Armageddon
Stuart Slade
Chapter One
Eagle Flight, Over The Eastern Pacific
“I, Satan Mekratrig, Lord of Hell, Commander of the Legions of the Damned do hereby declare my dominion over the earth and all that it contains. Crawl to me, humans, knowing the eternity of torment that awaits you.”
“Balls.” Said Lieutenant Michael Wong. The voice that had come over the radio link, booming in the cockpit of his F/A-18E, had distracted him from paying proper attention to the cockpit display of his APG-79 radar. The new AESA radar was a vast improvement over the older APG-73 but that was, as always, a slight problem all of its own. Until the pilots learned how to take full advantage of the improved data flow, they could be swamped with it. Wong was experiencing that problem now, the resolution of the new radar was phenomenal but it seemed to indicate that the wings on the targets 60 nautical miles out in front of him were flapping.
“Full of himself isn’t he? Or should it be ‘it’?” Lieutenant Anthony Squires was genuinely interested, he was renowned as being the Ronald Reagan air group’s grammar geek.
“Try a ‘that’.” Wong wasn’t really interested, the targets in front of him were behaving oddly. They were slow, 180 miles per hour at most, they had a strong radar image yet seemed to have no infra-red signature. That was an odd combination to put it mildly. The bombastic message that had interrupted his concentration was irritating, no more than that. So what were those contacts in front of him? Birds? They were too fast for that surely? The Peregrine Falcon was the fastest bird known and that could, just, hit 180 mph in a steep dive. These were doing that in level flight. So they had to be some form of aircraft. That was assuming the AESA radar wasn’t generating a completely false image of course. And who knew how the electronic systems were malfunctioning following the delivery of The Message three days ago? There was one way to find out.
“Buster, this is Eagle Flight, 200 miles out, bearing 353, we have an anomalous radar contact some 60 miles out in front of us. Please confirm.”
There was a pause for a few seconds, electrostatic discharges in the atmosphere were playing havoc with radio communications but the systems filtering programs quickly cleared the white noise from the channel. “Confirm contact Eagle Flight. Bearing 358, range from Buster is 66.6 nautical miles. Target speed 184 knots, course one-three-fiver. For your information, Crown and Scepter are tracking also. They have locks.” There was a pause, a series of crackles on the radio, then the message resumed. “If targets are hostile, you are cleared to engage.”
Wong translated the message in his head. ‘Buster’ was CVN-76 USS Ronald Reagan, ‘Crown’ was CG-70 USS Lake Erie, an AEGIS cruiser, while ‘Scepter’ was DDG-93 USS Chung-Hoon, one of the Arleigh Burke class destroyers that now dominated the fleet’s surface combatant force. Also AEGIS-equipped, that meant whatever the targets were, they were now being tracked by three of the most advanced radar systems in the U.S. Navy. The ‘lock’ part of the message was really interesting, that suggested the order to open fire was already being passed out.
That didn’t surprise Wong, human reaction to The Message had split neatly down religious lines. Those whose religion had demanded blind submission to the ‘Will of God’ had accepted it without a struggle and more or less laid down and died. They just weren’t around any more. The rest of the world’s population had followed the example set by Britain’s Prime Minister Gordon Brown. His reply to The Message had been “Sod off, Baldrick,” followed by a reassuring message to the British people that he had a cunning plan to deal with the situation. The British had enjoyed the joke, whatever it was, and collectively told Satan to perform some highly improbable obscenities on himself. They’d been the first only by a matter of minutes as most of the other countries in the world has replied with similar messages. Ever since then, The Message had been repeated at regular intervals, almost as if the concept of human defiance was so completely unexpected that the powers ‘up there’ couldn’t comprehend its existence. Well, if that was the case, the powers ‘up there’ didn’t know the human race very well.
The three days since the first reception of The Message had been something of a standoff. Humans had waited for the next development, allowing the situation to mature in military parlance, while the only response to their defiance had been the repeated proclamations. No effort to force compliance, not yet at any rate. And no overt human resistance. Wong got the feeling that was all about to change.
“All members, Eagle Flight, increase to fiver-six-zero knots, say again increase to fiver-six-zero knots. Intercept targets in front, range, five-eight nautical miles. Weapons are free, say again, weapons are free. Good hunting Eagle Flight.”
The four F/A-18Es accelerated out of cruise speed, building up to maximum subsonic. The E model had more range and fuel than the older As and Cs but fuel status was always a serious concern to Hornet drivers. Wong had listened with envy to those who had flown the now-gone Tomcats or even longer-lost Intruders. Then, he glanced down at his radar scope again. There were four targets, apparently blissfully ignorant of the Super-Hornets bearing down on them. That was neat, one each.
“Eagle Flight, we are swinging around behind them. I have radar paints on all four, no infra-red signature yet. Each Eagle aircraft, take target corresponding to your flight position, from the left. Use AIM-120 then close in for 20-mike-mike. Not sure AIM-9 will work unless we can get a heat signature off whatever is out there. We’ll get a visual ID first.”
At twelve nautical miles range, the U.S. Navy Hornets got their visual ID. The contacts were four giant creatures, jet black in color, looking like a hideous cross between a gorilla and a bird. Four limbs, two wings, flying in an unconcerned, oblivious line.
“Just what the hell are those?”
Wong wasn’t sure which pilot had breathed the comment into the radio. Didn’t matter, they all knew what to do. So did he come to that. “Buster, this is Eagle. Targets visually identified, large flying humanoids about the same size as a Super-Bug. Wingspan at least twice as great as ours, probably much larger. Engaging.”
“Eagle, this is Buster. Acknowledged. Targets designated as demons. Good luck Eagle Flight.” A few days earlier the fighter controller might have added “And may God go with you” but not after The Message and the betrayal it had represented.
Wong switched the annunciator on his AIM-120s on. They were growling gently, a sustained continuous note that indicated their homing heads were logged on to his selected target, the demon second from the left. The F/A-18s were closing fast, the range was dropping to the point where the hits would be almost instantaneous. “Eagle Flight, open fire.”
Wong’s pressure on the firing button was almost simultaneous with his order. A pair of AIM-120 missiles streaked ahead of his aircraft, curving after the demon he had picked out for his target. He’d been right, the gap was so short that the target couldn’t have evaded even if it had wanted to. It never even tried.
Demon Shingroleth was actually aware of the approaching fighters, he’d seen them when they were still 15 miles out, far beyond the range of any human eye, so he had assumed their presence was coincidental. He had other problems to worry about, a few inconsequential humans were of no significant account one ay or the other. What concerned him was the way his skin was itching, it had started a few minutes before and was getting steadily worse. Maddening. He hadn’t even worried when the four human machines had swung in behind his group and started to close the range on them. That had been when his skin itch had become really intolerable. Then, the humans had done something really strange; odd streaks of smoke coming out from under their flying machines. Surely they couldn’t be resisting the all-powerful armies of the damned?
The AIM-120s worked as advertised. They were good missiles, well designed, well-tested, and they had a target that was proving co-operative to the point of suicide. No maneuvering, no electronic warfare, no interference, if the guidance had been capable of human thought it would have been vaguely offended at being asked to solve a task so undemanding. The first missile exploded between Shingroleth’s legs, just underneath his tail. The 50 pound explosive warhead was wrapped with heavy-gauge pre-notched wire that disintegrated into an annular hail of pre-formed fragments when the missile’s proximity fuse set off the explosive charge. Some of those razor-sharp fragments slashed through Shingroleth’s tail, severing it at the root and sending it spinning off in a long arc. Others ripped into his legs and genitals, tearing open the great arteries, sending his fire-and acid blood spraying over his body, and mangling his reproductive organs beyond recognition. Shingroleth’s scream of demented agony was heard even in the sound insulated-cockpits of the F/A-18s.