On the air base, a huge Dragon jet had somehow found a clear stretch of grass long enough to take off.
“Artillery support,” Chisnall said. “New coordinates.”
15. ARMOR
[0710 hours local time]
[Bzadian Coastal Defense Command, Brisbane, New Bzadia]
“WE’VE LOST AMBERLEY,” NANZI SAID. “ALL COMMUNICATIONS just dropped out. Last reports were of tanks attacking the perimeter.”
“Any word back from the other air bases?” Kriz asked. She had to struggle not to rub at the new skin on her arm. Last time the humans had attacked, she had ended up in the hospital for months. Now they were back. She felt nauseous and took a few quick deep breaths, which seemed to help.
There were three other bases still at full strength, in north, south, and west New Bzadia.
“They’re on full alert,” Nanzi said, “but none of them have committed any planes yet.”
“What!”
“All are reporting enemy radar contacts,” Nanzi said. “They are refusing to release any aircraft. I guess they don’t want to be the next Uluru.”
“Or the next Amberley,” Kriz said. “How far away is the general?” Until he got here, every decision was up to her.
“Ten minutes.”
“What are they up to?” Kriz said.
“You don’t think Amberley is their primary objective?”
“It doesn’t make sense,” Kriz said. “There’s no strategic advantage.”
“It’s the biggest military target in the area,” Nanzi said. “Maybe they think that by striking us here, we will have to withdraw forces from the Chukchi Peninsula to defend ourselves.”
A map of the region was displayed on the big screen that covered one wall of the command center. Amberley and the army base at Enoggera were highlighted in red, along with a number of smaller military installations.
“They’ve gone to too much trouble,” Kriz said. “They must be after something more than that.”
“Like what?” Nanzi asked
“It has to be Lowood,” Kriz said, zooming the map into that area. “The fuel plant. There’s nothing else within a hundred kilometers.”
“Azoh!” Nanzi said.
“Alert the defense commander at Borallon. See if they can intercept the scumbugz before they get anywhere near Lowood, and tell those air bases we need air support now! What’s happening at Uluru?”
“Ready reaction force is already lifting off.”
“Good. They’re our best hope for now. How far away are they?”
“At least four hours,” Nanzi said.
“What else do we have available?” Kriz asked.
Nanzi checked her computer screen. “Not much. Everything’s been sent to Chukchi. Except …”
“What?”
“Well, they’re not combat ready, but there’s a full squadron of battle tanks at the Nambour factory. They’ve just come off the production line and are still awaiting testing.”
“That’s not even three hours away from Lowood.” Kriz considered that. “Are the crews with them?”
“Yes. They start field tests tomorrow.”
Kriz ran some quick calculations in her head. The tanks would have to be armed and equipped, and that would take at least an hour. The crews would be test personnel, not combat troops. But it was better than nothing. A lot better. “Get me the commander of that squadron,” she said.
16. RESERVOIR HILL
[0715 hours local time]
[Amberley Air Base, New Bzadia]
“WHAT THE BLOODY HELL WERE YOU THINKING?” COLONEL Fairbrother asked.
Varmint stood to attention, as did Chisnall beside him. All trace of his Demon attitude was gone. For the moment at least.
“You Demons were supposed to be halfway to Wivenhoe by now,” Fairbrother continued. He was seated on the other side of the command module.
From the west came a series of explosions, part of the mopping up at the air base.
“If they hadn’t turned back, my team would be dead,” Chisnall said.
“I wasn’t addressing you, Chisnall.”
“Sir, it was my decision and my mistake,” Varmint said. “It won’t happen again.”
“Sir, the fault was mine,” Chisnall said. “I was focusing on the fire control and neglected the defense of my team.”
“Did I ask for your input?” Fairbrother asked.
Chisnall shook his head.
“If I had any choice, I’d court-martial you both. But right now I need you to get on with your jobs. Am I clear?”
“Clear,” Varmint and Chisnall said together.
Another explosion sounded from the air base as task force troops made sure that none of the aircraft would ever fly again.
“Reservoir Hill,” Fairbrother said, stabbing a finger at the map table. Another finger. “Wivenhoe Dam.”
Even on the 3-D digital terrain map, Reservoir Hill didn’t seem much more than a mild rise on the countryside. Wivenhoe Dam held back a huge mass of water extending to the north well beyond the bounds of the map.
“Reservoir Hill is the high ground,” Fairbrother was saying. “It controls all the approaches into Lowood. Whoever holds the hill controls the town. Reservoir Hill is fortified, honeycombed with defensive positions. We would need an all-out assault to take it and we don’t have time for that. That’s where you come in. I need your Angels to infiltrate that hill and take out their defenses from the inside. You just have to hold it long enough for us to get in and destroy that fuel plant.”
“Sir, the Pukes were wearing gas masks when they assaulted our position on the hill at Amberley,” Chisnall said.
“What’s your point?” Fairbrother asked.
“They figured out about our puffers,” Chisnall said. “Our weapons are next to useless now. You can’t expect us to take Reservoir Hill without weapons.”
“Your weapons are stealth and surprise,” Fairbrother said, “and Puke spray.”
“But, sir—”
Fairbrother held up a hand to silence him. “See the supply sergeant on your way out. We picked up a pile of coil-gun ammo from Amberley. Tell him I gave the okay.”
“What about the Demons?” Varmint asked.
“Splityard Creek,” Fairbrother said, zooming the digital map. “This smaller lake and dam here, just above the main lake. It’s a power facility, generating the electricity supply for the fuel plant at Lowood. Again, an all-out assault would take too much time. Your team will ‘charm’ your way in and take out the generators. If for any reason we don’t manage to destroy the fuel plant, at least we will have cut off their power supply.”
“Destroy the generators how?” Varmint asked.
“I don’t care,” Fairbrother said. “Just make them go away, permanently.”
“Can do.” Varmint grinned.
There was nothing the Demons liked better than blowing stuff up, Chisnall thought. That was what they trained for. That was what they lived for.
“What about the dam itself?” Varmint asked. “Why not blow that up? That would be more permanent.”
“Wivenhoe?” Fairbrother raised his eyebrows. “Look at the size of that thing. It’s a huge earthen embankment; you’d need a nuke.”
Varmint shook his head. “I meant the dam here at Splityard Creek,” he said.
“Even that one is pretty big,” Fairbrother said. “Maybe you could, maybe you couldn’t. We can’t deal in maybes. Not when the existence of the human race depends on it. Your orders are to blow the generators.”
“How do we get there?” Chisnall asked. “We can’t roll up in one of the MPCs.”
“We’ll take you with us as far as the Warrego Highway,” Fairbrother said. He pointed to the map again. “Aerial footage shows a few vehicles parked around these buildings, some kind of a produce market. We’ll detour a little and drop you off there. Angel Team and Demon Team each appropriate one or two of the cars. Angels take the western route up to Lowood. Go fast. I need t
hat hill out of action before we come rolling up the highway.”
“And the Demons?” Varmint asked.
“You’ll take the eastern route up to Wivenhoe.”
“What about extraction?” Chisnall asked.
“Hervey Bay, up on the Sunshine Coast. A submarine will pick you up offshore. Full operational orders and battle maps have been sent to your wrist computer. Now get out of here.”
Even as he said it, Chisnall’s wrist computer vibrated with incoming data.
“Yes, sir,” Chisnall said.
“Don’t balls this one up, Chisnall.”
“No, sir,” Chisnall replied.
The Angel Team’s MPC smelled of oil. It had been used to transport the ramps for the vehicles to exit the river. Bench seats folded down from the walls inside and the interior was lit with low red lighting. A lever operated the ramp, which was also the rear door. It lifted up smoothly and locked into place.
The smell reminded Chisnall of the basement garage at home. His father had owned a classic car, a 1960 Thunderbird convertible. He was always working on it.
The thought of that car made Chisnall suddenly wish he was anywhere else except here. Life had seemed so simple. The war had been a distant far-off conflict, and despite the coverage saturating the TV and online news, it hadn’t seemed like something that would affect him personally.
But it didn’t get much more personal than this. Here he was, right in the thick of things, again. With people who relied on him. Who depended on him to make the right decision. He shut his eyes and breathed in the oily smell, taking himself back for a moment to that garage. To the long red car with the hood up, and his father’s legs sticking out from underneath.
Then he opened his eyes again, and the memory was gone. All that existed was the here and now. The danger. The mission. The team.
Their driver was a cheerful and extremely talkative PFC, a native of Boston, judging by his accent. He grinned at them through the small metal grille that separated the driver’s cab from the troop compartment.
“It’s a real honor to be driving you,” the driver said. “Don’t mind if I say so.”
“Thanks,” Chisnall said, unhooking his coil-gun before taking his seat.
“I heard about what you Angels did, from one of the grunts who got out,” the driver said. “We think you guys are awesome.”
“Out of Uluru?” Chisnall asked, slightly confused.
“Hokkaido,” the driver said.
“Of course,” Chisnall said, raising an eyebrow at the Tsar. The Tsar held his gaze but did not change his expression.
“My kid brother is doing the Angel training,” the driver said. “You guys got any tips for him?”
“Get out while he still can,” Price said.
“Amen to that,” the Tsar said, and they both laughed.
“What’s his name?” Chisnall asked.
“Hayden,” the driver said. “Hayden Wall.”
“I’ll look out for him when we get back,” Chisnall said.
“If we get back,” Barnard said.
“Don’t you worry about that,” the driver said. “You got the best driver in the division. I’ll get you there safe and sound. That’s a promise.”
“Much appreciated,” Chisnall said.
The engine started with a roar but the MPC didn’t move. It sat idling, waiting its turn. They were the second last in line, behind the Demons and in front of an MPC full of tough Canadian Black Devils. Through the bulletproof glass of the portholes in the side, Chisnall saw the Demons’ vehicle rumble forward; then there was a lurch and they began to follow.
Chisnall put his head back against the headrest, shutting his eyes. Waves of exhaustion swept over him. He had tried to sleep on the submarine the previous day, but even with the help of sleeping tablets, it had not come easily. The whole night had been one of constant tension and hard physical slog, and this was the first time since they had launched from the submarine that he hadn’t had to be on the utmost alert, every sense, every brain cell operating at maximum to try and achieve the impossible.
Now his brain was trying to shut down, to rest and repair itself. As was his body. The body armor had saved him from a number of bullets in the forest, but the impact of the bullets had left huge painful bruises. He had new armor on now, as the last was shattered and useless. His ribs were aching but manageable, thanks to some painkillers, which Monster had supplied. Perhaps they were contributing to the waves of sleep that now flooded through his brain.
The MPC quickly picked up speed. The operation’s planners had always known it would be a race to get to Lowood once the veil of secrecy was lifted, and after the delays at the river, time was now the critical issue. They had to reach Lowood before the Bzadians could mobilize their defenses.
It was a race to the finish.
Price watched Chisnall on the other side of the MPC. He had been sleeping for a while, his chest rising and falling rhythmically, his mouth slightly open. He was even snoring, although it was more of a mild purr than a deep growl like her father’s.
“Death to Azoh?” the Tsar said. “What was that all about, Wilton?”
Price smiled to herself. Somehow, at the time, in the smoky thunder of the battle in the forest, it had seemed appropriate.
“I just said the first thing that came to mind.” Wilton laughed, too, a little embarrassed.
“You wild man,” the Tsar said. “I like it!” He reached over for a high five. “Death to Azoh!”
“Death to Azoh,” Price murmured.
“Do you even know what Azoh is?” Barnard asked.
“I’m sure you’re going to tell us,” Price said.
“Some kind of Puke god,” the Tsar said.
“It’s the Puke leader,” Wilton said.
Barnard shook her head.
“Who cares? Death to Azoh, whoever he is, and thank our God for the Demons back in the forest,” the Tsar said.
“It shouldn’t have got to that stage,” Price said. “It wouldn’t have if we’d had real bullets.”
“It would not have got to that stage if the LT had let me run the forward fire control and concentrated on defending our position,” Barnard said.
There was an icy silence.
“Shut it, Barnard,” Price said. “The problem was the bullets, not the LT.” Mostly.
“Stupid tree-hugging lefties,” Wilton said. “Give me some real bullets, an M110, and put me within half a klick of Azoh. War’s over, we all go home, and I get to star in Hollywood movies about my life.”
“Which shows how little you understand about Azoh,” Barnard said.
Chisnall’s eyes opened at that point and he looked vaguely around the cabin before they slid shut again.
The vehicle was built for eighteen, and there were only six of them, so there was plenty of space. Price thought about laying Chisnall down across a few seats but worried that doing so would wake him up.
She reached over and switched off his comm so it wouldn’t disturb him.
Monster was watching her, and he gave her a smile and nod of approval. She looked away without returning the smile. There was no point in encouraging him.
The Tsar was watching her too. “Is the Big Dog asleep?” he asked.
“Lieutenant Chisnall is asleep, yes,” Price said. “And he deserves it.”
“No argument from me,” the Tsar said. “No need to leap to his defense.” He unhooked his weapon and checked the ammunition. “You really like him, don’t you?”
“What are you saying?” Price asked.
“Not like that,” the Tsar said, reloading his weapon. “I just meant you’ve known him a long time and you like him.”
“He does his job. I do mine,” Price said.
“Sounds a bit harsh,” the Tsar said. “I thought you were friends.”
“I get on fine with him,” Price said. “But take a tip, newbie. Don’t get too close to anyone. They might not be around all that long.”
“Good advice, sweetheart, but I ain’t no newbie,” the Tsar said.
“No, you’re the Hero of Hokkaido,” Barnard said.
“Oh, sure, you can spit on it if you want to,” the Tsar said, “but I earned that medal.”
“Yeah, well, Price won the VC at Uluru, but you don’t hear her shouting about it,” Wilton said.
“What’s that, some little New Zealand medal?” the Tsar said.
“Yeah, just some little New Zealand medal,” Price said without looking up.
“No—” Wilton started.
“Just leave it at that,” Price said, glaring at him.
“Whatever,” the Tsar said. “But I ain’t no newbie. I—”
Whatever he was about to say, he never got the chance. His words were cut off midsentence by the sound of an explosion from the front of the convoy. Then another.
And another.
17. MINEFIELD
[0745 hours Local time]
[Haigslea Forest, New Bzadia]
“TURN IT AROUND! TURN IT AROUND!” CHISNALL YELLED.
“I’m trying!” the driver yelled back through the grille.
The way ahead was blocked. The column was at a standstill and at the mercy of attackers, hidden deep within the forest on either side. Fairbrother had given the order to retreat, to reverse their course and get out of the ambush that the forest had become.
Another explosion sounded from the head of the column, a thunderclap and a momentary flash of light that coincided with screams on the comm. Thick, oily black smoke billowed, a pungent aroma of death.
The MPCs’ turrets were swiveling, and a torrent of bullets was pouring into the forest. Trees shuddered. Some toppled. The tanks’ big guns boomed, over and over again, but the firing from the forest did not diminish.
“Come on!” Chisnall yelled.
The big tires spun, gripped, and the back end fishtailed a little as the MPC headed back down the road. They were following the Canadian Black Devils, who had been the rearguard of the convoy and who were now, by virtue of the turn, the lead vehicle.
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