by Stuart Slade
“That sounds a bit far-fetched.”
“Not really Mister President. We have some supporting evidence for it; there have been eight of these attacks in South America, five in Brazil, two in Uruguay, one in Bolivia. They’ve killed around five thousand people. Not one of those victims has turned up in Hell. There is another oddity. In the Sanchez letter – and in the pictures he included – Uriel killed every living thing in the towns he attacked, even down to the birds, insects and earthworms. He left the ground sterile and clean. Yet in the attacks in South America, the animals, insects and so on all died, but anywhere between twenty and forty percent of the humans survived. The survivors all speak of the same events, things seeming to slow down, everything suddenly going quiet and most of the people dying. Here’s an interesting thing, all of the survivors were in the top earning brackets, the richer the inhabitants of a town were, the fewer died. Even more interesting, servants in the rich houses lived, but people living elsewhere did not, even if they were nominally wealthier than the servants. We’re still puzzling over that.”
“And so the war goes on.” Obama spoke reflectively. The meeting had been an eye-opener for him. “We’re under attack and we don’t know how its being done or whether we can hit back.”
“We’ll find a way, Mister President-Elect. Somehow, we’ll find a way.”
“In the meantime,” President Bush had a boyish grin on his face. “we’ve arranged a little message for Yahweh.”
National Cathedral, Washington D.C. Christmas Day, 2008
“We thought that this is the one day Yahweh might be keeping an eye on us, so we are going to send him a message.” Bush and Obama were standing side by side in the front row at the National Cathedral, waiting for the ceremony to begin. They were startled by a patter of applause at the back of the nave but it was just a small group of soldiers in the red-gray Hell-BDUs entering. A few of the civilians quickly stood and offered them their seats. Then, as the atomic clock sent out its noon alert, all across America, in every church that was still standing, the same ceremony took place.
A red flag unfurled from the spire, rippling in the wind as it burst open. Simultaneously, a group of trumpeters, in the National Cathedral taken from the Marine Corps band, elsewhere from marching bands, schools, even sometimes hastily-practiced amateur musicians, started a fanfare. It was always the same tune, an eerie, wailing, discordant melody that echoed and re-echoed across the land.
As the last notes faded away, Obama turned to Bush. “I don’t understand.”
“You’ll never make a Texan, Barry. That’s the Deguello. Santa Ana hoisted the red flag and played the Deguello just before the assault on the Alamo. Together, the Red Flag and the Deguello mean that we will give no quarter, we will have no mercy, we will take no prisoners, we will not stop attacking until we have won victory. And we played it on Yahweh’s day. I hope he gets the message and chokes on it.”
Chapter Five
Sky over Khabarovsk, Russia. January 2009
Gliding in the skies high over the Earth, Colopatiron Lan Michael, strained all his senses to seek out threats from the humans who crowded the ground below him. The effort interfered with his soavoring of the tastes of human air, the smells, so faint but still unmistakable, of human life. Savoring the senses was one of the great rewards of entering human space but it could not be allowed to interfere with the task before him. This mission was crucial but extremely dangerous for it did not just take the angel into human space but into one of the most heavily defended areas on earth. Colopatiron could feel just how heavy the defenses were here, his skin was itching madly from the strange instruments that humans used and he knew his presence had to be known to the humans. They would be doing something about that very soon and all of Heaven had seen the destruction humans and their weapons had wrought on The Eternal Enemy and his fallen minions. Colopatiron’s mission was a response to that stunning display. The consummation of the wrath of The One Above All with the people of earth who had defied His will and continued to live a life of sin in disobedience to the Divine Message and yet did not repent was at hand.
For slung under him was the First Bowl of Wrath and already its contents were trickling out over the ground below. Soon, it would become a loathsome and malignant sore on the people who had the mark of the beast. Colopatiron was but one of twenty angels who were pouring the First Bowl of Wrath. Hand-picked by Michael-Lan himself they were striking the first substantial blow against the mutinous and recalcitrant humans who had become so saturated with pride they had even dared question the supremacy of the One Above All. And yet, his appointment for this mission was a puzzlement to Colopatiron for he had always believed that he was not amongst those Michael-Lan considered his most trusted. Still, who was he, a lowly angel to question the leader of his Choir, the one whose name he bore as part of his own?
The Bowl was nearly empty now but Colopatiron sensed it was already too late. He concentrated his power upon his hearing and was rewarded by the sound of human aircraft, approaching fast. Now, angel or not, owl of Wrath or not, he would have to fight to survive.
Thirty kilometers to the north, in his Su-35BM, Captain Yahiya Saifullovich Fatkullin was flying with his radar switched off but his infra-red tracking system was showing the angel perfectly. Far off to the south, another pair of Su-35s were illuminating the angel with their radars, decoying it away from Fatkullin’s formation and diverting their victim’s attention away from the vector of the true strike. Maskirovka, always maskirovka, the lesson hammered into every Russian officer from their first day of training. Deceive, misdirect, decoy. Never do the obvious unless the obvious is so unlikely nobody would take it seriously. It was a long, long way from Fatkullin’s flight school in the Kurgan region of the Urals, just as his Su-35BM was a long, long way from the MiG-17UTI he had flown in the earliest days of his pilot training.
He glanced down, checking his speed. He was moving in, just under Mach one to minimize the warning given to his prey and to give his missiles the greatest possible kinetic boost. His infra-red tracking system was already feeding target information to his R-77M missiles, he would be firing them using that data and the missiles would only switch on their radar guidance systems when their computers told them the target was only in the no-escape zone. It was a deadly tactic that the Indians had used well against the Americans and given their arrogant Eagle-drivers a lesson to think upon. With a little luck, the angel would never know what it was that had killed it. Another lesson from his flight school, a grim one. A successful fighter pilot was an assassin, not a warrior. Another check on his display, the angel was marked using the data from the infra-red tracking systems, the other pair of Su-35s from their transponders. Even as Fatkullin watched, the southernmost pair of Su-35s turned north and started to move in. Time for the attack.
Colopatiron saw the two human aircraft accelerate and swing towards him. This was bad, very bad. In his excess of the sin of pride, the Eternal Enemy had never bothered to learn much about humans and that was why he had died under their weapons. Colopatiron would not make that mistake. He adjusted his vision for long range and darkness and saw the two aircraft streaking towards him. Instinctively he knew that they were the source of the infernal itching in his skin and he acted according to his instincts. His lungs flexed, his voice drew upon all the powers of the Chorus and he emitted a blast of pure sound at the lead aircraft, sound so pure and above reproach that it flung the fighter from the sky. Colopatiron watched it crumple in mid-air, saw it fall and the human who flew it eject from the great transparent house that rode upon its nose. He felt triumph swell within him at the sight of those who defied the One Above All being driven from the skies they claimed as their own but he crushed it down. There was no time to exult over the fate of a fallen foe.
Lieutenant Viktor Matveevich Rakitin had known that, as the two most junior pilots in the flight of four Su-35s, he and Blue-861 would be the decoys. What he had not expected was for the angel they were huntin
g to respond to their feint so quickly. The blow that had struck Blue-861 had thrown it out of control and wrecked its internal structure, probably also caused both jet engines to flame out. The fringes of the same blow had caught his own aircraft, throwing him against his straps, but his faithful Blue-863 had stood the shock and kept flying. He had a radar lock on the angel so he selected his R-77Ms and fired a pair of them at the target before heaving back on the stick, ramming his throttles forward and soaring skyward. That had put him well clear of the course of the two missiles and so out of danger when something had tumbled them and sent them plummeting from the sky. It didn’t matter though, Blue-861 and Blue-863 had done their job, the angel had spent the few seconds it had to react concentrating on them and in doing so, it had allowed Blue-860 and Blue-862 to get into perfect firing positions.
Colopatiron had blown the two missiles aimed at it out of the sky with the same casual ease he had used to wipe out the first aircraft. Now was the time to deal with its mate, and his eyes tracked the second aircraft as it swept skywards, accelerating fast. He gave forth another blast of sound, revelling in its purity as he did so, but it was ineffective. It did not matter, the aircraft was running from battle and the skies were clear for his return home. Then Colopatiron felt the burning agony as he was enveloped in explosions and he knew that he would not be going home again. Weakened and in agony, knowing he was dying, he tried one last shot against the humans who had out-fought him.
It was a perfect assassination, his flight instructors would have been proud. The angel had never even realized the four missiles fired by the two Su-35s were inbound until they had slammed into his body and eviscerated him. Fatkullin saw the angel writhing in mid-air, saw it turn and mouth at him. His faithful Blue-860 shook in ways that rattled his teeth and caused his sight to blur but the effects of four missile hits had weakened the angel so much that the wall he felt as if his aircraft had flown into was a comparatively fragile thing. His continuously-computed impact point for his 30mm gun was on the angel, so Fatkullin squeezed the trigger and pumped a long burst into the still-moving body. Once his gun had had a burst-limiter but that had long been removed in recognition of the fact that Baldricks and angels were so damned hard to kill. Now, the shells stitched a line across the target and the angel fell from the sky.
“Eagle Control. This is Blue-860. Target is negated, say again, target is negated. Blue-861 lost to an unknown weapon. Returning to base.”
The Montmartre Club, Heaven.
The last strains of “Nightmare” faded away and the band leader stepped forward to a burst of rapturous applause from the audience. He cast an apprehensive eye at the great figure sitting off to one side but Michael-Lan had risen to his feet and was applauding enthusiastically.
“Well done, Artie, great performance. You too Billie, shame you two ever split up down on Earth.”
“Thank you Excellency…”
“Hey, not so much of the Excellency, you know very well that I have to put up with too much of that nonsense out there. In here, its Michael, Michael-Lan if you want to be more formal. And a great artist like you, well associating with us as if we are equals is just one of the benefits of the job. Anyway, you and your band have a rest now, we’ve got a stage act coming up and then Glen is on.”
Michael-Lan walked back through the crowd, looking around him at the scene that, for all its apparent casualness, lay at the center of his plans. The air was tinged with the scent of fine cigars, the occupants and staff of the club, a mixture of humans and members of the angelic host, were laughing and exchanging pleasantries. Cocktail waitresses in outfits that left nothing to the imagination were serving drinks. Every so often, a customer would grab one of the girls, there would be a brief conversation and then they would vanish to one of the rooms upstairs. Up on the stage, the band had finished clearing their instruments away and the scene was dressed as a room in a hotel somewhere. Two young female angels were on the stage, sitting on the bed, running their hands over each other’s bodies. The audience had quieted down a little, they were becoming fascinated by the story the two performers were opening up before them.
Michael-Lan got a strange feeling that if humans had actually designed Heaven, this was more or less what they would have come up with. As the idea occurred to him, he got the warm, fuzzy feeling he always got these days when he thought of humans. For millenia he had despised them, looking on them with the same cold contempt for their mindless obedience and submission that Yahweh had made so obvious. Then, a few centuries ago, humans had stopped being blindly-obedient beasts and started to question what surrounded them. Only a few at first, but slowly those few had opened the eyes of a few more and a few more again. Soon, a critical mass had been reached and the humans had broken out of the prison Yahweh had imposed upon them and begun to build their own society.
Michael-Lan had investigated that society with the intent of tearing it down but as he had started his inquiries, somehow, he’d caught the human disease and started to question the assumptions he’d been trained never to doubt. As the questions in his mind had multiplied, he had found, to his own disbelief, that he was beginning to like these new humans. More than that, a plan, complex and devious, had begun to form in his mind. A small part of that plan was here, small yet critical beyond measure. He had formed this club, he had rescued humans from torment to staff and run it. It drew on all the impressions he had gathered on his visits to Earth, part speakeasy, part bordello, part burlesque show, it was the honey in the center of his scheme.
He glanced again at the stage. The two angels were now down on the bed, twisting in simulated passion. Michael-Lan gave them top marks for innovative use of wings and imaginative application of feathers and then turned to one of his guests.
“Having a good time Gabriel-Lan?”
“As always, Michael-Lan. What did we do for fun before you started this place?” The Archangel Gabriel’s voice was slurred from too much whisky. That reminded Michael, he was going to have to do something about ensuring supplies. Earth was getting harder to visit with the war now in full swing. As if Gabriel had read Michael’s thoughts, he asked “And how goes the war?”
“The first Bowl of Wrath was poured today. The operation was successful although sadly the Angels delivering the Bowl did not survive the human defenses.” Which was fortunate, Michael-Lan thought. He had carefully picked those Angels from those whose loyalties might have been conflicted enough to hazard his plans.
“Seems like a rotten thing to do to the humans down there.” Gabriel was definitely drunk. Michael would have to make sure he was sobered up before he left the club. Yahweh absolutely did not need to know this place existed. He might be the all-knowing but that only applied when people didn’t use extraordinary measures to stop him from finding out. Michael-Lan had been applying those measures for some centuries now and neither Yahweh nor the late, unlamented Satan had been as all-knowing as they had believed. Michael gave a small signal with one hand and the house madam gave him a knowing grin.
“Gabriel-Lan, we have got to keep the humans out of Heaven. Look, they loathed Satan for everything he did and because of that, they killed him in process of destroying everything he had built. But, Satan just tortured them for all eternity. We betrayed them. Satan never pretended to be anything other than what he was or had plans anything other than what he announced. We, all of us, acted nice, made lots of promises and reneged on every one of them. They loathed Satan but they hate us. If they get their Army up here, they will destroy Heaven and kill us all. You heard that tune they played, it wasn’t just an insult, it was a promise and humans keep their promises.” When it suits them Michael-Lan added to himself. “Humans captured Dis, they will destroy the Eternal City. Our long, wide boulevards make perfect runs for their tanks, the palaces built of precious stones are perfect targets for their guns. Mark this Gabriel-Lan and mark it well. If the humans get their Army into Heaven, we are lost, all of us.”
Up on the stage, one of th
e angels was kneeling, bent over the bed, the other had her arms twisted up her back and was holding her hair, pulling back while she thrust with her hips. Suddenly, the kneeling angel gasped and gave a long, panting cry of ecstasy. Then the two stood up and took their bows to a thunderous round of applause. They got two curtain calls before the stage hands cleared the set and arranged the stage so the next of the big bands could take over.
It might sound dramatic, Michael thought, but it was largely true. If the humans could get to Heaven, the war would be over quickly and unbelievably violently. Not necessarily all the occupants of Heaven would get killed, Michael-Lan had a back-up plan for that eventuality as well and this club featured there as well. But the power structure that had existed in Heaven for untold millennia would be shattered for ever. That was no bad thing, Michael-Lan admitted to himself and he was not adverse to shattering it himself. But it had to be done slowly and carefully and when he moved it had to be with all the cards held firmly in his hand. Satan Mekratrig had been impatient, greedy, avaricious and imprudent. His move had started the Great Celestial War, had split the Host and caused generations of fighting. Michael-Lan had been Yahweh’s field commander during that war and he well-appreciated a human saying. One that went “Short of a battle lost, there is nothing so mournful as a battle won.” Well, there was, that was a battle that had achieved nothing and changed nothing.
Satan had staged his revolt before he was ready, the result had been a long, bloody war that had achieved nothing and changed nothing. Michael did not intend to make that mistake.
Gabriel-Lan was still at the table and still drunk. Over his shoulder, he could see that Lailah was approaching. She was dressed for work, black leather corset, fishnet tights, high-heeled boots. The outfit was modelled on Earth originals but had been modified to allow for angelic wings although Michael noted she had dyed her wing-feathers black to match the outfit. The dye had to be water-soluble he reflected, he knew for a fact she projected quite a different persona when attending Yahweh’s court and jet black wings wouldn’t suit it. Her appearance at court was a front, as was that of almost everybody who was a regular guest in this club.
