Armageddon?? (29 page)

“But
these are museum pieces…..” Ryan spluttered, aghast at the thought of Pima’s
superb collection of aircraft being dismantled.

“They
can still perform useful roles Sir. If its any consolation, the Commemorative
Air Force and the New England Air Museum are losing their B-29s as well. Not to
mention Wright Patterson losing Bockscar and the Smithsonian parting with Enola
Gay. There’s more than 20 others as well, although there are only five B-50s
and they’re in pretty rough condition. Except yours of course, Still, we should
have enough to make up a mixed B-29/B-50 group by the time we’ve finished.”

“But
they’re obsolete.” Ryan’s voice was weak.

“Not
so much so Sir. They still haul bombs and are fast enough, and fly high enough,
to keep out of harpy claws. And we’re not sure how well jets will adapt to the
conditions in hell so we’re hedging our bets.” Behind him, there was a roar and
the B-29 took off, heading for its new operational base. Ryan could barely stop
himself crying.

“What
else are you taking?”

“Oh,
not much Sir. Your F-111 and your A-10 of course. You’ve kept the planes here
in superb condition, I must say. We may want some others as well, depends what
we can find elsewhere. We don’t want lots of single aircraft but if there are
enough to make up a small group……”

“I
suppose you’ll want our replica Wright Flyer?” Ryan spoke bitterly.

“No
Sir, not under current plans. But we would like to talk to you about your
B-36.”

Executive
Office, Alexander Arms Corporation, Radford Arsenal, Virginia

“Mister
Alexander Sir, it’s a Colonel Matthews from the Defense Logistic Agency.”
Alexander’s secretary sounded urgent.

“Put
him through then Jeanie.” There was a click on the line “Bill Alexander here.”

“Mister
Alexander, its Colonel Matthews here from the DLA. If you haven’t heard
already, you will be fairly shortly, our M16s and M4s aren’t showing up very
well in Iraq. Don’t have the stopping power to finish off a baldrick. So, we
need to change approach fast. You’re making .50 Beowulf M16s for the
Coastguard, well, you can start expanding that production line right now. We
need you to start mass-producing .50 Beowulf upper receivers with a 24 inch
barrel right away. We’ll issue them and mate them with in-service lower
receivers. We’ll be faxing you the paperwork later today. Take this telephone
call as authorization to start work.”

“How
many?”

“Our
initial production target will be one million sets of parts needed to convert
in-service weapons. For your information, the new rifle will be the M16A6 and
the M4A5.”

The
room was swimming around Alexander’s eyes. “We’re a small company, there’s no
way we can make that number of rifles. And the ammunition.”

Matthews
sounded more than slightly irritated. “Then license other producers. Talk to
Ordnance, they may have facilities you can take over. Listen man, this country
is awash with weapons producers, if you can’t meet the production targets, make
some arrangements. Our boys have died out there because their rifles didn’t do
the job. And you know where they go when they die. You’re a manager, so get the
lead out of your pants and start managing. Don’t make us write more letters to
mothers telling them their kids died because they didn’t have the tools they
need. Understand?”

Alexander
didn’t have a chance to answer before he heard the telephone bang down. He
stared at the receiver in his hand for a long moment that was only interrupted
when his fax machine started to spew pages out. “Jeanie? Get me a list of all
our subcomponent suppliers, we have to jack production up soonest. And get me
the heads of Bushmaster, DPMS, Olympic Arms, Colt, FN and any other rival you
can think of.”

Headquarters,
Boeing Military Aircraft Division, St Louis, Missouri.

The
voice as impossibly British. “I say, is that Mike Graham, T-45 project
manager?”

“It
is. To whom am I speaking?”

“Sorry,
old chap. James Kendrick here, Hawk 200 Project Manager at BAE Systems. We’ve
had some calls from our respective governments asking us to put our heads
together and come up with a new aircraft for our forces.”

“Excuse
me, I’ve heard nothing of this.” There was a ‘ding’ on Graham’s computer
indicating a top-priority email from corporate HQ in Chicago. He read it. “My
apologies, I’ve just been told.”

“No
problem. Everything is screwed up. Anyway, basically the RAF want a cheap,
light fighter to make up numbers, the Navy want one for their carriers and your
chaps want some for everybody. So, our governments have decided to combine your
T-45C trainer with our Hawk 200 light fighter and produce a single-seat,
radar-equipped fighter for everybody. My bosses think it’s a pretty good idea,
one that should sell well. So, we need to get cracking. Can we arrange for our
design team to come over there?”

“Sure,
or would you prefer us to come over to you?”

“Really,
we’d rather come to you if you don’t mind. Have you ever tried to get a decent
steak in Britain?”

Fort
Bragg, North Carolina

Blasted
rock, pools of mud and other less wholesome liquids, gauzy wisps of orange
fumes, the odd crucified body; Hell wasn't anything pleasant to look at, even
through a window. Standing in front of that window was an Army officer facing
out towards a room occupied by a mix of civilian and military engineers along
with a sprinkling of figures in Air Force, Army, and Marine uniforms. As the
last straggler slipped through the door set in the far wall, he began to speak.

"Gentlemen,
ladies, my name is Major Warhol, and welcome to Section Twelve of DIMO(N). I'm
sure we'll be assigned a mouthful of an acronym soon, but for now we've just
been calling it the Hell Lab." He stepped to one side and waved an arm at
the window behind him.

"To
get straight to the point, sooner or later we're going to have to fight in
Hell, and from what limited intel we've gathered so far, it's a hell of an
environment." He winced slightly at the awful pun, then shook his head
with a sheepish smile before continuing, "It's going to do a number on our
gear, and long-term exposure isn't going to do humans any good either. That's
where we come in. We've put together a mock-up, our own personal Hell-in-a-jar
based on the intelligence we've received so far, and we're going to be testing
our gear in it. That's for the servicemen among you. The rest of you," he
nodded towards one of the engineers closes to the window, "are here to fix
whatever doesn't work, or failing that, to devise something new to fill a gap
where our existing equipment doesn't cut it. We've got five other rooms like
this one, with different speculative environments, and we'll be updating all of
them as we learn more of the makeup of Hell. At the moment, we’ve only got
actual data on one part of hell, one segment of the 5th circle. However, it
looks like Dante’s Inferno was a pretty accurate description so, until we know
more, we’re working on that basis. We’ve got people here digging through other
old records as well so we’ll refine the picture as we go. Across the hall,
there's another team that'll be doing the same with Heaven once we know something
about it."

He
singled out a lone man in a suit with a nod, "Agent Carson accomplished
the only strike mission so far into Hell, albeit remotely. He's at your
disposal for questions, and the CIA was kind enough to send the Predator he
used for the strike along with him." Carson’s lips cracked in a wry,
sardonic smile. He’d sat behind an operator’s terminal and sent in a drone but
that made him a celebrity. "I'm told we're free to disassemble the
Predator, but the Agency would like Agent Carson back in one piece. Or at
least, if we do dismantle him, can we number the pieces so The Company can
reassemble him. Also, please remember, he’s a star on the war-bond sales
pitches."

A
chuckle ran around the room, accompanied by a snort from Carson himself. Major Warhol
let the room settle for a few seconds before he started back into the briefing,
"Air Force types, the wind tunnel's still under construction, but once
it's up, you'll have down-checked aircraft of more or less any make you need in
the hangars on-base to test in a Hell-condition wind tunnel. Sorry to give you
the castoffs, but we're short there as it is. Some of the birds are types we
don’t have in the inventory any more but we’ve repossessed from museums. Feel
free to test those to destruction. Infantry, there's a target range with
variable-density cloud generators to simulate atmospheric conditions. Armor,
you're going to be a bit limited for a while, we're not going to have room for
a half-dozen large-scale Hell-jars for you to play with, and the one we will
have won't be finished for a week or two."

Warhol
signaled with his hand, ordering a guard to open another door. A group of a
dozen Arabs filed into the room, dressed in loose white robes. A rustling
murmur passed through the briefing room's other occupants as they turned to
look at the newcomers, several frowns flashing into place. Before anything
could get out of hand, Major Warhol's voice called out again, louder at first
to cut through the whispered speculation,

"I’d
like to welcome Abdullah Rashid, formerly one of the Iraqi insurgency leaders,
and now head of the DIMO(N) S12 insurgency team. I know!" he shouted,
cutting through a rising babble of voices, "That many of you will be
uncomfortable working with him and his men, but the fact remains that the Iraqi
insurgents have had quite a lot of experience in running insurgencies recently
and their people fought alongside ours in Hit. We’re allies now." His lips
quirk in a thin, humorless smile, "And there’ll be others joining us as well,
including some explosives experts from the Provisional IRA. They are probably
the best on the world at their particular art, they should be, they fought the
British for long enough. If I hear of them being frozen out of discussion here,
I'm not going to be a terribly happy man, and none of you want that. These
teams will be focusing on the best ways to manufacture explosives, weapons,
IEDs, anything they can think of that can be made and used in whole or in part
using Hell-native resources and conditions."

Warhol
surveyed the assembled men and women for a few more seconds, and then nodded to
himself,

"Alright,
dismi--actually, one thing I forgot. Everyone, if you'll please inspect the
walls."

He
waited for a few seconds for people to turn and look, Scattered around the
walls of the room at regular intervals were glass-fronted cabinets loaded with
shotguns and submachine guns, On each one was printed in tall, red letters, 'IN
CASE OF BALDRICKS, BREAK GLASS.' Another chuckle ran through the room, albeit a
somewhat nervous one.

"We
don't know the limitations of the Baldricks' teleportation and portal abilities
yet, so we're going to assume they could pop up in here. Familiarize yourself
with the locations of the emergency arms cabinets, and with the weapons. There's
an earth-environment firing range on base, feel free to avail yourself of it if
you want to brush the rust off; I'd hate to lose any of you to something as
silly as a lone baldrick raider Dismissed." He pauses for a moment, then
grins, "And I mean it this time. Break into teams and let's start figuring
out how to raze Hell."

The
Oval Office, The White House, Washington DC

“My
fellow humans.” President Bush looked into the camera and gave a careful,
friendly smile. The truth was that he was actually feeling reasonably happy at
this point, his approval rating had gone over 50 percent for the first time in
years. “You have all been following the events in Iraq where allied forces have
engaged a baldrick invasion army estimated at over 400,000 strong. Much of the
fighting has been obscure due to the area it has covered but now, I am able to
give you some accurate information on what has taken place.

“The
baldrick army has been defeated, not just defeated but destroyed. Our troops
and those of our allies, most notably the Iranians under General Fereidoon
Zolfaghari and the British under Brigadier John Carlson have beaten back the
enemy and inflicted enormous losses upon them. We believe that the total of
their dead is in excess of 300,000, a number that is rising hourly as our
forces pursue the defeated enemy back to the very mouth of hell.” Bush looked
down at his desk briefly, the retreating enemy hadn’t yet encountered the
blocking force that was between them and safety. That was a nice surprise that
was waiting for them.

“Our
own losses so far are just over 600 dead. Most of these were suffered in the
battle for the town of Hit. There, a brigade of the Tenth Mountain Division
held the town against an overwhelmingly powerful force of baldricks and drove
them back, fighting room to room in the process. In doing so they proved that
not only do our armed forces have superior equipment to our enemy but our men
are better trained, braver and more resourceful than their baldrick
counterparts.

“Now,
however, we must look to the future. We have learned that the force that struck
us represents only a small portion of the forces that the enemy has available
to him. Beyond that, we know that the forces of Yahweh still exist and must be
numbered on the list of our enemies. Already, we have killed one of them, one
responsible for an atrocious massacre carried out against defenseless civilians
in the peace of their home. Our forces have achieved wonders, General Petraeus
has won a victory that will forever place him amongst the Great Captains, but
this is not enough.