The head chef, Farzo, was standing at one end of the long kitchen space, waiting for all the chefs to stumble in, bleary-eyed, from their sleeping quarters. He had roused them for an announcement. There was to be an unscheduled meeting of the High Council. Many high-level regional commanders would be attending. The kitchen would be providing food. Farzo doled out assignments for the meeting, giving Chisnall an important role.
Chisnall kept his face neutral, but his thoughts were churning. An unscheduled council meeting? The Bzadian High Council didn’t hold unscheduled meetings. That meant it was a crisis meeting, and that meant something major had happened.
Could it be about the Angels?
Had the Bzadian military learned of the Angels’ mission? It was possible. ACOG security had more holes than a golf course.
But he couldn’t imagine the Bzadians calling a major emergency meeting over an Angel mission. It had to be more than that.
He put the thought out of his mind. Soon he would be inside the meeting room. He would find out then.
In the meantime he had ingredients to prepare.
CHESHIRE MOON
[0520 HOURS LOCAL TIME]
[BATEMANS BAY, NEW BZADIA]
The moon had risen now. A quarter moon. A Cheshire Cat moon, Price thought. It smirked from low above the horizon as the six teenagers on T-boards – three-wheeled, motorised Bzadian skateboards – eased their way through the dimly lit streets of the once thriving beach resort of Batemans Bay.
The aliens had no love of the ocean. On their desert planet there were no seas, no beaches, and few boats. For them, here on Earth, the seaside was a line where water met land, nothing more. As a consequence, the town was deserted, unwanted by the Bzadian invaders. There was an eerie feeling to it, a ghost town quality, as though the spirits of the former inhabitants lingered. Price felt it and she could tell that the other Angels did too, from the way they moved, the way they scanned the hollow eyes of the buildings around them.
On occasion, at an unexplained sound, or a sudden stirring of the steadily increasing breeze, a coil-gun would fly from its back-mount holster, springing over a shoulder into waiting hands. That would set off a chain reaction and suddenly all of them would be gripping their weapons, searching around them, wondering who had seen what, wondering what they had missed.
Almost all them.
Brogan didn’t have a weapon.
Price flicked the two sides of her tongue together. It felt natural, and not surprisingly. It had been many years since ACOG surgeons had split it, to give her the forked tongue of the Bzadians. Likewise, the irregular bumps on her head. After the war, when they were removed, she’d miss them, she thought. One thing she wouldn’t miss was the colour of her skin. The blotchy grey-green complexion that earned the aliens the nickname “Pukes” always made her feel slightly nauseous when she looked in a mirror. She wondered what would happen if she died on this mission. Would they turn her back into a human before they buried her? The other Angels who had died hadn’t had that opportunity, so why should she? Yet it seemed wrong to be buried, or even cremated, as a lie. She shook those thoughts from her head and tried to concentrate on the mission.
At the other end of town was the bridge that would take them across to the main highway. That road led to Canberra. Their mission objective. The top speed of the T-boards was around fifty kilometres per hour, but here in the town they were barely ticking over five. Walking pace. Once they hit the highway they would have to try to make up time, but here it was too dangerous. The buildings blocked The Tsar’s scanner. There was no telling what could be hidden around the next corner.
The debris of the town’s past littered the area, fungal-green in the glow of the night-vision lenses. Masts of yachts protruded from the bay: watery tombstones for what lay beneath. Derelict cars rusted in parking lots. In a playground along the foreshore the tattered remains of a children’s swing lurched unsteadily in the strong but fitful breeze.
It unsettled Price, skulking along the waterfront here. It unsettled her more than tabbing through the night-time desert in the Australian outback, more than clambering over ice ridges and inching across crevasses in the frozen sub-arctic. It unsettled her because she had grown up in a town just like this. A small beach community.
She associated that place, on the east coast of New Zealand, with the happiest times in her life. Before her father died. Before what came next.
Here, the darkened buildings, the staring Cyclops eyes of the deserted tourist booths and fast-food stands, were like a horror movie version of her childhood. Things she had known and loved were now black and twisted and evil.
They passed a luxury launch, a rich man’s toy, built for floating cocktail parties, moonlight cruises and bikini beauties sunbathing on the back deck. It had embedded itself in the sand of the beach, and somehow stuck there through years of tides and storms, slowly rotting.
“Hey, Big Dog,” The Tsar said. “I might be picking up something.”
He had stopped and was completely focused on the screen of his scope.
“What is it?” Price asked.
“Don’t know,” The Tsar said. “Just a little tickle. Might be nothing.”
Price quickly scouted their location for a hiding place. On the seaward side of the road, the large overhanging balcony of a shopping arcade seemed to offer the best protection. She led the way to it, hopping off her T-board while it was still moving, then flipping up one end and catching it with her hand. She squatted against the wall underneath, where they would be out of sight of any prying, flying eyes.
The Tsar stared tensely at the scope then seemed to relax. He looked at her and shook his head. “Thought I had some movement on the scope. It might have been wildlife. Whatever it was, it’s gone now.”
“No it hasn’t,” the voice came from Brogan. Price glanced at her, surprised to hear her speak.
“How do you know?” Price asked.
Brogan shrugged. Price watched her, evaluating her. Brogan sat quietly and closed her eyes. She looked different now. The time in jail had done that to her. Maybe it was the solitary confinement. Part of it was the prison buzz cut hairstyle, but it was more than that. There was an edge to her jawline, and an intensity in her gaze that had not been there when Price had last known her. A thin scar disrupted the line of her otherwise perfect lips. She looked hard. More than that, she looked cruel.
“We keep moving,” Price said. “We can’t afford any delays.”
“That’s a mistake,” Brogan said.
“Yeah, well it’s my mistake,” Price said. She had been too cautious on the yacht. If she didn’t show some backbone now, they would never make the rendezvous. “We are Oscar Mike, now.”
She stood and put one foot on her T-board.
“How are you enjoying your mission so far?” Brogan asked. Price turned back and caught an insolent smile. Brogan was still squatting against the wall. She had made no attempt to move.
What kind of a question was that?
“Get up. Keep your mouth shut,” Price said. “Let us do our job.”
“Which is to chauffeur and babysit me. Your worst enemy,” Brogan said. “And you don’t even know why.”
“My mission is to deliver you to Lieutenant Chisnall in Canberra,” Price said. “I’m going to do that. What happens to you after that, I really couldn’t care.”
“You’re not even interested?” Brogan asked.
“I’m sure I’ll find out when and if I need to,” Price said.
“Or you could just ask Professor Barnard,” Brogan said.
Price flicked a glance across at Barnard. Did she know the real reason for the mission? As their intelligence officer she probably did. Price had asked a number of times, but met a solid wall. She always got the same response: just deliver the package.
“Ignore her,” Barnard said. “She’s just trying to cause trouble.”
“How astute of you.” Brogan smiled. “But that doesn’t change the facts.”
“Of course Barnard knows,” Price said. “She’s the intelligence officer. That’s her job. My job is to deliver you to Chisnall. Alive. But there were no instructions on what condition you had to be in, so shut your mouth or I’ll tape it shut, smash you in the nose and you can spend the rest of the trip breathing through your ears.”
Brogan shrugged. “Whatever.”
Price turned back and stepped up onto the T-board. She shouldn’t let Brogan get to her. She knew that. Brogan was just trying to get under her skin. Playing one member of the team against the other. She couldn’t afford to let that happen.
Brogan, like Wall, was a Fezerker, a product of the top-secret Bzadian program to infiltrate ACOG. They had been birthed by comatose human mothers in the depths of Uluru. Wall had switched sides, and it seemed that now Brogan had too. But Price couldn’t forget the treachery. Brogan’s actions had jeopardised their first mission. A close friend of hers had paid with his life, and so, nearly, had the rest of the Angels.
But it wouldn’t help any of them, or the mission, to dwell on the past. And whatever she felt about Brogan it was her mission to get her safely to Canberra.
“Foot mobiles, ahead, eighty metres,” The Tsar said suddenly.
Price lifted her foot from the T-board throttle. The board had just started to roll forwards. Another few seconds and she would have been out on the street, in clear view of whatever, whoever, was there.
She released her weapon from its holster, stepped off her T-board, crept to the corner of the building and brought the scope to her eye. The road ahead looked clear in the night-vision sights.
“I can’t see anything, I’m going to recce forwards a couple of streets,” Price said. “Monster, keep a close eye on Brogan.”
“Don’t move,” The Tsar said. “Hold your position. They’re coming this way.”
Price waited. She breathed softly, steadying her weapon. After a moment three soldiers emerged from a side road, then another two. Five soldiers, clear now in the sights of her weapon.
What the hell were they doing here?
“Five foot mobiles,” she said. “On the main road. Heading this way.”
She glanced back around the corner. The balcony had given them concealment, but the alley was a dead end. There was a wall they could climb, but that would create noise.
“Okay, if they keep coming, we’re going to have to take them out,” she said. “Move to a position where you’ve got a clear shot. Number them left to right. I’ll take one, Monster you’re two. Barnard, three; Tsar, four; and Wall, five.”
“And if you miss, I’ll throw stones at them,” Brogan said.
Price ignored the barb. Brogan was a passenger, not a soldier, on this mission. “Fire only on my mark,” she said. “We need to take them down simultaneously.”
“How do you know there aren’t others?” Barnard said.
“I don’t. But we have to deal with these first,” Price said.
The five enemy soldiers continued towards them, evenly spaced. A patrol. Why here? Why now?
Price put her sights on the leftmost soldier. She was conscious of the other Angels moving into position around her.
She could see the soldier’s face. Not enough to make out features, but enough to know that it was a female. She centred the crosshairs on the soldier’s nose.
“Wait for my mark,” she said.
Still the soldiers drew nearer.
It was a fine balance. The closer they got, the easier the shot and the better chance of taking them all down cleanly. But it also increased the chances of the Angels being seen and the alarm being raised.
The Bzadians were now just over a block away, no more than fifty metres, approaching an intersection.
“As soon as they cross the road, we’ll take them,” Price said. “Anybody without a clear shot, let me know now.”
The patrol reached the crossroad and Price flicked off her safety catch. Her finger found the cold metal of the trigger and she breathed in and held her breath for a more accurate shot.
The soldiers stopped.
Her target seemed young, although it was hard to tell with Bzadians. She was quite pretty. And if she took one more step forwards then Price would end her life.
The group appeared to be having some kind of discussion.
Price released her breath and slowly drew another.
The soldiers began to move.
Sideways. They turned into the cross-street and were quickly out of sight, heading towards the water.
Price exhaled with a small sigh of relief.
“Everybody hold,” she said. “In case they come back.”
They didn’t come back.
A few minutes later there came the rising whine of a rotorcraft engine starting up. The round metal shape of a Bzadian troopship rose up in a dark cloud of dust from behind a large building just a couple of blocks away. One edge dipped as it took off towards the south.
“Azoh!” The Tsar said. “We nearly walked into that.”
He was right. They would have too, if not for Brogan, Price thought. Had she delayed them on purpose? She glanced at Brogan, who, as if reading her thoughts, gave her a short shrug.
“What the hell were they doing here?” Wall asked.
“The Pukes are rattled,” Price said. “Yesterday ACOG attacked their ships; today they lost three fighter jets. But they don’t know where or who they’re looking for. If they did, they’d be all over us.”
Chisnall moved through the High Council chamber, setting up platters of food for the crisis meeting.
Bzadian meetings could go on for hours, even days. That could create a problem. The Angels and Brogan were due to arrive in Canberra at nine. That was less than three hours away. But for now all he could do was his job.
A continuous supply of food and beverages was maintained on the meeting tables. Typical Bzadian meals were served in a style that the Spanish would call tapas, and the Chinese would call dim sum: small portions of different dishes on shared plates.
The meeting room consisted of a series of concentric oval-shaped rings. In the centre sat the High Council. High ranked military leaders sat in a larger ring around that, and lower ranked officers in an outer ring. At one end of the oval was a raised circular speakers’ platform. At the other end was a small circle of chairs for Azoh’s closest advisors, surrounding a single chair that Chisnall had never seen filled. A ceremonial chair that represented Azoh.
In the air above the inner oval, a 3D globe, created by concealed projectors, rotated slowly. It showed Bzadian and human territories, Bzadian in blue, human in red. Hotspots, where active fighting continued, were shown in white. There was not much red.
Some of the councillors and military officials had already arrived. They congregated in small groups, or sat in their places at the tables. Chisnall made himself as unobtrusive as possible. This was the time when they would be least guarded, chatting informally before the meeting started. This was the time he would learn the most.
Already he was picking up conversations. Mostly in the high language. A language reserved for high-level officials and Azoh himself. It had taken months of intensive study to become even passable in the language. Fortunately, he’d had little else to do while they had rebuilt his shattered spine.
Most of the conversations seemed to be about a new kind of weapon, a revolutionary new human weapon. It worried them. Although it was not mentioned specifically, by inference he was able to deduce that it was some kind of aeroplane.
He picked up other conversations also, about New Zealand. He was not close enough to hear the details, but from the tone, it was clear that the small country to Australia’s east had just become a threat.
As he passed by the main doorway to the room, an officer entered. Not just any officer – Field Marshall Leozii, the Supreme Military Commander and Leader of the High Council. He was talking quietly to an aide. The conversation seemed to be to do with the meeting, and Chisnall clearly heard the n
ame “Azoh”.
Time stood still for a moment.
If he had interpreted that scrap of conversation correctly, Azoh himself was due to attend this meeting. That was unprecedented. The Bzadian spiritual leader did not attend military strategy meetings. As far as Chisnal knew, Azoh did not venture out of the inner sanctum on the lower levels.
What could be so important that Azoh himself would attend the meeting?
He tried to think through the implications for the mission. The plan he had devised, with help from Daniel Bilal at ACOG, was an audacious and daring one.
Azoh was briefed daily in his chambers on the events of the war, and all major decisions were presented to him for a kind of blessing. A fly on the wall of Azoh’s quarters would have inside information on everything that was going on within the Bzadian government and military.
Chisnall intended to be that fly. The plan was to plant a bugging device within Azoh’s chambers – a secret, undetectable device that Barnard was bringing to him.
But to do it, he needed help. And that help could only come from one person. His former sergeant, Holly Brogan.
Getting her to agree had been one battle. Getting ACOG to agree to let her help had been another, but the importance of the insight they would get into the Bzadian military machine was worth almost any price. Bilal had personally fought to get the mission approved, including the reactivation of Recon Team Angel to do it.
If Azoh was attending the meeting, then security back at his chambers would be reduced. That was a positive. But the subterfuge he had come up with for gaining access to the chambers would really only work if Azoh was there.
A tricky situation had just got trickier, and Chisnall let his mind consider the problem as he carried on with his work.
He had almost finished setting out the food platters when the strangeness came on him. He froze, one hand hovering over a plate of salted sierfruit.
Vengeance Page 4