They were doubtless soaked in nerve gas and there was no way anybody here was going to take chances. To either side of the vehicles, high-pressure hoses were already pumping out thick streams of alkaline slurry to coat the BMPs in their white paste. Then, a truck backed up, a jet engine on its back. The exhaust was played over the outside of the armored carriers, swiftly raising the temperatures to almost-intolerable levels. Almost, but not quite and the temperature was needed to hydrolyse the residue of nerve gas on the BMPs. Eventually, the jet engines and the sprays had done their work. Detector waved over the carriers remained silent and Pas’kov’s little command was ordered to one side.
Yet, the work wasn’t done. They opened the hatches on the BMPs and the crews scrambled out, only to be sprayed with alkaline slurry and brushed down with brooms. Once again, the detectors remained silent and, at last, Pas’kov and his men could remove their chemical warfare suits.
“Well done Bratischka.” A Captain was standing to one side, his own suit still on. “You have fought as heroes today. We will repair your vehicles and send you back soon but until then you can rest. We have vodka for you, and fresh food.” Behind them, a group of men were being lead away, gently but firmly. They looked healthy but they moved with the shaking, trembling slowness of very old men. The Captain looked at them sadly. “They were not so lucky. Their radio was down and they did not get the word about the gas. Harpies had breached the seals on their vehicles and they were contaminated, They used their antidotes but….” He shook his head.
Pas’kov knew what he meant. The atropine and pralidoxime injector had saved their lives but now they were old men in their twenties and would never be anything more. The gas had slaughtered the harpies in a way no other weapon could but it had costs all of its own.
Assembly Area, Southern Flank, Phlegethon River Front Major Evgenii Yakovlevich Galkin looked at the boxy vehicle next to his tank. One with red mottling applied over its dark gray paint, just as his was mottled with red over its moss-green. The tank looked huge beside his sleek, curved T-90 but there was more to that to fill Galkin with unease. The tank was German.
“Tovarish major” The voice calling from below was in atrocious Russian, the accent making the simple words almost unintelligible. Still, Galkin understood and dropped off the turret of his tank to where the German was waiting.
“Soon we will fight together. I just wanted to wish you good hunting.” The words were a lot better this time, Galkin guessed that the German had carefully rehearsed the phrase in an attempt to be friendly. Time to respond. Galkin’s German was better that the German’s Russian.
“May you have a good bag and a safe hunt.”
The German beamed in response, then caught the Russian looking at the Leopard. “Have you seen a Leopard II before?”
“Only at our tank museum in Kubinka. This is the first one I have seen on service.” The German officer’s eyebrows twitched, there wasn’t supposed to be a Leopard II at Kubinka. How had the Russians got hold of one? “Is this the first Russian tank you have seen?”
“For me yes. My father, he saw many of course.”
“In the Great Patriotic War?”
“He fought at Prokhorovka. With the Panzers, Heer, not SS.”
Galkin nodded. Odd coincidence. “My father also fought at Prokohorovka. And later.”
There was a long silence, neither man quite certain what to say next. Eventually Galkin spoke carefully. “Our fathers caused great destruction, between them, at Prokhorovka. Now we can join together and inflict the same those who threaten us both.”
The German nodded. “We can. As soon as our commanders let us off the leash.”
Chapter Sixty Five
Winder Street, Detroit, Michigan
“Go ahead and blow it Taguba.” Lieutenant Preston didn't need binoculars this time; the old factory was right in front of him. The weathered brick building appeared to have been a food processing plant, before being boarded up and abandoned. Now it would provide much-needed material for the bulldozers.
The demolition was on a smaller scale than the intersection they'd destroyed earlier, but at this range it was just as loud. The building didn't collapse completely, but it was good enough for the dozers to get to work without risk of being crushed. Right now this was a relatively safe area, the lava seemed to be flowing down towards the river and the inrushing wind made Detroit's wide highways function as acceptable fire breaks. That situation could change at any moment though, and securing a safe perimeter was vital. The improvised levees and wide areas of cleared rubble behind them were the only way to do that.
“Good job.” Actually it was pretty sloppy, Preston thought, but right now morale was a much higher priority than perfecting combat demolitions technique. “Move on to the next block.”
“Thank you sir, will do, Taguba out.” The Sergeant's voice was muffled by the filter mask but still clearly enthusiastic. Probably adrenaline. Preston hoped he didn't use it all up too quickly, this was going to be a very long shift.
“Sir, looks like those Guardians are back.” Private Russell was pointing to the south and sure enough a pair of boxy, angular shapes were emerging from the gloom. The first one didn't slow, heading straight past them towards the field hospital still being set up at the outer perimeter. The trailing armored car rolled to a halt; much of the paintwork was burned black, the hull bore dents and gouges and smoking debris still clung to parts of the body. The side hatch swung open to reveal a familiar face.
“Lieutenant, thought yah should know… the Lafayette's gone up completely now, we won't be pulling any more people out of there.” Preston nodded grimly. Neighborhoods full of trees were a death-trap in a fire this big. The man continued; “The fire's moving west along the bank, it looked to me like the FD are gonna try and hold it at Chene Street…”
He was interrupted by a sudden drawn-out roar, distinct over the omnipresent deep rumble and thuds of the lesser collapses.
“Hell, that was probably the Ren-Cen going. One of the towers at least. The lava must've hit the river by now.”
“Thank you…” Preston struggled to remember the man's name. “…Mr O'Reilly. We'll get down to Chene and see if we can help as soon as we're done here.”
“Right. We'd better drop this lot off and get back in there. Todd, let's go.” The hatch slammed shut and the M- 1117 moved off.
Looking back to the destroyed plant, Lieutenant Preston was glad to see one of the dozers already plowing through the far corner, pushing rubble towards the slowly growing levee.
Belial’s Stronghold, Tartaruan Range, Northern Region of Hell
“It's a simple question, Baroness, was it sabotage or incompetence? When our Master returns in triumph from Satan’s court, he will want an answer.” The emphasis Euryale put on the naga's rank dripped contempt. The gorgon stared down at the prostrate Yulupki, her pose imperious despite the nasty burns and tears that marked her bronze flesh. As soon as Belial had left for Satan’s court, mounted on the fastest wyvern in the stables, Euryale had dropped the ‘critically injured’ pose and started to get her arrangements in order. “Of course it amounts to the same thing, since you personally assured the our Master that sabotage was impossible and any attempt would be suicide for the naga that tried it.”
Baroness Yulupki was a much less imposing sight, sprawled on an unkempt couch and still writhing with pain from the injuries she had received in the disastrous ritual. “That would have been true, if the witchesss the other nobles sent been worthy of the name!” she snapped back. “This group might as well have been hatchlingsss, it was obvious that they had never worked as a large chorusss before.” She glared at the memory of seeing yet another limp snakelike form being dragged over the crater rim by the winged silhouette of one of Euryale's handmaidens. The humiliation tasted bitter to the naga leader. “Of course if I'd had a reassonable amount of time to train them…”
“So, what are you going to tell Belial? That his plan was unrealistic? Or that you could not make a gang of hatchlings obey you?”
