Agriculture paused and thought quickly. "I don’t say we should call on their generosity now, but it's a start. And, of course, paddy fields won't get wiped out by dust-storms."

"They got hit by the Third Bowl though." Doctor Surlethe was also considering the implications of the proposed food bank. "But that's a thing of the past now. We dealt with it. This is the Fifth Bowl, no doubt about that. Just two more to go and Heaven's pretty much shot its bolt. If we can ride them out, we'll be in a much better position."

"What are the next two bowls? Can we prepare for them?"

"The next one is a bit odd. It seems to be just the river Euphrates drying up. Of course, back in the day, the Tigris and Euphrates pretty much marked the known world for those who were writing the fables. So, one or both drying up would be a real disaster. Now, losing one would be more of an annoyance. The Seventh is a bit more worrying. It speaks of massive earthquakes and boulders falling from the skies. The Russians are looking at the last part of that, they have nuclear-tipped surface-to-air missiles that may provide a defense against boulders dropping in on us. What worries us are the Beasts. We nailed the Leopard Beast and saw off the Scarlet Beast. There's the Lamb Beast and the Dragon to come. Given the way the severity of the threats is escalating, they’re likely to be a real problem. Then, there's that Israeli rogue sub out there somewhere. We want her dead and dead fast. So does the Israeli government.

"Our guess is that when the Bowls of Wrath and the Beasts have run their course, that's when we get invaded by the Angelic host. One way or the other, Mister President, I'd say we're getting close to the end-game on this."

 

[LTR]

Control Room, INS Tekuma, Mediterranean

"Just why the blue blazes are we heading out towards the Atlantic?" Captain Alex Ben-Shoshan had a thousand spirits sitting on his shoulders, telling him there was something seriously wrong. His Tekuma had killed the Scarlet Beast with her nuclear missiles. So why had he not heard anything from the operations center in Tel Aviv? He would have expected at least something, even if it was only a terse acknowledgment that his missile strike had been successful.

There was something else that was worrying him. After firing his missiles he had gone deep, cleared datum and then evaded. That was standard doctrine after firing any kind of missiles for by doing so he had given away his position more surely than a glowing neon pointed would have done. Evading the hunt that would surely follow his launch had been drilled into him ever since he had been selected to take command of this submarine. But times were different now, humanity was fighting on the same side, more or less. So, they shouldn’t have been hunting him. Why were they?

It wasn't just one nation either. Since he had started evading, he had picked up a mass of different sonars lashing the water in an effort to locate him. American SQS-53s, Russian Platinas, British Type 2050s. Others that were a lot less distinctive in their transmission characteristics.

Lieutenant Midyan Yitzchak looked over from the communications station at the rear of the command compartment. He had supplied Ben-Shoshan with the forged messages that had authorized the missile launch and then set the Tekuma on course for the Straits of Gibraltar but after that, the supply was ended and future actions were left vague. He hadn’t received any more visions from his Angelic leader either. In fact, Yitzchak noted, he'd never received any such messages while he was on the submarine. Only when he had been ashore.

"Sir, perhaps there will be messages for us from the command center in Gibraltar?"

Ben-Shoshan nodded thoughtfully. Then he asked the one question every diesel-electric submarine driver had engrained in his soul. "Battery status?"

"Twenty percent charge Sir. Clearing Datum cost us heavily." The Engineering Officer was seriously worried. It wasn't good to run the batteries below seventy percent charge and a fifty percent charge level was regarded as critical. He'd never seen a charge meter drop to twenty percent before.

"Come up to periscope depth. Prepare to snort." The spirits sitting on ben Shoshan's shoulder were screaming warnings again but without charged batteries, his submarine was completely helpless. "Navigation, set course for Gibraltar and maximum snorting speed. Engines, run the diesels as soon as the snort is up and get those batteries charged. Communications, get through to Tel Aviv, find out what is going on and why."

Yitzchak looked down at his knees in an effort to hide the grin on his face. Getting a message through to Tel Aviv would be a useful trick. The place was a smoking hole in the ground. "Very good Sir."

The Forum of Indefatigable Exaltation, Eternal City, Heaven.

Markets were something that the higher-class angels never really bothered much with. They had the Ishim and Cherubim to look after such mundane things for them. And the Ishim and Cherubim had their human servants to carry out the routine drudgery of going to a market. At most, the Cherubim made sure the Ishim weren't skulking off when they were supposed to be working and the Ishim did the same for the humans. It was a nice system, like everything else in Heaven it was set up so the humans did all the real work and the Angels got all the benefits. Rank really did have its privileges.

So it was that the market in the Forum of Indefatigable Exaltation presented its usual appearance to a casual observer. The stalls were set up in their usual places, the merchants behind them shouting out the benefits of their wares and the unique advantages that patronizing them would bring. The humans crowded around them, buying the good needed to keep the Angels in their state of sybaritic luxury while they also tried to secure a few things that would alleviate their own grinding poverty. There was an unspoken, unmentioned sub-trade going on as well, one in which the merchants gave under-the-counter discounts to their human customers so that the latter could at least have some resources of their own. There was even an unofficial language by which the merchants could advertise the percentage kickbacks they were offering without alerting the watchful Ishim and Cherubim. Surely, the argument went, this must be approved because The Eternal Father of All was omniscient and all-knowing and must be aware of the kickbacks. And since He must know yet did not interfere then He must approve.

A more perceptive observer might have noted a few details about the market this day that didn’t quite fit into the superficial normality. One was that the Ishim and Cherubim were distinctly nervous. They spoke carefully, watching around them while they did so, and for all that, they kept their conversations to banal triviality. The wave of arrests by the League of Holy Court had ceased, for a while at least, but they all knew those arrested were being interrogated and would name others in the hideous conspiracy. With Satan dead at the hands of humans, cosmic balance demanded that a new force must arise. With this effort crushed, who would be next to be overwhelmed by the sin of Pride and try to rebel against The One Above All?

Another change was in the crowds of humans who thronged the Forum. As they passed in the crowds, news was passed from one to the next. The deaths of the Leopard and Scarlet Beasts, The Immaculate Lord's own pets killed. Deumah was a brain-dead hulk, breathing but without thought or wits. But above all was the story of the Great Gray Bird.

"A great portal in the sky opened and through it flew a strange gray bird. It flew in silence yet when it passed overhead there was a great crash as if of thunder and the dreadful scream of the bird hurt our ears. It turned around and flew back towards the portal, flew so fast that our eyes could barely follow it. Our Lord, Israfil, was standing in front of it and the Bird spat fire at him. The ground erupted around Israfil and he fell. Then the Gray Bird left and the portal vanished. We ran to Israfil but he was dead, his body so torn apart so that barely one part of him remained attached to another."

"Did you see this for yourself, Jerome?" The speaker was doubtful for many told the story of the gray bird.

"I did. With my own eyes and I had the Blessed White Blood of Israfil on my own hands. He died quickly I think but on his face was a look of great fear."

And so the story passed from teller to listener and soon those who had heard it would pass it on, many also asserting they had seen the Gray Bird with their own eyes and they also had the white blood of the slaughtered angel on their hands. The story was the cause of another subtle change for those who heard it made the link to the other words that spread amongst the human population of Heaven. That the humans on Earth had wondrous machines that could kill even the mightiest of Angels and Daemons. That, when The Eternal Enemy had invaded Earth, the humans had slaughtered his Army, invaded his Kingdom and killed him. Surely the gray bird was one such machine? And if humans could invade Hell and kill The Eternal Enemy, could they not also come here and. . . . At that point, even the bravest refused to think further.

And so the crowd eddied and swirled throughout the market. The stallholders and merchants did their business and sold their produce, replenishing their displays now and then from the carts that were parked behind their stands. In the swirling mass of humans and angels, none noticed that there was two more carts than stalls.

When it came, the blast was stunning in its effects. The mass of C4 explosive, carefully wrapped with fragments of gold and silver and set amidst masses of semi-precious stones, turned those riches into a spray of deadly shrapnel that scythed through the crowds, leaving death and destruction behind them. The paving stones of the Forum ran with blood, mostly red but white as well and occasionally a trace of silver. The gentle babble of voices was replaced by a cacophony of screams and the wailing of the wounded. Dozens around the cart lay dead, many more still lived despite severed limbs and mutilations previously unknown in Heaven. Such events had never been contemplated before and there existed no precedent for dealing with them. Angel or human, those who still had their wits and bodies intact panicked and stampeded for the steps that were the only way out of the forum. As they pushed and crowded at the bottleneck represented by the steps, that was where and when the second bomb went off.

Upstairs Room, Montmartre Club, Eternal City, Heaven.

Maion very carefully made sure that a goblet of the purest water and four Excedrin tablets were waiting on Lemuel's bedside table. Then she glanced around the room to make sure that it was freshly cleaned and that everything would be pleasing to Lemuel's eyes. At sometime during the night, a small packet with her morning heroin fix had arrived and she had taken it, injecting the drug between her toes so the needle mark wouldn't show. She was well aware that her heroin addiction was the cause of her being in this room and the sleeping angel on the bed was her only way out. Satisfied that she had done all she could, she fanned him gently with her wings. Sure enough, he snorted and woke up.

"Arrgggh. My head." His voice was suffused with suffering.

"My Beloved Lord." Maion watched Lemuel carefully, afraid that the endearment would be going too far, too fast, but he was pleased by it. "Drink this and take these medicines. They will greatly reduce your suffering."

"Truly The Lord of All was right in saying that indulgence brings grave punishment." Lemuel's voice was cracked with the force of his hangover."

Tears started to form in the corners of Maion's eyes. "I am such a grave punishment?"

Lemuel almost panicked at the thought he had hurt her. She'd been the only female in weeks, months, who had shown him any courtesy or consideration, let alone the love and attention he had the right to expect only from his mate. "No, no. You've been wonderful. You are wonderful. I just feel so ill."

"Perhaps the strength of your prayers for Our Holy Father has taken too much energy from you. I have some food prepared, and more water. Would you honor me by taking refreshment before I go back down to the floor." She went over to a side table and fetched the dishes containing Lemuel's breakfast. It was, of course, his favorite. He drank more water, feeling its coolness soothe the parched tissues of this throat while the hammering in his head started to ease.

"Go back down to the floor?" Lemuel was confused.

"I have no patron most noble Ophanim. So, I must go down to the floor of the club and serve those who are down there. If any want me and have the price then I must go with them. Some of them are nice." Maion shuddered theatrically. "But if I had a patron, then I live in one of the apartments here and serve only him. I would still perform my reverential dances downstairs but would not have to work the floor."

Lemuel finished his food and grinned at her. "I think we can fix this. Maion, would you accept me as your patron?"

"Oh, yes Sire." Maion's eyes shone with genuine happiness. For the first time in more than a year she could see a way out of the trap she was in. "We must speak to Charmeine-Lan to make the arrangements."

"Then let us speak to her without delay."

By a "strange coincidence" Charmeine-Lan was just outside their room when Lemuel and Maion left in search of her. Unseen by Lemuel, Maion gave her the high-five success signal and that caused Charmeine-Lan to relax. The scheme had gone off perfectly. "Was Maion satisfactory Most Noble Ophanim?"

"Very much so. I understand I can become her patron?"

"That is so, although I must warn you that it is not an inexpensive undertaking. You must pay rent for her new apartment, and an allocation for her living expenses. For that you may visit her any time you please, you may eat in the club without charge and Maion will be reserved for your service alone. She will continue to dance in the club but that will be all. You will also need to give her an allowance so she can keep herself properly."

Lemuel nodded. Charmeine-Lan pulled a pad out of her robes and wrote quickly on it. "This will be the amount in question. Maion's allowance will be for the two of you to agree on though."

Lemuel looked at the number in shock. His heart had sunk when he had heard Charmeine-Lan listing the things he would have to pay for but the total amount was a small fraction of what he had expected. He could afford it easily and still give Maion a generous allowance. Watching him, Charmeine-Lan carefully his her amusement. The amount she had been told to charge was indeed a small fraction of the usual cost. Michael-Lan had told her the business would eat the difference.

"Could we see Maion's new apartment please?" Lemuel spoke carefully, this was a major step for him and one he wasn't certain how he could justify to himself. Other than the fact that he was being frozen out by his formal mate and Maion had shown him the first tenderness he had known in months.

"Certainly, come with me." Charmeine-Lan took the couple up another flight of stairs. "We have a few apartments vacant. This is a nice one."

It was a simple suite of rooms, not so very different from the one in which he had spent the night with Maion. Lemuel looked around with his lower lip pushed out. In contrast, Maion's eyes were shining. "It's lovely Most Noble Ophanim."

"Hmm. Charmeine-Lan, is this the best you have?"

"Well, we do have some better ones, but they're usually for . . . . Well, let me show you one." She led the couple down the hall and around a corner. "These apartments are much quieter and a little larger."

She opened the door and Maion gasped. This suite was much larger and more luxurious. The bare stone walls in the other suite were here covered with semi-precious stone and the furnishings were opulent rather than just comfortable. Charmeine-Lan gave Lemuel another note with the extra cost on it. Again, the amount was small enough to raise his eyebrows. "We'll take this one."

Maion dropped to her knees, her wings swept over her head. "Most Noble Ophanim, I don’t know what to say."

"Well, you can start by calling me Lemuel." He patted her on the rump as she ran into her new apartment. "Charmeine-Lan, my work may call me away for unknown periods. So there shall be no misunderstanding, I will pay you for a year in advance. Is that acceptable?"

"It is indeed. If you like, you can leave Maion-Lan-Lemuel's allowance for the same period with us and we will be sure she gets it on schedule."

Lemuel looked at her doubtfully. He could see several objections to that plan. "I will consider your kind offer and return to you on that. Now, I will give you a note of hand for the year's payment and you can reclaim the gold at your convenience." The money would be drawn from the amount he and Onniel had saved over the years. And if Onniel found out and didn’t like it, she could leave.

The business completed, Lemuel was about to join Maion in their new apartment when two rolls of thunder swept over the Eternal City.

The Forum of Indefatigable Exaltation, Eternal City, Heaven.

"Remember I once told you that humans went in for overkill? Well, this is what I mean." Michael-Lan waved his hand at the devastation in the market. "First bomb was over there, it panicked people and crowded them into the killing zone of the second bomb here. Standard human tactics. They're good at this sort of thing."

"Humans did this? In the Eternal City?" The sudden change from his delight in Maion's company to his horror at the scene of carnage was more than Lemuel could endure.

"I thought so." Now the zinger thought Michael. "Only, after the bombing we have started to find these scattered around the City. He held out a crude poster.

"The search for justice knows no mercy. We demand the release of all the political prisoners seized in recent raids. If our demands are not met, the blood of those who die in future will be on your hands. The League of Divine Justice."

"League of Divine Justice?" Lemuel was confused and still in shock. "Who are they?"

"Not human. Humans would have made reference to 'the people' and phrased this differently. The reference to The Divine and the way this is written sounds to me like a group of Angels who are trying to copy humans."

"We have another conspiracy?" Lemuel looked even more shocked.

"We surely do. We've just got rid of one and now we're faced with this. How's the investigation into the other thing you were looking into by the way?"

Lemuel faked a complete lack of concern. "It's nothing to worry about. The more I look into it, the less there is to be concerned about. Just over-enthusiam, that's all. It doesn't amount to heresy or blasphemy, we might as well not worry about it any more. Compared with this horror . . . " Lemuel stepped back as he turned to wave and felt his sandal slide on something. Looking down, he saw it was a part of an angelic wing. He barely avoided vomiting.

Michael-Lan nodded sympathetically. "Your decision of course, but I think you are absolutely right. This atrocity must take precedence." Especially since it means that I can now claim credit for the nuclear destruction of Tel Aviv and if anybody argues about it, we can link them straight to this. "We will have to get back to headquarters and see if Salaphael knows anything about this." If he has any sanity left.

 

[LTR]

DIMO(N) Test Facility, Camp Hendrick, Hell

"Tucker! How are you, what are you doing here?"

Tucker McElroy swept kitten up in his arms and kissed her before passing her around to the rest of his unit. He followed it by giving Dani a slap on the back that nearly knocked him off his feet. In all, it was a spectacular reunion.

"We've just finished up our last job for the United States Army and are going back to be discharged. All of us."

kitten looked upset at the news. "Why Tucker? We thought you were happy in the Army. Won’t we be seeing you any more?"

"Sure you will, we'll still be here in Hell and still in an Army, just not the same one. Look kitten, you're still alive so you won’t really understand how we dead ones feel about things but it's not the same for us. Memories of what Earth and our first lives were like fade away pretty fast. We're been in Hell for almost two years now and what matters to us is what happens here and now. Also, don’t want to sound mercenary about this but, well, the prospects for a country boy getting much further than I have aren’t so good. For a dead country boy, promotion prospects are pretty limited." McElroy glanced around and saw that Colonel Warhol had studiously made himself absent. "and the truth is, the Army don't really know what they're going to do with us. We can fight and so on better than First Lifers can in Hell but it's not the same thing. Lot of us are beginning to ask why we're fighting for First-Lifers in our territory. It's weird, kitten, but I'm beginning to understand why the Iraqis felt the way they did about Americans coming in. Sure, they saved them from a pretty nasty regime but why did they stay? Why didn’t they just get rid of Saddam Hussein and go?

"It's the same here, why don’t the First-Lifers just go? This is our place, First-Lifers can't even live here without a whole shitload of technical support. I know there are some things that have to be done, like the rescue effort in The Pit, but for the rest of it? Take the job we've just done. Small group of humans trying to attack the supply convoys taking munitions to the HEA so they could set up their own state. We had to persuade them it wasn't a good idea. Well, we've done that but it just doesn't sit right you know? Anyway, so when our enlistment was up, we took a discharge. We, the whole gang, are off to New Rome. Caesar's hiring all the dead ex-Special Forces people he can find for his new legions." McElroy broke off and grinned apologetically. "I'm sorry kitten, this has all been building up for some time and I needed somebody sympathetic to unload to. Now, how are you doing and what are you up to?"

Out of the corner of his eye, McElroy saw Warhol start to drift back towards the group. Standing with her back to him, kitten was oblivious to the approach. "We're trying to turn portal-opening into a proper transportation system. We know that nephelim act as a sort of transponder, picking up my signals and repeating them back to me. Well, the scientists have built a beacon that can do the same thing. So, once those beacons are all over the place, we won’t need Nephelim at all on the receiving end. It'll just be like dialling a telephone number. People'll will come to a transit point here in Hell and then portal back to their desired point on Earth."

"Just like the Yulupki Delivery Service, only without the need for Nephelim." Dani cut in. "And you're wrong Tucker, humans can't just leave Hell now. It's not just the rescue effort although that's a big part of it. There's so much here that we need. Oil, minerals, you name it. And then there's the strategic part. An Army based in Hell dominates Earth, it can land anywhere it wants, go anywhere it wants. It's the ultimate high ground. Also, a lot of First-Lifers don't feel too good about what happened in the Curbstomp War. Have you seen the battlefield along the Phlegethon? Mile after mile of mangled daemon bodies. They tried to stop our tanks with bronze tridents. Hollywood's already making films about that."

"As well as new-wave horror films." Warhol had decided it was time to get the conversation on to safer ground. "Have you seen the advertisements for Hellboy IV? 'The first horror film made starring *real daemons*.' That could start a trend you know."

"It already has." Dani grinned at the thought. "Did you hear the ACLU are suing the National Football League.? Apparently the Cubs recruited a couple of daemons for their offense and the other teams objected after they saw a daemon walking to the line with three or four humans hanging on to him. So the NFL made a ruling restricting the game to First-Life humans and the ACLU took umbrage. Called it racial discrimination. Big question here, does The Constitution apply to dead people?"

"Second-lifers." McElroy made the point politely but firmly.

"Second-lifers. Sorry. Anyway, the question remains though and it’s a good one. Ted Kennedy's interview a couple of days ago really raised that question. Can the dead, Second-lifers, vote?"

"Of course we can. Been doing it in Chicago for years." McElroy inserted the barb with relish. It was, in his opinion, payback. Dani grinned acknowledgement.

"And if they can vote, why can't they run for office? Puts a whole new slant on incumbrancy doesn't it? If the dead can hold office, we will literally never get them out. Now that is a truly horrible thought."

Training Camp, 1st Mechanized Infantry Battalion (Demonic), Dis, Hell

"We're doing this the wrong way." It was Ori speaking but he and Aeneas had discussed the issue at length and come to a satisfactory conclusion. That wasn't surprising since they had started off in almost perfect agreement.

"What do you mean?" Sergeant Anderson would take any suggestion that offered hope at this point. The plan to produce units of daemonic troops was falling apart.

"We're trying to make daemons fight using human tactics and methods. We can't do it, nobody can. Their minds are set in a specific configuration by millennia of practice and we simply can’t change that. We have to adapt human strategy and tactics to daemonic abilities, not the other way around."

Anderson tapped his fingers on the table. The idea sounded plausible but it ran against the whole concept of the 1st Demonic. That was to produce an army unit that was essentially similar to human forces but with daemonic personnel. One that could fit in with human units.

"What have you in mind?" His voice was cautious.

"The problem is that the daemons have no idea of unit coordination or mutual support. In a battle it's every daemon for himself and forget about those left behind. No matter how hard we try, every time we begin an assault, it ends the same way. The daemons do a hell-for-leather charge and then the defenders cut them to pieces. They're getting their minds around concepts like outflanking but covering fire and maneuver are beyond them."

"I find that hard to believe." General Schatten spoke from behind the trio, his approach unseen by any of them. "They've been fighting each other for millennia. They must have evolved concepts like outflanking."

"Sir." Sergeant Anderson had jumped to attention.

"Relax people. One of you explain to me what these problems are."

"It is simply that daemonic units do not and will not cooperate. Aeneas's time lecturing in universities had given him an insight into how to pitch arguments. Yes, they will outflank another unit if they can but setting up an outflanking move is beyond them. It means that one unit does the work of pinning down the target while another gets the glory of defeating it. It's so deeply ingrained in them that they cannot behave any other way. We've tried everything. Short of shackling one unit in place that is. They just won’t do it. It's made worse by the way their old units were structured. They were like our phalanx, once they were committed to a specific direction, they had to go straight forward. Now, we've got them to thin out and we've got them to lay down and shoot and that's all very well but once the signal to advance, its 'up boys and at'em' and everything we've taught them goes out the window."

"Think of them as armies from the 17th century." Anderson added, "with tridents instead of pikemen and throwing lightning bolts instead of musket fire. Their traditional tactics were very much the same, they'd try and disrupt the enemy formation with lightning bolts and then close to win battles by the push of the pike."

"Not really that dissimilar to how we fought." Aeneas made the remark casually, unaware of how profound the insight really was.

"They form ranks, the front rank discharging their tridents and kneeling to recharge while the rank behind steps forward and does the same. Then the next rank does that. And so the whole formation advanced to contact. Then everybody used their tridents as thrusting weapons. That tactical concept really is the whole of their playbook. Or was, until we arrived." Anderson sighed. "Breaking the habit of a lifetime is hard enough, but when that lifetime is millennia, there's no chance. We can change the details of how they do things but the grand pattern is too well established to break up. We thought bringing Ori and Aeneas in would help because their tactical background was similar to that of the daemons but it hasn’t. We're losing this battle Sir, we may have to give up on using daemonic units."

"Not necessarily." Ori spoke reflectively. He too had benefitted greatly from the time spent lecturing disbelieving historians on Japanese history.

"You have an idea?"

"Not us, specifically, but something we've heard on the wind. Caesar has cracked this problem with his legions."

"He would." Schatten sounded bitter.

Ori ignored the interjection. "As the stories go, he's mixed humans and daemons in the same units. Daemons are the main body of troops, Second-Life humans run the support forces. Mortars, machine guns, artillery, armor and so on. In defense, the daemons lay down and fire their rifles along with everybody else. That much we've got them to do ourselves. When it comes to attacks, the daemons do the movement bit while the humans provide covering fire and artillery support. A daemonic charge supported by machine gun and artillery fire to pin down the opposition. In daemonic eyes, they're getting all the glory, in human eyes, the daemons are taking the brunt of the casualties. Suits both."

"And you want to try the same thing?" Schatten asked.

"We do. We can't fail any more badly than we're doing at the moment." Anderson and Aeneas sighed in obvious agreement.

Schatten nodded. In any effective army, a wise general listened to his senior NCOs. "I expect you'll be receiving orders to that effect shortly. Thank you for your time gentlemen."

Conference Room, Yamantau Mountain, Russia

"The latest word on the dust storms?" Prime Minister and Council Chairman Putin put the question tersely.

"Still occurring around the world although they've slowed down after the initial spate." Doctor Surlethe consulted the file. "It's the same pattern as all the others, we get an initial surge of attacks and then they peter off to a nominal level. We've actually had the quietest storm season in the Atlantic for a long, long time. The dust storms are a real problem though, they've hit some of the most productive farmland we have. For the first time on a worldwide basis, we face a real possibility of running low on food."

"Can we use sea-based resources to make up the difference? How about seaweed; we can help with providing advice there." The Japanese Prime Minister looked around at the other fourteen members of the council who weren't too enthused by the idea of a seaweed diet.

"Can we import food from Hell to make up the difference? I understand that farming is already becoming established there." Gordon Brown seemed much more at home with the idea of munching wheat grown in Hell than seaweed from Earth.

"That would seem a worthwhile subject for investigation. Doctor Surlethe, perhaps you could form a team to investigate alternative food sources. I must point out though that the ultimate answer to all of these food problems is to invade and conquer Heaven. Thus putting an end to this war." Putin paused for a second. "Has the dissection of Uriel's body given us any more data we can use?"

Surlethe paused for a second to change flash drives on his computer. As he did so, he glanced quickly upwards, thinking of the incredible weight of rock that was between him and fresh air. He shuddered slightly and opened up the appropriate files.

"We have dissected Uriel and provided tissue samples to all interested laboratories. He was one big mother so there was enough to go around." He paused to allow a chuckle at his phrasing to pass around the room. One of the primary reasons why Council of Fifteen meetings worked so much more smoothly than the old United Nations had done was that they were secret and the participants could allow themselves to be more human. "Anyway, we're all agreed, examination of the DNA does confirm that humans, daemons and angels all had a common ancestor a long, long time back. As far as we can determine, the angelic/daemon line split away from ours in the far distant pass while the daemons and angels split more recently. The extreme variation in physical form exhibited by daemons is comparatively recent and is not exhibited by angels. In fact, if the dating shown by our studies and the stories told to us by daemon informants are correct, the physical variation of daemons post-dates the move of the daemon population from Heaven to Hell.

"Although they differ in size, with Uriel being by far the largest angel we have killed to date, angels are all fundamentally the same. A white, feathered, six-limbed humanoid. One important thing, we examined Uriel's genitalia and those of other angels we have killed. If our analysis is correct, by our standards, angels are sterile. Daemons, of course, are not. Now, I must be clear about this, 'by our standards, sterile' does not mean impotent. It does appear angelic males at least have very low fertility. We haven't killed any females yet so we don’t know about them."

"What about the Whore of Babylon?" The Singaporean Prime Minister was mentally assessing the implications of what Surlethe had just said.

"She survived, as far as we know, at least her body wasn't found. Nor was that of the Scarlet Beast."

"That brings us to an important point." Putin interrupted the presentation. "Have we killed the treacherous swine in the Tekuma yet?"

"We have every ship in the Mediterranean hunting for them. It's only a question of time. She'll have to snort soon and when she does, we'll have her. Present orders are 'all weapons are free'. We can't take a chance of her having any more missiles on board." President Obama was glad to be able to get a word in at last.

"Does he?" Putin's question was short, sharp and vicious.

"We don't know." The Israeli delegate's answer was shame-faced. "We have lost our naval headquarters, and with that our records of what was where. If we can believe them that is. The official load-out for a Dolphin is five missiles, but she could, theoretically have up to twenty."

"Why stop at twenty?" Putin's question had a derisive edge to it.

"Because that's all we had. Fifteen left now of course. We think the other two boats have five each but that would still mean Tekuma might have five more. Dolphin and Leviathan are due back in port soon. We can check their missiles then."

"A question." Gordon Brown spoke up again. "Do we want the crew alive? We need to question them, find out what happened."

"We can do that anyway." Prime Minisyer Abhisit Vejjajjiva sounded amused. The implications of the human occupation of Hell still hadn't quite sunk in to most people. "They don’t have to be alive to answer questions and we can ask them in Hell just as well as we can here. Better in fact, one of my cousins has a detachment of military police waiting for them at the Phelan Plain reception center. By the way, I have some cheerful news. The body of Philip Phelan, the security guard at the New Market Mall has been found in the Fourth Circle of Hell and he is currently in the reception center names after him, recovering from his ordeal."

A burst of applause ran around the room. Putin smiled happily, a slightly unnerving sight. "We must find suitable honors for him. Now, next subject on the agenda. How are we going to invade Heaven."

 

[LTR]

Control Room, INS Tekuma, Mediterranean

"Battery charge state?" Ben-Shoshan was a very worried man. He'd been snorting for over an hour and that was a very indiscrete thing to do. Even though he couldn't understand why, he was in no doubt that Tekuma was the subject of a concentrated hunt. Perhaps they just wanted to find him after he had killed the Scarlet Beast? That was plausible, he had carried out the necessary evasive actions after his missile launch. But, he was an experienced submariner and he could sense when the hunt was hostile and this one was. For some reason, everybody wanted him dead. Why, that was another matter entirely. Unless, of course, things were not as they had seemed.

"Sixty percent and rising Sir." The Engineering Officer sounded a little less stressed out than he had an hour earlier. That didn’t change the fact that even a sixty percent charge was normally regarded as being a matter of serious concern.

"Very good. Continue the charge. Communications, any messages from Tel Aviv? Or anybody else for that matter."

"No Sir, communications circuits are silent. Nothing by way of our mast and the bell-ringer system is quiet also."

Ben-Shoshan tapped his fingers, that was very odd indeed. The bell-ringer circuit, a very low frequency communications array, could get a message through to him almost anywhere. The penalty for that capability was a very low data transmission rate so bell-ringer messages were usually single letters that either triggered pre-set plans or ordered the submarine to periscope depth to receive a more detailed transmission. But, to snort, he had to run at periscope depth anyway so he had ordered the communications mast raised. There had to be other transmissions out there, just had to be.

"What about other people's transmissions? Any intercepts of note?"

Yitzchak shook his head. "Routine stuff, nothing more. Most front-line units are in Hell, I suppose that leaves the air pretty quiet here."

Not the ASW units. Ben-Shoshan thought. They had relatively little role in Hell and nobody flew there if there wasn't a good reason for them to do so. The place was murder on airframes and engines. Routine missions and training were carried out here on Earth where the air was clean and the skies blue. "Keep a full communications watch out. I want to know the moment we hear anything directed to us. Or related to us."

"Very good, Captain." Yitzchak paused then continued. "Running at periscope depth like this, we can't hear much. The receiver head is too close to the water. If we surfaced, we might be able to pick up more."

"That would allow us to charge batteries faster as well." Engineering liked that idea.

The idea of surfacing in unfamiliar surroundings without guaranteed security was anathema to Ben-Shoshan. Nevertheless, he had to know what was going on. And, once his batteries were fully-charged he had a lot more options open to him. "Very well, bring her to the surface. Engineering, I want those batteries charges as fast as the generators can do it. Communications, I need information as soon as possible. Get it."

Oh, I will, thought Yitzchak. Once I can get outside and get my tinfoil hat off, you'll get your orders Captain Ben-Shoshan

B-25J "Heavenly Body", Mediterranean

There were a startling number of B-25s operational, two whole groups of them in fact. Most were B-25Js, some with a solid nose packed with machine guns, others with glazed noses. Once they had all been civilian-owned and had been stripped of their guns. Now, they were back in the Air Force and their guns were once more in place. Heavenly Body actually had working turrets above her fuselage and in her tail. She'd been lovingly cared-for and painstakingly restored. Although most people didn’t know it, quite a few of them had seen her in one of the many films she had appeared in.

The museum salvage aircraft were vanishing from the order of battle now that new production was slowly coming on line to replace them. Not the B-25s though, they were docile, easy to fly and easy to maintain. That was why they had survived in the Air Force long after most other aircraft of their generation had been retired. They couldn’t operate in Hell very easily, the atmosphere in Hell was bad on jets, it was really rough on piston-engined aircraft. But, as multi-crewed trainers here on earth, they filled in for other aircraft that had more urgent operational requirements.

Captain Samuel Tyson was the only experienced crewman on board. Everybody else, engineers, radiomen, gunners and navigators, were trainees. His radioman, well, actually radiowoman, was on her first flight after finishing the 90-day accelerated training course. The rest of his crew were hardly more experienced, yet to Tyson this was a positive thing. There was an immense sense of satisfaction in taking a group of raw trainees and turing them into competent crew members. Also, one good thing about this, as a training bird, Heavenly Body had a full set of modern communications equipment. Only one old radio was left, that had been part of her original equipment fit from her service in the Second World War. It had been left on board purely for nostalgic reasons and, in Tyson's eyes, it was supremely ironic that the radio message he had just been handed had come over that ancient valve radio.

"Listen up, boys and girls. We've just had a message from Naples. That renegade sub the ASW boys have been hunting? Well, she's turned up, long way to the west of where everybody thought. The surveillance people got her snorting and their latest information is that she's running on the surface. Her position is some sixty miles from us and we are by far the closest asset available. P-3s and surface ships are closing in but the P-3s are at least an hour out while the surface ships won't be on scene for four or five. We can be there in ten minutes and our orders are to do it and be as obnoxious as possible. Fred, you got the data, plot the course."

Tyson thought for a second. Fred Williams had an old-fashioned navigator's position in the glazed nose. One of the things about Hell was that the absence of GPS had brought back a return to old-fashioned navigation techniques. And so, a new generation of navigators was being trained to use such unheard-of technical developments like maps and compasses. "And Fred, get the .30 in the nose ready. Trudy, swing your top turret forward, lock it so we can have it and the four fuselage .50s ready to fire in a concentrated pattern. Jim, Stan and Eggy, get your waist and tail .50s ready to spray her as we go past. If she stays on the surface, we'll make multiple passes until she changes her mind. Damn, I wish we had some bombs on board. Fred, where's that course?"

"Two-seven-seven Boss. Estimated time of arrival eight minutes if we really push it."

"Consider it pushed." Tyson firewalled the throttles and put the nose down. The old B-25 surged forward in response. Above and behind him, he heard the mid-upper turret swing forward. Trudy laFonteyn was training to be a gunner on an AC-130 only there weren't enough of them to use as trainers. Not yet anyway. But, Tyson guessed she'd be doing the best she could with the twin .50s she did have. Heavenly Body shook slightly as her airspeed crept up to 275 knots, the fastest she had been flown for many, many years. It occurred to Tyson that the old lady was about to fire her guns in anger for the first time in her long life.

Sail, INS Tekuma, Mediterranean

Lieutenant Midyan Yitzchak looked carefully around the observation deck built into the sail. Both the enlisted men on the sail had their eyes glued to the powerful binoculars mounted on either side of the platform. They were scanning for any sign of ships or aircraft, their attention fixed on the horizon, not on the officer who shared the deck with them. Yitzchak took a deep breath and unobtrusively slipped his tinfoil cap off. His mind open and exposed, he closed his eyes and waited for a message from his Heavenly Master.

"Aircraft, aircraft!" One of the lookouts yelled the warning.

The words snapped Yitzchak out of his trance. Frantically, he crammed his tinfoil hat back on his head and slammed his hand on the communication speaker. "Aircraft approaching."

"Where? What type? How far? Get a hold on yourself Lieutenant."

"Twin-engined propeller job. Green. Five miles out, bearing oh-nine-three."

Yitzchak took a deep breath and relayed the information. Then, he took the binoculars and looked more closely at the aircraft. "It's American, Captain, I think its an old warbird, a B-25. It's coming straight at us."

Yitzchak heard Ben-Shoshan give a sight of relief. "Good, now we'll find out what's going on. Give him a wave as we pass overhead. Then get below and see if you can raise him on the radio."

B-25J "Heavenly Body", Mediterranean

"Here we go. She's still on the surface. Why she hasn't dived is beyond me."

"Subs don't crash dive any more. Usually they get down and stay down. Her crew might not know how to get down fast. Or they may believe they have a better chance on the surface." Lieutenant James Purdue was the co-pilot and was also training on the B-25 because all the more suitable aircraft had more important things to do. As the only Navy man on the Air Force B-25, he felt obliged to pose as the expert on all things naval. Which he wasn't, but at least he tried.

"Gunners, ready, firing. . . . Now." Tyson squeezed the firing button for the four .50s mounted on the fuselage sides and head the guns starting to hammer. The top-turret guns and the .30 in the nose followed a split second later, adding their share to the hail of bullets that stirred up a white fountain just aft of the submarine's stern. He lifted the nose slightly and walked the long burst along the submarine's hull, dropping the nose again as the tracers tore into the bridge structure. He was able to hold the fire there for only a second or so before he had to climb out. As Heavenly Body climbed away, Tyson started to pull her around, hearing the waist and tail guns adding their contribution to the mayhem that had just been unleashed below.

"Payback for the Liberty." Perdue's voice had a grim satisfaction in it.

"Don't worry about that crap now." Tyson snapped the words out. He was flying an aircraft more than sixty years old and he had no real idea when the wings were going to come off. He still wanted to get the nose around quickly enough for another pass at the submarine below. It was just a matter of whether the old aircraft could take the strain.

Sail, INS Tekuma, Mediterranean

Yitzchak was the only man on Tekuma not surprised by the strafing pass. He had watched the B-25 make its run towards the submarine and realized what the pilot was going to do. So, he had made certain he was well-placed by the access hatch when the nose of the aircraft lit up with flame and the tracers streaked through the air towards him. He had already been through that hatch when the storm of bullets engulfed the bridge and sent fragments of the composite sail structure flying through the air. The two enlisted men had never had a chance. They'd already started waving to the American aircraft when it opened fire and were still doing so when the machine gun fire scythed them down. By then, Yitzchak had slammed the hatch shut and hit the emergency dive siren.

"What's happening up there?" Ben-Shoshan was stunned by the sudden ferocity of the attack.

"American aircraft, it strafed us. The watchkeepers are both dead." And if they aren't, they will be when the submarine submerges.

"Why?" Ben-Shoshan stopped himself, that was a stupid question. "How do you know they are dead? Did you check?"

"They were hit by heavy machine gun bullets, they couldn’t be alive." Yitzchak felt the submarine diving and the rattle as another barrage of machine gun fire hit her.

Ben-Shoshan stared suspiciously at his communications officer, then dismissed the matter for further consideration at a later time. "Where's the thermocline?"

"There isn’t one Captain." The navigation officer looked up from the chart. "We're too shallow here. I recommend we run north towards deep water. There'll be a layer there."

"Make it so." Tyson breathed deeply. "Just why are the Americans attacking us?"

B-25J "Heavenly Body", Mediterranean

The submarine had gone down, surrounded by the splashes from machine guns and the fountains as she drove herself under with her engines. Aboard Heavenly Body, the noise of the crew cheering was drowning out the engines and Tyson even got the feel that the old B-25 was ridiculously pleased with herself. "Calm down everybody. Job's not over yet. Trish, get through to Naples and tell them, we've spotted the submarine at this position and driven her down with strafing. We did some damage to her, her sail was looking pretty chewed up. Got that?"

"Yes Boss. Getting through now."

"What do we do now?" Perdue was disappointed that the attack was over.

"Not much we can do. We've no bombs on board, no depth charges and nothing that can track a submerged submarine. We'll just have to stay here until the P-3s arrive."

"Boss, navigator here. I can see that sub."

"What?" Tyson was surprised by the report.

"Water's clear. I can see the sub under it. She's heading north. OK, lost her now. It's a matter of sun and reflections on the water; I can see her when the angle is right, not otherwise."

"Better than nothing. Keep your eyes peeled." Tyson settled back in his seat and quietly rued the decision to take off with an auxiliary fuel tank in the bomb bay. Still, how could he have known that a routine navigation and communications training exercise would suddenly turn hot?

Lemuel's Home, Eternal City, Heaven

Lemuel-lan entered the vestibule of his house, noting the absence of Onniel but scarcely regretting it. Idly, he toyed with the idea of ejecting her and bringing Maion here in her place. That would cause a sensation, a scandal that would harm him quite severely. As a member of the League of Holy Court, he was supposed to set an example to others. Well, that idea was out of play in reality even if he had to keep up the appearances. Treacherously, an idea played through his mind, what if he accused Onniel of being part of Salaphael's conspiracy? Or even worse, the ones who were planting bombs in the city? Then, his mind rebelled at the concepts. Such things were more suited to the followers of the late Eternal Enemy than to the Angelic Host.

"I suppose you will be going straight out again." Onniel's voice rang across the hallway, petulant and peevish. Lemuel compared it with Maion's gentle voice and her exquisite devotion to ensuring that his time with her was perfect in every detail. Truly, Maion deserved the status and luxury of this home much more than Onniel did.

"I thought not. With the arrests completed, the great surge of work is now over. The Immaculate Father Of All is supreme over the conspiracies that troubled him so my duty, for now, is done."

"Well don’t let me stop you from amusing yourself." Onniel stalked out and slammed the door behind her.

Lemuel sighed and decided he had time to relax before the evening meal was served. He went to the pool that formed the centerpiece of his home and carefully immersed himself in it, swirling his wings through the limpid water so that his wing-feathers were washed clean. Now, if he was in Maion's apartment, she would be in here with him, carefully combing his wings so that the feathers lay neatly and cleanly on each wing. As he relaxed in the gently-rippling water, once again Lemuel considered the possibility of bringing her back here. And, if Onniel didn’t like it, she could take care not to let the doors hit her rump on the way out.

The servants who were waiting in the dining area were nervous and, on seeing the table, Lemuel could see why. The fruit was curling and stale, the sauce was crusted at the edge. The wine was warm to the touch instead of properly chilled. Lemuel took a deep breath and looked down at his domestic staff. They were quaking with fear now, knowing that the explosion for this apology for a meal was due.

"There is an explanation for this?" Lemuel's voice was quiet and tolerant. He suspected what the explanation was and he couldn’t blame the servants.

The Ishim shuffled their feet, trying to come up with a story that wouldn’t cause problems. The humans said nothing, this was Angelic business and their job was just to serve. Lemuel waited for a few seconds, then looked again at the plates.

"The meal was served earlier and this is what is left?" Again, his voice was quiet and reasonable.

"Most Lordly Master, Her Ladyship demanded it so. And insisted that the remains be left on the table for you if you came home." The Ishim cringed, awaiting the blast of anger that was rightfully due.

Lemuel shook his head. This was an insult that would have driven many members of the Angelic Host into outrage. Onniel was taking advantage of his better nature in order to get away with abuse that would normally merit her receiving severe chastisement. "Clear these remains away. You were given your orders and obeyed them, as is your lot. The fault here lies elsewhere. But these are my orders as head of this household and they shall not be changed or disobeyed. No meals are to be served here except in my presence. The staff may eat of course when they wish but the formal meals of the household will be in my presence only. As I have spoken, so shall it be."

"Your words are our command Most Lordly Ophanim." The Ishim genuflected and withdraw while the humans closed in to cleat the plates away.

Lemuel-Lan nodded and left the room, heading for the main doors. As he went to leave the house, he saw Onniel watching him with a spiteful smile on her face. He gave no indication of her presence having registered on his awareness but he had already decided that his home lay elsewhere.

 

[LTR]

Super-Route One, The Highway To Hell, Al Tarmia, Iraq

There had been a time when Super-Route One had been the primary logistics supply line for the forces deployed in Hell. Then, the highway had been backed up from Hellgate Alpha all the way to Al Tarmia, trucks moving nose-to-tail in convoy, mixed in with tank transporters and all the other vehicles that modern armies found indispensable. Those days had passed, now there were more than fifty permanent portals linking Earth and Hell with additional temporary portals being formed as necessary. That had taken the strain off Super-Route One and the traffic on the highway had accelerated accordingly. At long last, the great Oshkosh HEMTTs, the Russian Maz and their Chinese and European equivalents actually had a safer distance between them

"What's the cargo Sergeant?" Amy Seinfeld was a little nervous about asking the question. Not because of any security implications but from the fact that her Sergeant was Gerry Links, one of the heroes of the Tenth Mountain Division that had fought the daemons hand-to-hand at Hit. He'd been a private then, was a Sergeant now and was viewed with quiet awe by the rest of his unit.

"Relief supplies for Haiti." His eyes remained fixed on the road ahead. The traffic might have eased over the last year but it was still denser than any other road he'd driven on. "We're taking them through Hell to a hellgate at Port-au-Prince Airport. Them poor folks need the stuff we got here bad."

"Saw it on the television last night. Everything in ruins, the daemons working to pull people out of the wrecks. They say Abigor himself went there to help with the rescue efforts." Seinfeld stopped as Links grunted. "Must be odd for you Sarge, seeing them daemons helping us."

"They got guts, I'll always give them that." Links paused for a second, his memories of the Battle of Hit flooding back. "Even when we were hammering them with everything we had, they kept coming at us. They just didn’t stop. We had thirty-plus troops in the unit when the battle started, seven of us came out. They pushed us back. All the way through the town. Building by building, room by room. In the end, we were there, with our backs to the river, the bridge blown and nowhere left to go. If it hadn't been for the hajjis with their truck bombs, we wouldn't have held. They'd have torn us up on the river bank. But the hajjis blew themselves up right in the middle of the Baldrick groups and that bought us just enough time. We didn’t win at Hit, Seinfeld, they did."

There was silence in the truck cab, Seinfeld having the understanding to keep quiet and leave her Sergeant with his memories. Eventually he started speaking again, more to himself than to her. "So yeah, its strange to see them here on Earth helping us. But, they never pretended to be anything other than our enemies and when we beat them, they accepted that. And the average Baldricks, the little guys like us, they were as much victims of Satan as we were. Just like the Germans and the Japanese I guess. Now, they're doing what they can to make it right. But them Angels, they pretended to be so good and noble and our saviors and all that. All the time they were sending us to Hell. Now, they've run off and hidden and just launch their beasts and weather storms at us. We've got a real score to settle with them."

"Yahweh." There was a wealth of distaste in Seinfeld's voice. "You reckon he was behind the Haiti Earthquake?"

"Who knows? It's the Angels style all right but there were some egg-heads on Discovery Channel a few nights ago said it was natural, just a fault moving or something. Might as well blame Yahweh for it though. If he didn't do it, he's done a whole load of other things just as bad he didn’t get blamed for so it'll all even out. Bridge up ahead Seinfeld, get on the radio and warn the rest of the column.

The great towers of the Al Tarmia Suspension Bridge were a mile or two ahead. This was another bottleneck in the Highway. Not from volume, the bridge had six lanes each way, just like the highway. It was weight that was the problem. The builders hadn't taken into account the fact that all of the vehicles on this bridge would be heavily-laden military trucks mixed in with a large number of armored vehicle transports. So, the number of vehicles allowed on the bridge was restricted and the spacing between them carefully enforced. Sure enough, the traffic was slowing down as the bridge drew nearer. By the time Links had got up to the on-ramp, it was down to a barely-moving crawl so he was hardly surprised when it stopped completely.

Whatever was crossing the bridge to cause the delay was outsize and overweight. Links could feel the vibration building up under his vehicle and saw the towers staring to sway. There was something wrong about what was happening, but he couldn't quite work it out.

Seinfeld was in no doubt though, she was from California and the movement of the ground was unmistakable. "Earthquake, a big one!" Her cry was desperate as she looked for a way to get to solid ground.

That's what was wrong. The Al Tarmia Bridge wasn't really one bridge, it was two parallel bridges, one for each direction. Yet, they were swinging in perfect synchronization. That simply could not have been caused by the traffic, it had to be an earthquake. "Stay put Seinfeld, we're better off in the trucks."

Ahead of the stalled traffic, the suspended roadways were writhing and arching as the tremors thrust them around. This was only the start for as Links watched, a roaring noise drowned out the sound of his truck's diesel engine. The whole surface of the Euphrates River was arching upwards and formed a wave that struck the moving bridge to send a cloud of spray upwards. It flooded over the roadway, sweeping the trucks that had been unable to get off into the river. Then, the wave was past and was heading down south towards Baghdad. Incredibly the bridge was still standing, its motion slowly damping out as the water poured off it. Beneath it, the bed of the Euphrates was dry.

"Radio from the traffic office Sarge. The bridge is closed while it's checked for structural damage."

"Any word what caused that?" Links was still shaken by the suddenness and violence of the flood.

Seinfeld spoke into the truck radio again. "A mass of boulders got dumped into the river quite a way north of here. Masses of rocks, hit the ground fast and hard, enough to cause a quake. Came from a portal high up. The Euphrates is dammed up as well, the rock pile goes on for miles. No water is getting through at all."

Links looked south. "Baghdad isn't going to be too healthy when that wave hits it. Damn Yahweh."

Human Expeditionary Army Command Headquarters, Hell

"Well, that was the Sixth Bowl." General of the Armies David Petraeus looked at the members of his staff meeting.

"Tells us what the Seventh will be as well." General Michael Jackson wasn't happy at the news. One of the supply lines the HEA depended on had just been cut. As Petraeus's Chief of Staff, he was responsible for making sure his General didn't have to worry about supplies getting through to the front-line units. "Rocks from a portal high up dumped on a city. Question is, which one?"

"According to my mythology-wonks, the target will be 'Babylon'. The problem is, 'Babylon' is taken to mean the seat of sin and depravity. I suppose by biblical standards that could mean any large modern city." Richard O'Shea thought for a second. "How about Bangkok, Khunying General Asanee?"

Major General Asanee eyed O'Shea, primarily to try and guess whether he was serious or just trying to goad her. She'd always had a problem telling when Europeans were joking and when they were being serious. Eventually she'd adopted a policy of assuming they were the latter unless people started laughing before she said anything. Applying it now could be a good idea. "It is quite possible. Bangkok is certainly Sin City by the standards of your bible. Only, we are not the head of any great empire and we are of regional importance only. Also, my city is built on sediment and it may absorb the blows. Tokyo, however, that is different. The Seventh Bowl falling there will be devastating. It might cause another great earthquake. That is part of the legend also is it not." She looked at O'Shea again and raised an eyebrow.

"It is. Revelation 16:17-21 says Then the seventh angel poured out his bowl upon the air, and a loud voice came out of the temple from the throne, saying, "It is done." And there were flashes of lightning and sounds and peals of thunder; and there was a great earthquake, such as there had not been since man came to be upon the earth, so great an earthquake was it, and so mighty. The great city was split into three parts, and the cities of the nations fell. Babylon the great was remembered before God, to give her the cup of the wine of His fierce wrath. And every island fled away, and the mountains were not found. And huge hailstones, about one hundred pounds each, came down from heaven upon men; and men blasphemed God because of the plague of the hail, because its plague was extremely severe."

"Could be Tokyo. One of the original Heralds was killed there so that would fit."

"It's not a center of sin and depravity though. Although given their treatment of real estate values, they could be called that." Petraeus looked around the group.

"I wouldn’t say that. Have you looked at the Japanese internet porn sites?"

"I have not. Why have you?" Asanee looked dourly at the aide who had spoken and was secretly delighted to see him flush red.

"Tokyo sounds possible, I suppose New York and San Francisco are as well. And New Orleans. Michael, please get the staff to put a list of possible targets together and make up plans for relief efforts. If Yahweh does dump rocks on cities, it could be every bit as bad as Belial's lava attacks. More so, the lava poured over a single point and spread from there. A rock attack could cover a wide area. O'Shea, give General Jackson all the help you can.

"Organizationally, I've got good news. First, Second and Third Army Groups are all up to strength at last. Michael, the Commonwealth has done superbly to raise a whole Army. A magnificent effort. Now, I'm making a slight modification to the organization, now the field units are complete, I'll be adding an extra corps to each Army group, attached directly to the Army Group Command HQ. Khunying Asanee, I'm detaching the Thai Corps from Fourth Army Group and making it the Headquarters Reserve Corps for First Army Group. Your people are the only ones with real experience in portal warfare and I want them as close to the front line as possible. Fourth Army Group has been reinforced by the addition of North Korean troops and that brings it up to nominal strength. I propose to use them as the Army reserve. Fifth Army Group is still a mess though, if they don’t get their act together I'll treat them as cadre replacements. I'm detaching the German Corps from them as HQ Reserve Corps for Second Army Group."

"The Russians are going to love having a German unit as their Group reserve." Michael Jackson was amused at the concept. Almost seventy years after the end of the Great Patriotic War, the Russians still distrusted the Germans.

"They'll get used to it. Anyway, as soon as Heaven opens up, the H.E.A. is ready to go."

"You think that is close Khun David?"

"I do, we're close to the end of the Bowls of Wrath and that's the softening up process. I expect us to be hit by an Angelic Host shortly afterwards. Wherever they land, we'll portal in around them. My preferred plan is to open up three portals and put an Army Group through each. There are many variations to that of course but the basis of them all is that we go for the big kill again. And one thing has been made clear. I've had word from our political masters at Yamantau. Once any Angelic invasion of Earth has been defeated, we go straight to an invasion of Heaven. For that assault, nuclear weapons are free. Once we're in Heaven, I can order them used at my discretion."

There was a subtle intake of breath around the table. "Other weapons of mass destruction?" Jackson sounded awed by the clearance.

"Them too. Chemical, biological, you name it. All weapons are free, we can use them as we deem fit. Our primary responsibility is to reduce human casualties to a minimum."

"And stop Caesar recruiting all our deceased veterans?" Asanee spoke the words but the thought was in everybody's mind. The New Roman Republic was showing remarkable zeal in recruiting Second-Life humans with modern military experience.

"I think so. By the way, Caesar has offered us a Legion and we've taken him up on it. It's basically a light mechanized brigade, a mixture of Second-Life humans and daemons. I thought you might like it as Commonwealth Army reserve Michael."

"Thank you David. That'll will be. . . . interesting." Jackson paused for a second. "What about the Papal Divisions?"

"They're with us, again they're really light mechanized brigades and I plan to use them as Army HQ reserve units." Petraeus sighed. "You know, I am never going to get used to having an Archbishop as a brigade commander."

Throne Room, The Ultimate Temple, Eternal City, Heaven

The Divine Audience looked nervously at Michael-Lan as he entered the great Audience Chamber. The more astute tried to read his expression, to see if the news he carried would throw Yahweh into a tantrum or leave him mellow. Those who had decided that discretion was the better part of valor were already buying their tickets for the Mason's bunker. The foolhardy had taken heart from the recent good news and were watching from good, though exposed, positions on the floor. Michael-Lan reflected on what he would do if he was waiting here and didn't know what news was being brought. I would buy a bunker ticket, he thought if we fight the humans face-to face, there is no way it will end well for us.

He strode into the hall, making his way through the clouds of incense smoke that roiled around him, his footsteps interrupting the rhythmic chanting of the Great Choir. Then, he was approaching the Immaculate Throne and he prostrated himself before The One Above All, kissing the jade floor with his scarred lips. "Oh Eternal Father Of Us All, Whose Unspeakable Acts Are Always At The Forefront Of Our Minds, I bring news of the war against the humans." Michael sneaked a look at Yahweh and then at the rest of the audience. One of the Chayot Ha Kodesh, Azrael, was frowning slightly at the address, probably because he had worked out it wasn't quire as respectful as it had sounded. That didn’t worry Michael, he had spent days studying the reports from Lemuel and the interrogations of the Angels arrested in the purge and had come to the amusing conclusion that Azrael, along with every single member of Yahweh's upper-echelon command staff, was also conspiring against The Unspeakable One. To Michael-Lan this was an eminently satisfactory state of affairs. Isolating Yahweh and leaving him without any form of support had always been his primary objective. It was becoming apparent that at least half his work had been done for him.

"Speak, mightiest and most beloved of My generals." The Peerless Voice boomed out across the attendance hall.

"Oh Mightiest Star In The Heavens, I have good news to report. The fifth and sixth Bowls of Wrath have been poured. The darkness at noon envelopes the humans, causing them to choke on their blasphemy and chew their tongues with pain. Their crops are destroyed and starvation stalks their land. The mighty river Euphrates has ceased to flow and its bed bakes dry in the noonday sun. Soon, the Seventh and last bowl will be poured and the misery and anguish of the humans will be complete." Well, actually they will be screaming mad with anger and demanding your head on a plate, probably with an apple stuffed in its mouth. Then, they'll be coming to get it.

"This news brings joy to My Heart, Michael-Lan. Soon this war will be over."

Well, you got something right at last. Michael-Lan kept his face under strict control. The time to reveal his real feelings had not yet come. Not quite yet.

"The humans will be crushed and they will choke on their rebellion and blasphemy.

And so we revert to normal. Michael-Lan only just managed to stop himself snorting. Raving bombastic idiocy. Yah-yah, old boy, hasn't it occurred to you yet that the humans occupy Hell and left you with nothing to threaten them with. I suppose not, that would require a certain level of insight. Real threats are only going one way and Your Idiotic Self is on receive, not transmit. The question you should be asking is what the humans are planning for you. Whatever it is, it won’t be nice. "Indeed so, Oh Eternal Master Of Infinite Wisdom, soon the blasphemous wretches will cower before Your Divine Self as You administer Your Immaculate Justice. Now, we must exploit the misery and humiliation they suffer. It is time for the Angelic Host to assemble and raise its levies of the humans in Your Everlasting Service. May I beg Your Divine Indulgence on one point. Surely it is only fitting that Your Only Son as Your Unbelievable Representative should lead them in the triumphant march that ends this war." Sorry, Jesus, you're a nice guy and all that but one never, ever kills the father and leaves the son alive. I can't kill you but the humans can.

"A most fitting request. Make it so. And what is the news of the foul conspiracies?"

"Those that we have discovered and brought before you have been crushed." Michael glanced sideways at Azrael. Yes, that does mean I am on to you and that I hold your existence in my hands. "Those who were led astray by the deadly sin of pride have been arrested. Their leaders have been interrogated and their followers detailed in a camp far removed from the city."

The clouds around the throne roiled and there was a distant role of thunder. The lightning display was pure white and merely rippled through the clouds. What a pity, Michael thought, it's been weeks since I managed to provoke a real multi-colored display. Still, at least the mason has managed to catch up on repairs to the walls. Never mind, we'll have an exciting enough display when I tell Yah-Yah the truth about what is going on.

"Detained in a camp?" Yahweh's voice thundered across the room. "For defying My Eternal Will? They should be punished for this, they should suffer the agonies of Hell for all eternity for their impertinence. I decree eternal damnation for them with all the suffering that their vile treachery deserves."

Thank you Yah-yah, that's the key piece I needed. You are now on record as having ordered what happens to the inmates of Belial's concentration camp. And when the humans find it, all the Angels in Heaven will be seen as your victims.

To the disappointment of those in the bunker and the delight of those who had stayed outside, the audience was over. Michael-Lan rose to his feet and backed out of the audience hall, genuflecting as he left. That hid any look of satisfaction on his face. His complex scheme was coming to its climax. Now, everything depended on Lemuel and Maion.

 

[LTR]

The Forum, Cæsaraugusta, Cisalpine Gaul, New Rome, Hell

"Salve, Senator Junius Varinius Pulpo. I would speak to the subject of sending a Legion to fight alongside the Human Expeditionary Army in the invasion of Heaven." George Matthews had prepared himself carefully for this, his first formal contribution to a debate in the forum. His toga was new and spotless, its carefully-pressed folds draped around him perfectly. For some strange reason he felt it added a sense of occasion, a solemn formality he had never felt before. This wasn't an election day but their Senator had come on his scheduled visit to hear the opinions of his constituents directly. Matthews drew himself up slightly and held eye contact with the Senator.

"Your words will be heard and valued, Citizen George Andrew Matthews." Pulpo spoke the formal response in equally measured, solemn tones. The constituencies were small enough so each Senator could make a reasonable start towards knowing the names of the people he would be meeting today. It was expected of him and when Gaius Julius Caesar expected something of people, it tended to get done.

"Senator, I stand in favor of the proposed deployment. To be a nation-state, a country that stands on its own feet with its head lifted high, means that we must take a full part in the affairs of nations. Take part as an equal partner qualified only by our available power and the skills of those lead us. Our legions are forming and are already feared by those they may fight. Our leadership is skilled and experienced. I believe it is our duty to establish the standing of New Rome as a nation state by assuming our rightful place in the order of nations.

"Of all the affairs of nations, none is more important than the war on Heaven. We have already seen on Earth that those nations who first took up arms against Satan and Yahweh have assumed the leadership of the coalition fighting this war. By taking part in the war, we establish our place and affirm our national identity. More than that, more than the pragmatic demands of politics, there is a moral dimension to this. Yahweh lied to us. He promised that those who followed his ways and lived by the rules he provided would be saved the torments of Hell. Yet, all the time, he was condemning us all to those torments. He should be punished for that deception and it is our duty, as honorable beings, to carry our full share of the burden involved in carrying out that punishment. Senator, Yahweh Delenda Est!"

"All the gods lie to us, they all did it all the time." Senator Pulpo had noted the thunder of applause that had marked the end of Matthew's speech. He was interested to see how this present-timer would handle himself in a formal Roman debate.

"Yahweh is not a god Senator, if such things as gods exist. He is a creature. A powerful creature certainly, one whose capabilities and strength made him seem godlike to our ancestors. But, now we know he is just another inhabitant of this dimension, no different from the daemons who are now our fellow-citizens and form part of our legions. More powerful than most certainly but still just another creature. The other self-proclaimed gods are no different. Those who dealt fairly with us should be treated fairly, those who lied to us and deceived us should be hunted down and a just, dispassionate revenge inflicted. Yahweh is the start, where we should go from there is something fate will decide. There may be real gods, in dimensions still higher than this. If so, then we should treat with them as they treat with us. Honor for honor, insult for insult."

"Spoken like a true Roman." Senator Pulpo spoke approvingly.

Matthews knew the background to his Senator. He had been an early retrieval from the Hellpit, an occupant of the Second Circle. He had spent millennia being buffeted by the great winds that dominated the Second Circle before being trapped by the nets that humans had stretched out to catch the souls condemned therein. From there, he had found his way to the New Roman Republic. He had heard that the legendary Gaius Julius Caesar had formed his new state and wished to be a part of it. He had survived the reign of the Emperor Lucius Aurelius Commodus Antoninus only to die in the chaos that had resulted from the assassination of Commodus and the election of the Emperor Publius Helvius Pertinax. To him, New Rome seemed to offer a new chance, one to make a Rome that lacked the faults of the original, one that would be the shining light that Rome always could have been.

The words of approval met with applause also. Pulpo looked at the crowd gathered to hear the debates and gauged their mood. The deployment of a Legion was popular. "Our noble Consuls Gaius Julius Caesar and Jade Kim have proposed that the Third Legion, commanded by Tribune Theophile Broussard Madeuce, join the Human Expeditionary Army. Your words convince me, Citizen George Andrew Matthews, that in this as in so much else, our Consuls display their wisdom. I shall support their proposal."

George Matthews gave a Roman Salute to Senator Pulpo and took his seat. Behind him on the podium, a daemon had taken his place. Matthews glanced at him quickly, he was disabled and badly scarred and was obviously a survivor from one of the battles in the Curbstomp War. "Salve, Senator Junius Varinius Pulpo. I would speak on the subject of using the revenue generated by supplying food from our farms to the humans on Earth."

"Your words will be heard and valued, Citizen Visharakoramal."

Matthews heard the formal introduction and response as he settled down beside his wife. "You spoke very well George." Rose Matthews whispered the words to her husband quietly, proud of his performance and the approval his words had received. Matthews gently reached out and squeezed her arm. Then they settled back to listen to the rest of the debate.

B-25J "Heavenly Body", Mediterranean

"P-3Cs out of Aviano." Perdue explained quickly. The message had come in a few seconds earlier and meant that Heavenly Body was no longer wholly responsible for a task she was desperately ill-equipped to carry out. It was close to being a miracle that they had managed to track the Israeli submarine this long. Then Pursue stopped himself. There are no such things as miracles. We tracked the Israeli submarine because the water is clear and shallow and because Tyson was skilled enough to plot a search pattern that allowed us glimpses of her through the surface of sea. No miracles, or rather we made our own miracle.

"Hey, old-timer. Why not let the new kids on the block have some fun?" The radio message from the lead P-3 betrayed the affection mixed in with the jeers.

"Sure thing kid." Perdue reflected that calling the aged P-3s 'kid' was a semantic strain. But, compared with the ancient B-25, he supposed they were. He was handling cockpit communications so that Tyson could concentrate on flying his aircraft. "What you got?"

"Couple of Harpoons and Mark 54s. Load of sonobuoys. What you got?"

"Machine guns. Lots of machine guns."

"They'll come in useful if that damned sub makes it to the surface. Right, old-timer, we're heading in to lay buoys now."

The two P-3 Orions swept in, the sea behind them marked with the splashes as the patterns of sonobuoys hit the water. They had laid two long lines, each at 45 degrees to the estimated course of the Tekuma. Together they formed a funnel that converged around the submerged submarine. They also allowed multiple cross references from the noise generated by the submarine's passage. When fighting a diesel-electric boat, multiple sound contacts were essential. Running on batteries, with a skilled skipper and a cautious crew, a diesel-boat was as near silent as made no difference. And so, it was with some surprise obvious in their voices that the next messages reached Heavenly Body.

"Quebec-seven here. We're getting strong flow noise off a contact."

"Quebec-eight. Confirm that. Sending contact data to you now."

Perdue was almost crying with frustration. If he'd be on the P-3s, the tactical displays would be showing the rows of sonobuoys and the contacts from them, the cross-bearings isolating the position of the submarine below. "Quebec seven and eight. What's happening?"

"Hold your horses, old timer." The communications officer on Quebec-seven was getting into the spirit of a 1950s western. "We're getting multiple flow noise contacts but that doesn’t square with a modern diesel-electric. This one sounds more like a WW2 boat. We're got some checking to do before we drop."

"Quebec-seven. We shot the submarine to shit with .50s while they were on the surface. Chewed up the composite fairings on the sail bad. Bits of GRP went all over. Could that be what you're hearing?"

There was a long pause and Perdue imagined the crews on the P-3s talking it over. Eventually the radio crackled again. "Yeah, that could be it. Bits of GRP from damaged superstructure panels vibrating in the water flow. You been tracking it visually since you strafed him?"

"We surely have." Perdue paused and mounted the word "Gas?" at Tyson who gave a thumbs-up. "We got plenty of gas left."

"Good. Hold one." There was another long pause. "We're cleared to shoot."

"You going to drop a nuke?" Next to Perdue, Tyson had suddenly taken an interest in the conversation. "Because if you are we better get well clear. Heavenly Body is one old lady, she can’t take much of that."

"Negative on the nuke old-timer. Just plain old Mark 54s. Get ready to strafe it if it gets to the surface."

Control Room, INS Tekuma, Mediterranean

"We're picking up propeller beat on the sea surface." The sonar operator was alarmed; the sound signature was very distinct. The aircraft that had been tracking them had been joined by two more. He'd even picked up the splashes as the sonobuoys had gone into the water. That had meant they weren't being followed by an antique left-over any more, now they faced modern anti-submarine aircraft flown by crews that had more training in ASW than most of the rest of the world put together. That led to the question that really worried him. Why were they being hunted, they'd killed the Scarlet Beast hadn't they?

Captain Ben-Shoshan was asking himself the same question and he really didn't like the answers he was getting. However, he was unable to pursue the matter further because a much more urgent development demanded his attention. His submarine had just been surrounded by a neat diamond of four active sonobuoys. There was no doubt about that, the low-frequency pulses hitting the hull could be heard by everybody in the submarine.

"Give me maximum power right now!" He knew what was going to happen next, above him the anti-submarine aircraft were coming in for the long, low pass that would end with a pair of torpedoes dropped on his position. In this relatively shallow water with no thermocline to hide under, he had very few options left. Under his feet, he felt the humm as the electric motors picked up power and started to spin the prop faster. He guessed that the propeller wouldn't be cavitating yet, but it was only a question of time. Shallow water meant little pressure on the prop blades so that the bubbles of water vapor would form so much more easily. Every one of them would sound like a tiny hammer hitting the prop blade.

"Torpedoes in the water." The call from the sonar system operator was desperate. On the command system displays, the symbol representing Tekuma had been joined by two more tracks. Ones that were already moving fast towards her and curving in towards her stern. He could see the two crews above him had done an excellent job of killing him. The torpedoes were perfectly placed, one in each stern quarter. No matter how he turned, he was going to be presenting his stern to one and his beam to the other. That left him with few options.

"Launch decoys." Outside, from small tubes built into the superstructure, the torpedo decoys popped out. They included noisemakers that would duplicate the sound of his machinery and bubble generators that would give an active sonar something else to ping. There had been a time when decoys had worked but those days were long past. It was the same everywhere, the computer technology that allowed small hand-held telephones to emulate computers allowed an unprecedented level of data processing inside the warhead of a small, expendable weapon. It wasn't just necessary for a decoy to sound like a submarine, it had to act like a submarine as well. Target Motion Analysis it was called and it had spelt the doom of cheap, expendable decoys. The same technology was now spelling his doom also.

"Do not be concerned, the Lord will protect us." Yitzchak's voice was dreamy, distracted. He had been promised protection and salvation, the archangel who had guided him would not let him down. He would not be allowed to fall victim to those who had allied themselves with the Eternal Enemy.

"Bring her around hard, to starboard." There was a odd quirk with the Dolphin design, she could turn slightly tighter to starboard than to port. It was a tiny fraction but it was the only card Ben-Shoshan had left to play. Then his communications officer’s words struck home. "Yitzchak, what the hell are you talking about? What have you done?"

The Mark 54 had a very specific target. The warhead that could be carried by a lightweight torpedo was inadequate to penetrate the hull of a modern submarine. Probably. So, the Mark 54 had been designed to pick out the submarine's propeller an home in on that. More importantly, it was designed to blow at least one of the blades off that propeller leaving it completely unbalanced. It was the blast that destroyed his propeller that ensured Ben-Shoshan never got an answer to his questions. Not in this life anyway, things would be different very shortly.

With two of its propeller blades blown completely off and the remaining five mangled beyond recognition, Tekuma had no effective propulsion and was losing speed rapidly. Her shaft was still spinning despite the fact that the explosions had bent it through a ten degree angle and that was much more critical than the loss of propulsion. The bent, unbalanced shaft ripped open the shaft tunnel and destroyed the seals that kept the water out. Throughout the stern quarter of the submarine, water started to pout into compartments, weighing down the stern of the boat and dragging her to the bottom. That left just one thing to do.

"Blow tanks! All hands, abandon ship!"

B-25J "Heavenly Body", Mediterranean

"Here she comes!" Perdue's voice was straining with excitement. The two P-3s had made their drops and there had been a nail-biting delay before the pair of oil-stained white towers of seawater announced the hits. Then, the sea seemed to have started boiling as the shock wave had reflected off the seabed and erupted upwards. Now, the sea had boiled again as the submarine blew her ballast tanks in a desperate attempt to get to the surface. The dark green shape arched upwards in the middle of the spray, the sunlight surrounding her with rainbows that gave an almost supernatural aura to the scene. Then the hatches fore and aft of the sail started to open and men started to heave themselves out. Already, yellow life rafts were expanding from their containers on the deck.

"And here we go boys and girls." Tyson was already diving on the submarine, his four nose-mounted .50 caliber machine guns spraying bullets into Tekuma's crew as they tried to abandon the sinking submarine. Heavenly Body's twin .50s in her top turret was firing as well, only Trudy laFonteyn continued her burst as the B-25 swept across her target and continued to pour long bursts into the crew as it started to circle the wreck. She was joined by one of the waist gunners and between them they mowed down the submariners. That was what aircraft like the AC-130 did, they circled their target, mowing down the enemy. It was good, if unexpected, training for laFonteyn.

“A bit harsh that.” Perdue’s instincts as a mariner were overcoming his loathing for the crew of this submarine and what they had done. Beneath them, the submarine was obviously sinking, its stern was underwater and the bows were rising as flooding aft pulled her under. That made her crew fellow seamen in distress and the slaughter as the machine guns mowed them down was repugnant to him. He knew the rationale, submarines carried shoulder-fired anti-aircraft missiles and it only needed one man to bring down a fabulously expensive maritime patrol aircraft and its crew. It still just seemed wrong to him and he was glad when Heavenly Body ran out of ammunition for her top turret and waist guns.

By that time, Tekuma was clearly in her last moments. She was almost vertical in the water, her bows pointing skywards, her sail already vanishing beneath the waves. With a final flourish caused by the remaining air bubbling out of her hull, she slipped away, leaving nothing on the surface but oil, debris and the bodies of her crew.

“Hey, old timer, Quebec-Seven here. We’ll write you up as an equal share in the kill. Fair?” The radio message from the P-3C caused a cheer in the old B-25. After more than sixty years, Heavenly Body finally had a kill of her own to paint under her cockpit.

“Very fair kids. Now, we’ll take you home.”

 

[LTR]

Lemuel's Home, Eternal City, Heaven

He knew something was wrong the moment he stepped into his home. It wasn't just that the small palace was silent, there was something else. A brooding air of tension and anger. In a way that Lemuel-Lan-Micheal couldn’t quite comprehend, it was as if the house itself was sullen and resentful. It didn't help matters that he wasn't feeling very well. It was strange, he always felt fine when he was with Maion, at the Montmartre Club or at the Temple but as soon as he was away from them for any length of time, his feeling of contentment and gentle bliss would go and be replaced by headaches, irritation and vague, formless anger. It was this pattern, more than any other factor, that had finally reconciled him to the now self-evident truth that the Temple of Ceaseless Compliance was, in fact, merely an over-zealous proponent of the True Path. As his new friends had pointed out, austerity and spirituality had its place once, but new times and new conditions demanded change. If they could better serve The One Above All by following a different way, was it not their duty to do so?

Something else was missing as Lemuel-Lan entered the vestibule of his house, Onniel was nowhere in sight and for that he was grateful. Her sneering, contemptuous voice was the last thing he needed to hear right now. What he really wanted was to stretch out in his pool, let his wing-feathers soak in the limpid waters and feel their warmth wash away his discomfort. That wasn't too much to ask was it? Or to have his wing-feathers combed so they lay flat and comfortable. Maion wouldn't even have to be asked, she would know that such small services would please him.

As it turned out, a warm relaxing bath was too much to ask. On his way to the pool, Lemuel-Lan had to pass one of the entrances to the servants quarters and from therein he heard the sounds of weeping. A few seconds attention identified the sound as one of his human slaves. Sadly, Lemuel-Lan put aside his desire for a bath and entered the quarters to find out what the problem was. That was normally something he would not do but this was not a normal situation. If there was trouble in the servants quarters, his loyal Ishim Zahuliel-Lan-Lemuel would deal with it, a minor affair without bothering him with the details, a more serious problem would result in a briefing after Zahuliel had dealt with it. Only the most major of difficulties would cause him to consult with Lemuel before taking action. But, this time, the matter was obviously not solved now was Zahuliel out here to consult with him. So, Lemuel broke one of his private rules and made his way into the servants quarters.

What he saw there combined with his headache, sickness and general malaise to cause him to completely lose his temper. One of the human maids, Judith, was stretched out on her bed, being tended by the other humans. She had been so badly beaten that her body was covered with rippling shades of blue and violet. The humans and Ishim scattered away from her as they saw Lemuel approach, cringing on the floor in terrified submission. That just added to his anger, he had never demanded submissive displays from his domestic staff and he had never done anything to warrant this show of outright fear.

"What happened here?" His words lashed around the quarters, bringing whimpers from Judith and the other humans.

"Most Honored Ophanim, The Lady Onniel demanded that the evening meal be served at an early time and that the remains be left out for you. Judith told her of your orders that the regular meals only be served in your presence." Zahuliel drew a deep breath. "The Lady Onniel was most displeased. She spoke in great anger, telling Judith that her words were to be obeyed, not yours, and that the meal was to be served. Judith held fast to your orders Most Noble Ophanim and refused to be forced into disobeying you. The Lady Onniel beat her but still Judith held firmly to your command. The beating continued with The Lady Onniel losing all control of herself and only stopped when Judith was unconscious."

"So she is reduced to this sad state by her loyalty to my commands?" Lemuel was well beyond anger now, he was filled with a cold fury that he had not known for millennia.

"That is so, Most Noble of Ophanim." Zahuliel-Lan-Lemuel spoke gravely.

"Then she deserves to be honored. Zahuliel, go to the Temple of Ceaseless Compliance and ask the staff there for assistance. They have skilled healers who have access to hu . . . . . to healing techniques of great value. Judith is to be given the best treatment available for the injuries she received in my service. As for the rest, I will deal with this now."

Rage filling his mind, Lemuel strode out of the servants quarters and returned to the family part of the palace. Onniel had emerged from wherever she had been when he had arrived and was standing in the middle of the vestibule, hands on her hips, wings twitching with anger. "How dare you give orders that meals were not to be served except in your presence. You barely ever come here, this is my home!"

"No longer." Lemuel's words slashed across the gap between them. As a male Ophanim he was much stronger than Onniel and rage added to that differential. He had little difficulty in seizing her by the hair and one wing and dragging her towards the doors. He had to detach one hand to open them and that gave her a chance to try and squirm away, but his grip on her hair held and he dragged her through the open doors onto the steps that led down to the street below. It took only a little more of his rage-augmented strength to hurl Onniel down those steps.

"I, Lemuel-Lan-Michael, Reject You!" His voice, loaded with all the power behind it he could muster boomed around the street, echoing off the temples and palaces and causing the rainbows of light cascading from the semi-precious stones that lined their walls to ripple and flare. Around him, passers-by, both Angelic and human, stopped at the sound. This was something new, something to gossip about. Nothing this interesting had happened on Heaven's streets for millennia. Below him, Onniel looked up, stunned at both his actions and his words.

"I, Lemuel-Lan-Michael, Reject You!" Once again the words boomed around the streets and echoed off the walls. They were met by a collective gasp from the rapidly-increasing crowd of onlookers, all of whom were experiencing a vicarious sense of enjoyment at the unprecedented scene. A public repudiation of a mate hadn't happened in The Eternal City for so long that nobody could put a precise number on the millennia in which it had happened. Those a little more in the know quickly briefed the others on the repeated instructions Onniel had received from the priests on the correct conduct of a mate and how the repetition of those instructions had shown how she had failed to heed their content. It didn’t help that Onniel had been growing steadily less popular in the neighborhood as her bitterness and anger had taken over. Looking down from the top of the steps, Lemuel saw heads nodding wisely. His actions may be virtually unprecedented but the people below approved. It never occurred to him that, following the purges, his position at the League of Holy Court meant that they would approve no matter what he did.

"I, Lemuel-Lan-Michael, Reject You!" The third and last repetition of the formula resounded around the streets, even louder and more firmly than before. There was only one thing left to do and Zahuliel, reliable retainer that he was, had already made the preparations. As he had heard the First Rejection, he had gone to Onniel's room and gathered her robes into a basket. Now he gave that basket to Lemuel who threw it at Onniel cowering on the steps below. The robes fell away from the basket as it tumbled through the air and fluttered down around her. She just looked at them, dumbfounded, unable to accept what was happening to her.

"As I Have Spoken, So Shall It Be!" Lemuel's rage-inspired voice thundered even more loudly and to his amazement there was a weak roll of thunder and a weak, feeble flash of lightning at his words. That ridiculously pleased him and he felt his anger ebb. His thunder and lightning display might have been weak and pathetic by the standards of those Michael-Lan could get Yahweh to generate but they were still one of the few he had managed. He turned around and strode back towards the doors of his palace.

Behind him, he heard Onniel screaming in shocked anger. "You will pay for this." Or words to that effect reflected Lemuel who hadn't quite heard them. As he looked back, he saw Onniel-Lan, her name no longer having the honorific that associated her name with his, scrambling around on the steps trying to gather her robes. She would need those, she had nowhere to go and nobody to look after her. Serve her right, Lemuel thought, she deserved it after what she did to Judith. The people who had gathered to watch the unprecedented event were already departing and Lemuel had no doubt that the story would be echoing around the forums within minutes. There would be consequences, he knew that, but he would live with them.

A few minutes later, the garden at the center of his palace was disturbed as two Angels came into land. One, he didn't recognize but the other was Charmeine-Lan herself. "You came yourself, Noble Lady?"

Charmeine-Lan smiled at him. "Of course I did. Zahuliel-Lan-Lemuel told me of what has happened here. You are one of us, Lemuel-Lan-Michael, one of our people and that means your people are our people also."

She paused for a second, she had spoken the phrase with emphasis for it was critical that Lemuel remember what she had said and how she had said it. She looked at him and saw the realization of what the phrase meant sink in. Now it was time to reinforce the lesson.

"If they need help, it is for us to succor them. Leaders serve their followers Lemuel, just as much as followers serve their leaders. I am not a great healer myself, but Ohimasael-Lan-Charmeine here is the best healer in our part of the Angelic Host,. He will tend to your servant and heal her wounds." Then she looked at him and frowned. "But you are unwell yourself? A glass of 'our' wine might help you I think."

Lemuel took the goblet from her and drank the contents down. It was strange but now he was with his friends again and enjoying their hospitality, his state of bliss was returning.

Michael-Lan's Office, Temple of Righteous Ardor, Eternal City

"So which city do we drop rocks on?" Raphael-Lan sat back in the chair, looking at Michael-Lan getting the final arrangements for the Seventh and last bowl of wrath ready. "Las Vegas?"

"Hardly." Michael-Lan grinned at the friendly barb. "New York I think."

"Why New York?" Raphael-Lan was genuinely curious. In the unofficial Montmartre Club sweepstakes, he had drawn Chicago. He thought over the draw carefully, Leilah-Lan had drawn New York hadn't she?

"Tradition Raffie, tradition. Have you noticed how when the humans make their disaster films, it's always New York that gets flattened? From King Kong onwards. We are traditional creatures Raffie, we must respect the traditions of others. And that means dropping rocks on New York."

"That can't be the only reason." Raphael-Lan knew Michael-Lan too well for that. He was well aware that Michael had about as much respect for tradition as he had for Yahweh which meant none at all. "What's really going on?"

"Why are we pouring the Bowls of Wrath, Raffie?"

"To upset the humans and keep them running around chasing their own tails."

"That's right. Only we don’t want them just upset with Yahweh, we want them screaming mad with anger and hate for him. Then, when they burst into Heaven and find Belial's concentration camp with its tortured inmates, all that rage and hate will pour out and be directed at Yahweh and Yahweh alone. Directed away from the Angelic Host, all thrown at Yahweh himself. I've said this before Raffie and at risk of being a bore, I'll say it again. If humans burst into Heaven and decide to start shooting at us, we’re gone. All of us. Humans are too good at killing, they have to be diverted to another target. Something that will absorb their energy – and their firepower.

"And that's why we're going to drop rocks on New York. There's something there that when we drop rocks on it, will send them mad. They'll be filled with rage and hatred and they'll want only revenge. Then, that's when we'll give them the chance and the target."

Michael-Lan completed the arrangements and decided it was time to set the final pieces of his scheme into motion. "Raffie, we're getting near the endgame now. Soon, I'm going to have to face off against Yahweh. You need to start getting our act together. I'll need every bit of support I can get when that happens and I need to make sure that Yahweh sits on that throne, alone and isolated.

Rafael-Lan nodded in acknowledgement, went to the window and launched himself from the ledge. Michael watched him flying across The Eternal City and sighed sadly. His comment to Rafael-Lan had been accurate, things really were getting close to the end-game now and this was where bad things happened. He stepped out on to the ledge himself, inflated his flight sacs and took off.

Slums, The Eternal City, Heaven

"So, what has your progress been to date."

Qaphsiel-Lan-Shekinah looked at the shining white figure that towered over him and shuddered slightly. When he had been recruited into the idea of an insurgency in Heaven, the idea had appealed to him. Now, he had seen what really lay behind the words and concepts and he, more than anything else, simply wanted to turn the clock back.

"As you instructed Mighty Lord, I have instructed the cells in our movement to plant bombs in the market places where the humans and Ishim buy their goods. Each bombing has been followed by demands to release political prisoners, whatever they may be, and make concessions to the humans and the lower-rank members of the Angelic Host. Our demands have been ignored, of course."

"And so, your campaign must continue. Where do you plan to plant your bombs next?"

"In the temples Might Lord, those run for the humans and for the Ishim. We will continue there before returning to bomb the markets."

"Very good. And the other matter you were ordered to watch."

"Lemuel-Lan-Michael, Mighty Lord? There was a great dispute in his abode not more than a few hours ago. He publicly repudiated his mate Onniel and drove her out. She wanders the markets now, in a state of shock, without knowing what to do or where to go. Behind her back, the others laugh at her for when she was Lemuel's mate she struck great poses and was always quick to cut others down with her tongue. None have sympathy for her and none go to her aid."

"Excellent. Now, there is fresh work for you Qaphsiel-Lan-Shekinah. You will plan and execute the abduction of Onniel. When she is in your hands, you will move her to a place of safety from which she will be unable to leave or communicate with anybody. Plan this most carefully so that there is no sign of anything untoward happening to her. It must appear that she has simply left for another part of The Eternal City. Do you understand that? That is the most important part of this whole operation."

"What is the aim, Mighty Lord? To hold her for ransom? Or make demands that must be fulfilled lest her existence be ended?"

"You are curious Qaphsiel-Lan-Shekinah? Salaphael-Lan was curious also and look what has happened to him. Now, he sits in the darkness, babbling meaningless chants to himself, his mind gone beyond redemption. So, are you curious Qaphsiel-Lan-Shekinah?"

Qaphsiel-Lan almost lost control of his bladder when he thought of what had happened to Salaphael. "No, Mighty Lord, I am not curious. About anything."

"Very good. Do not ask questions above your station again. But, I will tell you this. This kidnapping is but the first. There will be another of much greater importance than this one. You will rehearse your plans well and the kidnapping of Onniel will be the test of your plans. Do you understand this?"

"Yes, Mighty Leader."

"Then go and make your plans. And plant more of your bombs, the campaign must continue."

Qaphsiel-Lan-Shekinah gathered his wits together and left as quickly as he could. These meetings always filled him with fear of what might happen if he said the wrong thing or failed to complete his orders. He didn't understand what he was doing or why, none of it made any sense to him. But one thing he did know, and he knew it all too well, was that doing exactly as he was told, no more and no less, was the only thing that stood between him and the horrible fate that had befallen Salaphael and the rest of the organization.

Watching him go, Michael-Lan carefully evaluated the scheme that was now running into its most critical phase. It was dangerous, although things had worked more in his favor than against him and the way things had developed had helped him. It was timing that was the problem, he'd been deadly afraid that the problems over the Fourth Bowl would throw his plans so far off schedule that the delay would be critical. The discovery of all the plots against Yahweh and the realization that he was not alone in wishing Yah-Yah's downfall had helped him regain that time. He had feared he would have to subvert or assassinate the whole of Yahweh's inner court; the discovery that they were all plotting against him had saved him from doing that. Now, the last great gambit was starting and, once again, Michael-Lan knew that he would have to be at its center if it stood a chance of succeeding.

He was gambling, he knew it, he was pitching his knowledge of humans, his ability to mold events and his understanding of how Heaven worked against Yahweh's immense power. For all that, it was still a gamble. That was, after all, why he loved Las Vegas so much.

 

[LTR]

Detention Area, Levin Reception Center, Phelan Plain, Hell

He'd heard that when the dead woke up in Hell, they did so in a comfortable hospital bed with a nurse standing by to take down their details and find any relatives that existed in the Second Life. Captain Alex Ben-Shoshan had found that a great comfort, most of his family had gone to the gas when they had been trapped in Russia during the Second World War. He had entertained hopes that his grandfather had been rescued from The Pit and could hear that Eretz Israel had finally won, that the longed-for homeland existed. But what he saw now was far from the scene he imagined. He was in a jail cell, a traditional western one with three brick walls while the fourth was a barred grid. Outside a stocky woman in her late middle age was staring at him, her eyes, cold, expressionless and unblinking. The gaze had all the emotionless menace of a poisonous snake. She was in army uniform although Ben-Shoshan didn’t recognize the decorations or the rank insignia. He did recognize one thing, the balanced scales of an officer from the Judge Advocate's Division.

"Colonel Thanas? The prisoner is awake."

The prisoner? What was going on here? The last thing he remembered was leaving his sinking submarine by the hatch in the forward end of the sail, seeing his men cut down by the relentless machine gun fire from the circling B-25 and feeling the impact as the heavy bullets struck him. Then, everything contracting to a small spot of light, some strange sights and sounds that seemed to go on for ever yet be instantly forgotten before the point of light expanded again to place him here. Where was here?

"Captain Alex Ben-Shoshan, commanding officer of the Israeli Navy Submarine Tekuma. You are charged with crimes against humanity, treason against the human race, one hundred and fifty three thousand, six hundred and twenty counts of murder in the first degree and failing to complete your navigation logs. I am placing you under arrest for these alleged crimes. I will now read you your rights. You have the right to make a full confession. If you do not wish to make a full confession we will beat the crap out of you until you change your mind. You have the right to have a lawyer write your confession for you. If you cannot afford a lawyer, boy are you screwed. Do you understand these rights as I have read them to you?"

"Yes, I think. . . . What is going on here?"

"We will ask the questions." Colonel Thanas looked at the woman who was still staring at Ben Shoshan. "I've always wanted to say that."

"Comes of making a career with an army that has a German heritage." The woman's voice was contralto but had a distinct growl underlying the very precise pronunciation. "Old habits die hard. Do you think this piece of dreck will talk?"

"No, he's going to go all heroic on us. Not that it will matter in the long run. We have the entire crew, one of them will cough up the goodies. He'll get the deal, the rest can carry the load for him." Thanas returned his attention to Ben-Shoshan. "One chance. This is it. What the hell happened out there."

"We killed the Scarlet Beast. And the Whore of Babylon. With our nuclear missiles."

"No, you didn't. A formation of Australian F-111s took out the Beast. Your missiles were targeted on Damascus, Teheran, Baghdad, Cairo and Tel Aviv."

Ben-Shoshan went white. "Yitzchak! That bastard Yitzchak did it somehow. You talk to him." Ben-Shoshan looked at the woman who was still staring at him. Her face was still emotionless, menacing.

"We plan to. Now, you tell us everything that happened, everything down to the smallest detail."

Ben-Shoshan spoke for almost an hour, his words being recorded on a tape machine. When his story reached the point of his death, he stopped. "That's all I can remember. What happened to those missiles?"

"Your Air Force got four of them. The fifth, there wasn't time to stop it. Tel Aviv is toast."

Ben-Shoshan broke down, started to cry. "You said 153,000 dead? Can you check to find out if my family were survivors? We all lived in Tel Aviv."

For a moment Colonel Thanas let his act slip and real sympathy crept into his voice. The story Ben-Shoshan had told rang true although it was hard to believe anybody could be so sloppy in their control of nuclear weapons. "I do not have that information and the casualty lists are still being compiled. I will check for you though. Even if the answer is that they are not yet amongst the known dead, that may change. People will die from the attack your submarine launched for decades to come. Think about that if you think we are being harsh with you. Also, we can check here. The number of casualties from Tel Aviv has completely overloaded our receiving system and many of the dead arriving from there still have to be interviewed, documented and identified."

"That bastard Yitzchak. Right at the end, he said Yahweh would protect him."

"Well, he didn't." Major General Asanee grinned. It was not a comforting sight. "We have detained him in another cell. We'll have a chat with him. Colonel Thanas, get a crowbar, a bicycle pump and a plate of asparagus."

Two hours later, Ben-Shoshan was still trying to absorb what he had done when the two officers returned. Colonel Thanas went to the bars and called Ben-Shoshan over. "Captain, I wanted you to know this as quickly as possible. I am deeply sorry to have to tell you that your parents, wife and children were amongst those killed at Tel Aviv. They are here and have been identified. Please accept my condolences for your losses. On the subject of Yitzchak, he has made a full confession. He was approached by an archangel called Azrael who claimed to be acting on behalf of Yahweh. According to Yitzchak, Azrael believed that Michael wasn't prosecuting the war with us enthusiastically enough and Azrael saw this as a chance to displace Michael as Yahweh's leading General. Yitzchak was promised archangel status in Heaven and various other Second Life benefits if Azrael succeeded. Obviously, he was misled."

Ben-Shoshan nodded, still devastated by the news he had been given. "The rest of my crew?"

"We think they were loyal to us, right up to the time they died. The way your nuclear control system, such as it was, got set up, everything went through your communications officer and he was in a position to intercept some messages and substitute others. We have indications that other people were involved though. We'll be pursuing that. You'll be staying here with your crew until we've got to the bottom of this. Provided we don’t discover anything more, we will not be recommending disciplinary action against you. You'll punish yourself worse than anything we can think up."

The two Thai officers started to leave. There was one other question that Ben-Shoshan had to have answered. "Ma'am, the asparagus. What did you do with it?"

"Ate it with hollandaise sauce. It was lunchtime and I was hungry."

Plain of Mapheloistamitos, Hell

Azrael, didn't really recognize this set up. There were bronze columns set at strange angles in the rock and a long, sloping downramp leading to the center of the strange structure. Huge rocks, dozens of them were gathered at the top of the slope, ready to be rolled down. Gathered around the structure was a Choir of the Angelic Host, one loyal to Azrael, ready to sing the chants of blessing. Michael-Lan had explained that Belial, who had designed this set-up, had used Naga to generate the offset portal needed to drop Lava on Earth but the Angelic Host had no Naga. Angels weren't differentiated the way daemons were; an angel was a jack-of-all trades, the specialized daemons were masters of one. That meant the Choir was being pushed to the edge of its capabilities. Still, to Azrael, the arrangement was as strange and alien as the environment he found himself in.

The trip to get here had been equally strange. After his meeting with Michael, the meeting in which Michael had made it quite plain that Azrael didn't have many choices, he had portalled to Earth. A strange part of Earth, one where the ground was frozen and covered with ice. Only black granite pierced the ice to make a strange, surreal landscape. A bitterly cold landscape. Then, from there, Azrael had portalled to this point in Hell, one far removed from the human-occupied abode of the daemons. Michael-Lan had been very clear on this point. Never, ever portal directly from somewhere humans can see you to Heaven.
Disobeying Michael wasn't on the agenda, not any more. Michael had known all about Azrael's network of human loyalists, the ones he had tricked into continuing to support Yahweh's agenda. He had also known of Azrael's plot to supplant him as Yahweh's leading general. Azrael had been given two options, one was to join forces with Michael and become his second-in-command. For that he would be richly rewarded. Michael had sworn the most holy of oaths that if Azrael supported him loyally, he would get everything that was coming to him. The other option was to be arrested as one of those responsible for the spate of bomb attacks that had taken place across the Eternal City. After all, those attacks were human tactics and Azrael was exploiting humans and their tactics. The suspicion was inevitable even if it was wrong.

The Choir was starting its chorus and Azrael watched the center of Belial's array for the formation of the black ellipse. They were homing in on a Nephelim in the city called New York. On paper, this wasn't like Belial's lava attacks that centered on a specific point and needed to be fine-tuned. The whole city was the target and nobody really cared where the rocks landed. Only, Michael had a specific target in mind for the first rock. That would need a pathfinder to go in and move the Earth end of the portal to the desired spot. Azrael had picked one of his most loyal followers for that purpose. The black ellipse in the center of the array formed and the pathfinder dived through it.

New York Air Defense Interception Zone Command Center, World Trade Center Site, New York, United States

The alert siren filled the monitoring room, causing the staff to transition from somnolent ease to frantic activity within seconds. Mostly, the warning were false alarms, caused by a sudden increase in problems with the cell-phone network that was the backbone of the portal warning system. Corporal James Yan hoped that this was another one and he could go back to reading his graphic novel but one glance at bank of monitors told him that wasn't a likely probability. The spectrum analyzer was processing the data from the cell-phone network's receiver limitations, but it was clearly showing a broadband hump peaking in the low gigahertz. The spectrum display flicked and restructured itself, crisper and with fewer gaps. Secondary windows began to fill up with phase analysis of signal components. Yan stared at the screen absorbing the data on it, before speaking directly to his commanding officer.

“Sir, we have a portal forming over lower Manhattan. Confidence is high, say again, confidence is high for portal opening over lower Manhattan.”

There was a brief pause on the line and Yan could hear a hurried conference in the background. It sounded as if Mayor Bloomberg himself was there. Whatever was being said, the decision was sudden and obvious. All over new York, the air raid sirens started to wail and the street lights started flashing. The ACLU had seen to that, they had taken legal action on behalf of the deaf to force the government to organize visual and well as audio warnings of an impending Netherworld attack. New York was getting ready for its attack, the only question was what form it would take. Another angel of death like the late Uriel? Or was it the hypothetical rock attack? The disaster in Baghdad from the floods caused by the rock attack there was still on television every evening. So was footage of Indian, Pakistani, Iranian and American troops trying to rescue the people whose homes had been washed out by the tidal wave.

The telephone in his hand bleeped again. "We have confirmation from subordinate command centers. Looks like the angels are coming for our hide, coming in a big way. Fighters are on their way in. The anti-angel batteries are coming to readiness. So are the anti-portal missiles. Yan returned his attention to the screen. The cell-phone system error rates and signal strengths were climbing inexorably. Whatever was coming through the portal would be arriving very soon. He checked the displays again, getting a quick read on the location. "Sir, the portal, it's just south of here, a bit towards the Verrazano Bridge."

The status displays clicked again. "We have the anti-angel batteries on line. Governors Island is ready to shoot as soon as they have a target. Bayonne is reporting ready to fire also." That made eight 76mm Mark 75 guns ready to open up on whatever came through that portal. At 120 rounds per minute each, that was a lot of firepower.

"Kings is Up, Queens is up." Eight more 76mms. The National Guard and the U.S. Volunteers were doing the Big Apple proud. The city might be facing the worst threat to its existence in its history, but if it did go down, then it wouldn’t be without one hell of a fight.

"Fire control radars report a single hostile has come through the portal. It's moving the portal this way." Outside, the sky lit up as the anti-angel batteries opened fire.

Sky over Manhattan, New York, U.S.A.

Uzemah-Lan-Azrael found the sight below him awe-inspiring. The brilliant display of lights, their rippling flashing as their waves swept across the human city below, it was something that he had only thought could ever exist in The Eternal City. The treacherous thought crossed his mind that if it came to sheer beauty, New York at night could give The Eternal City a real run for its money. But, the sense of awe lasted for only a split second for he had work to do and he had to do it very fast. His orders from Azrael were very specific. Get in, move the portal to its required spot and get out. The humans reacted fast and their bite was deadly. Staying for more than a few seconds would be fatal.

His mind grabbed at the portal and he started to shepherd its end towards the selected target spot. He had it fixed in his mind, the open patch on the tip of the big island. Why he had to put the portal over one of the few open spaces around there was beyond him, but he had been assured that destroying this site would hurt them beyond all reason. Anyway, he was the servant of Azrael and he had his orders.

Just how dangerous those orders were, Uzemah-Lan-Azrael learned in the next few seconds. More lights joined the display, streams of them coming up from a dozen points in the city. All of them converging on his position. For a second he wondered what they were but that question too was answered for him when the explosions surrounded him. One of the strange human words that was entering the Angelic tongue covered them. Tracer. He felt steel fragments lashing at him, felt the sudden loss of strength as the iron fragments sank into his body. A quick glance down told him he had the portal in place. It was time to go.

The sudden acceleration as he let go of the portal threw the guns off for a second but only for that tiny second or respite. Then, they were on target again and this time, without the immediate presence of the portal to affect the fire control radars, their aim was perfect. Uzemah-Lan-Azrael took a 6 kilogram 76mm shell directly in the chest and it splayed his ribs open. Other shots were less precise but the showers of fragments were slashing at his body, draining him faster than he could compensate. He fell from the sky, landing in the East River with a splash that went almost unnoticed amid the noise and fury of the Big Apple's fight to survive the night.

New York Air Defense Interception Zone Command Center, World Trade Center Site, New York, United States

"The angel is going down. Portal is stationary. Oh shit, it's right overhead." James Yan shouted the situation report down the phone, caught by surprise as the gunfire outside ceased. The 76mms had tracked the angel down, continuing to fire until the safety stops had cut them off. The World Trade Center site had been a major building effort until The Salvation War had started. Then, work had stopped, only to be restarted when the partially-complete buildings had been converted to the new defense command center. Yan looked at his instruments again. "Abort that, the portal is drifting slightly. That angel didn’t quite stop it."

"Confirm that, Staten Island reports they're picking up very slow movement." The voice on the other end of the line was concerned; the anti-portal missiles were unguided. They had to be fired precisely through the portal if they were to work at all and a moving target was bad news.

"Something coming through now." For a moment Yan thought he could see the evil orange glow of lava as another sky volcano was created over New York. Then, the tracking radar gave him the information he was dreading. It wasn't a lava attack, a solid rock had just come though. And, according to the radar, it wasn't moving away from its current position. That meant it was heading right at the radar set. A radar set that was precisely sixty feet above Yan's head.

The first rock hit the West Side Highway, approximately 300 yards south of the World Trade Center site. The force of the impact was roughly equivalent to 10 tons of TNT, causing a blast wave to devastate everything within its reach. A few seconds later a second rock hurtled down and, for the second time in a decade, the World Trade Center site was utterly destroyed by an explosion. This time, there was no drawn-out destruction, this time the effects were instantaneous. Even a ten-ton blast is appallingly destructive and, combined with the ground wave caused by the impact, nothing could have survived. That left the New York defense zone effectively decapitated. The elaborate operations center was wiped out and all that it controlled left headless. As each successive rock pounded down, the blast waves punched buildings askew, their glass windows blown out of their frames and showering down on the streets beneath. The ground waves of the impact was that of a small earthquake, shaking and shattering buildings up to a kilometer away. In the South Cove Marina, a mini-tsunami formed that tore boats free from their moorings and hurled them into the city. To the horrified gaze of New Yorkers across the city, a series of nuclear-like fireballs rose over Manhattan leading to wild rumors that the city had, like Tel Aviv, fallen victim to nuclear attack

The portal was wandering at random, drifting slowly north west when the follow-up rocks came through. One in particular caught the edge of the subsiding blast wave from the first strike, adding fresh fire and fury to the devastation that was being wrought in lower Manhattan. That rock hit the global headquarters of Goldman-Sachs, the fireball from the impact joining the others in towering over the city. A full board meeting had been in progress at the bank at the time, a coincidence that was to have unexpected repercussions in the near future. A few minutes later, yet another rock descended, plowing into the New York City Fire Museum. As the fireballs rose into the sky, the air defense sub-sector command station was frantically trying to re-establish communications with the city's defenses.

While there was still a city left to defend.

 

[PsihoKekec]

That rock hit the global headquarters of Goldman-Sachs, the fireball from the impact joining the others in towering over the city. A full board meeting had been in progress at the bank at the time, a coincidence that was to have unexpected repercussions in the near future.

Oh dear, how sad, never mind.

 

[LTR]

New York Air Defense Interception Zone Secondary Command Center, La Guardia Airport, New York, United States

"Manhattan is taking a real pounding." Mayor Bloomberg looked across at the blacked-out island, scarred by the fireballs rising from the multiple impact points. The power over there had failed under the repeated ground shocks and that was adding to the chaos that was developing as people tried to flee the ruthless bombardment. "When can we do something about it?"

"We're trying to get the system online now. The original control was by way of the World Trade Center complex but that's gone. We're trying to reroute around the holes knocked in the net." Colonel Mark Gridley was trying to re-assemble the communications net while he spoke. The problem was that the original flurry of rocks had taken down many of the nodes the system depended on and there was no reliable way of finding out which were up other than by 'pinging' them. The good news was that each time he found a functional node, it opened up new prospects for routing signals. Also, a side issue now but one that would become important when the attack was over, the destroyed nodes formed a map of the wrecked areas of the city. Who knew how many people were trapped in the wreckage.

Over on the horizon another series of fireballs rose over Roosevelt Island. The fall of the rocks was intermittent, there would be a flurry of hits and then a pause while there were only a few scattered hits. Almost as if work gangs were rolling the 100-ton rocks through. Which, Gridley thought. was probably exactly what was happening. "Mayor, the damage I'm plotting suggests the portal is drifting up the west side of Manhattan. If it continues on its present course, it'll cross over the Hudson between Hoboken and Union City. We'd better get warnings out to New Jersey."

"I think they're probably better informed than we are at this point." Bloomberg spoke drily, disguising the fact he was horrified by how quickly the city's defense systems had become unglued. It had been well over a year since Sheffield and Detroit had been attacked and, during that time, New York had installed a system that was supposed to stop such attacks in their tracks. Yet, faced with its first assault, the new system had collapsed almost completely.

"Sir, radio message from the Intrepid." Bloomberg knew that the ship was acting as a forward observation point. During the Mobilization she had been considered for restoration to the active fleet but the old lady was too far gone. Still, she had her radios and with the data communications net shot full of holes, she was performing admirably. "She reports a new group of rocks falling just south of her, working their way north west. She says. . . . I'm sorry sir, she's gone off the air. Very suddenly."

Bloomberg's lips twisted. That almost certainly meant the museum ship had taken at least one rock. She might survive it but if she did, she would be a dreadful sight afterwards.

"Sir, I'm through to the portal intercept missiles at Secaucus. They have a firing solution on the portal." Gridley listened for a few seconds. "They can fire as soon as the current rock flurry tapers off. They warn us though, if there's a problem, the missiles will come down in Harlem."

Bloomberg didn’t hesitate. "They may fire when ready, Mister Gridley."

USS Intrepid. New York

If the 'Evil Eye' hadn't already been firmly aground, she would have been sinking fast. The rock had hit two thirds down the length of her hull, ripping straight through he flight and hangar decks before expending its energy blowing a hole in her bottom and excavating a crater in the soft mud underneath. Looking at her, Norman Orwell thought the ship was putting up a hell of a fight but losing anyway. It was the crater more than anything else, it had stripped the support out from under her. By the way her bow and stern were rising, her back was already broken. She was burning as well, the fires from her hangar deck blazing uncontrolled. The city fire brigades had as much as they could do coping with the damage in the main part of Manhattan. The fires there also out of control and people had to be rescued. The Intrepid could cope on her own.

"Everybody ready?" Orwell looked around at his emergency rescue team. They weren't professional firefighters or emergency medical personnel. They were museum researchers, restorers, administrators, few of them less than fifty and none of them with anything more than rudimentary rescue training. Most of their equipment dated from the Second World War and much of it had seen service when Intrepid had been hit by Kamikaze aircraft off Japan. How well it would work now was an open question. Yet, the people around him nodded and gave thumb's up signs. "Team One, forward, try and get the people there to safety. Team two, with me, we'll go amidships and get the people out of the radio room."

"How many Norman?"

"There should be twelve up front and ten in the radio room." The fact that forty people were about to run onto a burning, wrecked aircraft carrier to rescue twenty two didn’t register with anybody. Rescuing those in danger almost regardless of cost was an ingrained human reaction. The same reaction that would cause half a dozen men to risk – and sometimes lose – their lives to rescue one person from a sinking car in a flooded river or trapped on the ice in a frozen winter. In the final analysis, it was why humans were winning The Salvation War.

Orwell led his group up the gangway that led to the hangar deck abreast of the island. The blast of heat from the fires further aft seemed to engulf him as he entered the hangar and he saw the displays that he had been so proud of were already shattered and broken. That hurt him more than the damage to the ship. As a naval historian, seeing all that history literally going up in smoke was something that cut deep into his heart. "Follow me, we have to get into the island. The radio room is on the second deck. Birkenhead Drill."

He stumbled across the deck, feeling his way through the increasingly-dense smoke. For all its age, his protective gear seemed to be working, he could breath at least. Behind him, members of his team were unreeling safety lines so that they could find their way out of the ship once they had the survivors secured. In front of him was the hatch that led to the island over their heads. The dogs unfastened smoothly, one piece of luck in a night where New York's had run out. He and his team had to get one deck up before they would join the route through the ship that had been cleared for tourists. That would lead them straight up to the radio room. If it was still there.

Under his feet, he could feel the deck still angling as the broken ship settled further into the mud. That mud had almost spelled her doom once, it had been a hell of a job to get her clear of it when she had been towed away for renovation. Orwell scrambled upwards, his feet turning on bits of wreckage that had fallen when the ship had first been hit. Another hatch this one hard to open. The dogs took repeated blows from sledgehammers before they finally sprung open and the hatch was cleared. The good news was, they were level with the flight deck and the way up was easy.

The radio room was a disaster. Parts of the overhead had caved in and the men and women working on the equipment were down, trapped under the beams and debris. Orwell led the way in and started to check the people. One woman, her blonde hair caked and matted with blood groaned as he touched her. She was a priority, the Birkenhead Drill applied here, women and children first. Two of the rescue team came to his aid and they lifted a fallen equipment locker off her. Once they had her free, she was passed down the line to the people waiting to get her off the ship. It wasn't the way the emergency drills said things should be done but this was a special case. At the rate the fires were spreading, the island would be engulfed soon.

The casualties were being passed out, the three remaining women first, then the men as they were freed from the entangling wreckage that had tried to kill them. By the time the last one was on his way out, the smoke in the radio room was so thick Orwell could hardly breathe even with the aid of his mask and oxygen bottle. He grabbed the line and started to follow it out, feeling the heat of the fires on him as he did so. Down the steps, through the hatches, back on to the hangar deck. The way they had come in was impassible, the fire had already spread to block it, so he, his team and the people from the radio room made their way forward until the way down the forward gangplank was clear.

At least there were some doctors down there now, first aiders anyway. Orwell stood on the top of the gangplank, calling out the names of his team and checking their names off the list as they answered. All twenty accounted for. To his amazement they had been in the ship for less than ten minutes. It had seemed much, much longer. Then, he made his own progress down the brow to the relative safety of the dockside. The men and women from the ship were laid out on the concrete, some sitting up and looking for their rescuers, others laying on the concrete while the first-aiders worked on them. Three were already covered by cloths, for them the rescue had come too late. Orwell looked at the survivors and saw that the blonde woman he had first pulled out of the wrecked radio room was one of those who was able to sit up. She saw him as well, and grabbed his hand. "Thank you. Just, thank you."

It was all she needed to say. Orwell walked down the quay to where his people were reassembling. Even as he did so, he felt the ground trembling under his feet as more rocks slammed into Manhattan. He stopped suddenly, feeling desperately short of breath, his chest hurt and his left arm was alternately numb and cramping. Then his vision blacked out and he crumpled to the ground.

Central Park, New York

The park was filling up as people from the lower half of Manhattan found refuge from the hail of rocks that were slowly battering the city into submission. The police were trying to shepherd people into the park and then keep order while they were there but both tasks would have been beyond their ability individually. Together, they were impossible. Inside the park, it was the mounted police who were most successful at preventing panic from causing an even greater disaster. From the backs of their horses, they had a viewpoint that allowed them to spot trouble-makers and get to the scene before they got out of hand. One man who'd tried to start a fight had been picked up by two officers, turned upside down and had his head pounded on the ground. "Testing the road surface," they'd explained to appreciative onlookers.

Officer Sharon Grimble urged her horse forward and used its weight to push into a knot of people gathered around a woman laying on the grass. "Everything all right here?"

"Fine officer, she just fainted."

"And you are?"

"Her husband, we were in The Sheep Meadow when the rocks started falling. " The man handed up two driving licenses and Grimble used her Maglite to check them against the people she was speaking to. They checked out, husband and wife.

"Do you need a doctor? I can put a call out but it's likely to be a long time before anybody comes."

"It's fine Officer, We'll be fine."

"Officer, its it true the Empire State has been hit?" The voice had a German accent, a tourist? There were such things even with the war on.

"No. All the damage is on the west side of the Island. The last four or five hits went into the Hudson so I think we've seen the worst of things here. Just stay calm and everything will be all right."

She urged her horse forward and moved along the path, watching out for any signs of trouble. Some people faded away into the shadows when they saw her approach but she had neither the time nor the ability to chase after them. Overhead, there was another streak across the sky as a rock hurtled over their heads. A few seconds later, there was the orange glow of a hit on land. It looked like New Jersey was about to get its baptism of fire.

Or was it? The orange streak of the falling rock was immediately answered by two brilliant white streaks from the ground. They screamed overhead, the supersonic bang from their passing causing another wave of panic to start forming in the crowds of refugees. The white flashes ended as quickly as they had formed, vanishing through the portal high over New York.

Plain of Mapheloistamitos, Hell

Azrael knew that the attack was running into its final stages. His work teams were having to bring the great rounded 100-ton rocks in from further away and that meant an ever-increasing delay between the strikes. Soon, he would have to close down this site and evacuate the area. Still, it had been a highly successful attack, almost a hundred rocks had been dumped on the city the other side of the portal. The seventh Bowl of Wrath had been well and truly poured on the humans below. Now, all that was left was to invade them with the Angelic Host and all would be well. Normality would be restored and the divine order of things returned to its rightful place. What, therefore, happened next was the cause of a very brief episode of cognitive dissonance on his part.

The Ares missile was a kludge. Basically it took the airframe and engine of the GMD interceptor and armed it with an EBU-6 warhead. This was simply a larger and more powerful version of the weapon used to close down Belial's Sky Volcanos Everything non-essential had been stripped out of the system to get the greatest possible payload and that included the guidance system. It was, therefore, good shooting that put both missiles through the portal over Manhattan island.

The fuzing system was also lightweight, a simple timer that had been pre-set to explode the warhead a few seconds after launch. The ground computers had known to a millisecond how long it would take for the missiles to reach the portal. They'd added a few milliseconds on top of that to let the missile get some height above the portal and that had been that. Both EBU-6 warheads had exploded in the same millisecond. It was as near to simultaneous as could be managed.

The explosions shut down the portal instantly. They also devastated the arrays of copper rods that had made the portal system possible. The explosions also tore apart the pre-notched steel coil that surrounded the warhead and turned it into a hail of deadly spinning steel fragments that scythed through the work teams that were still gathered around the portal site. Finally, as the metal fragments tore into him, Azrael realized that Michael had been right, it was extremely unwise to underestimate humans. It was a lesson he would need to remember.

News Studio, KOCO Television, Oklahoma City

"And the latest news is that missiles fired by the New York Defense System have closed the portal. A total of 98 rocks each weighing an estimated 100 tons have landed on Manhattan and New Jersey, inflicting catastrophic damage on the west side of Manhattan Island. Known casualties are already in the thousands and we will be getting more accurate figures as the dead start arriving in Hell. Already questions are being asked, why did it take so long to fire the missiles that ended the attack? What went wrong with the system that kept the portal from being closed until after this catastrophic damage had been suffered? This is Brandon Breyer reporting from the Bronx in stricken New York City."

"Thank you Brandon. Well, there is no doubt that this is the long-awaited Seventh Bowl of Wrath, supposedly Heaven's knock-out blow against us. Well, we're still standing Yahweh. The hero of the attack was Norman Orwell, Curator of the Intrepid Sea-Air-Space museum in New York. After the carrier was hit by one of the rocks, he led an emergency team of museum staff into the wreckage to pull out the survivors from the destroyed ship. Thanks to his efforts, and those of his colleagues of course, nineteen of the twenty two people known to be on board the Intrepid were rescued alive. Sadly, just after completing this daring rescue, Doctor Orwell suffered a heart attack and died from his exertions. We will be broadcasting an interview with him shortly.

"The surviving senior managerial staff of the Goldman-Sachs bank have just released a press statement. It states that their headquarters building was totally destroyed by a direct hit from a rock with heavy casualties to the partners and senior staff. Due to the resulting reduction in their pension commitments for the next thirty years, the profitability of the bank will be significantly improved this year. As a result, the surviving partners have awarded themselves a special bonus to reflect the improved financial standing of Goldman-Sachs."

Anita Blanton brushed her hair out of her eyes. "Well, nothing to be surprised at there I suppose." She looked away for a moment and her eyes widened. With a level of relish in her voice, she then resumed. "A late breaking piece of news. The deceased partners and senior staff of Goldmans-Sachs Bank have applied for a restraining order against the living partners and senior staff, requesting that they be restrained from awarding themselves a bonus using the assets of the bank pension fund. The deceased members of staff claim that the terms of their contracts do not stipulate that they will lose rights to their pensions by dying and that they are entitled to continuance of their normal pension payments. They also claim that they are being discriminated against simply because they are dead and that they are fully entitled to any bonus payments that are made to living bank members. They are requesting the ACLU take up this case on their behalf.

"Attorneys for the deceased members of Goldmans-Sachs, the law firm of Bleedum, Grabbit and Runne, have also filed suit before the Federal Court asking for an injunction against the Securities Exchange Commission prohibiting the SEC from cancelling the trading licenses of the deceased Goldman-Sachs employees. Filing the action, attorney William Crook said 'Being dead is no reason why somebody should not be a good banker.' The case is expected to go to the Supreme Court before any resolution is reached."

"Yes, Anita, but whose Supreme Court? There's a lot of dead Justices in Hell. They could end up claiming jurisdiction."

"Don't ask me Brandon. I just read the news. On to our next item. With the first oil supplies arriving from Hell, the civilian oil price dropped below three hundred dollars a barrel today for the first time in almost two years. . . . . "

 

[LTR]

Maybe I'm being overly sensitive but the Israeli stuff does keep triggering me...

"Gunners, ready, firing. . . . Now." Tyson squeezed the firing button for the four .50s mounted on the fuselage sides and head the guns starting to hammer. The top-turret guns and the .30 in the nose followed a split second later, adding their share to the hail of bullets that stirred up a white fountain just aft of the submarine's stern. He lifted the nose slightly and walked the long burst along the submarine's hull, dropping the nose again as the tracers tore into the bridge structure. He was able to hold the fire there for only a second or so before he had to climb out. As Heavenly Body climbed away, Tyson started to pull her around, hearing the waist and tail guns adding their contribution to the mayhem that had just been unleashed below.

"Payback for the Liberty." Perdue's voice had a grim satisfaction in it.

Seeing this induced an automatic eyeroll in me, because of all of the Israel dunking that happened before. So it's more of an "Okay Boomer" type of moment... then this happened...

"Here she comes!" Perdue's voice was straining with excitement. The two P-3s had made their drops and there had been a nail-biting delay before the pair of oil-stained white towers of seawater announced the hits. Then, the sea seemed to have started boiling as the shock wave had reflected off the seabed and erupted upwards. Now, the sea had boiled again as the submarine blew her ballast tanks in a desperate attempt to get to the surface. The dark green shape arched upwards in the middle of the spray, the sunlight surrounding her with rainbows that gave an almost supernatural aura to the scene. Then the hatches fore and aft of the sail started to open and men started to heave themselves out. Already, yellow life rafts were expanding from their containers on the deck.

"And here we go boys and girls." Tyson was already diving on the submarine, his four nose-mounted .50 caliber machine guns spraying bullets into Tekuma's crew as they tried to abandon the sinking submarine. Heavenly Body's twin .50s in her top turret was firing as well, only Trudy laFonteyn continued her burst as the B-25 swept across her target and continued to pour long bursts into the crew as it started to circle the wreck. She was joined by one of the waist gunners and between them they mowed down the submariners. That was what aircraft like the AC-130 did, they circled their target, mowing down the enemy. It was good, if unexpected, training for laFonteyn.

“A bit harsh that.” Perdue’s instincts as a mariner were overcoming his loathing for the crew of this submarine and what they had done. Beneath them, the submarine was obviously sinking, its stern was underwater and the bows were rising as flooding aft pulled her under. That made her crew fellow seamen in distress and the slaughter as the machine guns mowed them down was repugnant to him. He knew the rationale, submarines carried shoulder-fired anti-aircraft missiles and it only needed one man to bring down a fabulously expensive maritime patrol aircraft and its crew. It still just seemed wrong to him and he was glad when Heavenly Body ran out of ammunition for her top turret and waist guns.

Wait... so the rationale of machine gunning submariners fleeing their sinking ship is because they carry shoulder-fired anti-aircraft missiles? Is that a thing? I'm not a sailor so I have no idea but it sounds incredibly suspicious, especially for a submarine. Are they afraid that some Submariners are going to break into some armory, grab the giant surface to air missile launcher, drag it out of a hatch, hop into a raft, all while the Submarine can go asinkin with alarming rapidity and then take a couple lock on shots with their soaking wet million dollar launcher?

Maybe they do? I guess I don't know, it just seems unfeasible. Like if that's the rationale to machine gun survivors, I would imagine there are less exceptional cases where you could also "rationalize" machine gunning the survivors.

I could maybe understand if they were machine gunning them all in order to capture them and interrogate them on the Hell side later, but it's not that convincing and it wasn't the rationale brought up either.

So yeah, just had to get that off my chest.

 

[PsihoKekec]

I think somebody up the chain of command decided that they don't want a hassle of live prisoners that they would need to prosecute for murder of more than hundred thousand people and the MANPAD threat was just the excuse to do it, as machine gunning shipwrecked sailors is still considered a major tabu.

Due to the resulting reduction in their pension commitments for the next thirty years, the profitability of the bank will be significantly improved this year. As a result, the surviving partners have awarded themselves a special bonus to reflect the improved financial standing of Goldman-Sachs.

the law firm of Bleedum, Grabbit and Runne

There is being hamfisted and there is being hamfisted with a gusto.

Being dead is no reason why somebody should not be a good banker.

Some would even say that being dead is the only way to be a good banker.

 

[LTR]

Interrogation Room, DIMO(N) Field Facility, Fort Bragg, North Carolina

"I have nothing to say." Kathryn Branch had been left with little to hold on to in her life. Her family were either dead or under arrest, her faith had been shattered with the conquest of Hell and the war against Heaven. The long spell in a woman's prison had robbed her of her values and self-respect. She'd even lost the 'modest' clothing she'd worn from choice. Now, she had to wear a standard women's prison overalls, orange and cheap. All she did have left was her dogmatic refusal to answer questions and to that she clung desperately.

"Now that is unfortunate." Agent-In-Charge 'Kamikaze' Smith was being cautious but the evidence gained here was not intended to be presented in court so the usual rules did not apply. "Several other nations have expressed an interest in interviewing you so we may well have to extradite you to them."

"You can't threaten me. The judge said . . . . "

"That applies to a court hearing only. Anyway, if we hand you over to another country, what happens there is entirely up to their legal system. You may have heard of 'extraordinary rendition'. By the way, don’t think that dying gets you off the hook. We'll just be waiting for you at the other side and will carry on where we left off. One way or another Kathryn, we are going to get to the bottom of this. Unless you know you're going to Heaven of course. We haven't kicked the gates open there. Yet. But, you won't need to worry about that, you are on your way to Hell."

"No I am not! Hell is for those who turned their backs on the True Faith. The Faithful are exempt." The words came out in a rush, an affirmation of belief that revealed desperation as much as anything else.

"Really? That's not what Yahweh said. He said all humans and that's what he meant. Ever since we've been occupying Hell, we've compared those who die here with those who turn up there. They match exactly, no exceptions. You're going to Hell, Kathryn, only question is when and how you get there. And how you spend the time between. I understand that Indonesia is one of the places demanding your extradition. Prisons are pretty bad in Indonesia you know. You really want to spend the rest of your life screwing the guards for extra fish-heads with your rice?"

"You can't threaten me like this."

"In case you didn’t notice, I just did. Anyway, you might be right, Michael-Lan promised you entry to Heaven didn't he?"

Kathryn Branch was sobbing. All the humiliation and abuse she had suffered in prison was catching up with her and it overwhelmed her. Even more overwhelming was the fear of much worse to come. She had believed that nothing could be worse than her present incarceration but logically she understood that she could be doing far worse. Now it appeared she would be. Mixed in with all that was something that she rigidly denied even to herself, something that contradicted everything she had been indoctrinated with since childhood. She was being betrayed by those she had worshipped.

"Michael-Lan promised me nothing. He just said that it was my duty to stand by the True Faith. My duty."

"Well, that tells us what you would have found yourself doing in Hell." Smith leaned back in his seat. "Have you heard of a man called Robert E Lee?"

Branch shook her head through her tears, then stopped as the name registered. "The great general in the War of Northern Aggression?"

"I wouldn’t have phrased it quite like that but that's the one. Well, he's been recovered and survived his ordeal quite well. You know what that ordeal was Kathryn? No? He spent the years between his death and his rescue rolling a giant boulder around. One only just within his ability to move. He couldn't see where he was going so every so often he would collide with another boulder and be half-crushed when it rolled back over him. Well, we asked Abigor what gives? Why did he get that while most soldiers went to the river of fire or the toxic swamps. He said it was because those who got to push the boulders were the ones who allowed their obedience to duty to overcome their sense of what was right. I guess the boulder represented the weight of their sense of duty and the collisions what happened when their sense of duty collided with somebody else's. Just my guess there of course. You were on your way there as well I'd guess. You still can go there, if you really believe that divine command is absolute. That ring is proving to be one of the quickest to empty but it's still there. Like the idea behind it."

Branch shook her head and started crying again. It was one thing to discuss Heaven and Hell in theoretical terms, no matter how vivid the imagery used by the preachers. To be told precisely what her fate was to be and the realization that there had been nothing she could do to avoid it was quite different. It had a reality, a concrete absoluteness that weighed down upon her. She could imagine, all too clearly, just how Robert E Lee had felt, pushing that rock around.

"Michael never promised me anything. When the message came, we all laid down on our beds and waited to die. My father, my mother everybody. Just as we had been ordered. My father told us all not to worry, that we were the righteous and faithful and that the condemnation to Hell did not apply to us. We would be part of the chosen, the saved. I remember laying there, hearing our dog whining outside, then the Archangel Michael himself had come down and stood at the end of my bed. He said that I had been chosen for a very special mission, to watch over the humans who were Left Behind. He told me that there were a very special group of humans chosen for this role. We would report back to him on what was going on and what was happening down here. When I was assigned to DIMO(N), I told Michael everything that I could find out about the research going on there. Eventually, he asked me the exact position of the facility within the base so it could be attacked.

"So you betrayed us all, for nothing?" Smith was curious about that.

"I am not the betrayer. You are, If you had not turned your back on God, none of this would have happened."

"Well, it's pretty lucky we did then, isn’t it? Take her away." The last three words were spoken to the guards who were waiting. Smith caught the way they grinned at each other and the roughness with which Branch was pulled from her seat and hustled out. Imprisonment was obviously not going well with for her.

A few minutes later, he was in the Director's office, relating the conversation to Colonel Paschal. "Anyway, she's quite emphatic she was promised nothing in exchange for her treachery."

"And you believe her?"

"Certainly, yes. She's pretty much broken. I don’t think the other women in the correctional facility have much sympathy for her. She looks pretty roughed up. Face and arms bruised, walks hunched up as if her stomach hurts her."

"Yitzchak claims he was offered the world and everything in it. Well, Archangel status and lots of other goodies as well."

"That's not the only difference. Branch, we can see that the archangel who approached her inspired great loyalty from her. She's taken the abuse at the prison and the threat of being sent to an Indonesian prison, well, not quite in her stride but she's taken it. And when she speaks, its to reassure herself, not inform us. Yitzchak, he sings like a bird and is almost unhealthily interested in making a deal with us. There's no real loyalty there, just somebody on the take."

"So he's smarter."

"No, it's a totally different style of working. A totally different relationship. Michael-Lan seems to inspire loyalty in the people who work for him. In some ways, he's like a good Mafia gang boss, he gives enough respect to the people who look to him for leadership for them to give him their loyalty in return."

"That's not just Mafia bosses, that's any good manager."

"Probably, but I spent most of my career so far chasing gang bosses. There's two quite different styles here, I wouldn't be surprised if Yitzchak was taking his orders from somebody else. Now, does the style of the archangel he reported to sound familiar? Lots of promises, of a happy eternal life thereafter, all he demands in exchange is absolute loyalty?"

"Sounds like the spiel that Yahweh gave to us for so long."

"Exactly, radically different approach from Michael who is supposed to be running this war. Doesn't that make you think there is a rift between those two? And if that's the case, we have a situation we can exploit."

Montmartre Club, Eternal City, Heaven.

"Happy Maion?"

It was a rhetorical question, Maion was half-dancing around her apartment luxuriating in the soft, silky feel of her new robes. They were better-quality than anything she had had in her life before and simply wearing them was a delight to her. A delight she made very obvious to Lemuel who was standing by the doors watching her. In fact, it had been made very clear to her that she would be "delighted" with whatever Lemuel gave her just as she would regard whatever allowance he chose to provide her with as a princely sum. The fact that his gifts were so suitable and her allowance so generous just made acting so much easier.

"I am so, so happy Lemuel-Lan." And she genuinely was. The contrast of her life now with that she had lived before was as marked as the difference between night and day. That applied to her time before she'd been introduced to the club as well. Once she had faced a life that had seemed to promise little but drudgery, making reverential dances for Yahweh and looking after some junior angel's home. Now, she had a fine apartment, expensive possessions and a life to match them. "Thank you for everything." Thank Michael-Lan and Charmeine-Lan as well she thought for without them I wouldn't be here. I owe them everything for without their guidance and lessons, I would not have this wonderful home and this wonderful master. But I can never tell Lemuel that.

"I must tell you something Maion. I have expelled my ex-wife Onniel from our house. She has gone, I believe to another part of the Eternal City to hide her shame."

"I have heard this." Maion thought quickly, reflecting on the lessons she had received from Charmeine-Lan. Don't gloat, don't seem avaricious, don’t seem to take advantage of misfortune. Always be sympathetic and supportive. Never speak ill of anybody and then your lovers will assume that you never speak ill of them. "It has been common talk. It must have been very hard for you Lemuel-Lan, and I feel so sorry for her as well. I hope she finds happiness in her future." And again, Maion found it easy to speak the words sincerely for they echoed what she was actually feeling.

Lemuel-Lan-Michael was touched by her concern. "Your kindness does you credit Maion-Lan-Lemuel and I honor you for it. Now, I must leave and start my day's work. I will see you again in a few hours."

Maion dropped to her knees and swept her wings over her head as Lemuel left. When she heard the doors close behind her, she rose and started to make sure the apartment was perfect for his return. The food had to be packed away, his favorite dishes prepared and everything made spotlessly clean. She was so busy working on her apartment, she almost missed the knock on the door. When she opened it, She dropped to her knees instantly for Michael-Lan was waiting outside.

"How's it going Maion. Are you happy here? Nice apartment by the way, Lemuel is obviously looking after you well."

"He is indeed Noble One. I could not ask for better."

"Drop the Noble One, Maion. You're part of my clan now and formality bores me. I get too much of that from Yah-yah." Despite his genial attitude, Michael-Lan watched Maion sharply to see how she would react to the mild blasphemy. To his delight, she flushed with embarrassment but there was a half-concealed smile as well. "By the way, are you getting your supplies of stuff properly?"

"Yes, Noble . . . . Yes, Michael-Lan. But I am confused? Do I not have to pay for it?" That was, after all, the need that had brought her into this life.

"Not now you are a member of my clan, no. Payment is only for outsiders. As long as Lemuel is your master, just as I am Lemuel's, then your supplies are a privilege of the name you bear, Maion-Lan-Lemuel-Lan-Michael." And that binds you firmly to us both, Michael-Lan added to himself.

"Now Lemuel-Lan has expelled his ex-wife Onniel from his home, he has invited me to go there. Not to stay of course. Is this permissible?"

"Of course it is." Michael-Lan's voice was magnaminous and hearty. "You are not a prisoner here, you may come and go as you please." That stuff you shoot between your toes keeps you a prisoner here far better that bars and walls. "But, I counsel you Maion, take care. There are violent forces at work in the Eternal City and your relationship with Lemuel might endanger you both. And Onniel bears you a great grudge. She has run to He Who Is Above Us All himself, demanding that you be punished for taking Lemuel from her. So be careful."

Maion put her hand over her mouth. "Surely The Lordly Father Of Us All would not concern Himself with as insignificant a person as I?"

Of course he won't, you silly goose. I doubt if he knows you exist. And Onniel has been discretely picked up and now sits in a bare, featureless room, forbidden contact with anybody and allowed only to reflect on her sins. Which are many, I should have freed Lemuel from her years ago. "I do not know Maion, The One Above All is a law unto Himself. And I believe he smiles upon Onniel. So, I counsel again, take care little one. You make my friend Lemuel happy and he deserves that."

"Thank you Michael-Lan. I will heed your words and act upon them."

"That is good. Now, heed these and remember them also. Maion, you are part of my clan. Whatever happens, never forget that. If you get into trouble, if you are in danger, hold fast, and remember I will be coming to your rescue. You are one of us, Maion-Lan-Lemuel, one of my people and that means I will always be there to aid you. If you need help, it is for me to succor you. Leaders serve their followers Maion, just as much as followers serve their leaders. For your own safety, let me or Charmeine-Lan know when you plan to go to Lemuel's home and we will take care of you."

Maion dropped to her knees again and swept her wings forward. Michael's words echoed in her head and filled her body with a warm glow for she sensed the truth behind them. She belonged now, she was a part of his clan.

Third Legion, New Roman Republic, Hell

"Salve Tribune Madeuce. How does the Third Legion prosper in the service of the Senate and the People?"

"Well, First Consul. Soon, with your permission, we will demonstrate our skills." Tribune Madeuce had to get his mind around the formal statements that were expected and the style of phrasing required by the standards of New Rome. Gaius Julius had made it clear that the Army served the Senate and the People, never the ruling Consuls. He had read the histories of what Rome had become after his death and pinpointed the Praetorian Guard as being one of the primary causes of the downfall. One amongst many of course, but he was determined to eliminate all those that lay within his reach.

In front of him, a group of armored personnel carriers moved on to the exercise ground, dodging from cover to cover. Madeuce recognize them instantly, a Polish derivative of the BMP-2 built especially for the daemons. Three extra suspension wheels to allow for the extra weight, a higher and longer body shell to provide protection for the crew and an open passenger compartment. Armament was three 23mm cannon, one at the front of the passenger compartment, the other two on its sides. All three guns could fire forward, alternatively they provided a 360 degree field of fire around each vehicle. Derivatives of the same vehicle had 120mm automatic mortars in the back. Unlike the infantry vehicles, the mortar carriers and the other specialist support equipment was crewed by second-life humans.

Overhead, Madeuce heard the howl of inbound artillery. Explosions hammered at the "angelic defensive position" droning it in fire and steel "Sir, we're rationing fire, one gun is representing each battery of four. Cuts down expense."

"Very good Tribune. The gunners?"

"A mixture of Second-Life humans, mostly artillerymen we have recruited, and daemons. The daemons do the heavy lifting, feeding the guns. Their strength means we can hold a slightly higher instantaneous rate of fire and a much higher sustained rate of fire than a human artillery battery. I wouldn't care to pitch us against an MLRS battery though."

The armored personnel carriers were raking the "enemy" position with bursts of cannon fire, the tracer rounds lacing it with fire. Then the artillery fire ceased and there was a sudden blast of fire from the mortars. Simultaneously, the daemons in the infantry units rose to their feet and charged across the ground, their chromed bayonets flashing in the dim red light, for all the world looking as if they were already stained with the blood of their enemies. That was a human perception though, the wild primary colors of daemonic blood were still baffling scientists. The charge went home, covered by the fire from the mortars, machine guns and auto-cannon of the support units. The daemons cheered, the 'battle' was won.

A few minutes later, the display force was drawn up for inspection. Gaius Julius walked down the lines of infantry, giving the impression to each human and daemon that he had, just for a second, stopped and noted them individually. Caesar stopped in front of one daemon rifleman and looked carefully at his turn-out. "Well presented, excellent turn-out. Your name is?"

The daemon smacked his chest with his fist then stretched out his arm in an almost-perfect Roman salute. "I am Tesserarius Dripankeothorofenex, of the Third Legion, First Consul."

Caesar gravely returned the salute. "And why do you fight in the Third Legion Dripankeothorofenex?"

"For the Senate and the People of Rome, First Consul."

Caesar grinned at the reply the daemon had obviously been carefully taught. Then, he dropped his voice to make the conversation private. "And why do you really fight?"

Dripankeothorofenex grinned in return. "Because it's fun, First Consul. The human way of fighting is much more enjoyable than just lining up with tridents."

"Good man." Caesar raised his voice again so that it would carry around the parade. "An excellent turn-out and an enthusiastic soldier of good morale. Tribune Madeuce, promote this daemon to Duplicarius. Soldiers of the Third Legion, I am pleased to tell you that you will soon be assigned to join the Human Expeditionary Army for its assault on Heaven. Let the arrogant Angelic Host know what befalls those who stand against the Legions of the New Roman Republic!"

 

[LTR]

Conference Room, The Senate, New Rome, New Roman Republic, Hell

"Every time we tried to change the design, they beat us with canes." The head of the sales delegation from Bombardier Aviation spoke with emphasized ruefulness.

"I did not think your companies treated people like that." Gaius Julius Caesar was confused by the statement which didn’t seem to match anything he'd learned recently.

"Gaius, every so often an expression enters the language and becomes widely used for a while until everybody gets bored with it. This was one, I believe it started in the Air Force and has spread everywhere. It means that a certain course of action or idea is strongly discouraged by those in authority. They don’t really get beaten with canes." Jade Kim turned her attention to the man from Bombardier. "What changes did you want to make?"

"The ones we had to make were mostly in the air intake system. The original Hawker Hunter had narrow wing-root intakes. By the time we had installed the air filters, the air flow to the engine was so reduced that it caused the Avon to be running on the verge of stalling. So we had to enlarge the air intakes to compensate. It helped that the original intakes were very inefficient by modern standards and our computer design facilities were able to clean them up a lot. All in all, even with the filters in place, we are getting good air flow to the engine and the performance penalty is much less than aircraft that had the filters added on afterwards. So, we thought by going to a thinner wing, we would get better performance. That's when they beat us.

"Once we lost that battle, we changed the underwing hard points as well. We were lucky, there were 48 Hunters in flying condition and the RAF stood up an entire wing equipped with them. So, we have plenty of flying specimens to work with and a lot of the tooling was available. Here in Canada, Bombardier got the job of setting up a production line for them. The Avon was available, Rolls-Royce was selling them for power generation until 2006 so all the equipment for the engines was available. We took the Swiss-modified Hunter FGA.9 as a baseline. That gave us two fuselage hard points, we recommend they be used for drop tanks, and six wing hardpoints. The inner pair are stressed for 2,000 pounds, the outer four are rigged for 1,000 pounds each. Total warload, 8,000 pounds plus the four 30mm cannon in the nose."

"Boeing want us to buy the A-45. What do you say about that?" Caesar was watching carefully and learning.

"The A-45 is a very good aircraft. Of course, it costs three times as much as the Bombardier Hunter, has a long waiting list of clients and doesn’t carry the warload our aircraft does. It has five hardpoints, we have eight and it has only a single 20mm gun. It's 70 miles per hour slower and only has half the rate of climb of the Hunter. What is more, as a non-American company, we can offer incentives that Boeing cannot equal. For example, we can take payment in kind. Oil for example, or minerals. Our bid includes a number of counter-trade scenarios that may interest you. Finally, Hunter spares are made in a lot of countries, you won't be tied to us as suppliers. I believe you are having trouble getting spare parts from the Americans already?"

"Spares and personnel. It's becoming much harder to recruit skilled second-life people for our armed forces." Kim paused for a second. "What's the order backlog on the Bombardier Hunter like? You're not one of the big aircraft companies."

"We're building for the Canadian Air Force only at the moment. If you sign up now, a letter of intent will do, we'll allocate you places on the production line, alternating with RCAF aircraft. First aircraft to be delivered six months after we receive the order. That's assuming you want the same avionics fit of course. A letter of intent commits you to nothing until the terms and conditions of the contract are finalized."

Caesar looked at Kim who nodded almost imperceptibly. "Very well Mr Clarkson. The New Roman Republic will issue you with a letter of intent for 42 Bombardier Hunters, 36 single-seaters and 6 twin-seat aircraft. Payment via negotiated counter-trade. Also, of course, retirement here when you die if that is your wish."

A very happy Bombardier sales team left the conference room. After they had left, there was silence for a couple of minutes before Kim broke it. "Well Gaius, which one of us is going to tell Boeing they can take their A-45 and stuff it?"

Training Camp, 1st Mechanized Infantry Battalion (Demonic), Dis, Hell

"Now that is more like it." Sergeant Anderson watched the daemonic infantry raking the "enemy position" with rifle fire while the human-crewed support weapons hammered it with their mortars and cannon. Although he didn’t realize it, he was watching almost exactly the same display as had been given to Caesar a day earlier. Beside him, Aeneas and Ori watched the attack going home. The daemon infantry rose from their positions and charged while the humans continued to support them. They overran the target position and the exercise ended.

"It works." Ori seemed slightly surprised at the demonstration. "I was expecting the daemons to run into our supporting fire."

"They will." Anderson was uncompromising. "We'll get them to work on a rolling barrage next. That's when we drop a line of artillery rounds across the target area and advance it towards the enemy in small increments. The infantry go in directly behind that barrage. We'll know if they're following the shells closely enough when we start to take casualties from our own artillery fire."

"That's harsh." Aeneas didn’t like what he was hearing very much.

"Do it right and we take fewer casualties from our own fire than we would have done if there's a greater distance between the artillery and the infantry. The one thing we don’t want is the enemy recovering from the barrage before the infantry are on top of them. That happened at the Somme and it cost us 60,000 casualties.

Aeneas whistled softly. "Sixty thousand casualties in a single battle. We never had anything like that."

"No, sixty thousand on the first day of the battle. It went on for months."

There was a grim silence at that number, highlighted by the roar of diesels in the background as the armored personnel carriers picked up their infantry. Eventually, Anderson picked up the conversation.

"We're running out of time as well. The Army will be moving soon and I hear we'll be attached to the Commonwealth Army as a reserve unit. Along with Caesar's Third Legion."

"We know a way into Heaven?" Ori was surprised.

"Not yet, but we've been hit by the Seven Bowls of Wrath. The next step is the invasion. As soon as they open a portal from Heaven to Earth, we'll have our way in."

The Montmartre Club, Eternal City, Heaven.

"Is everybody clear on what they have to do?" Michael-Lan looked around the room where the ringleaders in his conspiracy had assembled. They were nodding cautiously, all too aware of the dreadful chance they were taking.

Leilah-Lan raised one hand. "Is there any particular music the bands need to play?"

"Something bouncing and martial. Wagner's Ride of the Valkyries will be good, or Holst's Mars, the Bringer of War. But, let Glenn, Benny and the rest make their pick. They're the experts. We need to get every one of us thinking in harmony, completely synchronized so I can pull in the power. You know that Yah-yah outclasses all of us individually. We have to stand together in harmony and isolate him from any support if we are going to pull this off."

"When do we go? Will they get time to practice?" Leilah was worried, badly so.

"I honestly don’t know. This is the frightening bit, the timing is out of our control. We can set the ball rolling as soon as the pieces are in place but the timing from that point onwards? I have no idea how fast the humans will react, how quickly they can get here or how they will arrive. Yet it's those factors that determine when the coup will take place. Get the bands started now on their rehearsals, tell them it's for a battle of the bands. Say the last one was so popular we're going to make it a regular feature."

"Should we tell them what is really up when we start the coup?"

Michael thought carefully. "Yes. They have a right to know. They don’t have much of a choice in going along but Yah-yah won’t see it that way. If this all goes wrong, they'll be torn apart with the rest of us. So, yeah, tell them what we're doing and why. But only when we're starting, no need to give them time to think."

The group looked nervously at each other. This coup had been in the planning and preparation stage for centuries but now, what had once seemed an abstract and distant possibility, stared them in the face.

"Once the humans arrive, Jesus takes Yah-yah's personal guard into the attack right? What about the human levies." Rafael-Lan was trying to match Michael in running through the available permutations of events.

Michael smiled wryly. "I slipped up there, thankfully Yah-yah didn’t notice. I ordered the preparation of the human levies almost by instinct. I forgot that doing so was telling Yah-yah that the fighting would take place here in Heaven. The human levies can't fight on Earth. That was a bad mistake, but he missed it, I think. Jesus will take the Guard and the levies in. This attack has got to look good. I just hope the humans bring their artillery and aircraft in with them. We need one of their clean sweeps badly. Jesus has to die and I want that guard torn apart. The defeat of the Guard and its levies has got to be stunning and we need the humans to fatten our casualty list."

"What if the humans lose?" Rafael-Lan was right, Michael reflected, this was one of the key turning points in the plan. So much depended on the humans winning this battle, winning it decisively and in the right place.

"Then we're all dead. All of us, the whole Angelic Host. The humans will pull out all the stops and use every weapon they have. Believe me on this, they have some doozies they've only just started to deploy. But, it's unlikely they will lose, very unlikely indeed. Raffie, part of your job is to make sure Jesus is really beautifully misinformed. He's got to go in dumb. Don't let him be clever."

Rafael-Lan nodded. Michael looked around the room again. "Anything else?"

Charmeine-Lan hesitantly put her hand up. "Maion, she told me that she will be going out to Lemuel's tomorrow night."

"Then we have our starting point. I'll make sure I'm over at Lemuel's palace tomorrow. I can find some League of Holy Court business that will keep me there."

"You will move quickly for her?" Charmeine-Lan was upset at her part in this, She knew it was necessary but she didn't like it at all. "She's a nice girl underneath it all. Don’t leave her longer than you have to."

Michael-Lan nodded. "I'll get it sorted as fast as possible. Until then. . . . ."

DIMO(N) Briefing Room, Pentagon, Arlington V.A.

"The invasion is coming?" The question from Defense Secretary Warner was dead neutral, without inflexion. The long-awaited invasion from Heaven had to be due soon and when it came it would be a perfect example of the cliched mixture of problems and opportunities. It would mean a major battle on Earth but would also be the way the route into Heaven could be opened.

"Oh yes, its coming." Norman Baines was firm on that point. In some ways, this would be the culmination of his life's work. The end of days, the final battle. The millennium. It had lots of names and he'd studied all of them for years. Now, he was going to see them. A truly unexpected privilege. "We've had all seven bowls, we've seen off the Leopard Beast and the Scarlet Beast. Now, it’s the Lamb Beast, the Dragon and the invasion. Not necessarily in that order."

"I don't suppose the ancient mythologies say where?" Warner thought that was probably too much to hope for.

"Well, Sir, yes they do. The plains of Megiddo, Armageddon. But, Abigor's host tried that and they walked into the best army we had fielded. But, all these prophecies are centered around the Middle East. If it isn’t one part, it'll be another."

"Doesn't matter anyway. Dave Petraeus has the HEA waiting in Hell. As soon as the Heavenly Host portals in, he's going to portal three army groups in all around it. It's going to be a slaughterhouse." General Bannistre was as non-committal as everybody else.

"General, Sir, I must warn you. The Heavenly Host is a lot more powerful than Abigor's Army was." Baines cranked some numbers quickly in his head. It's likely to have more than twenty million angels in its combat formations."

General Bannistre grinned sympathetically. "Don’t sweat it son. Dave blasted his way into Hell and stormed it with 30 divisions. We're landing three hundred and eighty divisions around the Angelic Host. We'll only be outnumbered four to one. And there'll be no holding back this time, we'll be hitting them with nukes, gas, whatever floats our boat. We weren't ready for Abigor, but we've had a year, 18 months nearly, to get ready for the Host."

"And they'll pay for lying to us, deceiving us, betraying us." President Obama's voice from the end of the briefing table was calm and measured. "Our ammunition stocks are adequate?"

"They are indeed Mister President. We're back to where we were in 2007 at last. Adequate, not over-generous but the production lines are rolling fast. We won’t need so long to replace this lot after we've fired it all off."

The laughter than ran around the room had a vicious edge to it. "And so we should, with a 1.6 trillion dollar defense budget." That put a sad note into Obama's voice, There was so much he had wanted to do, so many changes he wanted to make. Instead, he was presiding over the biggest defense budget in American history, one that was likely to cripple the economy for decades to come. All his plans had come to nothing and he was all too sure he would go down in American history as a wartime leader only.

"Why haven't we seen the Lamb Beast or the Dragon yet Baines?" General Bannistre was worried about that.

"I don’t know Sir. But I have an odd theory. We've been assuming that they were giant monsters like the Scarlet Beast and the Leopard Beast. But suppose they're not. Suppose, just for one, Revelation is allegorical on this one point. The Lamb Beast speaks like a lamb but breathes fire when it has to. Doesn't that sound like Jesus? The lamb of God and all that. And the Dragon Beast, of omnipotent power, could well be Yahweh himself. It's only a theory of course but it would explain why they haven't turned up yet."

"What happens if Yahweh doesn’t invade? Do we have a plan B?" Secretary of State Clinton put the question that was on the back of everybody's mind.

"We do Madam Secretary but we don't like it. It involves punching portals at random until we get lucky. Of course, we could run into something we can't handle very easily that way. That's why we've avoided doing so up to now."

Hillary Clinton nodded. "Ph'nglui mglw'nafh Cthulhu R'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn."

Norman Baines made a comic play of going faint and grabbing a chair for support. "Madam Secretary don't ever say that. HE might hear you."

 

[LTR]

The Montmartre Club, Eternal City, Heaven

It had been a long time since Maion-Lan-Lemuel had been outside the Club. At first, she had wanted to leave, she had even half-heartedly planned to escape, but the opportunity had never really presented itself. So, she had resigned herself to her new life and tried to adapt to it as best she could. In the process, she had learned of its advantages and they were not just restricted to the supply of white powder that she needed so badly. As her familiarity with her new life had grown, she had come to enjoy being the center of attraction and desire. Then of course, the lessons she had been patiently taught by Charmeine-Lan and the other angels who worked at the club. Lessons that she had used to catch Lemuel and persuade him to become her patron. She knew very well that Lemuel's patronage of her was part of some larger scheme Michael was concocting but to her that didn't matter. All that she cared about was that she had a much better life now than anything she could have hoped for earlier. It hadn't seemed so at the time but Michael-Lan had done her a great service.

She closed her eyes briefly and then checked herself in the great mirrors that marked the entry to the Club. She checked her hair to make sure that it was styled to perfection in a manner that Lemuel found particularly becoming. Her make-up was perfectly in place and that alone was a mark of how far she had come for few female angels used it. Her robe was new, perfect and draped around her just so. She checked her jewelry to make sure it was all items that Lemuel had given her. A quick turn showed that her wing feathers had been groomed and arranged to perfection. She nodded, she was looking as near-perfect as she could be and was that meant she was honoring Lemuel properly.

"Don’t worry, you look fine." The voice came from behind her and she turned carefully to face the speaker. Leilah-Lan-Charmeine was standing there, complete in what Maion thought of as her professional outfit. It was as different from the traditional Angelic robes as was possible, all of it black leather with dress and spiked boots glistening with metal buckles. Her wing feathers had been dyed black as well and the general effect was intimidating. Which was its purpose of course.

"So do you, you look . . . . different." Maion stumbled, looking for the right word for she knew that Leilah was one of Michael's close associates.

Leilah giggled. "I know what you mean. Still, its what my particular clients like." Then she got very serious, very quickly. "Be careful Maion, things have changed in Heaven since you were outside the club last. There was another bombing last night, at a the Temple of Enduring Adulation. Eight angels and a lot of humans killed." And one of the angels was a major-league Yahweh supporter. One of many killed in the bombing campaign that is rocking The Eternal City. The League of Holy Court still hasn't worked out that mixed in with the miscellaneous dead are all of the most prominent Yahweh loyalists. But then they wouldn’t, not with their chief investigator besotted with you.

"Oh no." Maion put her hand to her mouth.

"So be careful. Where are you going?"

"My patron Lemuel has asked me to his palace for our evening meal and to listen to reverential music."

Yeah right little one. And the music in question will you be going ohhh-ohhh-ohhh. "That is a great honor. You have done well Maion. Now, I have one of my patrons waiting and he has been a bad, bad archangel. Enjoy your evening."

Maion watched Leilah disappear into the main body of the Club, stopping only to speak quickly with one of the messengers. Then, she took a deep breath, put her hand on one of the walls of the maze as she had been taught and started to walk out. All she had to do was to keep that hand on that wall until she came to the landmark when she would put the other hand on the other wall. And that would lead her out. As indeed it did.

The clear white light on the street was much brighter than she remembered from before her days in the Club. It hurt her eyes and she was afraid that it would make them water and that would spoil her makeup. Still, she was out of the Club, walking on the streets in a way she had thought she never would again. Once she had blamed Michael for what had happened to her but no more. It was her fault that she had been inside for so long, if she had worked harder in the club and been more agreeable in her earlier days, she would have found her patron sooner. She had brought her problems on herself, she understood that now. Michael-Lan had been kind to stand by her, just as she knew he always would.

She paused quickly to orientate herself and set off down the Boulevard that would take her to Lemuel's palace. She had briefly contemplated taking a chariot to carry her there but her mind, still not quite used to her new status, had rebelled at the expense. It wasn't as if the distance was very great or that one got dirty walking on the streets of the Eternal City. In any case, the walk would be good exercise and she appreciated the chance to look around. One thing that struck her was the way the other female angels on the street looked at her. Curiously, as if she was some strange creature. Some with envy, some with jealousy, a few with outright hate. Stealthily, she stole another glance into a great sheet of precious stone that reflected the street scene in front of it. She couldn’t see why she was the object of interest, she was more attractive than the other female angels, but that was due to her makeup, not any fineness of features or symmetry of face. She was a bit better dressed than most and her jewelry was better, that was all. So jealousy and dislike? Quite inexplicable.

Maion became aware of something else as she walked down the street. There was an air of fear around. That wasn't quite right, it wasn't fear so much as tension, perhaps apprehension. People were on their guard, ready to take cover if there should be a sudden blast. But, there was more to it than that. With a degree of shock Maion realized that they were also watching each other, wondering if the angel next to them was the informer whose word could cause them to be whisked away to an unknown fate. As her appreciation of the situation sank in, Maion found herself wanting to be back in the safety of the Montmartre Club.

Ironically, it was probably the realization that the Eternal City was no longer the safe, trusting place it had once been that caused Maion to drop what little guard she had up. She started to hurry along the street, passing the ruin that had once been a temple before it had been bombed. Very conveniently bombed because that was where the ambush came. It was swift, sure and certain. Maion felt a heavy cloth being thrown over her head and strong arms wrapped around her waist. The attack was so unexpected and so unprecedented that her first reaction was to think that her hairstyle would be ruined and her make-up smeared. By the time she realized that she was genuinely in serious danger, her arms and wings were pinned and she was being dragged into the ruined temple. She felt herself smothering in the heavy folds of the cloth and tried to fight her way clear but the grip holding her was too strong. Then, she felt the gentle temperate warmth of Heaven replaced by a bitter, piercing cold. Even choking in the folds of the hood over her head, the icy cold took her breath away but it only lasted for an instant before she could feel herself back in Heaven.

Maion tried to kick out but a heavy blow to her stomach left her gasping and another to the back of her neck sent her sprawling to the floor. Then, she was dragged along a stone-floored passageway and thrown through a door. The cloth over her head was pulled away but before she could look around, the door was slammed behind her. She was in a tiny room, one so small she couldn't even stretch her wings out fully. It was painted white but the only light was a single dim patch in the ceiling. Even as she watched, something was drawn across it so she was left in complete darkness.

Slums, The Eternal City, Heaven

"We have got her, Mighty Lord. Just a few minutes ago as you ordered. She was picked up on the road to the Palace of Lemuel and taken to a holding place in another part of the city, by way of the staging place in Antarctica, just as you ordered. Now, she is secure in one of our cells there." Qaphsiel-Lan-Shekinah sounded inordinately proud of himself.

"Was she hurt?" Michael-Lan asked the question tersely. The plot was under way and there was now no turning back. Uneasily, he remembered that long, long ago, another of Yahweh's primary Lieutenants, his own brother in fact, had also tried to stage a coup. And failed. But we were different people then. Yahweh wasn't the power-mad fool he is today, Satan was still alive and I was still bedazzled by the wonders Yahweh had created. And we did not have the humans to teach us how to stage coups properly.

"A little, Mighty Lord. She fought us when we got back from Antarctica so my men struck her in the stomach and again on the back of the head. Hard enough to subdue her. Now she is locked away, in complete darkness and silence. Like Onniel."

"Darkness and silence will be adequate for Onniel. They will make her pliant. But Maion is to be well-treated. Allow her light and let those guarding her speak with her. Feed her well, ask her what food she would like and if possible get it for her. She must remember she was violently abducted but well-treated once in your hands. Above all though, she is to see the faces of nobody else."

"Your words are our commands, Mighty Lord. All will be as you say."

They had damned well better be "Where are the prisoners being held?"

Qaphsiel-Lan-Shekinah gave Michael the location he had chosen. Michael-Lan took mental note of it and then took the next vital step. "You must guard that location well. Move all your people there and wait for my word. It will not be long in coming. Now, I have an urgent appointment. Get to the holding area and wait."

Lemuel's Home, Eternal City, Heaven

Michael-Lan looked at Lemuel and felt distinctly guilty. Not because he knew Maion was now sitting in a prison cell, held captive by terrorists but because he hadn't arranged for his friend to throw Onniel out and be provided with a new mate earlier. Lemuel was looking almost childishly happy as he and Michael looked through the League of Holy Court intelligence on the bombings hat continued to rock the Eternal City. Every so often, he kept sneaking a look at the time, as if he was counting the minutes until Maion arrived. In the end, his looks were so obvious that Michael reached out and shielded the time from him.

"She is that good my old friend?"

"She is, Michael. She makes me feel young and wanted. She looks after me and devotes herself to me. I would have her as mate were it not for her lowly status."

"That can be changed you know. Many of the most loyal," to me of course "will see their status raised after this is all over. So many of high status have been killed or found guilty of treason there will be many promotions to take their place. You, my old friend, will become Chayot Ha Kodesh if it is in my power to grant this. And your friend Mary, she is Hashmallim?"

"Maion, Michael. And she is only Malakhim."

"No matter, in fact it would make things easier for raising a Malakhim is certainly within my power. Let me see now, an Erelim would be about right I think." Erelim meaning valiant and courageous. If, after all this is finished, anybody dare argue that title for Maion, they will have me to answer to for never will a title have been more deserved.

"Maion? An Erelim? I don’t know what to say. Michael, that would be suitable even if I became Chayot Ha Kodesh."

"There we are then. See, such problems are easily solved. I wish these bombings were so easily unraveled."

"They have the League at a loss Michael-Lan. Every time we think we see a pattern forming, it dissolves before my eyes."

Of course it does Lemuel. The information is brought to me and I make sure the next wave of attacks contradicts that pattern. It really does help when those charged with countering a plot are those who are behind it. "This is most confusing, I will tell you Lemuel, there is a powerful mind behind this, one who has seen human tactics at work and adapted them to our environment here in Heaven. A powerful mind indeed."

"Could it be . . . Azrael?" Lemuel's voice was hushed, even as an Ophanim it was a major thing to name one of the Chayot Ha Kodesh has the mind behind the outbreak of terrorism in the Eternal City.

"Personally, I wouldn’t have thought him equal to this and he did well in the attack on New York. It needs a greater mind somehow . . . . . . " Come on, old friend, take the bait.

"But there is only one mind greater than a Chayot Ha Kodesh. That would be . .. . .. . . " The immensity of the blasphemy he had been about to commit struck Lemuel dumb.

"You are right of course. Anything else is unimaginable. It must be Azrael, Perhaps we will get the evidence we need soon."

As they spoke, Michael watched the shadows of evening lengthen and Lemuel get agitated. He passed from excitement at her coming through irritation at her lateness and then to worry about her safety. Eventually he decided it was time to act. "Lemuel, old friend, something is seriously wrong isn't it?"

"Maion is never late. If she says a time she is there on the beat. Never a second late."

I know, Charmeine spoke highly of her qualities of punctuality. "Then we had better go looking for her. If she arrives here, your staff will look after her well I am sure. We will go out to meet her. Perhaps her work held her up." Which is why, the first thing I am going to do is get telephones installed in Heaven. I'd love to have my Iphone work up here. All those apps.

"Zahuliel-Lan-Lemuel? Hear me. The Mighty Lord Michael-Lan and I are going out to look for the lady Maion. If she arrives here, make her welcome until we will return."

"I hear and obey, Most Noble Ophanim."

Michael and Lemuel inflated their flight sacs and took off, flying slowly down the main street away from Lemuel's Palace."

"Which way will she be coming old friend?"

"Along this street, I am sure."

So am I. Or she was. Below them, an officer of the League of Holy Court noted the two angels flying overhead and was about to rebuke them when he recognized them. Flying inside city limits was discouraged now but such restrictions did not apply to the Mighty General Michael-Lan and anybody he chose to have with him. A little further down the street, Lemuel saw a group of people clustered by a temple, one of those destroyed by a bombing. He waved for Michael's attention and back-winged to land by the group.

"What happened here?" As a chief investigator for the League of Holy Court, his word was law and his questions were answered. Instantly. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Michael-Lan staying back and letting him do the questioning.

"Some men grabbed a young female angel and pulled her into the ruins and then vanished."

"And you did nothing to aid her?" Lemuel was furious, in his mind it was obvious who the victim had been.

"Most Noble Ophanim, we thought it was business of the League. There have been so many arrests.. . ."

"You fools. The League does not arrest that way." He pulled a small painting of Maion from a pocket of his robes. "Was this her?"

"It was, Most Noble Ophanim."

"We'd better get back to your palace Lemuel." Michael spoke quietly. "There may be word there. This could all be a foolish misunderstanding or an error of identity. We had better get to work clearing it up."

The flight back was fast and Lemuel tore through his palace, in case Maion had arrived. But Zahuliel-Lan-Lemuel told him that nothing had been heard of her. By the time he got back, Michael-Lan was holding a scroll in his hands. "This was on your steps Lemuel. Perhaps you had better see what it is." Because I already know.

Lemuel tore the scroll open. Two bloodstained white wing feathers fell out as he read the terse note within.

"What does it say old friend?"

"It is from The League of Divine Justice. They say they have taken Maion captive and unless we release all the political prisoners by noon tomorrow, they will start to send her back, piece by piece. Starting with her nose."

Lemuel was shaking, almost on the verge of tears. Michael strode over to him and wrapped an arm around his shoulders. "Don’t worry old friend. I won't let that happen. I have people who can work miracles in this sort of situation and they'll find Maion for us."

"Who can work miracles beyond those of the Chayot Ha Kodesh Michael?"

"Humans."