Vengeance

by Brian Falkner

  “You were at Uluru and Wivenhoe,” Goezlin said. “Your name is Chizna.”

  “You are mistaken,” Chisnall said. He carefully avoided looking at the pot on the stovetop.

  “I did not recognise you at first,” Goezlin said, “because you have changed your appearance. It will be very interesting to see what is in that salt shaker. Perhaps we have just witnessed a human plot to murder Azoh.”

  “No!” Chisnall cried.

  “I must get back to the meeting,” Goezlin said. “Take him to headquarters. Isolate him. He is extremely dangerous. No one starts the interrogation until I get there.”

  Rough hands grabbed Chisnall’s wrists and hauled them to his neck, where a neck cuff secured them in place.

  As he was dragged out of the kitchen, Chisnall allowed himself one last, desperate glance at the stove.

  Goezlin disappeared back towards the meeting room. Chisnall stumbled along between the two large PGZ agents, wondering how everything could have gone so spectacularly wrong.

  And then the oil bomb exploded. Heated beyond its limits, the aerosol can burst, releasing a mist of inflammable oil onto the flames of the stove.

  Chisnall didn’t have to see the pot hit the ceiling; he heard it, just as a sheet of flame erupted out through the kitchen door behind them.

  Then he was running, taking advantage of the shock that loosened the grip on his arms.

  The sprinklers had kicked in. Water was cascading down his face and the floor was slippery. Fire alarms were blaring.

  He skidded around a corner and burst through a door, not knowing or caring where it went. An office, it led into a series of larger offices, and he could see another door on the far side. He slammed into the door, but it wouldn’t open. The door he had just come through crashed open again as the PGZ agents reached it. Chisnall ducked down, below the level of the desks, searching for another way out. A door, a window, anything!

  He could see nothing, and slid under a desk, hoping against hope that they would somehow miss him. He wrenched at his neck-cuffs, trying to free his hands. Footsteps sounded just metres away. He crawled into a corner, bunching himself up in the shadows. It didn’t help.

  The desk above him was suddenly no longer there, tipped over on its side. What replaced it was the large shapes of two PGZ agents.

  He barely saw the guns. All he could think about was the salt shaker.

  Goezlin would test it. He would find the poison. In his eyes this would be a plot by humans to kill the Bzadian spiritual leader.

  The Bzadians were teetering on the brink.

  Chisnall had a horrible feeling that he had just pushed them over the edge.

  But perhaps that had been Kozi’s plan all along.

  A large black bird, a crow, was watching Price, pausing only to peck at something under its feet. Price watched it back. Crows made her uncomfortable. There was something sinister about them. This one watched her, turning its head from side to side, then went back to its meal.

  Looking at its claws, Price saw what it was eating. The carcass of another bird. She picked up a stone and threw it at the crow to scare it away. It ignored her and carried on eating. She looked over at Brogan. One question that had never been answered was why Brogan had agreed to come on the mission. Brogan had been close to Chisnall, very close. But she had betrayed him. Now they were within sight of their goal. How was she feeling about seeing him again? Brogan caught Price’s gaze, staring back at her.

  “So what are we going to do, LT?” Brogan asked. “Time’s a-wasting.”

  “In a hurry to see Chisnall again?” Price asked. The words sounded more bitter than she intended them to.

  “What if I am?” Brogan asked.

  “He’s not going to have you back,” Price said. “If that’s what you’re thinking.”

  “Oh, really?” Brogan said. “Because that’s why I’m really here. To kiss and make up with an old boyfriend.”

  “Whatever you think, it’s not going to be easy,” Price said.

  “Sure. Life’s hard. And then you die,” Brogan said. “There’s a mousetrap at the end of the maze.”

  “She’s right, we got to do something, LT,” Monster said.

  “As soon as that bushfire burns through and those Puke soldiers emerge from the stream, they’ll all be looking for us,” Barnard said.

  “What the hell?” Wall’s voice dragged Price’s eyes back to the front.

  Across the grassy fields of the Congress, people were pouring out of the doorways of the building. The sound of sirens came clearly through the air, already hazy with the smoke from the bushfires.

  A thin plume of smoke was rising, somewhere near the centre of the building.

  “Chisnall,” Brogan said.

  “You don’t know that,” Wall said.

  “She right,” Monster said. “Is Chisnall.”

  “It doesn’t matter if it’s him or not, that fire is our ticket in,” Price said. “We are Oscar Mike, right now.”

  The Tsar was still unconscious when they got back to the fire truck.

  “Hit the sirens,” Price said.

  Monster swerved the machine out of the construction site, around a corner and onto the main road towards the congress. The road was lined with trees, as was the median strip. They crossed an intersection and travelled through a small forested area. Although she had seen aerial photos, Price was still amazed at the amount of greenery and foliage surrounding the building. If the bushfire made it this far, it would find plenty of fuel, she thought.

  The soldiers on the barricades saw them coming and wasted no time, pulling back the barricades, waving the fire truck through. Their truck was yellow, not red, a bushfire truck not a city fire engine, but in the heat, the panic of a fire in the heart of their government, no questions were asked. The soldiers left the gates open, and behind them Price heard the wail of more sirens.

  “What now?” Wall asked.

  “The service entrance is around to the left,” Price said. “Keep an eye out for Chisnall. If they are evacuating the building, then he will be somewhere outside, and that’s the most likely place.”

  The fire truck leaned as Monster veered sharply around another corner onto the perimeter road.

  “That’s the service entrance, right ahead of us, up that slip road,” Price said.

  She had barely finished speaking when Brogan said, “There he is.”

  “Where?” Price asked.

  “That’s him, that’s Chisnall, straight ahead of us.”

  Three figures emerged from the service entrance. One of them with his hands to his neck, the other two holding him, one to each arm.

  “You can’t make out his face at this distance,” Barnard said.

  “Yes I can,” Brogan said.

  “I believe her,” Wall said. “I think she’s right, and my eyesight is not as good as hers.”

  “Damn,” Price said. Chisnall’s captors wore the blood red uniform of the PGZ. They shoved Chisnall roughly into the back of an unmarked, white car which took off at speed, emerging on the perimeter road behind them.

  Monster gunned the engine, spinning the fire truck around in a handbrake slide, smoke pouring from the tyres. The truck surged forwards after the car as it rounded the corner, then turned onto the bridge to the outer ring-road.

  “Do not let them get away!” Price shouted.

  If the PGZ agents in the car in front thought there was anything suspicious about the fire truck heading away from the Congress, it didn’t show in their actions. The car moved over slightly to the left to let the fire truck pass.

  The white car was in the middle of the overbridge as Monster pulled up alongside. Price looked down to see Chisnall in the back of the car, a PGZ agent next to him. Chisnall’s hands were cuffed to his neck.

  Chisnall’s eyes widened as he recognised Price, but only for a second, because that was when the fire truck smashed into the car.

  The car had no chance.

  The truck hit
the side of the car at speed, just behind the door pillar, spinning it sideways then slamming it into the concrete side railings of the bridge in a tangle of bent metal, rubber and broken glass and a shower of concrete shards. The car teetered for a moment on the edge of the bridge, then it was gone.

  There was a terrifying silence that seemed to go on forever. Then came the crash as the car hit the roadway below.

  DRAGON STRIKE

  [1220 HOURS LOCAL TIME]

  [TASMAN SEA, OFF THE COAST OF NEW ZEALAND]

  The Dragon and its attendant Razers were finally picked up by coastal radar stations less than fifty kilometres from the coast of New Zealand.

  On board the USS Apple, already on high alert, alarms sounded, people ran. Weapons’ turrets went from passive alert to active seeking. The first carrier jets, waiting on the runway, took off immediately and others lined up behind them.

  The circling F-35 fighter jets went to afterburners, racing to the west to try to engage the Bzadian planes before they could get within striking distance of the ships.

  The USS Apple’s, defensive systems went to work, throwing a curtain of chaff and countermeasures into the air, concealing the ship from radar or radio-guided missiles.

  On the missile frigates and destroyers that provided an outer protective screen for the USS Apple, covers slid off missile silos and a porcupine forest of smoke trails sprouted.

  It wasn’t enough. The Bzadians weren’t here to fight a pitched battle. The moment the USS Apple came within range, the Dragon fired its full complement of air-to-surface missiles. Then, as if a single craft, all six enemy jets wheeled around and headed for home.

  On board the USS Apple, alert boards were screaming at over a hundred and sixty incoming Bzadian missiles.

  The missile boats that surrounded the ship were no longer firing at the Bzadian planes. Instead, they were hurling a curtain of metal hail at the incoming missiles.

  All of the ships in the fleet were equipped with “R2D2” Phalanx autocannons, each capable of throwing up an astounding five thousand rounds per minute, a wall of lead which the Bzadian missiles had to penetrate.

  Most of the Bzadian missiles were destroyed by surface-to-air missiles before they got anywhere near their target.

  Less than thirty penetrated the screen of destroyers and the Phalanx systems on board those ships continued to knock them down even as they passed overhead.

  The USS Apple’s own Phalanx guns were its last line of defence and missile after missile fell to them in a matter of microseconds.

  The last of the Bzadian missiles was destroyed less than ten metres from the flight deck.

  It was too close. Far too close. The heat flash and shock wave of the explosion hurled aircraft around like toys, fuel tanks exploded, men and women were blown overboard, or jumped into the ocean, on fire, screaming.

  In the aftermath, it was determined that there was no permanent structural damage. Nothing that could not be repaired. But the flight deck was littered with debris and burning wreckage. Until it could be cleared, the carrier was out of action.

  In the sky above the carrier, the first scream jet to take off finally reached its launch altitude.

  Flight Commander Molly Shaw looked down at the glow that was the USS Apple, far below.

  The Pukes were not going to get away with that, she thought.

  Travelling already at supersonic speeds, she hit the rocket boosters as the carrier detached.

  Mach 2 passed, mach 3, and the speed continued to climb.

  Shaw rammed her hand down on the ignition system and felt the kick as the rocket booster dropped away and the scramjet engine fired.

  She clenched her lips tightly shut against the rapid acceleration and went hunting Dragons.

  THE PLAN

  [0930 HOURS LOCAL TIME]

  [BZADIAN CONGRESS, CANBERRA]

  Chisnall opened his eyes as the vehicle lurched to a halt, rocking back and forth on its suspension.

  For a moment he couldn’t orientate himself. Nothing made sense. Vague memories of a girl in bright blue robes were interspersed with those of a face like a skull and of being hauled through corridors.

  But here he was now on the floor of a vehicle, a truck of some kind.

  He dimly heard Trianne Price’s voice barking orders, and through the open doorway he saw members of his old Angel team running to take up defensive positions.

  Then Price was back, leaning over him as he sat up. She examined his head.

  “Monster, come here,” she called. “He’s coming around.”

  The next thing the thick, strong arms of his best friend were wrapped around him and he was being carried out of the truck.

  “It’s good to see you, buddy,” Chisnall gasped in the crushing bear-hug.

  When Monster finally let him go, grinning like a madman, Chisnall managed to stand by himself. Price was the next to embrace him, briefly but emotionally, before returning to direct the other team members, coordinating kill zones and fields of fire.

  He watched her work with a sense of satisfaction. She had learned well. She was a good leader.

  Retha Barnard was crouched behind a pillar. She trotted over and held out a fist for a bump.

  Chisnall pushed her hand aside, wrapping one of his arms around her. The other arm didn’t seem to be working. Barnard managed a cursory clasp and awkward pat on the back before returning to her position. She wasn’t much of a hugger.

  “I can’t tell you how good it is to see you all,” Chisnall said. And it was. It really was.

  “Good to see you too, Ryan,” Price said.

  “Boo-yah,” Monster said.

  “Guys,” an unfamiliar voice said. “I don’t want to interrupt your little bromance but I figure we got about thirty seconds before the Pukes work out that there’s only one place you could hide a fire truck around here.”

  “Who’s the new guy?” Chisnall asked.

  “That’s Wall,” Price said. “Hayden Wall. Specialist First Class.”

  Chisnall stared at him. He knew the name from somewhere, although he had never seen Wall before. There was an uncomfortable feeling that went along with that name. Somehow he associated it with death.

  He stood with his back resting against the truck and looked around, still dazed and feeling more than a bit confused. They were in a parking garage. Grey concrete walls and floor, ceiling held up by circular pillars. Bzadian vehicles were scattered around the garage in no particular order. It seemed cavernous and gloomy despite the bright fluorescent strips overhead. The ceilings were low and oppressive. It felt like a trap.

  The truck he was leaning on was yellow, a chunky, angular beast with large knobbly tires. It took him a moment to recognise it for what it was: a fire truck. It was parked at the rear of the garage, sandwiched between two heavy concrete walls that concealed it from the front entrance.

  “Kill the lights,” Price said.

  Wall dialled his coil-gun down to slow and silent, and took out the overhead florescent tubes in their area of the garage, leaving them in deep shadow. The sound of the shattered glass tinkling on the ground was louder than the sound of the shots.

  “Barnard, take a quick scout around,” Price said. “Check for other exits, doorways up into the building, anything like that. We need an escape route. Wall, take a C4 pack and mine the entrance. When they find us we’ll blow the front door and escape out the back.”

  Barnard and Wall disappeared.

  Monster had a mini flashlight in his mouth. He was checking Chisnall’s arms and legs, feeling for broken bones. When Monster got to his right arm Chisnall had to bite his lip to stop himself from crying out.

  “Arm broken,” Monster said.

  “What happened?” Chisnall asked. “I feel like I was hit by a truck.”

  “You were,” Price said. “Monster was driving.”

  “Monster, you need to re-sit your licence,” Chisnall said.

  “Did no your mother tell you not to get in car wi
th strangers?” Monster grinned at him, moving a mediscope over his head.

  That was when Chisnall noticed the wet warmth trickling down his face. He touched it and his hand came away dark red in the light of Monster’s flashlight.

  Now it all came flooding back. The girl was Azoh. The skull face was Goezlin. The two goons dragging him through the corridors were PGZ agents.

  “Hold arm like this,” Monster said, moving Chisnall’s left hand onto his right elbow. Another wave of excruciating pain washed over Chisnall.

  “Try not to move arm,” Monster said.

  “No kidding,” Chisnall said.

  “How is he?” Price asked.

  “He going to be fine,” Monster said. “But head wound is bad bleeding, and also right ulna is broken.”

  “Can you patch him up?” Price asked.

  “Can’t fix arm here,” Monster said. “Need hospital. And need more dressings for head. Used all ours on Tsar.”

  “I’m okay. I can wait,” Chisnall said. “The Tsar’s here too? What happened to him?”

  “Had an argument with a rotorbot,” Price said. “He’s up in the truck unconscious. He’s not good, but we’ve done all we can for him for now.”

  A small sound, like a dog whimpering, came through the open door of the fire truck.

  “What he needs is a hospital,” a voice said. A voice that Chisnall knew all too well. It came from behind a small sedan-like car two pillars away. His former sergeant lifted her head up and looked directly over at him.

  “Hello, Holly,” Chisnall said.

  Brogan acknowledged him with a brief nod.

  Chisnall stared at her for a moment before her face disappeared back behind the car.

  Just the sight of her gave him goosebumps. The bitter, icy kind. It was the same girl, but somehow not the same girl, that he had once thought he was in love with. It was as though a storm had blown through and stripped away everything soft and feminine about her. What was left was harsh and coarse and shattered.

  “What’s your take on Brogan?” he asked of Price in a low voice.

  She shrugged. “So far, so good. She says she’s on our side.”

  “You trust her?”