by Stuart Slade
“We have had some such troubles yes. I suggest, Mister President, that you tell your people what I told mine. In view of the circumstances, Britannia waives the rules.”
Chapter Three
Cabinet Conference Room, White House, Washington D.C.
“Condi, could you summarize the international situation at this point?”
“Mister President. So far, more than two dozen of these invaders, Baldricks the Brits call them, have been killed around the world. The latest was off Tokyo where a monster similar to the one killed by HMS Astute came ashore. It was engaged by the Japanese Ground Self Defense Forces and destroyed. According to the Japanese Ambassador, all that time spent shooting at Godzilla finally paid off.” A laugh ran around the room, partly a release of nervous tension but mostly in appreciation of the unexpected sense of humor shown by Ambassador Nishamura. “Most of the Far Eastern countries are coming on board pretty quickly. China, of course, has taken an early stand. The People’s Liberation Army, Army Air Force and Army Navy have all gone to full alert. Europe’s following the same approach, they’re all shooting at any Baldricks that appear on their territory.
“On the debit side, South America and Southern Europe appear to be in shock still. Christianity was deeply rooted there and The Message struck them very hard. The idea that they’ve been systematically deceived by the very being they worshipped has left them adrift.” Secretary Rice paused for a moment. Coming from a religious background herself, she could empathize with the degree of bewilderment that was paralyzing so many governments around the world. “The Middle East is a mixed bag. We’d expected the area to be virtually depopulated; after all the word Islam means submission to the will of god and we assumed that the populations there would just lie down and die according to demand. Well, that hasn’t happened, not universally at any rate. It’s hard to work out exactly what is going on but it seems as if, with radical Islam being discredited by The Message, the alternative philosophy of assertive Arab nationalism is returning. The largely socialist Arab nationalist movements have been eclipsed by the Jihadists in recent years but now, they’re coming back and coming back strong. Of course, the Sunnis are blaming the Shia and the Shia are blaming the Sunnis for The Message and they both blame us. Business as usual there. Equally predictably, the Israelis have gone to work with a vengeance. Apparently one of the Russian Baldricks appeared there, homing in on Jerusalem and the Israeli Defense Forces shot it to pieces. According to the Israeli Ambassador, 120mm shells are much more effective than sounding trumpets. They’ve sent word by the way, don’t use armor piercing shot to take the Baldricks down. Just whips straight through them. HEAT, high explosive and canister all work much better.”
“You like the term Baldrick then Condi?” Department of Energy Secretary Bodman seemed to favor the expression as well.
“I do Sammy, it has a nice, contemptuous ring to it. But, much more importantly I think it is very important to distinguish between the mythological demon and the creatures we face in reality. There is little doubt that the monsters we face today are the source of the myths we have all read about but I believe we must make the difference between the two very clear. There is nothing ghostly or ethereal about the Baldricks, they are very solid reality. As to what their powers are, that we must find out.”
“On that note, we need some scientific input. Thank you Condi. I have asked the Department of Defense to coordinate the scientific research into these Baldricks. Secretary Gates has resigned from his position as head of Defense, I have appointed, subject to confirmation by the Senate, Senator John Warner to be the new SecDef. John?”
“Thank you Mister President. At the moment we know very little about these creatures. Factually, we have identified three separate types which have very different characteristics.
“The first are the flying Baldricks we shot down off California. They’re the same ones that were whacked in Singapore and Bangkok. Working on camera gun footage from the F-18s, we can size them at around 30 feet long from tip of horns to root of tail with a wingspan of around 60 feet.” Warner gestured and a picture was projected onto the screen at the end of the Cabinet Room. “As you can see, they look rather like the traditional depiction of a demon or a cartoon devil. Horns, tail pointed beard. Two arms, two legs, two wings. This raises an interesting point, the combination of weight and musculature mean these things can’t possibly fly.”
“Just like a bumblebee?” Education Secretary Margaret Spellings tossed the quip in, one that gained her a reproachful glance from the President.
“In a way yes. You see, the musculature of the back doesn’t give any great strength to the wings, it can’t the bone structure won’t support it. The only way this thing can fly is if it weighs virtually nothing so its wings provide propulsion and lift, not steerage. The only way we can think of doing that is if the body contains a lot of very light gas, probably hydrogen. We think that is why they burned so fiercely when they were hit. The pilots reported that the creature’s blood set them on fire, we can only think that there’s some sort of body process in there where very acid blood reacts with a mineral to give off the hydrogen needed. That would allow the Baldrick to breath fire as well. There are things about these flying Baldricks that are reminiscent of humans, its almost as if they were a parallel evolutionary path from a common ancestor somewhere.
“The second class we’ve run into are the aquatic ones. According to Astute, the one they killed was more than a hundred feet long, about 20 feet in diameter and has flipper-like legs, six of them. They did careful pH testing on the water as they closed on the corpse and detected no sign of acidity. Also, note, despite being hit by two torpedoes, it didn’t burn. So, our working hypothesis is that this one doesn’t have acid blood. The one that came ashore near Tokyo walked on its flipper-legs, all six of them. Apparently it fought by shooting jets of water at things. Anyway, the JMSDF-GF will be sending over information as it develops. One thing they have said, apparently the flesh doesn’t make good Sushi. I’m not sure what worries me most about that, the fact that doesn’t make good Sushi or that somebody tried it. Either way, at the moment we’ll know more about the Aquatic ones than the others soon.
“The third group are the land ones. These have just started to appear. According to the Russians, they’re over a hundred feet tall. They’re tough, they walk on their hind legs using their forearms to strike blows. They have vestigial wings only. No acid blood again. The ones that appeared have been killed so quickly we have no idea whether they breath fire or what.”
“We’re going to need names for all these types. Baldrick’s good enough for a generic name, I agree with Condi, we have to distinguish between the mythology we’ve all read and the reality we have to fight.” President Bush leaned back in his seat, rubbing his eyes. “Does it seem to anybody that these Baldricks are getting tougher.”
“Certainly Sir.” Senator Warner tapped the pictures of the three types of demons. “There’s a definite progression here. There’s another thing, we have people going through ancient records, demonologies, grimoires that sort of stuff. Now, the information in there is undoubtedly corrupted and distorted but we’re hoping it gives us some form of clue as to what we can expect. One thing we have noted. You’ll note that these Baldricks haven’t come in blasting. We would, under the same circumstances, we’d be advancing behind a wall of missiles, tactical air and artillery fire. These just cruised straight into our defenses and died on them.
“We think we may have discovered the reason for this. One of our early readings found a mention of demonic heralds who were supposed to carry the word of their master to his new subjects. Apparently they would just appear in a population center, announce that all within were now subjects of their master and carry them off to hell. As far as we can see, nobody ever resisted. There’s even a suggestion that, by some sort of celestial Geneva Convention, these heralds are immune from attack.”
Bush frowned. “Attorney General Mukasey, has the Un
ited States ever signed an agreement to that effect.”
“No Sir, we have not.”
“Good, doesn’t apply to us then. Tell everybody to keep shooting. A question John, does ‘immune from attack’ mean that they can’t be shot at or that they are immune to weapons fire?”
“Our guess at this time Sir is that the second lead to the former. People found their bows and arrows and so on didn’t work against them so they rationalized it by creating the former. Of course, we could be wrong on that. But the key point is, if these are the heralds referred to in the Grimoire, the real armies of hell are still to get here. We have to stack our defenses ready.”
“I agree, Henry.” Treasury Secretary Paulson started. “Henry, we need supplementals, huge ones. This is a war, we have to fund it as such. We’re going to be spending serious money. Organize it. Elaine, Carlos, get to work shifting our industry to a war footing, get the missile factories and tank lines on triple shifts. Tell Boeing we’ll take every F-22 they can build, cost-plus basis. I believe the B-2 jigs and tooling are still in storage, if they are, get the Spirit back into production. Same with the Bone. What we can’t build, we’ll buy from abroad.
“Oh and John. Defense is fine but nobody ever won a war by defending. We have to go onto the offensive and attack. Find out how.”
Throne Room, Infernal Palace of Dis, Hell.
“They have done what?” The infernal voice boomed across the hall, making the thick red vapor boil and eddy as the banners of long-forgotten kingdoms twisted and furled in the smog.
“Your Eminence, I cower at your feet.
“I know. Do it some more. Then tell me what you meant.”
Abigor cringed on the ground at Satan’s feet, his tongue flicking over the great hooked claws. “Sire, forgive me”
“No. But continue.”
“Sire, they killed your heralds.”
“My gentlemen!” The scream of anger made the very foundations of hell shake. Across the fields of burning rock where the souls of the dead were forever held in torment, the devils looked up from their work and shuddered in fear. “They killed my gentlemen. It is laid down by our immortal will that the heralds shall be forever immune from attack.”
“Sire.” Abigor whimpered and abased himself still further. If he had been human he would have lost control of his bowels several minutes ago. “We believe that one of the heralds may have lived long enough to say that.”
“And what did those insignificant humans say to that? Do they cry for my forgiveness? Not that they’ll get it.”
“No Sire. It is reported they replied ‘screw you and the horse you rode in on’. We don’t quite understand that Sire.”
“Then they must learn obedience. I blame this all on Yahweh. He was supposed to have softened this lot up, got them to believe anything and obey everything. I thought he had too. Abigor, you will rectify this. You command 60 of the 999 legions of Hell. You will take them and wipe these upstarts out.”
“Sire, may I beg your indulgence for one moment of your time.”
“No.”
“But Sire, the heralds are dead and we do not know how or why. The impossible, the impermissible, the unforgivable has been done and we know nothing of this. Sire, we should find out before we invade, then we can inflict yet greater suffering and despair upon them.”
“Greater suffering and despair, I like the sound of that. What do you propose?”
“Sire, I suggest that I ask Deumos send the comeliest and most seductive of her Succubi to Washington, capital of the greatest nation on Earth. There is one there, peculiarly susceptible to her charms who might be seduced into telling us what we need to know. Think, Sire, of his grief when he learns his lusts have betrayed all humanity.”
Macdonald’s Restaurant, just off Pennsylvania Avenue, Washington D.C.
Former President William Jefferson Clinton jogged up to the restaurant and headed through the doors, his Secret Service detail following behind. He stopped to mop his forehead, his sides heaving with the exercise. He carefully did not look at the two Secret Service agents, he guessed that they were unmoved by his evening routine. In fact, he doubted if they were even breathing heavily. Fortunately, the place was empty, or nearly so. It pretty much always was this late at night.
“Can I help you Sir?” The young Latina girl behind the counter was too tired to recognize the former President.
“I’ll have a double quarter-pounder with extra cheese, two supersize portions of fries, oh and a small diet soda please.”
“Coming right up Sir.” The girl got her order from the pass and gave it to Clinton. He paid his bill and went to a table.
“Hi Sir, mind if a girl sits with you? Don’t want to be on my own this late at night.” Clinton glanced up. The woman waiting politely by his table had a mane of jet-black hair that fell in curls half way down her back. Great, luminous black eyes and a mouth that promised everything imaginable without saying a word. “I’m Sheba, please I won’t bother you, your such a big, strong man. I’m sure I’ll be safe with you.”
A few feet away, the two Secret Service agents registered the scene with horror. How in hell had she slipped in there? It was appalling, a total breech of security, one which the senior agent had to do something about.
“Hey Lady get away from here. Don’t you know who….” Sheba looked at him her eyes pleading for understanding. “Well, alright I suppose it’ll be OK.”
Clinton finished his snack, leaving the garbage to be thrown away by one of the Secret Service men. As he left the restaurant, the girl was trotting along beside him. Clinton kept throwing calculating glances at her, she was, perhaps, a little on the heavy side but that mouth was so enticing.
“This is so wonderful, what is it?” Sheba was stroking the great black wheeled vehicle that stood on the road.
“A Chevvy Suburban. It belongs to my bodyguards.” Clinton threw another calculating glance at Sheba. “Would you like to see inside.”
“Ohhh, yes please.” Sheba peered in, the front seat was like any other automobile, controls, a steering wheel, pedals on the floor. “How many horses does it take.”
“Three hundred and thirty five.” Sheba blinked trying to imagine the sight.
“The front’s standard, all the good stuff is in the back.” He turned to his Secret Service men. “Open up the back please?”
“But Sir..”
“Open it up please.” Clinton’s voice was insistent. The agent sighed and did as he was told. A lot of the equipment in the back was classified. “Isn’t that one of the new automatic shotguns?”
Clinton took the nod for an answer and reached in, picking the heavy weapon up. With slickness born of long practice, he spun around, racking the mechanism as he did. Then, with the barrel less than a foot from Sheba’s stomach, he pulled the trigger.
The long roaring burst drowned out her scream and the blasts of buckshot hurled her backwards across the sidewalk, rolling her over as she started to fall apart. The Secret Servicemen’s faces were expressions of utter horror at the scene, horror that was replaced by revulsion as the figure sprawled on the ground began to change, its flesh going black, horns growing from its head, a tail sprouting from under the absurdly-short skirt. Their reactions were, under the circumstances commendable. They stopped their dive for Clinton in mid-lunge, spun, drew their SIG-Sauer P-229s and each emptied all twelve rounds of .357SIG into the writhing demon. Clinton had dropped the empty magazine of his shotgun, loaded another and a second roar finished the job. The demon was dead, its bright yellow blood spreading across the sidewalk.
“It was a demon.”
“Hey, Bill’s killed a demon.”
The whispers from the crowd grew as they recovered from the shock of the violent confrontation. One man, obviously the worse for drink, staggered up and smacked Clinton on the back. “Well done Bill. Have a drink.” Clinton grabbed the bottle in its brown paper bag and took a swig.
The senior of the secret servicemen was s
peaking on the radio. “Stay away from the body please, we don’t know what we’re dealing with here.” Then he turned to Clinton. “Well done sir, but, how did you know?”
Clinton grinned, the easy, friendly grin that won him elections. “I’ve been married to Hilary for thirty years. Believe me, after going through that, I have no trouble recognizing a fiend from hell.”
Chapter Four
Oval Office, White House, Washington D.C.
“Sir, newsflash just in, Former President Clinton has just killed a baldrick at the McDonalds just down the road.”
“Damn, that will cost us at least one more seat in the House.” President Bush looked pensive for a moment. “I don’t suppose we could get my pappy to whack one?”
His public relations advisor shrugged, if one turned up in the right place it could be arranged, probably. But that was asking too much. “No Sir, not that we can rely on anyway.”
Bush’s mouth twisted, a pity to be disappointed so late in the evening. “How did it happen anyway? How did Bill, I suppose we’ll have to call him Wild Bill now, manage it? And what were the Secret Service up to?”
“The details are very brief, Sir, apparently he just blasted the baldrick with an automatic shotgun. Doctor Surlethe, the National Science Advisor is waiting outside, perhaps he can give you some more details.”
A sigh wafted gently across the room, President Bush really didn’t like being briefed by scientists. They tended to use such long words. Like any good politician, Bush knew that the time taken to say a four-syllable word was greater than the attention span of the audience. “Trot him in.”
Bush leaned forward in his seat, giving the impression of studiously examining the papers on the Presidential desk. “Doctor Surlethe, good to see you. A great achievement by the former President, but one that raises a few questions I think?”
