Hell on Earth Page 6

  “You sure it’ll be okay?”

  “You can’t miss it. No problemo.”

  “Look, if I get in trouble, is there a phone I can call down here on?”

  “Sure, use the black phone near the elevator, the one with no buttons. Just pick it up; it’ll ring here.”

  “Thanks. This way? The elevators over here?”

  The helpful sentry showed us how to get to the elevators. They were actually behind some partitions; we might not have found them . . . for several minutes.

  We climbed aboard, and Fly said in a normal speaking voice, “Don’t trust these elevators. May as well start at the top and walk down, floor by floor, familiarizing ourselves with the procedures. Then we can report back to the President and tell him where we’d do the most good.”

  To me, he used hand signals: Start top; find radio; broadcast report

  The antenna was atop the roof, of course; but that didn’t mean that’s where hte radio room would be. We wandered around every floor, trying to look official. Early on, I found a clipboard hanging on a peg in the rooftop janitor’s shed, where they kept all the window-washing stuff. Fly took the clipboard and made a point of officiously writing down reports on everybody in every office, with me trailing along behind looking like his assistant.

  It worked; people tensed up, stopped talking, worked diligently, and not a one confronted us to ask us who the hell we were. It helped that Fly had been inventory control officer for a few months. He stirred them up and made them sweat.

  Finally, twelve floors down from the top, we found the damned radio room. Two operators, both civilians. One had a pistol; we were unarmed, of course.

  Fly strode in like Gunnery Sergeant Goforth on the inspection warpath. “On your feet,” he barked; the startled operators stared for a second, then leapt to their feet and stood at a bad imitation of attention. “Classified message traffic from the President,” he snarled. “Take a hike.”

  “Sir, we’re not supposed to—”

  “Sir? Do you see these?” He angrily pointed at his stripes. “Do I look like a God-damned pansy-waist gut-sucking ass-kissing four-eyed college-boy officer to you?”

  “No sir! No—ah—”

  Fly leaned close, playing drill instructor. “Try COR-POR-AL, boy. Next time you open that hole of yours, first word out better be Corporal Taggart.”

  “C-C-Corporal Taggart, sir! I mean, Corporal Taggart, we’re not supposed to leave.”

  “Did you hear what type of message traffic I said this was?”

  “Classified? Sir—Corporal!—we’re fully cleared for all levels of classification.”

  “Do I know that, boy? You got some paper you can show me?”

  “No, not on me.”

  “Then take a hike, dickhead. Go back and get something from your C.O. We’ll wait right here.”

  The man dithered, looking back and forth at the door, the equipment, and his partner, a small, frail-looking man who pointedly looked away, saying No, way, bud, this is your call. “All right. You won’t touch anything while I’m gone, will you?”

  “Scout’s honor,” sneered Fly. Was he ever a Boy Scout? I couldn’t remember.

  The man slid sideways past Fly and almost backed into me. I glared daggers at him and he split. After a couple of seconds Fly turned to the mousy companion. “What’re you still doing here? Get after your partner!”

  Meekly, the man turned and darted out of the room.

  “Fly, what’s going to happen when they get across the street and find out there’s no message traffic from the President?”

  “Well, we’d better hurry, A.S., so we’re done before they get back!”

  Fortunately, they’d left the equipment on, because I had no idea how to turn it on. It was some new, ultramodern civilian stuff I’d never seen before. I found a keypad next to a small LED display. At the moment, it showed the frequency for Guard channel, plus another freak above that.

  I tapped at the keypad; they hadn’t locked it out, thank God. I typed the freak for North Marine Corps Air Base, office of the SubCincMarsCom, Colonel George Karapetian. It was no great trick remembering it; I was the radioman for Major Boyd when we were stationed on Deimos on TDS to the Navy.

  I wandered all over the band from one side to the other, looking for the carrier. Finally, I found it; it was weak and intermittent, as if the repeaters were blown and I was picking up the source itself. But I boosted the gain, and we were able to pick out the words from behind the snow.

  I engaged the standard CD encrypter, digitally adding the signal to a CD of random noise from background radiation; they had an identical disk at North—if we were lucky, they’d figure out that the signal was scrambled and pull their encryption online.

  “Corporal Fly Taggart, commanding officer of Fox Company, Fourth Battalion, 223rd Light Drop Division, to SubCincMarsCom, come in, Colonel Karapetian.”

  Fly broadcast the message over and over, and I started to get nervous . . . both about the time and about the lack of response. Finally, a voice sputtered into life on the line. I recognized it; it was the colonel himself, not some enlisted puke.

  “Fox, connect me to Lieutenant Weems. Fourth Battalion, over.”

  “Fourth Battalion, Weems is dead; I am in command of Fox.”

  “Who is this?”

  “Corporal Taggart, sir.”

  “Corporal, give me a full report. Over.”

  Fly gave the colonel the verbal cook’s tour of everything that had happened to us in the past few weeks. When he finished, Karapetian was quiet for so long, I thought we’d lost the carrier.

  “I understand,” he said. “Now where the hell are you? Can you get back here, like yesterday?”

  “We’re at a resistance center in Salt Lake City,” Fly said. Suddenly, I got an uneasy feeling in my stomach; should we be spilling this much intel, even to the sub-Commander in Chief of the Mars Command?

  “Use rail transport,” ordered Karapetian. “Get your butts to Pendleton as fast as you can. We’ve got to talk face-to-face about this. Got that, Corporal?”

  “Aye, sir.”

  “Good. Then I’ll expect you tomorrow at—”

  With a loud thunk, the entire system died. All the dials, all the diodes, all the cool flashing lights.

  I looked over my shoulder; Albert towered over us, his face set in a mask of concrete. On one side stood our friendly guard from the entrance; on the other was the radio tech Fly had bullied, holding a remote-control power switch in his hands.

  I gasped; framed in the light, Albert looked like he had a halo.

  “I’m afraid you’re going to have to come with me,” Albert said.

  “Where?” I asked.

  “To the President. Only he can decide cases of high treason against the Army of God and Man United.”

  10

  With a heavy heart, I brought our two miscreant warriors to the President of the Twelve. I tried to keep angry thoughts from my mind; judgment and vengeance are the Lord’s prerogatives, not ours.

  Besides, I genuinely liked Fly Taggart, and I even believed his wild story about fighting the alien demons on Phobos and Deimos. And Miss Sanders, now . . .

  No, that’s wrong. I had no right; I didn’t even know her.

  I brought them into the chamber of justice to find the President and his mast already seated. He wore a suit; I sighed a hearty prayer of thanksgiving to the Lord that this was to be mast, not a court-martial; the President would have worn his robe for the latter.

  “Sit,” I commanded, putting a heavy hand on each prisoner’s shoulder and pushing him into the waiting chair.

  “Who speaks for the outsiders?” asked Bishop Wilston. He was a stickler for legalities.

  “They can speak for themselves,” said the President, “this isn’t a formal trial. I just want to find out what the devil happened—and to find out whether the devil himself was responsible.”

  “Or just the imp of stupidity,” I said. The President glared at
me; but I learned my manners under his predecessor, who would listen to even the youngest child with a mind to speak. This new fellow was from out of state and a personal mentor of our old President, may he rest in peace.

  “You’re rude,” said the President, “but you may be right. Corporal Taggart, as the responsible NCO, what on Earth possessed you to start broadcasting all over the globe from our radio room?”

  “Well, um . . .” Fly looked distinctly pink. “It seemed like a good idea at the time.”

  “Why are you so flipping surprised?” demanded the woman. “Why shouldn’t we report to our C.O.? We just got back from a mission. What the hell did you expect?”

  For a moment I thought the President was going to burst a blood vessel. We all turned in annoyance to Fly; couldn’t he control his woman? His team member?

  He was not a stupid man; he spoke up quickly: “Arlene is tired, upset—you know how women get.” Now it was Arlene’s turn to turn angry-red, opening and closing her mouth like she wanted to say something devastating but couldn’t even find the words. Wisely, she pressed her lips together and said nothing.

  A soft answer turneth away wrath, says the proverb; or again, Even a fool, when he holdeth his peace, is counted wise. The President was mollified and chose to take the question seriously.

  “Miss Sanders—”

  “Private Sanders, if you will,” she said, voice betraying the seething emotion within. Her red hair flamed like a burning house, setting off her green eyes.

  “Private Sanders, the ‘why’ is because the entire military structure of the erstwhile United States, from top to bottom, has been co-opted by the demons. Our former government has capitulated . . . they surrendered, to put it bluntly, two weeks ago.”

  “Oh, really! Maybe everybody but the Marines. Semper fidel—”

  “Even the Marines,” said the President softly. The sudden change from loud and angry to quiet and cold lent him an air of authority, as was befitting. I must admit, the man had the mark of divine awe; the Lord definitely moved through the President, when he let Him.

  “Do you two know what you’ve done?” asked the bishop. “Even the broadcast itself might have been traced. But to actually tell the forces of darkness where we are . . . ! That passes understanding.”

  “Look, maybe I shouldn’t have done that. But they must already have known this was a pocket of resistance.”

  Don’t dig yourself a deeper grave, Fly, I thought urgently. Outwardly, I kept my face impassive; no need to draw the judges’ attention to the attempt at blame-shifting.

  “But Corporal,” said the President, voice at its quietest and most dangerous, “they did not know that you were here. If you still maintain that you and your—your comrade aborted the division invading through Deimos, don’t you think you might have incurred a special wrath, a wrath now transferred to us? Perhaps they consider you Demonic Enemy Number One. Did that cross your mind?”

  Fly remained silent. Good man. So did Arlene.

  I stared at the woman; she was not at all bad-looking, not what I would expect of a female Marine. I had never served with one in my three years of active duty service; she looked tough, but not like an American Gladiator.

  In fact, the swell of her breasts and hips was quite womanly; she would be a sturdy woman, well able to bear many children and face the rigors of life under siege. I could almost see her standing in a doorway, babe in arms . . . or lying bare on the bed, awaiting me—

  Ow! My conscience hammered on my head. What are you DOING, you godless sinner! Here I was, in the presence of the representative of Jesus Christ Himself, and I was mentally undressing this woman!

  Get thee behind me, Satan: thou art an offense to me: for thou savorest not the things that be of God, but those that be of men.

  I concentrated on verses from the Bible and the Book of Mormon, mentally reciting them so quickly I lost all track of the trial and Miss Sanders.

  When I blinked back, Fly and Arlene looked chastened, humble. They clearly repented of their foolish act and had found their way back to friendship with God. Pride and Arrogance were banished—well, for the moment.

  The President sighed heavily. “Go and be stupid no more. And prepare for an attack, for surely one arrives within an hour or two.” He nodded to the bishop, who, as General of the Armies of the Lord, had primary responsibility for readying our defenses. I already knew my station: Jerry and I manned the dike west of the city, along with two thousand other stalwarts.

  I had an idea. “Mr. President,” I called. He turned back, pausing at the door. “Sir, I’d like to suggest that Taggart and Sanders be assigned to the defense alongside me.”

  He stared at me, and I squirmed. “Any particular reason? They’ve already had their chance and botched it.”

  “That, sir, is the reason. Let them atone for their mistake. They may have cost the lives of righteous men; let them at least stand beside those men and put their own lives on the line. Let them be at peace.”

  I glanced at Fly and Miss Sanders, and was tremendously relieved to see a grateful look on their faces. I was right about them: stupid, maybe; but they had honor, and they probably felt like children whose rough play accidentally killed the pet dog. I sure would.

  The President was a hard man; but he was a just man—else the Lord would not have allowed him to serve as President of the Twelve; the Father has His ways of making His pleasure known. He shook his head, but said, “I think you’re too forgiving a man, Albert; but you know them better than I ever could. Take them, if your C.O. approves.”

  The bishop was smiling, though not in a friendly way. “He’ll approve,” he prophesied.

  Less than half an hour later we were at the line. I took care to see that both Fly and Miss Sanders were armed, so they would know we still extended our trust. It was part of the healing process. And the President’s prophecy came true, albeit a little late: in fact, it took the forces of darkness two hours to mass and attack, not one.

  Squinting into the distance, I saw first a column of dust at the ragged edge of vision. We watched for several minutes before even hearing the sound; you can see a long, long way in the Utah desert, where ten miles seems like one. The dust came from a column of Bradley Fighting Vehicles, the same type in which I had trained as a gunner before going to sniper school. Thank the Lord they hadn’t yet had time to scrounge any M-2 tanks!

  As they roared up, we surprised them: the antitank batteries opened up at two klicks. In the still air, the artillery captains had the eyes of angels; they dropped the first load of ordnance directly on the advancing line. The laser spotter-scopes helped.

  Once the troops knew they were not up against cowed, frightened refugees, they separated and advanced while evading. I took a risk, standing atop the dike and focusing through binoculars mounted on a pole. It was the BATF in the vanguard, as usual, backed up by FBI shock troops. Reporting the battle order over my encrypted radio, I saw the gold flag of the IRS and realized we would doubtless have to face flamethrowers and chemical-biological warfare shells. The bastards. Regular Army filled in the gaps and supplied most of the grunts—cannon fodder, as we called them.

  They brought a contingent of brownies and baphomets, but no molochs, praise God. Probably didn’t have any nearby. But I’d bet my last bullet there’d be molochs and shelobs aplenty before the week was out.

  There were a few of the unclean undead, but most of the soldiers, horribly enough, appeared to be living allies of the demons. I hoped to spare Fly that knowledge, that our own species would willingly cooperate in the subjugation of men to demons from another star; but maybe it was better he find out now.

  I guess he realized how wrong he was . . . but it was a horrible way to find out.

  Contact was established a quarter hour later, on the north side of Salt Lake City. Within a few minutes battle was joined in my quadrant as well.

  Fly and Arlene acquitted themselves admirably; they were no cowards! I especially enjoyed watching t
he girl in combat, too busy and scared even to worry whether my interest was righteous or sinful. She loped forward to the out perimeter and spotted for the mortars; my heart was in my throat—if they spotted her, that beautiful body would be blown to tiny pieces in seconds.

  Bombs and shells exploded left and right, but our positions were secure; except for the occasional lucky shot, the evil ones hit only stragglers. But I was very glad for my earplugs; Fly had refused a pair, but Arlene took them.

  We threw back the initial blitzkrieg; the demons simply weren’t prepared for that savage a level of resistance. They’d probably never encountered it before. Like the heroic Jews of the Warsaw Ghetto, who stood up to the Nazi butchers, without despair, we forced the bastards back and back, until at last they withdrew and formed a circle around our force, three klicks back—out of range, they thought.

  After two more hours passed without movement, Arlene and Fly took a chance and returned to me.

  They looked shaken. I wanted to put my arm around Corporal Taggart, cheer him up; how could he have known? But the gesture would not have been appreciated. He stepped across the dead bodies of righteous men to come to me; he knew what he had done, and the last soul to forgive him would be himself. He would probably carry guilt to his grave, unless he found a minister to unburden himself.

  I had the vague thought that he was a Catholic. I would never condone such a perversion of the teachings of Christ—in normal times; but in this world, even to call oneself a Christian is a courageous step. I hoped he would find a priest and confess; otherwise, he might never give himself absolution.

  “We seemed to have scored a temporary stalemate,” he said, sounding defeated.

  “We kicked ass!” argued Arlene.

  “You’re both right,” I said, ever the diplomat.

  “But how long can we hold out?” asked Fly. “A few days? A week? Two weeks? Eventually they’ll get reinforcements and overrun us.” He didn’t add and all because of me, but I could tell he thought it.

  “Eventually,” I agreed. “In about five or six years.”

  “Years? What the hell do you mean?”