Armageddon?? (121 page)

“Euryale.”
Belial moaned the word, the pain of his wounds seeping slowly through the red
fog of rage and grief in his mind. He didn’t know what the humans had done to
her but he would have his revenge. Even if it killed him.

His
breath recovered, Belial started off on his escape from Palelabor. One thing
nagged at him, Hell had fallen to the humans, his was the last outpost of
resistance. Where was he to go, what we he to do? The questions nagged his mind
as he staggered across the valley and climbed out of the valley. As darkness
fell, all he could think of was the sight of that golden figure on the gallery
and the words “Kill Him.”

Fortress
of Palelabor, Tartarus, Hell

“It
is done as you ordered, Chatelaine.” Euryale looked at the major-domo of the
fortress.

“They
are all dead?”

“All
of them Chatelaine. All those who remained loyal to Belial are dead. It was a
cunning move to put most of them in his column to the volcano. May I ask, how
did you know the humans would be there?”

“The
humans are the Lords of War, nothing is beyond them. They destroyed the
Adamantine Fortress, that showed they knew who was responsible for the attacks
on their cities. They shut down the two existing portals, showing they knew how
to do it. It was certain they were watching us in case we started a third. And
if they were watching us, they knew how to kill us. I did not know how they did
it, but they would. And they did. Now, are all our people well-briefed?”

“Yes
Chatelaine. Belial seized your fortress and imprisoned you and those loyal to
you. Then he and his people set about their evil schemes. It was a time of
great hardship but we managed to plot our escape and recover the fortress. We
have stopped Belial’s plans for more attacks and killed those responsible. Now,
we wish to surrender to the humans who killed those who treated us so
brutally.”

“Very
good. Make sure everybody remembers it. For the survival of us all depends on
our being seen as Belial’s victims.”

Chapter
Eighty Four

Hartlepool,
Lancashire.

“BBC
Radio 2, online, on digital and on 88 to 91 FM.” The voice of veteran DJ Terry
Wogan said over the car radio.

“It
is eight o’clock, here is the news read by John Marsh.” The news reader said
once the time signal had finished. “Allied Forces in Hell continued their
advance today against negligible resistance and have reportedly entered the
city of Dis, Hell’s capital, without a shot fired. BBC reporters embedded with
the 4th Mechanized Brigade, the first British formation to enter Dis, report
that Allied troops have freed large numbers of human slaves apparently used as
domestic servants from demonic captivity. Human forces are already beginning to
move into…….”

Inspector
Kate Langley turned off the car radio as she parked outside Hartlepool Police
Station. It was a small town police station, originally built in the late
Victorian period and was now more than a little crowded as the builders had not
envisioned all of the electronic communications equipment that the modern
police force required to function; indeed Lancashire Constabulary was currently
seeking new accommodation in Hartlepool to replace the station. The
overcrowding was even worse now that the station had to accommodate the Special
Constables on permanent duty, new recruits and retired officers returned to
duty.

“Good
morning, Joe.” She said to the desk sergeant. “Any messages for me?”

“Morning,
Ma’am, nothing bar the usual.” Sergeant Joseph Beck replied. “Oh, there was a
call from Mrs. Durbleigh, she said she would call you later on this morning, I
believe it was with regards to the firearms registration business.”

“I
see, I’m sure that’s going to keep us busy.” Langley replied, not relishing
speaking to her now promoted predecessor, she was after all busy enough as it
was.

“Where’s
Sergeant Parrish?”

“I
believe he’s off cleaning his rifle, Ma’am. I’ll let him know you’re here.

“Shall
I send in some tea, Ma’am?”

Langley
thought for a second, she did not often drink tea, though her sergeants always
asked just in case she changed her mind.

“Yes
thank you, Joe, I’d like that.”

The
Inspector hung up her coat and hat after entering her office and took off her
holster. She hated having to carry a revolver, she had not joined the police to
carry a gun, this was Lancashire, not Texas after all, and knew that the
majority of the officers under her command hated it as well. Langley hoped that
once this war was over, whenever that was, the officers not assigned to Force
Firearms Units would be able to hand their weapons back into the various armories,
she would hate it if the war changed the character of the British police. It
was a matter of pride to her that British Police officers, unlike those in
America and Europe, had remained without firearms as part of tehri standard
equipment for so long.

Langley
placed her revolver, an old, but sound, Webley Mk.VI .455, in her desk drawer
and locked it. It, five other revolvers, four No.1 Mk.III Lee-Enfield rifles
and four Mk.V Sten submachine-guns had been found in the basement of Hartlepool
Police Station; evidently from the dust that had gathered on the box the
revolvers were stored in they had been down there since around 1945.

After
some testing the revolvers had been issued, as had the rifles, but the Sten
guns were worn from use in the Second World War and had been condemned.
Amazingly the police had managed to get their hands on useable stocks of .455
Webley Mk.III ‘Manstopper’ bullets, which were felt to be more effective
against Baldricks than the later rounds, which had been designed to comply with
the Hague Convention. Less surprisingly, they had also managed to get a supply
of .303in rounds from South Africa. The South Africans were doing well with
their .303 production, as were all the other producers who had retained
production lines for full-powered rifle ammunition. The remaining officers had
been issued with a variety of firearms from police and others armories.

Langley
sat down and reviewed the paper work waiting for her, as expected most of it
related to the issue of firearms registration. In the panic after the first
Baldrick attacks the government had suspended the majority of the country’s
firearms legislation, meaning that anyone could effectively own almost any
weapon they chose. The Home Office had now decided that when it came to firearms
legislative anarchy was not a good idea, instead they had decided that anyone
who wished to own a firearm should register it and that the local police should
decide if the person was suitable to hold a firearm; they did not want a repeat
of Hungerford, or Dunblane.

Of
course the job of interviewing those who wished to legally own a firearm fell
to the local police, not that they did not have enough to do as it was.

Just
after Constable Sparks had brought in the tea the phone on Langley’s desk rang.

“Chief
Inspector Durbleigh on the phone for you, Ma’m.” The voice of Sergeant Beck
said.

“Put
her through, Joe.”

“Good
morning, Kate, how are you?” The voice of Chief Inspector Jean Durbleigh said.
Before her promotion to fill a vacancy at the constabulary’s headquarters,
Durbleigh had been the uniformed Inspector at Hartlepool and occasionally still
took a special interest in the place.

“Good
morning, Ma’am, I’m fine thank you. How can I help you today?”

“It’s
about this firearms registration business, I know you are busy enough as it is,
but we’ve had another message from the Home Office this morning. They’d like us
to ‘encourage’ applicants who are fit enough to join the Home Guard if they
have not done so already, should they be reluctant we are to take it into
account when considering their application.”

“I
see, and I take it we are to confiscate any weapons from those we refuse a
certificate to, Ma’am?” Langley asked.

“I’m
afraid so, and I know all too well how limited your manpower is. Of course
should you confiscate anything useful then I’m sure nobody would object to you
keeping hold of it. Well I won’t keep you any longer, Kate, I’ll speak to you
later, good bye.”

“Good
bye, Ma’am.”

Once
Chief Inspector Durbleigh had hung up, Langley called Sergeant Beck.

“Joe,
I need to speak to both you and Sergeant Parrish, I’m afraid we have a busy day
ahead of us.”

“No
change there then, Ma’m.” Beck replied.

H.Q
UK Special Forces Support Group, Camp Brimstone, Hell.  Colonel (D) David
Stirling watched the comings and goings around him with interest; he had taken
in the various cap badges associated with the SFSG, the majority of the group
wore the maroon beret of the Parachute Regiment, the next biggest group wore
the green beret of the Royal Marines, while he had also noticed the blue beret
of the RAF Regiment and a number of other cap badges, including the Royal
Engineers, Royal Signals and Royal Logistics Corps. Men from his own regiment,
the SBS and this new regiment, the Special Reconnaissance Regiment could
occasionally be seen visiting the headquarters on a variety of errands.

While
it was clear that the modern soldier was not a whole lot different from those
of the past what had amazed Colonel Stirling was how much communications
technology had improved in the eighteen years since he had died. The ability to
send text and pictures as well as voice communications in a few seconds was
incredible as was the development in computer technology in what was, after all
a very short time. The H.Q was full of small thin portable computers known as
‘lap-tops’, many of which showed information being sent back from radio
controlled drones, which those controlling them insisted on calling Unmanned
Air Vehicles, evidently the military habit of giving something simple a long
complicated name had not disappeared since he had left the army.

As
well as being home to the H.Q UK Special Forces Support Group Camp Brimstone
was also the rear logistics base for all British units assigned to the Allied
Rapid Reaction Corps and it was also the base from which the British had
launched their power-play into Julius Caesar’s growing territory and to where 2
PARA battle group had been recovered to once the fighting was over.

Stirling
had also observed that logisticians had not changed a great deal either. He was
also interested to see that while the technology inside was radically different
the latest Main Battle Tank, the Challenger 2, was not radically different in
configuration from the Chieftains he remembered in the last decade of his life
on Earth. Actually the British Army had managed to get enough old Chieftains
running to form an RAC training regiment and had managed to get hold of quite a
number of old Challenger 1s from a decimated Jordanian Army.

“Good
day, Colonel Stirling, I hope you are being well looked after?” Colonel Dempsey
asked cheerfully.

“I’ve
few complaints, Colonel Dempsey, apart from the fact that I feel my talents are
being a little underused.” Stirling replied. “The improvements in technology in
the last few years have been pretty impressive; perhaps I’m hopelessly out of
date.”

“If
I can learn to use a computer, Colonel, then anyone can, besides computers of
today are somewhat easier to use than the computers of the late ‘80s.

“Anyway
the reason I came was to give you this.” Dempsey said with a smile holding up a
bottle of single malt whisky and two glasses.

“Ah,
now that is a sight for sore eyes.” Stirling replied. “I wonder if it’s still possible
for a dead person to get drunk?”

“I
can’t think of a better opportunity to find out.” The present Commanding
Officer of 22 SAS told the regiment’s first Commanding Officer. “I’d be honored
to research that problem with you.”

Stirling
smiled. “I’d be more than happy to drink with any commander of the regiment,
Colonel Dempsey.”

“And
I with its founder. But, I’m afraid we have business to discuss as well. The
war in Hell is over, the major combat operations part of it anyway. What’s left
is peace keeping, not that such operations can’t be trouble enough.”

“I
know, I’ve whiled away the hours reading the files on Iraq. Idiots.”

“Can’t
blame the Spams, not really. They were hit by a manpower shortage and they
needed to know if there was a way of doing things that economized on manpower.
There wasn’t, they just took time to realize it.”

“Not
just the Yanks, everybody. Including us. So, if the war here is over, what’s
next?”

Colonel
Dempsey leaned back and sipped his whisky. “Have you any ideas about raising
Hell in Heaven if I may put it that way?”

Randi
Randi Institute of Pneumatology, The Pentagon, Arlington, VA

James
Randi looked around the empty office and sighed. It had been fun while it
lasted but his part in The Salvation War was over. His brief had been to filter
the world’s population of mediums, psychics and other ‘supernaturalists’ to see
if any of them really had useful talents. He’d tried to do that once with his
Million Dollar Prize and failed, the big names had refused to come anywhere
near him and the small fry had been winnowed out early. Then The Salvation War
had started and he’d had the U.S. Secret Service, the FBI and eventually
Interpol and every intelligence organization in the world working to find
likely suspects. Those that had been reluctant to submit to rigorous scientific
testing had been dragged in by whatever force was needed.