Task Force

by Brian Falkner

  “Five mikes! Angel One, we need more time. Is there anything you can do?”

  “We’ll try, sir,” Chisnall said, without any idea of what his team could do against the power and size of the forces arrayed below.

  Security forces were scrambling to protect the perimeter of the air base. Prepared defensive positions and gun towers were coming to life as Bzadian soldiers, some still pulling on their uniforms, hurried into place.

  A low growl came from the engines of the Type Ones in the first row. The engines auto-started to warm up before takeoff.

  “Angel One to Task Force Actual, we have prestart initiation on Type Ones,” Chisnall said.

  “Solid copy, Angel One.” It was the comm officer’s voice that came back to him.

  “We have to get down there and do something,” Price said. “Or this operation is over right now.”

  “Do what?” Chisnall asked. “We’d never even breach the perimeter.”

  “Even if we could take out the defenses and get past the security fence, we’d be taking on jets with puffer rounds,” Wilton said.

  “If we don’t do something, you can wave the operation bye-bye,” the Tsar said.

  “What are you suggesting? The Charge of the Light Brigade?” Chisnall said. “It’s suicide.”

  “It’s suicide either way,” the Tsar said. “At least we go out fighting!”

  “Are the guns emplaced yet?” Barnard asked.

  “The what?” Price asked.

  “The artillery. The light-guns. Are they emplaced yet?”

  Chisnall caught her drift. “Task Force Actual, this is Angel One.”

  “Not now, Angel One, we’re busy.”

  “Urgent break-in, Task Force Actual, highest priority.”

  “Go ahead, Angel One.”

  “Are the light-guns emplaced yet?”

  There was a brief pause while she checked. She came back quickly. “Emplaced and finishing calibration, but the FFC is still here.”

  The FFC was the forward fire control, without which the artillery was pretty much shooting blind. Usually a forward observation post would feed information back to the artillery battery about where the rounds were falling, enabling them to adjust fire.

  “Task Force Actual, suggest begin bombardment immediately,” Chisnall said. “We will provide forward fire control.”

  There was a brief silence on the radio while discussion took place at the other end; then Fairbrother again picked up the microphone. “They’ll start firing within a few seconds. You call it in. Make ’em count, Angel One. You’re all we’ve got.”

  “Take out the center of the cross,” Barnard said, pointing to where the two runways crossed each other. “The Pukes use multiple runways for fast takeoffs. But if we can take out the cross, it’ll knock both runways out at once.”

  A roll of thunder came from behind them. The first artillery shells were already screaming over their heads.

  Chisnall switched to the fire support channel.

  “Artillery Support, this is Angel One.”

  “Solid copy, Angel One, firing for range and angle, will adjust on your say. You call the shots.”

  The screaming sound turned into a whistling roar, and the high-explosive rounds landed in a tight bracket on the perimeter fence line, dirt and concrete erupting into the air, destroying one of the guard towers but leaving the runways untouched.

  Chisnall hesitated, trying to estimate distances and angles. They trained for this, but it was the first time he had ever used it in the field.

  “Let me do it, LT,” Barnard said.

  “I’ve got it,” Chisnall said.

  “Call the shots, Angel One,” the artilleryman said in his ear. “Call the shots.”

  “LT, I can do this,” Barnard said.

  “I got this!”

  Another round of shells whistled overhead, landing in almost the same place as the first.

  “Fifty and a ton, LT!” Barnard yelled over of the roar of the explosions. “Tell them, LT!”

  “Adjust forward fifty meters, left a hundred meters,” Chisnall said.

  In the distance behind them, artillery thundered again, followed by the screaming shells overhead. This time the impact was almost on target, landing in an empty field next to the apex of the crossed runways.

  At the northern and western ends of the runway, the first two fast movers had lined up for takeoff. The first began to accelerate with the roar of engines and tongues of fire from the afterburners. After a few seconds, the jet on the western runway did the same. Already a third jet was lining up on the northern runway.

  “Adjust forward ten, right twenty!” Chisnall yelled. “Fire for effect. Now, now, now!”

  The Bzadian jets were streaking forward, a few seconds apart. The first was nose up, ready to lift off. Behind them, the next jets were starting to move. Chisnall had only once before seen the precision of the Bzadian air force in action, two lines of jets lifting off the deck almost as one, fitting together as closely as a zipper.

  But the next round of shells was already falling. The edge of the runway exploded, right in the middle of the cross, dirt and tarmac spewing into the air beside the wingtip of the leftmost of the fast movers. The shock wave lifted the wing of the jet, the other wing smashing into the ground, and the whole craft cartwheeled, a tangled fiery mess of steel and burning fuel spinning uncontrollably into a neat row of rotorcraft parked near the runway, scattering them like bowling pins. More explosions came as the rotorcraft burst into flames, the effect rippling out through the massed ranks as craft after craft exploded. The second jet, on the western runway, tried to lift up to avoid the craters that had suddenly appeared, but it didn’t have enough wing speed. It hopped up into the air for a few meters, but then the back wheels crashed down and clipped the edge of one of the craters, the jet breaking in two as it slammed into the runway in a ball of fire.

  The next two planes, already committed to the takeoff, added to the inferno, now completely blocking both runways. The following jets cut back their engines, with nowhere to go.

  “Right on target. Commence spread, right fifty meters,” Chisnall said.

  Thunder and lightning from behind them and the runway began to dance as a series of explosions rippled down the centerline.

  “Expect company,” the Tsar said.

  Chisnall switched his gaze to the perimeter. Gates had opened and a stream of soldiers was emerging at speed, scattering around the surrounding area in teams of four.

  “They know there’s a forward fire control somewhere,” Chisnall said.

  “They don’t know where,” the Tsar said.

  “Not yet,” Wilton muttered.

  “LT, I can take over the FFC,” Barnard said. “It’s going to get real busy here real quick.”

  “It’s okay, Barnard,” Chisnall said. “I got it covered.”

  “Keep doing what you’re doing, LT. We’ll worry about the soldiers,” Price said, her coil-gun springing into her arms. She rested on the earth mound that was the top of the ridge and took careful aim. “Nobody fires until I do. We’re not going to give away our position until we know they’ve definitely located us.”

  “Adjust fifty left, forward one hundred,” Chisnall said, focusing only on the air base below him.

  The immediate danger from the fast movers was gone. The jets couldn’t take off on a runway that was now a shredded wasteland of flaming metal, broken tarmac, and piles of dirt. He walked the artillery onto a field full of rotorcraft that was buzzing, building up blade speed for liftoff.

  “Right on target,” Chisnall said as the first shells fell in the center of the field. “Use as center, radial spread eighty meters.”

  The field filled with smoke and flames, and the air shuddered with the scream of tortured metal as rotor blades fractured and disintegrated. Rotorcraft leaped and spun out of control as the shells exploded around them, while others simply disintegrated under direct hits. Fire spread. Ammunition on the gunships
exploded throughout the field.

  Incredibly, two rotorcraft managed to lift off amid the maelstrom, rising above the airfield, front edges dipping as they raced to attack the river.

  “Azoh!” Wilton said, but even as he said it, one of the rotorcraft exploded in midair, a sudden bright star surrounded by crumpled metal and fiery streaks of burning fuel. The shock wave swept over the Angels, sucking the breath out of Chisnall’s lungs as he realized what had happened. It was a lucky shot. A one in a million. The rotorcraft had run into one of the incoming artillery shells.

  The other rotorcraft did not last much longer.

  It swept over the Angels’ heads, not seeing them, or not caring, heading for the river.

  It never made it that far.

  Thunder sounded above them and Chisnall saw the rotorcraft, out of control, spinning rapidly to the earth, the victim of another javelin missile.

  “Get down!”

  Something thudded into him, knocking him to the ground. He tried, and failed, not to scream at the stabbing pain from his ribs. Monster was lying on top of him and Chisnall started to ask him what he thought he was doing when the tree trunks above them began to split and splinter.

  The hammering of coil-guns told him that their hiding place was no longer a secret.

  “Keep calling the shots,” Price said as the Angel Team returned fire. “We’ve got it covered.”

  Several of the Bzadian soldiers dropped, but the other squads were converging on their position, maintaining a constant barrage that kept the Angels’ heads down as they approached. The effect on the surrounding trees was like someone taking to them with a chainsaw. Leaves and small branches danced and shattered; larger branches and tree trunks spat sawdust. Dirt jumped up into their faces.

  The Bzadians advanced, closing in from eighty meters, seventy meters. It was all Chisnall could do to risk the occasional glance to try and direct the artillery fire where it was most needed.

  Sixty meters. He would have to bring the artillery down on the advancing troops if they were to have any chance at all.

  “New coordinates,” Chisnall shouted into the radio over the wall of sound that was the battle. “Immediate effect.” He got the coordinates of their own position from his wrist computer and mentally added fifty meters. “Fire for range and accuracy. Danger close.”

  “Danger close” let the artillery know that they were firing in the vicinity of friendly troops. There was a brief pause while the artillery team adjusted their guns, then the familiar thunder. This time, though, the sound was different. It wasn’t the scream of shells passing high overhead, but rather the rising whistle of shells falling close to their position. Too close.

  “Incoming!” Price screamed.

  Alizza was strapping on his coil-gun when Yozi rounded the corner into their ready room. Yozi didn’t limp, but it took a concerted effort. Alizza looked up in surprise to see him.

  “Save me a place, old friend,” Yozi said.

  “When did you get back on active duty?” Alizza asked.

  “Just now,” Yozi said.

  “Who authorized it?”

  “I did.”

  Alizza grinned. “It is definitely scumbugz?”

  “It is,” Yozi said. “They’ve infiltrated via the Brisbane River. Seems like the target is the Amberley Air Base.”

  “The last time scumbugz came here I fear we let them off too lightly,” Alizza said.

  “That won’t happen again,” Yozi said, and began to kit up.

  Chisnall curled into a ball and covered his ears with his hands as high explosive shells slammed into the forest around them.

  The explosions were mainly tree bursts—shells hitting tree trunks and exploding, shattering the trunks and sending meter-long splinters of wood flying throughout the forest. One embedded itself in the ground a foot away from Chisnall, who stared at it, stunned, his ears ringing from the explosions.

  “Adjust fire, adjust fire!” he yelled.

  “Forward fifty meters,” he managed to get out just before another barrage of shells pulverized trees around their position.

  Bzadian troops, taking advantage of the lack of firing from the tree line, were running across open ground toward the Angels.

  The next artillery barrage fell right among them. The earth shook and shivered as more and more shells came screaming in, and those Bzadians that still could ran for their lives. The open field had become a killing ground.

  “LT,” Wilton said. “Fast movers!”

  Back at the airfield, a row of Type Twos had lined up on a long grass strip beside the runway.

  “Get the artillery on it, now!” the Tsar yelled.

  “If you do that, the Pukes’ll be all over us!” Price yelled back.

  “If you don’t, those Type Twos are going to rip the task force to shreds!” the Tsar said.

  “If we’re dead, then who’s going to call the shots for the artillery anyway?” Price said.

  “It’s your call, LT,” Barnard said.

  It was an impossible choice.

  “Revert to original coordinates,” Chisnall said on the radio. “Adjust fire back ten meters. Fire for effect.”

  Explosions ripped up the dirt of the grassy field. A Type Two, in the middle of takeoff, tried to avoid a huge pothole that had suddenly erupted. Its nose dropped into the ground, ripping off, and the jet slid across the grass before coming to a halt in the middle of the field.

  With the shifting of the artillery barrage, the Bzadian troops were already on their way back up the hillside toward the Angels’ position. Their faces were covered, and as they closed, Chisnall realized they had replaced their visors with gas masks. They had adapted quickly to the puffer ammunition.

  “Rotorcraft, far end of the field,” Barnard said.

  Chisnall could see several rotorcraft already lifting off at the rear of the air base. “Immediate adjustment, forward one hundred, right sixty,” he said, estimating the distances by eye. “Air burst, I repeat, air burst.”

  The next round of shells exploded in midair, above the rising rotorcraft, shattering cockpits and rotor blades. In twos and threes the Bzadian craft plummeted to the ground. But already more were lifting off from other locations around the air base.

  Somehow, Chisnall found himself removed from the battle, operating on a higher plane where all that mattered were coordinates and numbers. The air base took on a kind of virtual reality in his head. He threw shells with the power of his thoughts, hurling lightning bolts at the enemy craft, barely conscious of the numbers that his dry lips were streaming back to the artillery base.

  Only when the dirt in front of his eyes exploded with the impact of bullets, momentarily blinding him, did his attention come back to the advancing Bzadian soldiers, crawling across the open fields below. He switched to the task force channel and said, “Task Force Actual, this is Angel One. Request immediate ground support. We are in danger of being overrun.”

  “Forward units are heading your way, Angel Team. Sit tight. They’ll be with you in five mikes.”

  “Task Force Actual, we don’t have five mikes,” Chisnall said.

  The Bzadian soldiers were advancing steadily across the open ground, firing as they came, their bullets becoming more accurate with every meter. They staggered under the impact of the Angels’ puffer rounds but kept coming.

  More firing now, much closer, but it took Chisnall a few seconds to comprehend where it was coming from. It wasn’t until a thump on the back of his body armor knocked him forward that he realized the firing was behind them.

  “LT!” Price yelled out.

  He pushed himself up and twisted around to glimpse a Bzadian uniform coming up through the trees behind them. In the confusion, smoke, and shelling, a squad of Bzadians had circled around, flanking them. It was an obvious tactic and he should have been prepared for it. It was what he would have done in their position. But his concentration had been on calling the shots for the artillery. Now they were sandwiched bet
ween two groups of Bzadians and completely exposed at the rear.

  It was surrender or die. There was no other choice.

  “Keep calling the shots, LT,” Monster said in a low voice, unleashing a stream of bullets into the trees behind them. The puffers were exploding off the trees in such numbers that a gray cloud was forming in the forest, but it was of no use against the gas-masked Bzadians.

  A shot cracked off the side of his helmet, dazing him. Bullets were all around them as the Bzadians opened up at close range.

  “Put your weapons down!” he yelled to his team. They had no chance of survival. Their only hope was to surrender.

  “No puking way!” the Tsar yelled.

  “Death to Azoh!” Wilton yelled.

  “See you in the next life!” The Tsar kept firing. A shot from the forest hit Chisnall on the shoulder, spinning him around, facedown into the dirt. His broken rib screamed fire, and another round smashed the armor on his right arm. One more shot and that was it. He was a dead man.

  He tried to lift his gun, to return fire, but couldn’t. He waited for the bullet that would pierce his ruined armor and end his life. It didn’t come. The firing from the woods behind them had stopped.

  “Friendlies coming out,” came a voice that he knew well. “Are y’all okay?”

  “Angels, hold your fire,” Chisnall said as someone emerged from the trees through the swirling smoke and puffer clouds. It was Varmint, a can of Puke spray in a clenched hand, a Bzadian gas mask in the other.

  “Angel Team, status check,” Chisnall said, and unbelievably got a chorus of “Oscar Kilo.”

  Varmint said, “Call the shots so we can get the hell out of here.”

  The Demon Team was unloading their coil-guns and slotting in new ammunition cartridges. Bzadian ammunition, Chisnall realized. They had done what they said they would, swapped puffers for hard bullets, taking them from the soldiers.

  The Demons spread out, dropping to the ground and crawling to the top of the rise. From there they began to pour fire, real bullets, down on the approaching troops.

  Varmint tossed Chisnall a cartridge and without hesitation he swapped it for his puffers. He heard the guns of the other Angels combine with those of the Demons, and below them the oncoming Bzadian troops broke ranks and ran under the hail of fire.