Task Force (18 page)

“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 between 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.

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.”

“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.

“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.”