Original Fiction The Salvation War - Pantheocide

[LTR]

Home of George and Rose Matthews, Cæsaraugusta, Cisalpine Gaul, New Rome, Hell

He was sitting in a cold, dark street, the constant rain soaking him to the bone while the bitter wind chilled him until every joint in his body ached. Starvation gnawed at him, cramping his stomach and making his insides clench with pain. Soon, he would have to root through the garbage for something to eat, fighting the rats for the worm and maggot-riddled fragments of food in the filthy trash. Even when he found something, the relief it would bring would only be temporary, lasting just long enough to add emphasis to the agony of starvation when it returned full-force. Even worse, while he was foraging, he would have lost his place around the fire and would have to fight his way back in. George Matthews sighed and started to dig into the trash. If he was lucky, he might find a piece of rotten meat.

"Wake up George, it's only a nightmare." He opened his eyes and saw his wife looking down at him, a gentle smile on her face. A younger face, much younger than he had remembered looking down on him before, in the moments between feeling the agonizing pain in his chest and left arm and the darkness closing in on him. Now, she looked as if she was in her mid-forties, a very well preserved and elegant mid-forties. He felt no jealousy because he too had undergone the same rejuvenation and looked around the same age. That had been one of the subtle torments of Hell, to be restored to one's best only to suffer all the agonies had made Hell what it was. But all that was in the past and now he had a future to look forward to. He had been found in the First Circle of Hell and taken to the reception camps on the Phelan Plain. There his name and particulars had been taken down and fed into a computer. There had been a celebration when the answer came up for so very few of those recovered found close family they could turn to. Amid the applause, he'd been told that his wife was waiting for him, that she already had a home waiting for him and he could join her as soon as he wished.

Quietly, without saying anything, he had worried about that. How much had she been changed, what had she suffered here in Hell before she had been rescued? What sort of home had she managed to build here? Then he had met with her, she had run to him and held him and everything seemed to be good again. She'd explained that she had died after Hell had been conquered and that she'd brought all her assets with her. She'd used them to buy this villa in the new city of Caesaraugusta, in the province of Cisalpine Gaul of the New Roman Republic. She'd registered it in both their names and owning property made them Roman Citizens. Even now, months into his Second Life here, he wondered at the good fortune that had led him to marry the woman who had so painstakingly built a home for him to return to. He shook the sleep from his head, got up from the couch and hugged her. "Rose." There was a world of love and admiration in that single word.

"Oh George." His wife returned the embrace and led him to their dining room. A simple breakfast was laid out on the table, some fresh bread, cheese, mushrooms and wine. None of it was quite what it appeared, the cheese was made from the milk of female foodbeasts, the grain for the bread and the mushrooms were species native to Hell and the wine was actually made from a fermented red fungus but they tasted right and the truth was that humans here didn’t need to eat, not physically. They needed to eat emotionally, communal dining was too deeply ingrained in their psyche to be discarded, but the driving starvation he remembered from the Hellpit was a delusion. He sighed and looked out of the window. The villa was built on the banks of the Askaris River, their plot of land actually ending on the river itself. Across the Askaris was a low range of hills, ironically called The Alps. They were in the adjoining province, Transalpine Gaul, one that was still largely unoccupied. The rolling hills were tree-covered and their dark red foliage complemented the lighter red of the river beautifully.

"What have we got happening today?" George carefully spread some cheese on a lump of bread and took a bite. The sharp, clean taste of the cheese was perfect for cutting through the residue of sleep. That was another thing humans here didn’t actually need but couldn’t really do without. Sleep.

"Well, we have the monthly election coming up. One of the Senators for Cisalpine Gaul has reached the end of his term so we have to go and vote for his successor." There were 120 Senators representing the individual provinces of the Republic and each served a term of two years. Their elections were spread out so that 1/24th of their number were elected each month. So far, most elections were unopposed. The whole political system was a work-in-progress after all. The previous month Second Consul Jade Kim had been up for re-election and she, too, had been unopposed.

"And I've had a message from Naomi and John. They'd like to come visit now we're established here." A mischievous grin crossed Rose's face. "I suppose they must have forgiven me for taking all our money. It shook them when they found we can take it with us after all."

The couple looked at each other and laughed. "You did well there Rose, that John was always a bit full of himself I thought. Not nearly good enough for our Naomi. Anyway, they're welcome here. This villa's got the room for them, thanks to you. Now, time for work."

Rose nodded, put on her silver cap and gathered up her bag. She'd started work as a seamstress in one of the new factories but had quickly been promoted to a shift manager. She and her husband didn’t actually need to work, not yet anyway. The funds she had brought form their First Life had been adequate to get them started but work was psychologically needed just as food and sleep were. George Matthews had a job on a road-building gang. That had worried his wife, she remembered, all too well, the heart attack that had killed him, but he had reassured her that his health was better than it had ever been on Earth. Anyway, as he'd explained to her 'working on the road is good, honest work and it feels good to be building something for our future'. She knew what he meant, the Republic was new and raw around the edges but it was their future. "I've put your toga out for the election this evening and a new stola for me."

George nodded in appreciation. Most times people here wore the clothing they were familiar with, in the case of Rose and George, jeans and T-shirts, but for an election, formal Roman attire was required. Even if their senator hadn't been up for re-election this month, the fact it was election day still meant that he had to appear before his constituents to answer their questions and address their concerns. But, since he was up for re-election, there would be a formal debate between the candidates on questions from the audience, followed by the vote.

Together, they left their home through the double set of doors that kept the dust out of their home and went out to the road that serviced their sub-division. At the moment, the area was served by a Beast-drawn bus but in due course, a proper motor-bus would replace it. For a moment, George Matthews thought that the replacement had happened because he heard the sound of engines but it was something different. A small column of military vehicles, a mix of Humvees and armored cars. Human vehicles armed with long-barrelled guns. They pulled up alongside the bus stop and a figure got out, one wearing a breathing mask. Obviously he was still in his First Life.

"Ave Citizens." The officer's right hand was extended in a careful Roman salute, the clenched fist striking his chest above the heart and then extended towards the Matthews, upper arm close to the body, lower arm level with the ground, hand open, palm down. Not the way it had once been depicted at all, historians had been quite shocked when they had seen the real thing.

"Ave Colonel." George and Rose returned the salute. "May we be of assistance to you?"

"Colonel Paschal, DIMO(N). I have an appointment to meet with First Consul Gaius Julius Caesar and Second Consul Jade Kim in New Rome." Paschal flushed slightly, partly from the effort of remembering to get the formalities right, but also from embarrassment. "We seem to have lost our way. My driver insisted we stop and ask directions." Behind him, the female driver of the Humvee was grinning. Rose reflected that Hell and Earth had some things in common, a reluctance to ask directions being one of them

Rose smiled at the Colonel. "George and Rose Matthews. It's easy to go astray Colonel, the roads around here are being built and extended all the time. We Romans love good roads you know. Go straight on for about five kilometers until this road ends in a T junction. Turn left at the junction, that'll put you on the Aemilian Way. Stay on that, it'll take you all the way to Rome."

"Thank you, Citizens." Paschal looked at them curiously. "Please forgive the intrusion but, you are Americans?"

"We were Colonel, but that was in our First Lives. We're Romans now."

Temple of Ceaseless Compliance, Eternal City, Heaven

"So just who dared to try and pull this off?" Michael-Lan winced slightly, the wound in his shoulder was healed, the one in his chest very nearly so but he still got a twinge if he moved too fast.

"Humans?" Lemuel put the question tentatively. It was the only answer he dared think of.

Michael-Lan almost snorted with laughter. "If this was human work, you'd be dead. The favorite expressions of humans where killing is concerned are 'if some is good, more is better', 'nothing succeeds like excess' and 'more dakka'. If humans wanted to kill you, you wouldn't just be dead, your body parts would be strewn over half the Eternal City. This wasn't human work, this was somebody else."

Lemuel-Lan thought about it carefully. His body ached from the wounds suffered when rubble had fallen on him and he'd taken some Tylenol to ward off the pain. "It must be the First Conspiracy." His voice had dropped so the words would not carry.

"Not The Second Conspiracy?" Michael-Lan dropped his voice to match.

"No, Most High One. I have infiltrated that group. There is heresy there, certainly, but it is well-intentioned. An excess of zeal has led the congregation of this Temple to use human products in order to serve Our Eternal Father more diligently. They have been led astray by good intentions and need only a little re-education to bring them back to the right path."

Michael-Lan nodded, making a note to reward the team who had worked here for a job well done. "Nevertheless, maintain your infiltration of the group and find out its extent. They may be well-intentioned but when we pick them up, we must arrest them all at once. No loose ends. Make sure you identify them all." And that should act as your orders to take you into the club. "You think it is the First Conspiracy then?"

"It must be, Noble Lord. I can think of none other. I would guess they have learned of our investigation into their organization and decided to strike. Perhaps a cell feared they were about to be discovered and wished to prevent that."

"It could be." Michael-Lan was thoughtful. This whole situation didn't make sense from most points of view. Rivalry between cliques of Angels were well-known but they never, never got to the point of assassination. At worst, blackening reputations in Yah-Yah's eyes and causing loss of influence. That didn’t worry Michael, as the Great General, he was above such things and anyway, he was a past-master at such games. Had one of the other Chayot-Ha-Kodesh decided to break the rules of millennia and start playing for keeps? Michael-Lan ran through the names in his mind. Of the Chayot of the First Rank, only Azrael, Zadkiel and Chamuel were likely candidates. Were the Chayot of the Second Rank trying a powerplay? Sariel, Raguel, and Remiel could be ruled out, Sariel was already a member of the Montmartre club, Raguel was one of Yahweh's most devoted followers and Remiel was a mindless nonentity. Jophiel and Haniel? They were possibilities certainly but Michael didn’t think they would have the initiative to try something this radical. That left Barchiel and Salaphael. Michael couldn’t help but run the last name over in his mind. He was in mild disfavor and filled with resentment because of it. And he had the originality to think up an assassination plot. It was, after all, originality that had got him into trouble in the first place. It was not a valuable trait to have when Yahweh was around.

The simple fact that the attack on Lemuel had been tried was what worried Michael-Lan. It suggested that the First Conspiracy was moving closer to its goal of a take-over in Heaven. He knew enough to realize that any such effort would be a catastrophe, that it would result in a war at least as destructive as the Great Celestial War had been. Better the status-quo than fighting in the streets of the Eternal City. That would be casting the whole situation into the hands of the Humans. That thought made Michael-Lan stop cold. Could he be wrong? Was this a human strike at Heaven? He was going to great lengths to keep the humans on the defensive, to make sure their efforts were focussed on Earth while the sheer effort needed to support their war machine slowly exhausted them.

But suppose they had found a way to infiltrate Heaven? He'd heard how they had started a rebellion in Hell itself and used it to assassinate the highest of the Daemonic hierarchy. They'd even dropped the hammer on Asmodeus, the Hellish equivalent of a Chayot-Ha-Kodesh. Assassinating people was right in their line. That just left the question, why was Lemuel still alive. Anyway, there were no traces of explosives around here. The human preference would have been for a bomb, a big one packed into a vehicle. This attack had used a trumpet blast. That had to be angelic. Unless the humans were using an angel as a front. Humans manipulating an Archangel. That would be one for the books. Once more, Michael found affection for humans rising in him. They made life so interesting.

Then, another thought stopped Michael-Lan cold. Suppose, just suppose, it wasn't angels or humans? Suppose another player had re-entered the game? One who hadn't been part of it for millennia? It was possible that one of the others had seen the destruction of Hell, the death of Satan, seen the Humans fighting against Heaven, fending off the worst that could be thrown at them. The others might have decided that Heaven was so weakened by this war that it was time to strike back, to avenge the defeat that had driven them from Earth millennia ago. They might even see the opportunity of reasserting their domain over the Earth. If they did think that, Michael-Lan felt sorry for them for tackling the Humans head-on meant death.

Despite his ingrained apprehension at the thought of the Others returning, Michael-Lan was entranced by the idea. It would certainly mean his plan needed revision but that's what plans were for. He could use this development, use it very effectively.

"Lemuel-Lan, continue here. I will look after the First Conspiracy. Return to your home."

"With respect, Most Noble One, I would prefer to go to my office. There is much to be done there."

Aha, you and Onniel are on the outs are you? Took long enough. Time to throw some more temptation your way. A little tender loving care should do. "As you wish, old friend. Your devotion to duty honors me."

Michael watched Lemuel limp off and turned to the temple staff inspecting the damage to the outer wall. "Don’t sweat that guys, I'll get the master mason to deal with it. He owes me a few favors. Charmeine-Lan, how's Maion doing?"

"She's settled into her new life Michael-Lan. Sometimes her resentment at selling herself surfaces but not so often now. And a little assistance goes far."

"Good. We'll throw her at Lemuel soon. Once he's a little more frustrated and resentful at the way Onniel is treating him, you can take him to the Club. Just warn me when so I'm not there when he is. Charmeine, tell Maion to dance for him and coo over him. Just pay him unconditional attention, that'll do the trick. Once he's gone with her, he'll fall into line easily enough.

Throne Room, The Ultimate Temple, The Eternal City, Heaven

"Lord of All, I most humbly beg that your servant Uriel be excused from displaying the customary genuflections at your immaculate presence. His wounds suffered in carrying out your duty are crippling and render him unfit for such actions." Michael-Lan was sprawled out on the floor of the throne room, his peerless lips pressed to the alabaster tiles. Around him, the strange creatures that kept Yahweh amused during the long hours he spent in this room drifted slowly away into the billowing clouds of incense. It was a conditioned reflex after the number of lightning storms that had occurred in this room since the war with the humans had started.

"Uriel unable to pay due and proper respect?" The Voice of the Father of All echoed around the throne room, causing a rumble of thunder and a flicker of white lightning. In the background, the master mason made sure there was nobody between him and his bunker.

"That is the case One Above All Others, he fought valiantly at San Diego and was terribly wounded there. He received further injuries while fleeing from the pursuing humans and would have died."

"But for your rescue. My Wuffles did not flee from the humans even when their bombs tore at him." The roll of thunder had a distinctly sorrowful note as Yahweh remembered his late pet.

I'll have to get the rest killed as soon as possible Michael-Lan thought. Yah-Yah thinks better when he's mad with grief, leaves him only two eggs short of an omelet instead of three. "Indeed so, Immaculate Father Of Us All. But the humans fought with unusual cruelty even for them. Uriel's condition is sorrowful indeed."

"Then let him enter." Uriel-Lan made a sorrowful picture indeed as he staggered into the throne room. His wings were twisted and bent out of shape, he showed burns all down his body and his legs were malformed. Michael-Lan's doctors had done their best and Uriel's massive healing power had done more but he was still a critically wounded Archangel. Michael-Lan was actually quite surprised he had made it to this meeting. Up on the throne, Yahweh seemed shocked at the sight. "The humans have done this to my faithful servant?"

The thunder cracked and a sheet of lightning rippled across the room, glancing off the walls and lighting the darker recesses of the antechambers. In the glare, Michael distinctly saw the Master mason vanishing into his bunker, his feet waving in the air before being hastily pulled to safety.

"I beg your forgiveness, Eternal Lord of All." Uriel's voice was shaky and seemed to crack, as if he was forcing the words out through a throat half-closed. Which wasn't too far from the truth, being too close to the blast of exploding missiles had more damaging effects than were obvious. "My attempts to bring my peace to the humans have failed, they discovered how to resist me and defy Your will."

To Michael's great surprise, Yahweh didn’t incinerate Uriel on the spot. Better luck next time passed through his mind. Instead of throwing a tantrum Yahweh was nodding seriously. "How did the humans manage this?"

"I do not know Greatest of All. They have missiles that never miss, they have weapons that burn and sear their enemies. They have a weapon I have never encountered before, that makes my skin burn and my flesh boil. All of these they have ringed around their cities. . . . . "

"I do not care about such things." The crack of thunder silenced Uriel. "Their weapons are of no concern to me. How is it that they defy My Will?"

"They have barriers between their minds and the peace I bring them. It takes much effort to force through them and to get at the minds underneath. So much so that it is only possible to bring peace to a few at a time. By the time I have forced my way into their minds, their missiles are tearing at me and their weapons burn my flesh. Then, further attack becomes impossible. Greatest Father Of All, I swear to this with all my heart. For those who fly near a human city, death is certain. Each time I have tried, the humans grow more skilled at fighting me. The time I have to enforce my peace grows shorter."

"Then your task is impossible?" Yahweh's voice was silky-smooth and the menace was unmistakeable.

"No, Holiest of Holy Ones. One my injuries are healed I will try again. Perhaps this time success will attend me."

"Lord Above All." Michael-Lan cut in with unsurpassed fervor. "Uriel's courage is indeed an example to us all. We can all draw strength from his devotion to Your Immaculate Presence." Just in case you were thinking of letting him off.

"Indeed so. Uriel your courage is indeed notable. Consult with my treasured servant Michael to decide on your next target."

"Lord Above All, might this humble servant suggest a possible strategy? If we send Uriel in to make his attack at the same time as the Scarlet Beast and the Whore of Babylon attack Jerusalem, perhaps we can split the human defense and score a crushing victory."

"A cunning plan Greatest of my Generals. Make it so. Is there anything else?"

"Most Immaculate Lord, the matter of treason we discussed earlier. There is reason to believe that it does not stem from inside Heaven but from outside. Today, an attempt was made to assassinate one of Your most faithful servants, an investigator of the League of the Holy Court. We must believe that there are those in this city who have linked their name to The Others."

Across the Eternal City, the thunderclouds roiled and spread, drenching the streets with the lurid glare of multi-colored lightning. Even the highest of the Host took cover inside buildings as hailstones the size of ostrich eggs pelted the streets, shattering on impact and crushing the more fragile of structures. The storm roared on, circling and recircling the Ultimate Temple. Eventually, it ebbed and terrified heads emerged from their hiding places to wonder at the destruction that they saw. Inside the throne room, Michael looked around the rubble where one of the curtain walls had collapsed, burying some of the exotic beasts that had taken cover behind them. In one corner, a hand emerged from the Master Mason's bunker and started to clear the rubble away from the entrance. I must get myself one of those. Michael-Lan thought. This is getting hairy.

"Arrest them!" Yahweh's voice was a scream that was eerily reminiscent of his deceased brother. "Arrest them all."

"Thy will be done." Michael-Lan genuflected and made his way out of the semi-destroyed throne room, picking his way between the piles of rubble as he went.

 

[LTR]

The Montmartre Club, Eternal City, Heaven

"I suppose I have to thank you again Michael-Lan." The Master Mason was stretched out on a couch with one of the female angels gently caressing him with her wings. "The idea of selling tickets to my bunker was a real money-spinner. I'm going to have to build another one just to hold all the applicants."

"Don't get greedy, Zacharael-Lan. There's a reason why greed is a deadly sin, the original list of deadly sins actually made a lot of sense. It took Yah-yah to bring the whole idea of deadly sins into disrepute. Greed's a good example, more enterprises have been brought down by over-reaching greed than anything else. Look at it this way, the more bunker spaces you build, the less you'll get for each of them. Keep them rare, keep them hard to get. That way you establish a loyal clientele."

"Just like you do with membership here?" Zacharael-Lan held out his glass and his angelic companion filled it for him.

"Just like I do here." Michael-Lan confirmed. "Except here, it's a matter of practical necessity. All the goodies that make life in Heaven tolerable come from Earth. I'm working on changing that but for the meantime, its true. Going to Earth to restock with this war on is getting harder all the time and it's never safe to mess around with humans. So we have to use the stocks we have carefully."

"How about those things I built for you. Greenhouses you called them although they don't look green."

Michael-Lan laughed. "They do now. You should see them. Full to bursting point with various strains of Cannabis Sativa and Indica plants. Poor old Jesus is working hard sampling them all, trying to decide which ones give us the best high. Trouble is by the end of a test session, he's so potted he forgets the results and has to start again."

Zacharael-Lan joined in Michael's merriment. "That I should have such work to do. Instead of patching the holes in the walls after The Irascible One's tantrums. The last one was a doozie, he managed to bring down two curtain walls and a load-bearing column. The palace roof is sagging at that point and the whole thing could fall in. You say your greenhouses are full?"

"They are, we're trying to keep the strains separate but I've got some more coming in and will need space to plant them. Or rather Jesus will, he loves working with plants. I've managed to get some White Widow seeds, they're supposed to be really something. So, if you can get around to building a new greenhouse?"

Zacharael-Lan made a mock motion of weighing things in his hands. "Hmm. Repairing The Irascible One's palace and stopping it collapsing on one hand or building you a new greenhouse for pot plants on the other. No real conflict there, I'll be around with the supplies first thing. I'll charge the materials off to the repairs on the Ultimate Palace. Nobody will notice, I've been delivering stuff there in the morning, taking it back at night and redelivering it again the next day for centuries. The Palace treasurer has probably paid for the same slabs of alabaster and jewels four or five times over. New greenhouse in the same place?"

"Think so, even if the Unbearable Father starts to look, he'll never think of starting with his own son's palace. Umm, Zacharael-Lan, could you do me a big favor?"

"Sure Michael-Lan. Name it."

"I'm going to be away for a few days again. I've got a big pick-up to make with the guys in Myanmar. They're clearing their stocks out and want me to collect it. In exchange for large additions to their 'retirement' funds of course. My fault, I got them involved in what I thought would be a nasty, long-running border war and they went and lost in a few days. Humans learned to use portals for maneuvering faster than I thought possible. Anyway, it’s a get-it or lose-it situation. I've organized an attack on Los Angeles for Uriel and another by Dumah and the Scarlet Beast on Jerusalem to act as diversions."

"Good. Never liked Uriel, far too much of a cold fish for me and there always was something a bit strange about him. And as for Dumah and Fluffy, he leaves his droppings everywhere and she's got altogether too high an opinion of herself. She's just an Erelim like me but she spends her life looking down her nose at all of us. No respect that's her trouble. Just because she gets on with that Scarlet Beast, she thinks she can get away with anything."

"Well, she has The Unbearable Father's ear so she can." And that's why she has got to go along with that wretched pet. "For a while, anyway. Anyway, I won’t be here so could you front for me for a few days? Gabriel and Raphael will do all the actual work but we'll be having an outsider coming in and I'd rather he didn’t know how high the leadership here really goes. Having an Erelim in charge would be perfect."

"Lemuel-Lan?"

"That's right. Just make sure he has a really good time and doesn’t learn anything important."

The Palatine Palace, New Rome, Hell

"Ave Caesar." Colonel Paschal gave his Roman salute with a bit more confidence than before. He would have preferred to have used the military salute he was familiar with but his orders on the matter were quite strict. Gaius Julius Caesar was too important a player in the evolving social structure of Hell to risk offending so in his country, Paschal was to play by his rules. Paschal had a nagging suspicious that Caesar made the powers-that-be back on Earth nervous. The rate at which New Rome was growing and the speed with which its society was settling into a cohesive whole was a tribute to his ability. It also made him a potential threat and humanity already had more problems than it could handle.

"Ave." Caesar returned the greeting and salute formally. "Colonel Paschal I believe? You have met the Second Consul Jade Kim?"

"Ave Consul. I believe we met when you were running the PFLH in the Hellpit. To create a successful insurgency from such an unpromising start was a remarkable achievement."

"Thank you, but without the aid of my husband, it would all have collapsed." Kim put a gentle but distinct emphasis on the words 'my husband'. Paschal couldn't help but reflect she was learning the political game very fast. Wasn't surprising, she was getting the lessons from a master.

As if he was reading Paschal's thoughts, Caesar took the lead in the conversation back. "How are you enjoying your first visit to our new Republic?"

"New Rome is a remarkable achievement Sir. You seem to be recreating the old Republic of Rome with incredible speed."

"Celeritas, Colonel. Always Celeritas. Speed and decisiveness in maneuver are always the key to successful efforts. But, I needn't tell an officer in a human army that, you've taken speed and mobility to levels I'd never imagined possible. We're not recreating the ancient Republic of Rome here though, we are trying to take its best features and adapt them to the modern world your generation has so successfully created. If we take the best parts of my era and combine them with the best parts of yours, then there are wonders we can achieve."

Paschal nodded in agreement, reflecting that despite the two millennia since his death, Caesar's ability to inspire people with enthusiasm for his plans was still unchanged. It wasn't surprising that Jade Kim had cast her lot in with him, although it was becoming apparent to Paschal that people's allegiances for their Second Life in Hell rarely had much in common with those of their First Life on Earth. Expecting otherwise had already proved to be a bad mistake. "If I may ask Sir, what part of our modern practices do you seek to change?"

Caesar thought for a second. "Voting. Here in Rome, the right to vote is restricted to those who have demonstrated their commitment to the Republic by owning land. And we make voting a solemn affair where Roman Citizens are expected to dress formally and hear the candidates debate the great issues of the day before casting their votes. A vote cast casually without thought or consideration is a vote wasted." Caesar spoke gravely, then seemed to brighten again. "But we are not here, I think to discuss political theory. If you will join us for Cena, perhaps we can continue then."

"Thank you Caesar, I would enjoy that. My task here is a curious one. May I ask what gods you worshipped during your First Life?"

"The ones who protected me in the pit? And others of course. Why do you wish to know?"

"Caesar, our assault on Heaven is stalled. All access to the place has been shut down and we can't get at them. For almost a year now, we have been trying to force our way in and for all that effort we still do not know how to do so. Yet, the inhabitants of Heaven are able to attack us almost at will. They direct storms against our cities, bring plagues upon us and attack us with their beasts. We beat off their attacks with some loss to ourselves but we cannot, we will not, remain on the defensive for ever. Nobody ever won a war by defending themselves."

"That's true." Caesar laughed nostalgically. "Defeating the enemy means taking the war to them."

"Yes Sir. But we can't. But, in our investigations, we've learned that the daemons here in Hell fought other groups on Earth and expelled them. Although the fighting took place long before human history was recorded, we believe that memories of those other groups form the basis of many world religions. We have also learned that one such group, daemons call them devils, was so hard to defeat that they struck a deal with Satan and Yahweh. That they would withdraw from Earth only if those who believed in them were protected from the torments of Hell. You, Sir, are the only person we know of who falls into that category. So we seek to identify this other group. If they are loyal to those who believed in them and sought to protect them, they may be the kind of people we can deal with."

"Deal with as in make arrangements with, or deal with as in shoot full of holes?" Kim spoke drolly although the intent behind her question was deadly serious.

"Their choice ma'am."

"A very Roman answer Colonel. When you die, have you thought of settling here in Rome?" Caesar was teasing him and Paschal knew it but it was a good question. "To answer your question, in public my family worshipped the Roman gods but in private I and a few others were members of the cult of Cybele. We kept that quiet, the authorities really didn't approve of it. But, a few of us kept up the faith in secret and were rewarded. Does that really help you find a way to get your tanks into Heaven?"

"It might Sir. It gives us another avenue to research at least. At the moment, we'll try anything to break in and give Yahweh what's coming to him. And I don't mean that in a nice way."

"Good." Kim's voice was forceful and very determined. Subconsciously her thumb stroked the palm of her hand where a bronze spike had once been driven through it.

"I'd like to offer more help than just a name Colonel, but my army here is only adequate for defending what we have. And we are desperately short of equipment. Some of my soldiers still carry tridents instead of rifles. And we could use more armored cars and some helicopters. Not to mention more radios."

"MH-6s would be nice. If there are any going spare." Kim smiled fondly, she thought that she would like to get her hands on a helicopter again. Especially an armed one.

"I can't promise anything, I just don’t have that authority. But, if you can make out a list of what you really need, I can present it to my superiors. DIMO(N) has a shallow command structure and the point is very close to the top. A word of advice though, with modern equipment, it's not getting it that breaks the bank, it's supporting it."

"Rather like a beautiful woman?" Caesar was teasing again but this time the gentle barb was directed at Kim who responded by punching his arm.

"Exactly Sir. Best modern equipment in the world is useless without proper support. We've walked all over armies that forgot that. A state with limited funds is better off with smaller amounts of equipment and investing the money in support facilities."

"That's good advice Gaius." Kim had given Caesar the same lesson herself. "We're mineral rich here, we've got iron, chromium, titanium, vanadium, you name it. And oil, lots of oil."

Napyidaw, Myanmar

"And we want our gold back." General Asanee spoke quietly but very firmly.

"What gold?" General Petraeus actually know the answer but just wanted to hear her say it.

"In 1767, the Burmese launched an unprovoked attack on us and eventually stormed the old capital of Ayuthya. They massacred all the inhabitants, burned the art treasures, the libraries containing our literature, and the archives housing our historic records and then took all the gold in the city back to their capital. Now we want it back."

Petraeus tried to stop himself grinning. "Was it a lot of gold? Where did you get it from?"

"All the gold in the country's treasury. We'd collected it for centuries, mostly from what is now Laos and Cambodia."

"Ahh, so it's their gold. Why didn’t you say so? After all, those countries could use the cash. They're totally broke."

"But they were our vassal states, their gold belonged to us." Asanee looked at Petraeus and realized her leg was being gently pulled. "It's a sort of cash float. Whoever wins the latest war gets the gold. And we won this one."

"General, this kind of thinking has to stop if we're going to win this war. I don’t mean the one with Myanmar, this is just a mildly irritating sideshow. If that, it's more like a live fire exercise in how to use portals for warfare."

"A live fire exercise that cost the lives of more than six hundred of my men."

"Yes, I'm sorry, I shouldn’t have said that." Petraeus looked at her reflectively. He happened to know that she'd personally written to the family of every soldier killed in action under her command and had visited those families within reach. From her record, he guessed she would take the time to get to the others as soon as the war was over. "If it's any consolation, the H.E.A. has picked up your dead as they arrived in Hell and made sure they are looked after properly. By the way, there were some pretty good brawls in the receiving area when your dead and the Myanmar Army dead arrived simultaneously. In the end we had to keep a contingent of military police on site to break them up. In future, we'll have to make sure war casualties get sent to different reception areas.

"Anyway, back to the issue. The political alliance that stands behind the Human Expeditionary Alliance is a fragile thing. It's held so far because of the pressure from outside but how long that will remain the case is a good question. As long as this damned stalemate holds, the chances are that some of the old issues we faced will reemerge and screw the whole thing up. Humanity's got to draw a line under the past and make a fresh start if this thing is going to work. If we don’t, the war effort will fall apart. I never thought I'd say this but North Korea's actually setting a good example. They're coming in from the cold, no matter how difficult they're making the process."

"So, we don’t get our gold back." Asanee sounded disappointed.

"Not a chance. You'll have to go and dig some more. Anyway, here we are."

Petraeus had to admit that General Asanee's command team had this kind of thing down to a fine art. Long practice he supposed. As the two generals approached the conference room doors, two of her men moved ahead and ostentatiously flung them open. Petraeus and Asanee stalked into the room, the rest of their party following them in and spreading out so the Myanmar ruling junta members were covered by their guns. They rose reluctantly too their feet, acknowledging the fact that they were the beaten side, waiting to hear the terms they were offered. The two H.E.A. generals just stared at them for a few moments before Petraeus broke the silence.

"You have sent Michael-Lan-Yahweh the messages as we instructed?"

Than Shwe nodded, his face a picture of anger, resentment and humiliation.

"I'm sorry, I didn't hear you."

"We have done as your terms dictated. We have sent Michael-Lan a message telling him that a large stockpile of heroin, methamphetamines, ecstasy and other drugs have been gathered here and he would come and collect it. Otherwise we will have to destroy it. We have not yet received a reply."

"Good. We have some special weapons technicians with us. They need to see that stockpile right now."

 

[LTR]

Michael's Palace, Aukumea, Heaven

"Do you have to do this?" Raphael-Lan was seriously concerned.

"If you want to stay hammered and stoned, yes." Michael-Lan grinned to take the sting out of his words. "We're going to be running short of a lot of supplies soon and this is a perfect opportunity to restock at fire-sale prices. I can't afford not to make this trip. Where's Gabriel by the way?"

"Down at the club. Theoretically supervising it, but actually paying proper respect to Lailah-Lan. He was late with his tribute again." Raphael chuckled at the thought. "You know, if Yah-yah had known Lailah-Lan a few millennia ago, it would have saved us so many problems."

"I've thought the same thing myself. The things we could achieve if we only had pre-emptive hindsight. Or time travel. Humans have many stories about time travel you know."

"They can't do it can they?" Raphael was genuinely scared at the prospect. If the humans could go back in time, they could create havoc. They could even go back to the time of the Great Celestial War and change that.

"No, they can't. And I think their top people have dismissed the idea as impossible." Michael saw Raphael relax, and smiled. The idea of time travelling humans had terrified him as well. "But if they did, it could work for us, we could nip the Yah-yah problem before it ever reached this level. It's a pity, but time travel is impossible and we won't be facing it."

Raphael picked up his glass of whisky and sipped the contents. "How are our supplies of this?"

"Pretty good. I stocked up well as soon as Yah-yah came up with the idea of closing down the Earth operation." Michael sighed and looked around his palace. "All this idiocy because he threw a temper tantrum when humans refused to believe he created them."

"Well, he didn't." Raphael was just pickled enough to let his guard slip.

"I know that and you know that and the rest of Heaven knows that. Guess who doesn’t know that . That's right. Yah-Yah. Remember this Raphael, remember it well because you'll be running the show up here if anything happens to me. Yah-yah believes his own propaganda, believes it implicitly. Every myth, every legend he's imagined has become the truth to him and he won’t accept anything else. He'll drive out anybody who's thought patterns or beliefs differ from his. He hears what he wants to hear and nothing else. The Unbearable One believes what he wants to believe – and nothing else."

"If anything happens to you." Raphael paused as the implications of the words sank in. "You think the humans will kill you?"

"They might. They can. I don’t anticipate letting them succeed but they might pull something off. Only a fool expects everything to go the way they plan, Raphael. Another lesson for you. Success doesn’t depend on having the perfect plan. It depends on changing plans to match circumstances fast enough for the changes to be effective. And that means spotting deviations from the predicted course of events early enough to have time for those changes. If Yah-yah had watched humans and realized they weren't developing the way he expected earlier than he did? Well, we wouldn’t be fighting this stupid war for a start."

West of Hacienda Heights, Los Angeles, California

Uriel stepped through the tiny ellipse and closed it behind him. It had only been open a few seconds and he had hoped that the opening would have passed unnoticed but one look at the city spread out beneath him was enough to end that expectation. The lights across the city were flashing and the wailing of the sirens was enough to wake the dead. A curiously apt phrase Uriel thought. He noticed something else, as soon as the portal behind him closed, the sirens changed from their wailing to a long, steady single note. The humans were aware he was here and they knew his attack was about to start. He was becoming familiar with unusual sensations brought about by the humans so another one didn’t floor him. It's implications did for Uriel realized that he was afraid of humans.

He lifted his hand in the traditional benison and intoned the time-honored phrase. “Peace be with you and my peace I grant you.” His mind stretched out to the brilliantly-lit city below and started to squash down on all the life therein. Some of the response was familiar, he could feel the wildlife withering and dying under his touch. Other responses had become familiar over his last few incursions into this heresy-ridden and blasphemous country. He felt the solid blow of rejection, the grim determination of people not to succumb to his will. But there was something else there, a touch of something that hit Uriel much harder than just plain rejection. Some of the humans were welcoming his assault, they were using him as a measure against which they could test themselves. He was shocked beyond measure, the humans did not fear the god-like power that Uriel had over their lives, they were using it to assess themselves, to show they could do better than their rivals. They saw fighting Uriel as playing a game and they did so with the grim determination that they brought to every competition, every trial they faced. They were pitching themselves against the gods and they were doggedly certain that they were not going to lose. That was only one tiny step short of believing that they were gods themselves.

Then Uriel realized one other thing, one that he simply couldn't believe or accept. Some of the humans weren't just welcoming his attack as a chance to prove themselves, they were laughing at him.

Harvelles Blues Club, 4th Street, Santa Monica, Los Angeles, California

The Key Frances Band had lost the thread of their number when the assault from Uriel started. The sheer impact of the attack, driving the breath from their bodies and stopping their hearts made that inevitable. They and their audience was saved by the layers of foil that wrapped the club, from the outside walls down to the tinfoil hat that everybody present wore. It slowed down Uriel's attack, gave the intended victims that their autonomic systems were being suppressed and allowed them the few seconds they needed to adapt and fight the attempt to do murder upon them. Around the room, people grabbed each other's hands and braced themselves for the battle that was now starting.

Near the bar, one of the cocktail waitresses dropped the tray of drinks she was holding and staggered against a customer. He grabbed her and kept her on her feet, quickly reading her name-tag while he did. "Come on, Fantasia, keep going. You got a lot more drinks to serve, we're not all blasted yet."

"Then stop fondling my ass." Fantasia's voice was shaking but she's made it past the first few seconds of the attack and Eucalyptus Hills had suggested that was the critical bit. If people could switch from their breathing and heart beating being automatic to something that required a conscious effort to keep going, then their chance of making it went up many times over.

"But it’s a beautiful ass. Reminds me of mine." The customer winked at her and the waitress burst out laughing.

"Well, that's fine. I think. You can give one more pat for good luck then." She picked up another tray of drinks. "Hey, Joe, the first lot aren't coming out my pay are they?"

"Sure are Fantasia, you gotta pay what the customers pay." The waitress giggled and set off carefully across the floor towards a table where the glasses were running low. The band had picked up the rhythm again although their playing was noticeably shaky. Her sight was seriously impaired with dark shadows rubbing out most of her peripheral vision and darkening the rest. She guessed the others were having the same problems because the management seemed to be turning the lights up. That wasn't the worst though, it was the ever-present pressure, the constant effort needed to breath and live that were hardest. Finally she reached the table.

"Free drink people? Got whisky, vodka and brandy here And some mixers."

"Straight whisky for me, whatever type you've got." The man seemed to be suffering much less than most. Beside him, his wife panting hard while stroking a puppy she'd taken from one of the cages. Most of the tables seemed to have at least one adopted pet.

"You look like you're doing fine Sir." Fantasia managed to get the words out between breaths.

"Well, I got this pacemaker see. It's doing most of the work for me." Her customer smiled then looked at her with concern. Her skin was graying and there were shadows under her eyes. "You're welcome to sit with us and rest for a while if you want."

"Well, that's kind Sir. But I got my customers to serve." That was what was keeping her going, just the need to make sure that her tables were kept supplied and her customers happy. One trip from the bar to the tables and back at a time.

Mevaseret Tsiyon, Israel

The monster was horrible to behold. More than two hundred feet tall, brilliant scarlet that glowed in the moonlight, a huge misshapen head with seven faces scattered across it and ten horns sticking out. Giant bears paws for feet. And riding on its back, a stunningly beautiful angel, clad in red and purple robes. The Scarlet Beast leapt through the portal that had opened on the hills east of Jerusalem and stared at the city spread out before it. In its eyes was nothing but the lust for destruction. It took a couple of paces forward, towards the city where the warning sirens were wailing, then stopped. It crouched slightly and then left a giant steaming pile on the ground behind it. Nobody had ever house-trained the Scarlet Beast.

Ravseren Daniel Orlevaw had his section of Romach 175mm guns dug in just north of Mevaseret Tsiyon and that gave him a direct line of sight to the great beast that had emerged above Jerusalem. His gunners were already loading rounds into the breeches of the three guns in his position. He should have had four but one gun was away for repairs and the forces in Hell had top priority for spares and support. His fourth gun had been away for more than three months and he doubted very much whether he would see it again for another three at least.

There was one good thing at least. Before the Israeli army had pulled back from that particular area, they had pre-measured the ranges to every spot on it. With GPS telling him exactly where his own guns were, it was a simple matter to work out the firing solutions that would put his 175mm rounds on top of the Beast's head. It took but a moment and the three guns crashed almost simultaneously, the muzzle flash tearing the sky apart. Orlevaw watched the target through his binoculars and cursed as the rounds exploded on the hillside far behind the Beast. He'd allowed for it moving at normal animal speeds but this creature was capable of far more than that. While his guns reloaded, Orlevaw watched helplessly as the Beast tore into one of the small townships east of Jerusalem.

al Za'im, West Bank

"Leave your homes! Run for your lives! The Scarlet Beast Attacks!"

The jeeps raced through al Za'im, broadcasting their message as they went. The message was dire and there was little time. This was not a Uriel attack, the Israeli Army knew that Uriel was half a world away, assaulting Los Angeles, this was the Scarlet Beast and the Whore of Babylon. They were making their attack on the city of Jerusalem itself and anything that got in its way. Hiding was not an option, taking cover under metal foil and riding out the attack was not an option. The only way to survive was to run far and fast.

Husni al-Sohl, once a dedicated member of Hamas and a key member in one of its undercover cells, heard the message and knew what he had to do. The warnings were for civilians, for women and children and those without courage for a fight. These days there might be an uneasy truce between Israeli and Palestinian but when a greater enemy attacked, even uneasy and untrusting allies were well advised to stand together. And al-Sohl had an ace card in this battle, one that he knew the Israeli Army would badly need. Most of its soldiers and all of its new equipment were fighting in Hell. The troops here, on the roadblocks and in the general area were all reservists of the lowest category with old, time-expired equipment. Uzi 9mm machine pistols and 5.56mm rifles. Neither of them were much use against daemons and against the Scarlet Beast they were mere toys.

Al-Sohl had something that was not a toy. It was a pick-up truck, a Toyota Tundra to be precise, and it was packed with explosives. The stories had been told across the West Bank, of how the Americans at the Battle of Hit had been losing, their troops forced back, torn apart and eaten by the invading daemons. How they had been pushed to the last line of defense, their backs to the river, when the martyrs in their explosive-filled trucks had saved the day. How they had driven their trucks into the daemon formations, exploding them and taking the daemons to Hell with them. They had broken the daemon attack and that had allowed the Americans to regroup and bring up their helicopters to finish the job. And the stories were true for even the Americans had admitted the martyrs in their bomb-loaded trucks had played a vital part in that great battle.

He hustled his wife forward, pushing her towards another truck that was already filling up with people from the street. "Go, go!" He shouted at her. She looked at him and knew what he was planning. With a brief, heartbreaking nod, she boarded the truck and it rolled out, leaving him standing in the dust.

Husni al-Sohl walked back to the garage next to his house. It was much smaller than it had appeared from the outside but that was quickly corrected with a crowbar and hammer blows to the right places. The back wall collapsed and the truck was exposed. al-Sohl climbed into the driving seat and turned the key in the ignition. To his relief, the engine turned over and ran smoothly. He left the garage and turned left. There was no doubt where he had to go, the great figure of the Scarlet Beast already towered over al Za'im

Over Jerusalem, Israel.

The A-4 Skyhawk was old and it had already been grounded once as a result of a maintenance scandal. But, needs must when the devil drives and that expression was never more apt than during the Salvation War. The old aircraft had been pulled out of storage, hastily refurbished and issued to pilots that had already been retired themselves. Also for maintenance issues as the pilots wryly referred to their various medical conditions. But, in their hearts, they were still pilots and Menachem Gerev felt at home in the cramped cockpit in a way he felt nowhere else. Once again, the old Skyhawks were riding to the rescue the way they had back in '73. Gerev had fought in that war and still remembered the first day when more than 30 Skyhawks had failed to return from their strikes over the Suez Canal.

Still, he could see his target, the great Scarlet Beast that was moving through the ridges east of Jerusalem. His aircraft was armed with retarded 500 kilogram bombs fitted with fuze extenders. The reports from Hell Had been very clear. It was hard to kill the daemons and angels but massive damage and bleeding out would do the trick. With a little luck, his six bombs would do that. If they didn't, there were four more Skyhawks behind him who would take their turn. They were taking off as fast as they could be armed, each pilot desperate to get to the scene in time to save the city.

Gerev rolled out of level flight and started the long dive down towards the Scarlet Beast in front of him. Looking more carefully, he could see that the Beast had an angel on its back, her red and purple robes streaming back as her mount loped along. Well, that made things more interesting. He kept his Skyhawk under careful control, she was an old lady and had already reached the end of her years. Pushing her too hard would be a terminal mistake and this wasn't the time to make such errors.

As a matter of fact, it didn’t matter. The Skyhawk was too old and too slow for the job it was being asked to do. Making its bomb-run at subsonic speeds, the scream of its engine could be heard well before it was within drop range of its target. Sitting on the back of the Scarlet Beast, Dumah heard the noise and saw the jet approaching. Her mind focussed on it and she summoned her strength to emit a trumpet blast that rocked the clouds and shook the dust in the cracks of the rocks.

The old Skyhawk couldn’t take the shock. The trumpet blast crushed its structure as thoroughly as any mechanical scrapping equipment could have done. It folded up and disintegrated in mid-air, trapping Gerev in his cockpit. He was still there when the wreckage plowed into the ground just outside Jerusalem.

Triumph joined the exhilaration that came from riding the Scarlet Beast. Dumah reached forward and scratched it between some of its ears. "Well done Fluffy. We'll show them how humans should be treated, right?"

Then Dumah looked ahead of her. A small group of humans had formed up around some green vehicles and they were firing on her. She lifted her golden goblet to her lips and blew hard, sending a stream of dust-like smoke towards their positions. The men vanished under it and by the time it cleared, they were dead. sprawled out on the ground. As Fluffy galloped over the scene, one of his paws crushed the vehicle into fragments. Ahead of them, Jerusalem was wide open.

 

[LTR]

Over Los Angeles, California

"Just where the blazes is he?" Commander Mike Wong pulled his F-18H around, allowing its radar to scan the volume over Los Angeles. An older radar would have been swamped with returns, so many aircraft were crowding into the airspace over the City. But, the AESA radar could cope with the workload and, in any case, they had a E-3 AWACs up controlling the air battle. Or what would be the air battle if they could find somebody to battle against.

"Not up here, Squid." The voice on the radio was gently mocking. An Air Force pilot taking the opportunity to goad his naval equivalent.

"Cut the unnecessary chatter." The controller in the AWACs bird snapped the order out. "We've got enough to do making sure you hot-shots don't fly into each other."

"Say again, Coronet, he's not up here. All contacts are accounted for. He's got to be on the ground. Unless he's already made a run for it."

"Negative on that Dolphin-One. Ground reports the attack is still continuing, First deaths are being reported now."

Wong's mouth twisted as he pulled his F-18 into another turn. The theory was that the deaths from a Uriel attack would be exponential, a mere scattered handful at first but picking up numbers quickly as people's strength gave out. "If he is on the ground, he could be anywhere. We've got a real problem here."

Aboard E-3G "Coronet", Over Los Angeles

It was lucky Coronet had just arrived from the upgrade facility with her new displays and data processing computers. She'd been sent to Edwards for testing before the rest of her kind were pulled in for similar upgrades. Now, even the advanced data handling capability was being strained as far as it would go.

"The Squid is right, Sir. He just isn’t up here. He's got to be on the ground somewhere." Captain John Lacrosse stared at the displays showing the aircraft orbiting Los Angeles. He had a strange feeling that he was looking at Uriel's location right then, but he just lacked the insight to dig the answer out of the data. "Colonel, let's assume he is on the ground right?"

"We can take that as being pretty definitive."

"Well, he usually flies over the target but he's learned that's just too unhealthy for him. So, he's going to do the next best thing. Find himself some high ground and look down from there."

Colonel Findel thought that one over. "Do we know Uriel's capability is line-of-sight?"

"Do we know it isn't?"

"The DIMO(N) network location on the portal just said Los Angeles, it wasn't specific as to where. I don’t think its accurate enough for that. Uriel's down there somewhere. Even on the roof of a building."

"Doubt that Sir. Everybody with a heavy-caliber hunting rifle would be shooting at him. What we need is a display that shows us where the effects of the attack are being felt. That'll give us an idea. Problem is, we can't do it. Our equipment isn’t set up that way. Now if we had a JSTARS here it could be different. They're built to give land pictures."

Findel stared at the displays of the fighters circling the city, then glanced down at the brilliant lights of the city below. Finally, the penny dropped. "We have got a display, we've got the biggest one ever built."

The communications center was a few feet further forward from where he was standing. He took the few paces needed and patched through to the emergency control center on the ground.

"Report center? We need help up here. Uriel's grounded and we can't find him. We need to know what parts of the city are under attack and which ones are not . . . . . . . Yes, killing the lights in the unaffected part of the city will do fine. Just a minute or two should do it."

Down below, the lights covering more than half the city winked out. The E3Gs electro-optical system recorded the picture and by the time the lights came on again, the image was displayed in the airborne command center. The computers had superimposed a map on the image. Findel looked at it. Everything north of a line from Pico Rivera to Culver City was blacked out. So was everything east of a line from La Habra to Huntington Beach.

"So it is line of sight." Captain Lacrosse was relieved that his guess had been right. "And the only place that can give us that pattern is here, Hacienda Heights. If he was on Beverly Hills, he'd be hitting the whole coastline, not just this segment of it. And if he was south by lake Irvine, we'd have more coverage east. It has to be Hacienda Heights. All we need is to flush him out."

"We can do that. If we assume he's in an unpopulated bit, it has to be around here, by Turnbull Canyon. Get those two Bones on the line. We won’t flush him out, we'll blast him out.

Harvelles Blues Club, 4th Street, Santa Monica, Los Angeles, California

People were weakening, slowly but surely. Fantasia could see it and feel it within herself. The animals weren't doing so well, a tank of fish had already died and were floating on the surface of their aquarium. The reptiles were doing just as badly, the snakes and lizards were dead or dying. Looking around, she could see the dogs were doing best but even they were in grave distress, drooling helplessly and whimpering. There was a distinct pattern, the animals that bonded best with humans were surviving, those that did not were dying. As her drinks tray was refilled, Fantasia had a flash of insight, was the time-honored alliance of man and dog a relic of the time when both had sheltered together against the fury of a Uriel attack?

She was suddenly aware that her vision had almost dimmed out completely and she was on the verge of fainting. That would be certain death. She forced herself to breath deeply, sucking oxygen into her lungs and echoing the beating of her heart in her mind. Up on the stage the band was still playing but the drummer had peeled away from the score and was now tapping his drums in a fair simulation of a heartbeat. Fantasia focussed upon the sound and imagined her heart beating in time to it. The fuzzy gray from her vision cleared slightly.

"You OK Fanny?" The barkeep's face was a waxy white-gray with sweat beading his forehead and lips.

"Yeah, think so, just slipped for a moment there."

"Well, don’t do it again." The mock severity was as near as anybody could get to being funny. "Your customers are getting thirsty out there."

She was halfway across the floor when the whole room seemed to shudder. That's all we needed. An earthquake. But, the rolling thunder wasn't like any earthquake she'd heard. In fact, it wasn't like anything any American city had ever heard.

Israeli Army Road Block, al Za'im, West Bank

"Turn back, can't you see the Scarlet Beast is down there?"

The Israeli sergeant commanding at the road block tried to wave the truck down. His men were setting up their machine gun to stage a last-ditch defense of this point against the beast that was now barely a kilometer away. Husni al-Sohl brought the truck to a halt and wound down his window/.

"Let me throught. I am of Hamas and this truck is loaded with explosives. I can hurt that abomination much more than you."

The sergeant did a double take at the words. Not so long ago, the words would have caused the truck to be raked by machine gun fire. "You'll never get close enough."

"I will. Just put my foot down hard. I have the explosives on a simple dead man's switch, It'll work. And Sergeant, there are two RPG-7s in the back and a dozen rockets. Your men will need them."

Al-Sohl felt the truck rock as the soldiers scrambled into the truck bed and unloaded the rocket launchers. He heard on of them whistling. "Just how much explosive is in the back of this thing?'

"Six hundred kilos of the best anfo Hamas can make. And another two hundred kilos of nails. Iron nails.

"Be careful you could damage the suspension carrying that lot." The sergeant grinned at al-Sohl then snapped out something almost unknown in the Israeli Army, a reasonable approximation of a decent salute. He and his men held it as the truck drove through their checkpoint.

The Scarlet Beast had moved some more and was across the highway that led east from Jerusalem. Al Sohn floored his accelerator and headed straight down the road at the great monster that was carving a swathe of destruction through the valley leading up to the city. He had his windows up tight and the air conditioning turned off, hoping that the seal would be enough to keep the strange dust the Whore was using to wipe out those who stood against her. The truck was shaking and shimmying on the rough road surfaces, for all Toyota's efforts, their pick-up trucks just didn’t have the strength and stability of the Dodge and Chevvy rivals. The speedometer continued to click upwards and by the time the Beast and its rider responded, it was too late for them to stop the manned missile that was being aimed at them.

Dumah blew her stream of smoke at the racing truck and al-Sohl lost sight of his target as the gray fog enveloped his cab. He felt his lungs seizing up as the poison took hold, but he was close enough now and his last conscious act was to release the dead man's switch in his hand. Around him, the picture of the inside of his truck shrank to nothing, a tiny white dot in the center of his vision.

Al-Sohl saw strange things, weird shapes, strange colors, indescribable things that he forgot as soon as he saw them. Things that no human mind could ever recall because they were swamped out by the great white glow as the tiny dot in his vision swelled up and filled his vision. It changed, dimmed slightly then resolved into white and gray shadows. He blinked, his eyes slowly recovering and the shadows started to make sense. The white glow was lighting, the shadow was a woman bending over him. A nurse.

"Mr al-Sohl? Husni al-Sohl?"

He tried to croak out an answer but all he could do was to nod his head.

"That's wonderful. We've been keeping an eye open for you as the dead came through. The Israeli Army asked us to."

"Did I kill the Beast?" The voice was still a croak.

The nurse hesitated. "No, but you hurt him badly enough that he broke off the attack to recover. That bought enough time to evacuate more civilians from the area. Your sacrifice saved a lot of lives, tens of thousands of them. You’re quite the hero you know. We've even got some virgins who've volunteered to come over and give you a proper welcome."

Presidential Palace, Naypyidaw, Myanmar

"You let us down!" Than Shwe's voice was accusing and peevish.

Michael-Lan stared down at the ridiculous figure with something close to disbelief. "Pardon?"

"You promised us you'd help us with the war against the Siamese. Now we will have to run, spend the rest of our lives in exile because you failed us."

"If you think I promised you anything, little humans, you are sadly mistaken. I merely pointed out that the opportunities that were there for you. If you can't turn them into reality, then that's your fault."

"You owe us! We have been together for years, we closed our country off from the world so you could come here in peace."

"You were well paid for your services. Do you think I do not know how high were the prices you charged for your goods? And how low were the values you gave me for the jewels and gold you got in return." You are really, really pathetic, thought Michael, as if I, an archangel owe you anything or should treat you as anything more than humble menials. It is you who are duty-bound to us, not the other way around. We owe you nothing. Michael-Lan reflected that he rather liked humans but their constant demands to be treated as equals were wearing.

Still, despite these people's whining, they had done him proud on this trip. The power-assisted cart that he was using had been piled high with highly-refined number four heroin and huge numbers of methamphetamine tablets. They'd said they were cleaning out all their stocks and that appeared to be just what they had done. Even with his own literally superhuman strength augmented by the electric motors on the cart, he had difficulty overcoming the inertia of the huge cargo. It really was very, very heavy.

"Here, despite your rudeness, I have a final payment for you." Michael-Lan fished inside his robes and tossed Than Shwe a large bag, one stuffed with precious stones Michael had 'liberated' from Yahweh's palace. "They are a generous payment."

Than Shwe counted the stones, running them through his fingers. "Generous indeed. And they will have to be now our country is collapsing before the Siamese Army. Our exile will be a long one."

Michael-Lan raised his eyebrows at the whining voice, then jerked hard on the cart to get it around the corner that led out of the storeroom into the corridor that led to the outside of the palace building. At least, when the palace had been built, they'd had his bulk and size in mind so the corridors were high and wide. That made maneuvering the cart much easier. Michael reflected that the cart really was remarkably heavy.

Israeli Navy Submarine "Tekuma". Eastern Mediterranean

"The news is still bad?" Captain Alex Ben-Shoshan was almost hoping nobody would hear the question so he wouldn't get an answer.

"Very bad. The Scarlet Beast has broken into Jerusalem. It is laying waste the city and destroying all that is sacred there. The Whore of Babylon spreads her contamination across the city and none survive its poison. The Whore protects the Beast while the Beast destroys and together they kill everything. The dead already number in their hundreds of thousands. " The Executive Officer on the submarine took a deep breath and stabilized his voice. The news from Tel Aviv had been shocking, the city had fallen, surviving humans were streaming away from it in great columns. For the first time in the Salvation War, a human city had fallen to the netherworlders and its population reduced to panicking refugees.

"What about our allies? Is there no help coming for us?"

"General Petraeus is sending aid, at least a corps of his army. But he must assemble them first, they are spread all over Hell, trying to stabilize the situation there. Then he must open a portal, move them through and get them ready to fight. By that time, there will be little left of us to save."

Ben-Shoshan sighed. The eternal strategic curse of Israel, the country was simply too small. All its vital areas were packed closely together and an attack on one could hardly avoid damaging the rest. If the Scarlet Beast and the Whore finished destroying Jerusalem and then moved to the country's heartland, it would all be over.

"Is there any word from Tel Aviv? Do they have orders for us."

"Yes, Captain. For us, for Dolphin and for Leviathan. We are to prepare for Operation Masada immediately. We are designated as the prime shooter with the other two backing us up. We must destroy the Beast before it moves out of Jerusalem. Authorization to fire can be expected very soon. Tel Aviv says we are to be ready."

"Then we shall. Order the munitions experts to prepare the packages and get our missiles ready to shoot." Ben-Shoshan laughed sadly. "When I joined the submarine arm and learned of our missiles, I had many ideas about the day we would finally use them. But never once did I think of a situation like this."

 

[LTR]

B-1C “Spirit of Sheffield”, Over Los Angeles

“We’ve joked about doing this you know. Never thought we actually would.” Group Captain Martin Winters was keying the GPS coordinates for the 96 GBU-39 bombs nestling in the Spirit of Sheffield’s bomb bay. Behind him, he knew that the weapons systems operator on the second B-1C, Spirit of Detroit was doing the same.

“What, bomb a U.S. City? We had plans for that was well, and we weren’t joking. But then SAC had plans for everything.” Colonel Fitzhubert was an old SAC hand, recalled to the colors along with every other veteran with a pulse and a body temperature greater than ambient. Or so it seemed. “Double and triple-check those coordinates, we’re threading a needle with these things.”

That was an understatement, Winters thought. The bombs had to go down along a thin strip of rough country between the built up areas on Hacienda Heights and the crowded city of Whittier down in the valley. They were lucky they had small-diameter bombs. He could imagine the chaos that two thousand pound bombs could cause down there. “Everybody keeping out of our way?”

“You bet. The fighters are hanging back, waiting for us to flush the game. As soon as Uriel bales out of his cover, we’re out of here and they’re in. Guns and missiles blazing. And the two Scalpels of course.”

“How does that look?” The display showed the bright areas of built-up Los Angeles with a red spot indicating the predicted impact point of the bombs. They formed a dense mass, completely blanketing the Turnbull Canyon area. Spirit of Detroit was making her run at almost a 90 degree angle, pounding the area between Hacienda Heights and La Habre. They had the bad job, there were a small number of scattered homes in that area and the chance of people in them surviving was slight.

“Good job. Let’s hope it all works.” Fitzhubert swung the B-1 around and set the bomb-navigation system to make the optimum delivery run. Bombing people had come a long, long way in a just a little less than a century. “And how do you like the B-1C?”

“She’s beautiful. Can’t wait until we get our hands on ours.” Winters paused and then spoke awkwardly. “I’d like to thank you guys for her name. On behalf of those who didn’t get out of the city.”

“It seemed right somehow. You know two of the Russian Blackjacks are named For Sheffield and For Detroit?”

Winter nodded . “The cities need to be remembered, it’ll be hard enough rebuilding them in our lifetimes. Ah, here we go.”

Underneath the B-1, the bomb bay doors had opened and the GBU-39s were spilling out in a steady stream.

West of Hacienda Heights, Los Angeles, California.

Uriel sat cross-legged on the ground, his wings folded behind him, every nerve concentrating on transmitting his will to the humans gathered beneath him. They were resisting him, fighting him even more strongly than the humans at Eucalyptus Hills and El Paso had fought him. It was as if the very fact that others had proved fighting was possible that inspired these humans to try and outdo the earlier efforts. With almost grim despair, Uriel realized that was precisely what was happening and its significance was not lost on him. Every city, every target he attacked from now on would fight harder than the last. His brain tiring from the effort just added pathos to Uriel’s sudden realization that Heaven was going to lose this war.

Whether paying attention to his surroundings would have made any difference to Uriel was dubious to put it mildly. The B-1s were flying so high that their sound barely reached the ground anyway and it was lost in the blizzard of noise from the circling fighters and the howling of the sirens in the city below. Uriel was lost in his effort to bring his peace to the humans below and even if he had heard the sound of the B-1s high overhead, there was little he could do about it. The bombs were already on the way down.

It was the first ripple of explosions that warned him of the mortal danger he was in. They snapped him out of his trance and broke the concentration of effort he needed to maintain his drive to peace. The bombs exploded several hundred yards to the north of him, their orange flowers looking curiously beautiful in the darkness. As the tide of fire grew nearer to him, Uriel saw something strange and terrible forming, a hideously beautiful silver-blue wall that seemed to devour everything in its path. The sight filled Uriel with terror for as an archangel more deeply associated with death than any other, he knew that silver-blue wall meant death and it was coming for him. For a brief, terrible second he thought of the oblivion he had sent so many millions into and he feared it. Worse, he feared that those others might be waiting for him there.

It was that thought, that he would have to answer for what he had done to the humans in the name of his peace, that broke the spell. Uriel hurled himself into the air, clawing desperately for altitude, his efforts to bring his peace to the humans forgotten. All he knew was that he had to get away with that deadly silver wall and make a portal through which he would escape. In his heart, Uriel knew that he would never again bring his benison of peace to another human community. Even if he survived this night, the humans had broken his spirit. They’d won.

Harvelles Blues Club, 4th Street, Santa Monica, Los Angeles, California

The earthquake shook the club, rattling glasses behind the bar and sending them shimmying off the tables. For a brief moment, it looked as if the crowd were going to panic but the club host was on top of the situation. In any case, he had been listening to a police scanner and knew what the shaking really meant.

“Ladies, gentlemen and other species.” Once again the joke got an appreciative roar from the crowd. “There is no need to panic. The Air Force had found Uriel and the noise is their aircraft bombing his position on the ground. There are more fighters than we can count overhead and they’ll get him. Oh my, will they get him.”

The host paused, he’d suddenly realized something critically important. He wasn’t having to force himself to breath, the pressure forcing him to die was gone. “And, everybody, the Uriel attack is over. The bombing must have forced him to stop. We’ve won. Everybody, we’ve won. And to celebrate, everybody join the band.” He spoke quickly and the band nodded gleefully. Then the thumping rhythm started and the entire audience slammed their hands down in time and echoed the chorus.

“You got mud on yo’ face.
Yo’ a big disgrace.
We’re kickin yo ass all over the place.
We will we will rock you.
We will we will rock you.”

F-18H Over Los Angeles, California

“There he is! Damn, he’s a big bastard.” Wong pulled his F-18 around in a tight racking curve to bring its nose to bear on the great shape that was leaping into the sky. The monster was at least twice the size of the Greater Harpy Heralds he had killed on the first day of the Salvation War, it’s massive bulk starkly outlined by the orange-red explosions that swamped the area where it had been hidden just a few seconds before. Wong saw it trying to claw skywards, trying to get away from the jets that were already converging on its position. Uriel tried to face one of the jets and trumpet but the sound blast was weak and feeble. Probably winded by the blast of the bombs that were still exploding underneath him Wong thought. Then, Uriel seemed to stagger in mid air as two AIR-120 rockets from an F-15 plowed into him.

That was when Wong saw the one thing that none of the human pilots wanted to. A great black ellipse was forming in the sky ahead of Uriel. The monster was running for it, running to escape the pent-up vengeance that was waiting for him at the hands of the humans. The F-18 suddenly bounded forward as its throttles were firewalled and the afterburners turned raw fuel into thrust. Uriel was lurching in the air, Wong realized that he was already hurt, his flying ability degraded by cumulative injuries. He saw Uriel lose stability in the air as the supersonic shock wave from the F-18s passing hit him and the beast tumbled down before trying to regain a path to the ellipse and safety.

The F-18 was doing almost 900 knots when it went through the ellipse. Wong saw the dark of an Earth night replaced by the clear white light of Heaven, saw the green fields and crystal clear sky surrounding him, saw the ellipse behind. He had little time, he skidded his fighter around in a tight curve whose shock waves flattened the crops underneath and sent the humans laboring in the fields flat on their faces. Well, Wong thought at least they’ve learned about supersonic bangs today. Ahead of him, staring at the racing fighter was an angel, a white figure, taller than a human, with great wings folded behind him. Wong couldn’t resist the temptation, the Angel was on a direct line between his aircraft and the portal. It was the work of a split second to dip the nose slightly, thumb the cannon button, then watch the angel fall and disappear in a cloud of dust and explosions as the strafing pass bit home.

Then, white light and green fields were replaced by the darkness of Earth night, a night lit up by the city lights below and the streams of gunfire and the exhaust trails of missiles in the skies above. Wong saw almost instantly that the only reason why Uriel was surviving lay in the sheer numbers of human aircraft that were fighting him. He was alone, he had no allies, no friends, everything that surrounded him was hostile. The human pilots were having to watch each other, avoid each other’s maneuvers and make sure they didn’t shoot each other down. It was an old story, then had been many such tales in the past, of heroic fights by one against many. They always had the same basic problem at their heart, the way a single fighter alone could use the numbers of enemies surrounding them to survive. But they all ended the same way, one day, the single fighter would run out of luck and die.

Uriel had been heading for the ellipse again when Wong’s F-18 streaked out of it. It was a perfect AIR-120 shot, the angel and the fighter were on a direct collision course, there was no need for deflection, no need for leading the target. Another quick thumb stroke on the firing button and four AIR-120s hurtled from their racks and closed the target. The last one missed, to avoid a collision Wong had had to swerve at the last second and that had thrown his aim off, but the other three scored direct hits, one up high near Uriel’s chest, the other two low-down in his groin. Wong passed Uriels head so close that he could see every detail of his face. For the rest of his life, he would swear that Uriel’s eyes were crossed as a result of the pain and shock from the two AIR-120 hits in his groin.

He had worse problems than just trying to avoid colliding with Uriel though. Brilliant orange-red streaks passing his cockpit. Tracers, an F-16 was behind him, snapping out short bursts of cannon fire.

“Can it, you damned fool!” Wong almost screamed in rage.

“Sorry Squid. Saw you come out of the portal and I thought you were one of them.”

“Bloody Air Farce.” Wong simmered down slightly and swerved his fighter around to line up for another pass. Uriel was still airborne but he was staggering, trying to trumpet, to create a new portal and to emit his killing waves all at once. Shock and injuries were overcoming him and in his anguish he was trying to do everything at the same time and, as a result, he was achieving nothing. He was writhing and flailing in the middle of the mass of fighters that tormented him. Wong felt not the slightest shred of pity for him, and he lined his F-18 up for another pass at the dying archangel.

Presidential Palace, Naypyidaw, Myanmar

Captain Madeuce coughed, the spasms racking his body. The cloth he used to cover his mouth came away stained with dark green mucus, a darker, red-gray dirt that was even more ominous than the infection-laden slime and a spattering of bright red blood. None of it surprised him. The scientific name for what was killing him was Pneumonoultramicroscopicsilicovolcanoconiosis, the common name was acute silicosis. To Madeuce it was ‘rocks in the chest’ and he knew he didn’t have much longer to go. Every time had had seen the doctors, the prognosis had been worse. Their forecast had dropped from decades to years, and now was but a more few months. And those months would not be good ones.

It was his visit to the Hell-Pit that had killed him. He’d breathed the dense clouds of volcanic dust for over a week without any form or protection and the fine pumice had infiltrated every portion of his lungs. It was too heavy for the normal actions of breathing to expel so it had settled there, irritating the tissues around the particles. The lungs had dealt with the problem their traditional way, by producing mucus. Only, that had been absorbed into the pores of the pumice and what had started as a fine dust had quickly set into solid cement. In its simplest, most accurate version, Madeuce was suffocating as his lungs filled with rocks. Just to make matters worse, the pumice agglomerates had sharp edges and were tearing at the delicate tissues around them. The doctors had tried everything they could think of but it was no use. The damage was too great and it all went to show that First Life human beings had no real place in Hell and even less in the Hell-Pit.

“You all right boss?” His sergeant had real concern in his voice, he recognized the symptoms of asphyxia easily enough. The blue shadows under the eyes and around the lips, the constant heaving for breath, the blue-tinged fingertips.

“Will be soon enough.” Madeuce shook himself. He had this last job to do then he would be out of the Army. Total disability for the few months he had left. Then, things would get better. He’d been quietly contacted by some old friends who knew some other friends who were part of the new Roman Army. There were commissions for those who wanted them, who had talents that the new army needed. And it helped that Jade Kim was Second Consul. Madeuce looked back on his work with her with nostalgic affection even though he knew the fighting there had killed him as surely as a bullet, bomb or artillery round. She’d remembered him as well and put in some glowing words on his behalf. So, his Second Life as a Tribune in the Legions was set up. He just had to live out his first one.

“Here he comes. That’s Michael-Lan-Yahweh himself. He’s one big sucker isn’t he.” The Sergeant sounded impressed.

“He’ll be one dead sucker soon.” Madeuce coughed again and wiped his lips. It was getting so that even coughing was wearing him out. “He’s opening the portal now. Is the kit getting all the readings?”

“Sure is Boss. And we’re datalinking them right out of here, back to DIMO(N) field operations. They’re getting everything we pick up.”

“Right. He’s moving down there. Taking his crap with him.” Madeuce reached down and punched a code into a transmitter box, unlocked a keyed handle then lifted it up and twisted it. “Surprise package now activated. It’ll blow in five minutes. Let this be a lesson to the whole team Sergeant, just say no to drugs.”

Down in the palace courtyard, Michael-Lan stopped pulling his cart and looked at Than Shwe with exasperation. The idiotic man was still whining about how Michael had betrayed him and left him to the mercy of the wretched Siamese. While Michael thought he did have some cause to be upset, in the final analysis he had brought all this down on his own head. One of the signs of wisdom was the ability to resist temptation. Michael reached out with his mind and detected the familiar ground he used for his transits to and from Earth. He found it, localized it and then opened up the portal. He waved a cheery farewell to the assembled Myanmarese dignitaries and then pulled his cart through the portal to its destination.

It really was a remarkably heavy cart. Michael-Lan was using a significant portion of his strength to pull it, even with the electric motor helping him. Once the other side of the portal, he paused to catch his breath. It was a blessed relief to be away from that wretched Myanmar junta. They’d spent all their time whining at him, instead of shutting up and listening to the wisdom he could impart. Complaint after complaint, accusation after accusation. Nothing but the constant effort to shift the blame to other shoulders. Self-justifying miserable. . . .

Michael-Lan stopped suddenly. It was just as if they had spent all their time justifying themselves. Just as if . . . . .

He found himself looking at the cart he had pulled through the now-closed portal. It really had been incredibly heavy for the load it represented. Neither Number 4 heroin nor methamphetamine pills were that heavy. An idea suddenly came to Michael-Lan and he shook his head in admiration. “Clever, clever little humans.”

It was the work of a moment to start the motor on the cart and fix its towbar so it would move in a straight line. Then he reopened the portal, pushed the cart through and closed it again behind the cargo. He wasn’t quite sure what was in there but he did guess that he wanted to be as far away from it as possible as quickly as possible.

Captain Madeuce and his small team were already beginning to take down their equipment when he saw the portal suddenly reform and the cart loaded with a variety of drugs and a single fifty kiloton nuclear warhead come rumbling back through it. He dived for the weapons control box, trying to slam his hand down on the emergency abort transmitter built into it. He almost made it.

Human Expeditionary Army, Field Headquarters, Yangon, Myanmar.

“Well, we always knew it was a win-win proposition.” General Petraeus looked at the mushroom cloud boiling over Napyidaw on the direct feed from the Global Hawk reconnaissance drone. “If it worked, we got rid of Michael but if it didn’t we got rid of those idiots in Napyidaw. One of the nice things about governments that insist on putting themselves in remote locations with only their closest supporters for company, makes a clean sweep just that. Nice and clean.”

“We lost Captain Madeuce and his team.” General Asanee was looking at the mushroom cloud as well. With the last remnants of the Myanmar military junta gone, the country could be handed over to a reasonable civilian administration again. There was so much rebuilding to do, it would keep them occupied for decades.

“They got the information through though. Complete readouts on the portal Michael-Lan-Yahweh used to get back to Heaven. The DIMO(N) people are ecstatic, they reckon we can duplicate that portal within days. Then we can get the Army into Heaven and start taking that place apart. We did good here General, let’s hope the battles at Los Angeles and Jerusalem go as well.

 

[LTR]

Israeli General Command Headquarters, Tel Aviv, Israel

There had been a time when Muamur al Zahari had dreamed of getting into this room. Of course, in those dreams he had been wearing an explosive vest and the blast that took him to Paradise would also send the entire command staff of the Israeli defense forces to Hell. Now, he was their guest, an ally of sorts and the whole question of who went to Hell and why had been changed out of all recognition. The implications of that could be confusing, but only a fool refused to recognize the changes brought about by time. Anyway, he was finding the chaos in front of him amusing. Just one question tormented him. If this was the Israeli General Staff in action, didn’t the fact the country they defended had survived so long suggest that his own command staff were even worse? The likely answer to that simple question appalled him.

“Just what the blazes is going on up there?” General Andras Marosy stomped across the operations room floor and stared at the map.”

“It’s bad ground, terrible ground in fact. The inclines are steep, there’s more dead ground than we can shake a stick at, and the valleys all run against us. We’ve got some artillery but it’s all long-range stuff. A Romach battery, some 155s of assorted types. All guns, no howitzers. We can’t lob shots into the valleys. Whoever picked this location knew exactly how to exploit our weaknesses. The only thing to hurt the Scarlet Beast so far was that truck bomb.” The Israeli officers looked at al Zahari with a mixture of respect and resentment. After sixty years of hostility it was hard to admit that they were on the same side, even harder to accept that Hamas had struck the only effective blow against the Scarlet Beast and the Whore so far.

“Well done Colonel, a masterly exposition that completely fails to answer the question. I said, what’s going on up there? Or would you prefer I sent you in a jeep to find out?” General Marosy closed his eyes and muttered some choice epithets under his breath. A classically-trained officer he had long believed that the IDF were a superb example of the concept of lions lead by donkeys. It was significant that there was not a single Israeli officer in multi-national command positions anywhere in the Human Expeditionary Army. They were brave enough, gallant to a fault, but their staff-work was appalling. And, in the final analysis, staff-work won wars.

“The last message we had was 30 minutes ago.” The Colonel glanced sideways at the situation map and, to his relief, saw it had been updated. “It said that the Scarlet Beast had resumed its attack on Jerusalem after breaking off to recover from the effects of the truck bomb. It was reported in the city and was being fought by whatever troops, our own and Hamas, some Fatah as well of course, but they had only small arms. The Beast made a point of getting as close to our people as it could, as quickly as it could. That’s limiting our heavy weapons use. It’s crushing the city.”

“Crushing it? Is that all we have?”

“Yes General, it is. Not quite, one of the messages from police units inside the city said that the Whore of Babylon riding the Beast is stunningly beautiful.”

“I’m sure that is going to make a great deal of tactical difference.” Marosy spoke with a combination of weariness and anger. “Patch me through to H.E.A. Headquarters.”

The Communications Officer created the communications link. It was a complex one for the relatively short distance it had to go. It went from the HQ to the communications complex, up to a satellite, down to the earth station outside Baghdad, by microwave link to Hellgate Alpha, through the Alpha portal on a fiber optics link, then back to a microwave to the HQ building outside Dis. It took all of 20 seconds to establish.

“Could I speak with General Petraeus please?”

A clipped British accent responded. “General Petraeus is in Myanmar wrapping up operations there. I am his Chief of Staff, General Michael Jackson. You need help with the Scarlet Beast of course?”

“Yes Sir. We have only light infantry here and it’s tearing us apart.”

“I understand. We have portals opening now. We’ve brought in kitten to open them and she’s hard at work. We’ll have five divisions between the Beast and Tel Aviv by morning. The Aussies are sending in some F-111s to do the strike work.”

“General Jackson, we’ve lost eight aircraft already.”

“I know, all old Skyhawks. The Pigs are a different class of aircraft entirely and the Aussie pilots know how to fly them. Very aggressive pilots they are.” Sir Michael Jackson paused, it was the times when people standing on a parade ground had to drop flat as Australian F-111s flew overhead that were the epitome of ‘very aggressive’. And they had made the USAF rue the day they had pulled the F-111 from service. “Just hang on, Jerusalem’s a write-off but we’ll be there to stop any further damage. And don’t send any more troops in without full chemical warfare suits. The Whore sprays something we haven’t identified yet. Whatever it is, it’s lethal.”

“Thank you sir.” Marosy broke the connection before sighing. It appeared the H.E.A. knew more about what was happening few miles away that he did. That did not surprise him.

“Excuse me General.” al-Zahari was standing at one side of the room, looking at the operational display. “I thought you had three submarines at sea?”

“We do. Dolphin and Tekuma were at sea anyway, Leviathan sortied as soon as this attack started.”

“Well there are only two on this map.”

Marosy looked at the map and saw that the Palestinian was right. There were display indicators tagged for Dolphin and Leviathan but no sign of Tekuma .

Over Hacienda Heights, Los Angeles, California.

“Gangway, big boys coming through.” And that was an understatement thought Michael Wong. With the Bones on their way back to base, the YAL-1s were by far the largest aircraft in the battle. They had taken time to join in the wild furball over Los Angeles but now their great shadows were making a beeline for Uriel. It wasn’t hard to miss him. Wong stopped himself there, actually it was very easy to miss him. He guessed that only a small handful of the thousands of cannon shells that had been poured at the archangel had actually hit him. The fighters had stopped using rockets, to Wong’s certain knowledge at least three aircraft had gone down to friendly fire in the chaos. He’d seen them go, an F-15 taken down by an AIM-120, an F-16 by a pair of AIR-120s and a National Guard F-4 that had made the terrible mistake of getting between a Warthog and its target. Going by the fires on the ground, there had probably been others. In a strange way he was glad he had run out of ammunition and was leaving the battle area. Fighting Uriel was one thing but the thought he might accidentally take out a friendly weighed heavily on his mind.

Uriel was floundering, lashing out at the aircraft that swarmed around him. Wong was forced to remember the old King Kong movie with the giant ape trapped on top, his arms clutching at the aircraft flying around it. Uriel kept trying to form portals to escape but the aircraft were constantly forcing him away from each. Nobody had yet tried Wong’s trick of flying through the portal and coming back out on a collision course and that pleased the Commander greatly. That maneuver would give him bragging rights for months. Then he saw something he had never seen before and for the first human to shoot down a daemon and the first living human into Heaven, that said something. A bright red streak of light flashed across the sky and transfixed Uriel.

YAL-1A “Scalpel-One ,” over Los Angeles, California

“Laser is powered up, Sam, we’re ready to shoot.”

“Very good, lock on to that beast with the target designation laser. Main laser, prepare to fire.” There was a problem in using big, powerful lasers in an atmosphere. Microscopic drops of water in the air vaporized when the laser hit them, forming tiny lenses that dispersed the laser beam. It was called blooming and that’s what allowed the otherwise invisible beam to be seen. It also degraded the power of the laser and increasing the energy it contained to compensate didn’t help much. The more power in the beam, the faster the droplets turned into lenses and the greater the energy losses became. On its own, that made for a losing game. The answer had been remarkably simple once somebody had thought of it. Shine a medium power laser at the target first and it would clear all the water droplets out of the way. Then fire the main beam down the channel before they had a chance to reform. It sounded cranky but it worked.

Mickey Jennings had Uriel firmly in his sights. The target designation laser was already pouring data into the fire control system. Then, he initiated the main COIL laser and held the firing switch down for the full four seconds, watching the temperature gauge read-out as he did so. It crept higher as the laser shot stressed the system. Then the beam snapped off.

It had struck Uriel just under his rib cage, between his spine and the side of his body, slicing straight through him. For all four seconds of its life, it tracked backwards, cauterizing the wound as it went, but carving off a great swatch of Uriel’s side. For a fraction of a second, the slice stayed with him, but it quickly peeled away and plummeted to the ground beneath him.

To Uriel, already dazed with pain from the damage done by the fighters and exhausted from his efforts to escape, what had hit him was beyond any form of comprehension. The burning pain of the target tracking laser had been bad enough but the agony from the main COIL laser filled his mind and soul. He could feel it slicing into him, feel it tear at his body but there was nothing there to explain the horror that he knew was ending his life. Just light, clear, pure light. His muscles crippled by the great tear in his body, he started to fall from the sky. In a strange way, that saved his life for a few moments because the sudden change in direction threw the laser beam from Scalpel-Two off. The YAL-1 was an anti-missile system, designed to shoot down targets that moved on a steady, predictable course. The COIL shot just brushed Uriel’s face but that was enough to blind him, the thermal bloom destroying his eyes in a way that even his superb body repair capability couldn’t fix.

“He’s getting away!” Allansen brought his big aircraft around in a tight turn, its airframe creaking and groaning with the G-loads. It was, after all, a converted Boeing 747F and it was designed to civilian standards. Its airframe was flexing in ways that its designers had never contemplated. Nor had the designers of the COIL laser that filled its fuselage. “Hit him again.”

Jennings looked at the temperature gauges, they were still too high but Uriel had slaughtered tens, hundreds, of thousands in this war alone. How many he had massacred in his life was a number nobody else would ever know but Jennings had already decided that there would be no more. He designated Uriel’s falling shape and once again the great laser in the YAL-1 flashed out for its four second burst.

Uriel, blinded, desperate and dying didn’t feel the laser as it carved through his chest and into his neck. He was beyond pain, beyond exhaustion. All he wanted now was some of the peace that he had brought to the humans. The humans who had once cowered beneath him but had learned how to resist his will and to enforce their own on him. A fourth laser burst, the second fired from Scalpel-Two, slashed through his wings, finishing any chance he might ever have had of flying his way out of this death trap.

In Scalpel-One, Allansen and Jennings saw Uriel plummeting to the ground far below. The YAL-1 was still turning and Jennings saw the body drifting into his sights. Without having to be given the order, he designated the archangel and squeezed out his third burst from the laser, noting grimly that the temperature gauges were already well into the danger zone. It was a well-aimed shot, one that finally split Uriel’s head and ended his long life. He never heard the explosion that coincided with him hitting the ground.

It was the combination of turns and rising temperature that had done it. The turns, far tighter and faster than authorized had stressed the aircraft and the plumbing of its laser well beyond specifications. The three laser shots, fired in faster sequence than the book permitted, had pushed pressure in the system up to lethal levels. One pipe, not an important one as it happened but in this context that didn’t matter, ruptured and sprayed the volatile laser fuel over the heated laser modules. The flash fire that resulted did the rest by rupturing the fuel tanks and igniting their contents. Scalpel One exploded in mid-air at the precise moment Uriel died.

Orange Crush Interchange, Los Angeles, California

The Salvation War was a truly multi-national enterprise. That was why sub-munitions made in South Africa were delivered to China for installation in 227mm rockets that were shipped in Greek freighters to Hell where they were issued to American MLRS batteries that gained their mobility from oil that had been drilled in Saudi Arabia and refined in Singapore before being carried by Norwegian tankers to Dutch-built storage facilities on the shores of Hell. Early in the war, at least three economists were reputed to have committed suicide after trying to work out how to pay for everything.

What had made the system possible was the revival of an old system called Lend-Lease. In effect, every nation in the Grand Coalition was supplying whatever it could and it had been agreed that the nations would settle up after the war was over. This was where the Principality of Monaco played its vital part in the war effort. Monaco didn’t have tanks or jet fighters although it did have a well-armed and remarkably courteous police force. What it did have were armies of accountants who were furiously engaged in tracking who was building what and who was supplying which arms to which country. They knew what the balances were and who would owe what to whom. They also acted as a clearing house who matched operational requirements to suppliers.

And that was how a Russian-built MZKT-79221 truck painted U.S.A.F. blue was making its way up Interstate 5. Air Force Sergeant Franzing had been watching the fighting over the city as he had neared Los Angeles, the sky covered with the red streaks of tracer fire and the exhaust trails of missiles. He’d also seen the massive explosion that had ended the battle and wasn’t surprised to find Los Angeles was studded with fires. There was one massive one over to his left and at least half a dozen medium-sized ones scattered over the city. The small fires were everywhere. Whatever had happened here had done a lot of damage. He was making his way towards the Orange Crush interchange when he was pulled over by the California Highway Patrol. They had the road blocked with police cruisers and emergency flares were marking out all the available lanes. That meant an imposing array of flares. State Police Officer Earl Scott was, nevertheless, impressed by the sheer mass of automobile engineering that was stopped in front of him.

“Just what is that thing?”

Air Force Sergeant Franzing looked down at the police officer below him. “It’s a very big truck.”

Once, that remark would have been an invitation to a prompt arrest on a charge of ‘contempt of cop’ but the police officers were too overwhelmed by the chaos in the city to take umbrage. Scott had sheltered from the Uriel attack in a Salvation Army hostel before returning to duty when the attack ceased. Now he was trying to keep traffic away from the disaster area north of the Santa Ana River. “Doesn’t matter how big it is, you’ll have to stop here.”

“Not possible Officer, I’ve got to get this baby back to AMARC right away. There’s aircraft needing to be rebuilt up there.”

“Just do as I tell you. There’s no way you’re getting through, no matter how big that thing is.” The gearhead side of Scott won out. “What is it anyway, 16 by 16?”

“Nah, the trailer wheels are powered as well. 24 by 24. This mother can go anywhere I want. So let us through, OK?”

“Not OK, no way. Look, Sergeant, we’ve got a 747 down on Angel Stadium that’s blocking the highway completely. There’s an F-15 down in Disneyland and believe me, the Sleeping Beauty castle ain’t never going to look the same again. There’s another Air Force bird down on Katella High School. Couple of other crashes and small scattered fires. The city transport system is shot. This area’s bad enough normally, now with everybody wanting home after the Uriel attack and the Man himself skewered on the Crystal Cathedral, it’s as bad as it has ever been. You’re stuck, live with it.”

“Whoa, Uriel’s down? I saw the air battle going on driving up here but we got him?”

“We sure did. Or the Air Force did. They had a couple of laser planes in at the end. Never seen anything like it, they sliced and diced the bastard in mid-air. Sergeant, I’d get you through if I could but there ain’t no way at all.”

Franzing sighed. The big trucks were used to carry aircraft from the AMARC facility to factories around the country where they could be refurbished for use or broken up for spares. It had been a pretty good detail all things considered. Still if I really am stuck here. . . .

“Officer, sorry I mouthed off at you. Look, can I go see Uriel’s body?”

Scott laughed. “You and a hundred thousand other people. Everybody not going home is converging on Chapman to view the body. Those that can, those downed planes have screwed traffic up beyond all reason. Get in the line Air Force, it’s gonna be a long wait before you get to spit on the corpse.”

Franzing looked back at the long length of empty trailer behind him. “You know, the brass are going to want that body moved sooner or later. Study it, cut it up, stuff it and mount it, whatever. It’ll fit on this baby just fine. What say you we load Uriel on the back and parade him around the town for a bit? I can’t take my baby off the main streets but we can have our own victory parade and when the brass decide what to do, well, you’ve already got him on a truck ready to move out right.

Scott burst out laughing. “Parade the sonofabitch around the town. That works for me. I’ll pass the idea back to my watch commander. I guess the high-ups will want the final word on this but if I had my way, we’d be on our way down there right now.”

 

[LTR]

War Room, White House, Washington D.C.

Chaos, pure unadulterated chaos. The entire war-room staff had gone collectively mad to the point that even Air Force and Navy commanders were exchanging high-fives and back-slaps. Four Secret Service men had rushed into the room, believing that the uproar meant the President was being attacked. Now, the one female member of that team had been grabbed by a grizzled Marine general and taken for an impromptu waltz on the war-room floor. Only the sight of two words on the great screen that dominated the room had stopped her throwing him across the floor. Those two words were very simple. Uriel Dead.

"Gentlemen, gentlemen, please calm down." President Obama noted how quickly the room returned to order once he had made the demand. "Celebrations are in order and we'll have a proper one shortly. First order of business, we have to count the cost of our victory tonight. Is there any word from Los Angeles?"

"Sir, the local law enforcement, National Guard and U.S. Volunteers are recovering Uriel's body while we speak. It's impaled on a glass spire, part of the Crystal Cathedral. Problem is congestion in the area, everybody and their brothers are turning up to see the sight. Police are trying to get a big Air Force truck through to the scene but the roads are blocked to Hell and back." General Van Allan couldn’t help reflect on the fact that the expression he had just used now had a literal and tangible meaning. Despite the numbers of permanent portals linking Earth and Hell, traffic congestion was a problem at all of them.

"Casualties, how many casualties?"

"Word is still coming in Sir. So far we know we lost more than a dozen aircraft including one of the YAL-1s. Some were shaken apart by trumpet blasts but most were own goals. It was a wild furball over the city Mister President, a completely uncontrolled dogfight. On the ground, Uriel was breaking through the screening when the B-1s flushed him. A few moments more and we would have had hundreds of thousands of deaths on our hands. It was that close. As it was, we think between ten and twenty thousand people died city-wide from the Uriel attack and many more from the lost aircraft crashing. More still from expended munitions and fragments hitting the ground. Sir, we may have won this one, but it's been the bloodiest fight on American soil since Gettysburg."

Obama nodded. "Find out what aid Los Angeles needs to get the situation under control and make sure it arrives there. FEMA is already committed helping the refugees from the East Coast and Tornado Alley, we'll have to ask for outside assistance on this. The Canadians perhaps?"

Hillary Clinton spoke up. "They're already funnelling food aid down to refugees from the tornados in Kansas and Nebraska. The Cubans are helping with Florida after the hurricanes down there. These weather attacks are battering us, Sir. Individually the damage isn’t that great although they get lucky once in a while, but it's mounting up all the time. The East Coast is badly hit, we can see that from here."

"Food production is down Sir." Secretary Tom Vilsack cut in, earning himself an angry glance from the Secretary of State. "Productivity of farms in the mid-west is in free-fall."

"We can deal with all that later. Our main concern is the battle tonight. What's happening in Myanmar, General Petraeus?"

The General's face appeared on the display screen. Behind him, the sky was red rather than blue, suggesting that he was back in his operational headquarters in Hell. "Mister President, I am afraid that our plan was only a partial success. The attempt to send a nuclear device into Heaven failed. Michael-Lan appears to have realized what was happening and pushed it back. Cost us the capital city and the Special Ops team we had in there. On the credit side, the old Myanmar government has been blown to Hell."

Petraeus paused and cracked a grin at the phrase. He, too, realized that language was changing to match new realities. "Quite literally. And a new civilian administration is being set up. There'll be elections there in 2011. Also, we got the data from the portal Michael opened, as soon as we have it programmed, we'll do a jump from Earth to Heaven."

"A Thunder Run General?"

"That's right. Form a battalion-sized battle group and send it into Heaven with orders to shoot up whatever they see and then leave. I know just the officer to command it. Apart from that, there's Jerusalem of course. We're moving a Corps to the Jerusalem Valley as soon as the force is organized for the portal-shift. That'll be by dawn."

Obama took a deep breath. "Well done David. Please make sure I have the next of kin names for the special forces people we lost there. I'll write to them myself. However, I have some very disturbing news that demands urgent consideration. The Israelies have lost contact with one of their nuclear missile-carrying submarines."

On the screen, Petraeus raised his eyebrows and muttered something under his breath. "It could be they've just screwed up their operational plot Mister President, they've done that before and will do again no doubt. I would recommend we put our naval assets in the Mediterranean on alert though. If there's one thing we've learned from the Salvation War, it's that we keep getting hit by things out of our normal terms of reference."

Levin Reception Center, Phelan Plain, Hell

The last thing that Madeuce remembered clearly was diving for the emergency abort switch. Then everything went blank and he was drawn into a tunnel of light. He knew he had seen things then, heard them, felt them, but they were beyond his understanding and he couldn't quite get the memories into his conscious mind. A line from his favorite television program swam into his brain "you know what it's like when you have a word on the tip of your tongue? Well, its like that with every thought you never have." His memories of the time between the dive for the switch and waking up in this bed were like that. They were almost there, but not quite near enough to be visible.

"Captain Madeuce?" A nurse was looking down at him, a brightly professional smile on her face. "Welcome to Hell. We'll have you all sorted out soon, we're much better-organized now than we were in the early days. Anyway, a friend is waiting to see you as soon as you are discharged. Now, if you can just fill out this form."

She handed over a clipboard that had the traditional cheap pen attached to it by a piece of mangled string. Madeuce read the form and realized it was a pretty close copy of the one he filled in every time he saw a doctor. Did this mean that bureaucracy was taking over Hell? "Thank you ma'am. What happens next?"

"Normally, you would stay here until the clerks put your details into a computer and then you would be discharged. If you had nowhere to go, you would be given temporary quarters and a job suited to your talents. But, we've been waiting for you and you're already set up."

Madeuce scribbled away, putting in the required data. "Forms and clerks. I guess doing the filing for eternity really must be Hell."

The nurse smiled sadly. "Remember, for some people, a job where they just move paper around for all eternity is Heaven, not Hell. You finished? Good. There's some coveralls been sent over for you. Once you feel fit enough, you can go."

The coveralls were dull red and Madeuce instantly recognized them as BDUs. The badge on the right breast was unusual though, a golden eagle on a purple background with the letters SPQR underneath. He slipped them on, revelling in the freedom to breathe that he had lost back on Earth. The boots were standard military issue and he slipped those on also. Then he was ready to leave. By the time he had reached the doors of the ward, his bed had already been taken by the next arrival.

"Tribune Madeuce?" The voice was instantly recognizable and he turned to meet her with delight. "Jade. Sorry, Second Consul Jade Kim, Thank you for coming."

"I had to meet the person blown into Hell by a nuclear device." Kim smiled. "And I've got to accumulate flight hours to get back into the swing of things. Anyway, Gaius wants to meet you ASAP. Made the trip here OK I see?"

"I think so. Still getting used to the idea of being dead though."

"It grows on you. By the way, one thing you won’t have to miss out on. Fox cancelled Dollhouse a few minutes ago."

"Damn them. I liked that show."

"I preferred Firefly. A commercial television station is one thing Gaius is looking at right now. He wants our Senate televised. All the time."

"That's brave."

"Not really, he believes that if the Senators behave like jackasses, everybody should see it and remember."

She led the way across to the helicopter pad where a red MH-6T was standing. It had the same crest as on his uniform, a purple circle on its tail boom with a gold eagle and the SPQR lettering. Now his mind was working more clearly, Madeuce recognized the Eagle as the same one carried by the Roman legions of old. Just to confirm the detail he had to ask. "SPQR?"

"Senatus Populusque Romanus. For the Senate and the People of Rome. And the number 3 at the top is for Third Legion. That's going to be yours by the way. As soon as we can train and equip it."

"Humans or Baldri . . . daemons, Second Consul?"

"Both. And it's Jade in private. Although the helicopter and armor units are human for the time being. We can't get aircraft or tracks sized for daemons yet." She climbed into the pilot's seat and started running through the pre-flight checks on her MH-6.

"I've heard there's problems integrating daemons and humans in military units." Madeuce paused as the turbine spooled up and the rotor overhead started to turn.

"Hellish ones." Jade gave a quick grin at the joke and tapped her microphone. "Phelan Air Traffic Control, this is Rome-Senate-Alpha requesting flight clearance through to New Rome."

"Rome-Senate-Alpha, this is air traffic control, you have clearance, maintain altitude fiver-six-zero until you reach destination. And maintain visual watch for Harpies."

"The Harpies are so used to flying around without anybody arguing about it, they can't get used to having to clear flight paths above a hundred feet or so. The Canucks lost a CF-18 a few days ago, mid-air collision with a Harpy. Pilot turned up in the reception center three hours later and was back in his squadron three hours after that." Kim moved her controls and the helicopter lifted off. She climbed to the specified altitude and then set course for New Rome."

Madeuce looked down through the murk and dust to the land underneath. "There's fields down there."

"That there are. Remember for most of humanity's existence we were farmers. A lot of us still are and most of the people rescued from the pit are. All they want is to get a piece of land and start farming it, it's a vocation I guess. And the land down there is incredibly fertile once somebody got a plow to it. Food's not a problem in Hell."

"I didn't think it was anyway. We don't have to eat do we?"

Kim made an indecisive, well-sort-of noise. "Not really, not physically, although you get to feel wrong of you don’t. Psychological. But, you do hard work that burns a lot of energy, you'll feel hungry and you either have to eat or rest until the hunger pains go. Get hurt, you'll be hungry until your body fixes itself. Don't ask me why or how. The egg-heads are working on it, they've got theories coming out of the wazoo. All I can tell you is this. These bodies look human but they’re not. We're here, we're human, we are who we were but these bodies the ones we inhabit, are not human. We're Second-Lifers, not First-Lifers. Never forget that."

The cultivated areas of the Phelan Plain behind them, the ground beneath reverted to uncultivated grassland. "Who does all this land belong to?"

"Us, by right of conquest." Madeuce looked sharply at Kim, but she wasn't smiling. "I'm not joking, it's the only thing that the daemons understand. We won so everything belongs to us. Anything they keep is what we are presumed to have given back to them and they're grateful for it. Oh, there's some that resent us waltzing in and taking over and there's an incredible amount of trouble with rogue humans setting up as warlords. Another thing you shouldn't forget. Hell is huge and we've only seen a small part, a tiny part, of it. You remember the Leviathan things that showed up? Well, its likely there's a lot more nasty surprises out there waiting for us. That's why I wanted you with us."

Throne Room, The Ultimate Temple, Eternal City, Heaven

There was one immediate reaction to Michael-Lan's arrival in the Throne Room. Tucked away in a corner, one of the Chayot Ha Kodesh was arguing over the price the Master Mason was charging for spaces in his bunker. As soon as he saw Michael-Lan arriving, he paid the asking price without question and squirmed behind the protective walls. That was a sight Michael-Lan found profoundly satisfying. Not because of its actual content but because it showed that now, even here in Yahweh's throne room, it was he, Michael-Lan-Yahweh, who was determining the course of events. He paused for a second, contemplating the meaning of his name. It wasn't true, not any more. Michael-Lan-Michael had a much better ring to it.

With that thought coiling in his mind, Michael-Lan once more entered the Holiest of Holies and his eyes adjusted to the dim glow that contrasted so strongly with the clear, white light that saturated Heaven. Once again, the sight of the great white throne with the dimly-seen shape of the One Above All Others sitting on it awed him. Or did it? He looked again at the figure he derisively thought of as Yah-yah, the Unbearable One and realized the awe was gone. Michael-Lan had seen real power now, seen the great boiling mushroom cloud that had consumed the city of Naypyidaw, surveyed the devastation that had been left when the cloud had passed. He had been saved from destruction by a fraction of a second for he knew and knew well that had he not pushed his cart back through that portal, he would have been in the center of that unimaginable blast. He would have been destroyed so thoroughly that it would have been as if he had never existed.

Michael-Lan had known humans, understood humans or so he had thought. He had watched their ability to destroy grow by leaps and bounds as they had given up their blind acceptance of dogma and begun to ask the one simple word that Michael-Lan knew Yahweh feared above all others. Why? Did simply asking why things happened always lead to such terrifying power? And was that why Yahweh hated those who questioned his will so much? With those thoughts troubling his mind, Michael stopped in the middle of the ring of lamps and knelt down on both knees. He prostrated himself and pressing his lips, still marred with the faint scars from the wounds he had taken rescuing Uriel, to the cold, dark jade floor. As though sensing intentions, the four Seraphim quieted, and the twenty-four elders' murmurs died to whispers.

From the white throne, the voice of Yahweh thundered: “Michael, my good general, what news do you bring me?” There was a stir of sheer, raw terror around the room and those left in the open cursed the fact they had been too late or too poor to afford a seat in the Master Mason's bunker.

"Oh Immaculate One Above All whose Unspeakable Name brings indescribable feelings to us all." Michael-Lan chanced a quick glance upwards at that, but was reassured. Yahweh was still half-dazed by the chanting of his choir. "I bring excellent news. The Scarlet Beast has broken into Jerusalem. It is laying waste the city and destroying all that is sacred there. Dumah spreads her contamination across the city and none survive its poison. Dumah protects the Beast while the Beast destroys and together they kill everything. The dead already number in their hundreds of thousands. The human city of Jerusalem has fallen. The surviving humans stream away from it in great columns, its population reduced to panicking refugees. The Scarlet Beast and Dumah have scored a great victory."

"By My Unconquerable Will do we triumph." Yahweh's voice cracked across the room in triumph, the clouds around him seething with energy.

"Truly The Nameless One's Example shines like a shaft of gold in the darkness." The voice echoed across the room, one of the Chayot Ha Kodesh trying to curry a little favor.

Not unlike a stream of bat's piss, thought Michael, more than slightly annoyed at the interruption. "And that is not all. We have started to pour the Fourth Bowl of Wrath upon the humans and with it we have scorched men with fire. We have destroyed the great city of Naypyidaw and the men of the remarkable empire of Burma were scorched with the fierce heat of its destruction. Yet even as they died, they blasphemed Thy Mighty Unspeakable Name and did not repent or give glory unto your Unbelievable Self. Soon four more cities shall follow and their grief shall be multiplied many times over."

"And Uriel? What of Uriel?" Yahweh's voice was breathless, almost carried away with excitement.

"Alas, Oh Unmentionable One, Uriel inflicted great harm on the City of Los Angeles. Many parts of the city burned with unquenchable fire and its streets are full of humans on his account. Yet in his great efforts, the humans treacherously slew him with weapons unknown to us. A great loss. One Above All."

Yahweh shrugged and the clouds around him roiled. "Ah well, he wasn't doing much good anyway. Forget him. You have done well my Great General. Carry on with your plans."

You can be sure of that. Michael-Lan thought. As he left he saw the Chayot Ha Kodesh who had been arguing about the price of a seat in the bunker was trying to get his money back.

 

[LTR]

Israeli General Command Headquarters, Tel Aviv, Israel

Orders should be clear, concise, unambiguous and decisive. General Marosy’s order to the Israeli Navy officer-of-the-watch was all of those. “Explain yourself.”

“Well, Sir, it appears that the Tekuma was correctly designated on the plot as of fifteen hundred when the watch shift changed. When the new operations room staff took over, the first thing they did was purge the board of outdated contacts. They noted that the contact report representing Tekuma hadn’t been updated since the early part of the previous watch so they removed her from the board. Then, when the present watch took over control, they had no means of knowing that the submarine was not represented on the plot.”

Marosy stared at the naval officer in awed disbelief. “I’ve heard of things like that happening. I never thought I would actually be present to see one. If somebody was to write that into a novel, nobody would believe it. Yet you imbeciles have done it, not once but twice? Give me strength. Have you people learned nothing in the forty years since you last pulled something like that off? Then you just shot up a ship belonging to your only ally. Now, you’ve mislaid a nuclear-armed submarine?” Marosy almost lost control of his voice and nearly heard it go up into a squeak. He paused for a second and swallowed, wishing he had a good shot of slivowitz to help him endure the unendurable. Then, he took a deep breath. “And just what do you plan to do about it?”

“We’re putting out radio messages, ordering Tekuma to report in.”

“And?”

“And what Sir?”

“And suppose she can’t report in, or doesn’t want to? We’ve no idea what is happening out there. She could have been sunk by collision with a merchant ship, simply had a radio failure or hit an uncharted rock. Remember that Chinese boat a few years back? Snort valve jammed while charging batteries, she got back to the surface but the pressure differential prevented her from opening her hatches and her entire crew suffocated. Happened so fast nobody got a distress call out. She was drifting for ten days before the Chinese Navy found her. Now, are you sure Tekuma isn’t out there, drifting around with a dead crew? Think, man. Get some recon birds out there and call Dolphin and Leviathan. They’re the only capable ASW assets your Navy has. Find that submarine.”

Marosy slumped into a seat, trying to think of a reason why he could be transferred to another posting in the Human Expeditionary Army. This one was just too much.

Jerusalem, Israel

The Scarlet Beast paused for a second to scratch his back on the Crown Plaza Hotel, then headed for the Bridge of Chords. Seated on his neck, Dumah screamed in triumph as the Hotel crumbled with the impact of Fluffy’s body. She ignored the steady crackle of gunfire, most of the shots were aimed at the Scarlet Beast and she seriously doubted whether they were penetrating his thick skin. She was bleeding where some of the heavier-caliber bullets had hit her, the silver of her blood disfiguring her red-and-purple robes. None of the wounds were severe enough to worry her though, not while the sheer exhilaration of destroying the city pulsed through her veins.

Underneath her, the Scarlet Beast reared on his back legs and took two swings at the Bridge of Chords with his front paws. The first ripped the column from its foundation and hurled it backwards, the second caught it as it fell and batted it backwards, causing the iconic structure to shatter in mid-air. The wreckage sprayed across the nearby buildings with the same effect as a shotgun blast. The sight drew another scream of triumph from Dumah, this time one of professional fulfillment. When not riding the Scarlet Beast, she was one of the Eternal City's better architects and destroying that eyesore of a bridge had been a real pleasure. Meanswhile, Fluffy had spotted a group of three tower blocks close together and he galloped over to them. One massive swing of his paws topped the end one down and it took the other two with it.

"Stee-RIKE." Dumah cheered and slapped Fluffy on the neck at the sight of the three blocks collapsing into dust and gravel. The sight of the tower blocks going down was an entirely new sensation to her. The last time she had destroyed Jerusalem, it had been a miserable collection of hovels that the Scarlet Beast had trampled without a second thought. This was much more professionally satisfying.

Thoughts of her previous rampage through this area so many millennia ago distracted Dumah for a second. It had always upset her slightly that the scribes who had told of Fluffy's exploits hadn't been able to accept that their beloved Yahweh could pull such a rampage of wanton destruction. In the end, they had assigned the blame to Satan and assumed that she and her Beast were his creations. As a result, poor Fluffy had been written down as a Hell-spawn and she as a demon. That really offended Dumah. Perhaps it was because of that moment of reflection that Dumah didn’t see the four shapes hurtling through the night towards her. She heard nothing because the F-111Cs were coming in at Mach 1.1and their sound wave followed far behind the bombers.

F-111C, Koala Flight, Approaching Jerusalem

Each aircraft was carrying four two thousand pound retarded bombs and the great beast trampling the ruins of Jerusalem was hardly a target they could miss. The great red monster seemed to glow amidst the clouds of dust and smoke, illuminated by the starlight and what was left of the city lights. Squadron Leader Mackay had already obtained clearance for this raid, it was a matter of how desperate the situation was that the Israelis had authorized the use of these heavy bombs on the city. But then, if these failed, the next option was the use of a nuclear weapon and he guessed they would do most things rather than authorize that.

"Target in sight Charlie, get the nav-attack system locked. All Koala aircraft, we'll try and get that wee beastie trapped in a four-by-four box of bombs. Set intervalometer for a one hundred-foot spacing around him. One pass and we're out of here."

"Roger." The affirmatives came over the radio swiftly as the target swelled in size before them. Neither the beast nor its rider were aware of the threat that was racing through the sky towards them. Making attack runs over Mach one had that effect. Mackay tapped his controls slightly, lining his aircraft up to pass directly over the beast below. Then, he felt his Pig lurch as eight thousand pounds of steel and explosive, the finest two thousand pound bombs that Norinco in China could make, dropped clear. Their tale find split open and spread out, stopping the bomb's forward movement and slowing their descent so the four F-111s could get clear. The Scarlet Beast and his rider barely had time to notice their arrival before they exploded all around them.

Jerusalem, Israel

Dumah had heard about human weapons and their terror but she hadn't imagined anything like the waves of blast, sound and fragments that enveloped her. The stories, those she had heard, and she had thought she understood them but they hadn't even begun to convey the nightmare of being caught in one. She heard Fluffy screaming as the fragments slashed into his body and the blast from the bombs pummelled him. Somebody else was screaming in fear and agony as well and to her horror Dumah realized she was hearing her own voice. She looked down, through the billowing smoke and stink of human explosives Why human weapons even smelled of the hell they created she thought, and saw the streams of silver blood pouring down the sides of her Beast and splattering on the ground far below. Only then did she realize how badly the bombs had hurt her.

Even breathing was painful. She could feel the bones grating in her chest when she tried to take a deep breath, heard the bubbling in her lungs. Her mind didn’t seem to be working properly, it was as if it had been filled with a strange jelly that wrapped around her brain and stifled her thoughts. There was something she had to do but she couldn’t quite get a handle on it, the memory of what she had to do and where she had to go seemed to be stuck somewhere and she couldn’t quite get it loose. Underneath her, Fluffy was weaving around, his own scarlet blood pouring from the gaping wounds in his chest and belly. Slowly the thought came to her mind. I have to get the hell out of here.

That's when the second part of her instructions came clearly into her mind. She had to open an escape portal to a specific point, one Michael-Lan had been very insistent on. That one point, nowhere else. No matter how bad things were, she had to go to that point first. She joined her mind to that of the Scarlet Beast and together they opened the great black ellipse that was her road to safety. Stunned with shock and pain, she and Fluffy leaped through it and into the refuge that lay beyond.

Radio Room, INS Tekuma, Mediterranean

The radio message chattered its way through the decrypting system and spewed out as words printed on a white tape. The message was clear and formed into two parts. One was an urgent message to Tekuma to re-establish contact with operations center immediately. The other was a flash message that said an Australian air strike had forced the Scarlet Beast to break off its attack and retreat to Heaven. That emergency at least was over.

Lieutenant Midyan Yitzchak read the latter and sighed to himself. The time had come, all the planning that had gone into this operation would be rewarded. It had taken years to get this operation set up, people had had to be moved into the right places, and they had had to move others into the places they were needed. But, with Divine inspiration, provided by the peerless Archangel who had appeared to them all in their visions, it had been done. They had been promised no reward. They were doing the Lord's will and that was enough. He took the message that had arrived and carefully destroyed it, feeding it through the shredder that was specifically designed to reduce paper to an irrevocable mass of tiny shards. Then he took another message out of his pocket, one that was carefully packed so that it looked freshly arrived. Its contents were not those that had just been delivered.

Yitzchak's next stop was the weapons control room. There was a terminal there, one that connected to the five Popeye missiles stored in the torpedo tubes forward. They had been loaded into the tubes earlier, all they needed was their target coordinates. The weapons control officer took the orders and typed the numbers given there into the missile control panel. There, they would be fed through an algorithm that converted them into the actual targets. The Weapons Control officer had no idea where those targets were and that was the plan. He was better off not knowing.

"The targets are entered into the system." The voice was solemn as befitted the occasion. Nobody on the submarine had ever really believed this moment would come. In fact, it still might not for there was an outside chance the submarine's Captain would refuse to fire. But that was a remote chance indeed. Yitzchak saluted and left the compartment, heading for the command center.

Captain Alex Ben-Shoshan was waiting there. An alert had sounded when the message had come in and in his heart he guessed what it was. Yitzchak silently handed the message to him. Ben-Shoshan read it and his eyes saddened. "The situation is worse?"

"Worse by far Sir. The beast has finished its destruction of Jerusalem and has moved into the corridor. Soon, it will be approaching Tel Aviv itself and then it will be too late. We have a brief opportunity, when the Beast is in the corridor, that is all."

The Captain nodded. At the bottom of the message was a line of characters. He took a small box and typed those characters in. Then he handed the message to his Executive Officer who had a similar box. Once again the characters were typed in and the box translated them into a different string of numbers.

"I have 693987909 Sir." The Executive Officer typed the numbers manually into the launch console.

Ben-Shoshan nodded. His machine had given him a different number and he added that to the console input. The computer would add the two numbers and if they came to the right total, they authenticated the input and released the locks on the firing system. There was no sign that the doomsday decision had been taken. No lights, no flashing messages. The fire control system was quiet. "It is time." Ben-Shoshan said.

He took the key from its chain around his neck and went to a box at one end of the control room. His executive officer did the same so the men were separated by the length of the room. Then, they inserted their keys in two small, unobtrusive locks. "On the count of three. One. . . . two . . . . three."

The keys turned and the computer made a series of clicks. A t this point, if the calculations done by the computer had not come to the correct answer, the whole system would lock down. There was an eerie silence in the control room then the submarine shuddered gently. The first Popeye missile was on its way. The next followed ten seconds later with the third following ten seconds after that. In less than a minute, all five missiles were on their way to their targets.

Israeli General Command Headquarters, Tel Aviv, Israel

The cheering and applause in the headquarters building was stilled by five words.

"We have a missile launch."

The Navy Duty Officer's simple statement changed the celebration over driving off the Scarlet Beast into a tense atmosphere that was thick with fear. On the displays that dominated one wall, the tracks of missiles were clearly evident. Only one at first but others joined it and were fanning out across the sea towards the land. There was nothing indicated on the display to suggest where the missiles had been launched from but there was only one real option and everybody knew what it was. Tekuma

Five missiles, heading east in a fan. There was no doubt what they were either. Nuclear-tipped Popeye missiles. ""Nobody authorized that launch." It was a stupid remark and the man who uttered it flushed deep red with embarrassment.

"Where are they going?" Marosy's throat was dry. This was what everybody in the nuclear business had feared for so long.

"No way to tell yet. The missiles will use an evasive course for the first few minutes to complicate any hope of interception. Then they will go to their targets."

"Interceptors are up. Four Akef fighters out of Tel Nov." The Air Force Duty Officer read the data out. The fighters would be heading out in an effort to shoot the missiles down before they reached their targets.

"Only four?" Marosy couldn’t tear his eyes off the screen. The missiles were heading east in a snaking S-shaped pattern that made target prediction impossible. Blue lines appeared on the map, the F-15Cs heading out to intercept the Popeyes.

"All we have. It will be ten minutes before the rest of the aircraft are available and that will be too late."

Second ticked by. The missile tracks stopped snaking and accelerated along straight courses to their targets. The fighters changed course slightly, spreading out to make their intercepts.

"We have targets Sir. Baghdad, Damascus, Beirut, Cairo and Tel Aviv." The last words were spoken in stunned disbelief. "Sir, the way they're spread, we can't get them all. The first three, we can get, one Akef each. The last pair, its one or the other."

"Order the fighter to take the one heading for Cairo." The Prime Minister's voice cut across the room. "If Israeli nuclear missiles destroy an Arab capital, the human alliance will be torn apart. Human will fight human with every weapon we have. The only winner will be Yahweh and his crew. So we sacrifice Tel Aviv, not Cairo. Anyway, our missile batteries may stop the Popeye."

That was a faint chance and everybody knew it. The anti-missile system was designed to shoot down ballistic missiles that came in on a straight, predictable ballistic arc. An ABM system didn’t even need guidance to hit a target like that, the Indians had made intercepts by mathematical prediction without guidance. The Arrow stressed range and speed, not the agility needed to hit a maneuvering target. But the Popeye was skimming in at very high speed, a few feet above the ground. A much harder target. By ordering the one fighter within reach of the last pair of missiles, the Prime Minister had condemned Tel Aviv to death.

"Mister Prime Minister." Muamur al Zahari spoke from the corner of the room, his eyes glistening with tears. "Please authorize me to use your radio system. I must get word out telling the world of the decision you have just made. The world needs to know of the sacrifice that is being made here today."

The Prime Minister nodded and al Zahari sat at a communications console, dialing frequencies and transmitting messages, advising his command structure that Tel Aviv was about to die so that the Human Alliance could survive. Behind him, Marosy stared at the city outside. He was still staring at it when it was engulfed by a brilliant flash of light.

Michael's Palace, Aukumea, Heaven

"What do you want." Michael-Lan's voice was uncharacteristically angry. He had enough to worry about without routine messages to distract him. The Scarlet Beast was screaming with pain, threshing around and dumping excrement all over his prized flowers. Deumah had been pulled off his back and rushed into the private operating theater in a grim effort to save her life. Both had been hideously wounded by the bomb blasts and Michael really didn’t know whether either would survive. The Scarlet Beast? Perhaps. Deumah, if she was very lucky and his medical team were working at the top of their form.

"O Lordly One, I have news from below. The Fourth Bowl of Wrath has been poured on another human city. The capital of the Israelites is no more."

That stopped Michael in his tracks. "The Fourth Bowl of Wrath poured on Jerusalem? And only one city?"

"Only one, Greatest of Generals."

Oh shut up with the ass-licking. Michael thought. I'm not Yahweh and my name is Michael, not some sycophantic chant. Stop wasting my time with that mindless nonsense..

"Tel Aviv has been destroyed and all who reside within. A masterly strategy, Greatest of Generals, tricking the humans into using their own weapons." The messenger bowed and left.

A masterly strategy indeed. Use human weapons because Uriel's death showed that even the deadliest we have is no great threat to them. Michael tried to calm Fluffy down. I wonder who thought of it.

 

[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]

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."

 

[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.

 

[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!"