by Jeff Kirvin
Satan leaned against the console and stared intensely at his second. “Beelzebub was a good friend, and he'll be missed. But Gabriel's stunt in Washington was just that, a stunt. A carefully constructed gesture to lessen our chaotic effect on the humans."
"My Lord—"
"Belial, relax. I can't for a moment believe Michael would actually attack us directly. That goes against every rule of engagement both our sides have obeyed for over five thousand years. We knew the angels would learn our location eventually. I just want to know who they tell."
Satan stood and left the room, leaving Belial alone to frown over the cameras and carry out his orders.
Susan had just stepped into her office when the phone rang. “Susan Richardson."
"I have a tip for you,” said the voice at the other end of the line. “About Senator Phillips."
"And?"
"Not over the phone,” the voice said. Susan was pretty sure it was a man, and he sounded scared. “Meet me at the Francis Scott Key Park at noon.” He hung up.
Susan stared at the receiver. She knew the park in question, a tiny little collection of bricks and plants where M Street intersected the north end of the Key Bridge. A public place, but small and far enough out of the way for a clandestine meeting.
She was a little uneasy about this cloak and dagger sort of thing, but with everything that had been going on recently, a tip about Phillips could be important. She glanced at the clock. 9:07. Three hours to go.
Susan arrived ten minutes early to find her contact already waiting for her. She wasn't sure at first which of the handful of people was there to see her specifically, but any questions she might have had were quickly erased when a young, slim black man walked up and said, “Susan Richardson?"
Though he didn't introduce himself, she recognized him. She didn't know his name, but she'd seen him often enough to know that the man was Phillips’ aide. This should be good, she thought.
"I don't have a lot of time,” the man said, nervously glancing over his shoulder. “Phillips is planning a coup. He's going to publicly accuse the president tomorrow of demonic collaboration, hoping the very idea of it will get the president kicked out of office. You've been warned."
Before Susan could get a word out, the man ran away, got into his car parked off of M Street, and was gone.
"We now lay to rest a hero, who served his world well."
Daniel and the surviving four members of his team stood in a San Antonio cemetery and watched as Roberto Ortiz's body was lowered into the ground. It was in Roberto's will that he be buried in San Antonio, the city he'd called home after leaving MIT. He'd often said the place reminded him simultaneously of the promise of America and the history of Mexico. Daniel thought the place suited Roberto. The people were friendly and the climate dry and sunny.
The team had been very quiet since losing their most vocal member. They all knew that death was a constant risk and part of the job, and that many DTF teams hadn't been nearly as lucky as they, but Roberto's loss still came as quite a shock.
Daniel had taken it the hardest. He was still trying to make the transition from loner to leader, but it seemed as if no matter how hard he tried, he kept losing people who counted on him. Jeff, his parents, now Roberto.
As the priest wrapped up the ceremony, a hand fell on Daniel's shoulder. He turned and saw Uriel's deeply tanned face smiling at him. The angel nodded, then removed his hand and observed the conclusion of the ceremony. When it was over, he pulled Daniel aside.
"I have some news,” he said.
Daniel was at a loss what to feel. It took all the emotion he could muster to say, “What is it?"
Uriel reached into his jacket and pulled out an envelope of photographs. “Pictures of Hell,” he whispered.
Daniel took the pictures and leafed through them. “It's a shack in the desert,” he said.
"Not everything is as it seems,” Uriel said. “Come."
Uriel walked towards a grove of mesquite near the edge of the cemetery, and Daniel followed. “Hell is under the shack,” Uriel said, “in the Underworld.” He chuckled softly, pulled out a candy bar, and started to munch on it.
"Hey,” Daniel said, “I thought you guys didn't eat."
"We don't eat much,” Uriel corrected with a mouthful of chocolate. “We require nourishment as you do, but our metabolisms are far superior. Barring a significant injury that forces me to regenerate, this single snack bar can sustain me for more than a month."
Uriel looked over at Daniel's team, then at his watch. “Getting back to business, Hell is a converted missile silo just north of Las Vegas. Perfect place for it. It probably extends down about twenty stories. Satan knew what he was doing when he picked it out. It's shielded by the Earth itself, and while it's far enough outside the Vegas city limits to be discrete, it's too close to the city for you to use nuclear weapons on it. The only way to effectively attack it is by invasion, and there's only one way in or out. So. Is this what you wanted?"
Daniel started to allow himself a glimmer of hope. “Yes, Uriel. I think so. I owe you one."
Uriel turned and walked away. “You owe me several,” he laughed. “Be glad we're on your side."
Smiling for the first time in days, Daniel rejoined his team.
Chaos
Timothy Phillips once again stood in front of the television cameras, this time from the comfort and safety of his own office. “My fellow Americans, we are living in the gravest period in our country's existence.
"A few days ago, as I spread the truth about demons on the Mall, a riot broke out. I've seen evidence that the instigators of the fighting may have had ties to some of the demons mentioned in Zagam's files. During the riot, two people were killed and hundreds were injured.
"After the riot, the President of the United States broke down his plan for us on what he planned to do about the demonic threat. He plans to do nothing. In fact, he went as far as barring law-abiding Americans from protecting themselves against the demons.
"At first I thought this was merely the political act of a politician that was more consensus-taker than leader. Then I began to wonder. Could it be that he was so ambivalent about tracking down the demons because he didn't want them found?"
Phillips held a stack of papers in front of the camera. “I have here proof that the President Walter Thomas took campaign contributions from individuals later revealed to be demons. Proof that your president has ties to these monsters, and has been on their payroll since before he was elected. Proof of why he doesn't want them destroyed.
"In light of this information, I call for his impeachment. I also ask that every red-blooded American disobey his State of Emergency decree and do what you feel is right for yourselves, and for America.
"Thank you, good night, and God bless you all."
The reaction to Phillips’ speech was swift and violent. Within the hour, a mob had gathered around the White House, and despite the Secret Service's security measures, a few had already thrown Molotov cocktails on the White House lawn.
An hour later still, a large group of protesters arrived in support of the president. After angry screams of “witch-hunter” and “demon-lover", fighting inevitably broke out again.
And not only in Washington.
"This is Susan Richardson reporting for WNN.” Susan sat behind her newsdesk in Washington and tried to tune out the sounds of violence right outside the studio. On the screens of the world's televisions, pictures of the rioting appeared behind her.
"Shortly after Senator Phillips’ press conference this evening, rioting broke out again in Washington, New York, Los Angeles and Chicago. While half the country seems to be behind Phillips and calls for the immediate impeachment of the president, others are just as violently opposed to what they call ‘witch-hunting hysteria’ and ‘jack-booted thugs', a catchphrase some use for the DTF."
Susan put down her copy and stared directly into the camera. “This has gone too far. When I broke my journalisti
c objectivity and publicly condemned Phillips, I never thought it would come to this. We're tearing ourselves apart, and I can't help but feel it's my fault. I'd like to ask every person watching to stay in their homes. No matter how strongly you might feel about either side of this issue, this divisiveness and violence is exactly what the demons want. By fighting each other, we're playing right into their hands!
"Please...” Reaching the end of her emotional endurance, Susan sat back heavily in her chair and began to sob. The stage manager gave the signal to cut, and the broadcast moved on without her.
And the fighting continued.
Walter Thomas wasn't in the Oval Office. Moments after the mob arrived, the Secret Service had advised him to move to a backup office in the White House sub-basement. From where he sat now, a nuclear weapon would have trouble touching him.
The isolation only made his decision harder to bear.
"We're ready when you are, Mister President."
Thomas looked up from his desk at the television cameras and crew crowding the tiny office. May as well get this over with, he thought.
"Roll ‘em,” he said.
As soon as the cameraman pointed to him, Walter Thomas looked into the cameras and made history.
"My fellow Americans, good evening. It would seem that many of you have decided to ignore my advice from a few days ago. Not only does the fighting and strife continue, but it's spread across the country. It's become a tangible thing, and a legitimate threat to National Security. I can't allow that."
Thomas took a deep breath, then continued. “Effective immediately, I'm declaring a nationwide State of Martial Law. Curfew is at eight PM local time, and any citizens found with weapons at any time of day will be arrested and prosecuted. The National Guard will be deployed and on patrol nationwide to help local police enforce this order.
"I am also issuing an executive order for the arrest and detainment of Timothy Phillips, on the charge of treason and conspiracy to incite riot. While I value the freedom of speech in this country as much as anyone, Phillips has shouted ‘Fire’ in a very large, very crowded theater and I won't let him get away with that.
"I'm deeply saddened that it has to come to this, America, but you hired me to take care of you and that's exactly what I'm going to do, even if it means protecting you from yourselves.
"Thank you, and good night."
Crusade
Daniel's team caught a flight to Las Vegas the next morning. Once there, they boarded a helicopter and gave the pilot the directions to the site Uriel had designated as Hell.
For Daniel, it was the culmination of a long, painful struggle. As the helicopter cruised fast and low over the hot desert sands, he reflected on all the events in his life that had led, almost inevitably it seemed, to this moment. He finally felt at peace with himself, as though this was his purpose, what he had been born to do. Though the path to this moment meant losing everything and everyone that had been dear to him, he believed he was near the fulfillment of his destiny.
He looked back inside the cabin at the other members of his team. No one talked, and all but Jack busied themselves with last minute checks of their weapons and equipment. They were armed for bear, and while not as heavily armored as the angels, most of them felt they stood a pretty good chance of not only a successful mission, but surviving it as well.
The only pessimist in the group was Paul, who had vehemently declared from the outset that it was an impossible suicide mission. Paul was under orders to keep his distracting opinions to himself.
Daniel looked back outside and felt the hot wind on his face. Come what may, he was prepared to meet his fate.
One member of the team had only given lip service to the idea of surviving their descent into Hell, but not because she thought it impossible.
Lucy O'Malley was prepared for a different kind of destiny. Since the Revelation she had searched the world for Asbeel, the demon she blamed for the death of her brother, but she had never gotten so much as a trace of him. She knew no other DTF team had dispatched the demon, meaning he was still out there somewhere, and the most logical place for him to hide was Hell itself. Whatever the mission called for, Lucy was dedicated to a higher purpose. While inside Hell she would find Asbeel, and she'd have her vengeance.
Outside the helicopter, the featureless desert sands sped by.
Uriel stared out his Washington D.C. hotel room window at the streets below. Since the president's martial law decree, the city, the nation, had ground almost to a halt, but now he saw clusters of humans walking the streets, most of them headed in the direction of the Mall. What was drawing them there?
He heard a rattling at his doorknob. Housekeeping, he thought. “Occupied!” he called.
The door was wrenched open, and three figures entered. He recognized them instantly, though he hadn't seen them in a thousand years. “We know,” said the lead one, named Amezyarak. The other two, Nelchael and Harut, blocked the door after closing it.
"Why have you come?” Uriel asked.
"Because you've been a naughty boy, Uriel,” Amezyarak answered, walking closer. “You told the humans where to find us. Wouldn't you say that kind of goes against the rules of engagement?"
Uriel stepped away from the window to give himself more room to move. “The old rules no longer apply. If you doubt that, perhaps you should ask Beelzebub."
"Yes,” Amezyarak said, “we noticed that.” The other two demons began to close in, the three of them surrounding Uriel. “And if the old rules no longer apply, and there's nothing barring direct combat between angels and demons..."
Two hours later, amidst the confusion of the fire alarm, Amezyarak and Harut left the scorched and smoky hotel room.
Daniel's team landed not far from the rundown shack that concealed their destination. They quickly offloaded their equipment and moved in as the helicopter lifted off for its return to Vegas. Jack had recommended that the chopper would be safer in the air than waiting for them on the ground. They'd call it back when they needed it.
"This can't be it,” Paul observed.
"I told you,” Daniel said, “this is just a front. It's a converted missile silo. Underground. Come on.” Daniel led the team to the door of the shack. After verifying that the door was locked, Lucy set some plastique on the lock and they all took cover as it blew. The team very cautiously entered the shack, only to find it empty. The only thing it housed was what appeared to be an elevator. An electronic card key was lodged in the appropriate slot.
"Here goes nothing,” Daniel said, then pushed the button on the elevator. The team found their weapons trained on nothing as the door opened.
"This is too easy,” Jack said.
"Maybe,” Daniel answered, “but we knew there was a chance they'd know we were coming. I think we all realize at this point that it's a trap, but we came here with a job to do and we're going to do it, whether they're ready for us or not."
Without another word, Daniel stepped into the elevator. The team followed suit, and the five of them began their descent into the Underworld.
Out of the Frying Pan...
For the second time in less than a week, Timothy Phillips stood on the Washington Mall display stand and faced the Washington Monument. This time he hadn't bothered with permits and authorizations, and he had surrounded himself with armed guards loyal to him and his cause. He couldn't afford to be arrested now, not when he was so close to his goal.
As he prepared to speak, he knew that operatives he'd placed months before were ready to splice footage of his speech into the broadcast media. His words would find their audience in spite of Thomas’ control of the media. The Mall had filled with more than a thousand people that had come to hear what he had to say. It was the biggest crowd he could get by word of mouth without tipping off the police, but it would look impressive enough for the cameras.
Finally, John cued him, meaning everything was in place and it was time for him to speak.
"I'd like to thank
everyone for showing up today. I know many of you have risked great personal harm to assemble here, as is your right as Americans, in direct defiance of the police.
"We stand at a great turning point for our nation. Our elected leader has been revealed as a fascist with demonic ties, the greatest threat mankind has ever known walks our streets with impunity, and a great many Americans huddle in their homes, afraid to venture out into the chaos beyond.
"It's not too late for change, my friends. It's not too late to reclaim the country and liberties of our birth from the evil tyrants and immortal monsters that have stolen them from us. Not too late to seek a new dawn of safety, peace and freedom."
Phillips noticed that already the National Guard troops approached, armed with rubber bullets and tear gas. In ten minutes, his assembly would disappear. He allowed himself an inward smile. In five minutes, it wouldn't matter.
"What the hell's going on?” Susan demanded. She'd been right in the middle of her newscast when the footage of Phillips’ speech cut in on her. The technicians were working furiously to restore control, but for the moment it seemed that they were providing coverage of Phillips’ speech whether they liked it or not.
Phillips continued to address the crowd and cameras. “I've been a public servant most of my life. I grew up loving this country and the principles it was founded on. In the past few months I've seen the country I love brought to its knees, and those principles ignored and rejected.
"It's time to start over, America. It's time for a New Order, a reaffirmation of the ideals of our founding fathers. No longer can we afford to let fascists and monsters hold sway over our way of life. We are Americans, born in freedom, guaranteed that freedom by the deaths of so many American heroes that came before us.
"This country was born when a handful of common people raised their voices and their weapons in open revolt. Revolt against a ruler that didn't listen or didn't care about their needs, that used them for an agenda all his own. Now we face that situation again, but the tyrant isn't the British king, but an American king we elected into power, little knowing who and what he was taking his orders from. And just like those heroes of two hundred years ago, we find that the only way to gain our freedom once more is to fight for it.
