The warhead was on the floor, just in front of Fleming. Chisnall checked it quickly. The casing looked intact, so he left it and went back to his search.
Bennett was not far from Fleming, but there was no good news there. He was gone. The dust mixed with a pool of blood around his head to create a red sludge.
The dust was settling more each moment, and although Chisnall was still wading through it, he could see the floor and anyone on it. But there was nobody.
Monster seemed to have completely disappeared.
He felt a hand on his shoulder, and Wilton was there, gray-faced but recovered enough to help. They took opposite sides of the track and trudged forward, feeling with their boots for any obstruction bigger than a loose rock but found nothing.
It wasn’t until Chisnall thought of searching the channel that they discovered him, facedown and unmoving in a tumbled pile of rock and a slurry of dust.
“No, not Monster,” Wilton breathed from behind Chisnall, echoing his own thoughts.
There was something about Monster that had seemed indestructible, that would just smile in the face of hell and destruction and keep on going. It was shattering to see his cold, still body lying awkwardly in the monorail trench.
“Check his pulse,” he said.
Wilton stepped forward but stopped when a dull boom came from behind them, followed by a series of crashes. The pile of rocks at the entrance was shaking.
“They don’t waste any time,” Wilton said.
The Bzadians were already blasting their way through the rubble.
“We’ve got to get moving,” Chisnall said.
Brogan looked dazed but was standing by herself now, no longer needing the support of the wall.
“Wilton, give me a hand with Fleming,” Chisnall said.
They raced back to the SAS man, who was still sandwiched between the rock and the tunnel wall.
“We’ve got to move that boulder,” Chisnall said. He looked around for anything they could use as a lever, but there was nothing but rocks and rubble.
A little reluctantly, he hit the release button for his coil-gun and it appeared in his hands. He unhooked it from the holster spring.
Another explosion sounded from the caved-in entrance to the tunnel, and a fractured slab of stone crashed from the ceiling, not far from them. It showered them with more dust and debris.
“You have to leave me here,” Fleming said.
“No,” Chisnall said.
“You can’t jeopardize the mission for one person,” Fleming said.
Brogan shook her head, agreeing with Fleming.
“Watch me,” was Chisnall’s reply.
Wilton helped him move a smaller boulder into place to use as a fulcrum, then used the barrel of the coil-gun as a lever. He leaned on the stock of the gun while Wilton put his shoulder to the rock.
Fleming grunted a little as the weight of the boulder shifted. He must have been in excruciating pain, but the only sound that escaped his lips was that grunt, little more than a whisper of air.
The rock shifted slightly, and the end of the lever slipped a little deeper underneath. Chisnall kicked at the fulcrum stone, shifting it into a better position, then pressed on the lever again. He put the full weight of his body onto it. The coil-gun was tough; it didn’t break, although Chisnall doubted that it would ever fire again. Price joined him pushing down on the lever while Wilton braced himself against the tunnel wall. The rock rolled up a bit more, held there for a second by their combined strength, then slowly rolled back to where it had been.
A third explosion came from the tunnel entrance and a low rumble shook the whole tunnel. A large rock, blasted from the pile, hit the ground near them. It tumbled past, so close that Chisnall felt its passage, before it crashed into the channel. A meter to the right and it would have smeared them all down the tunnel wall.
Brogan watched, but made no attempt to help as Chisnall repositioned the rock and the lever and leaned back on the stock of the coil-gun. He looked grimly at Wilton, but Wilton wasn’t paying attention; he was looking up the tunnel. Chisnall followed the beam of his flashlight and saw a ghost.
It was a barrel-chested, broad-shouldered, tree-trunk-legged ghost that strode steadily down the tunnel, shedding layers of dust as it came. Monster Panyoczki had somehow taken on Bzadian bullets and the crushing rock of Uluru and won.
“Monster!” It was intended to be a shout, but it came out as a small breath. “Cheese and rice!”
Monster marched up to the boulder without a word, lay down on the floor of the cavern, and put those huge, ham-like legs on the rock. Blood was pouring from a gash in one of his calves, but he didn’t seem to notice. He began to push. Chisnall and Wilton leaned back on the lever, and Price positioned herself behind Fleming, ready to slide him out from between the boulder and the wall as soon as the boulder lifted.
The muscles in Monster’s legs rippled. The rock moved up the wall, and this time it kept moving. Price pulled Fleming out and was at his legs immediately, probing them with her fingers.
Chisnall examined his weapon. The barrel no longer looked straight, and the shot-counter on the side was cracked. It was now just a dead weight. He tossed it into the dust of the channel, wincing as he did so. If his drill sergeant back at Fort Carson saw how he had treated his weapon, he would have torn strips off him.
“Monster!” Wilton yelled, grabbing one of the handles of the warhead.
Chisnall couldn’t resist looking at Monster’s back as he lifted one side of the warhead. He had seen him get shot! His body armor showed evidence of three rounds. All of them had hit Monster’s coil-gun, which was still holstered across his back. Two of them had ricocheted off into his body armor. It had cracked but held.
Price looked up. “Fleming’s going to be okay. His legs were pinned between the rock and the wall, not crushed. I’m no medic, but as far as I can tell, the bones aren’t broken.”
Chisnall breathed out slowly. He’d had visions of Fleming’s legs being flattened like a pancake under the weight of the huge boulder.
“Can you move?”
Fleming nodded.
A series of explosions rumbled from the rockfall behind them as they moved down the tunnel, deeper into Uluru.
16. THE PLATFORM
THEY CAME TO A DOOR THAT WAS DIFFERENT FROM THE others. Different from any door that Chisnall had ever seen. It was perhaps three meters wide, made of six interlocking fingers of steel fitted so snugly together that the join was little more than a hairline.
They stood on the tracks below a monorail platform similar to the one they had found at the entrance to the rock. They had tabbed over half a kilometer along the track to get to this second platform, taking turns carrying the warhead and helping Brogan and Fleming.
The dust storm was gone now. The silence this far inside the rock was absolute, and yet it thundered inside his ears.
To Chisnall, the cold sense of strangeness here was almost overwhelming. The metal fingers of the door seemed to be smiling at him, in an unearthly, lopsided steel grin. Here was danger. Here was evil. For the first time, he wanted to abort the mission. To turn around and escape from this place. Not to have to confront what lay inside.
What kind of abomination had the invaders of his planet hidden under a rock, behind these smirking doors? He thought of the creatures that leered down from the tops of the alien buildings and half wondered if they were breeding some giant, mythical chimera monsters to set loose on the human race.
There were monorail cars here. Six of them were parked in a line, just a few meters past the platform. Chisnall glanced back down the tunnel. Part of the roof had collapsed a few moments ago and the aliens had clearly decided to take a more cautious approach to digging through the rubble.
“Looks like you were right,” Price said, nodding at the cars.
Chisnall shook off his feeling of terror.
“It made sense,” Chisnall said. “There would have to be some way of getting pe
ople out quickly in an emergency.”
Price looked at the doors. “So all we have to do is stick our head in there and find out what they’re up to, then jump on one of those cars and get the hell out of this place.”
“Right after we blow them all to hell,” Wilton said.
“That’s pretty much the plan,” Chisnall said. “Now shut it. They’ll probably have security cameras and microphones on the platform.”
The lights in the tunnel had all gone out when they had blown up the entrance building, but here the platform was brightly lit. For safety, they had left Fleming and Brogan with the warhead, about twenty meters back down the tunnel, well out of sight in the darkness.
A security panel squawked as they approached the doors, and a female voice asked, “What is going on out there?”
Chisnall approached the panel. “I’m Chizna,” he said in Bzadian. “I’m with Bomb Disposal. We were attempting to disarm a missile at the entrance to the tunnel when it exploded.”
“You’re all okay?”
Chisnall couldn’t decide whether the voice sounded concerned or suspicious.
“We had enough warning to retreat inside the tunnel,” Chisnall said. “But I have two injured soldiers who urgently need medical treatment. And the tunnel is completely blocked. It could be days before they dig it out.”
There was a brief silence while the person inside contemplated that.
“My soldiers need urgent medical attention,” Chisnall said.
There was a loud hiss and the huge metal fingers of the door slid smoothly apart, sliding back into the rock walls.
No demons appeared. No forces of darkness or dark clouds of evil. In fact, it was quite the opposite. Inside was a plainly decorated entranceway. A bench ran around the walls. It looked like a waiting room in a doctor’s office. Perfectly normal. He began to feel a little foolish for his thoughts earlier. But his sense of strangeness did not leave him.
A face peered through the open doorway at the team. It was a woman, smaller than most aliens and possibly the oldest Bzadian Chisnall had ever seen. She wore a guard’s uniform that hung loosely over withered shoulders. She smelled old, as if the flesh were already decaying on her not-yet-dead bones.
She looked the team over a couple of times. Chisnall knew how they must appear, bloodied and dusty.
Perhaps she saw something, or perhaps it was just instinct, but something in her eyes showed alarm and she reached back inside. Another hiss and the doors slid smoothly shut, but not before Price hurled herself forward in a single fluid motion, diving and rolling through the closing gap milliseconds before the metal fingers interlocked behind her combat boots.
A second passed, then another, and then the doors slid open again.
Price was standing by the door, her rifle steady in her hands. The woman and another guard, younger and burlier, sat against the wall with their hands clasped on top of their heads.
“What are you doing?” the older guard protested, but Chisnall ignored her and stepped inside. Wilton and Monster followed him.
“Tie them,” he ordered, still in Bzadian.
On one side of the doors was a single button. He pressed it and the thick fingers of the door slid smoothly shut. He pressed it again, and they opened just as smoothly.
Oval-shaped passageways led off the curved walls of the room in three directions. One to the left, one to the right, and one straight ahead. Doors were also to their left and right. The one to the left was open.
While Price and Wilton secured the two guards, Chisnall glanced through the open doorway. In a small room, little more than a cupboard, two chairs faced a bank of security screens. A tall tube of a steaming liquid sat on a table, next to a half-eaten food roll. It was clearly the guards’ station.
There were four screens altogether. Two showed views of the platform outside the door, from different angles. The others were blank. Chisnall guessed they had previously shown views of the main entrance building, but the cameras had been destroyed in the blast.
Monster opened a door on the right of the atrium. Chisnall walked over to investigate. It was dark inside, but Monster found a switch and the room flooded with light, revealing a storeroom.
“Put the guards in here,” Chisnall said. “Then watch the entrances while we get Brogan and Fleming.”
He turned back to the doors and to his surprise found the warhead sitting on the platform and Brogan helping Fleming to climb up. The spark in her eyes was back.
“Holly!” He tried to keep the relief in his voice from being too obvious. “How are you feeling? You’re okay?”
“Got one helluva headache,” she said, “but everything seems to be functioning.”
“Great,” Chisnall said. He extended a hand to Fleming to help him up. “How’s the leg?”
“Like a rabid dog is chewing on the bone,” Fleming said, “but it’s good to have some feeling back in it. I can walk.”
“We were just coming back for you,” Chisnall said. “How long will it take you to arm this thing?”
He took one side of the warhead, Fleming took the other, and they moved it off the platform into the entranceway.
“No time at all,” Fleming said. “Just punch in a time and hit the button.”
“Okay. Let’s recon this place. See if we can find an answer for HQ about what’s going on in here. Then we press the big bang button and get clear.”
“I don’t think so.”
It was Brogan who had spoken, behind him on the platform. Chisnall turned. She looked focused, determined.
So did the sidearm that she pointed directly at Chisnall’s face.
“What the hell, Brogan?” Wilton asked, his coil-gun leaping over his shoulder into his hands.
“Put it away,” Brogan said. “Unless you want to see what the skipper’s brains look like.”
“Put the gun away, Wilton,” Chisnall said. “There’s no need.”
“What are you doing?” Price asked.
“Her job,” Chisnall said. “She’s been working for the Bzadians all along. She sabotaged my half-pipe and the laser comm unit. And she killed Hunter.”
Wilton swore at her. Brogan’s pistol didn’t waver. Her face was expressionless.
“You knew?” she asked.
“Of course,” Chisnall said.
“And you did nothing?”
“That’s not entirely true,” Chisnall said. “I did take out your sidearm’s battery and replace it with a dead one.”
Brogan instinctively turned the gun sideways to check the battery meter. It only took a second, but it was long enough. Chisnall punched her hand sideways and dived forward, knocking her backward and down. She tried to bring the gun back to bear, but he had his full weight on top of her. Then a sharp boot from Price kicked the gun out of her hands.
Both Price and Wilton had their coil-guns aimed at her head now.
Chisnall twisted her onto her stomach. He found a cord in a utility pocket and bound her hands securely, then let her sit back up.
“How did you know it was me?” she asked, breathing heavily.
“I didn’t, until just now,” he said. “In fact, I thought it was probably Price.”
“Bite me,” Price said.
Chisnall sat back on his haunches and looked at her.
“Why, Holly?” he asked.
“I don’t have to say anything,” she said.
“Why would a human help aliens?”
“For reasons you’ll never understand,” she spat.
“This is our planet. You’re siding with the enemy.”
“You are the enemy,” she said.
“Chisnall, we need to get moving,” Fleming said.
Chisnall looked at her for a moment longer, then shook his head.
“Bring her,” he said. “Price, you’re in charge of her. Watch her carefully.”
He unclipped Brogan’s coil-gun from her back holster and handed it to Fleming.
Chisnall and Monster retrieved t
he warhead from the platform; then Chisnall shut the doors again. Sealing them in and the enemy out.
“Which way?” Wilton asked.
“No idea. You pick.”
Wilton picked the first passageway to the right. It led to a heavy metal door. Chisnall nodded at him to try the handle. It wasn’t locked.
Guns at the ready, they pushed open the door and eased their way into the room. Large generators hummed and the walls were lined with fuel cells. That explained the bright lights in the facility, while the rest of the tunnel was blacked out.
“Good place for a warhead,” Monster said.
“Agreed,” Chisnall said. “Those fuel cells will go up like the Fourth of July.”
Monster and Wilton each took one side of the warhead, moving it into the generator room. After a little looking around, they hid it in a gap between one of the generators and a wall, moving an empty fuel cell in front of it for further concealment.
They moved back to the entrance.
Chisnall found a square of card and began to sketch a quick map of the complex.
“Your turn to pick,” Wilton said, looking at the remaining passageways.
Chisnall was about to choose the passageway to the left, at random, when the decision was made for them. A Bzadian walked out of the front passageway. He was holding a steaming drink tube.
He took in the scene—the human and the coil-gun in Price’s hands that was rising up toward him—and reacted instantly, flinging the drink tube at Price’s face. He spun on his heels as she twisted away from the burning liquid. The Bzadian raced back down the short passageway and out of sight. A moment later, an alarm started blaring and a red light in the ceiling started flashing.
“Damn,” Price said.
“Doesn’t change a thing,” Chisnall said. “Let’s get on with what we came here to do.”
He took a breath and then turned to Fleming. “Get yourself into that security office and keep an eye on the monitors. If the Pukes manage to dig through that rubble, I want to know about it.”
Fleming nodded and limped off to the left.
“Okay, we’re Oscar Mike,” Chisnall said. “Stay frosty. Let’s recon this place as quickly as we can, set the timer on the warhead, then make like a bunch of birds.”
The Assault Page 16
