“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.”
Chapter Fifty
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 bu
llets 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?”
The Salvation War 2: Pantheocide Page 48
