Armageddon?? (38 page)

Taking
their lead from the USAF, the Royal Air Force had been scouring the countries
aviation museums for aircraft that might possibly be returned to service. A
small collection of various kinds of Tornado and Harrier were already on their
way to RAF St. Athan, or BAE Preston for refurbishment, while a small
collection of Blackburn Buccaneers was currently being assembled. Finally the
air force’s attention had focused on the only remaining airworthy Avro Vulcan
B.2 left in the world. They were also now looking at the Vulcans and Victors
maintained in taxiable condition, as well as those held in static condition.

Meanwhile
the volunteers of the Vulcan Operating Company had either found themselves back
in the RAF, or conscripted into the air force. The technicians, assisted by a
team brought in from the rest of the air force, had been working hard for the
last couple of weeks turning XH558 from a display aircraft into a warplane once
again. One advantage that they had discovered was that the modern electronics
that they had installed took up less space, and were lighter than the 1950s
equipment that the aircraft had once carried; that left more capacity for fuel
and weapons. Spares was a potential issue, though at least the VOC had
assembled enough to keep XH558 going for a while, and fortunately Rolls-Royce
still had the details of how to build the Olympus engine. If push came to shove
though, some spare parts might have to be manufactured from scratch.

If
returning XH558 to service was successful it would serve as the model for XL426
and XM655, both of which were potentially airworthy, and for any of the other
surviving Vulcans and Victors that were in reasonable condition.

For
the entirety of the past week RAF armorers had been conducting weapons fit
tests, confirming that yes, the Vulcan could still carry 1,000lb bombs, and
just as their counterparts in 1982 had discovered, that she could carry three
1,000lb Laser Guided Bombs in its bomb bay. They had also double checked that
it could still carry another weapon it had once carried too.

As
one of the aircraft chosen to carry the ill-fated Skybolt missile XH558 had two
underwing pylons that had been used in the Falklands War to carry Shrike
missile and ECM pods. These pylons had been reactivated so that once again they
could be used for weapons, or jamming pods.

Today
XH558 was heading off to the RAF bombing range at Garvie Island to test her
newly restored capability, her belly full with twenty-one 1,000lb bombs. Her
pilot and co-pilot advanced the throttles forward to the stops and the bomber
began to accelerate down the long runway, once used by SAC bombers on Reflex
Alert and roared into the air as if she was young again.

“London
Military this is X-Ray Hotel 558, requesting permission to climb to flight
level thirty and proceed on flight plan, over.”

“Roger
that, 558. Welcome back to air force, over.”

(Thanks
to Stravo and Jan who wrote the first and last parts of this respectively.)

Chapter
Twenty Eight

Oxford,
England.  Professor Richard Dawkins was a deeply unhappy man. He had spent much
of his career trying to prove that God, and by extension Satan, did not exist.
He had even managed to convince himself that he had proven it beyond reasonable
doubt. Several scholars disagreed with him and had even gone as far as to write
books that argued that Dawkins was wrong, though the professor was so convinced
of being right he had not even tried to debate with them, despite the apparent
logic of many of their arguments. He was right, and that was all that mattered.

The
Message had upset all of his work, God did exist, even if he had abandoned
humanity to the tender mercies of Hell. Despite all of his efforts to try and
prove it was fake, The Message had been all too real. The only crumb of comfort
he could take from the situation was that his thesis that religion was
inherently bad had been proven right, and at least he had not had to listen to
the faithful said ‘I told you so’, which would have happened had a benevolent,
loving God revealed himself.

Despite
all that was happening in the world Dawkins had decided to devote his time to
writing a book that argued that The Message had vindicated his work, glossing
over the fact that he had been wrong about the non-existence of Heaven and
Hell; most readers would not remember that, he thought. Evidently he had not
been paying enough attention to the news, the Government had implemented paper
rationing to go with fuel and food rationing, and very few books would be
getting published in the near future. In fact very little other than military
manuals and very truncated newspapers would be published from now on. To the
intense distress of some, The Sun had decided to discontinue Page 3 for the
foreseeable future.

Dawkins’
stomach reminded him that it was time for lunch. He left the Oxford University
college where he worked, intending to eat in the pub frequented by C.S Lewis
and J.R.R Tolkein, idly wondering whether they continued their theological
argument now that they were in Hell.

He
passed two Thames Valley Police constables, the thought of John Thaw coming
into his mind as he did so. What did bring him up short was that both officers
were armed, still something of a rare sight in Britain. The two Police
Constables carried the standard Glock 17 as a sidearm, though one carried a
G36C rifle, while the second carried a pump-action shotgun. The British police
had searched through their armouries to for suitable weapons to arm as many of
their officers, whether Authorised Firearms Officers, or not.

“Professor
Dawkins?”

Dawkins
turned back from staring at the two coppers to see a slightly dishevelled, long
haired man in his mid twenties standing in front of him. The professor was not
worried, lots of his fans and acolytes liked to speak to him about his work, or
ask for his autograph. It wasn’t as if he was likely to be assailed by any
religious fanatics these days.

“Yes.”
He replied. “I think I have a pen here somewhere…” Dawkins continued
absentmindedly.

“Good,
good.” The man said satisfied. “This is all your fault!” He suddenly yelled,
taking the professor by surprise. “You and your ilk denied the All-Mighty and
he has abandoned us to eternal damnation as punishment!”

“Look
here…” Dawkins began to say hopping that those two police officers he had seen
earlier were not too far away had heard the commotion and would come to his
rescue, but was cut off by a sharp pain in his chest.

He
looked down to see the wild eyed man pull an eight inch knife out of his chest.
The man raised his arm and stabbed again, and again and again.

The
two police officers had indeed heard the yelling and had been hurrying to deal
with it. Instead of seeing two men arguing they saw one man lying on the
pavement surrounded by a spreading pool of red, while the other was spattered
with blood and held aloft a dripping knife. He looked straight at the aghast
police officers.

“All-Mighty
lord, today I have truly done your work today. I will gladly do my penance!”
The murderer screamed, his voice rich in exaltation.

The
shotgun armed constable brought up his weapon and shot him once. The heavy slug
intended for use against baldricks made an incredible mess of a human being,
blasting a huge hole in his chest and throwing the corpse out into the road.

“Enjoy
rotting in Hell mate.” The copper said as he worked the slide on his weapon.
“You’ve condemned an innocent man to hideous torture.”

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

“This
letter was received by the Institute a few hours ago. It provides us with
eye-witness evidence that angels as well as demons have been behind much of the
misery that has afflicted our world over the centuries..... Excuse me.”

Randi
turned to a secretary who had brought in a message flimsy. He read it, then
turned dead white. “Gentlemen, Ladies, my apologies. I must ask to be excused.
Please carry on with the agenda.” He turned and left the conference room, the
sharper observers noting that he staggered slightly as he did so.

A
few minutes later, Julie Adams knocked quietly on the door of his office and
went in. Randi was sitting at his desk, his face in his hands, sobbing quietly.
She slipped behind him and put an arm around his shoulders, she owed her sanity
to this man and some comfort was the least she could provide.

“What’s
happened James?”

“An
old friend of mine, Richard Dawkins, has been killed. He was attacked in the
street, in Oxford. He never stood a chance.”

“A
baldrick?”

“No,
that’s what is so horrible. It was some religious nutcase, witnesses say he was
screaming stuff about how Richard and I brought all this down on humanity, that
by denying God, we brought about all humanity’s damnation.”

“That’s
ridiculous James. The poor man was probably insane – or possessed. Was he wearing
his hat?”

“Is
it so ridiculous? Really. We were so sure we were right, that all this talk of
gods and devils and great sky pixies was just old, outmoded superstition. Just
ancient people without the knowledge to understand what was going on around them
giving the only explanation they could think of. We laughed at them, ridiculed
their ideas and beliefs and all the time there was a higher dimension, there
were creatures who influenced our lives. The old legends did have a base of
truth in them and we laughed them off. Just as we laughed off the people who
tried to tell us we needed these tinfoil hats. Now its the people who refuse to
wear them that are the dangerous cranks. So did we condemn humanity by our
arrogance?”

“When
did Heaven get closed to new entrants James?”

“Nobody
knows. Everybody has different theories but 1000 AD is the most popular.”

“And
you and your friend are really that old?”

Rand
started at the suggestion and frowned. “This isn’t funny.”

“No
it isn’t James. It’s not funny at all. You’re blaming yourself, your friend and
all those who thought like you for something that happened more than a thousand
years ago. That’s absurd, not funny. Got news for you James, the world does not
rotate around you any more than it rotates around any one of us. Your friend
was a victim of the same mean, treacherous deception that made victims of us
all. So stop blaming yourself and try to think out how we can help your
friend.”

“What?”
Randi was stunned by the comment.

“Well,
we know he’s in hell don’t we. Everybody who dies is. We know kitten can find
people in hell and contact them if she has enough to go on. You have pictures
of your friend, personal stuff, things he gave you? Then give them to kitten,
see if she can contact him. Then we can work out how to get him out of there.”

“Bring
him back from the dead?”

“Why
not? We’re sending enough occupants of hell in the opposite direction. At least
let’s try instead of wallowing in self-pity.”

Inner
Ring, Seventh Circle of Hell

Richard
Dawkins writhed and twisted on the burning sand, trying to evade the flurries
of searing flakes that tormented him. As far as he could see, he was in a
featureless desert, broken only by the forms of other victims thrashing about
in the same agony as him. He had no idea how long he had been here, all he
could remember was the knife plunging into him and then everything round him
converging into a single bright dot, the way an old-fashioned television did
when the station closed down. Then the impression of a tunnel and the sudden
impact of the pain as he had found himself here.

This
was it, this was hell and he was stuck here forever. Then he mentally struck
himself, no, he wasn’t here forever. He was here until humans could blast their
way down to him and free him. That was it, that was it all. He had to hold out
until then.

The
burns from the sand and those accursed flakes made thinking difficult and
Dawkins believed he was going mad. There was a voice calling him. “Richard,
Richard.”” He knew the pain from the burning was making him hallucinate.
“Richard, Richard?” It was still going on.

“Lalla?”
It couldn’t be, she was still alive. He was imagining things.

“No,
its kitten. Is this Richard Dawkins?”

“Who
are you?”

“You
don’t know me, I work for James Randi. You are Richard Dawkins. If you are,
we’re using you as an experiment.”

“I’m
Dawkins. Please, help me.”

“We’re
trying. Hold on.”

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

“I’m
through, I got him. Poor thing, he sounds terrible.”

“Being
knifed and sent to hell will do that to a man.” The speaker was one of four
Special Forces men in the room, wearing orange-red BDUs and armed with the new
M4A5s.

“Get
ready to move Lieutenant Madeuce. Once the portal is open, we can’t hold it for
long. And don’t forget the bolt-cutters. Ready kitten? Here we go.”