“Who is this Uriel?” Obama sounded interested if a little incredulous.
“Well, another DIMO(N) operative, one Norman Baines who’s about the world’s leading expert on mythology, identified Uriel for us and gave a pretty good briefing on this particularly macabre gentleman. The name literally means “Fire of Yahweh” and he’s supposed to be one of the topmost ranks of Archangels. He is supposed to have been the Angel who guarded the gates of Eden with a fiery sword and I suppose the best description of him is that he’s Yahweh’s hit-man.”
“The Angel of Death then?”
“Not really Mister President, no. Azrael is supposed to be the angel of death in the Grim Reaper sense. Uriel is more along the vengeance and punishment line. Like a loan-shark’s enforcer. There’s one really nasty thing about Uriel, he doesn’t just kill his victims, he snuffs out their souls as well.”
“That sounds a bit far-fetched.”
“Not really Mister President. We have some supporting evidence for it; there have been eight of these attacks in South America, five in Brazil, two in Uruguay, one in Bolivia. They’ve killed around five thousand people. Not one of those victims has turned up in Hell. There is another oddity. In the Sanchez letter – and in the pictures he included – Uriel killed every living thing in the towns he attacked, even down to the birds, insects and earthworms. He left the ground sterile and clean. Yet in the attacks in South America, the animals, insects and so on all died, but anywhere between twenty and forty percent of the humans survived. The survivors all speak of the same events, things seeming to slow down, everything suddenly going quiet and most of the people dying. Here’s an interesting thing, all of the survivors were in the top earning brackets, the richer the inhabitants of a town were, the fewer died. Even more interesting, servants in the rich houses lived, but people living elsewhere did not, even if they were nominally wealthier than the servants. We’re still puzzling over that.”
“And so the war goes on.” Obama spoke reflectively. The meeting had been an eye-opener for him. “We’re under attack and we don’t know how its being done or whether we can hit back.”
“We’ll find a way, Mister President-Elect. Somehow, we’ll find a way.”
“In the meantime,” President Bush had a boyish grin on his face. “we’ve arranged a little message for Yahweh.”
National Cathedral, Washington D.C. Christmas Day, 2008
“We thought that this is the one day Yahweh might be keeping an eye on us, so we are going to send him a message.” Bush and Obama were standing side by side in the front row at the National Cathedral, waiting for the ceremony to begin. They were startled by a patter of applause at the back of the nave but it was just a small group of soldiers in the red-gray Hell-BDUs entering. A few of the civilians quickly stood and offered them their seats. Then, as the atomic clock sent out its noon alert, all across America, in every church that was still standing, the same ceremony took place.
A red flag unfurled from the spire, rippling in the wind as it burst open. Simultaneously, a group of trumpeters, in the National Cathedral taken from the Marine Corps band, elsewhere from marching bands, schools, even sometimes hastily-practiced amateur musicians, started a fanfare. It was always the same tune, an eerie, wailing, discordant melody that echoed and re-echoed across the land.
As the last notes faded away, Obama turned to Bush. “I don’t understand.”
“You’ll never make a Texan, Barry. That’s the Deguello. Santa Ana hoisted the red flag and played the Deguello just before the assault on the Alamo. Together, the Red Flag and the Deguello mean that we will give no quarter, we will have no mercy, we will take no prisoners, we will not stop attacking until we have won victory. And we played it on Yahweh’s day. I hope he gets the message and chokes on it.”
Chapter Five
Sky over Khabarovsk, Russia. January 2009
Gliding in the skies high over the Earth, Colopatiron Lan Michael, strained all his senses to seek out threats from the humans who crowded the ground below him. The effort interfered with his soavoring of the tastes of human air, the smells, so faint but still unmistakable, of human life. Savoring the senses was one of the great rewards of entering human space but it could not be allowed to interfere with the task before him. This mission was crucial but extremely dangerous for it did not just take the angel into human space but into one of the most heavily defended areas on earth. Colopatiron could feel just how heavy the defenses were here, his skin was itching madly from the strange instruments that humans used and he knew his presence had to be known to the humans. They would be doing something about that very soon and all of Heaven had seen the destruction humans and their weapons had wrought on The Eternal Enemy and his fallen minions. Colopatiron’s mission was a response to that stunning display. The consummation of the wrath of The One Above All with the people of earth who had defied His will and continued to live a life of sin in disobedience to the Divine Message and yet did not repent was at hand.
For slung under him was the First Bowl of Wrath and already its contents were trickling out over the ground below. Soon, it would become a loathsome and malignant sore on the people who had the mark of the beast. Colopatiron was but one of twenty angels who were pouring the First Bowl of Wrath. Hand-picked by Michael-Lan himself they were striking the first substantial blow against the mutinous and recalcitrant humans who had become so saturated with pride they had even dared question the supremacy of the One Above All. And yet, his appointment for this mission was a puzzlement to Colopatiron for he had always believed that he was not amongst those Michael-Lan considered his most trusted. Still, who was he, a lowly angel to question the leader of his Choir, the one whose name he bore as part of his own?
The Bowl was nearly empty now but Colopatiron sensed it was already too late. He concentrated his power upon his hearing and was rewarded by the sound of human aircraft, approaching fast. Now, angel or not, owl of Wrath or not, he would have to fight to survive.
Thirty kilometers to the north, in his Su-35BM, Captain Yahiya Saifullovich Fatkullin was flying with his radar switched off but his infra-red tracking system was showing the angel perfectly. Far off to the south, another pair of Su-35s were illuminating the angel with their radars, decoying it away from Fatkullin’s formation and diverting their victim’s attention away from the vector of the true strike. Maskirovka, always maskirovka, the lesson hammered into every Russian officer from their first day of training. Deceive, misdirect, decoy. Never do the obvious unless the obvious is so unlikely nobody would take it seriously. It was a long, long way from Fatkullin’s flight school in the Kurgan region of the Urals, just as his Su-35BM was a long, long way from the MiG-17UTI he had flown in the earliest days of his pilot training.
He glanced down, checking his speed. He was moving in, just under Mach one to minimize the warning given to his prey and to give his missiles the greatest possible kinetic boost. His infra-red tracking system was already feeding target information to his R-77M missiles, he would be firing them using that data and the missiles would only switch on their radar guidance systems when their computers told them the target was only in the no-escape zone. It was a deadly tactic that the Indians had used well against the Americans and given their arrogant Eagle-drivers a lesson to think upon. With a little luck, the angel would never know what it was that had killed it. Another lesson from his flight school, a grim one. A successful fighter pilot was an assassin, not a warrior. Another check on his display, the angel was marked using the data from the infra-red tracking systems, the other pair of Su-35s from their transponders. Even as Fatkullin watched, the southernmost pair of Su-35s turned north and started to move in. Time for the attack.