The Warriors' Ends- Soldiers of the Apocalypse

by Keith T Jenkins

  “We have a flight of Mig 47’s in Beirut and Aleppo. I ordered them to go in.”

  “We were deliberately keeping Russian hands off this attack, remember?”

  Rashid turns to him in anger, saying, “There are no Russian hands, you fool. They are all hands of Allah! You will do as you are told.”

  At this, Rashid turns to leave the room, but Smotritel reaches into his desk, retrieving his Makarov pistol, firing five rounds in a hurry at Rashid’s back, followed by three more at the guards at the door. Immediately the room is alive with counterfire. Rashid’s guards start firing at Smotritel as his guards begin firing at them. Smotritel has been hit eight or ten times with the AK47’s bullets, fired by the turbaned guards, and his men have decimated Rashid’s men, and they are down to a pistol fight between two guards. Smotritel’s guard crawls around behind the desk, behind the curtains of the great window to where he has the last guard in sight, but as he squeezes the trigger, a cadre of mixed military, Muslim and Russian, enter the room. The first man in a turban shoots another six rounds at the final guard, but then it just gets worse. As the struggle extends beyond the walls of the room, and eventually the walls of the building, Rashid goes unheard whispering in what could have been his last breath, his final gasp of hate, “Israel be damned.”

  He lay there, thoroughly incapacitated, unable to move a mite, bleeding, sobbing, still alive and awake, though he should be dead. His stomach is punctured on one side, blasted on the other, leaking lunch and bile into the rest of his body. His spleen is completely destroyed, and his blood is filling his cavities. His lungs are perforated, so breathing is more and more difficult, but not stopping, and his spine is shattered a foot above the hip, so there is no motion below the waist. For some reason, he can still feel everything, from every inch of his body. In the gunfight that followed his initial shooting, he was also hit in the left rotator cuff, the right elbow, twice in the back of the head, and more than a few times in the butt. So there he lay, sobbing, terrified, in the fear that the agony would never end.

  Smotritel is no better off, hit at least a dozen times, laying like a rag doll behind his desk, in a heap. Every major organ struck, as were both elbows and knees. And as he fell over his chair, slamming on his back against the floor, his feet were in the air, and someone shot those a few times.

  In the end, there are two men of great power, laying helpless on the floor, each crying like a silent, long-tortured baby, unable to do a thing, other than to recall their failures – hoping that something works out for their tiny fiefdoms. But even those will die soon; far sooner than these two men, or the dozen plus guards littering this room, who gave their vitality in defense of these tyrants, and the thousands who will follow.

  The Russian soldiers begin drawing arms on the non-Russians, the opposite occurs almost as fast, one Arab runs down the hall without engaging in the fight, and one Russian remains uninjured from that conflagration. There is soon a cacophony of screaming and shooting that will spread throughout the building, Arabs killing Russians, killing non-Russians, and even more so.

  This event is repeated around the world, in dozens of other centers of military might, though to different degrees, and with varying results. In some of the cities, the violence is quelled quickly by the Muslim, having already replaced a majority of the locals. In others, the locals carry the fight out into the streets, joining the disturbances that Mike instigated from Zarephath.

  In many places, the result is the same, regardless of what else is happening. The orders have been given and no one is countermanding them, and even if they do, there is shooting to hinder the action of the new orders. In Russia, the surviving Russians who would cancel Rashid’s commands are of lesser ranks, and the chain of command through China is not helpful, and even that chain of communication seems broken.

  The China contingents though, have no intention of calling off the attacks on Israel. After all, the leadership of China’s army is still Uygur, which is devout Muslim of their own brand, and an inherent hate for Israel is part of their faith. So, when they see the Migs fly, they are all the more excited. The orders come for the ordinance wagons to pull into the crowd for disbursement.

  From halfway back in the horde comes one hundred thirteen diesel rigs with fifty-three foot trailers full of explosives and ammo. They come driving over the bodies of their comrades, thinking there is a fight in motion, and that there are as many enemy under the tires as friends. But also, in an armed force of 200,000,000, the reality is that a few extra dead are no big deal. The wagons spread out in a pair of large concentric circles over dozens of miles, in a configuration intended for massive distribution of ordinance to the world’s largest army. The army is here, the enemy is not, and the orders came from someone who has no idea of the heat. The orders will be carried through, no matter the debilitating conditions. An army this size cannot be losing!

  The discomfort comes from the fact that the ambient temperatures of the Valley have reached a hundred seventy, and men are falling faint, blisters have formed on all exposed skin, delusions have become commonplace, and shooting of one another has begun. The heat of the brains has become a problem, as is the steam rising from the floor of the Valley, carrying the scent of blood. The sweat, mucous, and blood are vaporizing; leaving a steam of stink like no one has ever smelt.

  Newest vehicles have the AC turned up to the max, blowing as hard as they can, but the best they can do is get the temps down to about one thirty inside the cabs. Still, they are on mission and delivering the ordinance is the means to victory, the rocket launchers continue to arrive, firing off to the south, but also to the northwest and southwest now. They are targeting Haifa and Tel Aviv, as well as Ashdod, Ashkelon, Netanya, and Acre. These are very populous areas, but also strategic targets of monetary or military worth. They are also ports for great future profits. These are cities and operations that can be rebuilt and reused. From a Uygur perspective, this would make an excellent Uygur State – Muslim and Chinese together. By the end of the day, Israel will suffer a loss of nearly four million citizens – honored warriors all.

  Along with billions of rounds of ammo, the trucks carry hundreds of thousands of Claymore equivalent devices, as well as thousands of satchel, or sticky bombs, with detonators of all kinds. Some are remote radio detonators, some are mercury switches, but in each of the trucks, something goes boom, and then everything goes BOOM! The two circles of trucks, reaching from a mile from Carmel to two miles southwest of Mount Meron detonate, throwing shrapnel for up to three miles in every direction. The sequence of explosions is less than fifteen seconds long, but the devastation is incalculable. The whole of the Chinese army are now almost totally inside these circles. They extend beyond, like a living organism reaching for more. The trucks detonate spreading steel balls, truck parts, bullets of 7.62 X 39 for their SKS – unfired – throughout the crowd, shredding almost half of the remaining forces. Those bullets are also heating up, and in another few minutes, those bullets will explode. Their casings will become lightweight projectiles, mostly just thumping everyone really hard, not penetrating anything or anyone.

  Crowded like sardines in a can still, there are millions of men and women, baking like tilapia in a pan, losing their sanity, shooting whatever they can see, if they can see, and the noise of it all is deafening. Explosions from all around, gunfire in single shots and full auto, along with the screaming of those who wish they were dying – some from wounds and some from brain baking damage and pain.

  It will likely get infinitely worse very soon, as forty-five Mig 47’s have launched, from Aleppo and Beirut; but Boot is on the ball, having been freed up by setting the oven on auto. He identifies the last three Migs, he uses his dad’s Super-Password to access things, finds their security code override, engages their remote guidance systems, and, one by one, as he gets control of them, he flips them over to one of the control desks that had been used to take over limos or rocket launchers. The view from the cockpit appears in front
of Carlos who takes the wheel, but shouts, “I don’t know how to fly!”

  “Put it on station nine,” shouts Sylvia. “I can fly. Drive that one into the ground, Babe!”

  Boot slips the next one over to station nine, where Sylvia has a flight yoke and pedals with triggers of all kinds. Sylvia has the fighter that is rearmost in a group flying south out of Beirut.

  She punches the pilot and RIO out in a heartbeat. They think there has been a failure, but their bird continues to fly, aggressing on the others. As they leave the airstrip, they are facing north, due to the winds, but as they turn west and south, she begins targeting the rest of the squad. Planes begin dropping from the sky before they leave Lebanon.

  Soon, command of the Lebanese forces will realize that there is someone shooting from inside the squadron and she is engaged, but she really doesn’t care, so long as they all go down and Israel stays safe as possible. There are eighteen total, which took off together, and she shot down six of them still in Lebanon. Five more will go down in strait up dogfighting and one will Kamikaze her to end the attacks. But that won’t help because as soon as her plane goes down, she is jacked into another one by Boot. The lead jet in that wave turns in a long bank, adjusting vertical thrusters to allow for a much smaller circle, taking the plane to sixteen G’s, rendering the pilot unconscious. Pfthump! The cockpit is launched and in a couple thousand feet, the parachute will gently lower the pilot and RIO to the ground. Sylvia takes control of the plane, and she is not alone. There are six other pilots in the room, all with a new plane, taking the fight to the enemy, from a dusty, far away hilltop called Zarephath.

  The fight continues to head south and the bullets and rockets fly from all the craft, each having targeted the opposing fighters. The odds are now seven against twenty-seven. These are good odds for the Syrians and Lebanese on the scene, but they don’t realize the truly treacherous secret of Zarephath.

  The seven are not great pilots, per se, but they can each swarm around, shooting everything in sight. They are also not afraid to crash into another plane, and so they do. Each of them shoots down another plane before three of them crash into the sides of another craft. The other four continue fighting, each getting another Mig before the other three are jacked back into something. This leaves ten more jets for the seven Syrian pilots, but it just gets worse for them.

  Boot takes over the other ten, one at a time, passing them off to others who are not skilled pilots either, but they can fly enough to launch those well-armed planes to fifty thousand feet and then straight down on the Valley. They impact with amazing results, armed with bombs and missiles for the fight, they launch everything in their possession, then explode with a tenth of a mile kill radius each. The other seven, the real pilots will begin unloading their ordinance on the fringes of the battlefield, seeking out the command centers, shooting them to hell, before taking the craft back to Beirut and Aleppo. Low on fuel and out of ammo, each receives a prime target in their destination city to crash into, and from the satellite view, it brings celebration to the hearts of the crowd in the control room. There are fuel depots, refineries, and operation centers, each of which goes up with a bang!

  In a moment of near final resignation, Israel launches her final volley, the nuclear arsenal that the world claimed she had, but could neither confirm nor deny. A total of fourty missiles take off – two to Megiddo. Other targets include Iran, the Saudi Kingdom, Onan, Yemen, Moscow, Shanghai, Beijing, Hong Kong, and others. It will take over an hour for all the missiles to be launched and reach their targets, and in reality, most of the war will already have ended.

  In Israel, they have no idea of what has been done for them, or by whom, and that is okay because, it is really by the hand of God that all this became possible in the first place, and to Him belong all the praise in the end. Allah hu Akbar should never be heard after today.

  Huns at the Gates

  . . . and if you don't have a sword, sell your cloak and buy one.[34]

  E-Day Minus 1 Day

  A shot rings out and Mike falls from the table where she stands. Landing on Schwarz. She grabs his shoulder on her way to the floor, and neither she nor Mark have the strength under such surprised circumstances, to keep her from slamming to the ground. Another shot rings out, spinning Lundt about, landing him on his ass, as a shout comes from across the room about some sort of Akbar again. Everyone knows what has happened, and in a moment, they know who did it. Amal is the woman from beside the weather station. She has turned and decided that she could not sit by and allow her “Father” – the Ayatollah Rashid – to be defeated. No one believed that she was one of them. How could she be in such a gathering of believers? She, nor anyone in this room, knows yet that he is already among the expected dead.

  Mark reaches for the Sig on his hip as Culver grabs Mike’s weapon from her holster. Carlos and Sylvia turn from their stations to face the threat, drawing their weapons, but the young woman is relentless, attempting to target the upper echelon. Still, Mark and Culver have her in cover fire, and Sylvia is crawling up behind her as Carlos crawls from the front. Mark and Culver keep her busy, shooting and ducking, moving to the left and the right, as Carlos gets on his back in front of her desk, kicking it with all his might. The woman is thrown back in fear, exposed to Sylvia’s expert targeting, and suddenly the right side of her head disappears. Her gun falls to the floor and she twitches a bit, laying there. Sylvia comes over to see that she is not dead, looking at her in the eyes, she shoots out the woman’s shoulders, so she cannot grab another gun, and then she puts a round in her forehead. She looks completely creepy, laying there, blasted to hell, staring at Sylvia, terrified, angry beyond containment, crying quietly.

  Rita comes over to her, holding her by her hair and says, “Amal? Can you hear what I am saying?”

  The woman’s head bobs in the affirmative as her eyes cry out in distress.

  “Then you have to understand that Y’shua has given you this last opportunity to avoid Hell.”

  The woman’s head shakes as shouting, “Nooooooo!” gurgling as much as screaming.

  Everyone else has work to get back after, still doing what they do, but Rita will explain the predicament to the woman, and how to overcome it.

  “Lundt! Schwarz! Those coaches have an amazing amount of firepower in them. Have your men get all the weapons that are not being used standing on this side of each coach with loaded magazines – as many as you can – laying beside each one. They have to be at the ready when the Rangers get here!” Mike points to the screen for oversight. “There are a few thousand soldiers about to get in rifle range.”

  “I think I need a tire patch first, Mike,” says Lundt, and a medic quickly responds.

  The screen shows the movement of the troops which have been dropped, and shows their planes bugging out. They had flown in below the radar level, hugging the surface of the earth on their way in.

  “Boot could shoot!”

  “No, Boot. You are doing important work,” says Culver.

  “Not for long, Pretty Face Ma’am!” He’s kind of smitten with Culver.

  “What? Why not for long?” she asks in reply.

  “Fuel! It is nuclear with a charge assist from the Sol, but nuke is dying and Sol is setting.”

  “But it is not even noon!” says Culver.

  “Here is noon, but there – even in space – it’s far later in the day. I love you though. Thanks for the hat.”

  “Shit!”

  He points to the hallway, over to where the rest rooms are, saying, “That way!”

  She looks at him as if she is flustered by him for the first time today.

  “What? Wait! Can you shoot here?”

  “Here? No! Don’t shoot us!”

  “No, Boot! Shoot them!” she says, pointing to the horde on the screen closing in on their compound.

  “Oh! Them? Sure thing, Pretty Face.” He spins around to face his keyboard, turning the attention of their overhead protector on the masses
headed their way. There is a red and blue shimmering sheen that falls over the front edge of the attackers, for at least two hundred yards of attackers. The shimmering seems to vaporize all flesh, leaving uniforms in flames, weapons laying on the ground untouched, near red in heat, with ammo discharging from heat, jerking, rotating the weapons with each bullet that passes. As the intensity of the impact dissipates into the crowd, there is a continuance of more pain, loss of hands and feet, heads melted on some, and still uniforms ignite and weapons superheat, convulsing on the ground. The tender of the brush, dryer of the trees also ignite, creating something of a forest fire, spreading willy-nilly.

  The fire raises up to the road around the compound, but not to the motorcoaches, and it will be beaten out on the other end by the soldiers, and often detonated into airlessness for smoldering. They will see the infernos coming; throwing grenades at them, laying Claymores in sequence along a firewall, and string detonate them at once, consuming all the air, blasting all the scrub back into the burn zone. Now, there is a scorched barrier between the attackers and Zarephath, but when it cools, and it will cool enough in minutes, the soldiers will come running.

  There are burning embers and ashes between them, and the US Army runs like fools to attack Angry Parrot. But Zarephath is no brightly coloured bird. It is the place where hot metals are hammered. That is what Zarephath means – a foundry. The sparkles appear from the sky again, powdering and scorching many of them, but it stops suddenly, and just as suddenly it falls from the sky. It will take it a few minutes to cover the distance from orbit to earth, and when it falls, it is all Boot can do to keep it off the compound, dumping it in the valley to the east, right on top of a thousand troops or more. The shattering satellite splatters and scatters across the rockface of the foundry, spreading destruction for over two hundred yards, mostly toward Zarephath. Some of the men and women are just smashed, while others are perforated and sliced by flying debris, even sliced in half, or bisected vertically. It is a genuine mess.