“Roger that. Out.”
“Out.”
“You heard the man,” Gunny said. “Follow the yellow brick road.”
There was enough light in the cave to see by, so I slid my NVGs up. Sure enough, the path we had to follow was made of dirty reddish-yellow marble. Seepage from the roof of the cave made the stone slick in spots, but no one left the path. Finally we reached Keith and the remaining SEALs.
“It’s going to be a minute before we can move out,” Keith said, pointing to his leg.
The leg was broken in three places.
“I think we’ve got a stretcher in the medic pack,” Gunny said, going to one knee beside Keith.
“No need,” Keith replied. His leg jerked, the bone flowing back inside the skin and muscle.
“That’s got to hurt,” Gunny said.
“Oh, fuck yes,” Keith replied.
“I take it you’re something special, Lt. Commander?”
“You could say that, yes,” Keith replied, grimacing with pain.
“We can discuss that when we get out of here,” Gunny said.
Keith stood. “Yes, we can.”
The quality of the light changed.
“Henry,” one of the surviving SEALs said.
“I see it. The queen must be back.”
“How do you want to handle it?”
“Back off and nuke the site from orbit; it’s the only way to be sure,” Keith replied.
“Getting out of here might be a problem,” the SEAL replied, pointing.
I couldn’t see the “queen” yet, but hundreds of ghouls were pouring across the floor.
“The Iraqis built this OP as a fallback point,” Keith said. “Even Saddam wasn’t crazy enough to let his research scientists and mages get eaten by ghouls. Except as punishment.”
He was right—the OP had a pretty serious door, and the windows were armored glass.
“Sabo, check the lockers and see if any of the supplies are left. Myers, see if you can find the escape hatch. Gunnery Sergeant Thomas? Take this,”—he handed Gunny a bag—“and see if you can wedge the door shut. The rest of you, get ready to see how many of these bastards we can kill.”
We went to work, making things defensible. It wasn’t long before the ghouls put our defenses to the test.
The ghouls attacked in waves. We killed them in droves. It did no good, there were always more to rush our position. The ghouls learned—or whatever it was that was lighting up the cavern was learning—because they suddenly stopped blindly charging toward the observation post, instead hiding behind rocks and the piles of their own dead. They also started drawing fire—one would expose itself to fire, and three more would rush closer.
The SEALs started dropping off full magazines—probably pulled from their own magazine pouches or the rucksacks they’d carried down into this hell—but even that supply was drying up faster than we were killing ghouls.
“Rotate. Marines, take a rest.”
We pulled back from the windows, replaced by the SEALs. They no longer carried the high speed, low drag M4 carbines they’d carried when they entered the site. Instead, they carried Iraqi copies of the AK and the local copy of the RPK, the Al Quds.
“How’s everyone doing?” Gunny asked as the SEALs went to work.
There were minor injuries. I had a burn on the back of my neck where hot brass had gone down the collar of my armor, and Ocasic had a black eye—one of the ghouls had gotten close enough to the firing port he was using and grabbed his rifle. When Ocasic had pulled back, the ghoul had let go, and Ocasic smacked his own face.
Keith and another SEAL, Mueller, whose left arm was in a sling, were still looking for the emergency escape hatch.
“I don’t get it,” Mueller said after his fourth or fifth circuit of the room. “You’d think if Saddam was really concerned about the safety of his researchers, he’d have them mark the emergency escape.”
“The plans we took from the Germans showed it. Dwarf engineers don’t lie about such things.”
“True. That doesn’t mean Saddam didn’t think it was funny to go in after everyone knew it was here and fill it full of concrete, Henry,” Mueller replied. “Although if that were the case, he’d have had it marked with an ornate sign.”
“Probably made of gold and platinum,” Keith agreed. “Here, I think.”
He twisted a surface-mounted light switch. Under it was a knife switch. Henry pulled it down, and a section of the back wall of the room slid back and to the side. Mueller went through the door, pistol in hand.
“Welp, I’m fucked,” Mueller said, walking back into the room. “The plans aren’t accurate. They might have this listed as a stairwell, but…”
“It’s an escape ladder,” Keith replied.
“Yes sir. Been good knowing you.”
“There has to be a way to get you out. Gunny?”
“Sir?”
“There should be a resting point about halfway up—it would suck for us to climb up there and find out it’s full of ghouls.”
“Yes sir, it would. Gibbs, Rhodes, go up there and make sure it’s clear. If it isn’t, let us know.”
“Aye aye, Gunny.”
Gibbs and Rhodes went into the base of the shaft. Gibbs came back.
“Gunny, we’re going to have to leave the armor behind. It’s a tight fit.”
“Do it,” Gunny said. “We can pull more armor from supply. I’m sure Lt. Commander Keith will approve it as lost in combat.”
“No problem, Gunny,” Keith replied. “It’s only money.”
* * *
I… I don’t remember it that way…
Sleep…
* * * * *
Chapter 16 – Diindiisi
“As we see it, there are three issues we’re here to resolve. First, finding,” he flipped through his notes, “the one referred to as ‘he who must make a choice.’”
When the conference reconvened, there had been some shifting of seats. Fred now sat to my left.
“‘He who must make a choice?’ Did your human prophets get lazy or something?” Fred asked.
“There are indications that the reference is an artifact of translation,” Father Miller said. “The earliest reference we can find is in a little-known work about Saint Isidora. It references another work that sadly no longer exists.”
“Ah. That makes sense,” Fred said. “Sorry, Director, please continue.”
“Once we find ‘he who must make a choice,’ he must be allowed to make his choice, whatever that may be. That means defending the chooser, and that defense might involve having to kill a god—or gods—unknown, as well as their minions.”
“Depending on where he…Director, what was that term you used?” Call of the Sun asked.
“Chooser?”
“Much simpler than ‘he who must make a choice,’ I think,” Call of the Sun said. “Depending on where the Chooser is found, that could be an easy proposition.”
“Yes,” I said. “If we are forced to plane-walk to find the Chooser, killing a god or devil on their home plane is permanent. Killing them here? Not so much.”
“Do we have any way of finding the Chooser?” someone in Father Miller’s delegation asked.
“Based on events at the end of last month, we’ve come to believe that the Chooser,” Goodhart flashed a quick, wry smile, “is an employee of QMG, Father Jesse Salazar.”
“You are fucking kidding me,” Miller snapped. “Sorry. But the fate of all Creation depends on Jesse making the right choice?”
“Of all the people who could be the Chooser, Jesse is probably the best choice,” Jed said.
“How so?” Miller asked, turning to me. “No offense, Diindiisi, but I’ve known Jesse a long time, and while I love him like the brother I never had, I don’t know that I’d trust him with this.”
“Father, you say you love him like a brother. Do you?”
“What do you mean?”
“‘Greater love hath no man than this,
that a man lay down his life for his friends,’” Jed replied. “I’ve got that tattooed on my left bicep, over a scar from a ghoul’s claw. I got that scar when Jesse was saving my ass.”
“What does John 15:13 have to do with Jesse?”
“If you were put in a situation where you could save yourself, or save Jesse but die in the process, what choice would you make, Father?”
“I’d…I’ve never thought about that, honestly.”
“That’s the difference between you and Jesse,” I said gently. “You would have to think about your choices. Your options. Those of your flock you leave behind. Jesse, were the situation reversed, would not pause in thought. He’d bull in to save you, though it meant his own death.”
“So you think he’s suicidal?”
“Far from it, and he would, I think, regret the necessity of his death,” I replied. “One of the reasons I love him as I do is because of the regrets he has over the death of his first wife. He still has nightmares about it, you know?”
“That…that doesn’t change the way I feel about this,” Miller said. “It helps me understand why you think he’s the Chooser, but I’m still uncomfortable with the fact he is the chooser.”
“There are ways we can confirm that this Salazar is the Chooser,” Call of the Sun said. “Would that allay your fears, Father?”
“Yes, to some extent,” Miller admitted. “I don’t think it’s possible that you’ve been contaminated by the thought of Jesse, Savior of Creation.”
“What will you need to perform your ritual, Call of the Sun?” Sola asked.
“A pure surface upon which to cast, something to serve as a planchette, a glass of uncontaminated water to serve as the stand-in for all of creation, an item that has been close to this Salazar, and a number of similar items so that I do not know which one is his. The spell can be effected by the caster’s knowledge, you see.”
“I know the spell of which you speak,” Sola said, “but I’ve never seen it used in this manner. Would it help if we were to obscure the items as well?”
“Yes.”
Sola turned to Director Goodhart and Henry.
“I can have the items we need here in ten or fifteen minutes, if Diindiisi will tell me where I can find something of Jesse’s that she thinks has a strong resonant tie to him in their quarters.”
“I have something here,” I replied.
“It must be a small item,” Sola said. “Nothing larger than your thumbnail.”
I laughed.
“I wasn’t thinking of giving you the firearm Jesse gave me,” I replied. “Call of the Sun, Henry? If you do not mind, I will consult with Sola outside your hearing.”
Sola and I stepped into the elevator foyer.
“Will this work?” I asked, removing a silver chain from around my neck. On it hung a single charm.
“Where did you get this?”
“Jesse gave it to me after we were married. It’s the St. Michael medal he wore in Iraq. He said it would protect me as it protected him.”
“Yes, this should be perfect,” Sola replied, taking out his phone. “I’ve got to make a call.”
“Is there anything you would like to discuss while we are waiting on the supplies we need?” Call of the Sun asked as I took my seat.
“Part of the second task we face will be defending the Chooser. This may, as you say, involve killing a god. Do we know of any weapons that are capable of it?” Speaker said. “We elves lack the tempestuous relationship with our gods you other beings seem to have.”
“That’s because you never invented the concept of war to prove your god was the one, true god,” Fred said. “The dwarfs know the location of the First Hammer, that which was used to Forge the World. It is not an option.”
“If I may ask, why not?”
“It was the tool of the God of Mines,” Fred said. “In all of history, it has been used by mortals twice—once by Bjorn the Black, when humans were little more than plains-dwelling apes barely learning to chip stone into useful tools, to forge a suit of armor that gave him dominion over the Stone Folk; and once by the hero Hrun the Hammer, who used it to end Bjorn’s reign just as humans were inventing agriculture.”
“Bjorn lived for two hundred thousand years?” Miller asked.
“Something like that, yes. The armor he forged drew upon the lifeforce of all Stone folk. Before he committed his crime, we were a long-lived race like the Fair Folk. After, the Gods of the Deep limited our lifespans to a millennia or so.”
“Why does that make the Hammer useless?” Henry asked.
“Hrun, by all accounts, was mad before he touched the Hammer, and it told him how to undo its work. When he killed Bjorn, he lived three days afterward and died in great agony,” Fred replied with a shrug. “I believe the Hammer would destroy any number of gods or goddesses, but the price we would pay for it to do so would be too high.”
“What of the Mace of Marduk? Did it not once end the threat of Tiamat?” asked one of the priests seated with Father Miller of the Knights of Saint Quintus.
“It ended her threat here,” Father Miller replied. “She survived to reform in the Shadow Lands at the call of her husband, Abzu.”
“Tiamat has been silenced,” I said. “One of the offenses Jesse committed to anger Abzu was killing her. We do have the grenade launcher he used for that task, however.”
“Are we certain Jesse killed her for good this time?”
“Yes,” I replied. “According to the dragons, their ancient mother is gone.”
“I take it you will be bringing this fearsome weapon?” Call of the Sun asked.
“Yes. It is downstairs, actually, if you would like to see it?”
“Please. I would like to see the weapon that put paid to ancient chaos incarnate.”
I sent a quick text to Padgett, who was running things downstairs in my absence.
“We have a weapon. What of others?” Call of the Sun asked.
“What of the Lance Longinus?” Henry asked Father Miller.
“Which Lance?” Miller replied. “While the one in Vienna contains bits from the nails used to crucify our Savior, it’s a Carolingian lance. The one found in Armenia is a copy. The one in Saint Peter’s Basilica is an integral part of the defenses of the Holy City and cannot be removed.”
“Excalibur is lost. The French guard the location of Durandal more closely than the location of their president,” Fred said, ticking off swords on his hand. “Odin reclaimed Gram. What of the Kusanagi-no-tsurigi? Isn’t it part of the Japanese Imperial Regalia?”
“Yes and no,” Father Miller answered, rocking a hand side to side.
“What do you mean, yes and no?”
“Yes, there’s a sword called Kusanagi-no-tsurigi in the Japanese Imperial Regalia. No, it’s not the actual sword. The Church knows the fate of the actual sword. Well, we used to,” Miller replied.
“Used to?” Henry asked.
“Yes. Used to,” Miller replied. “The sword came into the Church’s possession when Oda Nobunaga pledged it as surety for a loan. It rested in a temple in Nagasaki from then until World War II.”
“Ah, well then, the sword was destroyed in the bombing?” Fred asked.
“No, the temple where it lay was on the outskirts of the town, and not effected by the bombing at all. The Jesuit there saw it as a miracle, that the sword was blessed by God, so in the confusion at the end of the war, he smuggled it out of Japan to Rome.”
“So the Kusanagi is in the Vatican’s Vault of Secrets?” Henry asked.
“No. Pope Pious XII was uneasy keeping artifacts of other religions in the Holy See. He felt that what he deemed ‘idolatrous, pagan artifacts’ weakened the Church, even if they were used in defense of the Church.”
“Pious feared God, but not the gods,” Fred said.
“Yes, well, his fears have nothing to do with what happened to Kusanagi-no-tsurigi,” Miller said. “A secret Papal Bull was issued, calling for the destruction of pagan artif
acts late in 1945. At first they consigned them to the deep, but there was a fear that those items would be recovered at the End of Days and used against humanity and God, so they turned to more permanent means.”
“Nuclear testing?”
“Among other things, yes. Although when they almost woke the thing that sleeps under Bikini Atoll because they managed to drive a relic of the Zulu through it with the Baker Test during Operation Crossroads, they rethought the use of nuclear weapons to destroy relics.”
“What did they do to the Kusanagi?”
“They consulted with a tame kobold in Germany who was willing to work to show he hadn’t supported the Nazis by making wonder weapons. He suggested a way to weaken the influence of the sword, and they were able to melt it down. It was then recast, and its influence destroyed.”
“Recast as what? I’m quite sure the Church didn’t just hand a billet of steel that had been a magic sword over to the local recycling plant,” Fred said.
“No, you would be correct. The Church kept track of that particular shipment of steel, if for no other reason than to confirm it didn’t become razor blades with a thirst for blood. I can say beyond a doubt that the influences of the Kusanagi are no more in this world.”
“I’m going to put this as simply as possible, priest,” Fred rumbled. “What. Was. The. Steel. Used. For.”
“It was used to make blades for rotary lawn mowers in 1950,” a defeated Father Miller replied.
“Your Church turned a sword known as the ‘Grass Cutting Sword’ into lawn mowers?” Fred asked. “That takes a real dedication to…something. I’m not sure what, but it definitely takes dedication.”
“Destruction of the cultural artifacts of other nations is no longer the policy of the Holy See,” the priest who had mentioned Marduk said primly.
“I’m glad,” I replied, “as I believe I would qualify as a cultural artifact, as does Henry here.”
Sola’s return and the entrance of Padgett saved the priest from answering.
“Which would you like to do first, view the weapon, or confirm the identity of the Chooser?”
Last Call Page 12
