Task Force

by Brian Falkner

  There was a clear pulse in Miscreant’s neck, but the Bzadian wouldn’t be able to see that.

  “They were all alive when we brought them on board,” the Bzadian said.

  “Alive? I don’t think so. Not with a bullet in the back of his head!” Chisnall said.

  “What?”

  “See for yourself,” Chisnall said, and the Bzadian came closer. “I want to speak to your captain immediately. And get Coastal Defense on the radio. Tell them …”

  Chisnall never finished the sentence. Bending down had been an excuse to shift his weight onto the balls of his feet. He exploded upward, hitting the Bzadian’s midriff, just below the coil-gun he was carrying. The gun became a club, smashing into the Bzadian’s face. Anyone else would have gone down at that point, but this one seemed to be made of rock. He grunted and staggered back a few steps. He was smart too. He didn’t try to bring the coil-gun to bear; it would never have worked in that confined space. He dropped the gun and swung an elbow at Chisnall’s head. It exploded into his temple, rocking him sideways.

  Chisnall didn’t want to get into a boxing match with someone who seemed to have been carved out of granite. Instead, he put the Bzadian on the deck with a quick judo move, slipping his leg behind the Bzadian’s legs and pushing him backward. The Bzadian grunted as his head hit the deck but shook it off and punched upward with both fists. Chisnall flicked his head sideways and the blow glanced his cheek. Had the blow connected solidly, the fight would have been over there and then.

  Chisnall kneed him in the stomach, forcing the air from his lungs, but the Bzadian’s hands were around his neck, pulling him down. With a sudden shift of his body weight, the Bzadian was on top of him and the metal cable from his coil-gun was around his neck. Chisnall could feel the metal dig into his skin. Black spots danced in front of his eyes. He tried to bring his legs up, to twist himself out of the other’s grasp, but he was too firmly pinned.

  The muscles of his chest started to spasm as they heaved to find air that would not come.

  Price didn’t need sonar to hear the churning sounds of the propellers through the water.

  “Here it comes!” the Tsar yelled.

  “What do we do?” Wilton asked. “What do we do?”

  “Dive deep,” Price said. “Get as far as you can from the bomb.”

  “No! Surface!” Barnard yelled.

  “Which?” Monster asked.

  “Surface,” Barnard said. “After the depth charge hits the water, there will be a delay while it sinks. Try and get your head and as much of your body as possible out of the water before it explodes.”

  “Why?” Price asked.

  “The air-water barrier,” Barnard said. “The surface of the water acts like a mirror for sound. Ninety percent of the sonic boom will be reflected back down.”

  “Do it,” Price said. “Tsar, let us know the second the bomb hits the water.”

  “You’ll know it!” the Tsar said.

  “As soon as you hear it, unplug your sonar,” Barnard said. “If you want to have any ears left afterward.”

  A loud thud penetrated through the roaring in Chisnall’s ears, and the pressure on his neck released. Vision returned and with it an image that Chisnall could not at first comprehend. A wet-suited figure was standing over him, a metal pipe in his hand.

  “What the hell was that Puke made of?” the figure asked, its face gradually coming into focus. It was the Demon leader, Varmint. “I had to hit him twice before he went down,” he said.

  The Bzadian was lying unconscious beside Chisnall, blood flowing freely from a head wound.

  Varmint extended a hand, helping Chisnall to his feet.

  “Thanks,” Chisnall said. His lips seemed to be made of clay.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” Varmint asked. “I had everything under control.”

  “Let’s get your guys out of here,” Chisnall said. They could argue about it later.

  Varmint had already found a key-tube on the Bzadian and was uncuffing his team. One was trying to sit up now, consciousness gradually returning.

  Chisnall grabbed a couple of the neckcuffs, thinking that they might come in handy. He moved to the doorway and checked outside.

  “Where are you going?” Varmint asked.

  “You look after your guys,” Chisnall said. “I’m going to try and save mine. See if you can launch the Zodiac without anyone noticing. I’ll stay on your comm channel. When I give you the word, make some noise.”

  “What’s your plan?” Varmint asked.

  “I’ll tell you when I figure that out,” Chisnall said.

  Most of the Demons were on their feet now, two of them helping Yobbo, who must have taken the worst of the blast. He was still unconscious but breathing steadily.

  “Hey, Chisnall,” Varmint said as Chisnall headed for the doorway.

  He glanced back. “Yeah?”

  Varmint gave him a short nod. “Thanks. For coming to help.”

  “You’d have done the same,” Chisnall said.

  “Not a fat rat’s chance in hell,” Varmint said, grinning.

  Chisnall smiled and slipped out through the doorway, up a short flight of steps, and onto a starboard passageway that extended the length of the ship. Low deck lights cast oval pools of amber across the deck.

  He padded forward. Shouting came from the bow of the ship, and a group of Bzadians was clustered around the rails. The sea was incandescent, lit by a pair of underwater searchlights. As he neared the bow, he could see the squat shape of the depth-charge launcher, a simple catapult-like device with a cradle for the depth charge, which was about the size and shape of a two-liter soda bottle, with stubby fins at the bottom. He had to get to it before it fired, or it would be the Angels floating facedown on the surface of the ocean with blood trickling from their ears and noses. But to get to it, he would have to get past at least seven or eight Bzadians, who were leaning over the railings, peering down at the gleaming water.

  Even as he was trying to formulate a plan, the long arm of the launcher flicked skyward in a whiplash-like motion, catapulting the depth charge into the air. It disappeared from sight in the black of the sky, and he instinctively started counting as he waited for the explosion.

  The waiting was the hardest part, Price thought. In a few seconds she would either be alive or dead, and there was little she could do to affect things either way. She looked around for Monster but couldn’t see him.

  “Splashdown!” the Tsar yelled, and Price twisted the throttle of her barracuda. The craft began to rise.

  “Come on!” she yelled, as if that would make it go faster.

  The water around her was alive with the powerful searchlights from the rapidly closing ship.

  Her barracuda broke surface, like a fish jumping at an insect, just as there was a roar below and the shock wave hit. Her legs felt like they had been sledgehammered, all the way up to her waist, but her vital chest and stomach were clear of the water.

  Barnard had been right, Price realized. Safety lay above the surface of the water. Her legs felt bruised but otherwise okay.

  Not so for her barracuda. The ultrasonic sound wave had smashed into it, crumpling the light tailfin structure and ripping off the bow. It began to sink, grabbing at her leg and threatening to take her down with it until she kicked herself clear. Her air tube snagged on something and ripped the mask from her face, spiraling with the broken barracuda to the depths of the ocean. With the mask went her night vision, although that was hardly necessary. The lights of the ship were turning night into day.

  She dived back below the surface as coil-gun projectiles zizzed through the water around her. The lights of the ship grew in size as it bore down on her position, and she swam frantically, desperate to get out of its path before it ran her down.

  The ship passed her by with a growl of propellers, the kick of the bow wave shunting her aside. She was weaponless. Helpless. Trapped in the open ocean.

  The ship heeled over,
circling around for another run.

  The Bzadian crew were reloading the launcher, slotting another of the stubby ultrasonic bombs onto the cradle. The deck-mounted searchlights swiveled around to the left as the deck tilted beneath Chisnall’s feet, the ship turning sharply.

  “Varmint, go loud,” he whispered.

  Somewhere behind him and off to port, the Zodiac’s engine started with a roar.

  The crew shouted and pointed as they gathered on the port side of the vessel.

  Chisnall raced forward, just behind the enemy soldiers, but unnoticed.

  He reached for the depth charge, then stopped himself. What could he do with it? The Bzadians would simply replace it with another.

  His hand brushed against something hanging from his utility belt. The neckcuffs!

  He grabbed one and clipped it around the base of the depth charge, just above the fins, securing it to the cradle. Backing away, he ducked below an equipment locker as one of the Bzadians turned and glanced at the launcher.

  The ship was still slanted as it circled around on a tight loop. He had hoped they would chase the Zodiac, but instead they were turning around for another run at the Angels.

  Several of the Bzadians crossed just in front of him.

  He slid back and whispered into his comm, “Price, this is Chisnall. How copy?”

  “Clear copy, LT. We’re in the water. Most of the barracudas are out of action.” Price’s voice sounded calm.

  “Okay, on my mark, dive down, as deep as you can,” Chisnall said.

  “Negative,” Price said. “We have to try and get up out of the water before the next depth charge.”

  “Price, listen,” Chisnall said. “There’s no time to explain. On my mark, get under the water, stay there as long as you can. It’s your only chance!”

  “Solid copy,” Price said.

  The ship straightened as it completed its turn and began its second run. The arm of the launcher drew down.

  There was a shout behind Chisnall. He spun to see two Bzadians running up the passageway. One was firing at him, but the shots were going wild on the unsteady deck of the ship.

  There was a whiplash sound from the launcher and the catapult arm snapped upward.

  Three seconds.

  The Bzadians were either scanning the water for the splash or distracted by the shooting. None of them seemed to have realized that the depth charge was hanging from the cradle of the launcher, tethered by the neckcuff around its tailfins.

  He leaped up from his hiding place and sprinted. A bullet tugged at his arm and another sparked off the side rail beside him.

  “Now!” Chisnall shouted. “Get under now!”

  Two.

  The Bzadians at the bow were turning now, faces wide with shock as he burst through the middle of them, hurdling the guardrail and swan-diving toward the water.

  One.

  The water rushed up to meet him as the world turned to thunder.

  5. ST. HELENA

  [2305 hours local time]

  [Bzadian Patrol Boat: QW-67, Moreton Bay, New Bzadia]

  “QW-67, THIS IS COASTAL DEFENSE COMMAND. WHAT IS your status?”

  The sound of the radio echoed down the stairs from the bridge above. The speaker was female, and although speaking in standard Bzadian, she had a slight accent that Chisnall couldn’t identify.

  “QW-67, this is Coastal Defense Command. Can you hear me?”

  Chisnall ignored it and concentrated on what he was doing, which was searching the pockets of the ship’s captain.

  They were in the main cabin, below the bridge. The ultrasonic blast of the depth charge had smashed every window on the ship and damaged a lot of the electronic equipment. Stalled in the water and drifting with the currents, it was now a ghost ship, silent, dark, nobody conscious on board.

  The Demons had hunted around in the black waters on the Zodiac and hauled each of the Angels on board before returning to the ship. Now they were working their way through the cabins, neckcuffing crew members until they ran out of cuffs and tying the rest with rope.

  Monster, who said he knew a little bit about boats, was up on the bridge, trying to work out the ship’s controls and restart the engines before the ship wandered too far.

  Wilton and one of the Demons had taken the Zodiac to try to locate the equipment pods.

  “We’re wasting our time,” Price said. She finished tying up one of the Bzadian crew members and rolled him over in a corner with the others. “It’s after eleven. We’ve missed the shift change.”

  “Thanks to these amateurs,” the Tsar said with a contemptuous glance at one of the Demons.

  Varmint was giving some medical treatment to one of his team. He looked up. “You’re real tough, aren’t you, pretty boy? You want to come over here and say that?”

  “If it wasn’t for you screaming out your location, the ship would never have found us,” the Tsar said.

  “That’s enough, Tsar,” Chisnall said.

  Varmint walked over and stood nose to nose with the Tsar, who didn’t flinch. “Our sonar unit malfunctioned. Started active pinging all by its ownself. You got a problem with how we handled it, you talk to me.”

  “ ‘All by its ownself,’ ” the Tsar repeated.

  “Yeah, that’s right, half-wit,” Miscreant said, going to stand by his leader. “All by its ownself.”

  Price moved up alongside the Tsar. “Maybe you should have checked it before the mission,” she said.

  She looked wiry and mean. Of the two of them, she was the far more dangerous, Chisnall thought, and wondered if Varmint realized that.

  “Maybe we did, but someone tampered with it,” Varmint said.

  Chisnall froze. His breath caught in his throat.

  Was that possible? Could there be another traitor among the human forces? On the last mission, a traitor had nearly cost him his life.

  He had taken no chances on this trip. He had personally checked all the Angel Team’s barracudas, then supervised their stowing into the equipment lockers on the submarine.

  But he hadn’t thought to inspect the Demons’ equipment.

  Barnard was checking knots on a group of Bzadians at the back of the room. Chisnall caught a curious exchange of glances between her and Varmint.

  “It couldn’t have been tampered with,” Chisnall said. “The entire navy base was declared a top-security area prior to the mission. And the wharves were sealed off.”

  “Except for the navy crews,” Varmint said. “And your guys.”

  The words hung in the air, an unspoken accusation.

  “And yours,” Price said.

  Varmint laughed, a short bark. “My guys, I trust. They’ve been with me a long time. How well do you know your team, Chisnall?”

  Chisnall said nothing. He had to speak; he knew that. His team would be expecting him to back them up. But how well did he know his team? Monster, Price, and Wilton, yes. After Uluru there was no doubt. But Barnard and the Tsar were new. Did he really trust them?

  “Maybe your sonar was faulty,” the Tsar said into Chisnall’s silence. “Did you think about that before you started hurling accusations?”

  “Do me a favor and don’t try to think,” Varmint said. “Just concentrate on looking pretty.”

  “Idiot,” Miscreant said.

  “None of us sabotaged your equipment,” Price said. “And you wouldn’t be here now if we hadn’t come to your rescue.”

  Yobbo rose and stood next to the other Demons. Hooligan joined them. Four of them faced down the two Angels. Barnard stayed where she was and Chisnall found himself still unable to move. The terrifying thought of another traitor, possibly in his own team, had made his blood freeze.

  “You rescued us? I don’t think so, little girl,” Yobbo said. “Our skipper had everything under control, until your LT blundered in and nearly got himself killed.”

  “He saved your lives, little boy,” Price said.

  “That lily-livered wimp bag couldn’t even
save himself,” Miscreant said with a meaningful glance at Chisnall, who was still crouched over the unconscious body of the ship’s captain.

  “Wimp bag?” Price said, her eyes gleaming, her fists clenching and unclenching.

  A sharp breath of wind lashed the ship with a high-pitched whine and the floor lurched beneath them. From the bridge came the sound of smashing glass as a broken pane fell out of its frame. One of the Bzadians groaned and stirred.

  There was a gentle cough from the staircase that led up to the bridge, and Monster was there, backlit by the light from the top of the stairs.

  “Monster was with Chisnall at Uluru,” he said. “If he is wimp bag, then Monster is a big girl’s handbag.” He grinned. “Is Monster a big girl’s handbag?”

  “Uh-oh, it’s smiling,” Chisnall said, finally finding his voice. He stood up. “I hate it when it smiles like that. You can never tell if it wants to hug you or if it’s about to tear you limb from limb.”

  The bulky shape advanced down the stairs to stand right behind Price.

  “Monster, try to leave some of them alive,” Chisnall said. Monster grinned again and there was something primal about the way he bared his teeth, like a wild dog preparing to attack.

  Varmint held Monster’s gaze for a moment, then snorted and turned away. “We’re out of here as soon as the Zodiac gets back,” he said.

  The others followed him out of the rear door.

  Price spun around to face Monster. She pushed him in the chest, thrusting him backward. “What was that all about?”

  “Four on two. Was not fair fight.”

  “Oh, sure. Like I can’t stick up for myself,” Price said. “Now they think I’m weak.”

  “He was only trying to help,” the Tsar said.

  “Did I look like I needed his help?” Price said with a withering glare at the Hungarian. “Did I ask for his help?”