Armageddon tsw-1

by Stuart Slade

  “Work faster you lazy fools. Our master may be waiting for you.” Belial screamed out the challenge. He had assumed responsibility for the rescue effort, sending out his demons to bring in every orc they could find. Now the crater was full of them, digging out the shattered stone. Some had already been killed when the stones had shifted and they had fallen into a void, only to be crushed when the stones moved again.

  Belial looked down in growing frustration, there had been no survivors found yet and his hopes were fading fast. All his efforts to win his way back into Satan’s favor couldn’t be wasted, could they? Then, he was aware of a darkening, a shadow over him. He turned and looked up, afraid this may be yet another devilish human trick. But it wasn’t, with a surge of relief he recognized the great wings and the seven heads that looked down on him. Euryale had bred this creature herself, using all the skills and magics she could bring. A cross-breed of a Greater Harpy and a Hydra, a mount that had no equal anywhere else in Hell. It had been a gift for Satan, a great mount that was unique, that Satan could use to overawe any who saw him. The seven great heads stared at him and he wondered if they knew it was to his house that they owed their existence. Or if they cared. The implication of the sight dawned on him and relief surged through his body.

  “Your Infernal Majesty. You live!”

  Satan looked down on the figure below him. “Belial, you brought the humans here! You betrayed me to them.”

  “No Sire, I was on my way here myself when the human aircraft struck. They dropped their bombs but I was just far enough away to live.”

  Satan stared at him still, weighing up the scene before him. “And you started the rescue effort. How many other Lords of Hell aided you?”

  “None, Your Majesty.” Because they are all dead he thought but no need to say that. “But the lesser demons you see here rallied around to aid. All they needed was direction. We gathered the orcs and started digging. We will not stop until we have an accounting.”

  Satan nodded slowly and focussed his vision on Belial’s face, seeing the traces of his tears from frustration and rage. “And you wept for me Belial.” Satan’s voice was dumbfounded, disbelieving. “You wept for me and fought for my life while others scurried away to save themselves. Such bravery and loyalty deserve recognition. The realms of Asmodeus remain unawarded. From now on they shall be the realms of Belial. I give them to you, holding them of course is up to you.”

  Belial looked around, he was heir to Asmodeus and faced wealth unparalleled. Then he frowned slightly, Euryale hadn’t just created the giant flying hydra, she had bred the golden wyverns, greater by far than the normal breed, as its bodyguard. She had created twelve of them but there were only nine surrounding the crater.

  Satan saw him look and deigned to give an explanation to his now-favored vassal. “I was meeting with my Greater Heralds for information on the battle for they can be trusted when the reports of others cannot. I was there with them when this happened. On the way back, a group of human sky-chariots, you called them aircraft? attacked us. Three of my wyverns were killed. They attacked me!” Satan’s voice went into a pitched, intense scream. “I must have revenge. How did the attacks you promised succeed.”

  “Beyond our best hopes Your Majesty. Sheffield and Dee-troyt have been destroyed, one of my agents on Earth reports that the human herald Cee-En-En says that many factories have been destroyed. My promise is fulfilled Your Majesty, I await your further orders.”

  “Destroy more cities. And your next target will be?”

  “Turin Your Majesty. One prisoner identified it as a great arsenal city also. And there is something strangely satisfying about the idea of pouring white-hot lava over Turin. But Sire, we will need more Naga, to open more portals.”

  “Then take what you need from the other Lords.” Satan looked down at the pit where the orcs were laboring to excavate the ruins. “And when those orcs have finished digging down there, kill them all. I do not want their stories being told.”

  Chapter Seventy

  Recreational Hall, Camp Hell-Alpha, Hell

  “Aces and Eights with a Queen on the side. Read’em and weep.” Sergeant (deceased) Tucker McElroy reached out and scooped the pool off the table with a flourish.

  Corporal Gerry Links looked miserably at the empty table and his depleted stake. “I guess you had to come up with the Dead Man’s Hand didn’t you? That a common deal down here?”

  “Depends on the dealer.” McElroy leaned back and tried to make his mind up what to do with his winnings. That was the trouble with Hell, there just wasn’t that much to spend money on. No economy as yet, not for humans anyway. His reverie was interrupted by a whack on his back.

  “Hey Tucker dude, Good to see you. I heard you got killed up at Hit.” Elmer Carleton was an old acquaintance of McElroy’s, now part of 1st Brigade.

  “I was.” McElroy eyed him to see the effect. Living humans hadn’t quite got used to the idea of speaking with the dead yet. Not in social circumstances anyway. Carleton didn’t disappoint him, the corporal’s eyes started to bulge.

  “So you’re dead, dude.” The words were interspaced with disbelief and confusion.

  “Sure am. You sitting in on the game? Got a stake?”

  “No, unless you want to stake me.”

  “You know the rules down here Elmer. I give you a stake, you got to sign your soul over to me as security. Now, if you’ll just sign here, in blood of course…” McElroy looked at the retreating back of the Corporal with great satisfaction, then turned to Links. “Never fails. Too many Hollywood movies. Looks like the game’s over Gerry, want to go for a burger?”

  “I didn’t think you dead ones ate?”

  “We don’t have to but we still like food. Don’t have to sleep either but its still good to. Demons eat, don’t ask me why we don’t and they do. Leave them questions to the egg-heads. Let’s go get that burger.”

  Field Trials Unit, Left Flank, Phlegethon River Front, Hell

  It didn’t quite look like any vehicle Edovin had seen before. A bit like an American Bradley but it had eight roadwheels and a lower, sleeker superstructure topped with a bulky turret. For all the vehicle’s size, the gun mounted in that turret seemed remarkably small. At the back of the gun mount was a drum-like radar.

  “Lieutenant Edovin, Georgii Aleksandrovich reporting for duty Tovarish Lieutenant.”

  The American officer turned around and looked quickly at the Russian. “Ah, you’re our liaison officer. I’m Mickey Marston. Good to have you on board. The ole’ bus will be a bit cramped until we’ve shot off some of the ammunition but it’ll be OK afterwards. Make yourself at home. Got any kit with you? That’ll have to go inside, new rules, nothing flammable outside the armor. Too many vehicles lost to harpy-fire already.”

  “Yes bratischka, my Shilka was one of them. What is this vehicle.”

  The American laughed. “A bit of everything. It’s basically an M-2 Bradley, believe it or not. We had a thing called the Future Combat System, a crackpot scheme to have a new standard vehicle for the Army that would do anything. Well, the contractor had to produce something to show where the money went so they built this stretched Bradley. Fooled the Congresscritters into thinking something was happening. Then, The Message came and the war started. FCS was cancelled and the production of Abrams and Bradleys got restarted. This was shoved into a shed somewhere until we realized how dangerous the harpies were and it got dug out. Now, the Navy had just adopted a Swedish 57mm gun for a couple of its programs, they’ve been cancelled as well of course, so GD Land Systems stuck the gun in a new turret, fitted a radar stripped out of old F-18s for fire control and kludged the whole thing together. So here we are, four prototype vehicles each with a radar-controlled 57mm gun and 1,200 rounds of ammunition.

  “Rate of fire?” Edovin looked at the vehicle, for a hastily-thrown together improvision it looked remarkably capable if ungainly.

  “240 rounds per minute. Three round burst-limiter on the gun. Thro
ws a six pound shell.”

  “Sir, we got the mount up order.” One of the vehicle crew, presumably who had been on radio watch, yelled out the message.

  “Right, Georgy, mount up, we got to go shooting.”

  The American Lieutenant had been right, the vehicle was cramped inside despite its size. Ammunition everywhere, some in ready-to-use racks, the rest stowed around wherever space could be found. That was something humans were learning fast, combat vehicles needed ammunition stowage above pretty much everything else. There were information screens as well, but they were mostly turned off, the Russian Army just didn’t have the combat information systems the Americans had, but then few did. Once screen was lighted and it showed the dots that represented the airborne harpies over the remains of the attacking baldrick formation. The baldricks were perilously close to breaking through. Marston flipped some more switches and additional screens lit up. The were fuzzy for a second and then cleared, showing the array of tanks that were waiting. Over a thousand after the latest reinforcements had arrived, mostly Russian by a division of Germans, a brigade of Indian T-72s, even some Turkish M48s. The old M48s were more useful than might be suspected, their 90mm guns could kill a baldrick just as well as a 125 but the M48s had twice as much ammunition as the more modern vehicles.

  “Roll.” Marston’s voice snapped out the order and the anti-harpy vehicle started forward, it’s three companions keeping alongside it, spaced out to cover the maximum amount of front. Edovin looked at one of the displays, it showed the long barrel of the 57mm gun, it was probably the electro-optical sight. Without warning he was thrown off his feet as the turret swung fast to a new bearing and the gun cracked out three rounds, so fast the bursts seemed to blend into each other. On the electro-optical screen, a harpy exploded as the rounds tore into it. Edovin had barely time to register the score when the turret lurched again and another burst cracked out.

  “Sorry about the turret.” Marston yelled over the noise of the diesel and the sound of the 57mm ammunition sliding around. “Navy thing, swinging it so fast.”

  That made sense for a point-defense gun. Edovin thought and wondered if somewhere surplus Russian Navy point defense guns were being mounted in a chassis for this role. If not, it would be a good idea to report the idea. He bounced off the side of the turret again, the swings of the gun and the rapid cracks of its shots were almost continuous as the experimental gun started carving the surviving harpies out of the sky. Beside them, the waves of tanks accelerated towards the baldricks ahead,

  140th Guards Tank Regiment, 5th Guards Tank Division “Don” Southern Flank, Phlegethon River

  This was it, the great scything blow that would send the baldricks staggering back across the river in defeat. Just as Zhukov’s tanks had once advanced through the mud to send the fascists back across the Dneiper and the Dneister rivers. Major Evgenii Yakovlevich Galkin knew his history well, one German Army had been destroyed at Stalingrad but six had been wiped out in the great Mud Campaign in those first months of 1944, and three Panzer armies had been wrecked so badly they were never worth much afterwards. Today, it would be the start of an equal destruction, one that would be known to the world in a way the great Mud Campaign had never been.

  The baldricks had forced their way through the Russian defenses at last, it had taken them time and they’d been bloodied terribly in doing so but they had made it through. Now, just when they thought they could see the clear ground beyond the killing fields, this mighty wave of tanks would sweep them away. Glakin looked quickly through the remote control on his turret top machine gun, the briefing had been very clear. The flying harpies were the main threat, they could hurt armor with their fire. Kill them first. The baldricks foot soldiers were less of a threat, they could be shot and crushed just as tanks had always crushed the infantry that had dared to oppose them. The briefing was being obeyed, the sky over the baldricks was black with anti-harpy fire. Every gun that could be found was here, there were even ancient ZSU-57s, twin 57mm guns in an open turret on an old T-54 tank chassis. Their crews had courage for their turret gave them no protection if the harpies got close.

  Off to the right were the Americans with their experimental anti-harpy tank. They were struggling to keep up with the fast Russian tanks and their gun was swinging wildly, with short bursts at odd intervals. At first Galkin thought the American crew were panicking but then he realized those short bursts were tearing the closest harpies out of the sky. It was speed of reaction, not panic and Galkin was suddenly impressed. Around the tanks and anti-harpy vehicles were armoured personnel carriers. This time they were not carrying infantry to screen the tanks, they were the refuge for any crew that lost their vehicle. If a crew had to bail out, the nearest APC would hasten over to pick them up before the harpies could kill them.

  Speaking of harpies, Galkin saw one staggering close to his tank. His machine gun spat out a burst and the creature flopped from the sky. It had probably been dying anyway but it never hurt to make sure. Then the tank lurched slightly as it ran over the body. Never hurt to make very sure. Galkin looked at the sky again, the anti-harpy fire was slackening off to a faint shadow of its previous self, the gunners running out of targets at last. As if to confirm his thoughts, the radio crackled briefly, orders for all guns to cease firing on airborne targets and concentrate on the ground. Then the message was suddenly reinforced, friendly aircraft were coming in. Galking grinned to himself, the baldricks were about to learn the joys of being on the receiving end of close air support.

  He looked again, this time at the baldricks up ahead. Mostly just a battered, exhausted mass of foot soldiers but he could see one of the great rhinolobsters with a coiled naga on its back. The lightning was flickering out from the creature as it attacked one of the vehicles racing across the plain. Then, Galkin saw the aircraft coming in. he ran through the shape in his head, straight wings, twin tail, two engines, between the wings and the tail, an American A-10. This, he thought, should be good.

  It was, the A-10s nose erupted into flame and the Rhinolobster and its burden vanished under a cloud of dirt and dust thrown up by the torrents of shells. When it faded, the creatures were lying on the ground, smashed and eviscerated. The A-10 turned slightly, climbed a little then changed course to unleash a hail of rockets on to another group of baldricks off to the left. The aircraft knew exactly where to go, Galkin guessed that they were being steered in by the Americans somehow, by an airborne command aircraft perhaps? Or even those new anti-harpy vehicles?

  The lines of baldricks were approaching fast and it was time for the Don Division to strike its own blows. The foot soldiers had lined up, forming ranks as the tanks had appeared, now those ranks vanished as the 125mm shells tore into them. Galking could almost sense the weariness and despair in their minds as they saw their lightning bolts bouncing off the tanks, realized that the tanks were not going to stop. The turret of his tank was filling with smoke as his gun swung from one group of baldricks to the next, firing their shots into the mass of infantry. They were close enough now so he could see individual features of the baldricks as they crumpled and died under the onslaught. He had his own commander’s gun firing, sweeping the tracer bullets across the enemy ranks, watching the baldricks fold as they were mown down. The tank’s main gun was silent, the last few rounds were being kept for emergencies and the gunner was using his co-axial machine gun in its place.

  Still closer, the baldricks still there – and then they broke, broke and ran from the tanks that were already far too close for any retreat to bring safety. Galkin’s tank tore into the mass, its machine guns still firing, the driver spinning the T-80U on its tracks, grinding the baldricks underneath the vehicle as it plowed through their ranks. They were running, all around the tanks they were running, the machine gunners spraying them with fire, chasing them down and crushing them. Galking could hear the rattle as bullets bounced off his armor, the tanks were hitting each other in the wild frenzy of the slaughter but it didn’t matter. Mach
ine gun bullets couldn’t hurt the tanks. Nor could the baldricks although they tried, breaking their tridents on the armor, trying to tear at the tanks with their hands. They fought, hopelessly, bravely, uselessly.

  Off to his left, Galkin saw baldricks, a dozen or more of them in a ditch, behind a mound. Were they hiding? Or wounded and looking for a place to die? It didn’t matter, he gave his orders and the tank swung around, parallel with the ditch. Then he felt one side drop as the treads went into the ditch and he drove along it, crushing the baldricks sheltering within. Glakin heard screams, perhaps the baldricks, perhaps just the metal tracks as they ran over the suspension rollers. Then his tank levelled again and he made another turn back to his original route. The Phelgethon River lay ahead, the gains the baldrick army had fought for two days to secure and for which they had sacrificed so much had been wiped out by the tanks in less that twenty minutes.

  South of the City of Dis This time Belial had taken his wyvern low, down beneath the dusty brown overcast that was nearly ubiquitous in hell. With the human 'aircraft' still very evident, screaming and roaring somewhere over the Phlegethon river, Belial thought it best to stay inconspicuous. What he saw beneath him steadily drained away the elation from his sudden elevation. Countless demon warriors, streaming towards Dis, some still as ordered legions but many as individual squads or even disorganised crowds. The horrible wounds that marked many of the demons, the battered or missing equipment, the cries and wails both audible and telepathic, all made it clear that this was an army retreating in defeat. Belial had cast his mind out, trying to make contact with a commander to learn what manner of catastrophe had inflicted such ruin on the grand armies of hell. It was no use though, despite being leagues from the front lines his mind still rang from the impossibly powerful psychic emanations from the massed human mages. The din made it impossible to hold a coherent conversation from a thousand feet up and Belial couldn't risk stopping. 'But where are all the harpies?' he thought.